Consolatory ficcage is the order of the day...
Right well, it's a fic prompted by this afternoon's horrors. It's a mess. It was written whilst in a state of shock and it therefore fluffs at levels dangerous to the average human.
No beta (as if), no coherence. Shippiness in extremis oh and it never happened cos I get so caught up with my babies that disclaimers start to feel like lies, basically.
"Don't. Don't cry. David, c'mon..." Reaching for you, trying to calm the storm....
"We're... Oh fuckin' hell Gary, our last chance, the last... "
You move to him, away from him, back again. His warmth will make it worse and better and you can't stand either because the pain is so now and so real and you need to feel it. Because you're adults, and this is what adults do.
"Stop it. Just fucking stop. It's over. It's over." That voice. God, please make it stop, make it never stop.
"Gary....."
Can't meet his eyes. Thinking about France, thinking about Japan, knowing that South Africa is a fantasy because, well, Time? Well, you know what Time is? She's a bitch and she doesn't stand still even if you are the most famous footballer in the world. Knowing that, ultimately even if you want one simple thing, just to win the World Cup with your lover at your side, Time doesn't give a fuck, and you'll be too old and he'll be too old and all you'll have is what you have now and that's just not enough.
Head on your chest, which heaves and burns. Nothing hurts, has ever hurt like this, nothing. Sweat still cooling on the nape of your neck, in the small of your back, Gary's hands firm and unyielding on your forearms. Biologically, tears should be a luxury. But still they come, caught in the creases around your eyes before tracking along the edge of your cheekbones, devastation in liquid form.
"Look at me."
It's him, it's Gary, so you acquiesce, give yourself up to him like you did at fifteen when the boundaries between friendship and desire evaporated, like you will forever. Looking into his eyes, past the cold glaze of disappointment, past that, to the love he holds fast for you and only you. A second in the light of that love, given without question, never withheld, unconditional, and you can't cry anymore.
"Hold me...."
His arms, shaking, circle your neck, and when he finally breathes out, it's gentle against your neck and the world is suddenly quiet, peaceful, almost right again. Your fingers brush through his hair, and he sighs and every inch of you is pressed tight to every inch of him and again you thank God or Fate or whatever it fucking was that decided that this life of yours would be entwined with his, that he would be your sanity in a world designed to separate you from your reason.
Kiss him. You have to. You pull back, tilt your head to one side.
"David." His laugh is high, breathy. "Everyone's watching..."
"Don't care," you murmur. "Don't care anymore...."
And you press your mouth to his, and nothing else matters, and the tatters of your spirit reform and it's almost alright again until he's sobbing, throat tightening, but still kissing you, broken, limp, as if you've taken the last ounce of resolve from him. So you hold him tighter, kiss him harder, promise him a future that cannot exist.
He steps back, smiles at you, blood on his lower lip. You reach out, touch it gently.
"I do that?"
"Hmmmmm...."
"So."
"So...."
His hand finds its way into yours.
"So. Euros."
"Yeah. Yeah David, why fucking not eh?"
You turn together and survey the emotional carnage of the dressing room. Gary squeezes your fingers before moving away.
"Right, listen everyone....."
All eyes on him suddenly, the power behind the throne. John and Frank and Stevie and Ash and Robbo and Rio and Joey and Owen and Wayne and Crouchy and the little ones traumatised by the sheer heartbreak all around them. Staring at Gary Neville like he's just dropped from a spaceship.
"Ok, you cunts. Enough with the fucking self-pity. Who's coming to Austria with me and him?"
No beta (as if), no coherence. Shippiness in extremis oh and it never happened cos I get so caught up with my babies that disclaimers start to feel like lies, basically.
"Don't. Don't cry. David, c'mon..." Reaching for you, trying to calm the storm....
"We're... Oh fuckin' hell Gary, our last chance, the last... "
You move to him, away from him, back again. His warmth will make it worse and better and you can't stand either because the pain is so now and so real and you need to feel it. Because you're adults, and this is what adults do.
"Stop it. Just fucking stop. It's over. It's over." That voice. God, please make it stop, make it never stop.
"Gary....."
Can't meet his eyes. Thinking about France, thinking about Japan, knowing that South Africa is a fantasy because, well, Time? Well, you know what Time is? She's a bitch and she doesn't stand still even if you are the most famous footballer in the world. Knowing that, ultimately even if you want one simple thing, just to win the World Cup with your lover at your side, Time doesn't give a fuck, and you'll be too old and he'll be too old and all you'll have is what you have now and that's just not enough.
Head on your chest, which heaves and burns. Nothing hurts, has ever hurt like this, nothing. Sweat still cooling on the nape of your neck, in the small of your back, Gary's hands firm and unyielding on your forearms. Biologically, tears should be a luxury. But still they come, caught in the creases around your eyes before tracking along the edge of your cheekbones, devastation in liquid form.
"Look at me."
It's him, it's Gary, so you acquiesce, give yourself up to him like you did at fifteen when the boundaries between friendship and desire evaporated, like you will forever. Looking into his eyes, past the cold glaze of disappointment, past that, to the love he holds fast for you and only you. A second in the light of that love, given without question, never withheld, unconditional, and you can't cry anymore.
"Hold me...."
His arms, shaking, circle your neck, and when he finally breathes out, it's gentle against your neck and the world is suddenly quiet, peaceful, almost right again. Your fingers brush through his hair, and he sighs and every inch of you is pressed tight to every inch of him and again you thank God or Fate or whatever it fucking was that decided that this life of yours would be entwined with his, that he would be your sanity in a world designed to separate you from your reason.
Kiss him. You have to. You pull back, tilt your head to one side.
"David." His laugh is high, breathy. "Everyone's watching..."
"Don't care," you murmur. "Don't care anymore...."
And you press your mouth to his, and nothing else matters, and the tatters of your spirit reform and it's almost alright again until he's sobbing, throat tightening, but still kissing you, broken, limp, as if you've taken the last ounce of resolve from him. So you hold him tighter, kiss him harder, promise him a future that cannot exist.
He steps back, smiles at you, blood on his lower lip. You reach out, touch it gently.
"I do that?"
"Hmmmmm...."
"So."
"So...."
His hand finds its way into yours.
"So. Euros."
"Yeah. Yeah David, why fucking not eh?"
You turn together and survey the emotional carnage of the dressing room. Gary squeezes your fingers before moving away.
"Right, listen everyone....."
All eyes on him suddenly, the power behind the throne. John and Frank and Stevie and Ash and Robbo and Rio and Joey and Owen and Wayne and Crouchy and the little ones traumatised by the sheer heartbreak all around them. Staring at Gary Neville like he's just dropped from a spaceship.
"Ok, you cunts. Enough with the fucking self-pity. Who's coming to Austria with me and him?"