(no subject)
title: six united short stories
pairings: rio/nemanja, alan/darren, lee(juniper)/magnus, ole/paul, roy/eric, cris/wayne
author's note: i forced myself to write tonight. (in hopes of keeping away writer's block). and these are what my brain came up with. enjoy. =) i had some special people in mind writing most of these. i'm sure you all know who you are.
six united short stories
i.
Rio would exaggerate about everything.
When he complains on the team bus that he can barely move, no one took notice. “I think I’m coming down with a cold. And this time, I’m serious,” he whines, slouching deeper in his seat. “Why is it you lot never believe me?”
Nemanja smiles, “Can you blame us?”
“Yes.”
When Rio is fast asleep (his body shaking slightly), his head leaning on the window pane, Nemanja takes off his jacket and puts it over the defender’s body. The Englishman opens his eyes a little, and says (with a thick, raspy voice), “Do you believe me now?”
He kisses Rio‘s shoulder, “I never doubted you for a second.”
ii.
Alan wasn’t expecting anything for his birthday. (He never did.)
But he couldn’t help but frown as he watched the clock in the living room. It read 11:50PM. And he still hadn’t heard from Darren. Thinking it was stupid to wait for something that probably was never going to happen, he turned off the lights and climbed the staircase two at a time.
He was almost near the top, when he heard a light knock on the front door.
“Alan!” Another knock, “Open up. It’s Darren.”
The striker shook his head, his heart already pounding in his chest. He ran down the stairs, and couldn’t open the door in his excitement. He could hear Darren’s chuckle from the other side, before finally coming face to face with him. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight, and all he could do was stare.
“Going to bed already? Without hearing from me?” The Scot wagged his finger in disapproval, before shoving a box into Alan’s arms (followed by a quick peck on the cheek). “Happy birthday.”
“What is it?”
“You’re going to have to open it up and see.”
Alan follows Darren into the kitchen, turning on the lights, before unwrapping the box slowly on the counter. “You really…” Alan holds out the shirt, “No, Darren, you really shouldn’t have.” A pause, “A jersey. Your jersey.”
“It’s not just any jersey,” beams Darren. “It’s your personal jersey.”
Sensing Alan’s confusion, Darren points to the name on the back. “It doesn’t say Fletcher. But Fletcher’s.” Alan laughs. “Because you are mine.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I am yours.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” The Scot’s eyebrows furrow.
“Of course not.” (And he pulls him into a tight hug.)
iii.
Magnus was too young to be in love. (At least that’s what he keeps telling himself.)
“When do you come back to United?” he asks, coolly, tugging lightly at a strand of his hair. “I mean, you’re coming back before the year ends… right?”
“Why? You miss me?” (Magnus feels his cheeks burn and only replies with a “You wish.”) Then, Lee’s voice softens and says, “I don’t know, though. I may stay until the end of the season.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll get you some tickets, though. You can be my biggest fan.”
“I’ll be your only fan.”
“That wasn’t very nice,” and he laughs, and Magnus wishes he wasn’t so far away. “You’ll make a sign for me?”
“What would I write on it?”
“I love Lee.”
It takes him more than a second, “I don’t tell lies.” (He wasn’t sure which part he was lying about.)
“I know,” Lee quips. “That’s why you’re going to write it.”
Magnus smiles, and wonders if Lee knows just how happy he makes him. (He glances over at the calendar over his bed, and crosses out that day's date, and thinks, one more day closer to you.)
iv.
Paul was never good with words. He rarely ever told anyone how much he loved them or missed them. Instead, he tells them in a much different way. (In a way that he knows how to.)
“I’m outside,” he says into the phone, before hanging up (not waiting for an answer, or a reply). It takes Ole two minutes. He’s wearing a black sweatshirt, and jeans. “Took you long enough,” he teases.
The dark has overtaken the sun, as they walk down the street (and Paul loops his pinky with Ole’s). Ole doesn’t ask questions, just follows, only glancing towards the Englishman to smile at him when he thinks he’s not looking.
Ole doesn’t immediately realize where they are. “I should have known.”
“We’re not going to play, today, though.”
In the middle of the pitch, (right at the center circle) Paul sits and looks up at the other man who reluctantly does the same. “What are we doing here then?”
The midfielder lays on the grass (the smell of it feeling like home), before tugging on Ole’s sweatshirt. Ole rests his head on Paul’s chest, the Englishman’s protective arm wrapped around his waist.
