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Title: Distant Hearts (1/3)
Rating: R - I am ashamed of myself.
Pairing: Dimitar Berbatov/Owen Hargreaves, Cristiano Ronaldo/Owen Hargreaves, implied Roy Keane/Eric Cantona
Length: 2899 words
Author's Notes: For Stacy, even though I don't think this is what you had in mind. But this is the insanity my mind comes up with!
Also: I'm evil, I can't change my hardwiring, and the squirrel thing was too good for me to pass up. Read and you shall understand.
And finally: I have sort of a shorter second part in mind, just to wrap it up. If you read this and like it, please tell me if you'd like me to write that as well. :)
Distant Hearts
In a small town on the outskirts of a large city in the north of England, a pub sat under a black sky.
The room inside was dark and small; the only light the glow of the fire in the fireplace that emanated a gentle warmth throughout the room. A scattered assortment of tables and chairs were half-filled with people having quiet conversations, and the floor was covered in rainwater people had tracked in on umbrellas, coats and shoes as a storm raged outside the walls. Glasses and mugs sat discarded on all surfaces, coated with the remnants of their former contents, along with crumpled napkins and dirty plates, and a rather sad looking worker collected all of the mess in a bin and wiped down dirty tables whose edges were worn and whose surfaces were covered in water rings and gouges from use.
The bar sat empty except for two men huddled together at the far end, away from the door and next to the fire, empty pint glasses with just small beads of foam on the side as confirmation of their former contents creating a growing radius in front of them. Anyone who tried to approach them was instantly stopped and told off by the barman, who stood near the door wiping glasses and filling pints while watching the two men out of the corner of his eye, replenishing their drinks when need be.
The two men sat close together in hushed conversation, barely ever making eye contact with each other, instead speaking directly to the glasses they nursed with growing frequency. They both wore black raincoats, the shoulders of which were still dotted with small beads of rainwater. There were dark spots on the floor where they had drip-dried during their time spent in the pub together.
The barman walked down and placed two fresh pints in front of them and took away two of the empty glasses before walking away. They both drank the top off of each glass before the man on the right finally turned towards the other, and leaned in closer than before to speak with more confidentiality.
“Tell me about Eric,” he said in hushed tones.
Roy Keane sighed and stared sadly into the golden liquid in front of him.
*
Owen Hargreaves had no idea what was happening the day Dimitar Berbatov finally arrived at Old Trafford. He’d sat up watching the television late into the night like most of the fans at home did, observing with amusement and bemusement as the transfer window closed and the events happening in football descended into farce, once again.
The first day he met him, he didn’t even know what to expect.
And the person he found: tall, haughty, arrogant, cerebral, aloof, dark, supremely talented and with piercing blue eyes was possibly the last person he would have expected Dimitar Berbatov to be.
*
“Eric,” he said.
Roy drunk more from his pint and placed it back down on the table, staring at the ring of condensation the glass had left behind on the lacquered wood.
“When I first met Eric, I was a bit terrified of him. He was brilliant, obviously. The man is a genius and I frankly, felt like nothing next to him. I didn’t know what to expect, how to act around him, how to talk to him, how to treat him.
He did everything so effortlessly, with such grace. He made all of us look like plodders – I could run my arse off for an hour and in a minute he could do more than I had done all match.
He scared me, and he inspired me; I wanted nothing more than to impress him, to ensure that he wouldn’t look at me as unworthy to play on the same team with him. Everything he did had a reason, a justification – from the most ridiculous to the most sublime, he did things because they were right, because he believed in them, because he knew no other way. He did whatever it took to win, at whatever cost. I admired him.
Eric was aloof, but fascinating. He was an enigma, an absolute mystery of a man. The press knew one person, the players knew another. I wanted to understand, to get to know him, to try to figure him out. I wanted him to accept me. I wanted to be like him and I…”
“And you fell in love with him,” the other interjected.
Roy sighed and glanced at him, slightly pained that he had figured it out.
