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rokutouxei · 4 years

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speaking your language

part 5 of atelier heart

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark theo van gogh/mc, vincent | T | 2506 | [ao3 in bio]

spoiler warning: key plot points mentioned in chapter 10 and 15 are used in this fic, with the vaguest hint of chapter 24 at the tail end.

also: my deepest apologies to people who actually speak dutch, i’m taking all of your con/crit with an open heart.

The first Dutch word you’d ever learned was hondje.

Dog, you’d learned. Or puppy. Not the worst first word to learn in a new language, but definitely up there if one considers the fact that it was meant to refer to you. It’s not that bad, though, and puppies are pretty cute, so it was easy to let it slide.

Then, knabbeltje. A snack, a little nibble. Not that Theo has any interest in taking any bite at you. He’s made that clear from the first night. For someone who’s so good at smooth talking his clients, that was a weird word to use for you, you’d thought. But, Theo has his reasons, you supposed.

Which is exactly what makes you so keen into learning the language.

You’ve learned that a little bribery can get you a long way when it comes to Theo—as in, get him invested and you’re good to go—so that morning, you take the extra effort. You rise earlier than you’ve ever done to prepare pancakes for him, whipping the egg whites with as much vigor as you can muster to ensure that the pancakes are as fluffy as humanly possible. You make sure every portion is peak jiggly, and they are, because you can’t help but tap them contentedly on the plate as they cooled, watching them wobble. Then, like a cherry on top, you take out the special pancake syrup you’d bought the day before, having come with Sebastian to buy groceries, the one you’d chosen specifically for Theo. (And oh, only for Theo, because no other mansion resident with the right mind about sugar would dare try it.)

You try to keep it a secret as long as you can, presenting the plate of sweet goodness to Theo once he’s come down from his room. The both of you are alone at the dining table, because it’s still way too early. He’s already dressed and ready to go, even if it’s just six-thirty a.m., and if he has a comment about you being already up when you usually aren’t, he holds it back.

Good choice—you want him to focus on the pancakes, and a smile erupts on both of your faces when he begins to munch happily away on the syrup-drenched disaster of a plate. The sigh he makes goes straight under your skin.

But you can’t let your guard down, because you still have a mission, and that is: to convince him.

When his shoulders relax, you finally pop the question.

“Won’t you please teach me some Dutch?”

Theo’s fork hovers in front of his mouth. “What?”

Over the past week, you’d learned two basic Dutch phrases from Theo, in the notes he’d written for you. Tot ziens, which he said meant goodbye for now, and Dank je, thank you. That makes four total things you can now say in Dutch. Not much, but clearly already much more than what you started with. You belatedly realize you don’t actually have a reason you can dare tell him as to why you want to learn Dutch, but never mind that.

“I said, won’t you teach me some Dutch, sometime?” you repeat. “I still have three weeks to spend out here, and while my French and English are pretty fine, I can’t really keep up with your Dutch. I thought it wouldn’t be so bad to learn, especially since you’re bringing me along to work anyway.”

Cringe. That wasn’t a good reason, you were sure. But maybe the pancakes will make Theo’s steel heart a little more malleable for your favor.

What other reasons do you have? Well, maybe he’ll be able to better explain to you certain things about art and their work if he reverts to his mother tongue, right? There are certain things translations miss, after all, and maybe if you learned the language, it’ll be much easier on the both of you? Oh, wait, but does that mean you’ll be intruding on the shared, perhaps too-personal language he shares with his brother? Oh, no, that wasn’t what you meant. Maybe—

“Dutch syllables are very different from English and French,” Theo says, instead, after a long moment, a not-really yes or no.

You narrow your eyes with his response, but quickly realize maybe he’s just testing your will to do it. You are motivated. Learning languages are fun. “That’s fine, nothing practice won’t conquer. It’s really not cute that all I know how to say is stuff like dog and snack.” He snorts. “I mean, if you’re not up to it…”

Theo sighs. A sigh of defeat. “Okay, but you’ll have to work hard for it.”

You grin. That morning, you learn pannenkoek and siroop.