“We came here to sleep?” Ole laughs.
(But he knows. He always knows. He just needed him to say it.)
“We came here to be us.”
v.
Roy doesn’t let himself think (dream) of the past. (Especially not when he’s dealt with another disappointment in his managing career.)
Because if he does, he thinks of red shirts in a sea of green. Of French accents and confident smirks. Of warm hands gripping the back of his neck under the starlit sky of a winter night. Of number seven. Of silence in his car. Of him.
And he doesn’t want that now. (That’s what he wanted then.)
He sighs in frustration, and runs a hand over his face. He‘s lost belief in himself a long time ago, and maybe all he needs (wants) is for someone to believe in him (even if only for a second). He forgot how that felt.
Roy has to stop himself from thinking of the past. (It‘s different now, he thinks).
His mobile buzzes on the table. He doesn’t bother.
I still believe in you, it read.
vi.
Wayne usually always was the one with answers for Cristiano’s questions. (Not this time.)
“Why does your face turn red so easily?”
“Erm. Sorry?”
“Your face.”
“What about my face?” Wayne unconsciously touches his forehead, eyeing Cristiano pointedly. (There’s a mutter of jokes from the other players, “Where should I begin…”) “Shut up, Rio.”
“Nothing. You just,” Cristiano cocks his head to the side slightly, and forgets to finish his sentence.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
The striker looks down, then at him again. Playing for a big club, in front of thousands of fans, Wayne was use to the attention (of the media, of the people, of everyone). But when Cristiano looked at him with his soft, brown eyes, he always shied away (looking anywhere, everywhere but into those eyes.)
“See.”
“See what?”
“You’re turning red, again.”
“I can’t help it!” Wayne mutters, turning the other way. He can still feel the winger’s eyes on him (almost waiting for him to look his way, again). “You can stop staring, now, Ronnie. I’m not going to turn around.”
Cristiano sighs, and slides his hand into Wayne’s, resting it on his lap.
“I don’t need to see your face,” he whispers. “To know that you’re smiling.” And with his other hand, he reaches out and places it under Wayne’s chin. Despite what he said earlier, he looks into the Portuguese’s eyes.
“You’re a fuckin’ twat, Ronnie.”
He laughs, “Whatever you say, tomato.”
pairings: rio/nemanja, alan/darren, lee(juniper)/magnus, ole/paul, roy/eric, cris/wayne
author's note: i forced myself to write tonight. (in hopes of keeping away writer's block). and these are what my brain came up with. enjoy. =) i had some special people in mind writing most of these. i'm sure you all know who you are.
six united short stories
i.
Rio would exaggerate about everything.
When he complains on the team bus that he can barely move, no one took notice. “I think I’m coming down with a cold. And this time, I’m serious,” he whines, slouching deeper in his seat. “Why is it you lot never believe me?”
Nemanja smiles, “Can you blame us?”
“Yes.”
When Rio is fast asleep (his body shaking slightly), his head leaning on the window pane, Nemanja takes off his jacket and puts it over the defender’s body. The Englishman opens his eyes a little, and says (with a thick, raspy voice), “Do you believe me now?”
He kisses Rio‘s shoulder, “I never doubted you for a second.”
ii.
Alan wasn’t expecting anything for his birthday. (He never did.)
But he couldn’t help but frown as he watched the clock in the living room. It read 11:50PM. And he still hadn’t heard from Darren. Thinking it was stupid to wait for something that probably was never going to happen, he turned off the lights and climbed the staircase two at a time.
He was almost near the top, when he heard a light knock on the front door.
“Alan!” Another knock, “Open up. It’s Darren.”
The striker shook his head, his heart already pounding in his chest. He ran down the stairs, and couldn’t open the door in his excitement. He could hear Darren’s chuckle from the other side, before finally coming face to face with him. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight, and all he could do was stare.
“Going to bed already? Without hearing from me?” The Scot wagged his finger in disapproval, before shoving a box into Alan’s arms (followed by a quick peck on the cheek). “Happy birthday.”
“What is it?”
“You’re going to have to open it up and see.”
Alan follows Darren into the kitchen, turning on the lights, before unwrapping the box slowly on the counter. “You really…” Alan holds out the shirt, “No, Darren, you really shouldn’t have.” A pause, “A jersey. Your jersey.”
“It’s not just any jersey,” beams Darren. “It’s your personal jersey.”
