Fic: Unanswered (Ljungberg/Cole; NC-17)
Title: Unanswered
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Freddie Ljungberg/Joe Cole
Notes: I have no Word on this computer and my proofreading is shoddy - it's probably riddled with typos. And some of this needs to be credited to evien, though she might not appreciate being associated with it ;) Somehow, this has two parts, but only because LJ won't let me post it as one.
Summary: Joe has questions. And my summaries suck.
***
He's waiting. He's been waiting for fifteen minutes now, sitting there with his legs crossed neatly at the ankle, wondering why it seems to matter quite so much to him that he not look out of place when the room's empty except for himself, the doorman snoozing at his desk and a couple of CCTV cameras that he's fairly sure don't work anyway. He's not impatient, not yet, because he's used to waiting, sits here on this black leather couch that reminds him of so many waiting rooms at so many doctors' surgeries. He does a lot of waiting, but it's fine because he knows what he's waiting for is worth every second. And there shouldn't be long left now.
Joe's waiting for his boyfriend. Except he doesn't call him his boyfriend because that makes him feel about twelve years old, like he's back in secondary school snickering behind the bike sheds with his mates about how he saw their year eight Maths teacher getting off with that slutty blonde from the sixth form. He can't call him his boyfriend because it sounds absurd and he gets this huge silly grin on his face like he's just won the lottery but then looks around furtively as if he's done something wrong and someone's going to notice. Even if he's all alone in his living room with a pizza and repeats of Knightmare.
Still, there's not really another word for it, because "lover" sounds pretentious as hell or like he's just a bit on the side - a bit on the side of what, he'd like to know - and what else is there? "The man I'm seeing": that doesn't work because when he says it out loud he feel like such an inutterable prat that he can't take himself seriously. It's probably because he doesn't really see himself as a man yet since he's only twenty-three; he feels like a kid playing grown-ups most of the time but knows that he's technically an adult... still, "man" seems like he's talking about someone more like José's age and he's definitely not seeing José. And he can't even substitute in "lad," either, because the lad he's seeing really isn't a lad, he's older than Joe and he feels a twat referring to someone older than him like that.
So, he finds himself right back at the fact that he has a boyfriend. It still makes him feel roughly twelve and that's strangely appropriate because he's never really had a boyfriend before, just one-night stands and the occasional casual fling. He has a boyfriend now, though, who doesn't call him Joey in that condescending way that everyone else seems to. He doesn't make unreasonable demands on his time, either, doesn't tap him for cash or try to make him into some sort of social butterfly when he really, really isn't. He's got a boyfriend who's really something to look at, who takes care of himself in ways Joe's never dreamed of, but he doesn't expect him to join him down the gym every morning. And the sex is great. He's never had any complaints about that.
But there's a reason for all this. Because if Joe wants to see him, he's the one who has to ask. He doesn't mind so much, though - he tells himself that on what's nearing a regular basis, tells himself that now. He doesn't mind asking for what he wants. And there's really no escaping the fact that he wants him.
They're an unlikely couple, he thinks, sitting back. He can't even say how they met because it's not like they've got much in common outside football. He'd say that friends introduced them - that's his stock answer when wondering how he met most people - but it's not even that because they have no real friends in common. He's thought about it a lot, mostly without actually meaning to and in times like these, and in the end he thinks the most likely scenario is that they met at a match, maybe they shook hands before kickoff, and that was that. He doesn't really remember. But he does remember the first night they got together, if nothing else.
They met that night at a party, nothing to do with football. It was probably some launch party or or other but Joe doesn't really remember why he was there or who he was there with because it really wasn't his scene and whoever it was he turned up with, he didn't leave with them. He was standing alone at the bar though the room was crowded, trying to order drinks, and when he turned around with the glasses in his hands and glanced at the table - previously empty - that he'd been aiming for, his friends were gone and there was Freddie Ljungberg instead. It was quite a surprise. He'd had no idea he was there.
Freddie looked annoyed. He was trying to explain to a girl in a dress that was barely there that he didn't drink red wine but she was was either high or stupid or probably both and kept gesturing repeatedly, and with ever increasing enthusiasm, to the glass in her hand, that she seemed in danger of spilling at any given moment. Joe stepped in and saved him without really thinking about it, handing him a glass of what was supposed to be Jack Daniels but smelled perfumed like Southern Comfort and then watched the girl flounce away, stumbling uselessly on her over-expensive designer heels. He expected Freddie to be grateful and turned to him with a big, beaming grin, but he just looked back blankly. Joe remembers the few humiliating seconds it took for Freddie to realise that he knew his face and he was neither a complete stranger nor an oddly-dressed waiter. Joe's grin faded, he deflated, and he took a large mouthful of his own strangely-tasting Jack Daniels. Then Freddie asked him to sit down.
Joe's never really known why Freddie did that. He asked one, early on, but the only answer he got was a shrug and a coy smile and that moment really seems like a metaphor for their whole relationship - Joe doesn't know and Freddie's not telling. All he really knows is that Freddie did ask and so, trying not to seem too eager, he slid into the plasticky, vinyl-upholstered booth right next to him. He tried to make conversation, leaning in close, but the music was too loud for him to hear himself speak and he couldn't smell Freddie's cologne for all the smoke in the air. It was too hot in the bar and he'd drunk too much - his head was nearly spinning by the time Freddie moved away and he stared after him dumbly until he stopped and looked back and it occurred to him that he was meant to follow. So, he did.
It was better outside. He caught his breath in the cool night air as Freddie waited for his car and they left together. Joe didn't question it at that point, didn't until much later, and the only reason he can think of why Freddie might've got the idea to take him with him was the look he knows he must've had on his face, a sort of puppyish look that he always seems to get when he's drunk too much to keep his guard up around people he's attracted to. Freddie must've known what it meant because it was blatantly obvious. He's just never really worked out why Freddie took him along. The best, and also conversely the worst, reason he can think of is that the evening was so dull that bedding Joe Cole actually seemed like a decent sort of consolation.
Freddie didn't turn on the lights. They reached Freddie's building after what seemed like an age that Joe has since assumed was filled with his own tortured attempts at conversation while Freddie toyed idly with the CD player, then they parked and took the elevator upstairs; Freddie didn't turn on the lights. Joe followed him through the flat in the dark, disconcerted, distracted by the lights he could see through the unshaded window to the point where he almost lost him. Maybe Freddie waited for him then but he doubts it - he just remembers the faint movement catching his eye and the dull shine of the leather jacket he was wearing that night. He followed him, half expecting to trip and fall, one hand fumbling along the wall until he came to the complete darkness of the bedroom.
