“We were a bit like brothers. It’s just that we are so comfortable in each other’s company, kind of knew what each other was going to say and bounced off each other. He was the big brother, obviously. He looked out for me, kept me out of the worst scrapes and apologized when I went over the top. [...] We were mates, close mates, used to room together for Liverpool, stick together on England duty, go out after matches for a bevvy.” - Robbie Fowler
(mcgrowler - “One Small Kiss, Pulling Away For An Instant, Then Devouring Each Other.”) (oh g-d how did this end up 1.2k)
“Macca, wait, wait.”
Robbie scrambles to steady his grip on the fabric seats of the campervan as Steve pulls on the legs of his leathers. They’re both laughing, Steve barely free from his leathers himself, trying to get Robbie out of his.
As Steve pulls, Robbie’s legs finally come loose, and with a final effort - Steve loses his balance in spectacular fashion and topples over backwards, lanky legs flailing.
Robbie laughs even harder.
“It’s not funny,” Steve protests, pouting, tossing Robbie’s leathers off to the side (probably to be left there until someone inevitably trips over them.) “I hit my head.”
“Aww, does it need kissing better?”
Steve smacks Robbie’s shoulder as he climbs back up onto the seat, rolling his eyes at Robbie’s overdramatic wail of pain. “Why am I friends with you?”
“No-one else was gonna risk themselves for your fucking awful driving.”
“You take that back.”
Robbie, still full of race adrenaline, looking at his friend - his best friend - who he loves, with golden hair still messy from his helmet, stuck with sweat to the familiar lines and curves of his face.
“Make me.”
Instantly, he second-guesses. Wonders if that turmoil is obvious, is readable to Steve. How Steve might react- a slideshow of worst-case scenarios. Years of thinking only after acting catching up with him.
But seems he overestimated Steve’s tendency to act like a labrador fucking retriever, because the other man moves to try and wrestle Robbie onto his back, grin returning. In an instant, it becomes so natural again.
“Take it back!” Steve says through their laughter. Robbie fights back, atmosphere playful, but Steve has always been the bigger, taller one.
“I won’t-” Robbie starts to say, and Steve has caught one of his wrists in his hand, “I’m right, you know it.”
“Nothing wrong with my driving-”
“I’m still scarred from where I hit that wall.”(Like, literally scarred - the brickwork tore through his leathers, and the scrape underneath needed fucking stitches.)
“That was the island, it don’t count,” Steve argues, “and it was your fault anyway.” Robbie paws his other hand in the direction of Steve’s face in mock outrage, and Steve catches that one too, holding them both down.
They’ve stopped laughing, breaths coming heavy. Robbie swallows. Outside, the noise, the life, of the paddock continues - engines and mechanics and the constant chatter. But on the fabric seats of the motorhome with Steve’s body heat above him, pinning him down, time seems to almost stand still.
He’s vaguely aware of the fact Steve’s fucking straddling him, and it’s probably best he’s only vaguely aware of it, because Robbie is so close to losing his mind it’s not even funny. Steve’s body moves, hips shifting, as he leans down, bringing their faces closer.
Steve is so close, and Robbie wants, fucking wants.
He’s so busy fantasising about kissing Steve that he actually doesn’t notice Steve leaning in until their lips touch.
Robbie probably over-romanticised this moment in his mind, because Steve tastes of Red Bull, the cheap sparkling wine they give out on the podium, and not much that’s uniquely him. Robbie kisses back the best he can, though the kiss is still gentle, but- Steve’s still holding him down, whether he’s aware of it or not (and Robbie will really have to examine why that makes him feel what he’s feeling at some point.)
And it’s brief. Steve pulls away, cheeks flushed, the skin beneath his freckles painted pink. They stay like that for a moment, paused, staring at each other, before Steve releases his hold on Robbie’s wrists. As he sits up, Robbie moves with him.
His face is still so close to Steve’s, their lips ghosting over each other; a quirk of a smile forming on Robbie’s. Up against the warm, soft skin of Steve’s cheek, he drags his lips across the angle of his cheekbone and asks, barely there, for more.
