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No reconciliation until Liverpool wins the league

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It’s only a quarter of an hour since Lampard returned home. He has just washed his face in a hurry, and the doorbell started ringing without warning before he could have a rest on the sofa eventually. In this moment, the smart phone of this senior white collar in Fulham keeps vibrating wildly in his suit pants pocket. He does not dare to neglect it, hurriedly takes out his phone, browsing through the trivia among a bunch of young players, messages from his coaching staff, and missed calls left by the club’s management, as well as the ongoing frenetic celebrations outside of Anfield — Liverpool crowns the Premier League champions.

Perhaps only God knows why everyone is talking about the other victory. It is almost as ill-intentioned as the broadcast footage of the match tonight (seriously, who the hell defeated City in this round?). And then, his eyes precisely find the message from an ‘unknown’ sender.

"I'm almost at your door, hopefully you’re at home."

It’s such an ambiguous word that makes Lampard no longer able to hold his facial expression calm. He hurriedly gets up from the sofa, and the next voice message has already started to play, the energetic voices of the youngsters in his team making a soundtrack of his footsteps. As soon as the door opens, he sees a man in a black jacket, baseball capped and masked. This outfit is a little bit creepy though funny, and the man has the possibility to be one of the famous suspicious figures in west London. Quoting Lampard’s statement afterwards, “Stevie simply looked like one of those Ultras.” Because of this, Chelsea's new manager freezes for a moment, almost drops the phone that he is clutching.

Gerrard lifts the brim of his cap and pulls down his mask, the heat in air causes beads of sweat to form on his nose tip and a faint flush to appear on his face. The Liverpool legend’s eyes wander, and his tone is raw: “I’m here to say ‘thank you’.”

Hearing Gerrard saying the words, Lampard can’t help lowering his eyes, biting his lower lip, in an expression of trying to hold back a smile. He glances out of the door quickly before tugging Gerrard’s hands and dragging the other man inside. Lampard’s tone is quite soft, but there is a hint of knowingly asking: “What’s the thanks for? Aren’t you coming to apologise?”

Lampard’s palms are still a little stained with thin sweat. Gerrard can feel the coolness of the other man’s skin, which somehow calms his mood down. He stands in the foyer and takes off his shoes, feeling slightly overwhelmed since it is difficult for Gerrard to immediately recall in which year and on which day that they had last been this close.

On the night Liverpool wins the championship, the former Liverpool captain turns out to be at the Chelsea manager’s house. It is as if just running up to Lampard on a whim has exhausted all his rational thinking energies.

Shall I go inside? We are not even acquaintances now; shall I go on talking? But the look on Lampard’s face shows that the man may have already seen right through him, and Gerrard doesn't know what to say. He looks into Lampard’s green eyes, feeling his mouth becoming dry, and after a long silence, he says, “I apologi—”

But Lampard puts his finger against Gerrard’s lips. “No, don’t say it to me, Stevie, I just changed my mind. My Chelsea still has to play against Jurgen’s Liverpool in the second last round. We must play in the Champions League, and have to be careful all the time. If you’d like to give me your sincere wishes, I will be happy.”

Lampard narrows his eyes and looks at the former captain of the Red Army, asks with a smirk, “Well, Stevie, how exactly do you want to ‘thank’ me?” He takes another step forward, approaching Gerrard, putting a hand on his back, and sliding down along the waterproof fabric to touch the bottom of Liverpool ex-captain.

As if in response to him, Gerrard grabs the other hand of Lampard, brings it towards his lips and kisses it softly. There is a little more lightheartedness in Gerrard’s smile, and a few wrinkles appear on his forehead, “Frank, I miss this feeling. When we were in the national team, we were like this, secretly...”

He still doesn't finish the sentence, because Lampard kisses him back on his lips. Gerrard embraces the manager in front of him deeply, with tongues licking Lampard’s teeth, unbuttoning the other’s shirt, as Lampard also stretches out his hand and pulls the jacket off Gerrard. The awkwardness of a long-awaited reunion is swept away instantly, leaving only a couple of old lovers who suddenly have plenty of time to talk about their affections face to face. Lampard removes Gerrard’s belt, as their lower abdomens press against each other, Gerrard suddenly grumbles, “You have definitely put on some weight.”