Freddie ate him alive. He pulled him into the room by the lapels of his jacket and the last thing Joe remembers seeing before the door was pushed closed behind him and the dark swallowed him up was the shine of harsh white streetlights on Freddie's eyes. His hands were hot as he stripped him with amazing dexterity in the slightly chilly room; his mouth was hot as he kissed him, hard and tasting faintly of lemonade laced with bourbon. He pulled him onto the bed and Joe lay there, mostly naked, already hard, trying not to feel claustrophobic in the darkness. His breath came too fast, his head swimming with sensations that were at once vague and jarringly intense - with his sight rendered useless he was feeling so much more. He gasped as Freddie pushed inside him, mysteriously slick, felt himself filled so abruptly that tears stung his eyes. He felt Freddie's mouth at his neck, heard strangely sibilant words against his skin that definitely weren't English. He clawed at Freddie's back, didn't need to finish himself off because he came just from having him inside him. It was amazing. He was speechless.
Then Freddie flicked on the lamp at his side of the bed and he asked him to leave. That robbed Joe of any words he might have been considering. And he left without argument.
The one concession Freddie did make was to pull on his jeans and show him to the door, turning on the lights as he went. Joe's eyes hurt by the time they were out by the door, from all the bright white walls and ceilings and while tiled floors and the bloody white furniture and he was standing there in the doorway trying to say goodbye as Freddie looked at him with a mixture of expectancy and impatience. But the only thing he could think of was how he'd just noticed that Freddie's spotless living room didn't even have a coffee table let alone half of the clutter that his own front room had, and he ended up opening his mouth to say something, anything, but he had nothing to say at all.
"Give me your number," Freddie said instead, saving him, "and I'll call you." But he didn't have a pen and finding one, even had he been allowed to try, in that spotless lounge, would've been an impossible task. He thinks Freddie would've closed the door and walked away without giving it a second thought if he hadn't got a text message right at that second and when he pulled his phone from his jeans pocket, smirking slightly at the message, Joe realised that they had the exact same model. Freddie watched him like a hawk as he entered his number into the phone book, saving himself as Joe Cole and not just Joe or Joey before handing it back. Then he left. Freddie closed the door behind him.
What happened next was depressingly predictable: three days passed, four, and Freddie didn't call. Joe tried to tell himself that he hadn't really expected him to but that didn't keep him from checking his mobile with a frequency bordering on obsession, trying not to seem too excited whenever he got a new text. It wasn't Freddie, never Freddie. Obviously not.
A week passed. JT had a go one afternoon when the first thing he did when they got back to the changing room was check his damn mobile, and all he could do in response was look sort of sheepish. Frank clapped him on the back the next day after training when he did the exact same thing again. "If she's not called you by now then she ain't going to," he said and Joe just nodded, looking resigned, and said he'd never really expected her to. And all the time he was just dying to say something else - he doesn't know what even now, maybe he wanted to blurt it all out, but he bit his tongue. Literally. Then he went home.
He didn't have Freddie's number so he couldn't just call him himself - he thought about it more than once but he didn't feel like calling around half the squad to find someone who might be able to give him or get him Freddie Ljungberg's number. He tried to put it out of his mind, trained longer, trained harder, bought himself some new games to occupy his free time, but it didn't really work. It didn't matter how many times he glanced at his phone and then called himself an idiot, caught himself wondering if he'd entered the right number at all and maybe he just couldn't get through... Freddie wasn't going to call. He'd have to get used to it.
But, in the end, Freddie did call. It was two weeks and three days, just after Joe had given up checking his phone, and he should've realised that meant something but he was too caught up in the fact that Freddie had actually called him to really think about the timing. He grinned his way through the short conversation and it wasn't until later, with his feet up in front of the World Poker Tour, staring at a piece of paper bearing Freddie's address and a time and a date, that he really thought about it. He'd waited half a month to hear from a guy who'd kicked him out after a one-night stand, and now he was going back for more. And he was happy about it? But then some shaven-headed Swede on his television won a million-dollar pot with just an ace high at that exact moment and Joe forgot all about his reservations. He'd be there in three days' time. He wouldn't think of a reason not to go.
***
He turned up outside the building twenty minutes early even after driving past it three times to make sure it was the same place that he remembered and not something different or made up, though exactly why Freddie would do that was where his logic failed. He just sat in the car after that with the engine and CD player turned off, listening to the rain drum down on the roof, because Freddie had told him to be punctual, dead on time and not early or late because then he wouldn't let him in. He wasn't sure if he believed him or not, was half convinced that he just had a perverse sense of humour, but he decided not to test it; he slipped out of his car and into the street, pulling up his hood against the rain as he jogged down the road and pressed the button for Freddie's flat, right on time, not early, not late. He recognised Freddie's voice in a vague sort of way over the fuzzy intercom, explained who it was in a rather halting sentence that was totally unusual for him and almost expected to get no reply though he couldn't say why. Then, maybe fifteen seconds later though it felt infinitely longer, Freddie buzzed him in.
He remembered the elevator with its polished steel and mirrored panels and harsh white lights, remembered trying not to stare as Freddie lounged by the buttons though he quite plainly did stare. He got out at the top and knocked on Freddie's door, heard what he interpreted correctly as "it's open"; he remembered the room, too, to a degree, and Freddie was sitting on the bright white couch opposite the door of that penthouse flat with a view of half of London. Joe took off his hoodie and folded it over his arm, patted it to make sure it wasn't too wet and then placed it on a chair, one of the few items of furniture in the room. Then he walked over; he was trying not to seem impressed in the way he's still doing to this day, though he knew then as he always knows that he failed miserably. Freddie looked at him faintly nonplussed as Joe pretended he wasn't looking out over the city, hoping it didn't look too much like he was stuck in that moment when a plane's just taken off and you're trying to look down for your house before you go up through the clouds.
The couch was white and absolutely pristine and he felt almost like he'd hurt it just by sitting on it even though Freddie was lounging there in exceptionally well-fitting jeans and a flatteringly tight tshirt. It was harder to tear his eyes from him than it was the view, Joe discovered as he sat down, feeling suddenly out of his depth. Freddie's eyes were on him; he could've sworn he could feel it as he looked around the classy, spartan room, rubbing his hands over his thighs in a not-quite-nervous and not totally unconscious gesture. Freddie didn't even try not to look amused at that.
They ate together in Freddie's similarly pristine kitchen and that was a change of pace; Joe bitched goodnaturedly about the excessively healthy food he served him and Freddie went along with that though it was terribly confusing. Joe sat there trying not to eye Freddie's conspicuously bare feet or wonder if this wasn't some kind of nice, polite sort of Freddie-clone and not the real thing. He was still wrong-footed and frowning faintly when they finished their exceptionally healthy meal and Freddie led him to the bedroom.
Freddie's the sort of guy that always has great sex simply because he believes he'll have great sex. He's never lacking confidence in that department - Joe's noticed that as the time's passed. He's that special class of man that thinks well enough of himself that he'll never underperform; he can fool around in cars just as effectively as beds, is equally at home getting it on in an airplane bathroom as he is in an elevator as he is in the fitting rooms at Harrods. They did it in the changing room at Stamford Bridge one time, and it would've been hot but Joe was too busy worrying that someone might find them to actually pay close attention. He was almost surprised when he shuddered and came over Freddie's hand, messing up Freddie's shorts and both their shirts. And really, this was no different.
