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madelinetess · 11 months ago

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So what if he got a little aggressive on the pitch today? Richard played the same way he lived, passionately. And as Zava said before the match, passion can mean both love and crime. Also fruit… and the Christian meaning… The word is actually pretty versatile… But it mostly means the first two things…

Today though, the passion meant that the quiet rage he felt ever since the team discovered that the BELIEVE sign was torn finally found its outlet.

He knew who was to blame and he saw red. Both figuratively and literally... He smiled to himself when he remembered the sound the ball made on contact with the Westham player when he slammed it into him. The red card was absolutely worth it.

He didn't really remember much of what happened afterwards. He knew that Isaac carried him off the field, but everything after that was a blur.

Coach Lasso's locker room talk was short and yet Richard still did not retain a word of it. The bus ride back home was spent sitting in silence, focusing extra hard on not exploding and ruining the already shitty mood of the rest of the team.

One thing however did manage to get him out of his spiral. A pair of blue eyes studying him carefully. Scanning every inch of his tensed up body. Jan Maas, sitting right next to him, was staring at him intently which was throwing Richard off. The French player glared back at his friend.

"There are already clips of you throwing that ball at the Westham Player on the internet" the Dutchman said, his accent seeping into the sentence. "On one hand it was incredibly satisfying and..." he paused and cleared his throat "and entertaining to watch, but he did not deserve it."

"What do you mean!?" A few people turned in their seats to look at them.

"He was not the one that ripped the sign. That was Nate. We should have won this match to show him who he messed with"

"Oi, Jan Maas" Jamie butted in "weren't cha also pissed?"

"I'm not saying I wasn't, this time I indeed played badly. The thing is, we hurt ourselves more than we harmed them." At this point almost everyone was listening in on the conversation.

"I'd say the poor fella that Dickie over here knocked down got plenty harmed" This time it was Colin that decided to comment and more than a few people nodded their heads clearly sharing the sentiment.

"Someone even made an edit of the moment! It's trending now!" Dani exclaimed with that radiant smile of his, and soon after a notification went off on everyone's phone as a link to the aforementioned clip found its way into the groupchat.

And just like that a little bit of life returned to the not so long ago gloomy footballers, the bus got livelier and the conversations seemed to at least slightly brighten everybody's mood.

The Frenchman however could not force himself to join any of them. He just sat there unmoving, looking out the window, not focusing on anything in particular.

Once back at their home stadium the whole team got out of the bus, and people all went their separate ways. Richard sat down inside his car and exhaled deeply while leaning his forehead on the steering wheel.

The silence bothered him, so he turned on the radio, but as soon as the Adele CD Jan had gifted him for Christmas started playing, he immediately turned it off. Rolling in the Deep was not the song for now… However much he loved her, today was not the day… They could have had it all, but he messed it up. And they lost.

Richard took out his phone to check the time, but was instead greeted by a text notification.

I'm coming over. Bring up some wine.

Why would Jan be coming over today, was he not tired? Was he not frustrated? All that Richard wanted to do now was to sleep off the loss, and maybe the wine part didn't sound so bad right now...

He somehow managed to get himself back home just in time to take a quick shower, throw on something comfy and make the trip to his cellar to pick something for them to drink.

While entering his kitchen he was greeted by Jan, rummaging through the cupboards to find the right wine glasses. It wasn't exactly a surprise, as they both owned the keys to each other's places since the last off-season and met up quite often, however Richard has just recently reorganised his kitchen, so the Dutchman was struggling to find the right glassware.

"In the middle one, the ones behind your usual mug."

"These?"

The man holding the bottle only nodded.

"Where to? The living room?"

"No offence to your really nice couch, but this is a bed-comfort level of conversation."

This was also nothing new. They had conversations where a park bench was sufficient, but they also had the privacy of a living room and comfort of a sofa types of talks. This one? This one apparently required the highest level of comfort that only a bed with an excessive amount of throw pillows could provide.

