Work Text:
“You’re falling now. You’re swimming. This is not harmless. You are not breathing.”
- Richard Siken
Jannik overcooks his pasta.
It’s happened more times in the last two years than it has since he learned how to cook. It should be simple; salt the water, add the pasta to the water, boil the pasta, take it out. He stands by the stove, stirring at the sauce while it boils. Somewhere in the middle of this well-practiced routine, it goes wrong. He spoons the spaghetti into the saucepan, mixes it into the sauce, and watches as the fragile pasta falls apart.
It’s not mushy, not that far gone, just more friable. It mostly maintains its shape, but if he pushes, it will disintegrate. It’s still edible, though, the sauce is still good – even if only one out of the two is decent, it’s good enough. Sometimes it’s the pasta, sometimes it’s the sauce. On the days it’s both, he throws it out completely.
He hopes Matteo won’t mind, though he rarely does, accepting every meal with the same fond smile and soft thanks. He’d asked, once, if they should just get takeout, but Matteo just waved him off and shoved a forkful in his mouth. No matter how much you fuck up, I’m worse, he’d joked.
Matteo doesn’t complain, as he thought – sometimes Jannik wishes he would, thinks it would make him feel less bad about not doing something that he should have done perfectly. But he gets the same warm smile, the soft thanks, and he immediately digs in. Jannik is a bit more hesitant. He waits for a few moments, fork hovering over his plate in a loose grip. He takes a sip of water and twirls his fork; it’s not heinous, but it’s not good, either. He’s not a fan of the texture in his mouth, not one bit, and he’s about to tell Matteo that he’ll make it again when he sees him shoveling it in his mouth like it’s his last meal. Must have been hungry, he thinks. Jannik was later than usual, something that wouldn’t have happened if –
He takes another bite, then another. The texture still isn’t great, but he swallows anyway. Matteo washes his plate and returns, but Jannik still isn’t quite finished – he struggles, inhales deeply and quickly to push down the nausea rising in his throat.
“Did you put less salt today?” Matteo asks him.
Ah. So that’s what it was.
They’re on the sofa later, match on the TV. Matteo’s heart may lie with Fiorentina and Jannik’s heart may lie with Milan but nights like these on the sofa their heart lies with Roma, per il loro cuore. They cheer Bove on all the way through.
Jannik watches Matteo fiddle with the remote while talking on the phone, picking at the edge of one of the buttons. His shoulders are tense; he’s unsure, restless. Even after all this time, it’s like he doesn’t know how to exist in this space, the space taken up by the stifling elephant in the room but it’s not so much a presence as it is an absence, like a black hole, and Matteo is sometimes pulled so deeply into it that Jannik can’t do anything but hang on for dear life, and sometimes even that’s not enough. It’s never the same for Jannik, it never has been – more a raincloud than anything else, and the fog of a dreary winter morning. But it’s different for Matteo, sweet Matteo who always felt too deeply and fell too harshly.
He tucks his legs under himself as Matteo disconnects the call, folding himself as compactly as he can and fitting himself into Matteo’s side. He burrows in further when Matteo slings his arm around Jannik’s shoulders, and lays his head gently on top of Jannik’s own. He’s used to it being the other way around, of being the one to lay his head on top of someone else’s, and the curly hair feels slightly different than straight, though they both tickle the same.
“Do you think Flavio will like it,” Matteo whispers, “the jersey we got him?”
Jannik pauses, considers. He hums lowly. “I don’t think he has this one yet,” he says. He feels Matteo nod above him, a slight shift of weight, before he squeezes Jannik tighter.
“You’re sure about tomorrow?” He asks Jannik. Even though Jannik has agreed, it’s sweet that he’s checking in, but he doesn’t have to be unsure. “They wanted to meet everyone, but you don’t have to –”
“Of course I’ll be there,” Jannik cuts him off. “It’s been years. I’ll go.”
When the black hole pulls at Matteo, all Jannik can do is be there to pull him right back.
When it rains, it pours.
There’s a thunderstorm outside, forceful enough to make the windows rattle with the wind whistling loudly. It’s as if the skies itself split open. Every time it used to rain like this, Mark used to joke about the clouds crying inconsolably; today it feels true. The patter of rain is constant and loud, the showers showing no signs of stopping now. Jannik doesn’t want to dwell on how that makes him feel – cracked open, raw and flayed and tender.