When Steve kisses him again, deeper, Robbie’s hand cups the back of his neck, trying to hold himself down against the sheer fucking joy that feels like it’s going to pull him off the planet. Sunlight curls brush against Robbie’s forehead, barely tickling.
Where this first kiss was experimental in its lightness, almost nervous, this one this- what Robbie thinks Steve is really capable of. It’s all-consuming, Steve’s dry lips against his (because the man is awful at remembering to put any lip balm on), and it’s all Robbie can do to keep up, to not collapse.
They briefly break apart again, Robbie’s nose bumping into Steve’s as their heads move, his name escaping Steve’s lips in a breathy, reverent tone. This time, it’s Robbie that brings them back together, barely having caught his breath back. If Steve feels equally overwhelmed, he certainly isn’t stopping to say so.
Then, shit, Steve’s teeth graze his lip, and Robbie’s glad the intensity of the kiss swallows up the small noise of his response. One of Steve’s arms is a comforting weight around his waist. Christ, Robbie can barely think through it- his hands catch at the curls at the top of Steve’s neck and he’s caught off guard by the resulting force, by the sheer surprise that Macca could put more into the kiss.
But when Steve bites Robbie’s bottom lip - okay, more of just a nip, he won’t take any criticism for his habit of exaggerating things, he’s aware of it, thank you - no amount of muffling can hide the fact he fucking moans, like some first-time teenager. He’d be mortified, if he weren’t so wound up - but at the same time, it’s embarrassing in itself how wound up this has got him.
Steve pulls away, not rushed but quite clearly surprised, before processing the look on Robbie’s face and the way his dilated pupils only leave a sliver of green catching in the light - putting the pieces together. Then he starts laughing.
Sure it’s- a sudden shift in the mood, but the sound is infectious. Soon Robbie’s laughing too; an escaping snort from him setting them off even more. It’s what they needed; a break in the syrup-thick tension. A reminder. That this is Steve, Macca, his best mate, who he loves, loves, who loves him back.
As their giggles die down once more, Robbie extracts himself from under Steve - by shoving him off his lap. For the second time in under an hour, Steve hits his head on the wall of the motorhome. He doesn’t complain, though. Too busy shooting Robbie an absolutely shit-eating grin (never a good sign).
“If I’d known you were into that, I-”
“Don’t even start.”
Steve gives an amused huff, long legs tangled with Robbie’s as he leans against the other end of the seat. Outside, someone is revving their machine. Steve closes his eyes, tilting his head back. The half-finished can of Red Bull is still on the counter.
“Fuck, I’m tired,” Steve mumbles, like nothing just happened, like Robbie can’t tear his eyes away from the pale column of his neck.
"You're tired?" Robbie counters, crossing his arms. "I was the one throwing m'self about trying to get past the fucking Nevilles. Your shitty driving didn't help."
"Oh my god, Robbie, shut up about my driving," Steve laughs, cracking his eyes open at a stroppy Robbie before closing them again.
They stay like that for a while, in a comfortable silence. They'll talk about it later, figure out… what it means. For now, Robbie watches the even rise and fall of Steve's chest.
Just when he thinks the other man is falling asleep-
You walk out of the shower, towel wrapped around your hips and hair still wet, to find Robbie cleaning his boots. There wouldn’t be any problems if it wasn’t for the fact he had already cleaned them twice today and that they are spotless and perfectly shining, ready to be part of the magic once again.
He’s anxious, you can tell.
It’s been seven months, after all.
You can still feel yourself so helpless, heartbroken, as you watched him grimace, trying to bear it all but suffering all the same. You remember the pale face of the physio- you all knew then.
Your stomach had turned all night, unable to catch more than a couple hours of sleep, anxiously waiting for the first training and the news to break down. First thing in the morning you had wanted to call the clinic but stopped your hand above the handset. He needed time you had thought.
The time you thought he needed being probably five hours.
So after the training session you had asked permission to go see him. He needed time ? Fuck that, he needed you. You needed him.
You had stood there, in that corridor, in front of his door, not sure what you’d say, what you should say. He probably had heard countless of sorrys and words of comfort already. You palmed the small gift in your hands, wondering if it was a good idea. His dad was there, watching you with a faint trace of amusement in his eyes and a fondness you only ever saw on your own old man’s mug, in rare moments of emotional display. He nodded to you and gave you an encouraging smile, so you knocked and opened the door, finally looking at Robbie for the first time since the collision with Myhre (fuck Everton… Fuck them all blues and toffees).
