[FB!RPS] This Journey's End, PG, Gerrard/Torres
...so everyone knew this day would come. Too much WC and too much time fangirling footballers meant that I'd cave in eventually and write the football slash. This might have once been crack in my head but morphed into something altogether different after today's games; the words came out differently, so we have this. My first foray, so it is very very very much "ohmygod I have no idea what I am doing here". At least I did not use the term "honeybuns" in this fic.
Love and blame to...everyone who watched and flailed over the WC with me. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW THAT I'VE BEEN DRIVEN TO THIS? Whatever this is.
This Journey's End
Football RPS, Steven Gerrard/Fernando Torres, PG, 875 words
England falls, but it doesn't feel like the end for Stevie as long as he's got a link to the future.
The phone rings once, twice. Stevie turns his head to look at it, weary, before stretching his arm across the bed and picking up. He brings the phone to his ear, cradling it against the pillow and his shoulder, sprawled loose-limbed and exhausted. "'Lo?" he says.
"I saw the game," says Fernando.
Stevie honestly would like to never think about the game again, much less talk about it. He scratches his nose. But it's Fernando. "Did you really?" he asks, because he knows the Spanish team is in Cape Town, training before their match with Portugal on Tuesday.
"Well, no," Fernando admits, "I saw the highlights later. I did catch your interview though." His voice softens. "Sorry, mate."
The light from the bedside lamp is low, but Stevie's head still feels dark. He's been replaying the game too many times in his mind, seeing again and again the failure to connect, the gaping holes where the defense should've been. He's been more than glad to sink back into the bed after hours dealing with the press, even dealing with the rest of the lads, seeing the heaviness in himself reflected back in their eyes and posture. It's going to be a hard road home, but for now, for tonight, Stevie was looking forward to just sinking into an oblivion of dreamlessness.
But Fernando called, a warm voice and a familiar accent, offering something Stevie suspects is more than just sympathy. "It's pretty miserable," he admits, eyes on the ceiling, "but the way we were playing, we didn't deserve to win." It's the first time he's said it flat out, unvarnished, and it stings more to know it's true.
"I saw Lampard's goal, what a ridiculous call. Really unfair."
But Stevie knows Fernando now, well enough to hear that under the platitudes of commiseration, he's saying something more. I get it. I understand. How much it hurts to lose, to know that it's not just bad luck, but bad football. Stevie thinks about the Spanish team training in Cape Town, then thinks about them in Pretoria playing Chile, in Johannesburg playing Honduras, in Durban losing to Switzerland. The English team has been busy traveling and training, following their own hectic schedule, but Stevie always knew in the back of his mind where Spain would be next.
Had anyone else been on the other end of the phone, Stevie's not sure he wouldn't have just cried off, said he was tired, needed sleep. No one would blame him, knowing his day. Knowing the loss that sent England out of Stevie's last World Cup and back home. But it was Fernando calling, Fernando in Cape Town, knowing Stevie's number and saying things without saying them at all.
"Yeah, if Frank's goal counted, it could've been a turning point in the game but we made a lot of mistakes. Germany was the better team." Stevie summarizes things he's been saying all night and closes the topic with a resigned finality he knows Fernando can hear. Fernando won't push. He's the master of silent communication when he chooses to be, like when he rings up Stevie at half past two when he's half the country away and likely needed to be up in too few short hours.
Stevie shifts on the bed, propping a foot up, knee bent and tries to lighten the atmosphere. It's been a long enough day. "Don't tell me you called just to help me drown in my own sorrow, Fer."
There's a chuff of laughter and Stevie smiles, reflexive. "Of course not," Fernando says dryly. "What are you wearing, capitán?"
Just like him. Stevie extends the offer and Fernando takes the gambit, makes good on it.
"I'm starkers," Stevie replies blithely. Atmosphere officially lightened.
"Fucking wanker," Fernando laughs and the sound goes through Stevie, relaxes him. "I'll be tossing all night with nightmares now."
"Don't let it distract you in training tomorrow. Might well end up with a ball in the face and what will you do without that pretty face? Your coach will pull you right out of the starting line-up."
Fernando growls a bit. Stevie rests his free hand high on his thigh, tracing his fingers on the edge of his shorts, waiting for the expected and exasperated, "Wanker." Stevie's still smiling, small, tender and private in a hotel room where no one can see. There's a little pause as Fernando breathes, a pocket of silence that feels suddenly weighted, and Stevie feels it flash through him, heavy in his bones, but then Fernando's talking again. He's quieter but still affectionate, teasing. "I've got to go. You know, dream of me."
"You know you fill my dreams every night, Fernando," Stevie promises solemnly. But he's serious when he adds, "I'll be watching Spain on Tuesday."
Good luck.
Play well.
Be looking out for you.
Fernando says, "Right. Well, g'night then, Stevie." And Stevie knows he's got his message across. He hangs up and inspects the ceiling a bit more, before rolling up and off the bed, to his feet. It's been a long day and a long night in Johannesburg. His chest feels looser as he shuffles into the bathroom to wash up for bed; he's ready at last for it to be over.