“I fell in love with him.”
*
Owen watched from the sidelines as Cristiano stepped away from the goal, the ball sitting in the back of the net, and instantly crossed himself, face devoid of any emotion whatsoever.
The image, one he had barely seen before but was a stark contrast in his mind to the man he used to know and love at one point (and still did), replayed over and over in his head, taking on an almost hypnotic quality, as he sat down on the bus in a seat that used to feel more comfortable than it did now.
“So tell me,” Owen said, staring Cristiano straight in the face, “because you’ve found God now, does that mean you have to give me up?”
Cristiano stared blankly back at him, not replying, maybe not even listening at all.
Owen’s voice dropped in volume as he continued. “I miss you,” he implored, sadness evident in his eyes as he looked almost desperately at Cristiano, hoping for a reply, the question why are you pushing me away? scrolling through his mind like a ticker tape. He paused, waiting for something to change, for Cristiano to look at him, to touch him, to insist to him that everything was going to be okay. Nothing.
His voice dropped so low and so quiet it could barely be heard over the gentle humming of the coach’s engine as it moved through the darkness.
“But maybe I shouldn’t bother.”
He turned away from Cristiano, who still sat passively next to him, face showing no emotion or recognition of the words.
They sat next to each other but they seemed like they barely knew each other at all, separated by maybe just inches of space that was actually much thicker and hard to breach than it seemed.
*
“Did you sleep with him?”
Roy didn’t reply for awhile. He stared into his drink, before taking a large drink and placing the glass down hard on the counter, the contents sloshing up the sides and leaving a trail of foam on either side. He took a deep breath and seemingly steeled himself, as his companion watched him wordlessly, his newest drink left untouched.
“Sleeping with Eric…” he began, and then his voice faltered and he drank more, feeling as though he wasn’t drunk enough to deal with the topic of conversation. He started again, this time slurring his words slightly.
“I slept with Eric numerous times.
I don’t know why he ever slept with me, what he saw in me, but I was young. Stupid. Drunk – very drunk. I was willing to be used and more than delighted that he picked me. I didn’t care why, or how – I did it, and I never regretted it. Not once.”
*
Owen stopped his car and killed the engine, parked on the street right outside of the address that had been scrawled on a worn piece of paper, the wrinkles that had formally been in it smoothed out but creases remained.
Taking a deep breath, Owen climbed out of his car into the dark, damp night that swirled around him and walked up to the door on the flat, the piece of paper crumpled in his hand as he slid it back into the pocket of his jeans. He stood and shivered in the dim puddle of light that the streetlight on the corner cast, barely illuminating the steps below him, and was about to knock again when the door swung open, a silhouette of a man standing in front of him, face hidden in a shadow. He stepped aside and let Owen come in, before shutting and locking the door behind him.
Berbatov strode away from Owen and towards the bed, which sat next to a closed window that faced out to a courtyard with a tree, and gestured to the table next to the door, functioning as a temporary bar. Owen poured himself a double vodka and downed it, feeling the cool liquid burn his throat and add to the haze that had started to form in his mind. He placed the glass down on the counter and turned around to see Berbatov lounging in a chair, regarding him with a look of mild interest.
“Why are you here?” he asked, hands resting in his lap, waiting for a reply.
Owen swallowed and looked at Berbatov, trying to keep any fear from showing in his eyes, a drunken haze slowly descending over him and preventing him from thinking clearly – providing him with the ready excuse to go through with what he was about to do, shutting his conscience down completely.
“I’m looking for an escape.”
Dimitar smirked at him from his seat, face showing no surprise but rather a strange look of satisfaction and expectance.
“Do you bottom?”
Owen felt his mouth go dry, and nodded.
*
“Sleeping with Eric was like not sleeping with someone at all. You feel… used. Like an object. There’s no emotional attachment, no meaning. Nothing. You fuck and then you leave. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s… it’s animalistic. It’s brutal and horrible and basic and nothing more than physical need.