He had gazed at you, looking like he had aged ten years overnight.
Oh, to hell with good or bad ideas.
You threw the small package to him. He unwrapped it, incredulous.
“A hat ?”
You smiled, hoping you had done the right thing.
“It’s for your tiny fucking ears. So they won’t freeze with your lazy ass.”
He laughed and threw you the paper, losely aiming for your face. You sighed in relief. A beat.
“When you’ll come see me ? And commute to mine ?” You added, low.
He still smiled but it was smaller, calmer. But his eyes- god his eyes- they told you everything you needed to know and you didn’t even understand how he could do it after a full operation on his knee that’s going to keep him away for months.
“I’d like that.” He replied, his cheeks reddening you noticed.
You flopped on the bed with a content smile and that was probably the first good thing that had happened ever since you heard his piercing cry the previous night.
And here you are, seven months later, on the eve of his first game back. He has missed so much- France for instance, but in hindsight it is probably better that he has not been involved in this clusterfuck, you think.
(Still, you know it's on his mind, you remember his proud façade as he had watched you go join the English side. You wish you could have brought him with you. You wished again when you came back and he said nothing, knowing better than to twist the knife on these thirty years of hurt.)
He’s still brushing that towel vigorously on his (stainless) shoes. You sigh silently, knowing you must do something before he breaks one of his arms keeping that up stubbornly. You’d almost find that endearing if you didn’t know it was more than just having spotless shoes but rather his anxiety about coming back after his first long-term injury.
You have to do something, you know it. And you might just know how to help him.
Robbie barely looks at you when you come closer and sit down next to him but you don’t fail to notice how his eyes lingers on your naked chest. You smirk and start nuzzling his neck. He smells of the woolen sweater he’s wearing, with the faint trace of lavender- probably the perfume of the softener his mum uses.
It’s only when you start pressing your lips on his neck, grazing your teeth here and there, that you get your first reaction.
“Shaggy…” He warns softly. “I’m a bit busy, here.”
You pull on his sweater and you bite his collarbone as your only answer, sucking, intent on leaving a mark on his smooth skin; a mark that says he’s yours and you’re his; one that says you were there all this time when no one else was.
This is a reminder of all these months, watching him wobbling on crutches in your apartment or in his or - more often than not - in his mam’s house; a reminder of the moment when he could walk alone (not that you, or the red side of Liverpool for that matter, would ever let him do tha), of the routine slowly coming back : eat, train, sleep, repeat. It’s all the dinners you tried to cook but eventually burnt - despite clear progress, you always protested when Robbie took the piss - it’s all the cups of tea you shared, content in the soft and comfortable silence you had both learnt to appreciate. It’s all the little things, making him smile again or the fact he wore an oversized jean jacket in the stands. It’s the fucking hat, proudly mounted on his head and over his ears all spring long.
You keep on sucking and biting, only offering his skin peace when it’s (liverpool) red (your blood) or bruised. You hear his breath hitch, you know how he’s affected. Yet, he insists.
“Macca, I need to clean my shoes.”
You scoff and move your kisses up to his jaw while your hands stop his.
“You’ve been busy far too long. S’not healthy Robbie. Even God needs to rest.”
And with that, you take the shoes and the cloth, putting them all down. You bring a hand on his neck and push him to you, kissing his lips sweetly, eager to distract him for some time.
He puts a hand on your chest gently, touching your bare skin, still hot from the shower.
“Macca… My shoes… They need to be perfect.” Robbie mumbles in between kisses.
You stop then, caressing his face and resting a hand on his cheek. You know it’s not about the shoes, of course you know. You brush your forehead against his and you look straight into his clear blue eyes when you speak again.
“You’ll be perfect.”
Robbie’s gaze searches yours, looking for reassurance, looking for the truth in your words. He looks so much like a boy, lost and afraid, that your heart squeezes in your chest. You always knew how to read his eyes - he always wore his emotions on his sleeves, like - no need for him to utter any word.
