Fic: "Rugby Night"
Mar. 22nd, 2009 07:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyusTitle: Rugby Night
Characters: Rhys, Andy
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1800 words
Summary: Wales lost against Ireland, and a few Irish lads get a little over-confident.
Notes: Six Nations 2009, what can I say, I had to write something.
The sea of red jerseys that had swept into the stadium just hours ago now huddles in the dark corners of the pubs while the Irish had taken to the streets after the blown whistle and are turning Cardiff into another nation's capital for the night. Rhys nods along to Dafydd's barely comprehensible post-game mid-drink rant, Jones this and Jones that, hand movements all over the place, while he sips on his beer and gives the occasional glance to the blokes on the telly that interview the players. Piss poor loss after a fast game; they tried (or rather didn't), for what that's worth. Makes you down another, one for the sorrow, the one for luck forgotten, and Trev's buggered off an hour ago, muttering about his missus. Gwen's at work, not much she is missing here. Dafydd re-enacts one of the missed line-outs, and Rhys manages a nod and half a laugh, lips sucking on that bottle of warm beer.
Four green shirts stagger into The City Arms, Ireland's Call in their throats and spilling from their lips. One of them yells for beer, the others shove one other around, Ireland's colours over their backs. Mutters rise in the pub, glances shift.
"Piss off!" one of the men in the pub shouts and shoves one of the Irish blokes back when he stumbles too close.
"You piss off," the bloke gives back and steps in close to the man again, fingers curled into a fist.
The pub falls silent. Dafydd stops in mid-word, still pointing at the telly that repeats one of the lost line-outs in slow motion, and turns to watch the men at the other end of the bar. Rhys glances past the heads of the men in front of him, to the side, fingers clenching on the warm bottle of beer.
"Wankers," Dafydd mutters.
Rhys nods, drinks, shrugs, glances around. This reeks of trouble.
"What?" one the Irish boys bellows. "You're not selling us your piss to drink?"
Angry murmurs rise in the pub. "Selling you our piss, all right," one of the men from the back of the pub gives back.
The Irish bloke swivels around. "Come tell me that to my-"
"Lads-" Alun, manning the bar, intervenes. "You don't want trouble, we don't want trouble-"
"Refusing to serve us?" The Irish bloke shoves up to the bar, leans close to Alun.
Rhys shifts from the bar, takes a step towards them as he clears his throat. The streets are filled to the brim with folks in green, the pubs with those in red, and if there's trouble it's not going to stay here. "Boys, really-"
"Not saying I'm-" Alun mutters.
The Irish boys break into song again, rowdy and at the top of their lungs. A moment later one of them is on the floor, blood oozing from his nose, and one of the local lads is rubbing his knuckles. The frozen silence, telly analysis running and dissecting the scrum just after the break, lasts for a split second until the four green shirts are swallowed by ten or fifteen red ones. Dafydd pushes past Rhys and into the fray, another bloke shoves Rhys against the bar to get into it with his fists.
"Lads-" Alun shouts over the scuffle.
The sound of glass breaking rings through underneath the shuffle of fists and feet and hoarse voices. Chairs scrape across the floor as the maul drops to a ruck, men back away or join in. Someone is shoved into a table, the pint glasses rock, then fall, and beers spills across the table and down. One glass rolls across the wood and drops, bursts into shards as it hits the ground. Rhys pushes past two blokes that stand whistling and cheering and grabs for Dafydd, pulls him back by the back of his jeans, half pulls the jeans off his skinny arse. Glass crunches under his soles. This is going to be ugly too soon. Dafydd trips, turns, fist going for Rhys.
"Knock it off, mate!" Rhys ducks under the arm and pulls Dafydd back against his chest, pushes him onto one of the chairs, nearly sending them both to the floor. "Have you lost your mind?"
"Fucking Irish bastards," Dafydd spits, twists in Rhys's grip.
"Yeah, yeah, mate." Rhys nods along and looks over his shoulder at the brawl still going on, holding onto Dafydd's shoulders. The hospital or the police station aren't his idea for a Saturday night well spent, Wales losing or not. He likes to think he is past this, smashing skulls in over a game, rolling around in spilled beer. That and, frankly, calling Gwen up to fetch him from the station while he reeks of alcohol had last happened years ago, bloody embarrassment it would be, like he's seventeen again and waiting for his mam.
Dafydd struggles in his grip, fists fly about them, and Rhys ducks under them, keeps Dafydd pushed to the chair with his body. Sirens ring outside above the shouts and calls and hands clapping. Rhys glances towards the door when the coppers step in.
"Oi, boys, let's break it up," one of the uniformed kids shouts over the men locked with shoulders and heads.