But if you have it once, you want it. Again and again.
I couldn’t stop coming back, and despite the fact that he felt nothing for me… I kept falling in love.”
The two men sat in silence as the fire burned next to them. A log cracked and broke, and a large tongue of flame shot up momentarily.
*
They fucked.
He fucked Owen hard, into the mattress, barely even looking at him. He didn’t kiss him, barely touched him with his hands, just laid on top of him and fucked him, his icy eyes transfixed on a spot somewhere above Owen’s curls, staring blankly as Owen arched underneath him with every movement, moaning softly. His eyes momentarily unfocused and the muscles in his arms tensed even more as he supported himself above Owen, before they relaxed and he slumped down, breathing deeply.
Dimitar rolled off from on top of Owen and walked over to the window, grabbing a packet of fags and his lighter from the table next to the bed. He opened the window, letting a rush of chilly damp air flood the stuffy hot room. Dimitar sat on the windowsill and lit a cigarette, the smoke he blew into the cold night mixing with the steam his breath made in the cold air as he breathed.
Owen laid on the bed in a tangle of sweaty, sticky sheets, breathing quickly, body completely spent. “Fuck,” he gasped out, his mind trying to catch up with his body. Dimitar stared out the window, barely even recognizing that Owen was there and lit a second cigarette from the embers left on the first. Owen glanced over at him, sitting naked on the windowsill, a layer of sweat on his body glistening as his chest heaved in and out. He eventually caught Owen watching him and grabbed another cigarette from the pack, lit it on his and offered it to Owen, who reached out and took it between his thumb and forefinger.
He laid back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, watching the smoke he blew out of his mouth form a smoky cloud on top of him, trying not to cough as the unfamiliar substance filled his lungs. Dimitar lit a third cigarette from the remnants of his second and got up from the windowsill, walking towards the liquor that stood on the table. He poured himself a gin and tonic and returned, resuming his position on the windowsill, this time lost in pensive thought as he drank and watched Owen finishing his cigarette on the bed.
Owen threw the butt into an already very full ashtray on the table next to the bed, before getting up and collecting his clothes from the pile on the floor. He dressed and found his keys while Dimitar watched him wordlessly from the windowsill. He headed towards the door without a glance behind him, and had placed his hand on the doorknob when he heard a voice behind him.
“Why did you come?”
Hand still resting on the doorknob, he turned around to see Dimitar staring out the window into the dark night, one leg bent, knee near his chest as it rested on the windowsill, the other relaxed, with his foot on the floor. Owen swallowed and tried to regain his composure as he took his naked form in, feeling himself stiffen.
“Thank you,” he choked, and opened the door to let himself out, before pulling it closed behind him. The door closed behind him with a click.
Berbatov smirked.
*
Roy and his companion sat in further silence, and Roy hastily gulped down the last of his pint, feeling himself become drunker and drunker. He opened his mouth to speak and his companion tried to suppress a look of expectance from his face as he waited for Roy to continue his story.
“He…” he began, voice so low it could barely be heard, sadness evident in his distant eyes.
“He made love to me once. Just once – right before he left for good.”
He paused.
“It was… mindblowing.”
Roy swallowed, trying to prevent the mist that clouded his eyes from becoming anything more than that. His companion nodded, understanding, and finally ventured to ask him one last question.
“Do you miss it? Do you miss him?”
Roy smiled bitterly, but it didn’t reach his eyes, still clouded with sadness and memories.
“Everyday.”
For another two pints they sat in total silence, until finally Roy’s companion got up and left, leaving Roy alone at the bar, lost in his own painful memories.
*
Owen stumbled out of the flat and on to the street, the cold air hitting him like a slap in the face. He climbed into his car and shut the door, his head falling heavily on the steering wheel, as he breathed deeply, trying to rid his mind of the haze that had descended over it like cigarette smoke. Eventually he lifted his head and with a sigh, he started the car and drove away.