The learning curve for languages always differ according to the person, their own mother tongue, the language itself, and of course the work one puts into studying it, but one factor that really ups the vocabulary and grammar retention is being able to hear the language being spoken, rather regularly. This is how you end up having Vincent help you out with your little adventure in learning Dutch.

Having gotten used to conversing in French to each other, the brothers take time to adjust switching to their mother tongue for you. But when you’re looking at them with amazement exchanging words you can barely say, much less understand, there’s little they can’t do.

(Theo is mortified to have to surrender to it, but when he’s transparent to his brother, does he have any other choice?)

All of this happens just in time for the preparation for the exhibit to begin. The three of you spend much time together, selecting paintings, planning the exhibit orders, looking for themes. The two decide that this isn’t just a good opportunity to learn, it might also be in your best interests if they team-teach you the language.

Counting the paintings, Vincent teaches you the basics, hauling canvas after canvas going—een, twee, drie, vier, vijf, zes, zeven, acht, negen, tien. With the chosen paintings laid out on the floor, you point out colors and he teaches you their names—rood, oranje, geel, groen, blauw, paars, roze. He teaches you how to introduce yourself, say your name, teaches you greetings, basic nouns, the kind you will learn in introductory Dutch classes in universities if you were back in the 21st century. Vincent is gentle and kind and claps when you get the words right. (It makes you feel like a child. The word is kind.)

Theo, on the other hand, focuses on teaching you things related to the work at hand: een gallerij, een tentoonstelling, een schilderij—of course, a gallery, an exhibit, a painting. Teaches you words to describe the things you see, like mooi, for beautiful, and interessant, for interesting. He corrects your grammar, teaches you how to say, “let’s go home” or “I’m hungry, let’s eat”. When you don’t get the phrase right, he gives you a look, completely ignoring what you’d just said until you finally say it right. He corrects your pronunciation to the best of both your abilities.

He’s also found great joy in teaching you phrases before telling you what it means, and that’s how you’ve practiced saying misschien ben ik een hond die een jurk draagt as if you were a dog wearing a dress.

But you hear his laughter and it doesn’t matter as much.

Theo buys you a notebook to compile the words you’ve learned. In only a few days, you’ve amassed a wide range of words you now sprinkle throughout your sentences like a playful multilingual. You’ve gotten odd stares, sure, but it’s always better to keep using the words you’ve learned, because that’s how you make it seem natural.

So far, though, for the ones you’ve learned, it’s the Dutch verbs that are trickier than you expected. The conjugations keep tripping you up. They seem simple, and in fact a lot of them sound pretty close to their English counterparts, but Theo’s stares and (im)patient waiting for you to correct what you’ve said betray your misuse of them over and over again.

So at night, you practice. Staan for stand. Zeggen for say. Helpen for help. Leren, for learn.

Blijven, for stay.

Sorting Vincent’s paintings at the gallery Marquis Vollard had lent you, you bump shoulders with Theo and ask, “How do I say, ‘I love this’, in Dutch?” as you pull out a canvas from the stack.

“Ik hou hiervan.”

“Hmm.” You put aside the painting and pull out your notebook and pen. “So hou means love?”

“Houden, means to hold,” Theo says. “Like a hand, or a book. Hou van is what’s used for love.”

“So it’s ik hou van…?”

“Ik hou van jou,” he answers, without a thought.

A long moment, before the realization hits.

He turns away from you, and you’re thankful because of how hot your face feels.

“You use the same for other things,” Theo says. His voice is as even as always, and it makes your heart fall a little. “Like paintings, and art.”

“I see,” you say, before dropping the topic altogether.

You’re getting good at this keeping your heart tucked away thing, so you write ik hou van jou in looping letters on your notebook before returning to work.

All the while thinking: to love means to hold.

So you hold him.

After the fire.

After wheatfields.

After Gauguin.

Even when it hurts to hold.

Even when it’s him that’s let you go.

Even after you’ve heard the gunshot.

You hold on to him, even if you’re not sure if the both of you are speaking the same language anymore, if you’ll still ever be able to understand the other.

