(no subject)
title: fallen rose petals
pairing: owen hargreaves/michael carrick
rating: g
author's note: this came about randomly today, when i had the craving to write something (anything). i initially made the banner first, not knowing i would actually write them in the end, but as i found myself finishing, i had become more attached to this idea more than ever. so this is what i came up with. it's un-beta'd. and nothing good, or anything. but i hope you enjoy, anyways.
You remember living in Canada; a young bloke trying to find something (anything) in a country that had too much (little) to offer. You found solace in a game that your family knew little about: basketball. The feel of the leather against your smooth hands; the sound of the ball colliding with the net; the smell of the concrete in the summer sun - you fell in love with it all. Sometimes, you wished your brothers would understand the beauty of the game. But after awhile, you stopped wishing.
You remember the moment you knew you had fallen in love for the second time. Your father and brothers had asked you to come join them at the park, where you played your first game of football. It wasn’t a perfect game, it wasn’t a game at all. But it was enough. That night, your father told you everything you wanted to know about his days at Bolton Wanderers (something you never took interest in before). And the night seemed so endless, and the stories were like fairytales. And you hoped that you would be able to follow in his footsteps someday.
You remember packing your belongings into two suitcases; you were moving to Germany. The decision had been simple - you wanted to become a footballer, and you had to do everything you could to have it happen. You watched your family disappear from view as you walked into your flight terminal. You remember staring out the window of the plane, and crying for what seemed like forever. That wasn’t the last time.
You remember the loneliness you felt the first few years in another country. You walked around like a ghost; invisible, almost. You watched your life pass by in a blur - flashes of green, and unrecognizable faces. The temptation to return to your home (to your family) increased when you felt that you had lost all hope.
You remember meeting him. He was tall (much taller than you were), and hid his smile from the world. It was during your first training with the England National team. You partnered with him for stretches when you both found that everyone else had already paired up. “I’m Michael,” he had said, turning his face up towards the gloomy sky.
You remember how quickly the both of you became friends. He’d visit you whenever he could, and you’d phone him after a training session with Bayern (or whenever you needed to just hear his voice). He never said much, but you always knew he was listening. And it was that quiet, understanding stance of his that made you start to see him as more than just a friend.
You remember the first time he kissed you. You were in England for training, and he had told you to stay at his place (rather than staying at a hotel). He was sitting on the floor, while you lay on the couch. You had bought him a book (East of Eden by John Steinbeck) and he was reading it aloud to the both of you. You closed your eyes for a minute, and realized that he had stopped - his voice no longer filling the empty room. And you opened your eyes, to see him staring at you (with a smile, with glazed eyes), inching his face closer to yours. It was only when your lips met that you realized you both were making a big mistake.
“I have a girlfriend.”
“I know.”
“You have a girlfriend.”
“I know.”
“We can’t do this.”
He looked away, “We can’t or we shouldn’t?”
You didn’t know the difference anymore.
You remember returning to Germany, to her. She had asked you what was wrong, (when you barely talked, barely did anything), and you couldn’t tell her the truth. Even when she deserved it and more. Because you knew you had just given up (your) everything to be with her.
He called you everyday.
“She isn‘t the one for me.”
You remember hearing about his engagement - about his marriage. He had invited you; told you it would mean the world to him if you would show up. You didn’t. You couldn’t. It was his special day; her special day. It would’ve been a reminder of what you could’ve had (what you should’ve had). And you just couldn’t do it.
You remember your first training session with United. And you did everything you could to avoid him. He cornered you in the parking lot, though. You were just about to leave, when he had opened your passenger door and set himself inside. “I need to talk to you,” he said, placing a hand over yours on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
You remember standing in the tunnel before a game, wearing that uniform. And you felt the slightest squeeze on your hand, and you looked down to see his still holding yours. And it’s then that you tell him, “Maybe it was always suppose to be us.”
And he nods, squeezing your hand again.
