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Sat, Jan. 2nd, 2010, 02:34 am
The Speed of 125kts/h

Title: The Speed of 125kts/h.
Author: bed_shapped
Pairing: KaoruxShinya
Rating: G
Summary: What does 125kts/h feel like? Tell me.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the mentioned. This is purely a work of fiction.



Music is my life.

Anyone fueled by passion declares it easily.

Everyone just says it, until they are really living it.

The job is my life.

I would think I live 3 different ways.

First would be pre-album, conceptualizing, recording…

After our album is completed it would be doing promos, which include touring, filming videos.

Lastly, it would be just the few weeks annual break; going back home to Hyogo to visit the family.

We got what we wanted. Annual tours in America and Europe, sharing the stage with other international acts. Has a Japanese band gotten this far in the English dominant rock world?

To tell you the truth, I’m kind of tired. Success hasn’t made my head any bigger; it just makes my heart heavier. Responsibilities, living up to other people’s expectations… Let's not go there it just makes me wearier.

The dusty Gundam figurines at my Tokyo apartment came into my mind. When my mind idles, it takes me back to my childhood.

In the past I was dutifully cleaning them weekly; they shine on top of my television.

Whenever I had friends over, the guys would fawn over the latest models I had bought and pieced together. Girls never wanted anything to do with robots or geeks for the matter.

Anyway, I’m presently holed up in Haneda, waiting for the flight to Osaka where we are doing 3 shows.

Outside, among the vast cement fields, planes are strongly grounded, their weight rooted by gravity.

We have been inside this departure hall plenty of times. The cushioned seats have lost their puffiness through the years; some of them are depressed permanently, concaved by the weight of the many people who sat on it every day. An odd number of seats retained their springy characteristic, bouncing back up when you rest on them.

I have just finished a few pages from an English phrasebook. Just learning a few essential phrases to get around by myself around the US and UK. I find it ridiculous having a translator around when I’m on tour. I want to be more personal with the other bands we are sharing the stage with, rather than have some third party relaying my messages, it’s too tedious, and moreover it just seems insincere.

So far, I’m memorizing sentences with regards to music technicalities. I hope to exchange ideas and thoughts with other musicians. Die and Toshiya are more into the situation of picking up people to end their night with.

Getting restless, I looked up at the clock on the wall.

4:17.

The singular red LED dots bleed into numerals.

We still got 15 minutes more before take off, I suppose boarding would be anytime soon.

“Lighting up,” Die gestured with his Zippo with the other two smokers in tow to the lounge.

Left behind with me is our drummer, Shinya, sitting adjacent to me with a magazine on his thighs, face turned towards the window, staring out. Tracing his gaze, I found him following a jet on the runway.

In the mere seconds that trickled by, the aircraft sped up the runway, its nose tilted towards the sky, steadily soaring, the tiny wheels tuck themselves back into place. At a certain altitude, the engine morphed into a lonesome seagull against the faded sky, above the calming waters.

“Slow isn’t it?”

Shinya turned to face me, wordlessly, he nodded.

“It’s actually going at 125 to 175 knots when it’s lifting off.”

His brown eyes flickered over to me, a clueless, indignant spirit that read “Why are you telling me this? Why are we talking?”

“Guess you are not that much interested in planes,” the stupid words that expel from my mouth when I want to fill a void. The unnecessary things I do just to pass time.

The things that get under your skin.

Silence continued, only to be broken when he fidgeted on his chair.

“It seems so slow, but traveling at a speed like that…” his voice cracked, naturally like someone who hadn’t opened his mouth in a while.

“When you’re seated inside the craft, you can’t feel it can you?”

He paused for a moment, thinking, his viewpoint moved to the ceiling of the hall we are in, lower lip sucked in a thin line.

“Sorry, I haven’t given that a thought,” he admitted, eyes darting nervously, anticipating some kind of uproar from me.

“Why apologise?”

Taken aback from my question, he jolted on his seat. The artificial lamps of the hall played a light show on his features.

“I don’t know? Feel like I’ve disappointed you?”

Japanese people sure have a weird way of expressing their feelings. I have been told before by those ‘gaijins’ on tour. The word ‘sorry’ is used so often it is confused with ‘excuse me’ or ‘don’t mind.’ Does one say sorry to appease the other party? Are we afraid of what others that we have to kneel before they even raise their hands?

We have spent more than a decade together, why are we speaking to each other so formally? Is there a need to apologize?

“Disappoint me? You hardly. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here today!” He managed a smile. I could have sworn I saw his shoulders move, the tenseness in them dissipated.

4:32

Footsteps echoed from a distance. Thick soles made clunking noises; instantly I knew who it was approaching.

Kyo. Who else could it be, George Cox creepers and accessories wrapped on his wrist.

Grabbing his satchel he tossed me his lighter, “Go ahead and take a light before boarding.”

“No thanks!”

I know I’m seated next to Shinya on the plane; how he hated the smell of smoke.

I know he would ask for apple juice when the air stewardess pushes her drink cart down the aisle.

I know that when he slept, he snores, softly, from the weariness of our schedule.

I know his mouth would be semi-open, his lips parted, and they fade from a moist light pink when they are dry.

I know so much about him a normal person would think it’s peculiar.

Do I know this much about the rest of them as well? Probably do, since we spend most of our time together.

4:35.

“Let’s go in.”

Toshiya was engaged in some intense conversation with Die, so much that his perm locks bobbed up and down. Our peroxide blonde vocalist has his hands busy, scrambling for something in his bag.

“Shit…boarding pass….is it?” he muttered, digging through his belongings frantically. We are getting closer and closer to the door of the Boeing. Two slim stewardesses with their friendly business smiles stood, waiting to show passengers to their seats.

“Here!” Fukawa-san* our manager exclaimed and he competently passed the tickets to the ladies.

Thank goodness for managers.

“This way down,” she extended her graceful arms and we followed.

Domestic airplanes are really small. Just a 3 by 3 row separated by an aisle, pretty simple.

Walking towards our seats, the plane-smell, somewhat like stale air filled my lungs. I regretted not smoking for a bit. Thankfully, a young woman passed me, her perfume wafted in the air, soothing my senses.

While waiting for the line in front of me to get settled in their seats, I scanned the view before me.

People. It’s assorted; businessmen with their overnighters and laptops, Zen-like elderly couples, some chatty students on vacation, and the usual handful of excited tourists share this flight with us. Along the aisle, slender, uniformed employees stretched their limbs, placing baggage into the overhead compartment.

“Thank you,” an old woman bowed towards the stewardess who returned it.

Finally, we reached our row. 22, the number indicated on my ticket.

Behind me, a voice asked meekly, “Do you want the window seat?” Shinya shifted his foot, looking down at the carpet, avoiding my gaze.

“You can have it.” His thin body brushed passed me.

Gingerly, he moved into his seat, sideways. He lifted his arm up to adjust the a/c, a strip of bare skin peeked from in between his shirt and his pants. Despite the summer tours we had in the States, days playing in the blazing sun, his body still remained pale. The light golden brown tan has long gone before winter had arrived.

“Please buckle up…” the pilot said his greetings and made a long announcement before take-off.

Click. Click. Click.

A mass of clicking sounds arose in the plane with all the passengers obediently sitting upright and paying attention to the stewardess doing their life-saving drill. This kind of bored me as I have seen that plenty of times plus my eyes can’t seem to keep up with the fastidious procedures.

Instead, they strayed to my friend on the right who wasn’t listening as well.

Shinya brought his face close to his window, the soft evening sun coming through causing his hair to glow against the light. From where I was, it subtly looked like a halo. “Beautiful”, the only word that came to my mind. Die had mentioned it before, “tips to nail a chick Kaoru!”

Long, slim fingers pressed against the looking glass. It was then I noticed, the scenery started to roll.

We’re moving.

A temporary fog imprints itself on the window, blurring the view. Did a sigh just escape from him? Soon it clears, giving way to the scenery. And we find ourselves passing the air control tower in a flash you’d forget you did in that instant.

Because the view right now is priceless, there it was, gold, shimmering off the surface of the Pacific, the sign of a setting sun.

“I know,” whispery words flowed from his mouth. They come by so gently, as if I had imagined him speaking. “I think I know the speed of 125 knots per hour,” he grabbed my right hand, hastily; pressed it close his chest, wanting me to feel his heart rate, which was beating furiously in his rib cage. In a split second, he let me go, dropped my hand back and it hit the arm rest hard.

What was this?

Unexplainable action that brought upon a strange, shy awkwardness. He once again had turned away from me. But I can clearly see his ears, flushed, like an ink splotch on paper.

The beat.

The rhythm.

His pulse, I can still feel them. They are reverberating back into me like sound waves being emitted through the pores of his fair skin. Sudden warmth rushed through me, cruising through my veins, the nerves on my fingers prickled.

Was that static electricity?

“You’ve got that wrong."

For a moment, he was baffled. His thin brows knitted themselves a confused and hurt expression.

“That was more than 125 knot per hour,” I informed him.

“Feel it here,” I grabbed his flat palm, clasping it with mine. “125 knots per hour!”

And he smiled his beautiful smile, slow an eternal, a playback my memory will always keep.

Author's Notes: I loved that picture. I just came back from a trip out of the country maybe that’s why that picture appealed to me a lot. * Denotes the manager who is fictional. I forgot their manager’s name!!! Thanks for the pictures you guys posted, sometimes in public, I find myself daydreaming, wondering the life of KaoruxShinya for real! Silly, obsessed me. I haven’t written any deg fics in ages and lost touch with their personality ): I hope I did nail them properly... Happy New Year!

Sat, Mar. 10th, 2007, 10:55 pm

Series: Professionalism
Title: Cornetti and Brioches in the morning
Pairing(s): David Beckham/Fredrik Ljungberg, David Beckham/others, Fredrik Ljungberg/Markus Rosenberg
Genre: RPS AU
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Fredrik is a Cinderella in love with the wrong prince.

Author’s Notes: Professionalism is an AU series. It’s my take of what things would be like if these guys aren’t playing football. Have you ever thought what David Beckham and Freddie Ljungberg would be if they had zero football skills? Well I did. Hence I cooked up this warp little fic. I hope you will enjoy it.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the mentioned. This is purely a work of fiction, spurn by my imagination.


Four years back, I was taking orders and cleaning greasy tables at one of those British Authentic Fish and Chips diners which were invading the whole town. It wasn’t a very satisfying job but I just needed the money to buy records. I was in my last year of upper-secondary school, playing football, ice hockey and handball, going to the movies with friends, getting love letters from girls just like any other boy of 18.

It happened one day when I met the fussiest man ever in my life. He was dressed conspicuously in a sharp suit with a signet ring on his pinkie. He wanted his fish drained of oil from the fry, and he wanted his chips with ‘a slight pinch’ of salt, crispy and when I asked him what drink he would like, cola or iced water, he replied no, and took out a silver flask from his jacket pocket. I wrote down his order and brought it to the kitchen, confused as to why would such a man eat at a place like this that was absolutely ‘downgrading’.

Needless to say his order took quite some time than the average ones as he was so particular about the oil. We paper-toweled his fish, changing the paper twice when the oil seep through it thin. When I brought to him his plate of fish and chips, he was tapping his sharp leather oxfords at me, a sign of his impatience.

Without a word of gratitude he begun slicing his fish into tiny pieces quickly and squeezed the lemon onto the golden brown crumbed skin of the fish before tucking in. The other waiters were sniggering at his manners, which were a girl’s.

He was a fast eater, chewing silently. And when it came for the bill, he asked me a question that would change my life.

“Excuse me, but would you like to be a model?”

At this point, I turned my suspicions on him fully. Perhaps he is a Soviet spy? A serial kidnapper? Whatever he was, he wasn’t up to any good.

“Why don’t you think about it? Here’s my name card,” he said as he dropped a crisp piece of 50 Kronas and left immediately.

I looked at his card and read the words:

Models 1 Agency.

Just then, the nosey waitress Martina snatched the contact card from my hands and squinted at the words.

“Well, what’s this, another gay admirer?” she said snidely, Sweden is known for our very open policy on sexuality. Frankly speaking, there were a couple of guys who come into the shop to hook me up. I don’t know whether it’s supposed to be flattering, but I find it dead embarrassing. I have a homo’s face. As Jules, the dish washer puts it.

I watch Martina as she squinted at the words printed, “Model’s 1”? She shrieked, her palms came into contact with my back, hard, and I choked. Again and again, she dealt me with slaps that were tagged with different swear words.

“The lucky bastard has just been scouted and may make it big!”

“Jagger’s wife!”

“Jerry Hall is from Model 1!”

Martina kept on blubbering as I drifted off into dream land.

Mick Jagger!

Well almost, his wife…

Now if I could get in touch with her, it’s as good as knowing Jagger!

Then I could meet the rest of The Stones! Think about it!

Of course, that’s a silly little fantasy of mine.

Because two months later, I packed my bags to Madrid, one of the fashion capitals of the world.