Joe stood in the doorway and watched Freddie move across the room. He didn't really know what he was supposed to be doing and Freddie was telling him nothing so he just stood there and watched him, as he pulled the tshirt off over his head and tossed it away, as he unbuttoned his jeans, pushed them down oh-so-slowly and left himself standing there in what looked suspiciously like white Calvin Klein briefs. He paused for a moment but a moment only before he moved, walked over across the tiled floor until he was right there, pressing against him, his hands slipping up to Joe's neck as he leant in to kiss him; his hands moved, one to take a handful of Joe's shirt and anchor him in close, the other to the back of his neck to ease him in closer. Joe let him do it, slipping his arms around his waist.
There wasn't a hint of apprehension about it; it didn't seem to matter to Freddie that he was next to naked and Joe was still standing there fully clothed as they kissed. He just pressed himself to him as he pressed his mouth over Joe's, not quite roughly but not exactly with staggering lightness, either - he let his tongue swipe over Joe's lower lip before pressing past his teeth. Joe let him do that, too, tasting the sweet-sharp tang of kiwi from his mouth for a second before Freddie pulled back, stalked away and left him breathless.
Joe stood there and watched him, not quite confused because he was starting to get the idea that Freddie was a merciless tease. Confirmation of that particular fact didn't come until much, much later, however, and at the time Joe just felt frustrated in what wasn't quite an unenjoyable way.
"You're overdressed," Freddie said, coming to a halt at the foot of the bed and turning to him, tucking one thumb into the waistband of his briefs. Joe tried not to eye him, looking vaguely disconcerted as he muttered something probably loud enough to hear about whistles and drill sergeants, though he was smiling. He pulled off his clothes, down to his own decidedly not Calvin Klein briefs - he'd thought about it but decided Freddie probably wouldn't find it very amusing - kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks and then stepped forward, feeling a tad self-conscious but not quite foolish as Freddie smiled at him faintly, intriguingly. Joe reached out, not hesitantly but mostly because he forced himself not to be, cupping the side of Freddie's face and running his thumbover one angular cheekbone before leaning in for another kiss.
It didn't last. Joe did all the work, such as it was, leaning in to give just a tiny swipe of his tongue against the full curve of Freddie's lower lip. Joe wondered, idly, if it was all in his head or if Freddie actually leaned into his touch; he couldn't tell, wasn't sure if that was just wishful thinking as the rest of him stayed so still. He didn't react at all. So, after a couple of awkward seconds Joe pulled back only to find himself suddenly chest-to-chest with Freddie, pressed against him with a kiss so hot and hard as one hand snaked down to cup him through his underwear that he could hardly believe it was happening. But then Freddie pulled back again, not quite suddenly, not pulling away completely but just far enough for his arms to circle Joe's waist as he looked him in the eye.
He was still wondering if Freddie suffered from some kind of rare sexual bipolar disorder that made him switch from seemingly willing and passionate to cool and calm in an instant when Freddie spoke. "Hmm..." he said, drumming his fingertips over the small of Joe's back, a smile on his face that was approaching a smirk. "I think it's your turn on top." And Joe didn't know what to say to that. He just stood there with his hands on Freddie's shoulders, forearms resting down against his chest, ridiculously aroused from it all. He frowned again, somehow caught in the feeling that this was all just Freddie's strange way of keeping control of the situation except that he couldn't be sure, especially not considering the way that his erection was pressing up to Freddie's thigh took just about every ounce of his concentration so he didn't just rub against him in what would no doubt have been an embarrassingly needy display.
"Yeah," he said instead, his mouth suddenly dry at the thought because in his head Freddie was already under him, lying there as he pushed inside him with all that heat and friction. He could imagine it, how it would feel to be inside him, how he would look. Then he swallowed hard as he ran his hands down over Freddie's chest, the muscles in his sides, gave him a little coaxing push so he's sit down on the end of the bed. "Fine. Okay."
Freddie said and leant back, plainly showing himself off as he smiled what Joe assumed rather cynically but probably correctly was a deceptively amicable smile. He was absolutely shameless about it, actually, tensing and flexing and teasing in complete contrast to his cheery, airy smile. "So, how do you want me?"
Joe smiled a dry smile as he stepped closer, between Freddie's knees. He rested his hands on his own hips, looking down at him with a vague, nagging feeling that he was being made fun of though yet again that was something he couldn't really decide on, whether he was right or just being paranoid. But he answered the question anyway, told him he liked to be face to face, and it seemed Freddie wasn't exactly surprised. He leaned forward, his hands trailing down the back of Joe's thighs as Joe watched him come closer, nuzzling softly at the front of his briefs. He felt one hand come up to trace the outline of his erection, finding the head before mouthing against it, Freddie's tongue flickering out at it through the thin material before he leaned back and left him shivering.
"We can do that," Freddie said, pulling himself up the bed, lounging, waiting as Joe watched. "I'm all yours, whenever you're ready."
There was sarcasm after that, in an odd way that both of them actually seemed to enjoy. There were kisses, chuckling, some hesitancy as Joe crawled up the bed feeling a little foolish; there was an awkward moment when Joe eased off Freddie's underwear and found he wasn't even half hard - Joe felt mortified that he was lying there on top of him with his exceedingly obvious erection pressed to Freddie's hip when Freddie, judging in those terms, seemed barely interested. Freddie must've caught that embarrassed look, though, because he took care of the issue himself with a few hard, fast stroked that brought him to swift attention.
Joe rid himself of his own pesky briefs and then lay back down on top of him, over him, sucking at his collarbone as he wondered where the lube was; Freddie turned out to be a mindreader too because he eased Joe back, leaned over to the low cabinet by the bed and produced a brad of lube that Joe had never seen and strongly suspected was Swedish. That was when he had to ask himself if he had a problem with inappropriate thoughts relative to the situation at hand, because there he was with a hot Swedish fooballer-slash-underwear-model lying beneath him, waiting, and all he could think about was how weird it was to be using a foreign brand of lubricant.
For a moment then as Freddie popped open the cap of the lube, Joe thought he was going to prepare himself and that got his attention, widened his eyes. He should've known better, though, really, because after a long moment of lying there looking faintly thoughtful, Freddie handed it to him and he had to do all the work. Not that Joe considered it work, exactly; he didn't even consider his work to be work, though in that case - in both cases - it was rather understandable. He spread the lube over his fingers, let it warm, let his fingertips play over Freddie's hard cock for a moment before slipping back to the opening behind. He pressed in his forefinger past the tight muscle, watching the reactions on Freddie's face, as he wondered idly if he could remember the last time he'd actually been on top. He decided, adding a second finger, that he could remember but would honestly prefer it if he couldn't. This time had better be good. It'd make up for it.