Rhys snorts. Figures they'd sent the beginners out on Rugby night, give them a taste of policing in Cardiff. The crowd agrees, have a good laugh before the hoarse voices rise in defense of the fifteen men beating the four Irish blokes to a pulp.
"Bloody Welsh wankers!" one of the Irish lads shouts and earns himself a kick in the jaw from one of the local boys.
Dafydd cranes his head to look around Rhys, struggles against Rhys's grip, pushes him off and gets back into the fray, tackling one of the green shirts to bring him down. Glass crunches, someone's pained grunt rings free.
"Shit!" Rhys runs a hand through his hair, glances at the kid copper standing like someone just caught on the telly and pushes between bodies to grab for Dafydd's jersey, the jeans, a foot, something that guarantees they'll both be out of here soon without giving Gwen a reason for ridicule or worry. He catches a fist to his jaw instead, local bloke, too, holds onto one of the lads to stay upright when pain throbs along his jawline. "Well don't just stand there, then!" He gestures towards the copper, takes a step towards him, then someone hits him in the side, and they both go down.
A siren picks up outside, more feet, more shouts. The bloke on top of him is pulled off, and Rhys shifts around, holds on to the nearest jersey to pull himself up when someone grabs him by the shirt and shoulder, hauls him up. Hot breath fans past his ear, stink of alcohol absent, muscles in his arm pulled tight. Rhys bites back a groan, shift, struggles.
"Fat bastard," the bloke behind him hisses.
Fingers grab onto his shirt, pull his arm up behind him and propel him around to the nearest wall. Rhys twists, damned if he'd let himself be pushed around, and shifts them around,hooks his leg behind the other guy's. Something hits him from behind, someone's drunken weight, flailing arms. Rhys is pushed forward, the other guy in front of him, and they both smack into the wall, kneecap to thigh, elbow to ribs and Rhys's open-mouthed sound of surprise gets lost when his teeth knock into the bloke's lips, then slide along the cheek to the jaw before Rhys can catch himself with his hands on the wall. The taste of blood in his mouth, his head ringing, Rhys spits out, coughs, forehead resting against the wall, inhales the bloke's aftershave with every breath drawn, lips pressed to sweaty hair as he runs his tongue over his teeth, all of them still there, good.
The police is gaining control by the sounds of things, less shouts for Irish blood and more sober calls for control and order. Rhys cranes his neck to look for Dafydd. He's standing in a corner, holding the hem of his jersey to his bleeding nose, not too bad off then, then turns his face back to the wall, waiting for the ringing in his head to subside just that bit more.
"Get off me," the bloke underneath him hisses.
Rhys's lips slip along the man's jawline as he is pushed back. His head is throbbing.
"Get off me, you fat-"
Rhys narrows his eyes and pushes off the wall. "Look, mate, I'm not the one who.."
Rhys trails off. Davidson, Andy for Gwen, glowers at him from the wall, clear marks of teeth on his jaw, a cut to the lips, and still fighting for breath, his white uniform splattered with specks of red. He inches his tongue along his bloodied lips, winces. Rhys rubs the back of his hand over his own, Andy mirrors the gesture, and they stand there like twelve year olds caught in an illicit act. Andy breaks the gesture first and reaches into his pocket, pulls out a handkerchief.
"You-" Rhys starts, fingers still on his lips, half a drunken laugh in his throat. "You-"
"Not a word! Not one word!" Andy mutters. His index finger points at Rhys's chest. "Sod off."
Rhys opens his mouth for a reply, something to cut the bloke down, but this is hardly an advantageous position for either of them. Andy glowers at him like a girl, and Rhys looks around for his bottle of beer by the bar because this needs another drink.
"Get out of here."
Davidson stuffs the handkerchief back into his pocket and pushes out from between wall and Rhys, squirms for minimum contact, and Rhys resists a touch to his arse only because winding the bloke up more would land him in the cell for the night, and he doesn't want to explain that to Gwen. He eyes the bottle on the bar, just another sip, maybe?
"Game's over," Davidson shouts to the pub at large.
The men lean against walls and hold onto them and one another. The Irish boys have made it to safety onto a few chairs, looking worse for wear, and their jerseys bleed red now through the green. They'd show them victory, they would. Davidson rubs a hand over his lips again, and Rhys's laugh breaks through in a gurgle even as he touches his own.
"Game's over," Andy repeats over the laugh, and it's the whistle blown.
Rhys grabs Dafydd and pulls him out of the pub, one glance back, pushes him into the general direction of home. Irish catcalls follow their red jerseys as does Davidson's gaze, more lost puppy than hard copper. Rhys grins at him and licks his lips. Davidson turns away.
