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It had been a while since Carragher had had a civil conversation with Gary Neville. Any words that they had exchanged in the past year or so had been brutal insults and thorny threats while being pressed chest to chest, fingers in each other's faces.
They were both defenders, their positions only beaten by the goalkeepers in distance yet somehow they would gravitate towards each other, every time Liverpool would play Manchester United.
They played on the same side a couple of times before when both of them were in good form but it wasn't often. Finally, after years of scattered injuries and variable league performances, both Neville and Carragher were picked for the England squad in the 2004 World Cup in Portugal.
Of course, all the players were eager to become national heroes for bringing football back home again but that didn't mean that the lads bonded very well. Everyone had their cliques.
Jamie stuck to Stevie and Michael's side because he had a special bias for familiarity. He chatted some with Cole and Campbell because they were the best defenders in the team and Jamie was able to suck up some of his pride to try talk tactics. He didn't even mind talking to the lads from Southampton and Norwich for the sole reason that they had never humiliated him and his team before.
Scholes, Beckham and the two Neville's stayed to themselves as well and for the most part, it was fine by Jamie.
Training during the international breaks was always awkward. They would subconsciously make sure they were on different sides of the pitch at all times. They always somehow managed to be on opposite ends of the little 5-aside games the coaches would let them play once the skills and tactics sessions were done. And they treated those silly games as if it was a cup final at Anfield or Old Trafford or something.
It was odd seeing him laugh. Jamie was no stranger to Neville’s celebrations, his jeers and his utter dismay but seeing him mess about with his mates and laughing all carefree like was completely unfamiliar.
Not even a week later the competition kicked off.
Despite being fit enough to play, Jamie stayed an unused sub in their opening match against France.
The two gunners started as a central defender and left back. Ledley was in Jamie's spot at the back and that bloody Gary Neville filled the last defensive role on the right.
He sat in the dugout, waiting for Eriksson to tell him to start warming up but it never came. England scored and everyone went wild, thrilled that the team were going to start the competition off brilliantly.
Until it all went to shit after a stupid foul and a glorious free kick by Zidane. No one took the loss particularly well, especially Gerrard and Beckham: Gerard was pissed off that he gave away that last ball and Beckham for not being able to keep up with his Real Madrid teammate.
***
Jamie couldn't seem to fall asleep. The thought that his international career was coming to an end was just sickening. He had nothing to show for it, no trophy, not even a goal. He lay there for as long as he could before getting up. His body was sticky with sweat and the bed was too cushy for the summer heat of Portugal. Jamie looked around for the remote control for the AC but couldn't seem to find it anywhere. He considered running a bath and just sleeping in cool water but while Jamie wasn't particularly happy, it didn't mean that he was willing to risk accidentally drowning. So he grabbed his phone, set on the idea that he'd sit in the lobby where he knew it was cool and relax there until he was too tired to keep his eyes open.
Maybe, he thought I'll find something to drink.
He quietly made his way down the hall and took the lift to the ground floor. Jamie just turned around the corner when he noticed that he wasn't going to be alone.
Gary was sitting, legs crossed on one of the settees with a cd player in his lap.
Jamie considered going back upstairs to avoid any awkward slash angry confrontations but decided against it. As casually as he could manage, Jamie approached him.
"Why are you still up?"
Jamie couldn't help but smile as he saw Gary jump.
"Jesus Christ! give a man some warning." He tilted the screen towards Jamie. "Just...uh...gaf already had the match burned on a cd. Thought I'd stay up and watch it."
"From today?"
"Yeah."
"Mind if I...?" He gestured to the space next to Gary.
"Yeah right. You'll just keep pointing out my mistakes."
"Constructive criticism." Jamie corrected.
Jamie sat down next to him, looking over his shoulder as the match kicked off again.
"Plus, anything you did can't be worse than Stevie's fuck up."
They both shuddered.
"Why're you watching it now, though? We're going to go through it tomorrow anyroad."
Gary shrugged.
"Couldn't sleep so I called Steve to see if he had any notes. Why're you still awake."
"Room’s too hot and I can’t find the air conditioner remote. That and I couldn't switch my brain off."
"Oh really? Thought you had switched it off permanently."
"Fuck off."
The CD player on Gary's lap shifted as he laughed at his own joke.
"Can't believe we lost that. We had it right up till the end. I've watched this at least twice now, I still can't believe it. "
"Yeah, well." Jamie scoffed. "at least you played. Nothing worse than just sitting there and not being able to do anything."