My mother was very proud. Rather of herself than me. Her boy was going to be dressed in the finest! She sent a letter to her sisters and her friends, telling them that I am going to be a model. But I had better known her intention, which was to show off to everyone that she passed her ‘ beauty genes’ to me.

My father… He wasn’t at all glad.

Picking up his cigarettes and his morning papers, he gruffly said, “One woman in the family is enough!”

Filip, my younger brother, was more interested in getting Spanish football kits.

“Get me Maradona’s please! Cruijff too!” he begged.

He must be crazy! There is no place in Madrid for Barca’s jerseys.



I made my debut on Giorgio Armani alongside another Swede, Markus Rosenberg, or rather Mark. None of the other boys believed we were Swedes because they thought ‘all Swedish people are blonde’. And then, I concluded that most models are dumb. So Swedish people are blonde but they can’t do something about their hair colour? I hate being stereotyped, like all Americans love hotdogs and all Brits drink tea and the Chinese eat anything and everything? That’s rubbish!

On that very same show, I met an acquaintance, Kaká who is Brazilian and the muse of Armani. He wasn’t like the others despite being on good terms with the designer. He wasn’t arrogant and pretentious, but rather timid and soft-spoken.

DON’T YOU KNOW? HE’S ARMANI’S NEW TOY BOY! The boy sitting next to me getting his hair done snapped.

Shrugging, I decided I had enough of his continuous bitching and slipped the earphones of my walkman in.

Many people wondered what we do before the show, and I’ll fill you in. Well, we basically arrive at the venue pretty early, maybe 5 hours? The make-up artist and the hair stylist pass us around each other, and- okay you can gasp, but we actually mess around, it depends on whose show you were doing. Giorgio was pretty relaxing and we got to dribble the ball around while waiting for our turn with the fitting of the clothes before getting a quick Polaroid shot of each individual then, the show starts.

Some of the other older models were smirking at us, giving their friends snide glances under their half-lidded eyes as the artist does their brows and lashes.

I heard a lot of stories about the fashion industry before I left home, and most of it weren’t very nice. Basically, they all say the industry is nasty and if you want things served to you in a silver platter, you got to claw and fight your way for it.

It’s not me, I don’t do such things just to get my way. I don’t have to get things my way.

I can be myself.

I can’t change just because the environment around me demands.

I won’t, lose myself.

The words are in my head, in the morning when I wake up, before I start a show, at night before I sleep and times when I wanted to scream so badly. It really works.

Perhaps once there was a time where the mantra broke.

If there was a vision of the perfect man, maybe David Beckham is the answer.

Apparently, according to Kaká, David has been the ‘It’ boy for the last two years. He had scores of contracts and was the face of many campaigns, Burberry, Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Versace… You name it, he has graced their catwalks and was shot in their clothes in ads. Between whispers, others say he was even offered a million to escort some American Actress to an award show.

… DAVID IS A GIGOLO! Someone hissed under his breath.

Ah...Jealousy. It’s always common when you’re on the top. Many people would think of a million ways to bring you down.

YOU KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF HIM! A model called Michael snapped at me, when I was caught looking at David.

Yes, I remembered, it was Kaká who introduced us. But we didn’t exactly hit of particularly well or so because it was so brief. David was the kind of person at the party, whom you would say ‘hi’ he would shake your hand limply, his eyes would rover about as he was not interested and the next moment you’d know, he would flit to the next person he has his eyes on.

I was not very captivating, and I didn’t have enough charm to mingle long with him. So he took his champagne glass and left.



It wasn’t till a month later when I met David again. By that time I was a regular for Calvin Klein and Dolce & Gabanna, flying back and forth from Milan and New York. Markus my fellow Swede and I room together now; he too was a regular walker for CK and D&G.

CK has just launched a new fragrance and being their ‘employees’, we were invited to the cocktail party, at a new museum celebrating minimalism- you know how Calvin Klein is… Markus was taken ill that day and decide to spend the night in his bunk sleeping. I arrived alone at the venue, in my casuals. Jeans and another one of my many concert tees.

I sure stood up (like a sore thumb) among the sea of ladies dressed to kill and men in their smooth suits. Gosh, even the waiters looks tons better than me. Feeling out of place and with no one to talk to, I slid into the corner near the exit trying to make my wine last as long as it could. I didn’t want to go back to the table and get stares.

Then, the exit door open from behind, and I jumped a little in my Pumas, the smell of cigarettes drifted in with the cool evening breeze and someone tapped my shoulders.

“Got a light?” the stranger asked. The overpowering smell of his cologne hit me. Spicy and minty.

“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” I shook my head and apologies. The dim light of the museum affected my sight of the stranger, but I could catch a glimpse of his smile.

“It’s alright, just thought you might have it on you.” I smile a bit. It’s my hair. I got it dyed a dark brown and then highlighted a red fin across it. I loved it. It was a reminiscent of Sid Vicious. Flip side of the style was that many people assumed I was a skinhead and thus the whole smoking, swearing, shooting up persona comes in. What did I say about being generalized?

“May I have a swig of that?” his finger pointed at my glass.

“Mighty cold out there,” he commented as I passed him my drink.

What was I doing? I usually didn’t share my drinks with others. I have a certain thing about saliva consciousness.

Maybe I was lonely...

Maybe I just needed someone…

Or maybe it was the scent he wore, that drugged, whatever the lure was, it was obvious he has quite a way with women and men.

“I know this isn’t Rome, but have you been biking around the city at night?’ he asked, swiping away the moistness of his lips.

“No, I uh- I take the bus, then I walk…” I replied lamely, and wanted to slap myself silly for putting myself in a way dorks do.

The stranger let out a little laugh and pulled out something from his pocket; it was jingling in his hands, like spare change.

“Come on then,” he cajoled me, taking my arm in his leather clad one.

We got out of the stuffy place as he held me by my wrist, leading us to a screaming red Vespa.

“A friend loaned it to me when I got to the city,” he explained, handing me a helmet. He crossed his long leg over to the other side and started the scooter.

“You ready, mate?” he turned around and through the lens of his goggles; I could see the same startling Hazel eyes that jolted every woman in magazine pages. I gasp, wondering if it was part to my drunkenness that I see him, David Beckham- the supermodel!

“Hold on tight,” he warned as he kick start the accelerator, My hands were firmly planted on the metal that handle that supports the spare wheel at the back of me.

“Your first time in Milan?” he asked over the roar of the traffic.

“No.”

“By the way, I haven’t got your name yet!”

“Fredrik!” I shouted over the gust of wind that blew against us when we rode.

“Freddie? May I?” He couldn’t recognize me. He couldn’t remember that I was the rookie boy in Mr.Armani’s show that Kaká introduced. Then again, why should he? I was nobody and he had many other names in his mind.

He turned to face me just as I was to nod my head to his question and our helmets clashed, the sound, an endless ringing in my head, throbbing badly along with the alcohol’s effect.

“I’m sorry!” my voice was barely recognizable as I let out a tiny squeak.

“I’m David,” he laughed again, “is your head fine?”

“Yes it is!”

Eleven, and the roads were not as busy, we were speeding down the asphalt, zipping in and out of the lanes, passing by the many grand boulevards and magnificent cathedrals, screaming out heads off into the cold night air. We forgot time, we forgot where we were and I forgot where I lived- the model agency’s apartment.

“You don’t have a curfew do you?” David asked as he pulled up in front of a low, stoic grey building. I bit my lip trying to register his words. But I gave up, my brain clearly wasn’t thinking after being sloshed, I am one who doesn’t hold drinks too well and that has become a joke among friends.

“Let’s get you inside shall we?’ his eyes glint with cheekiness as he winked. The blood rush to my head just got faster and faster, my heart in sync, the rhythm in speed of a death metal band. We walked up two floors, but it felt like ten, because my feet were heavy with weariness and my head was woozy from the slight concussion earlier. David was going on about the house, I could make out the words ‘friend’s’, ‘duplex’ and ‘nobody’ weaving them into an interpretation on my own.

By now, my legs were jelly and I leaned onto his sturdy frame as he went through his leather jacket for his keys. I was making all sorts of weird noises, and I wasn’t aware of it myself till the next morning. But David told me I sounded ‘just like a cat who wants some milk’.

Well, maybe I did sound like desperate kitty because ten minutes later after a lot of groping and tender little kisses on certain erogenous zones, triggering a full-blown lust, the crave for the sense of touch. Soon, the next thing I knew we were on the leather couch, hips thrusting, bodies breeching, grinding our freed erections against one another. My headache just got worse, the pain was swelling beyond control and it was starting to get numb when David got his lips around the head of my cock, the pressure of his tongue running and licking the slit was enough to start a brain hemorrhage.

“Stop it!” I pleaded. I was going up in flames in any minute from now.

Looking insulted, his eyes turn up at me. “Why?” He got it wrong. I didn’t mean that.

“Please, do me.” I begged, wishing for him to be on the same track as I was.

I never did talk much especially when breath was drawn away from my lungs.

“I- I want you to feel…” The euphoria was better than the first and only time I did coke in a club back home.

“Now!”

We are demanding, young and impatient.

Never keep someone waiting. It’s rude.

Seems like David knows his manners! Because he didn’t beat around the bush, but was always got to the point, was never selfish but instead put other’s pleasure before his, like the boy all mothers wanted as a son, David certainly didn’t waste natural resources and was a great help at cleaning up.

I woke up to the smell of vanilla, strong, sweet and warm, Cornetti and Brioches! Markus and I always eat them because they are always available from the bakery when we sleep in.

“A cuppa for you?”

Delighted, I was. Nobody has ever served me breakfast in bed before. Not even my mother when I was sick in bed. For someone to do such a thing for me, he has to be the one.

“The one, Ljungberg, is the one who will hold your hand through rain or shine, okay, maybe not so, because he will be holding the umbrella when the rain comes pouring. ” Martina stated, squeezing the dish rag dry.

“That’s all?” Jules snorted.

“The one also loves you unconditionally-“

“Whoa! Big word huh!”

“Shut up will you!” She sprinkled some water at him. “I’m trying to tell the boy here who is THE ONE!”

“So, the one also loves you unconditionally even when you’re old, white and wrinkly. He will go to the ends of the earth… just for- you.” She paused, trying to be dramatic, batting her eyes as if she was on camera.

Jules sniggered and the other boys laughed out loud.

“What a pretty picture you paint, Martina!” they whistled.

“Straight out of a romance novel! You certainly have been reading!” Simone ducked just in time when the sponge came flying in his direction.


Funny how easily contented I could get. My friends say I’m a fool. What is a fool? Someone who got a nibble of the cake and declared it the best he ever had and then, doesn’t fight for the whole slice.

We went out for a couple of months. I’m mainly based in Milan and David is everywhere. We talk on the phone but it was expensive. Time is expensive. Then, we rarely got to see each other. Soon, he was hounded by the Americans. They are absolutely crazy about him. He gets tons of letters from girls contemplating suicide if he wouldn’t see them.

He was on NBC’s morning show, performing a skit on Saturday Night Live and hosted MTV. It was inevitable that he would soon settle down in Tinseltown. The ladies of the silver screen adored him; their husbands traded style tips with him. He was everyone’s best friend.

Then, I saw it coming.

“We can’t go on anymore,” he said. Just like the lead in the any Box Office film would to his girlfriend before he left her to ‘save the world’.

Could I say ‘no’?

I must be insane because I did.

“If you love him, let him go…”

It’s a soap opera, my life. And I hate soaps because all the channels are just full of never-ending sagas that reduce me to tears- of boredom whenever I’m alone in our Milan apartment.

That happened two months ago. Everything around me is silence. The phone doesn’t ring now. People talk to me, but I can’t seem to hear what they are talking about. I get letters, but they weren’t from him.

I miss him.

So much, every time I closed my eyes, I saw the two of us on the scooter, riding down the streets of Milan.


We went our own separate ways. David spent most of his time being filmed and I was working my butt off to become a regular in Boss, Gucci, Gaultier and Calvin Klein. I was climbing up the rankings with Markus and the numbers on our paycheck extended.

A stroke of luck!

New product launches, advertising campaigns, the new season’s collection gala premier, these are all opportunity points in a model’s career. You know how every designer has a muse or maybe what you call an inspiration? Calvin Klein spotted me after his runway in New York Fashion week.

“I’ve never seen you before,” he commented.

“Are you new?”

“Yes and no Mr. Klein, I’ve been here for more than year now.”

“What’s your name,” my mouth runs dry, I’ve never been able to hold someone’s attention, and now one of America’s biggest names is interested.

“Fredrik.”

”European…”

“Swedish,” I declared proudly; British models are monopolizing the trade. Elizabeth Hurley. Kate Moss. Jodie Kidd. Naomi Campbell.

He let out a chuckle and I felt like I had played myself like the fool I was.

I can never seem to choose the right words to say what I mean.

“I like you Swedes! There’s an air of freedom about your country!” he exclaimed.

“Sexual freedom,” OH! My mouth couldn’t help it. He laughed at me.