You hold on even if there’s blood everywhere.

Blijven means to stay.

And herstellen… means to recover.

The hospital is rather cozy. Quite similar to the ones in the 21st century, but still different from the sterile whiteness of it. You sit next to Theo on the bed, waiting for him to speak. You are alone for the first time since he’d said goodbye.

You hadn’t left him yet.

That night, he presses the words please forgive me into your lips, praying it’s the last time he’ll ever have to hurt you that way. You cradle his face in your palms and hold his love in your hands gently, as you exchange promises that it will no longer break.

You learn a lot of words after that, too.

Like wheatfields, tarwevelden. And forever, voor altijd. Each word learned is linked to a memory, making them hard to forget. Like katje, the day a kitten spooks Theo in the garden. Lekker, once you’ve made him a delicious batch of syrupy pancakes once again. Schat, treasure, and schatje—that is, you.

You’re still years of practice away from being fluent in Dutch, but at this point you’re fluent in Theo, and that’s really what matters.

And one night, Theo’s got you in a kiss when the both of you enter the room. You push at him just enough so that he sees the look on your face. “Teach me Dutch,” you say, half-teasing, and he laughs as he joins you in stripping off your clothes.

There’s no easier way to remember vocabulary than to learn it viscerally, carve it against your skin into a memory, and Dutch is no exception. You both fall into the bed in an entanglement of limbs, righting yourselves up just to catch each other in another kiss.

You cup both his cheeks, and he teaches you, “gezicht.” Face.

You kiss his forehead, and he says, “voorhoofd.”

You gently run your thumbs under his eyes, and he says, “ogen.”

“Kus,” he says, “is like this,” pulling you toward him in a kiss. You sigh into the word without much grace.

Pressing his lips against your throat, he teaches you, “hals.”

Grazing a fang onto your shoulder, “schouder.”

He sucks a bruise onto your collarbone and says, “sleutelbeen.”

The sensation makes your hand fly onto his hair, and with a chuckle he teaches, “haar.”

He takes your hand in his, presses a kiss onto your wrist. “pols.”

You cup Theo’s face in your hand and scour his body for more words, like a dictionary made of flesh. Your free hand grazes the scar on his back and with a sigh he teaches you “litteken.” You wonder if the same word applies to those found in his heart.

“Rug,” he teaches you, the vast expanse of his back.

Your hand goes down to his waist and he says, “taille.” You touch his hip and he says “heup.”

He gives you a mischievous look, one that suited his boyish features so much, your heart nearly stops. “Where is je favoriet?” he asks you, teasing. A phrase you’d learnt earlier. Your face flushes at the connotation but you refuse to give him the answer he wants, tapping his nose (“neus”) with a finger.

“You are mijn favoriet,” you respond, and you know when he steals your lips even more deeply than earlier is only because you’ve made him flustered. You laugh into the kiss and he growls.

Never one to be outdone, Theo pushes you backward onto the bed. The two of you share a short moment of intimacy, staring at each other’s eyes with the kind of searing fondness that always leaves you breathless, before he’s on his way down again to teach you.

“Dij,” he mouths against your thigh; lifts your leg up toward him, pressing kisses all the way down. “Knie. Kalf. Voet.” You nearly kick him when he kisses your foot but he holds you still. “Enkel.”

“But I haven’t taught you the most important one,” he says. Crawling back upward, he cups the apex of your thighs and grins. “Paradijs,” he says, and you hit him on the shoulder, covering your mouth with one hand. The laugh that rolls out of him makes your embarrassment worth it.

You pull him upward to take another kiss from him, and while you could have at it tonight, you just want to bask in his presence. You whisper “omhelzing?” hoping to get the pronunciation right or else he’ll ignore your plea to cuddle, thankful that he pulls you up to switch position.

He rests his head on your chest and says, “hoofdkussen,” with a sigh, and you’re not an expert yet, but you’re pretty sure that’s not what it should be.

You push him off with a groan (“you’re heavy!”) and the two of you switch to your usual cuddling position, Theo holding you in his arms and your head on his chest.

