Work Text:
It has been more than fifteen years and Michael was still finding new habits in Jimmy he hadn’t noticed before. That curious practise of sticking his head down the sink to let cold water run down his neck after sex, or (in the rare moments that he decided to stay the night) mechanically walking circles around the room while brushing his teeth, or that it felt like he was going to battle every time he was going to bed – serum and moisturising war paint in anticipation.
This whole post-sex routine were insignificant albeit welcomed moments that allowed Michael to have some time to consider their thing/situation/walk down memory lane/but what about us/there’s no us/then let’s stop/it’s just sex/but it’s really good sex/whatever. When sex becomes the only language you speak, there is little time for fuck else. His skin, your breath, fucking rid of your shirt already, don’t ruin that it’s Margiela! – and the rest is forgotten.
Michael sinks further down the duvet, eyes darting from the corner of his eyes: Jimmy’s silhouette in the bathroom (is that prick still grooming?) to the generic white walls and sofa fabrics he has seen enough of confronting him.
He turned his attention to the man instead, serving a cheap remark out of his innate desire to constantly piss him off. ‘Give it a rest, mate. That mirror still won’t sleep with you no matter how hard you try and seduce it.’
Jimmy naturally chooses to ignore that kindergarten crap, using his left leg to kick the door barely ajar.
‘Silence, what’s new,’ Michael drawls – reaching out for the remote control on the bedside table and channel surfs his way to a sporting event. Soccer – football (Jimmy corrects), Spanish soccer – football! (he shouts this time).
Moments later the grumpy bastard emerged from the bathroom, flicking the lights off on his way out and climbing back into bed. Silence, still.
‘Are you ignoring me or...?’
James kept his eyes on the random La Liga match, Valencia had just scored against Bilbao. ‘Good goal,’ Jimmy muttered.
‘Anderson.’
‘Clarke.’
‘Right, so you’re in this mood.’
So, backtrack: the man lost the Ashes, the memories his team had built for the past six years (whom he thought were unparalleled), his best friend and captain’s soundness, his relationship with that clown, the respect of his country, and most definitely the razzmatazz that came with overwhelming success. And now, another loss to Australia and they had bared once again how their rollercoaster ride downhill show no signs of stopping down.
‘Yes, forgive me if all I wanted was a hard fuck from the captain of the team that has made a habit of making pricks out of my team and lie on his bed afterwards just for some form of security,’ Jimmy hissed, ‘if we’re not on the same page right now then I suggest you find your way there or save whatever great pleasure you thought you gave me in your mind and have a good one in the showers.’
Michael is more than amused at this attempt to pick a fight, turning towards an angry looking Jimmy with a small scoff, ‘You’re the one in my bed, Anderson.’
‘You were practically begging back there,’ Jimmy muttered, wondering why he’s still playing this high school type of nightmare at 30-something. It was a little more than just boring – it was pathetic.
‘I needed a victory fuck,’ Michael scoffed, reaching out for his phone by the bedside table just for the added effect of disinterest.
Jimmy quieted at that – he really didn’t come here to be made a joke of. He slides out the bed and moved to gather his England kit off the floor. They had headed straight for the hotel from the grounds, leaving behind their respective teams to deal with post-match pleasantries or lack thereof. (And Joe Root with Jimmy’s belongings.)
They hadn’t really spoken to each other since the Ashes (Jimmy spent the better part of the tri-series avoiding his doormat texts) – not least because of that childish incident and the consequent furore that followed. It was Jimmy who attempted to make civil, but there were no conversations held that night. Clarke knew the reason why Jimmy came to him: their star spinner’s departure – fucking coward – but he focused on letting him know what a twat Jimmy made him look that day without the use of words.
Michael took Swann’s departure rather personally, to which he claimed was simple frustration at the lack of respect being shown to the series, the teams, his own captain, his coach, and the fans and… sure, Jimmy. The Lancastrian suddenly looked sadder and older, but judging from that stunt he pulled with Bailey, never the wiser.
‘You’re going to walk down Melbourne looking like that?’ Michael drawled, scrolling down through waves of unanswered messages on his phone.
Jimmy ignored him, pulling on those polyester joggers he hated so much. The Waitrose-laden getup was not the most attractive look but he’d rather suffer half an hour of this than stay to bear Clarke’s smug remarks.