“Free,” Mr. Klein went on, “from all inhibitions.” A waiter offered us a platter of Carr’s with pâté, a very popular finger food served during receptions at all shows.

“And that’s what CK is about, can I say an attitude that says ‘I don’t give a shit’, pardon me.”

“It’s alright, Sir.”

“Ah… you Europeans and your manners. Just call me Calvin.” He crunched on the olive of his martini.

“So where was I? Yes, Fredrik, we would like you to come aboard and be the next face. You’re going to be Helen of Troy, Fredrik, your face will launch a thousand sales!"

“What do you think?”

“I do like it,” Truth is, I just didn’t care anymore, actually. Lately, walking down the shows is like taking a trip to the doctors- a heart of dread and uncertainty.


You know how happiness is short-lived? I had the papers delivered to my front steps the next day with David hogging the headlines again.

So he’s engaged to the pop-princess Victoria Adams.

It was barely one month since our split and he is engaged.

I can’t put a finger to what this means. I don’t want to think about it.

The papers never reached Markus that day because I tossed it out of our apartment.


A week later I was in their studio doing a shot for their famed tight whities. Then, the negatives were developed and sent for printing. They called me to go down and view the pictures. But I didn’t want to go out, so I declined politely and hung up the call. Is there a point in seeing the finishing when you were involved in the process?

“Freddie,” someone called me from behind. It could only be Markus. Since we were the only two in the house.

“What’s wrong with you?” he queried, his eyes shone with concern. His arms were by the side of his pajamas- consisting of an old worn out K-Swiss shirt.

“Nothing’s wrong.” The call woke me up from a rare Saturday where I could sleep in and that irked me. And now, Markus is looking at me with his big eyes, imploring.

“You haven’t been much of yourself lately, I’m just worried. That’s all.”

“Well, you can stop worrying now. I’m the new face of Calvin Klein.” I gritted my teeth. Why can’t he just go back to sleep, or eat his Cornetti and Brioches? Why can’t he just go be himself? I’m sick of it.

Can’t anyone see that I’m not? Yet they still ask when they know the answer in their heads. They are on tip-toes around me, fussing and treating me with extreme caution. I hate it. I just want to be treated just like I was before I left home.

I walked towards my room without a word and he calls my name again.

“Freddie! Please!” his hand is on my arm, pulling me, then, the unfamiliar but warmth feeling started to spread when his arms circle my waist. I can feel his head between my shoulder blades, resting.

I don’t know if anger dissipates by melting, because it’s a fire.

This whole while, these few months, the black hole within me, the void that David left was replaced with negativity that was slowly eating me away. I hardly recognize myself.

Where was the teenager who worked at that damned Fish & Chips diner? The waiter who had gay customers stalking him? The punk with the dyed black hair and the red fin whom everyone knows as ‘Sid’? The boy who had an objecting father, a doting mother and a pesky little brother- the boy who had a family?

He’s faint.

I went out less frequently, I spend my time coop up with the feeling that David gave me, I thought he made me the most special person on earth. I’m the one whom he serves, whom he feeds Cornetti and Brioches to by hand, the one who wakes up with aromatic coffee brewed with his love and time.

“I always love you, since the moment we crossed paths at the agency,” Markus whispered.

“I wanted to be roomed with you, I kept my fingers crossed and you were my roomie!”

“Everything was going my way, and then David came.” He continued confessing, his eyes drooping in spirit.

“I thought God must be screwing me up, first he gives you to me and then he snatches you away from me.”

“That morning when I woke up I went to the living room and I see David, and I know what had happened. It broke my heart.” ‘my heart’, the way he said it sounds like it was made of paper, flimsy, light, easily crushed and blown away by the wind.

Was I capable of wrenching anyone’s heart?

Did I hurt him that bad?

My head goes through the moments I had with David. The morning we first woke up together. Coffee. Cornetti and Brioches! It hit my head.

“Markus,” I pried his fingers off my waist and held them in my hands, firmly.

“The Cornetti and Brioches, did you buy them or did David get them himself?”

I want to know. The truth.

Markus kept his silence, and I waited patiently.

“You don’t have to speak for him,” the truth came to light. “I know.”

David can’t even pronounce Cotoletta alla Milanese when he takes me out for a date, let alone Cornetti and Brioche.

What was I thinking?

How could I be fooled?

David hated sugars; he hated eating them because they ruin his physique. He doesn’t even take coffee because the caffeine slows down his metabolism and turns his teeth yellow. He’s a total health freak.

End of debate- he IS a FREAK. And I am a freak for loving one.

“I’ve been so stupid,” I told Markus, “are you sure you love me?”

He nods his blonde head sincerely. “I really do.” He hugs me again, clinging on, afraid that I would leave him.

I may not love him as much as he loves me in return now but I know I will love him more as the days pass.

It takes two hands to clap.

Watching Björn Borg on television, I found out that love has to be exchanged to be experienced; it’s a give and take thing. Like a tennis match- we serve to start a game and return the serve to continue play.

“What you waiting for? The Cornetti and Brioches are going to run out fast!” I take his hand in mine and we walked to the nearest deli, never letting each other go.

Sun, Mar. 4th, 2007, 11:53 pm

Title: Buying Stolen Time (2/?)
Author: Closet Child
Pairing: Ryan Giggs/Ole Gunnar Solskjaer
Summary: Ryan thinks during his free time, about things that have gone to pass.
Rating: NC-17 (for sexual situations)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the mentioned. This is purely a work of fiction, spurn by my imagination.

Author’s Notes: I tried to separate reality from fiction. Looking at some more pictures I got of Giggs and Solskjaer, it’s impossible! It’s inevitable to think that they are more than simple friends on and off pitch!


For a second, it looks as though he didn’t understand English.

Slowly, he blinks his eyes at me, nodding his head perhaps to convince me he understood. But I wasn’t sure.

I waited for him to say something, even if it’s one word. Just something I can cling on to.

He opens his mouth and I strained my ears to pick up his wee voice.

“I… love Noah and Karna...” His face full of uncertainty.

“I love my children as well,” I added solemnly. Does he think me of a player? Someone who would run off with the one he desires, leaving his responsibilities behind? Some kids are rascals, but you still love them anyway. Maybe not those on Super Nanny. God awful kids who kick and scream so much even a spanking didn’t help.

“I love you as if you were my own, as if you are mine.”

Ollie has his gaze settled on the television, three feet away from us.

Oh God, is he avoiding me?

I cannot stomach anymore rejections.

After the pregnant pause, he turns his pretty head and looks at me, “I was yours,” he said quietly. He puts it as though I have stopped loving him. Truthfully speaking, I never did. I always thought of him every single time I had.

“I’m now someone’s Ryan, and so are you,” reminding me that I have a wife, sadly. I do like her, however, if I wasn’t a footballer making tens of thousands of pounds a week, I wonder if she would like me. I wonder if any girl would like me for that matter.

“I know.” Ollie leans the back of his calves against the foot of the bed, his body swaying gently. The whole room was in still and I see him, illuminated, basking in the brightest light that I have ever seen, bursting, burning my sight.

His knees buckled and he lands on the bed bouncing slightly, his golden locks too. From where I stood, he looked like a young boy, lost, as if he cannot find his seat number in the Theatre of Dreams.

Now, the distance between us has gotten wider. I couldn’t stand for it.

“Ollie,” I breathed, taking a step closer. “I’m may be with her in name, but you’re in my heart for always.”

“Am I in yours?”

Again, I ask a question and he hesitated.

Be damned, why do I put him in a position where he is in a dilemma and I am facing the threat of an obvious disappointment?



This time, he took long, his brows knitted in thought.

Maybe it was wise for him not to answer.

“You don’t have to say yes, you know?”

“You don’t have to please me,” there was a crack in my voice, I heard.

Why am I so afraid to know his answer?

Why am I so desperate for love?

Why am I so desperate for his love?

There is a little part in you and me, in everyone, that wants to be cuddled, hugged and stroked, in safety, in assurance in love.

We all want to be loved.

We crave for tender kisses and gentle caresses.

People want to be valued, a treasure that everyone wants to have and keep forever, locked in a very special place.

My heart. It’s racing in my ribcage. My hands, they are itching to meet his skin. My mouth, so dry, I need something to calm my nerves!

“Do you know Ryan, any word I give you, is going to hurt someone?” he sighs deeply, his blue eyes that light up when he smiles are now, troubled.

“It’s going to hurt our families or either one of us.” Lashes fluttering up and down as he continued to avoid my eyes.

I changed my mind; I didn’t want to know who had the greater share in his heart. “Then, may the casualty be me, for I only ask of you to be happy,” saying this I felt like I had put myself in a trap.

I wanted a happy ending. A happy ending doesn’t involve pain or loss; it’s all about everyone living happily ever after. You, me, our wives and kids, which is crap because even an idiot knows that doesn’t exist.




Selfish.

That’s what he said.

“I’m selfish,” he replied in a very Zen-like way. His fingers twisting with the bed covers underneath him, legs crossed never touching the carpet.

“I’ve lived for my parents, Silje, the kids… I have to live for myself.”

“Ryan, how I would love to say yes,” Ollie went on, “it’s just so difficult to say no, just as it is to say yes…”

He’s talking to the floor. Well, he is facing the ground. I want to scream at him, “LOOK AT ME!” Why is he so afraid to do so?

Instead, I call his name, “Ollie”, two syllabus, slowly, my hands are attracted to his face, like poles of an opposite magnet, they reach for him, tilting his chin, so his eyes show clearly and I can see the truth in them.

Do his eyes shine with happiness or are they glazed in pain?

And I see it. The answer has been found.

Bringing my face close to his, I slipped my tongue into his soft pliant lips, crushing them against mine, I brought him down, leaning, pinning him onto the bed.

The bed must be pretty new, the springs of the mattress were strong and resistant, pushing him up against me, pressing our bodies together.

A change in temperatures, hot, when I was taking a shower, cold, when I got out of it, and we’re now building up the heat in the room.

Cupping his pixie face in my hands, I peer closely, absorbing his pleasure-filled face, the way his eyes shut tightly, the way they flicker in denial and resistance, the way they roll up his head in ecstasy, his nostrils, flaring slightly, breathing deeply, lips rosier, parted slightly, moist and raw from the ravishing, his hair, the sun-streaked locks, tangle as his head tossed side to side when his body trashed against me.

I wish I could take a picture, to remember this forever.

Isn’t it fine the way it is? I’d rather this moment be stored in my head, locked away in the few but sacred and treasured memories that we share.

They went automatically to his shirt buttons, my fingers, undoing them, exposing him bit by bit.

My tongue wants to savor him, licking down his throat, smelling his cologne, further down his pale, well defined chest before going sideways for his little pert nipples. What a treat, delectable much more than he was ever, some women say when men age, they get better, somewhat like wine, Ollie was one of them, except, he doesn’t seem to age a single bit.

Circling his hard little nub, tugging gently at them with my teeth, scraping them, I feel Ollie’s hands on the back of my neck, gently massaging them. My heart swells, as I know he was permitting, encouraging me. I’m glad to know he isn’t against his will, but he is of free will. And with his choice, I’ll make right.

“Ryan,” he cooed as I had my hands on the front of his trousers that were tenting under.

Stopping whatever I was doing to him, I looked up at his face to hear him speak.

“I’m the happiest man in Cape Town,” he says.

“You have no idea,” I slid up, next to his body, “I’m the happiest man in the world right now,” then, I press my insistent lips that rarely got a chance to taste him, against his. Our tongues collide, they curl in each other’s warm cavern, lips locked, arms folded around each other.

We’re hungry.

We’re desperate.

We want each other so damn much, no one could ever understand.

The years.

The wait.

The torture.

Of having someone around you and you can’t have him.

So near, yet so far.

Raking nails on my forearms got my attention of his escalating needs, and I turn to him. Rubbing my palm against his crotch, being the helpful, selfless man he was, Ollie returned the favour by undressing me. Now his delicate fingers are roving on my chest, running through the hair on them.

“Carpet grass!” his name for my chest and the giggles over it from years ago sprouted in my head.



“The putting green,” he referred, acknowledging my chest.

“Where’s the hole?” a question bent on naughty action to happen, hopefully.

“Is it here? ” I pointed at my belly button innocently.

“Or is it-”

“You and I both know how to put the ball in the net, ”a hot, sassy reply came back.

“I thought we were talking golf! ”




Here he is, lying under me, his bare, hairless legs splayed before me,

From below, I can see his chest rising and falling, heaving as he inhaled deeply.

I have my hands on his jewels, plump, stored with several days of precious seed that will soon be sowed.

My lips descend again, this time, on his semi-hardness that expands length-wise when I go down. Cock in hand, bringing it to life, feeling it hot like a fever swept through his body.

Mothers used to sponge their children’s skin with wet towels when their temperature rose.

Knowing the only cure for Ollie right now, I pushed the swollen head pass my lips into my mouth, I can feel him ease, his moans were long as I lapped at his heat, taking in as much as I could, that my nose bumped onto his taut stomach, inhaling his scent.