Of course, Freddie never had bad sex so Joe really had nothing to worry about. As he positioned himself and then pushed down inside him, feeling nervy and somewhat awkward, Freddie just looked up at him and grasped his forearms with his hands, relaxed in a matter of seconds and let him in. It was almost too easy: pretty damn soon they had a great rhythm, Freddie's right leg wrapped around Joe's waist and his left knee pulled up, one of Joe's hands up gripping the headboard for leverage and okay, yes, it didn't exactly last for long, but the point really was that it felt so damn good while it did last. Joe was left breathless and gasping as he shuddered deep and came inside him, and Freddie finished himself off with his hand moving between them. It was good. It was a hell of a lot simpler, less jarring and fumbling and awkward than Joe had ever really had with another guy before that, and so apparently that first time two weeks earlier hadn't been a fluke. Freddie really was that good, though what was actually going on between them made no sense to Joe.
But he knew where they stood soon after that. He was lying there hazy in a sort of post-coital glow, sated and ready to fall asleep right then and there - hardly surprising given the time. Freddie turned to him, suddenly cold as ice in every way that wasn't actually temperature, and told him that he wouldn't ask him to leave at this time of night so he could sleep in the spare bedroom if he liked. Just as long as he didn't bother him in the morning. Joe dragged himself from the bed and collected his clothes, suddenly almost ashamed of his nakedness though Freddie obviously wasn't looking at him. He should've left, he knew, but he walked down the corridor with his clothes in his arms, to the spare bedroom where he lay down on the backbreaking futon really knowing his place. And the worst thing was that he was absurdly grateful he was allowed to stay at all.
It was confusing, in a way, but somehow it made sense. He lay there in the dark, understanding as clearly as he ever would that this was only sex to Freddie; he wasn't sure if that was just further complicated or clarified by... later. When he checked his watch afterwards it was 2:14am - he woke up with Freddie's hot mouth on his cock and he lay there hard and half asleep and totally, uttlerly lost until he came in Freddie's mouth and watched him walk away. He fell back to sleep quite soon after and in the morning as he let himself out quietly, he had to wonder if he'd dreamt it. He knows he didn't. But he's never exactly figured out why. Really, the whole thing just made him feel a fool.
***
Somehow, in small and offhand ways, Freddie always manages to make him feel a fool. When he thinks about it as he sits there, lounging now and not really caring how it looks, over the months that they've seen each other, he can think of so many examples. Like the first time Freddie came over to his place; it was odd because until then, for three or four weeks, they'd always met at Freddie's, and he really hadn't expected him to accept his half-joking invitation. Really, he was just glad that he'd had the place cleaned just the day before and though it was still full of clutter, it wasn't as bad as usual.
Freddie came in, took off his coat and scarf and boots and say crosslegged on the couch, drinking from a bottle of still mineral water that he'd brought with him and watching as Joe played Resident Evil. It felt sort of surreal, the not-quite-strained chatter before Joe turned off the GameCube and Freddie said, not bothering to hide his amused disdain, "I'm not fucking on this couch." So they didn't. They went to the bedroom, fucked twice and then talked; Joe got up the courage to trail his fingers over Freddie's torso in strange idle patterns while they talked, in a way he assumed a fair number of people had done before him, and Freddie really didn't seem to mind. But then he got up, dressed, said there was somewhere else he had to be and Joe just lay there, not really knowing if Freddie really had to go or if he'd done something wrong to make him go. Long after he'd actually left, Joe decided that Freddie would have no problem at all with telling him straight if he fucked up, so that left him wondering, lying awake with the lights off and needing a shower, where he'd gone. He was probably with someone else. After all, they'd never said they were exclusive. He shouldn't have felt so crushed.
Then, a few days later, he thought he had it sorted. He was getting used to sending open-ended text messages, worrying as soon as he'd pressed send that he sounded too needy or desperate, and waiting to see if Freddie called back; Freddie did call back, asked him over. They talked over some late-night sports show that neither of them was really watching and suddenly Joe was right smack in the middle of the Twilight Zone because Freddie was asking if he'd been seeing other people, Freddie was asking him not to. He was floating on air in a manner most unbecoming for the next three days, until he realised; they were talking on the phone and Freddie mentioned his teammates, how Pirès had propositioned him, which probably meant that Henry would be in on it too, and he just didn't feel like a threesome - Joe realised that the deal only went one way. Freddie wasn't going to be faithful, that wasn't what he meant at all. He just expected Joe to be. And Joe, like a fool, would go along with it.
The stupid thing is, he wanted to confront him about it. He went over to his flat the night Freddie got back from his team's away game and he meant to go in there and have it out with him, find out what was going on in his head, tell him that if all he really wanted was a meek little sex slave then he'd come to the wrong place. He didn't get a word out. He went up there and the first thing Freddie did was kiss him hello. He didn't say the words but when he stepped back, Freddie looked pleased to see him; it was like he couldn't stop touching him, chatting, like he couldn't be close enough. Then they went to bed and it was tender, slow - Freddie spooned up behind him, took him like it meant something, held him after and then asked him to stay. They slept in the same bed for the first time, Freddie's arm around his waist. So he didn't ask.
He left early the next morning, before Freddie woke, deciding not to push his luck. He drove home, asking himself then as he has many times since, as he asks himself now, why he puts himself through this, and he couldn't find an answer. Maybe it's because he just can't say no. Maybe it's because he has a horror of being alone or because he just doesn't have the character to go to Freddie and tell him it's over, he won't be his doormat anymore, it's not enough. Thinking about it now, he couldn't say for sure, but he remembers one afternoon before he knew better, when they were lying in bed but it was Joe's and not Freddie's for once and that made him stupidly, foolishly bolder, when he actually asked Freddie the question he can't answer himself. Why.
"You just want me to like you," Freddie said, and Joe frowned, not because he thought it wasn't true but because he knew it was. He wanted, as he lay there with one hand flat to Freddie's abdomen, to quirk a brow and trip off some pithy sort of comeback, but he was too frustrated to think of anything at all. All he could do was frown a bit harder and leave the bed, pick up his jeans and stalk into the living room like a petulant child, because it was his house and he couldn't really leave. Looking back on it he doubts he would've left anyway, wherever they'd been, and he just sat tehre in the living room in just a pair of too-big jeans with rips in the knees that made him look and feel about twelve, and frowned at himself. Because he knew Freddie was right. He just wanted to be liked, by him.
Most of the time he doesn't see that there's anything wrong with that, either; why shouldn't he want Freddie to like him? It's not as if he wants Genghis Khan to like him - it's just Freddie and he's hardly Attila the Hun, he's not a bad person. In fact, he's a nice person. He's grounded and he's generous on occasion, he's not out kicking puppies in the street, and when he smiles, when he shows affection, when he's happy and Joe knows he did that, he feels this incredible sense of... He thinks about it now, sitting there, and the only words he can come up with aren't terribly convincing: relief, validation, gratitude. He can't be basing a relationship just on relief, can he? Sometimes he thinks that's all it is.