Gary looked at him, studying his face as if trying to see whether the sincerity was actually genuine.
It was.
"Yknow. Right before that kick, I thought: why am I part of the wall? Could've done with your height."
Jamie was a little gobsmacked at the confession. "you didn't actually just say that, did you?" His smile grew on his face as instant regret washed over Gary's. "I can't believe you just"
"Alright pack it in, Carra. Don't need to go on about it."
Jamie settled down a bit, his ego still massive but he decided to focus on the game. The camera was a little shaky as if it had been recorded on a dodgy tripod and there were often parts where Eriksson was shouting and the two men had to hurry to lower the volume.
Every now and then, especially when the ball came or left his feet, Gary would make a little sound of disapproval, sucking his teeth when he saw that there was a better pass to be made.
Jamie glanced up at him from time to time and was slightly taken aback by the expression on his face. Gary’s facial expression was of pure determination. His lips were pressed in a thin line, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration and his eyes: his eyes burned like hot coals, boring into the screen. Jamie couldn’t help but wonder if the other man put this fiery intensity into everything he did.
Beckham was probably catching up on his beauty sleep, Owens was snoring so loud, Jamie could hear it as he walked down the hall, even Gerrard who basically gave the ball away in that crucial moment was out cold (albeit after thrashing his room in a thunderous rage) as if he didn't want to do anything more than just forget the day existed.
It was only the first match of the competition but here was Gary Neville, past midnight, already dissecting every single one of his perceived flaws.
"Mm... Shouldn't have kept the ball that long." Gary pointed out, rewinding the DVD and replaying the minute. Jamie watched as his teammate traced the path he took with his finger, flicking himself on screen as if it would change anything.
"I thought that was fine. Holding the ball meant that the mid would come to you, freeing up Rooney. Gave him space to run when you did pass it over."
Gary pursed his lips, still sceptical but he didn't counter the observation, but it didn't look like he believed it either.
Jamie reached over and paused the video, the feeling of Gary’s breath close to his neck making his whole body tingle.
"Forget about me being a twat. You've got to lighten up. The pass was good. Your defence was good. It was all fine. Obviously, you - everyone- can do better but seriously, Gaz, don't beat yourself up about it." Jamie only caught the nickname just after it had slipped from his mouth.
Gary stared at him with wide eyes, not giving away anything on his face and Jamie was getting flustered under the gaze.
Not flustered enough that he didn’t catch Gary glancing at his lips, quick as lightning before flicking back up to his eyes.
“We should go back upstairs. We shouldn’t be disturbing the night staff like this.” Gary mumbled, wetting his own lips and shutting off the CD player.
Jamie looked around. There was a security man sitting at a desk by the lobby entrance, a receptionist at her desk just a bit away from where the two were sitting and there was a cleaner who was changing one of the bins at the far end of the room. All three hotel staff members were completely wrapped up in their own jobs.
“Uh…I don’t think they’re too bothered.” He replied rather bluntly, confused at Gary’s sudden concerns.
“Just- fucking- come on, will you?” Gary spluttered, not being able to come up with a justification.
One hand held the chunky silver device, the other gripped onto Jamie’s wrist, tugging him to his feet and towards the lifts.
They stood in awkward silence while waiting for the lift to arrive on the ground floor. It was hot in Portugal and the feeling of Gary’s cool hand still for some reason wrapped around Jamie’s wrist was incredible.
It was only once the lift doors were sealed shut and Gary had pressed the button for the floor the England players were staying on, did he open his mouth again.
“What else do you think I did well?” He asked, eyes not straying from the LED display that showed the floors.
Jamie hesitated, racking his memory.
“I think the fact that you didn’t run to Tretzguet was good because that would’ve left your man open.” He recounted. “Showed discipline and all that. And trust. I thought that was good.”
Gary hummed. “What else?”
The lift doors opened on their floor.
The grip around his wrist tightened again as Gary led him out.
“Stopped Henry from scoring. I think that’s no small feat.” His voice was quieter so that he didn’t disturb his teammates.
Gary was walking backwards, Jamie following like a puppy on a leash, sort of entranced by Gary’s increasingly sultry voice.
“Anything else?”
“I think that was a handball and you know it, you manc cheat.” The spell was broken by the sound of the door handle creaking open. Jamie was extremely confused at this point. He shook his head, trying to figure out why he was walking into Gary’s room.
“Oi!”
“My room is three doors down, idiot!”
“I know.” Gary spat, casual as ever, as he placed the cd player on the desk by the window. “But we still have the second half to watch.”