You don’t realize your hand has hovered over the spot on his chest right over his heart until he places his hand on yours.

Whispers into the listening night air:

“Voor altijd van jou.”

---

in the atelier: The Kiss by Gustav Klimt

also in the atelier, hidden somewhere hard to find, is Gustave Courbet's L'Origine du monde. (and because it is hidden, you’ll have to find it on your own. do be careful when you look it up though.) that painting singlehandedly inspired the paradijs bit, so it has to be mentioned.

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen vampire theo #ikevamp theo #ikevam #ikevam theo #atelier heart #fic #me and my 41 duolingo dutch crowns worked hard for this #speaking your language

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drizzitwrites · 5 years

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Deleted Scenes

So... I still feel badly that I (a) haven’t managed to get this fic done in SEVEN ENTIRE MONTHS and (b) don’t have anything written for the lovely @heatherxlovett‘s birthday OR a fic for Christian’s birthday (I have one planned, but I need to write these other two first, so probably in three years you’ll see it).

To remedy that, here’s the chapter I’ve been working on editing for the last week and then on Sunday realised I needed to change it because there’s a storyline in here that I LOVE, but am planning to work into the AU I’m writing so I didn’t want to work it in here in an effort to maybe pretend I don’t just write the same fic over and over again.

So... here you all are. To one of my most loyal readers, who always leaves the comment I want to come back to when I’ve had a terrible day and am convinced I’ll never be any good at this writing thing.

Gelukkige verjaardag, lieverd! I hope it’s a good one!

(For context, a few chapters ago, Vincent found out that Ben knows he and Christian are together, so that’s what they’re talking about in this scene)

“Vincent,” Ben said as he slipped back into the living room. “Hold on a second, mate. I’ll give you a hand with all that.”

“There is no need,” Vincent said, glancing down at the stack of crockery in his hands. “It isn’t much.”

It wasn’t. Three plates--one still at least half full of the small sandwiches Vincent had made earlier, despite his insistence that Ben and Coco help him out and eat a few of them. They’d obliged, both of them complimenting his pairing of flavours if not his presentation, although he still wasn’t convinced their praise hadn’t been out of some sort of sense of politeness. Christian, for his part, had dutifully finished the one he’d been given earlier and grabbed a second one absentmindedly a few minutes later, but hadn’t offered Vincent anything more in the way of comment.

In fact, he hadn’t offered Vincent much more in the way of anything, instead focusing in on the match and engaging Ben and Coco in an in-depth analysis of tactics, positioning, and ball movement. Vincent could have joined in, but he’d found he didn’t have much to say on the subject.

After all, who wanted to listen to someone who’d failed out of club football, gotten himself injured, and then spent their summer watching the competition instead of participating in it?

He might have been the one to call this little gathering into being in the first place, but all it had done was make him feel resentful—of the easy way Ben and Coco fit into Christian’s life, of his teammates and friends cheering and hugging as they cleared yet another hurdle on their path to the World Cup trophy. Of his entire place in the world, or lack thereof, if he was being honest.

It was stupid, he knew, but if there was one thing he’d learned in the past few years of his life it was that you couldn’t help the way something made you feel. All you could do was process those feelings and move on.

So move on he would. He’d done his best to enjoy the match alongside his friends. Later, he’d thank them all for coming, wish them well, and tell them he would see them at training on Monday.

Then, hopefully, he could finally fall into Christian’s arms and forget all about the World Cup and Oranje and Spurs and Fenerbahçe and everything that wasn’t the heat of Christian’s body against his own.

Clink of glass, and Vincent looked up to see Ben attempting to gather up the empty bottles of beer, water, and fruit juice from where they’d been strewn about the various tables. Vincent had planned to drop the crockery in the kitchen then retrieve the drinks bottles and sort them into the bin for recycling, but he certainly wouldn’t refuse the help.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime. I thought…” Ben’s face went suddenly serious, an expression Vincent rarely saw him wear off the football pitch. “Are you alright?”

“Am I…? Yes, I think so,” Vincent responded. “Should I not be?”