***
Part two = here.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Freddie Ljungberg/Joe Cole
Notes: I have no Word on this computer and my proofreading is shoddy - it's probably riddled with typos. And some of this needs to be credited to evien, though she might not appreciate being associated with it ;) Somehow, this has two parts, but only because LJ won't let me post it as one.
Summary: Joe has questions. And my summaries suck.
***
He's waiting. He's been waiting for fifteen minutes now, sitting there with his legs crossed neatly at the ankle, wondering why it seems to matter quite so much to him that he not look out of place when the room's empty except for himself, the doorman snoozing at his desk and a couple of CCTV cameras that he's fairly sure don't work anyway. He's not impatient, not yet, because he's used to waiting, sits here on this black leather couch that reminds him of so many waiting rooms at so many doctors' surgeries. He does a lot of waiting, but it's fine because he knows what he's waiting for is worth every second. And there shouldn't be long left now.
Joe's waiting for his boyfriend. Except he doesn't call him his boyfriend because that makes him feel about twelve years old, like he's back in secondary school snickering behind the bike sheds with his mates about how he saw their year eight Maths teacher getting off with that slutty blonde from the sixth form. He can't call him his boyfriend because it sounds absurd and he gets this huge silly grin on his face like he's just won the lottery but then looks around furtively as if he's done something wrong and someone's going to notice. Even if he's all alone in his living room with a pizza and repeats of Knightmare.
Still, there's not really another word for it, because "lover" sounds pretentious as hell or like he's just a bit on the side - a bit on the side of what, he'd like to know - and what else is there? "The man I'm seeing": that doesn't work because when he says it out loud he feel like such an inutterable prat that he can't take himself seriously. It's probably because he doesn't really see himself as a man yet since he's only twenty-three; he feels like a kid playing grown-ups most of the time but knows that he's technically an adult... still, "man" seems like he's talking about someone more like José's age and he's definitely not seeing José. And he can't even substitute in "lad," either, because the lad he's seeing really isn't a lad, he's older than Joe and he feels a twat referring to someone older than him like that.
So, he finds himself right back at the fact that he has a boyfriend. It still makes him feel roughly twelve and that's strangely appropriate because he's never really had a boyfriend before, just one-night stands and the occasional casual fling. He has a boyfriend now, though, who doesn't call him Joey in that condescending way that everyone else seems to. He doesn't make unreasonable demands on his time, either, doesn't tap him for cash or try to make him into some sort of social butterfly when he really, really isn't. He's got a boyfriend who's really something to look at, who takes care of himself in ways Joe's never dreamed of, but he doesn't expect him to join him down the gym every morning. And the sex is great. He's never had any complaints about that.
But there's a reason for all this. Because if Joe wants to see him, he's the one who has to ask. He doesn't mind so much, though - he tells himself that on what's nearing a regular basis, tells himself that now. He doesn't mind asking for what he wants. And there's really no escaping the fact that he wants him.
They're an unlikely couple, he thinks, sitting back. He can't even say how they met because it's not like they've got much in common outside football. He'd say that friends introduced them - that's his stock answer when wondering how he met most people - but it's not even that because they have no real friends in common. He's thought about it a lot, mostly without actually meaning to and in times like these, and in the end he thinks the most likely scenario is that they met at a match, maybe they shook hands before kickoff, and that was that. He doesn't really remember. But he does remember the first night they got together, if nothing else.
They met that night at a party, nothing to do with football. It was probably some launch party or or other but Joe doesn't really remember why he was there or who he was there with because it really wasn't his scene and whoever it was he turned up with, he didn't leave with them. He was standing alone at the bar though the room was crowded, trying to order drinks, and when he turned around with the glasses in his hands and glanced at the table - previously empty - that he'd been aiming for, his friends were gone and there was Freddie Ljungberg instead. It was quite a surprise. He'd had no idea he was there.
Freddie looked annoyed. He was trying to explain to a girl in a dress that was barely there that he didn't drink red wine but she was was either high or stupid or probably both and kept gesturing repeatedly, and with ever increasing enthusiasm, to the glass in her hand, that she seemed in danger of spilling at any given moment. Joe stepped in and saved him without really thinking about it, handing him a glass of what was supposed to be Jack Daniels but smelled perfumed like Southern Comfort and then watched the girl flounce away, stumbling uselessly on her over-expensive designer heels. He expected Freddie to be grateful and turned to him with a big, beaming grin, but he just looked back blankly. Joe remembers the few humiliating seconds it took for Freddie to realise that he knew his face and he was neither a complete stranger nor an oddly-dressed waiter. Joe's grin faded, he deflated, and he took a large mouthful of his own strangely-tasting Jack Daniels. Then Freddie asked him to sit down.
Joe's never really known why Freddie did that. He asked one, early on, but the only answer he got was a shrug and a coy smile and that moment really seems like a metaphor for their whole relationship - Joe doesn't know and Freddie's not telling. All he really knows is that Freddie did ask and so, trying not to seem too eager, he slid into the plasticky, vinyl-upholstered booth right next to him. He tried to make conversation, leaning in close, but the music was too loud for him to hear himself speak and he couldn't smell Freddie's cologne for all the smoke in the air. It was too hot in the bar and he'd drunk too much - his head was nearly spinning by the time Freddie moved away and he stared after him dumbly until he stopped and looked back and it occurred to him that he was meant to follow. So, he did.
It was better outside. He caught his breath in the cool night air as Freddie waited for his car and they left together. Joe didn't question it at that point, didn't until much later, and the only reason he can think of why Freddie might've got the idea to take him with him was the look he knows he must've had on his face, a sort of puppyish look that he always seems to get when he's drunk too much to keep his guard up around people he's attracted to. Freddie must've known what it meant because it was blatantly obvious. He's just never really worked out why Freddie took him along. The best, and also conversely the worst, reason he can think of is that the evening was so dull that bedding Joe Cole actually seemed like a decent sort of consolation.
Freddie didn't turn on the lights. They reached Freddie's building after what seemed like an age that Joe has since assumed was filled with his own tortured attempts at conversation while Freddie toyed idly with the CD player, then they parked and took the elevator upstairs; Freddie didn't turn on the lights. Joe followed him through the flat in the dark, disconcerted, distracted by the lights he could see through the unshaded window to the point where he almost lost him. Maybe Freddie waited for him then but he doubts it - he just remembers the faint movement catching his eye and the dull shine of the leather jacket he was wearing that night. He followed him, half expecting to trip and fall, one hand fumbling along the wall until he came to the complete darkness of the bedroom.