“Oh. Right.” Jamie supposed that made sense. But the fact that the cd player was discarded and forgotten by Gary the second it left his hand made Jamie suspect that his intentions were far from the excuse. Jamie found that he wasn't averse to it either.
“Plus, you can’t be accusing me of cheating. The ref didn’t call it so neither can you. And have you forgotten,” Gary walked right up to him, poking him in the chest. “We’re on the same side.”
Jamie shivered again.
The same side as Gary Neville. The red devil he had dedicated his entire Liverpool career to despising.
Jamie’s body was reacting in ways that he had never experienced before. They weren’t unpleasant feelings- far from it, really- but they made him jittery and agitated, desperate for something to happen. The minuscule pressure of Gary’s finger pad lingering right on his sternum was making his heart beat faster and he wondered if the other man could feel it. He was half scared that Gary had taken him into the room to beat him up. Maybe dispose of his body by slinging him off the balcony into the pool below. The idea was pushed aside because there were cameras all around the joint and witnesses to say that Neville was the last person seen with him. Jamie knew Manchurians were complete and utter fools, but even that would be a new level of stupidity.
He was almost going to say that out loud except something else caught his eye.
“I really am taller than you, aren’t I.” Jamie pointed out. With Neville’s big personality, he never actually noticed the difference. It wasn't just in height. Jamie was bigger, broader.
Gary rolled his eyes. With one hefty push in the middle of the chest, Gary had Jamie sprawled across the half-made bed. Jamie, who was taken by complete surprise, tried to sit up again, but a hand to his chest kept him pinned down. Jamie could’ve gotten up, really, but for some crazy absurd reason, he found that didn’t want to. The surprises kept coming as Gary who was standing between legs took a knee up onto the bed as well. He crawled over him and Jamie sucked in a sharp breath. What the fuck was happening? If he turned his head slightly, he’d be able to feel Gary’s hand by his face. Gary’s other hand had a firm hold of his jaw. And for someone who used his feet so much, his hand strength was mad. Gary squeezed his hand, squishing Jamie’s cheeks in a way that must have been entirely comical but the man hovering over him was not laughing.
“God, I wish you’d just shut up sometimes.”
“Uhm…wotz goigh ohn?” eyes alarmed
“I’m going to kiss you.” It was stated so matter-of-factly
“Wot?”
“For christ's sake, Carra, I’m going to snog you senseless, okay?”
No, of course, that's not ok .
Was what Jamie should’ve said.
His entire upbringing told him: sock the bastard in the face, call him a couple of slurs, storm off and tell the tabloids.
But like magic, the idea of kissing Gary fucking Neville actually sounded really goddamn appealing.
“Okay.”
Gary let out a breath that Jamie couldn’t tell he was holding.
The first thing that happened was Gary pulling back and sitting on his knees, straddling Jamie. He was hardly putting any weight on Jamie but the man underneath him couldn’t help but jest.
“Fucking ‘ell, you’re ‘eavy.”
Gary didn’t give him the pleasure of a response but instead pulled off the t-shirt Jamie was wearing. He threw it off the bed. Next was his own t-shirt. With a swift pull from the back of his collar, Gary was quickly topless as well.
“You’re fit.” Jamie blurted, the light creating a kind of halo over Gary’s head. Jamie could only stare in awe at what was going on over him.
Gary, still silent, just smirked at him, before leaning back over again, pinning him down again. Then with ferocious intensity, Gary surged forward and captured Jamie in a rough kiss. Jamie stilled against him, taken aback, but quickly returned the kiss, sliding his tongue into Gary’s mouth with an echoing dominance. It was like being back on the pitch, fighting to prove that the other one was stronger, or faster, better.
“Gaz, fuck- please.” He mumbled against his lips, simultaneously trying to catch a breath, His cock was hardening quickly and he was desperate for some kind of touch.
Somehow, Gary knew exactly what Jamie was pleading for and he moved his hips, grinding down on him. The strangled gasp that left Jamie’s lips was quickly swallowed up by Gary.
Jamie lifted his hips up to meet Gary’s, chasing the feeling again and this time it was Gary's turn to moan.
His lips left Jamies and latched onto his neck instead, alternating between kissing, sucking and biting at the delicate skin. And then Gary was moving down, planting kisses and sucking bruises into Jamie's chest as he began to thrust against Jamie again, moaning at the feeling of their clothed cocks coming together.