He drove through the dark night in silence, hearing the wheels of the car spin, the hum of the engine, the gentle tap of the rain on the windshield, and suddenly he found himself on a road to a driveway that he had been previously.
Like in a trance, he parked his car and climbed out, and walked up towards the door. He let himself in with his key and walked up the stairs, down the hall he had been down before until he reached a door that was open three quarters of the way.
He pushed the door open and saw a figure lying with his back towards him, just his black hair visible over the covers that were pulled up to his chin. Owen kicked off his shoes and dropped his jacket on the floor, before lying on top of the covers next to the sleeping figure, pressing his body tight against him. He kissed the figure’s head and whispered “I’m sorry” before falling asleep, holding the sleeping man tightly.
*
Dimitar sat on his windowsill staring out into the cold night, smoking cigarette after cigarette and sipping his drink. Suddenly, a squirrel hopped towards the light that had formed a puddle on the grass below from the open window, and he smiled when it hopped into his view. It seems something had followed him from North London.
He got up and disappeared from view momentarily, before returning with a fresh drink, a freshly-lit cigarette, and a few pieces of bread he had taken from a loaf in the kitchen. He broke off a few pieces and threw them down, watching the squirrel eat them in the cold and smiled.
“What do you think?” he said, to no one in particular. “Do you think he’ll come back?”
He thought momentarily about events of previous hours before breaking off another piece of bread and throwing it to the squirrel.
He replied to his own question with a smirk.
“He will. They always do.”
The squirrel looked at him, before picking up another piece of bread and eating it.
*
Cristiano slowly opened his eyes to see an arm wrapped around him, and he was startled before he turned his head to see a mop of curly hair and a familiar face he knew well. He smiled slightly and leaned in to kiss Owen gently, happy to see him. Cristiano maneuvered Owen’s sleeping body gently, trying not to wake him, and pulled the covers over him before snuggling in against him, a place he had slept many times before.
Owen smelled of alcohol and nicotine.
Rating: R - I am ashamed of myself.
Pairing: Dimitar Berbatov/Owen Hargreaves, Cristiano Ronaldo/Owen Hargreaves, implied Roy Keane/Eric Cantona
Length: 2899 words
Author's Notes: For Stacy, even though I don't think this is what you had in mind. But this is the insanity my mind comes up with!
Also: I'm evil, I can't change my hardwiring, and the squirrel thing was too good for me to pass up. Read and you shall understand.
And finally: I have sort of a shorter second part in mind, just to wrap it up. If you read this and like it, please tell me if you'd like me to write that as well. :)
Distant Hearts
In a small town on the outskirts of a large city in the north of England, a pub sat under a black sky.
The room inside was dark and small; the only light the glow of the fire in the fireplace that emanated a gentle warmth throughout the room. A scattered assortment of tables and chairs were half-filled with people having quiet conversations, and the floor was covered in rainwater people had tracked in on umbrellas, coats and shoes as a storm raged outside the walls. Glasses and mugs sat discarded on all surfaces, coated with the remnants of their former contents, along with crumpled napkins and dirty plates, and a rather sad looking worker collected all of the mess in a bin and wiped down dirty tables whose edges were worn and whose surfaces were covered in water rings and gouges from use.
The bar sat empty except for two men huddled together at the far end, away from the door and next to the fire, empty pint glasses with just small beads of foam on the side as confirmation of their former contents creating a growing radius in front of them. Anyone who tried to approach them was instantly stopped and told off by the barman, who stood near the door wiping glasses and filling pints while watching the two men out of the corner of his eye, replenishing their drinks when need be.
The two men sat close together in hushed conversation, barely ever making eye contact with each other, instead speaking directly to the glasses they nursed with growing frequency. They both wore black raincoats, the shoulders of which were still dotted with small beads of rainwater. There were dark spots on the floor where they had drip-dried during their time spent in the pub together.