Freddie ate him alive. He pulled him into the room by the lapels of his jacket and the last thing Joe remembers seeing before the door was pushed closed behind him and the dark swallowed him up was the shine of harsh white streetlights on Freddie's eyes. His hands were hot as he stripped him with amazing dexterity in the slightly chilly room; his mouth was hot as he kissed him, hard and tasting faintly of lemonade laced with bourbon. He pulled him onto the bed and Joe lay there, mostly naked, already hard, trying not to feel claustrophobic in the darkness. His breath came too fast, his head swimming with sensations that were at once vague and jarringly intense - with his sight rendered useless he was feeling so much more. He gasped as Freddie pushed inside him, mysteriously slick, felt himself filled so abruptly that tears stung his eyes. He felt Freddie's mouth at his neck, heard strangely sibilant words against his skin that definitely weren't English. He clawed at Freddie's back, didn't need to finish himself off because he came just from having him inside him. It was amazing. He was speechless.
Then Freddie flicked on the lamp at his side of the bed and he asked him to leave. That robbed Joe of any words he might have been considering. And he left without argument.
The one concession Freddie did make was to pull on his jeans and show him to the door, turning on the lights as he went. Joe's eyes hurt by the time they were out by the door, from all the bright white walls and ceilings and while tiled floors and the bloody white furniture and he was standing there in the doorway trying to say goodbye as Freddie looked at him with a mixture of expectancy and impatience. But the only thing he could think of was how he'd just noticed that Freddie's spotless living room didn't even have a coffee table let alone half of the clutter that his own front room had, and he ended up opening his mouth to say something, anything, but he had nothing to say at all.
"Give me your number," Freddie said instead, saving him, "and I'll call you." But he didn't have a pen and finding one, even had he been allowed to try, in that spotless lounge, would've been an impossible task. He thinks Freddie would've closed the door and walked away without giving it a second thought if he hadn't got a text message right at that second and when he pulled his phone from his jeans pocket, smirking slightly at the message, Joe realised that they had the exact same model. Freddie watched him like a hawk as he entered his number into the phone book, saving himself as Joe Cole and not just Joe or Joey before handing it back. Then he left. Freddie closed the door behind him.
What happened next was depressingly predictable: three days passed, four, and Freddie didn't call. Joe tried to tell himself that he hadn't really expected him to but that didn't keep him from checking his mobile with a frequency bordering on obsession, trying not to seem too excited whenever he got a new text. It wasn't Freddie, never Freddie. Obviously not.
A week passed. JT had a go one afternoon when the first thing he did when they got back to the changing room was check his damn mobile, and all he could do in response was look sort of sheepish. Frank clapped him on the back the next day after training when he did the exact same thing again. "If she's not called you by now then she ain't going to," he said and Joe just nodded, looking resigned, and said he'd never really expected her to. And all the time he was just dying to say something else - he doesn't know what even now, maybe he wanted to blurt it all out, but he bit his tongue. Literally. Then he went home.
He didn't have Freddie's number so he couldn't just call him himself - he thought about it more than once but he didn't feel like calling around half the squad to find someone who might be able to give him or get him Freddie Ljungberg's number. He tried to put it out of his mind, trained longer, trained harder, bought himself some new games to occupy his free time, but it didn't really work. It didn't matter how many times he glanced at his phone and then called himself an idiot, caught himself wondering if he'd entered the right number at all and maybe he just couldn't get through... Freddie wasn't going to call. He'd have to get used to it.
But, in the end, Freddie did call. It was two weeks and three days, just after Joe had given up checking his phone, and he should've realised that meant something but he was too caught up in the fact that Freddie had actually called him to really think about the timing. He grinned his way through the short conversation and it wasn't until later, with his feet up in front of the World Poker Tour, staring at a piece of paper bearing Freddie's address and a time and a date, that he really thought about it. He'd waited half a month to hear from a guy who'd kicked him out after a one-night stand, and now he was going back for more. And he was happy about it? But then some shaven-headed Swede on his television won a million-dollar pot with just an ace high at that exact moment and Joe forgot all about his reservations. He'd be there in three days' time. He wouldn't think of a reason not to go.
***
He turned up outside the building twenty minutes early even after driving past it three times to make sure it was the same place that he remembered and not something different or made up, though exactly why Freddie would do that was where his logic failed. He just sat in the car after that with the engine and CD player turned off, listening to the rain drum down on the roof, because Freddie had told him to be punctual, dead on time and not early or late because then he wouldn't let him in. He wasn't sure if he believed him or not, was half convinced that he just had a perverse sense of humour, but he decided not to test it; he slipped out of his car and into the street, pulling up his hood against the rain as he jogged down the road and pressed the button for Freddie's flat, right on time, not early, not late. He recognised Freddie's voice in a vague sort of way over the fuzzy intercom, explained who it was in a rather halting sentence that was totally unusual for him and almost expected to get no reply though he couldn't say why. Then, maybe fifteen seconds later though it felt infinitely longer, Freddie buzzed him in.
He remembered the elevator with its polished steel and mirrored panels and harsh white lights, remembered trying not to stare as Freddie lounged by the buttons though he quite plainly did stare. He got out at the top and knocked on Freddie's door, heard what he interpreted correctly as "it's open"; he remembered the room, too, to a degree, and Freddie was sitting on the bright white couch opposite the door of that penthouse flat with a view of half of London. Joe took off his hoodie and folded it over his arm, patted it to make sure it wasn't too wet and then placed it on a chair, one of the few items of furniture in the room. Then he walked over; he was trying not to seem impressed in the way he's still doing to this day, though he knew then as he always knows that he failed miserably. Freddie looked at him faintly nonplussed as Joe pretended he wasn't looking out over the city, hoping it didn't look too much like he was stuck in that moment when a plane's just taken off and you're trying to look down for your house before you go up through the clouds.
The couch was white and absolutely pristine and he felt almost like he'd hurt it just by sitting on it even though Freddie was lounging there in exceptionally well-fitting jeans and a flatteringly tight tshirt. It was harder to tear his eyes from him than it was the view, Joe discovered as he sat down, feeling suddenly out of his depth. Freddie's eyes were on him; he could've sworn he could feel it as he looked around the classy, spartan room, rubbing his hands over his thighs in a not-quite-nervous and not totally unconscious gesture. Freddie didn't even try not to look amused at that.
They ate together in Freddie's similarly pristine kitchen and that was a change of pace; Joe bitched goodnaturedly about the excessively healthy food he served him and Freddie went along with that though it was terribly confusing. Joe sat there trying not to eye Freddie's conspicuously bare feet or wonder if this wasn't some kind of nice, polite sort of Freddie-clone and not the real thing. He was still wrong-footed and frowning faintly when they finished their exceptionally healthy meal and Freddie led him to the bedroom.
Freddie's the sort of guy that always has great sex simply because he believes he'll have great sex. He's never lacking confidence in that department - Joe's noticed that as the time's passed. He's that special class of man that thinks well enough of himself that he'll never underperform; he can fool around in cars just as effectively as beds, is equally at home getting it on in an airplane bathroom as he is in an elevator as he is in the fitting rooms at Harrods. They did it in the changing room at Stamford Bridge one time, and it would've been hot but Joe was too busy worrying that someone might find them to actually pay close attention. He was almost surprised when he shuddered and came over Freddie's hand, messing up Freddie's shorts and both their shirts. And really, this was no different.