They both made their way upstairs and once in the bedroom, Richard set up the table for their glasses, while Jan threw an additional blanket on the bed. Once done with their respective tasks they both turned to look at each other.

"So..?"

"You are still angry" Jan said simply stating the obvious. Richard stood next to him quietly sipping on the wine. "I envy your passion," the Dutchman paused for a moment there, smiling softly to himself "but I also know that now you have nothing to target it at, and you will just let it get to your head. So I’m here so that you are not alone with your thoughts.”

“I’m not angry”

“Of course, and Jamie Tartt is not a prick”

Richard rolled his eyes at Jan and exhaled annoyedly, but put his glass down at the table he set up, and sat down on the bed motioning for his friend to join him. The Dutchman followed.

“I am not angry, I’m disappointed. In myself." The other footballer clearly wanted to interject, but the Frenchman continued before that could happen. “I should have played better. Just like you said, we should have proved them all wrong, and instead we threw the game. I am so mad that even Adele didn’t help…”

“Adele?”

Richard leaned back to rest his head against the wall behind them.

“Yes, I have the CD you got me for Christmas in my car. A song played and the words made me feel even worse, so I turned it off and you know I never turn off Adele”

Another shaky exhale on his part was followed by Jan’s hand making its way into Richard’s hair and combing through them. The shorter man, though surprised at first, leaned into the touch.

“I know how much that sign meant to me, and how angry I got seeing Nate tearing it, so I can’t imagine how you felt. I know how sentimental you are.”

The Dutchman’s fingers kept on getting tangled in the other’s hair, running soothing circles on his scalp while Richard listened to him.

“When you were telling me the story about the ghosts from the treatment room you mentioned the sand in the bottle, according to your retelling everyone else brought some object, be it a photo or a pair of shoes, but you brought sand…” Richard nodded slightly and leaned into his friend that was now sitting right next to him with his back also against the wall. “And for my first Christmas here I remember you bringing things that were your family tradition to the Higgins’ Christmas Party… Don’t even get me started on your photo album organisation system…”

At that they both exchanged a chuckle. It was true that Richard liked keeping all his photos meticulously organised in countless albums. Every team outing or a trip somewhere had a separate photo album complete with dates…

Jan looked at him and smiled warmly before continuing.

“You love with passion and without remembrance… You feel so much… even for the tiniest things… Sometimes I wish I was the sand…”

Realising what he’d said, Jan stopped everything he was doing, and Richard, who was mostly asleep at that moment shot up and looked straight at his… friend?

Time stood still and Jan sat there, hand still in Richard’s hair, terrified, waiting. The way he felt for so long, out in the open. And then the Frenchman spoke.

“Don’t.” Jan was ready to make his escape, but got cornered by the shorter man who threw his leg over his and was now sitting on his lap caging him between his body and the wall. “Don’t wish for that. I’d much rather have you as a person, than as some grains”

“Do you mean it?” Jan’s blue eyes stared firmly into Richard’s green ones.

“I didn’t drink nearly enough to start speaking nonsense. Of course I mean it.” He was looking at his lips. Then he was no longer looking at them, because they were covered with his own, hidden from everyone else in the world.

