Drowning In Silence

Appiano is drowning in silence. Everybody’s already sleeping, the lights are off and the only thing on in the place is the television. Some man José doesn’t actually recognize – he has already seen him, somewhere, sometime, somehow, but he doesn’t really remember – is talking about Inter and Champions League, and José would really like to find the strength to push the button and switch off the tv, just to stop that shit from echoing in his ears, giving him a headache.
He’s not sleepy – he’s tired. He’d like to sleep but he’s not strong enough even to close his eyelids, so he stays there, on the couch, and watches the man on the tv. The volume is so low he can almost pretend the man's not speaking Italian, but some strange and forgotten language he doesn’t know anything about. He can pretend he’s not talking about Champions League nor Inter failing at it nor anything else. He’s just talking.
Christ, José is angry. He’s angry, he’s disappointed, he’s tired. So fucking tired.
Zlatan moans on the other couch, turning around to find a more comfortable position.
“Is he still talking…?” Zlatan asks, opening one eye and then closing it again, bothered by the trembling light of the screen, “Why are you still awake?”
“Can’t sleep,” José answers. He doesn’t make a move, but Zlatan lifts up a little, to look at him more easily, in a slightly disapproving way. “He’s talking shit about you too,” José informs him, “He’s saying you’re not even able to give this team a Champions League. He’s saying you’re useless.” He pauses for a moment, looking straight in his eyes. “Are you bothered by it? Do you even care?”
Zlatan stands up and moves slowly, coming closer to him. He takes the remote control from his hand and switches off the tv. The room is now so dark José can’t see anything – but he can feel Zlatan’s breath so close to his skin it sends shivers down his spine and forces him to bite his lips, trying to sit still, not move forward, don’t kiss him, damn, don’t even try to think about it, don’t kiss him, not again, it’s wrong, it’s not what a coach and a player should do, don’t kiss him, dammit, just don’t.
“I don’t give a fuck about it.” Zlatan finally answers. Appiano is still silent and dark, and it almost feels empty, when their lips collide.