Joe stood in the doorway and watched Freddie move across the room. He didn't really know what he was supposed to be doing and Freddie was telling him nothing so he just stood there and watched him, as he pulled the tshirt off over his head and tossed it away, as he unbuttoned his jeans, pushed them down oh-so-slowly and left himself standing there in what looked suspiciously like white Calvin Klein briefs. He paused for a moment but a moment only before he moved, walked over across the tiled floor until he was right there, pressing against him, his hands slipping up to Joe's neck as he leant in to kiss him; his hands moved, one to take a handful of Joe's shirt and anchor him in close, the other to the back of his neck to ease him in closer. Joe let him do it, slipping his arms around his waist.
There wasn't a hint of apprehension about it; it didn't seem to matter to Freddie that he was next to naked and Joe was still standing there fully clothed as they kissed. He just pressed himself to him as he pressed his mouth over Joe's, not quite roughly but not exactly with staggering lightness, either - he let his tongue swipe over Joe's lower lip before pressing past his teeth. Joe let him do that, too, tasting the sweet-sharp tang of kiwi from his mouth for a second before Freddie pulled back, stalked away and left him breathless.
Joe stood there and watched him, not quite confused because he was starting to get the idea that Freddie was a merciless tease. Confirmation of that particular fact didn't come until much, much later, however, and at the time Joe just felt frustrated in what wasn't quite an unenjoyable way.
"You're overdressed," Freddie said, coming to a halt at the foot of the bed and turning to him, tucking one thumb into the waistband of his briefs. Joe tried not to eye him, looking vaguely disconcerted as he muttered something probably loud enough to hear about whistles and drill sergeants, though he was smiling. He pulled off his clothes, down to his own decidedly not Calvin Klein briefs - he'd thought about it but decided Freddie probably wouldn't find it very amusing - kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks and then stepped forward, feeling a tad self-conscious but not quite foolish as Freddie smiled at him faintly, intriguingly. Joe reached out, not hesitantly but mostly because he forced himself not to be, cupping the side of Freddie's face and running his thumbover one angular cheekbone before leaning in for another kiss.
It didn't last. Joe did all the work, such as it was, leaning in to give just a tiny swipe of his tongue against the full curve of Freddie's lower lip. Joe wondered, idly, if it was all in his head or if Freddie actually leaned into his touch; he couldn't tell, wasn't sure if that was just wishful thinking as the rest of him stayed so still. He didn't react at all. So, after a couple of awkward seconds Joe pulled back only to find himself suddenly chest-to-chest with Freddie, pressed against him with a kiss so hot and hard as one hand snaked down to cup him through his underwear that he could hardly believe it was happening. But then Freddie pulled back again, not quite suddenly, not pulling away completely but just far enough for his arms to circle Joe's waist as he looked him in the eye.
He was still wondering if Freddie suffered from some kind of rare sexual bipolar disorder that made him switch from seemingly willing and passionate to cool and calm in an instant when Freddie spoke. "Hmm..." he said, drumming his fingertips over the small of Joe's back, a smile on his face that was approaching a smirk. "I think it's your turn on top." And Joe didn't know what to say to that. He just stood there with his hands on Freddie's shoulders, forearms resting down against his chest, ridiculously aroused from it all. He frowned again, somehow caught in the feeling that this was all just Freddie's strange way of keeping control of the situation except that he couldn't be sure, especially not considering the way that his erection was pressing up to Freddie's thigh took just about every ounce of his concentration so he didn't just rub against him in what would no doubt have been an embarrassingly needy display.
"Yeah," he said instead, his mouth suddenly dry at the thought because in his head Freddie was already under him, lying there as he pushed inside him with all that heat and friction. He could imagine it, how it would feel to be inside him, how he would look. Then he swallowed hard as he ran his hands down over Freddie's chest, the muscles in his sides, gave him a little coaxing push so he's sit down on the end of the bed. "Fine. Okay."
Freddie said and leant back, plainly showing himself off as he smiled what Joe assumed rather cynically but probably correctly was a deceptively amicable smile. He was absolutely shameless about it, actually, tensing and flexing and teasing in complete contrast to his cheery, airy smile. "So, how do you want me?"
Joe smiled a dry smile as he stepped closer, between Freddie's knees. He rested his hands on his own hips, looking down at him with a vague, nagging feeling that he was being made fun of though yet again that was something he couldn't really decide on, whether he was right or just being paranoid. But he answered the question anyway, told him he liked to be face to face, and it seemed Freddie wasn't exactly surprised. He leaned forward, his hands trailing down the back of Joe's thighs as Joe watched him come closer, nuzzling softly at the front of his briefs. He felt one hand come up to trace the outline of his erection, finding the head before mouthing against it, Freddie's tongue flickering out at it through the thin material before he leaned back and left him shivering.
"We can do that," Freddie said, pulling himself up the bed, lounging, waiting as Joe watched. "I'm all yours, whenever you're ready."
There was sarcasm after that, in an odd way that both of them actually seemed to enjoy. There were kisses, chuckling, some hesitancy as Joe crawled up the bed feeling a little foolish; there was an awkward moment when Joe eased off Freddie's underwear and found he wasn't even half hard - Joe felt mortified that he was lying there on top of him with his exceedingly obvious erection pressed to Freddie's hip when Freddie, judging in those terms, seemed barely interested. Freddie must've caught that embarrassed look, though, because he took care of the issue himself with a few hard, fast stroked that brought him to swift attention.
Joe rid himself of his own pesky briefs and then lay back down on top of him, over him, sucking at his collarbone as he wondered where the lube was; Freddie turned out to be a mindreader too because he eased Joe back, leaned over to the low cabinet by the bed and produced a brad of lube that Joe had never seen and strongly suspected was Swedish. That was when he had to ask himself if he had a problem with inappropriate thoughts relative to the situation at hand, because there he was with a hot Swedish fooballer-slash-underwear-model lying beneath him, waiting, and all he could think about was how weird it was to be using a foreign brand of lubricant.
For a moment then as Freddie popped open the cap of the lube, Joe thought he was going to prepare himself and that got his attention, widened his eyes. He should've known better, though, really, because after a long moment of lying there looking faintly thoughtful, Freddie handed it to him and he had to do all the work. Not that Joe considered it work, exactly; he didn't even consider his work to be work, though in that case - in both cases - it was rather understandable. He spread the lube over his fingers, let it warm, let his fingertips play over Freddie's hard cock for a moment before slipping back to the opening behind. He pressed in his forefinger past the tight muscle, watching the reactions on Freddie's face, as he wondered idly if he could remember the last time he'd actually been on top. He decided, adding a second finger, that he could remember but would honestly prefer it if he couldn't. This time had better be good. It'd make up for it.