An interesting question. Vincent could cover the front and at least half the back of an A4-sized paper with all the reasons he had to not be alright, but Ben didn’t need to know about most of them.

“Dunno. I just thought…about our conversation earlier.” He reached up and absently scratched at the back of his head.

“Oh. That.”

Truth be told, Vincent would rather they just forget the incident in the kitchen had ever occurred and go about their lives.

“I admit it was not what I expected,” he said. “But… everything is good. You’re never sure about these things and how people will react. So. Thank you. For not being…” He finished the sentence with a shrug and a vague sort of hand gesture.

Ben rewarded him with a soft laugh. “I’m not one to judge. Especially not when it comes to something like this.”

“Still,” Vincent said. “Thanks.”

He reached down to lift a stray fork from the table and found that his hand was trembling slightly. Clearly, he still wasn’t ready to face this new reality where Ben—and probably others—knew about his relationship with Christian, no matter how accepting of it they might be.

It should be a relief; a weight lifted off his shoulder, allowing him to breathe easier. But somehow, the idea that Ben had somehow managed to figure out the secret Vincent thought he’d so carefully kept hidden only made his heart slam in his chest and a lump rise in his throat.

And…how the hell did Ben know?

The words rushed out of he mouth before Vincent could even hope to stop them. “How did you find out? About Christian and I?”

Flash of white teeth as Ben grinned over at him, eyebrows raised. “Seriously? I mean… you two aren’t exactly the most subtle about things.”

At the look of panic that had clearly flickered onto Vincent’s face, Ben held up a hand.

“Okay.” He dropped his gathered up drinks containers to the table with a series of clinks and thuds, then lifted the stack of plates out of Vincent’s hands. “First things first, I’m taking these before you drop them. The last thing either of us needs is a broken foot. Or Christian rushing in here wanting to know why there’s a mess of sandwich remnants and broken pottery all over his floor.”

Vincent thought about protesting, but he realised Ben was right. This wasn’t a conversation he should be having while carrying anything heavy or potentially breakable.

Ben set the plates on the table beside the collected drink containers then sat down on the sofa, motioning for Vincent to join him.

“Was I that obvious?” Vincent asked once they were both seated, Vincent once again in his customary seat by the door, Ben in Christian’s seat in the centre. “I mean…does everyone know?”

“Not everyone,” Ben said. “Probably. Its not as though you’re telegraphing your passes or anything, just…”

Ben tipped his head back to stare up at the ceiling for a few seconds before turning back to Vincent, his usually cheerful face now sombre. “Let’s just say that when it comes to Christian… I have some experience with things like this.”

“Hm. Yes,” Vincent said. “I suppose that is true. You and Christian have been friends for years. I forget sometimes, because I feel I’ve known him forever, but… Sometimes I think you know him better than I do.”

This time it was Ben’s turn for an impromptu coughing fit.

He doubled over beside Vincent, chest pressed against his thighs as his body shook and his eyes widened, face turning red as he gasped for air.

Vincent stared over at him, hands raised in some futile gesture to do something, although he had no idea exactly what.

With his luck, he’d try to intervene and end up making it worse. Better if he stayed out of it. He could see the headlines already: FAILED SPURS STRIKER NEARLY STRANGLES EX-TEAMMATE TO DEATH. No thank you.

After what felt like an eternity, Ben slowly sat up, sucking in breath after breath as he leaned back into the sofa cushions.

“Wow…” he managed to choke out. “That’s… I mean… Wow.”

He drew in one last deep breath and blew it out in a slow hiss, his eyes closed, his cheeks and ears still pink.

“That’s…” He flicked his eyes open and glanced over at Vincent. “Not quite what I meant. I mean… time was I would have been thrilled if you were right, but…”

“What?” Vincent asked, tipping his head to the side and studying Ben’s face as though it might reveal something he’d missed—some odd turn of phrase or alternate word meaning he hadn’t picked up on. What had Ben meant? What did Ben think he’d meant?