‘You can borrow my clothes if you want’ Michael offered half-heartedly.
‘You have no taste’ Jimmy bitterly remarked and trusts the England lions to cover him up before grabbing his phone from the coffee table.
‘Well, I am sleeping with you’ Michael scoffed, answering a message from his wife.
Off the field, Jimmy was good with not heeding to petty comments from the Australian captain – or anyone else for that matter, but he felt particularly small tonight, lonely, and just a bit frantic. He shoots Michael a look, taking a step closer towards the bed, ‘So, why are you? Sleeping with me. If you think I’m so beneath you, why do you?’
Michael’s eyes were still fixed on the string of sentences on his phone when Jimmy put him on the spot. He sets aside his phone and sits up, eyeing the other man curiously, ‘Don’t be so sensitive.’
‘Answer me,’ Jimmy’s eyes darkened, ‘I’m just curious. Why are we doing this? Why are we still here? Fifteen years later, marriages and two kids – six Ashes and everything in between, and you still pretend like we’re teenagers sneaking around my parents at hours before Sunday Mass.’
‘There’s two of us here’ Clarke shrugged.
‘There always was, but never on the same boat’ Jimmy looked away for a moment, checking for the time: 2 am.
Clarke suddenly felt more invested, removing the sheets from him and slides off the bed to meet the other man in the middle of the room. He doesn’t quite say anything, only watching him – his hazel eyes spelling out bleakness and resentment. Clarke reaches out to trace the side of his face to which Jimmy unconsciously pulls away, his touch as if fire.
‘Don’t,’ Jimmy murmured, ‘I need to go.’
Clarke doesn’t listen – he never does when it came to Jimmy. He seizes his jaw to keep him there, leaning closer until they could hear nothing but each other’s breath. The fact that this was such a quiet night didn’t help either.
Jimmy’s greens met his greys, they were cold unlike Graeme’s and were more than capable of making him feel so young and vulnerable, ‘Michael, stop it.’
Clarke sobered, taking a step back and released him from the psychological grip he always had on the younger man. There was a brief silence before he finally spoke, ‘We’re still here because I’m afraid of losing you.’
Sensations felt so far from Jimmy in this moment, he was neither here nor there. The room felt imposing and he found it hard to breathe. The air felt like poison, atmosphere surrounding the other man seemed unsympathetic. Flashbacks of two young cricketers running from the pouring rain, intoxicated from cheap imported lager. Encircled in industrial bricks, he can hear the Australian laugh in his ear.
Images raced much too quickly before him and he can barely make out who is who. A rosary in his hands, chanting Hail Mary’s for desiring the warmth of his skin or the taste of his mouth. Lord, grant that I shall never seek so much to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, or to be loved as to love… with all my heart. He can hear his Nan recite prayers as if an infinite loop and he suddenly felt as if he’s going to throw up.
‘Jimmy?’ Michael asked when the other man had been quiet for a little too long, his face pale and his skin cold.
Jimmy moved as if instinctive, wrapping his arms around the other man unexpectedly. Though surprised, Michael returns it, holding him close if only for comfort, feeling that the Englishman needed it.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jimmy whispered against him.
‘For what?’
‘I don’t know, I just feel sorry.’
Michael pulled away, thumb tracing the outline of his jaw before he presses a lazy kiss on his lips and takes his hand to lead him back towards the bed. Jimmy followed sans hesitation and moments later he found himself on his back. He closes his eyes, following the rhythm of Michael’s breathing as he realised that he was undressed once again. His arms veiled Michael, dull nails scratching at the contours of his back as he arched his back. Pain on his left shoulder blade and he realised Michael had sunk his teeth onto his skin, simultaneously burying himself deep inside him.
They had somehow always managed to reach their highs together – Jimmy had completely disregarded the need for direct touching and so their finishing sounds resonated together against the hotel walls. The air had suddenly become sticky and uncomfortable but they were more than content to lie in damp sheets and come down from their daze.
Jimmy’s eyes fluttered close and in some ways he felt more intimacy lying beside Michael like this, simply feeding off of his post-sex glow.
‘You won’t lose me.’
Michael’s eyes were fixed on the ceiling, mind on overdrive unlike the stillness that the other man seemed to be welcoming. A simple nod was all that it took and a reply followed shortly after, ‘I know.’