and the games we play, you always win, always win.
throw your soul through every open door
John Terry, Andriy Shevchenko, Steven Gerrard, Frank Lampard. ~500 words. Set during 06/07 and 07/08. | Like there are no choices in this world anymore. The world he chose. He chose.
It's raining.
It's raining, and Sheva's shivering like a wet dog. John tries to hide a smile, as he says, "Ah, well, ah. You have to get used to that." Have to, not will. Like there are no choices in this world anymore. The world he chose. He chose.
"Yes," he starts, English still unfamiliar in his mouth. "But, but there are-" Other things. Other things he can't get used to.
Maybe he got too used to winning, somewhere along the way.
Ricky sounds strange and really far away on the phone.
The nights only get colder.
Sheva gets drunk the night Milan wins the Champions League.
John leaves a message on his phone, after; there's something on the tip of his tongue that keeps threatening to come out.
He thinks it's maybe, "Congratulations."
All Sheva hears is, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
He meant to say that too.
He says it to Stevie instead, says, "I was rooting for you this time. Maybe last time too. But don't tell anyone that. Ever. Or I'll break your legs. Well, I'll tell Lampsy to break your legs."
He thinks that coaxes a smile out of him, if his silence is telling.
He feels a little better about the whole stupid thing. He feels a little better about not winning the League.
(He remembers the season before, and the time he'd said, "Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like if you were here."
Stevie had said, "Sometimes I wonder that too. That's as far as it gets."
John understands. Maybe he's more of a romantic than he thought. More than the world allowed him to be.)
John really doesn't want to see any of them fail.
And he doesn't want to disappoint either.
The next time he sees Sheva, he wants to say, "None of it's your fault. Stop being an idiot."
Maybe he's trying to tell himself that.
Two trophies isn't that bad at all.
Right. Right.
Sheva says, "I think it's okay with them. Is it okay with you?" Like it matters. They way he's looking at him, though, makes him think that it does. He does.
He kind of half-nods and half-smiles at the same time. It's probably kind of pathetic, he thinks.
"I got used to you after all, I guess," is what he says.
Sheva says, "I'm sorry." And it's solid and sure, maybe the first thing he's said while he was here that he was absolutely certain about. He means it. He wanted it to work out. Not for himself, but for John and his team.
John kind of is, too.
They were only so sad, because they loved you so much. They still do.
Maybe John's jealous. Jealous of the choices they could choose not to make.
And then it's fucking raining, again.
And it's all his fault.
And fuck.
i was rooting for you. but don't tell anyone. is the message from Stevie.
Frank takes his phone away before he crushes it in his hand or throws it at the wall.
He keeps his hand on his shoulder for a long while. John just leans into it ever so slightly.
He leans against Sheva's old locker the first day of training. Frank looks up from where he's lacing up his boots.
"I like when they come much more than when they leave. Or when they weren't really here in the first place," he says, and he doesn't even know what that means.
Frank gets it, though. That's enough.
John Terry, Andriy Shevchenko, Steven Gerrard, Frank Lampard. ~500 words. Set during 06/07 and 07/08. | Like there are no choices in this world anymore. The world he chose. He chose.
It's raining.
It's raining, and Sheva's shivering like a wet dog. John tries to hide a smile, as he says, "Ah, well, ah. You have to get used to that." Have to, not will. Like there are no choices in this world anymore. The world he chose. He chose.
"Yes," he starts, English still unfamiliar in his mouth. "But, but there are-" Other things. Other things he can't get used to.
Maybe he got too used to winning, somewhere along the way.
Ricky sounds strange and really far away on the phone.
The nights only get colder.
Sheva gets drunk the night Milan wins the Champions League.
John leaves a message on his phone, after; there's something on the tip of his tongue that keeps threatening to come out.
He thinks it's maybe, "Congratulations."
All Sheva hears is, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
He meant to say that too.
He says it to Stevie instead, says, "I was rooting for you this time. Maybe last time too. But don't tell anyone that. Ever. Or I'll break your legs. Well, I'll tell Lampsy to break your legs."
He thinks that coaxes a smile out of him, if his silence is telling.
He feels a little better about the whole stupid thing. He feels a little better about not winning the League.
(He remembers the season before, and the time he'd said, "Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like if you were here."
Stevie had said, "Sometimes I wonder that too. That's as far as it gets."
John understands. Maybe he's more of a romantic than he thought. More than the world allowed him to be.)
John really doesn't want to see any of them fail.
And he doesn't want to disappoint either.
The next time he sees Sheva, he wants to say, "None of it's your fault. Stop being an idiot."
Maybe he's trying to tell himself that.
Two trophies isn't that bad at all.
Right. Right.
Sheva says, "I think it's okay with them. Is it okay with you?" Like it matters. They way he's looking at him, though, makes him think that it does. He does.
He kind of half-nods and half-smiles at the same time. It's probably kind of pathetic, he thinks.
"I got used to you after all, I guess," is what he says.
Sheva says, "I'm sorry." And it's solid and sure, maybe the first thing he's said while he was here that he was absolutely certain about. He means it. He wanted it to work out. Not for himself, but for John and his team.
John kind of is, too.
They were only so sad, because they loved you so much. They still do.
Maybe John's jealous. Jealous of the choices they could choose not to make.
And then it's fucking raining, again.
And it's all his fault.
And fuck.
i was rooting for you. but don't tell anyone. is the message from Stevie.
Frank takes his phone away before he crushes it in his hand or throws it at the wall.
He keeps his hand on his shoulder for a long while. John just leans into it ever so slightly.
He leans against Sheva's old locker the first day of training. Frank looks up from where he's lacing up his boots.
"I like when they come much more than when they leave. Or when they weren't really here in the first place," he says, and he doesn't even know what that means.
Frank gets it, though. That's enough.