“Oh…”

He jolted, stiffened in my mouth and hands, legs parting wider, moaning in the throes of passion.

Unexpectedly, there was an urgent knock at the door and we both groaned.

What could be a worse timing then now? Ollie grudgingly pulled up his briefs quick, getting them in a knot, he tripped and fell on the carpet. I pull him up and gave him a quick kiss.

“Are you alright?”

The knocks become frantic and they turned into hurrying bangs.

“Giggs! Are you in there?”

“Open up! I got some crocodiles at my heels!” He actually meant the media. That’s why we stay out of the limelight. It’s quite terrifying actually. Gary, Paul and I don’t enjoy getting snapped at these days. I guess it was just a phase when you are young. You want to be known. You want to be famous.

Reluctantly, I let go of Ollie, and pulled my shorts up hastily before answering the door.



That’s Paul.

He always sinks in surprises when and where you least expects him to. Maybe not surprises, but rather shocks, yes that is the right word the opponents would use.

Pulling away the latch, I let him in.

“My God!” he exclaimed, bursting through the door, catching is breath. I assumed he was running for quite a distance.

“I just stepped into a lingerie store and they think I am keeping a mistress or visiting some hooker!” he shakes his head and throws his shopping bags aside.

A Storm in a teacup.

The news loves to cook up new stories and attention-grabbing headlines to increase their sales. But you can never trust what you read, especially when the papers have a gossip column and a page with an ‘innocent’ in her birthday suit on page three.

Paul notices that we weren’t alone.

“Ollie! Say, when did you get here?”

He flushed and looked away from Paul shyly, “was just passing…”

“I should make a move,” he announced softly.

“Well then, take care ‘Sunny’,” Paul kicked his shoes off and they fly to the corner of the room.

“Least you rise early tomorrow at the crack of dawn!”

Ollie makes a face at him; ‘Sunny’ was tagged with him because when he first arrived in the team, none of us could pronounce his name right. So we called him ‘Sunny’, the blondeness of him and all.

“’I’ll walk you back,” aloud, I waved at Paul, “don’t you sleep yet! I’m not taking the key with me and I don’t want to be locked out!”

The ginger head threw his crumpled sock at me. What manners, really! Sometimes I forget he’s 31. Being a year older than him, doesn’t make much of a difference. We’re the same boys who worked hard and played alongside through the 90s towards the Treble, a milestone in our careers.



“You don’t have to,” Ollie whispered, place a hand over mine as I closed the door behind me.

“Sorry about Paul,” I admit I was a little annoyed with my mate for killing the moment. To think that I had crossed all obstacles! But there is still a final hurdle.

I scanned the hallway. The club had booked the entire level. And I wouldn’t want to implicate Ollie’s chances as well as mine, in playing professionally. Homosexuals are always stigmatized in the field of sports, even though they are being gradually accepted by the open society.

Ollie took my other hand and held them for a while, looking, in thought.

“Perhaps another time?” he suggested.

“I gladly make time for you,” I stole a quick glance for any living soul, and leaned forward, to seal a light kiss on his baby-smooth cheek.

“Anything, for you.”

We got to his room, three doors down and I waited for him to get inside, “Goodnight,” I bade him, and he gave a wry smile back, he stood there for a few seconds.

“Where do we go?” he asked, “from here.”

Lost.

We’re stuck, he hinted.

I too, have no idea where this is going to take us.

Are we any different from yesterday?

From a few years back?

Will we be the same tomorrow and forever?

“We’re and we’ll be.” What an ambiguous reply that is enough for us now.

He nods slowly, trying to decipher the phrase. But what I really meant was that we were always the same, yesterday today and tomorrow. It’s a constant feeling, hard to believe and rare.

Is there such a thing as ‘unwavering, unconditional love’ that exists?

It seems I’m throwing a boomerang at myself, with all these thinking.

“Sleep tight.” One last kiss, I can’t bear to part, a creeping feeling in my heart that tomorrow will be different.

He threw his arms around me for a hug, close, “I love you,” only for my ears to hear.

The side of the door, closing, he’s disappearing inch by inch from my eyes. The last thing I saw that night was his beautiful smile and the twinkle in his eyes, entrapping, arresting my soul.

Sat, Mar. 3rd, 2007, 10:51 pm
O'Shea Silence Anfield

YES!

ABSOLUTELY STUNNING!

I THOUGHT THE GAME WAS GOING TO WASTE! With all that saves Van der Saar was doing and very little action happening near Dudek's goal post. O'SHEA SAVED AND MADE MY DAY, ALONG WITH OTHER UNITED FANS WORLD WIDE!

1-0

POOR SCHOLES WHO GOT SENT OFF... BUT HE MUST BE GRINNING! Knowing the famed behaviour of Pool fans, the reception at Anfield must be rather nasty!

IN CELEBRATION OF THE VICTORY, AND OF GIGGSY'S 700th GAME (Wow! 700th! He sounds old huh? And a win over our northern rivals... A wonderful gift indeed!) I Have yanked out a couple of shots between Ryan and Ole! In lieu of my chapter which I'll try to finish by today before I start work!





They are inseperable, EVEN during training! Aw... I think the boys looks cute in their little shorts! >___<





C'MON! LET'S CELEBRATE BUD!



Is it me, or does Ollie have legs of a pre-teen boy? THEY ARE HAIRLESS! Maybe it's b'cos he's blonde...



On the other hand, Ryan is quite a hairy- bear. Ha! Look at Ollie gaping!



Ollie seems to be around Ronnie a lot....







Or maybe Ronny was near Ollie all these while just to be close to Ryan! *gasp



So you think everyone wants Cristiano? Solskjaer is HOT property and he seems pretty nonchalant about it...





There is always a trail after him.



He looks older and sad here in G.Best's Memorial Service last year... They all looks so suave in their jackets! Edwin looks bored though. Giggsy is trying to concentrate but Edwin keeps folding his paper, making wierd noises. Scholes is crossed and glares at Edwin before looking back in front.











But Ryan is here, with his arms wide open for Ollie anytime, whether he feels down or not.





Okay, and maybe others, besides Ryan.



Neville is shocked! He has no idea Ryan and Ollie were going on!



And they still are...

Sun, Feb. 25th, 2007, 11:04 pm
FIC

Title: Buying Stolen Time (1/?)
Author: Closet Child
Pairing: Ryan Giggs/Ole Gunnar Solskjaer
Summary: Ryan thinks during his free time, about things that have gone to pass.
Rating: PG-13 (for now)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the mentioned. This is purely a work of fiction, spurn by my imagination.

Author’s Notes: The time frame is real. Wales never made it to Germany last year. I got some picture off the web of Utd touring visiting the UNICEF hospital in Capetown, South Africa. Ole was sitting next to Giggsy and I scoured through some other pictures during their visit to S.Africa and I found training shots of them stretching together! Little details weave to form a story (:. Hope you enjoy it!



The rest of the mates were in Germany, probably stressing their head and body out. The Gaffer had us flown to South Africa. We were going to do some community work as well as play a little tournament with the local clubs. Quite a way to past time, I would say. Sometimes I would feel a tinge of regret; was I stupid to not play for England.

Why did I choose to represent Wales?

I could have more chances in the international stage with the Three Lions…

But I was born in Wales… Never ever felt English despite moving there since 7. The kids would always put a stick on me because of my ‘funny’ accent. So I lost it real fast… Then the football part came in, soon, every boy wanted to be my friend and every girl wanted to be with me. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I didn’t play ball well?

I guess that there would always be another option.

Life is much simpler if you thought less about things and much happier if you didn’t think ‘what if?’.

Right now, I am in an orphanage for kids with HIV/AIDS. Most of them thin with the illness that is eating up their body’s immune system. Yet they still have smiles on their faces. The kind of smiles that break your heart. I had a talk with one of the volunteers, and I know some of them won’t live to see the coming August.

Seated on a little stool, I am playing with a boy of seven years, Chioke, and a nine year old girl, Jendayi, whose name meant ‘Give Thanks’. It was a beautiful name, I told her, but secretly to myself, I thought it was very ironic. Many times, we ask God if he was playing a cruel joke on us when we hit a rough patch. These kids, I don’t think they did anything to wrong anyone; they didn’t deserve this kind of fate.

Jendayi has quite a hand in drawing, I’m dividing my attention equally among the two of them, it’s not that hard to handle, because the two loved colouring. I racked my brains for some kind of colouring technique that the art teacher back in my schooldays taught.

“That’s a nice lion Chioke! You’ve done better than me!” Being a father of two kids now makes me more patient and understanding to a child’s needs. Chioke smiled back, all but the little gap where his milk tooth was a day ago shone. He went back on his next picture.

Across the table, Ollie was playing superheroes with a wee lad, couldn’t have been more than four. The kid was laughing joyously, as Ollie made imaginary whizzing sounds like that of a helicopter, holding up a figurine in the air animatedly.

“And the good wizard takes on the bad assassin!”

Welsh wizard… that’s what the supporters call me, baby-faced assassin, Ollie hates being called that. Scholesy calls him that during training when he wants Ollie to pass the ball to him. Long name, hard to call out when you are breathless from running around the greens at Carrington.

“KAZAM!” The boy squealed and tried reaching for the plastic figurine that Ollie held; he notices this and hands the toy to the kid.

He caught my glance and looked away shyly, his blue eyes adverting to his charge.

We haven’t really talked in a long time. I mean, we do the occasional congratulatory celebration on the pitch, but when we are in the dressing room with the other lads, we rarely exchange words that go beyond ‘good game’, ‘see you soon’ and the most common of all ‘bye’.

Awful.

When the bus arrived, the team, Gaffer and staff stood outside the whitewashed house. The volunteers brought the kids out for a last goodbye. I see Fletch getting all mopey like a bird as he picked up a scrawny boy whom he was reading to earlier. I look around and practically everyone was almost reduced to the state of tears.

I’m not heartless.

I love these kids, I really do, but I don’t want to give them the impression that perhaps this could be our last meeting forever. I want to let them know that there is always tomorrow. Keep looking forward!

Ollie was the last one to get on the bus. He looks around for a seat, and he sits next to me. I guess the bus was full. All the other lads had partners, except me. Most of them here are pretty young, just Scholesy, Ollie and myself. Scholesy once told me that many of the young ones in the squad are afraid of me.

Perhaps Tracy was right after all. I wish I could smile more often. She says I have a moody face. Yeah, but what can I do if my features are like that?

Plastic surgery isn’t an option.

I even cut my hair frat-boy short so that others could see my face now. It is suppose to look friendly. Last time, they were in curls, ‘macaroni’ hair, Ollie calls. Him and his pasta addiction.

Big Sam, the bus driver is pulling out of the gate of the orphanage, the kids and the volunteers waving cheerfully, bidding us farewell.

“I’m sorry I used your name earlier… it was the only one I could think of that moment, besides, you know I know nuts about science-fi or fantasy..” he rambled in his crisp English. It is rather American despite his Norwegian roots.

Name? Oh he meant that…

“It’s okay. Besides, I’m Ryan, not the welsh wizard!” I joked, laughing. He laughs too, his light, breezy tone.

“Or are you the baby-faced assassin?” I teased. His face screws up and a tongue sticks out. He’s still the same, hates that name. Unfortunately, it sticks with him.

I was quite taken back. Just that things have been a bit tense between us…

Yet, I wanted to touch his face, the little corner where his ears begin, where he tucked his own tumble of golden curls.

This made me believe he was not born Scandinavian. He likes to eat pasta and pizza, loves to watch The Godfather and was trained as a Grecian-Roman wrestler. I daresay he should be Italian. But his looks are otherwise…

Everyone who saw him in the dressing room thinks he looks like the Roman statues we see when we are in Italy for a game. Maybe it’s because he was trained to be a Grecian-Roman wrestler as a kid that’s why.

His father was a champion. Our fathers are almost similar. Both of them used their fists a lot. My own old man was a rugger in the national Wales team. It doesn’t involve the use of fist, you might say, but he does use it pretty often at home. Scaring the shit out of my mother, Rhodi and me.

“Ryan?” he tugs at my sleeve.

And I turn to face him, his fairness, glowing in the sunlight that streamed through the giant glass window of the coach, his hair shining brighter than a halo, eyes as if carved out of sapphiers.

“Big Sam is stopping the bus for a while so we can get a taste of the wonderful French café he has been talking about,” he says.

“Sir Alex allows? He must be in a good mood!”

“Well, the gaffer needs his dosage of tea every now and then… Besides we have no game scheduled tomorrow.”

Everyone is filing out of the bus now.

He blinks.

“Well, let’s get you some honey toast then…” I suggested, remembering his favourite pre-match snack.

“You remembered? I haven’t been playing for ages, talk about a pre-match snack,” he laughs again. It wasn’t a bitter laugh. And I wonder how he can do that, being benched doing injury time and laugh after it’s fine.