(You think he probably prefers it that way. You know. Northerners and being in touch with their feelings isn’t exactly a well-known sentence.)
You brush his lips and it’s so short, so small, so faint and yet it’s full of the words you want to say, of the words he longs to hear. They always saw you as the most responsible lad in the group but, truth is, you never really were good with long speeches either.
“Promise.” You whisper.
And with that, Robbie melts in your embrace and burrows his face in your neck.
He just stays there, almost still and you think he’s fallen asleep when you feel him inspire, as if he was trying to breathe you in, to breathe in your scent. A smile tugs at your lips and you plant a kiss on his temple. It always fills you with warmth, that- how he seems to need physical contact, the need to be loved to feel good (you suppose it goes with being a striker), but most of all, that he comes to you, you, for all of this- to feel good.
You kiss his temple again, and again, and again… light, like feathers, like the small patch of grass painting both your faces after training. You move to his jaw next, mapping the outline of his face with utmost precaution.
He disentangles himself from you slightly, and you both look at one another, swift peek at each other’s mouth included.
And suddenly you’re kissing Robbie again, his chapped lips rough against yours.
(He’s bitten his lips often lately, you noticed, with the game approaching… That- and the fact you literally lose it whenever you tug on his lower lip and he makes that sound.)
You caress his cheek with your thumb until you put his chin up for a better angle. He lets you and instead grips your shoulder as if he would fall otherwise, as if you’re the only thing that keeps him afloat, that keeps him from falling altogether.
Maybe you are. You like - love - to think so.
You lick his lower lip and his gasp lets you insert your tongue in his mouth.
He grasps your curls, sprinkled with bright drops of water from the shower earlier. He pulls and you groan.
Cheeky bastard. He knows what he’s doing to you, he revels in it, in rendering you breathless, wanting for him. After all, you were only the provider and he was the one to score. You were happy with that.
But not tonight.
Tonight you wanted to claim your rare moment in the light, your moment of fame, the moment where you would be the one to leave him breathless and wanting, to make a mess out of him.
You wanted to make him feel good.
You both had seen too many injuries change players for good yet you were clinging to the frail hope that you could make everything right, make him see he was still the same god walking amongst mere mortals and skimming over the green grass.
(Really though, fuck Everton for making him doubt his aura and talent for even a second. You hated all of them and you resented having ever worn a blue shirt in your life. You resented having ever liked the colour and the mere glimpse of the toffee blue was making you see red.)
You kiss him again and then your lips are on his neck that he outstretches mechanically. You suck on the skin and bite here and there, bent on hearing him yelp in pleasure, on leaving a sign that you were there, that he was yours, even if for a short time, and not Liverpool’s and everyone else’s.
You let one of your hand fall to caress his thigh softly, hedging closer to his groin each time.
He burrows his face in your neck when you shape him through the fabric of his baggy jeans, his breath hot and wet on your skin. Your hand goes up and down and snakes inside his boxers.
God, the sound he makes then.
He unbuttons his jeans to give you more room, frantic, and you smirk against his shoulder, leaving feather-light kisses in your trail. The hand that you had left at the nape of his hair travels southward and swifts under his sweater, massaging his abdomen slowly. You apply more pressure in your movements and a single plea comes out of his mouth.
“Gonna take care of you.” You whisper in his ears and you can almost feel the shivers it gives him.
He pinches your ribs gently and jokes. “You always take care of me, mum.”
“Please, never mention your mother again when I’m getting you off.”
“Sorry.” He murmurs and in his defence he actually looks sheepish. “But really, though.” And he looks so earnest, so sincere that something flutters in your heart and you’re not sure if that’s normal or not. Probably not, you admit.
So you kiss him, tender and adoring. You don’t give Robbie time to answer and you’re on your knees, pushing his jeans and boxers down, taking him into your mouth.
It’s quiet for a second, his mouth open but his cry dying past his lips, silenced. And then you swirl your tongue and he sighs contentedly.
Your hand soon comes taking what your mouth can’t reach, steadying your target, while you push his sweater higher with the other. He picks up the hint and takes it off, throwing it lazily somewhere on the floor. You would argue about keeping the parquet clean and folding his jumper properly but you’re a bit busy at the moment.