The barman walked down and placed two fresh pints in front of them and took away two of the empty glasses before walking away. They both drank the top off of each glass before the man on the right finally turned towards the other, and leaned in closer than before to speak with more confidentiality.
“Tell me about Eric,” he said in hushed tones.
Roy Keane sighed and stared sadly into the golden liquid in front of him.
*
Owen Hargreaves had no idea what was happening the day Dimitar Berbatov finally arrived at Old Trafford. He’d sat up watching the television late into the night like most of the fans at home did, observing with amusement and bemusement as the transfer window closed and the events happening in football descended into farce, once again.
The first day he met him, he didn’t even know what to expect.
And the person he found: tall, haughty, arrogant, cerebral, aloof, dark, supremely talented and with piercing blue eyes was possibly the last person he would have expected Dimitar Berbatov to be.
*
“Eric,” he said.
Roy drunk more from his pint and placed it back down on the table, staring at the ring of condensation the glass had left behind on the lacquered wood.
“When I first met Eric, I was a bit terrified of him. He was brilliant, obviously. The man is a genius and I frankly, felt like nothing next to him. I didn’t know what to expect, how to act around him, how to talk to him, how to treat him.
He did everything so effortlessly, with such grace. He made all of us look like plodders – I could run my arse off for an hour and in a minute he could do more than I had done all match.
He scared me, and he inspired me; I wanted nothing more than to impress him, to ensure that he wouldn’t look at me as unworthy to play on the same team with him. Everything he did had a reason, a justification – from the most ridiculous to the most sublime, he did things because they were right, because he believed in them, because he knew no other way. He did whatever it took to win, at whatever cost. I admired him.
Eric was aloof, but fascinating. He was an enigma, an absolute mystery of a man. The press knew one person, the players knew another. I wanted to understand, to get to know him, to try to figure him out. I wanted him to accept me. I wanted to be like him and I…”
“And you fell in love with him,” the other interjected.
Roy sighed and glanced at him, slightly pained that he had figured it out.
“I fell in love with him.”
*
Owen watched from the sidelines as Cristiano stepped away from the goal, the ball sitting in the back of the net, and instantly crossed himself, face devoid of any emotion whatsoever.
The image, one he had barely seen before but was a stark contrast in his mind to the man he used to know and love at one point (and still did), replayed over and over in his head, taking on an almost hypnotic quality, as he sat down on the bus in a seat that used to feel more comfortable than it did now.
“So tell me,” Owen said, staring Cristiano straight in the face, “because you’ve found God now, does that mean you have to give me up?”
Cristiano stared blankly back at him, not replying, maybe not even listening at all.
Owen’s voice dropped in volume as he continued. “I miss you,” he implored, sadness evident in his eyes as he looked almost desperately at Cristiano, hoping for a reply, the question why are you pushing me away? scrolling through his mind like a ticker tape. He paused, waiting for something to change, for Cristiano to look at him, to touch him, to insist to him that everything was going to be okay. Nothing.
His voice dropped so low and so quiet it could barely be heard over the gentle humming of the coach’s engine as it moved through the darkness.
“But maybe I shouldn’t bother.”
He turned away from Cristiano, who still sat passively next to him, face showing no emotion or recognition of the words.
They sat next to each other but they seemed like they barely knew each other at all, separated by maybe just inches of space that was actually much thicker and hard to breach than it seemed.
*
“Did you sleep with him?”
Roy didn’t reply for awhile. He stared into his drink, before taking a large drink and placing the glass down hard on the counter, the contents sloshing up the sides and leaving a trail of foam on either side. He took a deep breath and seemingly steeled himself, as his companion watched him wordlessly, his newest drink left untouched.
“Sleeping with Eric…” he began, and then his voice faltered and he drank more, feeling as though he wasn’t drunk enough to deal with the topic of conversation. He started again, this time slurring his words slightly.
“I slept with Eric numerous times.