Turns out, they didn’t have any honey toast, but the eatery opposite does.

We were waiting for the roads to be cleared so that we could dash across. There are lots of bikes here in South Africa, back home, it would be cabs.

All’s clear and I grabbed Ollie’s hand and took off in a sprint to the shop.

His fingers were slim and his palm was a tad smaller than mine, boyish hands he had.

“Could I have a set of toast please, and honey.” A large woman took down my order.

We waited patiently, silently, for the bread to arrive.

“Do you want one?” he dips a piece into the honey generously, offering me.

“No thanks, laying off the sugar.” I lied.

Actually, I love watching him eat. He had a smile on his face. Quite odd, to eat and smile at the same time. The way he bites into the crispy toast daintily, and contrary to that, how the crumbs fall onto his shirt front. How oblivious he was. After finishing his snack, he would lick his fingers free from the sticky sweet honey that oozed out of the toast when he tucked in.

I handed the payment of the meal to the waiter, we stood up and some of the crumbs on Ollie’s shirt fell to the ground. There were still remaining, stubbornly clinging on to the fabric.

“You’ve got crumbs,” with a flick of my wrist, I dusted the bits off him, my hands smoothing his shirt. Then it lay on his chest for about a millisecond, or perhaps longer.

“Oh,” Ollie’s voice was small, and I could feel the heat rushing out of him. I looked at his face, there was a pink tint. He caught my gaze and swats my hand off his chest.

“The bus!” he broke out anxiously.



Riding back to the hotel, was awkward. Neither one of us could sleep. Behind us, were two lads, probably from the reserve team… they kept on yapping away eagerly, can’t blame them, this was probably their first time out of the British Isle.

I was back in the room with Scholesy. He was taking a bath. We all stink. The heat outside, made us perspire unusually more often than we did in Manchester.

“I’m going out to do some shopping; the missus wants a new leather purse…” Paul rolls his eyes as he pulled his shirt over his head.

“Went crazy when I mentioned South Africa. Diamonds! Leather!” his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Condoms I say! Probably get her that as well.”

Opened the door for Scholesy, who has got his hands pretty full- wallet, map, bottle… Sent him off, seeing him disappear at the right into the lift lobby. I was going to go back in when I heard lone footsteps. I thought it could be some company, which I needed badly since Scholesy was away.

Surprises, don’t you love them? They always come knocking at your door when you least expect them.

Coincidences, do you believe in them? They happen every now and then for a man with an easy life.

It’s him.

“Dinner?” I asked.

He nods, stuffing his hands down his denim pockets nervously.

“Why don’t you come in? I’m going to take a quick shower…”

He steps into the room cautiously, making a beeline for the armchair.

“Turn on the television… hope the wait doesn’t bore you,” I apologised and tossed him the remote control.

The television pumped some noise into the room other than the air conditioner.

I can hear the muffled sounds beyond the bathroom door, where I was lathering my hair. I cannot help thinking what I had gotten myself into. I was lonely… There were only a handful of us from the first team traveling in South Africa. We rarely trained with the Reserves, hence behaving like complete strangers. I did make an effort to know some of them though.

“Ryan!” the door flung open.

The cold air outside hitting my soapy skin and the suddenness made me jump.

“Oh! M’ sorry, I thought you were done! I didn’t hear the tap running…” Ollie apologised profusely. I hear his feet shuffle against the marble tiles.

Through the blurry shower curtain, I could see his outline, shrinking towards the door frame.

“It’s alright… What’s it?”

“The television! I sat on the remote control and the picture now is funny!” he sounded scared.

“I think I spoilt it!”

The seriousness of his voice, how earnest he was made me laugh.

“Calm down… I wash myself clean and I’ll be out fixing the telly for you,” I managed between gaps of laughter.



“So there you go. What were you watching anyway?”

“Nothing in particular,” he shrugs.

“I was just waiting…”

Waiting.

From day one.

“Sorry.”

“Why do you apologise?” He turns his eyes at me. How beautiful. They are like precious stones encased in his sockets. In it, I saw the deepest oceans, the vast skies and the world. How breathtaking.

How was it possible that I didn’t conquer them?

How was it possible I let him slip away?

‘Ryan!” he calls my name, his fingers brushing my arm before retracting them swiftly. “For a moment, I thought you got an electric shock, handling the TV,” a feeble attempt at a joke.

I tried to laugh. But I could not.

Could you smile at missed chances? Could you smile at a love lost?

My mind drifts back to when we were young, when we didn’t give a hoot what the world thinks. Then, everyone started getting onto our case, ‘grow up’, they said. It seems that society expects all men have to fulfill the duties of a husband. Responsibility slowly creeps into our heads sub-consciously and it stole us from each other.

“All these years, there has been someone nagging at the back of my head,” I started. He gave me a strange look.

“It isn’t my mother.” Trying to lighten up the mood in the room.

“It’s the feeling of knowing you left your house open,” bewilderment fills in his face, “for the thieves to take off with something extremely valuable.”

There it was, the weight that held my heart down has been lifted. I look at him square in his eyes and cleared my throat.

“Do you- Do you get me?”

Thu, Dec. 21st, 2006, 09:42 pm
FIC

Title: You don’t have to be Posh to taste Becks
Author: Closet Child
Pairing: Gary Neville/ David Beckham, David Beckham/ others (implied)
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Summary: The wishful thinking, reminiscing memories, drunken ramblings of Gary Neville.
Author’s Notes: Gary Neville is not a fantastic player. I know that, but the effort he puts into the game makes me admire him. I would call him ‘underated’. Now I always wanted to write a Gaz/Becks fic. But I never really got to it after reading stories about them, love triangles between Gary, David and his many admirers. It made me really depressed and annoyed sometimes. I don’t know why I’m that easily affected. But there isn’t always a happy ending.
Disclaimer: Everything mentioned here is not real. I do not own anyone or know them personally. This is just fiction.

Vic-to-ria…

Mi-cha-el…

I-ker…

G-ary?

That doesn’t sound the same.

I have been saying their names over and over again, and they roll of my tongue perfectly like they are connected, linked or something.

It feels out of place.

I feel out of place.

Like I don’t belong to you in the first place, like I don’t belong to you at all.

Obsessing over the perfect match, because that’s the way I believe people get together and stay together, for eternity.

Just look at them all, Victoria, Michael and Iker. They were all stylish, beautiful people, all like you very much. And I?

I’m the average boy next door, I’ve boring, brown hair that likes flat on top of my head, framing my pasty face. At the same time, all three of them change their hairstyles pretty often don’t they? And they look so damn good every time. I tried changing my hair once, no one noticed at all.

My facial skin isn’t very soft, I don’t believe in taking extra care of it, a no-frills sort of man. Maybe a retrosexual whilst you are the metrosexual. Your excessive toiletries you bring on tour- moisturizers, toners, scrubs… you take an hour or more in the bathroom when I bunk with you. I had to wake up early to shower first.

When I bunked with you….

Now we don’t anymore.

We’re not in the same club. You left. I’m still here.

We’re not in the same country, You’re in Spain. I’m in England.

We both have wives. You have kids. I don’t.

I can’t beat to think I had kids with someone I didn’t love. Children are supposedly meant to be a labour of love right?

Emma and Gary. Emma and Gary.

The papers said she cheated on me when I was away, playing in Portugal. It’s not like I give a shit. So she went to sue them and collected the damages against ‘us’, she claimed.

There is no such thing as ‘us’! I wanted to tell her.

Does she know?

She’s sort of like me, Phil says. Everyone says. It’s nice isn’t it, sticking to my beliefs. I just smile back because even though we look like a perfect couple, I treat her like a sister. I never once questioned her about the rumor in The Sun. Because I was afraid that if I knew the truth, I would have asked her to leave and there would be no one by my side anymore.

Phil’s married and he has kids too. Fuck, he’s my little brother and I’m behind him very much. I can’t possibly go to Tracy or mom and dad. I’m 31 for Christ’s sake!

I should be married by now! I should have at least changed a baby’s nappy, teach my kid how to walk or even kick a ball around, I should be sending them off to school every morning.

There are many things I should have done but I didn’t. I don’t know what’s stalling me.

But when I look back, it’s always you!

“Let go,” Ryan tells me. Paul persuades me. Nicky is so soft, sometimes I can’t hear him and I’m afraid one day he may go down the earth and no one will know.

“No one is killing you. You’re doing it yourself.”

Suicide?

Since when did longing for you become suicide? What a load of rubbish everyone talks. You’re my savior. My sunshine. Often I’d think of you as my Prozac. My little green and white pill that subsides the raging storms in me and feeds me joy that none on earth has given me before.

People foolishly get addicted to their anti-depressants, while I hooked on you.

It made me slightly delusional at night when I’m alone. We sleep in separate rooms, Emma and I. Told her I’m not the sort who would marry out of wedlock. The pope disapproves. Some lie, I don’t usually tell them, always saying things to other people’s faces straight.

Okay, she says. Never kicking up a fuss. Somehow, I know she really did cheat on me. You know women are as randy as men. I’m not giving her anything; she must be getting it behind my back because she isn’t complaining that I didn’t satisfy her.

It doesn’t matter; perhaps I didn’t really need her as much as I thought I did.

2 am.

Again, I can’t get to sleep.

Lately, I keep seeing your face in my dreams. I can’t identify whether that should be comforting or haunting. The dreams were almost real; I could feel you, touching me. Then when I wake up, I find myself in a mess. Drenched in perspiration and crusted in spunk. I always had to search for my shorts before getting out of bed.

I slap myself stupid and splash my face in cold water at the bathroom sink. Talk about a rude awakening.

And I know what’s good during times like these.

Down the flight of stairs softly, I crept to the kitchen, the answer in the refrigerator.

I opened the door of the cold storage, the soft yellow light glowing inside. It was stalk with many healthy vegetables and fruits. There were some sinful boxes of chocolates and candies. But they do not tempt me. I search for it, the bottle green can. It fucking looks like Christmas.

Hooking my finger under the tab, I pulled open it, the freshness of content springing into my face. This seems more real, the effervescent hitting my face, so much rather than seeing yours.

It went down my throat, slowly, yes, it’s bitter like you. It’s scorching my taste buds, as they drowned in it. Soon, it was over, I shook the can out of every little drop that’s inside. I didn’t want to waste it, I didn’t want it to end just yet, I grab another.

My mind loses itself to the memories again. This time, we were stuck in Turkey with the national team. There was some bloody riot outside and we were stranded in the hotel.

I never did like playing with the national team. It meant that I got to see you. But it also meant that I had to share you again with number 10.

Fucking right I got to see you.

You and that wimpy boy.

Yes he is pretty and he does what he is told like the obedient little puppy he is.

I tell you damn right how patient I am.

It has been going on for years and this is the last straw!

When I hint on what’s going on between you and him in the sheets, you’d always waved it off as if it was nothing. You’d smother me with your lovely kisses and spoon behind me, cuddling me, wrapping me in your arms that are covered in his scent that I hate so much.

At least you could wash away all the traces of evidence that you had been with him. I didn’t need to know.

I would scrub myself hard in the shower, in the morning, so much that my skin turns pink; I needed to wash him off me. I didn’t want to turn into him. I am Gary, not Michael.

Do you know that?

What’s it? There is a phrase going… “Ask and it shall be given.” So it is.

Love me for who I am please.

Silly me, who’s going to hear this request of mine?

Half the pack is probably gone; I look at the bloody can and tossed it into the bin.

Three left in the refrigerator. I’ll get some more at the supermarket tomorrow.

The metallic green shimmered in the dark on the heap of rubbish, the white words emblazoned on it spelling letters that I hold close to my heart.

I had found your substitute.

“Well, it tastes better than you, you bastard!”

“At least it was with me whenever you weren’t!”

There are so many girls and boys who want to be like you and with you. You know it. You’re damn proud of it.

And I wished I could tell them that they need not be Posh to taste you.

Just bloody walk to the nearest 7-11.

Get yourself a bloody can of BECKS, beats having the real one any day.

Tue, Dec. 5th, 2006, 02:44 pm

Title: Trigger Happy
 
Author: Closet Child
 
Pairing: Robbie Keane/Rio Ferdinand
 
Summary: Rio and Robbie triggered happy.
 
Rating: NC -17 (for slight use of language and sexual situations)
 
Disclaimer:  I do not own any of the mentioned. This is purely a work of fiction, spurn by my imagination.
 
Author’s Notes: This was loosely inspired by what Rio Ferdinand said when he was in Leeds in the 2001 Season. I’m not sure if they played Charlton Athletic because I can’t find the fixtures of the 2001 squad anywhere. As far as I know, it feels like the players between years 2001-2002 are very much hated by many Leeds fans. So perhaps they decided to do away with them in fan sites.
 
"If We're staying in a hotel before a game, we'll watch Trigger happy TV then So Graham Norton. Then we'll cuddle up and fall asleep!" - Rio Ferdinand on rooming with Robbie Keane at Leeds
 
 
 
Robbie sinks back into the bed, crossing his arms over his chest, stretching his socks-clad legs. They were up against the Addicks tomorrow at The Valley. The team had got on the bus from Elland Road early yesterday and reached south-east London in late noon.
 