Sensing Alan’s confusion, Darren points to the name on the back. “It doesn’t say Fletcher. But Fletcher’s.” Alan laughs. “Because you are mine.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I am yours.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” The Scot’s eyebrows furrow.
“Of course not.” (And he pulls him into a tight hug.)
iii.
Magnus was too young to be in love. (At least that’s what he keeps telling himself.)
“When do you come back to United?” he asks, coolly, tugging lightly at a strand of his hair. “I mean, you’re coming back before the year ends… right?”
“Why? You miss me?” (Magnus feels his cheeks burn and only replies with a “You wish.”) Then, Lee’s voice softens and says, “I don’t know, though. I may stay until the end of the season.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll get you some tickets, though. You can be my biggest fan.”
“I’ll be your only fan.”
“That wasn’t very nice,” and he laughs, and Magnus wishes he wasn’t so far away. “You’ll make a sign for me?”
“What would I write on it?”
“I love Lee.”
It takes him more than a second, “I don’t tell lies.” (He wasn’t sure which part he was lying about.)
“I know,” Lee quips. “That’s why you’re going to write it.”
Magnus smiles, and wonders if Lee knows just how happy he makes him. (He glances over at the calendar over his bed, and crosses out that day's date, and thinks, one more day closer to you.)
iv.
Paul was never good with words. He rarely ever told anyone how much he loved them or missed them. Instead, he tells them in a much different way. (In a way that he knows how to.)
“I’m outside,” he says into the phone, before hanging up (not waiting for an answer, or a reply). It takes Ole two minutes. He’s wearing a black sweatshirt, and jeans. “Took you long enough,” he teases.
The dark has overtaken the sun, as they walk down the street (and Paul loops his pinky with Ole’s). Ole doesn’t ask questions, just follows, only glancing towards the Englishman to smile at him when he thinks he’s not looking.
Ole doesn’t immediately realize where they are. “I should have known.”
“We’re not going to play, today, though.”
In the middle of the pitch, (right at the center circle) Paul sits and looks up at the other man who reluctantly does the same. “What are we doing here then?”
The midfielder lays on the grass (the smell of it feeling like home), before tugging on Ole’s sweatshirt. Ole rests his head on Paul’s chest, the Englishman’s protective arm wrapped around his waist.
“We came here to sleep?” Ole laughs.
(But he knows. He always knows. He just needed him to say it.)
“We came here to be us.”
v.
Roy doesn’t let himself think (dream) of the past. (Especially not when he’s dealt with another disappointment in his managing career.)
Because if he does, he thinks of red shirts in a sea of green. Of French accents and confident smirks. Of warm hands gripping the back of his neck under the starlit sky of a winter night. Of number seven. Of silence in his car. Of him.
And he doesn’t want that now. (That’s what he wanted then.)
He sighs in frustration, and runs a hand over his face. He‘s lost belief in himself a long time ago, and maybe all he needs (wants) is for someone to believe in him (even if only for a second). He forgot how that felt.
Roy has to stop himself from thinking of the past. (It‘s different now, he thinks).
His mobile buzzes on the table. He doesn’t bother.
I still believe in you, it read.
vi.
Wayne usually always was the one with answers for Cristiano’s questions. (Not this time.)
“Why does your face turn red so easily?”
“Erm. Sorry?”
“Your face.”
“What about my face?” Wayne unconsciously touches his forehead, eyeing Cristiano pointedly. (There’s a mutter of jokes from the other players, “Where should I begin…”) “Shut up, Rio.”
“Nothing. You just,” Cristiano cocks his head to the side slightly, and forgets to finish his sentence.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
The striker looks down, then at him again. Playing for a big club, in front of thousands of fans, Wayne was use to the attention (of the media, of the people, of everyone). But when Cristiano looked at him with his soft, brown eyes, he always shied away (looking anywhere, everywhere but into those eyes.)
“See.”
“See what?”
“You’re turning red, again.”
“I can’t help it!” Wayne mutters, turning the other way. He can still feel the winger’s eyes on him (almost waiting for him to look his way, again). “You can stop staring, now, Ronnie. I’m not going to turn around.”
Cristiano sighs, and slides his hand into Wayne’s, resting it on his lap.
“I don’t need to see your face,” he whispers. “To know that you’re smiling.” And with his other hand, he reaches out and places it under Wayne’s chin. Despite what he said earlier, he looks into the Portuguese’s eyes.
“You’re a fuckin’ twat, Ronnie.”
He laughs, “Whatever you say, tomato.”