Not for the first time, he wished he could have this conversation in Dutch. His English had improved massively since his move to Turkey, where the only way he’d been able to communicate with just about anyone had been halting conversations in broken English on both sides, but he still wasn’t very good at getting his point across, let alone parse the alternate meanings of everything.

Ben’s choking coughs turned to laughter, and Vincent held up a hand to cut off whatever he was about to say.

“Godverdamme, I didn’t ask to have this conversation.”

He flung himself backward into the sofa cushions until the back of his head collided with the rounded top, wondering if there was any way he could manage to absorb into the smooth fabric and disappear.

Ben made a noise that was half-cough, half-laugh. “Honestly, mate, I didn’t even mean to take the piss with that one, it sort of just happened. I can’t help it. I’m British. We’re always a half-step away from utter buffoonery.”

“Of course. How lucky for me.”

“Right,” Ben said. “Let me just… start over. Or something.”

Vincent twitched both his eyebrows upward in response, then realised Ben couldn’t actually see him with his face tipped up towards the ceiling and begrudgingly sat up, arms folded across his chest.

“Christian and I are good friends, and I’m glad of that. Wouldn’t change it for anything, but…”

He shook his head, face set in a wry smile. “I don’t know if you know, but Christian tends towards the oblivious when it comes to these things. Relationships and the like.”

“Yes,” Vincent said. He couldn’t help but return Ben’s derisive laugh. Did Vincent know? He’d spent months of his life completely convinced that Christian hated him, despite Jan and Mousa’s repeated reassurances to the contrary.

“Thought you might,” Ben said. “Honestly, trying to get through to him is like repeatedly slamming your entire body into a wall at full tilt. You keep doing it, hoping somehow you’ll budge it or break through or whatever, but eventually, the day comes when you realise what you’re doing is pointless and you’re never going to get anywhere. Unless you’re either really stubborn or really stupid.”

Vincent narrowed his eyes, trying to keep up with Ben’s logic He was fairly sure there was a thinly veiled insult in there somewhere, but he wasn’t quite sure.

“Don’t worry, mate,” Ben said, clearly noticing Vincent’s confusion. “Pretty sure you’re the former. Or… more the former than the latter, at least.”

And that was definitely a thinly-veiled insult, although if Vincent thought about it, he couldn’t really argue with it. These days, it seemed like his entire life had been built on stubbornness and stupidity.

Ben barreled on, not giving Vincent an opportunity to speak any words in his defense even if he’d had any.

“It’s not as if I’m any less stubborn. Or stupid. I kept trying for years. Long past the point where any sane person would have admitted nothing was ever going to happen between him and me and packed it in.”

He let out a wry laugh. “But that’s my way, I guess. Honestly, if you hadn’t rocked up I’d probably still be at it. So, really, I ought to thank you. For saving me from myself.”

Vincent felt his mouth drop open as he stared over at Ben. He knew he should close it. Could hear his mother’s voice in the back of his mind. ‘Doe je mond dicht, Vincent. Je zult vliegen vangen.’ But… had Ben just implied…?

“You…?” Vincent finally managed to stammer out. “But…”

He dropped his chin to his chest and ground the heels of his hands against his forehead. What was his life today, seriously?

He’d spent months convincing himself that the little spark of jealousy that had always flared in his chest whenever he saw Ben and Christian together had been ridiculous and his suspicions of something more between them unfounded.

They were close friends, and nothing more. A mantra Vincent had chanted to himself on repeat until he finally convinced himself.

Ben and Christian had been friends for years before Vincent had flickered into Christian’s orbit. He had no claims on Christian and no reason to feel any anger or resentment towards Ben for simply existing in Christian’s life.

And now Ben was telling him that all his suspicions had been right all along?

Vincent’s head was back to spinning again; this time with a completely new set of questions. The first and foremost being a simple, “What?”

“What?” Ben echoed. “Me and Christian? Oh my God, mate, did you honestly not know?”

The pitch of his voice ascended with each word. He stared at Vincent, mouth slightly open, eyes wide.

“No,” Vincent said, blinking over at him. “Was I supposed to know?”