Instead, he focuses on Matteo, and how his lips are soft against Jannik’s neck. He presses a trail of kisses gently along the line of his throat. Jannik pulls away slightly and cups his face – he presses his lips between Matteo’s eyebrows, featherlight – he trails sideways over his brow, to his temple on one side then the other, leaving soft kisses the way he used to when they’d be curled up together watching a movie and Matteo would cry at the sad parts. He presses a kiss to Matteo’s nose, and Matteo freezes. Jannik pauses. He knows he’s made a mistake, it’s too similar, it’s too reminiscent. He’s afraid that if he makes a noise, if he moves, if he so much as exhales a breath the moment will shatter. Even though all he wants is to reach out, to pull Matteo into him, to hold him close enough that he can crawl into his skin and settle in there.
The last brush of his lips is over Matteo’s, and Matteo gasps against Jannik’s lips, hands ultimately unable to keep themselves by his side, reaching up to grip Jannik’s biceps in a vice so tight that one would think Jannik was the one floating away. Jannik shudders against him, moving his lips; Matteo hiccups into it as Jannik uses one hand to comb through Matteo’s hair. Matteo tightens his hold on Jannik, hand making its way up his back to rest at the nape of his neck. He’s not sure who he’s grounding. They move together, touching each other gently and carefully – it’s uncoordinated still, after all this time. It’s hard to find balance with two, teetering back and forth and back and forth without a third in the middle to stabilize them, like an electron having its pair taken away.
Minutes later, as they lie together, Matteo is suddenly pushing Jannik back, muttering no, no, non posso under his breath as he struggles against Jannik’s light hold, freeing himself and slapping his hands over his mouth. He all but sprints to the bathroom, and Jannik can hear the faint sounds of retching behind the slammed door. He doesn’t blame Matteo. Even though he does not fall to the floor crying, he feels much the same.
Matteo emerges minutes later, eyes rimmed with red. He slides into bed, grasping Jannik’s hand and interlacing their fingers. “I’m sorry,” he tells him. “I was – I –”
Jannik shushes him, rubbing a thumb under the fresh, lone tear making its way down Matteo’s cheek. “You don’t have to say anything”, he says, and he means it.
“No,” Matteo shakes his head. “I just. I could hear him, how he laughed and poked at my dimples every time afterwards, you know how it was –” Jannik nods. It was the same for him. “But I couldn’t hear him, and I realised I’ve forgotten what it’s like. To exist in the same space again.”
Ah. So that’s what it is. He’s told himself before, at least we have the memories, but what do you do when memory starts failing you?
Jannik knows how it is. He has some friends that he hasn’t seen since childhood, and after not seeing them for years, he doesn’t remember what their voice sounds like. Sometimes he can’t remember what his aunt sounded like either, and that stings a bit more. This ache has a balm, however – Jannik pulls out his phone, goes to his albums and pulls up a video.
It's one of Jannik's favourite videos, of New Year's a few years ago. They were at Matteo’s house for the midnight countdown, all of them chanting and yelling in unison once the clock struck twelve. Flavio grabs Matteo by the collar, pressing a long, wet kiss to his lips, laughing and pulling away when Matteo bites him. He presses a kiss to Jacopo’s cheek, who's recording from right next to him, and Guglielmo, before wriggling out of his brother’s hug and making his way to Jannik. Flavio whispers ti amo, low enough that it's barely caught on the camera before kissing him softly. Jannik remembers it well.
Matteo hiccups wetly next to him. “Jacopo never sent this to me,” he pouts, and Jannik laughs. Matteo doesn't have many videos on his phone otherwise, either. He hits send. He's surprised, though, that it's happened so soon. Maybe the harder you try to hold onto something, the faster it slips out of your hands. It feels like standing on the beach and digging your toes in the sand, only for the waves to rush around your ankles and wash away the sand holding you up - it comes for you once, and then again, and again. The only way to get used to it is to take the plunge, wading deeper until the water is about waist-level, and then abruptly dropping down, dipping into the water all at once.
Now that he thinks about it, he can imagine it vividly. Each wave rushes at him with more ferocity than the last, rocking him backwards with the force of it; he burrows his feet deeper in the sand to anchor himself. The bubbles formed from the churning of waves around and against his body pop like millions of tiny pinpricks up his arms. It’s oddly reminiscent of the feeling of fingertips running along skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Now that he is aware of it, he acutely feels its lack. He pulls Matteo’s hand up to his lips, kissing his knuckles gently. “At least we'll always have this,” he says. “ tu, io e il nostro cuore. Always.”
When it rains, it pours, but Jannik wakes up to just a light drizzle. The sun shines brightly, and the vice that dug its claws into his heart melts.