Characters: Rhys, Andy
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1800 words
Summary: Wales lost against Ireland, and a few Irish lads get a little over-confident.
Notes: Six Nations 2009, what can I say, I had to write something.
The sea of red jerseys that had swept into the stadium just hours ago now huddles in the dark corners of the pubs while the Irish had taken to the streets after the blown whistle and are turning Cardiff into another nation's capital for the night. Rhys nods along to Dafydd's barely comprehensible post-game mid-drink rant, Jones this and Jones that, hand movements all over the place, while he sips on his beer and gives the occasional glance to the blokes on the telly that interview the players. Piss poor loss after a fast game; they tried (or rather didn't), for what that's worth. Makes you down another, one for the sorrow, the one for luck forgotten, and Trev's buggered off an hour ago, muttering about his missus. Gwen's at work, not much she is missing here. Dafydd re-enacts one of the missed line-outs, and Rhys manages a nod and half a laugh, lips sucking on that bottle of warm beer.
Four green shirts stagger into The City Arms, Ireland's Call in their throats and spilling from their lips. One of them yells for beer, the others shove one other around, Ireland's colours over their backs. Mutters rise in the pub, glances shift.
"Piss off!" one of the men in the pub shouts and shoves one of the Irish blokes back when he stumbles too close.
"You piss off," the bloke gives back and steps in close to the man again, fingers curled into a fist.
The pub falls silent. Dafydd stops in mid-word, still pointing at the telly that repeats one of the lost line-outs in slow motion, and turns to watch the men at the other end of the bar. Rhys glances past the heads of the men in front of him, to the side, fingers clenching on the warm bottle of beer.
"Wankers," Dafydd mutters.
Rhys nods, drinks, shrugs, glances around. This reeks of trouble.
"What?" one the Irish boys bellows. "You're not selling us your piss to drink?"
Angry murmurs rise in the pub. "Selling you our piss, all right," one of the men from the back of the pub gives back.
The Irish bloke swivels around. "Come tell me that to my-"
"Lads-" Alun, manning the bar, intervenes. "You don't want trouble, we don't want trouble-"
"Refusing to serve us?" The Irish bloke shoves up to the bar, leans close to Alun.
Rhys shifts from the bar, takes a step towards them as he clears his throat. The streets are filled to the brim with folks in green, the pubs with those in red, and if there's trouble it's not going to stay here. "Boys, really-"
"Not saying I'm-" Alun mutters.
The Irish boys break into song again, rowdy and at the top of their lungs. A moment later one of them is on the floor, blood oozing from his nose, and one of the local lads is rubbing his knuckles. The frozen silence, telly analysis running and dissecting the scrum just after the break, lasts for a split second until the four green shirts are swallowed by ten or fifteen red ones. Dafydd pushes past Rhys and into the fray, another bloke shoves Rhys against the bar to get into it with his fists.
"Lads-" Alun shouts over the scuffle.
The sound of glass breaking rings through underneath the shuffle of fists and feet and hoarse voices. Chairs scrape across the floor as the maul drops to a ruck, men back away or join in. Someone is shoved into a table, the pint glasses rock, then fall, and beers spills across the table and down. One glass rolls across the wood and drops, bursts into shards as it hits the ground. Rhys pushes past two blokes that stand whistling and cheering and grabs for Dafydd, pulls him back by the back of his jeans, half pulls the jeans off his skinny arse. Glass crunches under his soles. This is going to be ugly too soon. Dafydd trips, turns, fist going for Rhys.
"Knock it off, mate!" Rhys ducks under the arm and pulls Dafydd back against his chest, pushes him onto one of the chairs, nearly sending them both to the floor. "Have you lost your mind?"
"Fucking Irish bastards," Dafydd spits, twists in Rhys's grip.
"Yeah, yeah, mate." Rhys nods along and looks over his shoulder at the brawl still going on, holding onto Dafydd's shoulders. The hospital or the police station aren't his idea for a Saturday night well spent, Wales losing or not. He likes to think he is past this, smashing skulls in over a game, rolling around in spilled beer. That and, frankly, calling Gwen up to fetch him from the station while he reeks of alcohol had last happened years ago, bloody embarrassment it would be, like he's seventeen again and waiting for his mam.
Dafydd struggles in his grip, fists fly about them, and Rhys ducks under them, keeps Dafydd pushed to the chair with his body. Sirens ring outside above the shouts and calls and hands clapping. Rhys glances towards the door when the coppers step in.
"Oi, boys, let's break it up," one of the uniformed kids shouts over the men locked with shoulders and heads.
Rhys snorts. Figures they'd sent the beginners out on Rugby night, give them a taste of policing in Cardiff. The crowd agrees, have a good laugh before the hoarse voices rise in defense of the fifteen men beating the four Irish blokes to a pulp.