One hand trailed lower and lower, brushing over the sharp lines of Jamie's body, squeezing his waist then moving lower to pinch his hip, making Jamie yelp and arch his back up. The hand moved down the outside of his thigh, scrunching up the shorts Jamie was still wearing, and moving over the swell of muscle, before scooping it up and lifting his leg up and over Gary’s shoulder.
Jamie’s flexibility surprised them both.
But it was the gentle pet of Gary’s hand over his knee cap and the light kiss that he pressed to the side of it, that flashed behind Jamie's eyes every time he blinked.
This was new. Never once had Carragher ever associated ‘gentleness’ with Gary Neville. Every encounter was always full of biting words and stubborn protest and vexed arguments.
“Your knee,” Gary muttered. “How is it?”
“What?”
“Your knee surgery, you sod. The one you went to the states for. Does it bother you?”
Jamie surged forward and captured Gary in another heated kiss, blown away by the tenderness that Gary was showing. Gary must have let it slide that he wasn’t given an answer because he began to thrust forward again, dragging his crotch against Jamies and letting out a moan at the sensation. This position was so much better.
“More, Gaz- fuck- please,” Jamie began to blabber “Yeah, love, c’mon. Big man like y-you, put your fucking back into- ohh, shit!”
“I really fucking hate you sometimes, Jamie,” he bit out between groans and gasps, as his hips began to thrust more frantically.
“The feeling’s mutual,” Jamie gasped out, digging his nails into Gary’s back as heat pooled into his belly and then he was arching against Gary, his cock spasming and shooting warm white stripes of come inside his shorts. Gary followed a second later, burying his face in Jamie’s neck as he came with a guttural groan.
Gary collapsed next to Jamie with a sigh and they both stared at the ceiling as they caught their breaths. They’d just come in the pants as if they were teenagers again. After several moments, Gary shot Jamie a glance, mouth open as if he wanted to say something. Jamie did the same, but his brain was in such a jumbled mess that he didn’t think he’d even be able to string together a coherent sentence let alone some kind of witty banter.
Unconsciously, the two men seemed to move up the bed, still lying side by side but with their sweaty heads on the plush pillows.
“You lot better beat Switzerland on Thursday.” Jamie finally managed, after what felt like hours of silence.
“You say that as if you’re not playing,” Gary replied, turning to face him.
“Yeah, well…”
“Doesn’t matter to me. The fewer of you scouse gits we have on the pitch, the better.”
Jamie threw his hand at Gary’s stomach, hard enough to wind him but nothing more serious than that. The loud oomph from beside him was satisfying as hell.
“Fuck you, mate. You’ve gone and ruined it.”
Ruined it . What was ‘it’.
“Banter, Carra, You’ll have to keep up.” Gary laughed, despite holding his stomach. “Right, well. Goodnight.” Gary turned over so his back faced Jamie.
Goodnight??!! Jamie began to panic. What was he meant to do? Leave and go back to his room? Was that it? Did anything they just did, actually happen at all?
He sat up, looking once at Gary’s still form, then to the floor where his shirt was discarded. Jamie stood at the foot of the bed, t-shirt in hand, clueless as anything.
He turned towards the door, legs still feeling wobbly and it was only once he had his hand on the door handle that Gary showed a sense of consciousness.
“Turn off the light, while you’re up. And switch on the AC.” Gary instructed, back still to Jamie.
“Uh, yeah. Roger, that.”
“And check the alarm clock. Got to make sure we wake up in time for breakfast.”
We
Jamie almost missed it. A bubbly feeling came over him and he did what was asked of him before clamouring back into the bed. Jamie threw his shirt back on the floor, scowling when he saw it land on a Manchester United shoe bag, but what did it matter. There he was, sharing a bed with the enemy, literally and figuratively. He checked the clock, and then under the thin top sheet, Jamie and Gary slept.
***
Beep Beep Beep
“Fuckin’ turn it off!” A muffled voice beside him said.
Jamie, still half dead, reached over to the bedside table. But he couldn’t find the clock.
“Jamieeeee!” Gary whined. “It’s doing my head in!”
Jamie was only then beginning to wake up as the clock’s alarm kept going.
“I’m bloody trying. I can’t find the damn thing.”
“Open your fucking eyes then, you gargantuan oaf!” Gary shoved his head under his pillow, clamping it tight around himself as if suffocating was miles better than waking up at all.
Jamie opened his eyes.
“Fuck.”
Phil (who held Gary’s spare room key in his hand), Nicky, Steven, Paul, Emile, David and Michael were staring down at them, alarm clock in Beckham’s hand.
“Sleep well, lads?”