This comment draws a swift ‘counter-attack’ from Lampard. The Chelsea manager chuckles and gently pushes his knees between Gerrard’s legs, giving him a warning of an aggressing nature. Gerrard feels nothing but hot in his lower abdomen, and gets hard. When he met Lampard on the pitch, the very brief encounters could fill the air they breathed together with sparks of desire. And in those days, when misery was the name of the competitions, there had been a subtle instability between the two English midfielders, and someone had always chosen to step aside.

Now, they don't even expect to take a few more steps to the bedroom, instead rolling down onto the carpet in the dim living room. Lampard turns over on top of Gerrard, his hands on the Rangers manager’s waist. Gerrard lifts his face, and kisses Lampard on his forehead, only to hear the latter one teasingly asks him, “You are in pretty good shape, what's going on, the coaching job going well?”

“How could it be? It’s very difficult,” Gerrard sighs, only to find Lampard looking at him seriously. After a few years of separation, both of them coincidentally chose the profession of coaching, then they have become peers again. The difficulties of managing a team can be understood by them without being elaborated in details. Gerrard sees the weariness written in those otherwise bright green eyes and, vaguely, there is a hint of anxiety; the aroma of coffee wafting around Lampard’s living room, or rather from Lampard’s body, smells too rich and well beyond negligible, and Gerrard is suddenly a little sore. “Of course, being a Chelsea manager must be much more difficult, and now I understand Rafa a little better—”

Lampard’s beautiful eyebrows are slightly raised, as he leans his head and kisses Gerrard’s neck exposed above his collar. His hairs brush against Gerrard’s chin, making Gerrard feel a little tickled. Lampard says, with an implication: “Now that you know how difficult it is to be a manager, you’d better find a way to repay me appropriately."

Gerrard blinks beneath him, bending his legs and pulling his trousers from the base of his thighs to his ankles. The legs of a football manager, though no longer as strong and powerful as those of a player in his prime, still retain their smooth and very beautiful shape. As Lampard looks at Gerrard, his face flushes for a moment. He attaches his lips onto Gerrard’s ear, and lowers his voice, “I can’t believe, you’re not wearing—” Waiting until Gerrard stuffs the cold tube into Lampard’s hand, the latter takes a deep breath, and then continues, “You really surprised me.”

And Gerrard wraps his arms around Lampard, raised his calves, and resting them on Lampard’s shoulders. His tone is full of tenderness and affections.

“You're so hot. I watched the whole game tonight, and I knew how crucial those ninety minutes were for Liverpool—but I couldn’t concentrate on the match at all. Frank, to be honest, I had always been looking at you.”

Lampard smiles and replies, “I didn't know you were looking at me at that time. If I had known, I would have dressed myself up and said something decent today."

Gerrard gives a knowing look back to him—again, Lampard is playing a subtle language game with him. The Red Army’s ex-captain has dreamed of bringing the Premier League champions back to Merseyside for years and decades; how could he not concentrate on a match that witnessed history? Lampard was just wondering if Gerrard would also be thinking about things that had nothing to do with Liverpool when he watched this match. Now, Gerrard gives Lampard the answer. As the latter man stood on the sidelines, fretting over his immature youth army, Gerrard was somewhere looking at him, worrying for him, and feeling delighted for him from the bottom of his heart.

Then Gerrard puts his hand on Lampard’s shoulder, and says quietly, “After the third goal, I thought, ‘I’d like to hear the final whistle now.’ That way, I would have seen you sooner. I had been really, really, really missing you, my Frank...”

And with that, Lampard kisses Gerrard again. The Chelsea manager’s fingers, drenched in lubrication, push into Gerrard’s body without any hesitation, causing the legs of the man beneath him to twist tight, and soon the strength slackens again. Sweat drips down along Lampard’s neck, and is licked away by Gerrard’s tongue. When the latter kisses Lampard’s collarbone and chest, Lampard presses his third finger in.

The scent of perfume on Lampard’s open collar lingers at the end of his nose, the manager of the Blue Army has turned to use to another, more subdued scent. It’s no longer the crisp refreshing feeling of a few years ago, but it makes Lampard even more enchanting to him. Gerrard gently grasps Lampard’s cock that is against his thigh, and presses it against his own, wanking them off slowly and skilfully. This lets out an even harder gasp from the man who is fingering inside Gerrard, and the two breaths gradually overlap in frequency.

When Lampard pulls out his fingers, and fills Gerrard’s body with his cock, Gerrard puts down his hands. His fingertips dug into the carpet, while his lips let out a groan of satisfaction.