Training ended two hours ago and they had lunch. It was ‘free time’ till dinner again. Some of the team decided to go about town. O’Leary nagged them into bringing along brollies or macs should they step out of the shelter, didn’t want anyone calling in from a cold on the eve of the game.
 
There was nothing ever to do in London. Robbie was not a stranger to the city. Sure it holds more fun than Dublin could, but the people aren’t that friendly. Neither are the pigeons. Went to Trafalgar square when he was a wee lad, holding a slice of bread in his hands, the birds flew after him like a cat to a mouse. Now he was older and the pigeons take off at the sight of him approaching, but Robbie still kept the distance.
 
Besides that, London always rained. It was grey and cloudy from dawn to dusk. Such a dreadful weather making Robbie feel washed up.  
 
The telly makes things better… With shows like Trigger Happy TV, 2DTV, Monty Python, Father Ted and Mr. Bean re-runs serving as his laughter pill and at the same time, kept him occupied in drizzly London. And the Americans thought the Brits were humorless.   
 
In comes Rio, frowning.
 
“Where you going?”
 
“No where,” Robbie shifted a bit as Rio got on the bed. They were bunking together again. The club made an error in the bookings for the stay and everyone had to share a Queen sized bed. Wasn’t very ideal for Robbie as he knew the captain kicked about in his sleep. He has seen that when Rio had early nights before.
 
“You got your socks on.”
 
“’Tis cold,” he shrugged, slipping his legs under the sheets. This made the defender snicker.
 
“My gramps did that whenever it rained.” Rio quickly reached for the elastic of Robbie’s socks to snap them. A successful action, earning him a little startled jump and a tiny yelp from the Irish man.
 
Robbie slapped away the older man’s hands, it’s hard to believe this man two year older than he was, captained the team.
 
“What you watching?” Rio asked when they subsided from their playful bantering. His lean body reclined on the bed, his head resting on an upright pillow. He had his eyes focused on the tiny goose bumps on his friend’s pale skin. Then, absent-mindedly, he begins joining the dots.
 
“Tree-girl Happy ish goin’ on in ‘bout five…”
 
“I love that show,” the taller one declared, continuing to trace imaginary things on Robbie’s arm idly.  
 
“I love that show too,” said Robbie as he surfed the channels, waiting for the program to start.
 
A commercial for Top of the Pops blasts from the television set. Seems like a new boy band has just debuted again.
 
“God! Change the flipping channel!” Rio winced. Robbie kindly obliged, and he went on to the next channels, Rio pointing out the annoyance of reality television and complaining the lack of good and exciting dramas with intelligent plots and strong storylines.
 
“Since when d’yer bother about shows for intellects?”
 
Robbie took a swipe at the captain; he didn’t understand how anyone who listens to hip-hop and rap would ever be bothered with intelligence. Rap borders on sex and booze. Not good for a clean Irish boy like him. Plus, the Irish were high on melody. Look at Boyzone, The Corrs, Enya, The Pogues, Sinead O’ Connor, Thin Lizzy, U2, Van Morrisson, Westlife etc. - It is in their blood! 
 
“Sing then, if you are so smart!” Rio taunted Robbie.
 
“Come on then, sing Keano!”
 
“Stop it!”
 
“Never heard you sing, can’t you belt out a line or two?”
 
“Fine! Rio, yer rat!” Robbie paused for a moment and pursed his lips.
 
“Yer better naught bay recording dis on yer mobile!” he looked around warily, checking Rio’s hands.
 
“Ugh! You going to start now or wait till I get the team here to listen to your concert?”
 
Flustered, Robbie’s mind raced for a song.
 
Oh what could he sing without an instrument accompanying his voice? Rio looked on at him earnestly, with his large brown eyes, waiting patiently.
 
There's a tear in yer eye,
And I'm wondering why,” Robbie faltered a bit, stealing a sideway glance at Rio who was looking amused, with his darn manicured eyebrows. It was distracting, so he closed his eyes and continued, recalling the song he used to hear when he was a child, the words coming to him naturally.

For it never should be there at all.
With such pow'r in yer smile-”
 
This sent the skipper howling in laughter. He threw his long legs up in the air, kicking wildly and laughing insanely, very much like a mad man.
 
“What the- song is that?” he finally settled down, sitting up decently, wiping a stray tear from his eye.
 
“Tear in my eye indeed!” he yanked away the pillow which Robbie rested his head on.
 
The other man snatched it back and put it back into place with a mock glare.
 
“’Tis called When Irish Eyes Are Smiling, a folk song,” Robbie pretended to look offended, “they put it in singing leprechauns and sell it to daft Brit tourists like yer!”
 
“Daft? That is the silliest song I have ever heard in my whole life!”
 
“Well, but dis so much better than all those yo dawg! Shizzle fizzle my grizzle!” he accentuated his words with exaggerated hand actions like those rap stars on MTV.
 
The laughing bout got worse with that, Rio now lay on his back, clutching his stomach. Robbie couldn’t help it but joined him, laughing at his little act.
 
Suddenly, Rio jolted up from his rest position and smacked Robbie’s thigh.
 
“Oi! Trigger Happy is on!” he exclaimed, the sharp sting on his tender skin diverting his attention back to the box. He switched to Channel 4, rubbing the numbness that was spreading to the rest of his body.
 
“Why d’yer have to hit so hard Snoop?” questioned Robbie as he pressed his fingers at the sore spot, trying to soothe the ache. “I don’t plan ta stay on ee bench t’morrow yer know?”
 
“Sorry,” Rio gave a weak apologetic laugh. Trigger Happy theme was mid-way. He placed his large brown hands on the red patch that was spreading on the bare skin. He snatched the salve by the nightstand and dipped his fingers in the cool gel.  
 
Robbie seized his hands.
 
“Can yer wait till commercial? Don’t want ta keep laffin’ at Dom Joly ‘n at ee same thyme, have yer tickle me there!”
 
Rio sniggered; he knew his friend was ticklish there! Just did it on purpose. He ignored Robbie’s request, he pursued the stinging patch with his cold fingers, spreading the viscous goo over the hot skin.
 
“Ugh! Re-oooo” he pushed away the probing hands that were gently massaging his upper calves.
 
Dom Joly was pulling his latest prank on the public, dressed as a snail, crawling on his belly to get on the other side of the road by the zebra crossing. The cars are waiting for him who is slowly making his way.
 
Meanwhile, Robbie stretched across Rio and headed for the open jar of salve; he dipped his fingers into it and pulled out a sizeable glob, slapping it all over Rio’s upper body.
 
“Oh! You stupid cunt! Keane! Now I got to send this shirt to the laundry!” Rio tried to sound pissed off. He was a fine liar - actor, his ma and his headmaster oft told him he would have a profession on the stage if he weren’t a footballer.
 
Robbie hasn’t seen the tall defender in a fit. Mainly because it was rare that anything should get to this cool-headed guy.
 
He ceased his actions and quickly apologised.
 
“I’ll clean yer shirt fer yer,” he offered.
 
“How?’ Rio asked in a distress tone.
 
“I’ll- wash it by the sink, t’will dry t’morrow…”
 
 “No you can’t!”
 
“’y naught?” Robbie looked genuinely worried about the tension building between the two of them.
 
“Because-“
 
“The bathroom sink is only for washing hands!” Rio joked, looking at the disbelief on Robbie’s face.
 
“Aha! You got merked!” Rio flashed a triumphant grin and stripped off his salve spotted tee.
 
It took a while for the younger man to realise that Rio was faking the whole thing.
 
“Re-ooooo!” he swat his prying hands away from his shirt.
 
“Got you real good didn’t I?”
 
“Twit! Gerr off me!”
 
He launched his 1.91 m frame over Robbie’s smaller one, slumping over his back, pressing his weight, his chest against his shoulder blades. Out of the blue, his arms circled Robbie’s neck, and got him headlock. The latter struggled, kicking the captain off his back.
 
“I can see ‘y Anton doesn’t play ee same team as yer!” Robbie grumbled, rubbing his neck. Rio had a vice grip and his hand is imprinted on his neck as it is on his thigh.
 
He used to do that to his little brother when they were kids, to get him do his bidding when he refused. Works all the time.
 
A coldness slid down his back. Rio had emptied the remaining of the salve on him. Shrieking, Robbie took off his wet shirt and flung it down the carpet.
 
“There. Even!” Rio remarked, smugly.
 
“’n yer twenty-three years old!” he rolled his eyes.
 
“So?”
 
“Behave yerself! Naught yer mam, fer Christ’s sake! Why ‘m I tellin’ yer dis?” Robbie asked aloud a hint of annoyance in his Irish lilt.
 
Rio stood up on the mattress abruptly. Standing tall, he looked down at Robbie who looked up at him quizzically. He couldn’t tell what was going on next. With Rio around, anything become unpredictable. Sort of like a surprise, a shock surprise like Dom Joly and crew did to unsuspecting people.
 
“Yes, I’m naughty! No, you aren’t my mom!” declared the centre-back.
 
“And you know, naughty people don’t behave!” he dove headfirst into the sheets, his long limbs tangling themselves into Robbie’s, he embraced the young striker close to his chest, spooning him behind, resting on his side.
 
It was commercial break.
 
He nipped at the red patch on Robbie’s neck, his tongue darting along. He could feel the Irish man, shivering from the cooling effect of the menthol salve and from his ministrations.
 
“Re-oooo...” he moaned, dragging on the name, grinding his firm round behind into the hardening groin of the taller man.
 
This answered in a lusty reaction.
 
This created a want.
 
This decided on satisfying needs. Be it selfless or selfish.
 
Strong legs twist around his own socks-clad ones, forcing him apart. A free hand snapped the elastic, this time, of his boxer shorts, and reached down for his semi-hard rod that nestled between the soft curls of his nether region.   
 
“Aren’t you a wee bit naughty too?” Rio teased, his hand running up and down the now full-fledge erection, in slow sensual strokes.
 
“Here,” he whispered hotly into Robbie’s burning ears, his thumb rubbing fast on the slit, which was warm and moist by the second.
 
Robbie’s hips jut forward, thrusting into Rio’s hold, the friction between their skins sparking an excitement through his veins, the blood, reaching his throbbing heart, a flush spreading across his chest, perking his nipples up. He wriggled in the warmth of Rio’s arms, feeling a growing hard length rising between his butt cheeks, he clenched his muscles, sandwiching the pulsating thing between.
 
“Fuck! Keane!” Rio groaned, he yanked his own shorts down and let his prick spring out, he gave it a few jerks, before putting it back between Robbie’s plump arse and started dry humping him, sliding in and out of in his crack. Robbie relished in the sensation of feeling Rio.
 
They kept on giving and returning, sharing the pleasure, the moment. It wasn’t long before Robbie felt himself teetering at the edge, in the blink of an eye, falling back into the embrace; he gave a final thrust and spilled his seed into Rio’s secure hands. Rio finished himself in Robbie’s boxers in a contented sigh. He let his hands stray about the curve of Robbie’s pubic bone, reminding him every bit of an Aston Martin bonnet in a James Bond flick, a real beauty, that car is. Then he drew his fingers further up, stroking the place where his heart lies. He reeled Robbie nearer with his arms, tight.
 
Snuggling his head under Rio’s chin, he could feel the light stubble scratching his scalp. A pleasant, safe feeling, he smiles and sneaked a light kiss on the tanned collar bone. They were silent in a daze; the only movements were gentle caresses, loving touches. And their eyelids grew heavy.
 
Before he was about to shut off, Robbie pulled off his boxers that were soaked in Rio’s cream, it was dampening his skin. His heavy arm pitched the soggy fabric over the television, covering Dom Joly’s face.
 
As they fall into a sweet slumber, with the television still running.
 
The sorrowful music of the scene fading as the next skit came on, while their bodies at rest and their hearts triggered happy, in constant slow, steady beats.
  
Author’s Notes: I hoped you like it. Not many Rio/Robbie out that. Back then, Leeds used to hold a hell lot of good players who are now in the national English squad. Sad the club ran into some financial problems, they would still have been in the Premier league, probably even closet to the Big Four level too! Sorry about the relegation. Do wish they get back on their feet soon!
  
 
 
 
 
 

Fri, Dec. 1st, 2006, 12:18 pm
The Season For Giving

DECEMBER! Whoever doesn't love December has to be a grinch!

The Three Kings bring gold, myrrh and frankincense. I bring forth FANMIXES! Well I did 3 but I'm posting these 2 first because I have yet to do the last cover. There are a lot of very nice people who did fanmixes, I'm sorry I can't recall who, but they are in my iPod and I'd like to thank those who did them very much! Hence I decided on returning what they gave - a truckload of inspiration for me. The songs aren't about the pairing, they are about life, feelings and they get me through days. I hope mine evokes the same emotions in you and it'll inspire you to do many things! 