It’s all either of you can do.
pairing: owen hargreaves/michael carrick
rating: g
author's note: this came about randomly today, when i had the craving to write something (anything). i initially made the banner first, not knowing i would actually write them in the end, but as i found myself finishing, i had become more attached to this idea more than ever. so this is what i came up with. it's un-beta'd. and nothing good, or anything. but i hope you enjoy, anyways.
You remember living in Canada; a young bloke trying to find something (anything) in a country that had too much (little) to offer. You found solace in a game that your family knew little about: basketball. The feel of the leather against your smooth hands; the sound of the ball colliding with the net; the smell of the concrete in the summer sun - you fell in love with it all. Sometimes, you wished your brothers would understand the beauty of the game. But after awhile, you stopped wishing.
You remember the moment you knew you had fallen in love for the second time. Your father and brothers had asked you to come join them at the park, where you played your first game of football. It wasn’t a perfect game, it wasn’t a game at all. But it was enough. That night, your father told you everything you wanted to know about his days at Bolton Wanderers (something you never took interest in before). And the night seemed so endless, and the stories were like fairytales. And you hoped that you would be able to follow in his footsteps someday.
You remember packing your belongings into two suitcases; you were moving to Germany. The decision had been simple - you wanted to become a footballer, and you had to do everything you could to have it happen. You watched your family disappear from view as you walked into your flight terminal. You remember staring out the window of the plane, and crying for what seemed like forever. That wasn’t the last time.
You remember the loneliness you felt the first few years in another country. You walked around like a ghost; invisible, almost. You watched your life pass by in a blur - flashes of green, and unrecognizable faces. The temptation to return to your home (to your family) increased when you felt that you had lost all hope.
You remember meeting him. He was tall (much taller than you were), and hid his smile from the world. It was during your first training with the England National team. You partnered with him for stretches when you both found that everyone else had already paired up. “I’m Michael,” he had said, turning his face up towards the gloomy sky.
You remember how quickly the both of you became friends. He’d visit you whenever he could, and you’d phone him after a training session with Bayern (or whenever you needed to just hear his voice). He never said much, but you always knew he was listening. And it was that quiet, understanding stance of his that made you start to see him as more than just a friend.
You remember the first time he kissed you. You were in England for training, and he had told you to stay at his place (rather than staying at a hotel). He was sitting on the floor, while you lay on the couch. You had bought him a book (East of Eden by John Steinbeck) and he was reading it aloud to the both of you. You closed your eyes for a minute, and realized that he had stopped - his voice no longer filling the empty room. And you opened your eyes, to see him staring at you (with a smile, with glazed eyes), inching his face closer to yours. It was only when your lips met that you realized you both were making a big mistake.
“I have a girlfriend.”
“I know.”
“You have a girlfriend.”
“I know.”
“We can’t do this.”
He looked away, “We can’t or we shouldn’t?”
You didn’t know the difference anymore.
You remember returning to Germany, to her. She had asked you what was wrong, (when you barely talked, barely did anything), and you couldn’t tell her the truth. Even when she deserved it and more. Because you knew you had just given up (your) everything to be with her.
He called you everyday.
“She isn‘t the one for me.”
You remember hearing about his engagement - about his marriage. He had invited you; told you it would mean the world to him if you would show up. You didn’t. You couldn’t. It was his special day; her special day. It would’ve been a reminder of what you could’ve had (what you should’ve had). And you just couldn’t do it.
You remember your first training session with United. And you did everything you could to avoid him. He cornered you in the parking lot, though. You were just about to leave, when he had opened your passenger door and set himself inside. “I need to talk to you,” he said, placing a hand over yours on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
You remember standing in the tunnel before a game, wearing that uniform. And you felt the slightest squeeze on your hand, and you looked down to see his still holding yours. And it’s then that you tell him, “Maybe it was always suppose to be us.”
And he nods, squeezing your hand again.
It’s all either of you can do.