“Frank, fuck me, ahhh, I need you. But be gentle, I still have to go—to Anfield—”

Lampard lifts Gerrard’s waist, and violently rushes his penis through Gerrard’s body. The hole turns red as Lampard moves, while cum and lubrication drips down along Gerrard’s thighs, staining the carpet beneath them. Lampard bites Gerrard’s ear, feigns displeasure and orders:

“You are not allowed to go, Stevie. You have to stay, because you haven’t said how you’ll make it up to me.”

Gerrard straightens up, allowing Lampard’s face to fall on his neck. His flushed ear tickles the straight, slender nose of Lampard, and his penis that has overflowed with fluid is completely between Lampard’s fingers. Gerrard moans, and replies obediently, “Then...then I won't go, I will stay with you—Ahh, this is it, Frank, you're amazing—”

Lampard adjusts his breathe while conducting such a fierce conquest, yet his heart is still beating hard. He loves to see a dishevelled Gerrard with a flushed face, lying beneath at the mercy of him. At that moment, Gerrard’s misty eyes will merely reflect the figure of one man. No one else is there, neither Gerrard’s Liverpool teammates, nor his friends in the national team.

It’s only Frank Lampard.

That is the moment when Lampard feels the tangible pleasure of conquering a captain, conquering a rival team, and conquering Anfield that is always as strong and unyielding as steel. Gerrard calls him Frank, while his friends call him Lampsy. It is the distance that Gerrard wants, but he has never really got rid of him, never. To this day, long after they parted, Gerrard still cannot forget him; he is still looking at Lampard with his affectionate eyes.

Lampard doesn’t like Liverpool. As a player his blood is blue, and he coaches Chelsea and will not be celebrating any victory of the Red Army. Tonight, though, he would like to allow himself a brief moment to cheer heartily for the new champions.

Gerrard widens his eyes slightly, looking over Lampard’s shoulders. His refocused eyes are caught by the glint of light above the glass cabinet, and his gaze outlines a row of valuables.  Silver metal, blue ribbons. They are Premier League trophies. The Premier League trophies of Chelsea.

The Premier League trophies of Lampard.

As Liverpool fans parties outside of their Anfield, they doesn’t know that their old captain is having sex with a Chelsea manager under the trophy cabinet in the latter’s house. The fact certainly makes Gerrard more sensitive, since his body seems to be as limp as if he just went off the pitch after a difficult match. And Lampard is intertwining their fingers, penetrating him, fulfilling him, and confiding the love and desire to him. Everything is the same as it used to be all those years ago. The brilliant leader of the Blue Army has perfectly conquered Gerrard, once again leaving indelible marks on his body.

 

 

“You did startle me, when you said you were coming over just now,” says the man when the tide of over-excitement recedes. Sleepiness quickly swipes over him, with heavy eyes, Lampard struggles to be awake, and complains, “If those curious journalists caught us together, let’s see how you’d have been explaining it then—”

Gerrard lies behind Lampard, with his head pressing against Lampard’s back and right arm around Lampard’s waist. “I couldn’t think too much about it at that time. I just thought that I would come and see you.” Gerrard’s voice is soft and slow, “My greatest wish has already come true. So I thought, ‘no matter what happens afterwards, I must see my Frank.’ I must tell him my biggest wish right now.”

Lampard suddenly opens his eyes. There are certain things that he had once ignored, but they are now unfolding plainly in his mind.

“So, damn, wait.” Lampard rolls over at once, grabs Gerrard’s shoulder and asks, “Were you being serious? ‘I will not be in love with anyone, until Liverpool wins the league’?”

“Certainly.”

“I thought that was just an excuse for you to break up with me.”

“How could it be!” Gerrard cannot help but laugh, and speaks soothingly, with a warm palm covering the forearm of the man beside him. “It wasn’t easy for both of us at that time. It’s a good thing that it’s all over, isn't it?”

I thought there would no longer be such a subtle misunderstanding between two sophisticated adults. Thinking about this, Lampard sighs bitterly, and reaches out to pinch Gerrard’s cheek: “You’re right, how lucky it’s all over. Now everyone has moved on, except me.”

“Tell me, Stevie,” quietly asks Lampard, “How would you make it up to me?"

“Then, the only thing I can do,” Gerrard responds seriously, “is to give my heart to you.”

“As it is, I will definitely do the same. I promise.” Lampard shows a warm smile, with his eyes sparkling, “Everyone who knows football in Europe will know about the love we had and have, on the day that Chelsea wins the Premier League title again.”