--
Started/Finished: 2010.06.27
Notes: No, really, in case it wasn't clear - I have no idea what I'm doing. In any case, there is a Ronaldo/Kaká crackfic in the works...
Love and blame to...everyone who watched and flailed over the WC with me. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW THAT I'VE BEEN DRIVEN TO THIS? Whatever this is.
This Journey's End
Football RPS, Steven Gerrard/Fernando Torres, PG, 875 words
England falls, but it doesn't feel like the end for Stevie as long as he's got a link to the future.
The phone rings once, twice. Stevie turns his head to look at it, weary, before stretching his arm across the bed and picking up. He brings the phone to his ear, cradling it against the pillow and his shoulder, sprawled loose-limbed and exhausted. "'Lo?" he says.
"I saw the game," says Fernando.
Stevie honestly would like to never think about the game again, much less talk about it. He scratches his nose. But it's Fernando. "Did you really?" he asks, because he knows the Spanish team is in Cape Town, training before their match with Portugal on Tuesday.
"Well, no," Fernando admits, "I saw the highlights later. I did catch your interview though." His voice softens. "Sorry, mate."
The light from the bedside lamp is low, but Stevie's head still feels dark. He's been replaying the game too many times in his mind, seeing again and again the failure to connect, the gaping holes where the defense should've been. He's been more than glad to sink back into the bed after hours dealing with the press, even dealing with the rest of the lads, seeing the heaviness in himself reflected back in their eyes and posture. It's going to be a hard road home, but for now, for tonight, Stevie was looking forward to just sinking into an oblivion of dreamlessness.
But Fernando called, a warm voice and a familiar accent, offering something Stevie suspects is more than just sympathy. "It's pretty miserable," he admits, eyes on the ceiling, "but the way we were playing, we didn't deserve to win." It's the first time he's said it flat out, unvarnished, and it stings more to know it's true.
"I saw Lampard's goal, what a ridiculous call. Really unfair."
But Stevie knows Fernando now, well enough to hear that under the platitudes of commiseration, he's saying something more. I get it. I understand. How much it hurts to lose, to know that it's not just bad luck, but bad football. Stevie thinks about the Spanish team training in Cape Town, then thinks about them in Pretoria playing Chile, in Johannesburg playing Honduras, in Durban losing to Switzerland. The English team has been busy traveling and training, following their own hectic schedule, but Stevie always knew in the back of his mind where Spain would be next.
Had anyone else been on the other end of the phone, Stevie's not sure he wouldn't have just cried off, said he was tired, needed sleep. No one would blame him, knowing his day. Knowing the loss that sent England out of Stevie's last World Cup and back home. But it was Fernando calling, Fernando in Cape Town, knowing Stevie's number and saying things without saying them at all.
"Yeah, if Frank's goal counted, it could've been a turning point in the game but we made a lot of mistakes. Germany was the better team." Stevie summarizes things he's been saying all night and closes the topic with a resigned finality he knows Fernando can hear. Fernando won't push. He's the master of silent communication when he chooses to be, like when he rings up Stevie at half past two when he's half the country away and likely needed to be up in too few short hours.
Stevie shifts on the bed, propping a foot up, knee bent and tries to lighten the atmosphere. It's been a long enough day. "Don't tell me you called just to help me drown in my own sorrow, Fer."
There's a chuff of laughter and Stevie smiles, reflexive. "Of course not," Fernando says dryly. "What are you wearing, capitán?"
Just like him. Stevie extends the offer and Fernando takes the gambit, makes good on it.
"I'm starkers," Stevie replies blithely. Atmosphere officially lightened.
"Fucking wanker," Fernando laughs and the sound goes through Stevie, relaxes him. "I'll be tossing all night with nightmares now."
"Don't let it distract you in training tomorrow. Might well end up with a ball in the face and what will you do without that pretty face? Your coach will pull you right out of the starting line-up."
Fernando growls a bit. Stevie rests his free hand high on his thigh, tracing his fingers on the edge of his shorts, waiting for the expected and exasperated, "Wanker." Stevie's still smiling, small, tender and private in a hotel room where no one can see. There's a little pause as Fernando breathes, a pocket of silence that feels suddenly weighted, and Stevie feels it flash through him, heavy in his bones, but then Fernando's talking again. He's quieter but still affectionate, teasing. "I've got to go. You know, dream of me."
"You know you fill my dreams every night, Fernando," Stevie promises solemnly. But he's serious when he adds, "I'll be watching Spain on Tuesday."
Good luck.
Play well.
Be looking out for you.
Fernando says, "Right. Well, g'night then, Stevie." And Stevie knows he's got his message across. He hangs up and inspects the ceiling a bit more, before rolling up and off the bed, to his feet. It's been a long day and a long night in Johannesburg. His chest feels looser as he shuffles into the bathroom to wash up for bed; he's ready at last for it to be over.
--
Started/Finished: 2010.06.27
Notes: No, really, in case it wasn't clear - I have no idea what I'm doing. In any case, there is a Ronaldo/Kaká crackfic in the works...