I don’t know why he ever slept with me, what he saw in me, but I was young. Stupid. Drunk – very drunk. I was willing to be used and more than delighted that he picked me. I didn’t care why, or how – I did it, and I never regretted it. Not once.”
*
Owen stopped his car and killed the engine, parked on the street right outside of the address that had been scrawled on a worn piece of paper, the wrinkles that had formally been in it smoothed out but creases remained.
Taking a deep breath, Owen climbed out of his car into the dark, damp night that swirled around him and walked up to the door on the flat, the piece of paper crumpled in his hand as he slid it back into the pocket of his jeans. He stood and shivered in the dim puddle of light that the streetlight on the corner cast, barely illuminating the steps below him, and was about to knock again when the door swung open, a silhouette of a man standing in front of him, face hidden in a shadow. He stepped aside and let Owen come in, before shutting and locking the door behind him.
Berbatov strode away from Owen and towards the bed, which sat next to a closed window that faced out to a courtyard with a tree, and gestured to the table next to the door, functioning as a temporary bar. Owen poured himself a double vodka and downed it, feeling the cool liquid burn his throat and add to the haze that had started to form in his mind. He placed the glass down on the counter and turned around to see Berbatov lounging in a chair, regarding him with a look of mild interest.
“Why are you here?” he asked, hands resting in his lap, waiting for a reply.
Owen swallowed and looked at Berbatov, trying to keep any fear from showing in his eyes, a drunken haze slowly descending over him and preventing him from thinking clearly – providing him with the ready excuse to go through with what he was about to do, shutting his conscience down completely.
“I’m looking for an escape.”
Dimitar smirked at him from his seat, face showing no surprise but rather a strange look of satisfaction and expectance.
“Do you bottom?”
Owen felt his mouth go dry, and nodded.
*
“Sleeping with Eric was like not sleeping with someone at all. You feel… used. Like an object. There’s no emotional attachment, no meaning. Nothing. You fuck and then you leave. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s… it’s animalistic. It’s brutal and horrible and basic and nothing more than physical need.
But if you have it once, you want it. Again and again.
I couldn’t stop coming back, and despite the fact that he felt nothing for me… I kept falling in love.”
The two men sat in silence as the fire burned next to them. A log cracked and broke, and a large tongue of flame shot up momentarily.
*
They fucked.
He fucked Owen hard, into the mattress, barely even looking at him. He didn’t kiss him, barely touched him with his hands, just laid on top of him and fucked him, his icy eyes transfixed on a spot somewhere above Owen’s curls, staring blankly as Owen arched underneath him with every movement, moaning softly. His eyes momentarily unfocused and the muscles in his arms tensed even more as he supported himself above Owen, before they relaxed and he slumped down, breathing deeply.
Dimitar rolled off from on top of Owen and walked over to the window, grabbing a packet of fags and his lighter from the table next to the bed. He opened the window, letting a rush of chilly damp air flood the stuffy hot room. Dimitar sat on the windowsill and lit a cigarette, the smoke he blew into the cold night mixing with the steam his breath made in the cold air as he breathed.
Owen laid on the bed in a tangle of sweaty, sticky sheets, breathing quickly, body completely spent. “Fuck,” he gasped out, his mind trying to catch up with his body. Dimitar stared out the window, barely even recognizing that Owen was there and lit a second cigarette from the embers left on the first. Owen glanced over at him, sitting naked on the windowsill, a layer of sweat on his body glistening as his chest heaved in and out. He eventually caught Owen watching him and grabbed another cigarette from the pack, lit it on his and offered it to Owen, who reached out and took it between his thumb and forefinger.
He laid back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, watching the smoke he blew out of his mouth form a smoky cloud on top of him, trying not to cough as the unfamiliar substance filled his lungs. Dimitar lit a third cigarette from the remnants of his second and got up from the windowsill, walking towards the liquor that stood on the table. He poured himself a gin and tonic and returned, resuming his position on the windowsill, this time lost in pensive thought as he drank and watched Owen finishing his cigarette on the bed.
