184 words. not quite a drabble, not close to a fic.
for di, and di alone.
didier smells like milk and lavender; an earthy smell, breathed in when jose’s nose kisses the soft skin behind his ear. it’s intoxicating and it fogs his brain like too much fine wine and didier’s fingers rest on his wrist. calloused skin drags slowly against the line of his veins, pausing every so often, and jose swears didier’s taking his pulse.
“what are you saying?” he asks when fingertips are replaced with lips and didier begins mumbling something. something that sounds french and comes with a rush of warm breath and the accidental brush of his tongue.
“a prayer,” is his answer and jose feels a jolt of something; a something like an alchemist’s mix of nerves and drunken bliss. he blames didier sometimes, for waking up things he’s never thought about before. no one could say he didn’t love his wife but he didn’t love her the way he loved didier.
his love for her never bordered on worship.
jose mourinho had never worshiped anyone. not before him, at least.
“praying for what?” jose asks, finally.
the answer does not surprise him.