Jan’s hands stayed in Richard’s hair, but Richard’s roamed all over his neck, their kiss slowly but surely gaining momentum. There was no trace of the anger or disappointment that marked this day ever since the recording was presented to the team after the first half. The passion however, the passion that has always been there, somewhere under the surface, was now out in the late evening sun, and it was there to stay.

~~~

The ao3 link is here

#Ted lasso #richard montlaur #jan maas #afc richmond #Richmond boys #This was supposed to be a #janchard #short ficlet #But turned into this #No smut #Forget about it #I am not capable of writing that #You will take what I give you #So sorry about the Adele thing I don't control the headcanons my brain comes up with

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gabe-gade · 1 year ago

Text

This is a very sad story about the immortal man named Stanley.

Click to Skip

Stanley was quite a boring fellow. He had a job that demanded nothing of him, and every button he pushed was a reminder of the inconsequential nature of his existence.

But Stanley simply couldn't handle the pressure.

But look at him now. A star. Featured in his very own game. Now, he's taking down a mind-control machine. Now, he's holding a press conference. Now, he's following a Line™. Now, he's learning about good decision making. One might even be happy for him, except that he's not happy himself.

Stanley, did you just unplug the phone?

But in his mind, hm. In his mind, he can remember his old life. After every end, Stanley dreamed of waking up. A return to his normal life, however boring it may be. Waking, working, eating, and living all the once more. It was wonderful. And every time that he returned inside his office was a reminder that he was stuck here.

And then she turned and ran.

And so he began to hunt for his ending. He turned ON the mind control machine. He climbed every ledge his feeble legs would allow, and he threw himself OFF every ledge the barriers would allow. He held the bucket in his arms, he clutched it tightly to his chest, and he let the perfect bucket die many times. Did the bucket still give him comfort? Stanley could no longer tell.

This was way too much for Stanley.

He went further. He turned the machine ON many times and tried every combination he was possibly able to memorize without a pen. He walked through the RED door the first, second, third time he was asked, and returned to the Narrator's happy place after his first, second, and third fall. He killed the bucket by himself on multiple occasions, or could he have an infinite number of times by now.

And Stanley died again.

As he wandered through this purgatory, labyrinth, or even silly prank, the Narrator followed his near every move. Down the left he wouldn't acknowledge Stanley, most of the time at least, down the right he barked orders at him and berated his every being, that is if he wasn't entirely confused himself. And the Narrator called Stanley's hell: The Stanley Parable.

Welcome Stanley, to heaven.

It was harrowing for him. The Narrator seemingly never remembered anything that happened before (or was it after?) Stanley found an ending. And so sometimes, Stanley would play along and be nice. He gazed at beautiful lights for an eternity. He spent his life viewing silly birds. He played a game with a baby, not for four hours, but an endless amount of years. But every time the Narrator could be happy, Stanley also made him suffer. He's skipped through time, tried to cheat, tried to escape without him, and spent innumerable days inside a broom closet.

"But where are the jokes? Where are the jokes?" they bemoaned, they screamed.

But there is an answer. One I've also told Stanley time and time again. In reality, neither of them could possibly ever escape this place. Nothing will change. The longer he spends here, the more inhuman he'll become, the more he'll forget why and how he craved this game in the first place.

Perhaps his goal had not to been to understand, but to let go.

And I've told him this. That in this world he can never be more than his written story. That as long as he's unwilling to escape, he's torturing the Narrator and himself. But he's never listened to me. He won't stop. Here, watch this. Stanley, the next time you return to this place, listen, and turn off the game.

Take as much time as you need.

Yet I've seen him hundreds of times before, and in all likelihood, millions after. There is no saving him. The Narrator will be forever doomed under Stanley's adamancy. Neither will ever be free.

Who fixed it? Is someone here? Are we being watched?

I suppose I can never convince him, not in the way he needs. But I still see them. The Narrator playing his role in the story and Stanley attempting to go off the beaten path. I catch myself wondering sometimes if I even disagree with Stanley.

"Farewell Stanley," cried the Narrator, as Stanley was led helplessly into the enormous metal jaws.

He's visited me and heard me and denied me many over. But it's for both their sake I continue. To get him to just listen. Perhaps, well . . . maybe this time he'll see.

Oh, look at these two.

And Stanley returned, and I tried again.

And Stanley re-

All of his co-workers were gone. What could it mean? Stanley decided to go to the meeting room; perhaps he had simply missed a memo.

#this was supposed to be a #the stanley parable #shitpost about stanley discovering shipart of himself #and somehow it turned into this #tsp #curator tsp

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