Owen threw the butt into an already very full ashtray on the table next to the bed, before getting up and collecting his clothes from the pile on the floor. He dressed and found his keys while Dimitar watched him wordlessly from the windowsill. He headed towards the door without a glance behind him, and had placed his hand on the doorknob when he heard a voice behind him.
“Why did you come?”
Hand still resting on the doorknob, he turned around to see Dimitar staring out the window into the dark night, one leg bent, knee near his chest as it rested on the windowsill, the other relaxed, with his foot on the floor. Owen swallowed and tried to regain his composure as he took his naked form in, feeling himself stiffen.
“Thank you,” he choked, and opened the door to let himself out, before pulling it closed behind him. The door closed behind him with a click.
Berbatov smirked.
*
Roy and his companion sat in further silence, and Roy hastily gulped down the last of his pint, feeling himself become drunker and drunker. He opened his mouth to speak and his companion tried to suppress a look of expectance from his face as he waited for Roy to continue his story.
“He…” he began, voice so low it could barely be heard, sadness evident in his distant eyes.
“He made love to me once. Just once – right before he left for good.”
He paused.
“It was… mindblowing.”
Roy swallowed, trying to prevent the mist that clouded his eyes from becoming anything more than that. His companion nodded, understanding, and finally ventured to ask him one last question.
“Do you miss it? Do you miss him?”
Roy smiled bitterly, but it didn’t reach his eyes, still clouded with sadness and memories.
“Everyday.”
For another two pints they sat in total silence, until finally Roy’s companion got up and left, leaving Roy alone at the bar, lost in his own painful memories.
*
Owen stumbled out of the flat and on to the street, the cold air hitting him like a slap in the face. He climbed into his car and shut the door, his head falling heavily on the steering wheel, as he breathed deeply, trying to rid his mind of the haze that had descended over it like cigarette smoke. Eventually he lifted his head and with a sigh, he started the car and drove away.
He drove through the dark night in silence, hearing the wheels of the car spin, the hum of the engine, the gentle tap of the rain on the windshield, and suddenly he found himself on a road to a driveway that he had been previously.
Like in a trance, he parked his car and climbed out, and walked up towards the door. He let himself in with his key and walked up the stairs, down the hall he had been down before until he reached a door that was open three quarters of the way.
He pushed the door open and saw a figure lying with his back towards him, just his black hair visible over the covers that were pulled up to his chin. Owen kicked off his shoes and dropped his jacket on the floor, before lying on top of the covers next to the sleeping figure, pressing his body tight against him. He kissed the figure’s head and whispered “I’m sorry” before falling asleep, holding the sleeping man tightly.
*
Dimitar sat on his windowsill staring out into the cold night, smoking cigarette after cigarette and sipping his drink. Suddenly, a squirrel hopped towards the light that had formed a puddle on the grass below from the open window, and he smiled when it hopped into his view. It seems something had followed him from North London.
He got up and disappeared from view momentarily, before returning with a fresh drink, a freshly-lit cigarette, and a few pieces of bread he had taken from a loaf in the kitchen. He broke off a few pieces and threw them down, watching the squirrel eat them in the cold and smiled.
“What do you think?” he said, to no one in particular. “Do you think he’ll come back?”
He thought momentarily about events of previous hours before breaking off another piece of bread and throwing it to the squirrel.
He replied to his own question with a smirk.
“He will. They always do.”
The squirrel looked at him, before picking up another piece of bread and eating it.
*
Cristiano slowly opened his eyes to see an arm wrapped around him, and he was startled before he turned his head to see a mop of curly hair and a familiar face he knew well. He smiled slightly and leaned in to kiss Owen gently, happy to see him. Cristiano maneuvered Owen’s sleeping body gently, trying not to wake him, and pulled the covers over him before snuggling in against him, a place he had slept many times before.
Owen smelled of alcohol and nicotine.
16 ships | sailing ships that pass