“I just…” Ben said. “I thought everyone knew. Well. Everyone but Christian, of course.”

He let out a huff of a laugh. “Apparently it’s ‘accidentally spill your deepest secrets to your mates’ day. Good job we’ve already had the party.” He punctuated this by lifting his hands in front of them and shaking his wrists, making his hands flutter “jazz hands” style.

And…did Ben seriously think Vincent had known he had feelings for Christian and then charged ahead with his own feelings regardless? He’d like to believe he wasn’t quite that insensitive.

Then again, considering Vincent had performed twelve different kinds of mental and emotional acrobatics to convince himself there was nothing going on between Christian and Ben, he honestly couldn’t say he would have done anything differently had he known.

Would his feelings towards Christian have changed? Would he actually have backed away from his pursuit and given Ben space? Or would he have blundered on as usual, only with the added foolishness of turning it into a competition that no one could hope to win.

More than likely, the whole thing would have dragged into endless tension between them, all of it undoubtedly spilling out into the dressing room and onto the pitch until it crashed to an end— Vincent and Ben forcing themselves into professional civility and nothing more; Christian still single and blissfully unaware.

Which… might have been alright for Christian, really.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent said. “If I had known…”

Ben waved him off. “None of that. Honestly, I’m long past it. I admit I was a bit put out at first—I think I’d convinced myself that Christian just wasn’t the type to go in for any sort of relationship with anyone, so when he started turning down invites to go out in favour of spending time with you, I’m not afraid to admit that it stung a bit. But when I see the way he looks at you when he thinks no one is looking. I mean… here.”

He slid over to the other end of the sofa and examined the long shelves lining the wall, index finger raised as he scanned back and forth over the rows of framed photographs. Finally, he let out an “ah”, snapped his fingers, grabbed two of the pictures, and slid back over towards Vincent.

“So what it is is… consider this, right. I mean, look at this photo of Christian and I during Pochettino’s first mid-winter training camp in Barcelona.”

He held out the frame, and Vincent took it. The photo depicted Christian and Ben seated together behind a table in a restaurant, heads tipped together and arms slung around shoulders. Now that Vincent knew about Ben’s feelings he could see them written on his face as plain as day. He was looking at Christian with more than just his usual bright smile, this one instead laced with all the longing and adoration Vincent had grown all too familiar with in his own pursuit of Christian.

Christian, for his part, was also smiling—grin wide, blue eyes squinted slightly as he laughed at whatever Ben had just said. It was a genuine smile, not one of those forced, strained things he tended to put on for the media, but it didn’t convey anything more than his joy in the moment—Christian surrounded by friends in a place he loved.

Ben shoved another photograph at him.

This one Vincent was intimately familiar with. He and Christian side-by-side in a dimly lit restaurant. It was the night before they’d all left on international duty at the start of last season—Vincent still in London, for the time, but not expecting to return.

He had the same photo on his phone Had printed it out and framed it to sit beside his bed in his lonely, cramped Istanbul flat so he could look at it every night before he went to sleep—a cautionary tale of the mistake he’d made by not saying yes to one of the loan offers that would have kept him in England. He’d gotten arrogant and greedy, and while he’d enjoyed his time in Istanbul and truly hoped to return there in a few weeks time, he’d wanted to remember that moment. To learn from it.

“Look,” Ben said. “ Same setting—or at least, the same idea—but… I mean, look at him, Vincent, he’s positively glowing. I’ve known Christian for a minute now, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look at someone the way he’s looking at you there. So yeah, mate, if I hadn’t conceded defeat long ago, I’d be stupid not to do now.”

Vincent stared down at the two photos for a while longer, studying each of them in turn before slotting them back into their places on the shelf.

He smiled, then shook his head and punched Ben lightly in the arm. “Still. I will have my eyes on you, Davies.”

Ben let out a laugh and held up both his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Friends, mate, nothing more. I swear it.”

“Good. Christian is lucky to have you. And so am I.”

#writing #drizzit writes #football rpf #christian eriksen x vincent janssen #thoughts on writing and life #deleted scenes

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