Of course, Freddie never had bad sex so Joe really had nothing to worry about. As he positioned himself and then pushed down inside him, feeling nervy and somewhat awkward, Freddie just looked up at him and grasped his forearms with his hands, relaxed in a matter of seconds and let him in. It was almost too easy: pretty damn soon they had a great rhythm, Freddie's right leg wrapped around Joe's waist and his left knee pulled up, one of Joe's hands up gripping the headboard for leverage and okay, yes, it didn't exactly last for long, but the point really was that it felt so damn good while it did last. Joe was left breathless and gasping as he shuddered deep and came inside him, and Freddie finished himself off with his hand moving between them. It was good. It was a hell of a lot simpler, less jarring and fumbling and awkward than Joe had ever really had with another guy before that, and so apparently that first time two weeks earlier hadn't been a fluke. Freddie really was that good, though what was actually going on between them made no sense to Joe.
But he knew where they stood soon after that. He was lying there hazy in a sort of post-coital glow, sated and ready to fall asleep right then and there - hardly surprising given the time. Freddie turned to him, suddenly cold as ice in every way that wasn't actually temperature, and told him that he wouldn't ask him to leave at this time of night so he could sleep in the spare bedroom if he liked. Just as long as he didn't bother him in the morning. Joe dragged himself from the bed and collected his clothes, suddenly almost ashamed of his nakedness though Freddie obviously wasn't looking at him. He should've left, he knew, but he walked down the corridor with his clothes in his arms, to the spare bedroom where he lay down on the backbreaking futon really knowing his place. And the worst thing was that he was absurdly grateful he was allowed to stay at all.
It was confusing, in a way, but somehow it made sense. He lay there in the dark, understanding as clearly as he ever would that this was only sex to Freddie; he wasn't sure if that was just further complicated or clarified by... later. When he checked his watch afterwards it was 2:14am - he woke up with Freddie's hot mouth on his cock and he lay there hard and half asleep and totally, uttlerly lost until he came in Freddie's mouth and watched him walk away. He fell back to sleep quite soon after and in the morning as he let himself out quietly, he had to wonder if he'd dreamt it. He knows he didn't. But he's never exactly figured out why. Really, the whole thing just made him feel a fool.
***
Somehow, in small and offhand ways, Freddie always manages to make him feel a fool. When he thinks about it as he sits there, lounging now and not really caring how it looks, over the months that they've seen each other, he can think of so many examples. Like the first time Freddie came over to his place; it was odd because until then, for three or four weeks, they'd always met at Freddie's, and he really hadn't expected him to accept his half-joking invitation. Really, he was just glad that he'd had the place cleaned just the day before and though it was still full of clutter, it wasn't as bad as usual.
Freddie came in, took off his coat and scarf and boots and say crosslegged on the couch, drinking from a bottle of still mineral water that he'd brought with him and watching as Joe played Resident Evil. It felt sort of surreal, the not-quite-strained chatter before Joe turned off the GameCube and Freddie said, not bothering to hide his amused disdain, "I'm not fucking on this couch." So they didn't. They went to the bedroom, fucked twice and then talked; Joe got up the courage to trail his fingers over Freddie's torso in strange idle patterns while they talked, in a way he assumed a fair number of people had done before him, and Freddie really didn't seem to mind. But then he got up, dressed, said there was somewhere else he had to be and Joe just lay there, not really knowing if Freddie really had to go or if he'd done something wrong to make him go. Long after he'd actually left, Joe decided that Freddie would have no problem at all with telling him straight if he fucked up, so that left him wondering, lying awake with the lights off and needing a shower, where he'd gone. He was probably with someone else. After all, they'd never said they were exclusive. He shouldn't have felt so crushed.
Then, a few days later, he thought he had it sorted. He was getting used to sending open-ended text messages, worrying as soon as he'd pressed send that he sounded too needy or desperate, and waiting to see if Freddie called back; Freddie did call back, asked him over. They talked over some late-night sports show that neither of them was really watching and suddenly Joe was right smack in the middle of the Twilight Zone because Freddie was asking if he'd been seeing other people, Freddie was asking him not to. He was floating on air in a manner most unbecoming for the next three days, until he realised; they were talking on the phone and Freddie mentioned his teammates, how Pirès had propositioned him, which probably meant that Henry would be in on it too, and he just didn't feel like a threesome - Joe realised that the deal only went one way. Freddie wasn't going to be faithful, that wasn't what he meant at all. He just expected Joe to be. And Joe, like a fool, would go along with it.
The stupid thing is, he wanted to confront him about it. He went over to his flat the night Freddie got back from his team's away game and he meant to go in there and have it out with him, find out what was going on in his head, tell him that if all he really wanted was a meek little sex slave then he'd come to the wrong place. He didn't get a word out. He went up there and the first thing Freddie did was kiss him hello. He didn't say the words but when he stepped back, Freddie looked pleased to see him; it was like he couldn't stop touching him, chatting, like he couldn't be close enough. Then they went to bed and it was tender, slow - Freddie spooned up behind him, took him like it meant something, held him after and then asked him to stay. They slept in the same bed for the first time, Freddie's arm around his waist. So he didn't ask.
He left early the next morning, before Freddie woke, deciding not to push his luck. He drove home, asking himself then as he has many times since, as he asks himself now, why he puts himself through this, and he couldn't find an answer. Maybe it's because he just can't say no. Maybe it's because he has a horror of being alone or because he just doesn't have the character to go to Freddie and tell him it's over, he won't be his doormat anymore, it's not enough. Thinking about it now, he couldn't say for sure, but he remembers one afternoon before he knew better, when they were lying in bed but it was Joe's and not Freddie's for once and that made him stupidly, foolishly bolder, when he actually asked Freddie the question he can't answer himself. Why.
"You just want me to like you," Freddie said, and Joe frowned, not because he thought it wasn't true but because he knew it was. He wanted, as he lay there with one hand flat to Freddie's abdomen, to quirk a brow and trip off some pithy sort of comeback, but he was too frustrated to think of anything at all. All he could do was frown a bit harder and leave the bed, pick up his jeans and stalk into the living room like a petulant child, because it was his house and he couldn't really leave. Looking back on it he doubts he would've left anyway, wherever they'd been, and he just sat tehre in the living room in just a pair of too-big jeans with rips in the knees that made him look and feel about twelve, and frowned at himself. Because he knew Freddie was right. He just wanted to be liked, by him.
Most of the time he doesn't see that there's anything wrong with that, either; why shouldn't he want Freddie to like him? It's not as if he wants Genghis Khan to like him - it's just Freddie and he's hardly Attila the Hun, he's not a bad person. In fact, he's a nice person. He's grounded and he's generous on occasion, he's not out kicking puppies in the street, and when he smiles, when he shows affection, when he's happy and Joe knows he did that, he feels this incredible sense of... He thinks about it now, sitting there, and the only words he can come up with aren't terribly convincing: relief, validation, gratitude. He can't be basing a relationship just on relief, can he? Sometimes he thinks that's all it is.
***
Part two = here.