You go up and down, taking as much as you can and he is restless, squirming. You see him debating, raising his arm and letting it fall several times, so you raise your gaze towards his face, dark with desire, as you grasp his wrist to put his hand in your blonde curls. He stops moving altogether, almost transfixed and you have to nod and push on his hand for Robbie to grip your hair and jerks his hips towards you, too quickly for you to adjust. You gag a little and firmly lay a hand on his stomach to keep control.
“Sorry.” He breathes, sheepish.
You abandon your object of interest to kiss the inside of his thigh.
“S’alright, Rob.” You bite the flesh and he hisses. “C’me on,” you say pushing him to lay on the bed, “This towel is killing me knees.”
“You can always… Let it slide off.” He finishes by wiggling his eyebrows.
“As appealing as this sounds, tonight is about you. Only you.”
You punctuate your words climbing onto the bed above him and peppering his face with soft brushes of your lips. You slowly make your way down, claiming the spots of skin you haven’t claimed yet. You reach his jeans and boxers, hanging around his thighs and you push them off leisurely.
You grab his knees and he starts, suddenly frozen.
That knee.
Slowly, you draw back your hand and you see the scar, that horrible scar. One he should never have gotten.
(Fuck Everton, Fuck Everton, Fuck. Everton.)
You trace your thumb on the healed wound and then you bend to kiss it with the utmost care, as if it was porcelain, as if you could simply kiss it better for the pain and the tears and the scar and the fear to go away.
You see goosebumps on his flesh and all of a sudden he’s pulling you up towards his face and Robbie kisses you.
You get it. All of it.
You kiss him again before you go back down. He’s not as hard as he was moments earlier but that’s nothing you can’t fix. You take him even harder.
You don’t give him a break, barely stopping to breathe and soon he’s a writhing mess, not sure if he should tangle his hands in the sheets or in your curls. Your towel do fall at some point, softly itching your skin as it goes laying on the covers.
You feed yourself off his moans and groans, changing your rhythm to get him to the edge but never stopping, always going up and down, up and down, up and down…
When you take him all in, he sobs and you know it won’t be long until he reaches his peak. So you go harder, quicker, the slick sounds you make echoing in the room.
This is all for him, the devotion and the care, the pleas and prayers, all for Robbie. All for God.
“St-Steve… I’m-” He struggles and you know.
You leave his aching member and he gasps at the sudden cold air but you swallow it with a kiss and wrap an experienced hand in lieu of your mouth. It’s wild and devoid of any form of peace and decorum. It’s raw, like your tongue licking his chapped lips and grazing his teeth, like your wrist twisting at an alarming pace to finish him off, like his nails scratching your neck and your back in a final effort, eyes shut tight.
“That’s it, babe. Let go.” You whisper in his ear. “Let it all go. For me.”
Robbie comes on your hand and his abdomen, crying out your name.
He lets his arms fall on the mattress, breathless, beads of sweat and sticky strands of hair pearling his forehead. You find a tissue in a drawer of the night stand and you clean him and yourself off.
“There.” You murmur as you caress his face with the back of your hand, a fond smile on your adoring your features.
He kisses your knuckles, gentle, and props himself up to kiss your reddened cheeks.
“Thank you.” He says muffled when he nuzzles your neck.
You encircle your arms around him and you kiss his temple. You both stay silent and unmoving for a while until he speaks again:
“Let me take care of that.” And he points to your semi-hard erection.
You shake your head.
“Not tonight. Tomorrow.” You promise. “After you score a brace.”
He laughs, carefree and young and it’s been a while since you last heard him laugh like that. So you join him and bring the covers over you both.
.
You draw.
But he does score a brace. You feel a thrill at the armband squeezing your bicep when he sends the ball flying in the net. And he points at you each time, cheeky grin plastered on his face. You don’t miss a beat and you’re the first in line to jump in his arms, cry your joy out with him. Some things never change
(It’s not Everton on the other side but fuck them anyway, Robbie Fowler is back).
You’ve missed this, much more than you had thought and there’s nothing better than the feel of his arms and his red shirt clinging onto yours as if they are only one and the same. As if you only form one unique player.