Because they are so big (too many songs!), I had to split them up each album up into 2 parts. 

Here are the links :

A Beautiful Lie Part 1
http://www.sendspace.com/file/fuslyd
A Beautiful Lie Part 2
http://www.sendspace.com/file/twna4a 
Ransom Letter Part 1
http://www.sendspace.com/file/zy8zez
Ransom Letter Part 2
http://www.sendspace.com/file/2ou1qu



front cover


















 




A Beautiful Lie

Gary Neville/David Beckham

1. The Kill – 30 Seconds To Mars
I tried to be someone else
But nothing seemed to change
I know now, this is who I really am inside
Finally found myself
Fighting for a chance
I know now, this is who I really am

2. With Or Without You – Dope
I'll do my time and I won't argue
A broken glass a portrait of you
I play on keys of barely in tune
Foget th reasons I won't resume
It's not me who wanted fame
I just needed to


3. Without You, I’m Nothing – Placebo ft. David Bowie
I'm unclean, a libertine
And every time you vent your spleen,
I seem to lose the power of speech,
Your slipping slowly from my reach.
You grow me like an evergreen,
You never see the lonely me at all

4. Perfect Drug – Nine Inch Nails
I got my head but my head is unraveling
cant keep control can't keep track of where it's traveling
I got my heart but my heart's no good
you're the only one that's understood


5. Little Black Backpack – Stroke 9
I feel you
Yes I can
What about that don't you understand?
I sense you
It's something sensual
But it's less than I planned


6. Creep – Radiohead
When you were here before
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You're so very special


7. Perfect – Smashing Pumpkins
And I've known
We're just like old friends
We just can't pretend
That lovers make amends
We are reasons so unreal
We can't help but feel
That something has been lost


8. Free As A Bird – The Beatles
Whatever happened to
The life that we once knew?
Can we really live without each other?


9. Fill My Little World – The Feeling
I had a dream we went away
Left this city for a day
You took me southwards on a plane
And showed me Spain or somewhere
But in reality you're not so keen to show me anything
And I thought you liked me


10. Tonight, Tonight – Smashing Pumpkins
Time is never time at all
You can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth
And our lives are forever changed
We will never be the same
The more you change the less you feel


11. This Never Happened Before- Paul McCartney
I'm very sure
This never happened to me before
I met you and now I'm sure
This never happened before

12. Ghost of You and Me – BB Mak
I didn’t mean to fall in love with you
And baby there’s a name for what you put me through
It isn’t love, it’s robbery
I’m sleeping with the ghost of you and me


13. Ever Fallen In Love – The Buzzcocks
You spurn my natural emotions
You make me feel like dirt
And I'm hurt
And if I start a commotion
I run the risk of losing you
And that's worse


14. You Blew Me Off – Bare Jr.
When I said
I love you
You blew me off
It turned me on

15. Slept So Long – Jay Gordon
I see hell in your eyes
Taken in by surprise
Touching you makes me feel alive
Touching you makes me die inside


16. Beautiful Lie – 30 Seconds To Mars
It's time to forget about the past
To wash away what happened last
Hide behind an empty face
Don't have too much to say
'Cause this is just a game
 

 back cover

























































Ransom Letter
Cristiano Ronaldo/ Wayne Rooney 
Home Version

1. Strange Face Of Love – Tito and Tarantula
Let go of your love
Ride his pulse and you forget
Slow down your time will come
If not tonight surely by the dawn
Take it like a man...
The strange face of love

2. Ransom Letter – Pug Jelly
So you stole my heart
And left me a ransom letter
Demanding I treat you better
Should I ever want it back and
Now I'm all alone
Dreams are all forgotten
Memories all turned rotten
It's not the same on the phone

3. Hot Pursuit – The Bravery
You might think that I
Come on a little strong
But the real thing is
I can't wait too long
So give your distance now
Cause time is running out
Until you finally see
You belong to me

4. Too Bad About Your Girl - The Donnas
She left but now she's back, stickin' out her rack
She's got you runnin' down the wrong track
Can't wait to see her face when I'm in her place
And I'm tryin' get you in the sack

5. Head Over Heels – Tears For Fears
I wanted to be with you alone
And talk about the weather
But traditions I can trace against the child in your face
Won't escape my attention

6. Slow Hands – Interpol
Yeah but nobody searches
Nobody cares somehow
When the loving that you’ve wasted
Comes raining from a hapless cloud
And I might stop and look upon your face
Disappear in the sweet, sweet gaze
See the living that surrounds me
Dissipate in a floral blaze

7. Mondo Bongo – Joe Strummer And The Mescaleros
Checkmate, baby
God bless us and our home
Where ever we roam
Now take us home, flaquito

8. Black Coffee- All Saints
Brush your teeth
And pour a cup of black coffee out
I love to watch you do that every day
The little things that you do

9. Obsessions- Suede
Obsessions is like sex
It's simple and complex
It's called obsession
Can you handle it

10. Fresh Feeling – The Eels
Words can't be that strong
My heart is reeling
This is that fresh
That fresh feeling

11. Sunshine – Gabrielle
Reaching out, for the highs
You inspired me to try
I felt the magic inside
And I felt that I could fly
I'm looking at the world in an optimistic light
You made me appreciate my life

12. Never Felt Like This Before – Shaznay Lewis
Empty standing where you’ve left me
Cold boy now I’m frozen
By a kiss from your lips
Your heart tells me that your open
Melted by the answer
I’ve been waiting to hear

13. Doesn’t Really Matter – Janet Jackson
Doesn’t matter what your friends are telling you
Doesn’t matter what my family’s saying too
It just matters that I’m in love with you
It only matters that you love me too

14. You and Me Song – The Wannadies
Always when we fight
I kiss you once or twice
And everything's forgotten
I know you hate that

15. Sway – The Perishers
I don't wanna hurt you
I don't wanna make you sway
Like I know I've done before
I will not do it anymore
I've always been a dreamer
I've had my head among the clouds
Now that I'm coming down
Won't you be my solid ground?

16. The Flowers – Regina Spektor
The flowers you gave me are rotting and still I refuse to throw them away.
Some of the bulbs never opened quite fully
They might so I'm waiting and staying awake.
Things I have loved I'm allowed to keep

17. Portuguese Love Theme – Craig Armstrong
This is an instrumental from the Love Actually Soundtrack. It’s a brilliant film. How everyone is connected, how they weave into each other’s lives is amazing. 





























HAVE A WONDERFUL TIME! (:

Fri, Nov. 17th, 2006, 08:53 pm
Violent Tendencies (a Cristiano/Wayne fic)

Title: Violent Tendencies

Author: Closet Child

Rating: NC-17 (for graphic/sexual content and coarse language)

Warnings: Um does something involving an object count?

Pairing: Cristiano Ronaldo/Wayne Rooney

Summary: Never mess with a devil.

Author’s Notes: I’ve been a fan of the Devils for 12 years now. This is my second fic written on them! IT IS UN-BETAED. Sorry. Came up with this after watching two videos on youtube. The first being the Wayne interview http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlNQkdJavb8&search=wayne+rooney and the other being the inFAMOUS Arsenal Utd match in the FA Cup in which 6 arsenal players were fined. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c0K2R5QLfIs POOR RUUD!

This is done in Darren Fletcher's POV.

Disclaimer: Everything mentioned here is not real. I do not own anyone or know them personally. This is just fiction.


Like Manager, like players.

Sir Alex kicks a boot at Becks, cutting the area slightly above the brow.

You’d find it hard to believe but even the captain, Gaz was booked for pulling a Zidane (headbutt) on Steve McManaman.

That very same season, Scoles had been banned for three matches after pushing Boro’s Doriva.

Let’s not forget the goalless draw against Arsenal in 2003, or should I say, the day Arsenal decided that they were boxers. Giggs and Ronaldo were charged but was cleared later by the FA.

Foul words, defiance, anger all traded in the field for yellow or worse, red cards.

Wonderful players but they do have moments when they slip up.



After the World Cup incident, both Ronny and Rooney had engaged in several physical activities of misconduct. Besides destroying television sets and punching a sandbag to cope with his frustrations of being England’s hatred man and getting into pub brawls (again!), the two have been into something else.

It all started that day in the shower, you know, after training. Louis ‘forgot’ his shampoo again, and asked me to pass him mine. He has been forgetting an awful lot lately, but I’m very sure he just wanted to use my shampoo because I mixed it with the water back from home. BBC after all has stated that the water up north contains less calcium therefore making your hair soft and shiny- like mine! I can’t do without my shampoo so I sat at the wooden benches by the sink, waiting for Louis to be done.

Everyone knows he takes the longest in the shower, so I decided to go around the stalls to see who’s left, I’ve the sudden urge to get back at Rio for emptying my bottle on the pitch after our 100m laps so I wouldn’t have any to drink. The jerk said he liked my face red. Fucking twat! He does it to Smudger too. Apparently, since Smudger deflected the ball from Riise and broke his leg, and is ‘on the bench’, Rio put him ‘on the bench’ too, on his pranking list. He loves to pick on us ‘young uns’. He doesn’t do it to Gaz, Scholesy, Ole, and Ryan because they are older. I personally would love to see Paul going red in the face it matches his ginger hair.

Wes steps out, dripping in a rather small towel, that clinched around his tanned waist.

“Nice mini you got there,” I snickered.

He looks down at his feet embarrassed and shuffles along like a crab to his bag.

“It’s my face towel! Forgot to bring the other one.” He stuttered.

Why is everyone getting forgetful?

I could only think of a possibility that headers kill your brain cells. Wes is a defender, clearing balls from the air, while Louis is a striker, and he heads them in. I’m not exactly forgetful, I play in midfield, but I do remember Wazza labeling me as the least intelligent in the squad. Told you it was the headers.

That reminds me, I have yet to get back at wonder boy for that statement yet… but it has to be grand, because after all he IS wonder boy.

Nice.

Just nice, I hear him, over the hard-hitting water from the shower heads, and his incomprehensive Liverpuldian accent, and you thought we Scotts are bad!

My heart raced, as I thought of all the possible ways to teach him a lesson. I could go give him a scare. I’m armed with one of the world’s most dangerous weapon- a mobile phone.

Wayne’s familiar flat but sing-songy lilt floated above the steam of the room.

Water is splashing, running. The pressure of the water in the shower is as good as the Jacuzzi jets. It always feels great after a strenuous training session and your muscles ache, you head to the Jacuzzi but if it’s full, you go to the showers, they are about the same.

And it seems to be sounding louder and faster by the second, slapping against a surface, the timing almost rhythmic. Odd?

Am I thinking what you’re thinking?

This is the moment! A god-given chance!

Wayne Rooney jerking off in the shower!

Do you wonder how big his tool is?

Everyone’s curious!

The papers printed a picture of him shorts tugged by a fallen defender probably after a failed attempt in pressuring Wayne. Everyone wants to thank that defender, he had just revealed Wayne’s very sizeable package.

No one’s in the next stall, great! Can get a lift up from the soap dish on the wall and check out what’s going on in there.

Oh god, the ledge of the stall is friggin dirty, fuck, there goes my trousers. Crap, I’m going to make Roo pay for this, my trousers and that remark!

Doesn’t anyone clean it?

Guess not, they probably forgotten about it. Think it isn’t important.

Oof! Maybe Sir Alex should include climbing toilet stall walls as part of training.

I look down and BLOODYHELLARSEBANDIT!

Roonie! Shite! Ronnie and Rooney!

WHAT IN THE NAME OF BLEATING SHEEPS!

Okay, so maybe I didn’t think that what Rio said was true (I mean, who believes that joker?) - about Wayne ‘knocking’ Ronnie up for the sending off in Germany in June. I thought Wayne would be whacking him inside out, but looks like he is banging him upside down!

Below me, was Cris, supporting himself on his right arm, jerking his soap-slick dick that is glistening under the white fluorescent light, moaning like a bitch in heat. He’s rubbing his arse into Wayne’s crotch, and GOD- Wayne was sticking Ronnie’s favourite hairbrush down his shit hole!

Ugh! Wanna puke! This is worse than drinking Keystone Ice (American piss! Really! Drank it when we went to tour in 2003. DON’T DRINK IT! I REPEAT!). And Cris uses it to brush his crop! I can’t believe it!

Wazza hooked up Ronnie’s long golden legs on his forearm, his free hand holding on to the bristle-end of the brush, pushing the large red handle in and out, ouchies! How is that possible? This isn’t the ordinary brush, the handles have little metal domes popping out like zits, for grip. I once told Cris before that he could put it to someone’s head and kill him.

I want to get down, really! This must be some sort of sick joke again. How did I get up here again? It looks like a long way down… Hell I’m not going to risk me spraining or breaking a leg. Got to wait till Louis gets out, figure when Ron and Roo are done shagging like rabbits and leave he will still be in the showers.