"Bloody Welsh wankers!" one of the Irish lads shouts and earns himself a kick in the jaw from one of the local boys.
Dafydd cranes his head to look around Rhys, struggles against Rhys's grip, pushes him off and gets back into the fray, tackling one of the green shirts to bring him down. Glass crunches, someone's pained grunt rings free.
"Shit!" Rhys runs a hand through his hair, glances at the kid copper standing like someone just caught on the telly and pushes between bodies to grab for Dafydd's jersey, the jeans, a foot, something that guarantees they'll both be out of here soon without giving Gwen a reason for ridicule or worry. He catches a fist to his jaw instead, local bloke, too, holds onto one of the lads to stay upright when pain throbs along his jawline. "Well don't just stand there, then!" He gestures towards the copper, takes a step towards him, then someone hits him in the side, and they both go down.
A siren picks up outside, more feet, more shouts. The bloke on top of him is pulled off, and Rhys shifts around, holds on to the nearest jersey to pull himself up when someone grabs him by the shirt and shoulder, hauls him up. Hot breath fans past his ear, stink of alcohol absent, muscles in his arm pulled tight. Rhys bites back a groan, shift, struggles.
"Fat bastard," the bloke behind him hisses.
Fingers grab onto his shirt, pull his arm up behind him and propel him around to the nearest wall. Rhys twists, damned if he'd let himself be pushed around, and shifts them around,hooks his leg behind the other guy's. Something hits him from behind, someone's drunken weight, flailing arms. Rhys is pushed forward, the other guy in front of him, and they both smack into the wall, kneecap to thigh, elbow to ribs and Rhys's open-mouthed sound of surprise gets lost when his teeth knock into the bloke's lips, then slide along the cheek to the jaw before Rhys can catch himself with his hands on the wall. The taste of blood in his mouth, his head ringing, Rhys spits out, coughs, forehead resting against the wall, inhales the bloke's aftershave with every breath drawn, lips pressed to sweaty hair as he runs his tongue over his teeth, all of them still there, good.
The police is gaining control by the sounds of things, less shouts for Irish blood and more sober calls for control and order. Rhys cranes his neck to look for Dafydd. He's standing in a corner, holding the hem of his jersey to his bleeding nose, not too bad off then, then turns his face back to the wall, waiting for the ringing in his head to subside just that bit more.
"Get off me," the bloke underneath him hisses.
Rhys's lips slip along the man's jawline as he is pushed back. His head is throbbing.
"Get off me, you fat-"
Rhys narrows his eyes and pushes off the wall. "Look, mate, I'm not the one who.."
Rhys trails off. Davidson, Andy for Gwen, glowers at him from the wall, clear marks of teeth on his jaw, a cut to the lips, and still fighting for breath, his white uniform splattered with specks of red. He inches his tongue along his bloodied lips, winces. Rhys rubs the back of his hand over his own, Andy mirrors the gesture, and they stand there like twelve year olds caught in an illicit act. Andy breaks the gesture first and reaches into his pocket, pulls out a handkerchief.
"You-" Rhys starts, fingers still on his lips, half a drunken laugh in his throat. "You-"
"Not a word! Not one word!" Andy mutters. His index finger points at Rhys's chest. "Sod off."
Rhys opens his mouth for a reply, something to cut the bloke down, but this is hardly an advantageous position for either of them. Andy glowers at him like a girl, and Rhys looks around for his bottle of beer by the bar because this needs another drink.
"Get out of here."
Davidson stuffs the handkerchief back into his pocket and pushes out from between wall and Rhys, squirms for minimum contact, and Rhys resists a touch to his arse only because winding the bloke up more would land him in the cell for the night, and he doesn't want to explain that to Gwen. He eyes the bottle on the bar, just another sip, maybe?
"Game's over," Davidson shouts to the pub at large.
The men lean against walls and hold onto them and one another. The Irish boys have made it to safety onto a few chairs, looking worse for wear, and their jerseys bleed red now through the green. They'd show them victory, they would. Davidson rubs a hand over his lips again, and Rhys's laugh breaks through in a gurgle even as he touches his own.
"Game's over," Andy repeats over the laugh, and it's the whistle blown.
Rhys grabs Dafydd and pulls him out of the pub, one glance back, pushes him into the general direction of home. Irish catcalls follow their red jerseys as does Davidson's gaze, more lost puppy than hard copper. Rhys grins at him and licks his lips. Davidson turns away.
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no subject
Date: 2009-03-23 05:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-23 10:25 pm (UTC)WHY DID WE HAVE THE UGLIEST FOOTBALLERS EVER? WHY?
*shudder* nightmares!