So I am stuck up here, trying not to look at what’s going on below. I’m trying, but every time Cris makes those crazy little noises, my curious eyes would stray…

This time, I saw that the brush got cast onto the floor, next to Ronnie’s head. His eyes were screwed shut and he was grimacing in pain, then they flutter open, and I saw his brown irises, diluted, shallow, clouded, glazed over with some unidentifiable emotion I can’t read, his lips were getting redder and fuller, as Wayne pounded him hard and fast. Cris was pushing his arse back into Wazza’s thrusting pelvis.

Wonder boy still got his forearms hooked under the back of Cris’s knees, his hands this time, were cupping the round, plush rump of Cris’s, squeezing and slapping them, few times he would prop Cris’s ankle behind his shoulders and reached forward to pinch those little brown nipples, eliciting soft whines from the Portuguese.

Uh, hell, I’m getting hard seeing all these. How can it be? I’m no fag! And how could Cris own such an arse? He’s a guy for Christ’s sake! I divert my attention to something gross to put out the fire in my loins, like Sir Alex spitting his gum on to the table before lunch and putting it back into his mouth after, or the time a crazy girl sent her used knickers to me- not sexy.

“Fasta, Way-anne, fasta!” groaned Ronnie in his funny accent, he kept on pushing back against Wayne’s dick, encouraging him to plough deeper. Grunting, Wayne drilled into the tight hole, his head tilting towards the ceiling, SHITE! I pray that he doesn’t see me, and he doesn’t, he was so absorb in spending himself inside Cris.

Their breaths become shorter and I knew they were coming close. Wayne once again, propped up Cris’s ankle on his shoulders, his free hand, jerking off Cris, letting out a final grunt and erupted his load into Cris’s arse.

Wayne laid Cris down gently, his creamy jizz seeping out of the used hole. So now I know, not only does he have a big tool, he also knows how to wield it and shoot it.

They were silent for a few minutes under the running water, trying to get their breaths back. Roo picks up Cris, into his arms and swap some spit, I turned away, it’s odd seeing a guy frenching another. He then washes Cris’s hair, running his fingers through the curls, backing him into a corner and fondle him a bit.

It’s odd to see things you do with a bird on another man.

After they cleaned themselves up (and the hairbrush), Wayne plants another wet kiss on Cris and unlocks the door of the stall, he peeks outside for a bit and walks out. Cris stays for a moment before walking out in the opposite direction.

Gone.

Waiting for Louis now.

Hm, could play a game of golf on my mobile… CRAP! I DIDN’T RECORD IT!

Oh hell, if I did, would be afraid that I won’t live till tomorrow.

“Dar-ron what you doing up there?!” Louis is out, staring at me queerly.

“Oo-er, threw my socks up the lights.” That was a lame excuse. But the bought it.

“Help me get down Louis. Don’t want to break a bone do we?”



We were all in the canteen, eating the yucky lunch that the nutritionists came up with. More carbohydrates for the people starting the game next week. More proteins for the injured.

I see Sir Alex, spitting his gum on the table as I put my tray down.

Anther tray plopped beside mine. It’s wonder boy and I can’t see him straight anymore so I look at my lunch.

Cris follows with Gabby and they sat facing me, so I begun eating. The three of them were talking about training today and I had my trapper shut. Because if I were to open it, god knows what is going to come out. Roo is a big guy, I know now, and I sure don’t need him to lynch me with his cutlery.

Gabby eats fast and Cris doesn’t take much. They cleared their trays in the front, leaving me and Roo alone. But I couldn’t control my gob, you know, sometimes it just happens?

“Roo?”

“Yeah Fletch?”

“Are you still mad at Ronnie?”

“No,” he polished off his plate.

“Then why do I hear you knocking into him?’ I asked, almost innocently, but the image of him rutting between Cris’s arse is really unforgettable.

And so was the look on Wayne’s face- HA! CLASSIC! He has gotten paler than he already is- White Wayne the Wonder boy. You should have seen that! GOT YOU WAYNE! I GOT YER!

“N-no nothing of that sort,” he gulp down his lemonade a little to fast, the liquid went down the windpipe and he choked, sputtering a bit.

“There, there, Wazza, you fine?” playing along, I pat his back to ease his cough.

“Yeah I’m fine Fletch, ‘scuse me, Colleen is waiting for me outside,” he got out of his seat and picked up his tray.

As he scurried out of the canteen, I had a laugh to myself.

Colleen? Wayne, Wayne… I wonder does she know.

Does anybody know?

Now that teaches you not to mess with the Devils!

Author’s Notes: You have to excuse me if you are an Arsenal or a Liverpool fan, I realised I picked on them in this fic. It’s funny how you can support United and like a couple of Gunners (Rosicky! Lehmann! Ljungberg!) Scousers (Alonso! Kewell! Fowler! Garcia! And my new fav -> Kuyt) doesn’t kill to like any of these guys right? ;)

I AM SO HAPPY! United is going to tour next year and I heard that they are going to play in my country! So is Barca!!! YAY! DECO! PUYOL! :D The last time the Devils visited, MY DAD DIDNT WANT TO GET TICKETS! Waste of money he says- me thinks he is still scarred by splurging on watching Juventus live in his youth (1970s) he told me they were lousy and there is no way he is going to waste his tickets again. :( So i had to watch it on TV in the end. Barthez was real sporting! He came out of his post to play!!! They trashed my national team.

Tue, Sep. 12th, 2006, 05:21 pm

I doubt I'd be updating anything personal on this journal ever again. So, I'm on the last week of figure drawing before my PATHETIC two weeks break. Yes, I'm still ranting about it. It isn't fair that the 5 of us in fig drawing lesson now have only a two weeks break while the rest of them have a LENGHTY SIX WEEKS BREAK!!!

Anyway, let's not harp on that. THAT, is the result of BAD TIMETABLE planning. I've finally written finish a piece. It's been long since I wrote anything... Meanwhile, the EPL kicked off well, with my favourite team, united! winning their 4th consecutive game against Tottenham, another of my fav teams. Though there's nothing much to boast about that game, but I'm proud of the devils! They didn't get much before the transfer window closed and with Rudd gone, but, look at them!

By the way, I tried using the LJ cut like a GAZILLION times.... they wont work! will someone please help me with it?

Here it is...

Title: The Last You’d Hear From Me

 

Author: Closet Child

 

Pairing: Paulo Ferreira/ Jose Mourinho , John Terry/ Jose Mourinho

 

Summary: This is the last you’d hear from me. Because I know…

 

Disclaimer: I don’t know them, don’t own them. Nothing mentioned here is real. Just a sick concoction by my head. 

 

Author’s Notes: I’m no Blues fan. But I love the Portuguese there! Still in self-denial that Micha is at the Bridge. Please bear with me.

 

This will be the last you'd hear from me.

 

And since it is, I just want you to know that you are a bossyconcietedselfishbastard!

 

THERE. I said it.

 

But I love you for it. I love you for your pride, your possessiveness and your obsession with perfection. I love all your flaws.

 

The world's biggest fool.

 

I am not that stupid little boy from Porto that trailed behind you everywhere.

 

I KNOW ABOUT JOHN.

 

YES.

 

All those late night calls to Abramovich, Brito, Clarke and Kenyon ... Lies. They are all lies! Just like you.

 

My friends and family often asked me if you were human. Too perfect they say, almost unreal. Yes, I’d reply. That’s because I have experienced times you being the most gentlest and loving man.

 

Am I going to regret this? Maybe for the moment… just for this moment. Ten years down the road and the rest of my life, I’m going to look back at this decision and feel proud for the choice I have made.

 

Well, I guess this is goodbye then.

 

I LOVE YOU.

 

The nib of the pen scratched against the paper as he penned his last thoughts. Then he paused, frowned a bit, realizing that he had no words left.

 

Paulo sighed and folded the letter into thirds, the way it’s done professionally when you mail your resume. It’s business-like. No laughs or smiles to spare. Brisk and steely.

 

Just like how you had been to me…

 

Snapping out of his thoughts, he slid the paper into the expensive looking envelope and sealed it- with a light kiss. The cool surface of the paper brush against his warm lips for a brief moment, before being kept into the inner pocket of his blazer.

 

Isn’t it sad? I even have to go through paper to get to you now…What have we become?  He thought miserably, as he locked his door of his home.

 

 

He stared at the little button for a long time, wondering if he should give it a ring. The door was magnificent, intimidating, just like the rest of the house inside, furnished by the riches earned. He felt unease at the glorious exterior… it suddenly seemed so unfamiliar to him like he was a stranger. And he was back to day one, the young defender from Porto, trudging behind the boss.

 

Leave it on his doormat… Put it under his door. There were so many possible ways but he couldn’t execute any one of them.

 

Maybe he shouldn’t give it at all! His hands were shaky and palms slightly damp. He berated himself for coming up with this idea. 

 

It is harder than expected.

 

He needed more time.

 

Heaving a sigh, he turned on his heels and walked away, when his feet touched the last step, the door swung open, startling him.

 

“I’ve seen you standing for a long time…” he said smugly. “What brings you here?”

 

Paulo gazed into the face that he once adored and loved so much after God.

 

He slowly made his way up the front door again, wondering if he should even step into the house. He hadn’t been there for a long time. It would all be too weird.

 

Jose’s eyes drop and focused on the white envelope in Paulo’s hands.

 

“Something for me?” he motioned towards it, smiling. The young man’s hands passed the paper back and forth between his nervous hands.

 

He has asked for it. Isn’t it much easier? He wants it. Just give it to him.

 

“I-I, this-”

 

“Stop your stuttering and come on in,” he got hold of Paulo’s slim wrists and pulled him into the house, the door closing after them. “Meanwhile, let me take a look at that…” Jose took the envelope off Paulo’s hands without hesitance, like the no-nonsense, straight-to-the-face man he is.

 

Fingers curl and rip open the flap of the letter, and pulled out the expensive paper. Paulo’s heart was beating faster and louder by the seconds as the clock ticked, he studied Jose’s face in fear, waiting for the contorted expression of rage and perhaps a dash of what he hope for- sadness and regret. But none of it was displayed on the tanned, sharp face.

 

Leave, his head tells him. Right now, because when the eye of the storm passes, the temporary calmness switches to a long period of violence.

 

His legs wouldn’t budge. They seem to have been cemented to the floor.

 

“So you want to leave, hm?”

 

Jose folded back the letter neatly, shuffling back to the envelope. Paulo lowered his eyes to his feet, his hands fumbling in his own trousers pockets. Jose’s eyes followed the rustling of the cloth and chuckled at the movement at the side of the trousers where the pockets were.

 

Why… he could not believe it. Jose had felt nothing at all! The bastard has the heart, icier than the Snow Queen! All these while, the turmoil he had been though knowing that his boyfriend was seeing someone else… And here is the man himself, so calm and relaxed as if this was no big a deal.

 

“Don’t you feel anything?” he suddenly burst out. His hand flew to his pretty mouth; he didn’t expect to yell that out. His feet brought him a few steps back, till he leaned against the elegantly papered wall.

 

“Paulo,” just one word. His name.

 

“You’re right…”

 

“A few years ago, I fell for a sweet, shy, lovely young boy… How innocent he was then, like all children are… He is beautiful. He still is… We were so happy together… I broke so many rules for him. And I would still do it for him. We carried on seeing each other, behind so many people’s backs…” the older man paused for a moment, looking steadily into Paulo’s sad brown eyes. They were shining, with tears.

 

“But I’m never happy with what I have.”

 

“John has passed. He was just a fling. Just a foolish fling…”

 

“Paulo…”

 

He took a few steps closer to the slim young man, his arms extending, his hands reaching, fingers curling to grasp the sharp chin gently for a kiss.

 

His tongue pushed passed, against Paulo’s red swollen, trembling lips, that occurred whenever he was about to cry. And true enough, a small sob escaped his delicate throat. Jose couldn’t bear to hear it, he silenced it with the masterful skill of this tongue as it wrestled and coiled around Paulo’s. 

 

Silky chestnut hair, his fingers ran through them over and over again, as Jose pushed his head back for a better access of the warm cavern of Paulo’s sweet mouth.  

 

It was a long and sensual kiss, a goodbye kiss, with the elements of lust, love, guilt and regret., drawing so much from Jose that he broke it, and gasped for air. His thumb grazes the moist lashes, taking away the dew drops of tears. With the back of his hand, he caresses the smooth face, and a longing-look filled his most-of-the-time harsh eyes.

 

“It’s not your fault.”

 

“It’s mine,” he whispered.

 

Paulo made a soft noise sounding like a whimper, he got what he wanted. He’s free. Now they are apart. Never together. But he wanted so badly, to go back… he leapt into Jose’s arms, and hugged him good and tight.

 

“I’ll see you at the Bridge on Wednesday…”

 

That wasn’t the last he would hear from Jose.

 

Because he turned up for training three days later.

 

There were barking orders, strict instructions all from the mouth of the man. Nothing new.

 

But it was a new beginning.

 

Paulo smiled back at Jose shyly as he jogged his rounds

 

 

 

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