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GOODBYE	By : nixwilliams Category: Individual Celebrities > Cricket Views: 995 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the people I am writing about in this fanfiction. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-GOODBYE
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TITLE/S: Goodbye
PAIRING/S: Gilchrist/Ponting? Also a wishful Lee/Ponting. At any rate, something completely unrealistic. But that’s why I write fan FICTION.
RATING/S: PG
WARNING/S: Angst; Implied M/M relationship/s (that’s GAY, HOMOSEXUAL, NOT STRAIGHT… you have been warned); NO SEX.
NOTE/S:
1. This can sort of be read as a sequel to "A Good Bloke" and as a prequel or scene-setter to the EPIC crossover fic on which nabootheenigma and I are currently working. Will tell you more about that when we begin posting.
2. It is still hilarious that there is a cricket section, albiet with only two (or three, now) fics. Come on writers: give me some food!
3. This piece is also semi-inspired by the song "Howzat" by Sherbet. A classic, to which you might find a couple of references in this fic. I don’t own that song. Or the band. Only the CD. And now onto the disclaimers.
DISCLAIMER/S: As far as I’m aware, this has never happened. I am not implying that it has. No offence is intended and no money is being made. Is that all? Oh, and I obviously don’t own Adam Gilchrist, Ricky Ponting, Brett Lee or any of the other people and organisations mentioned herein.

GOODBYE

Adam smiled with his whole face at something someone said to him, but as one second followed on the tail of another, which in turn sat on the opposite side of the lucky second next to Adam’s smile, his face seemed suspended in resin: almost frozen, nearly pliable. His mouth held the line of amusement, stretching from ear to chin to ear, but his eyes flickered like the shadow of a seagull passing over a practice net.

In his right hand, a glass of champagne was going flat, while in his right ear a woman in a blue dress talked about the flower arrangements. In his left ear, a smoky hum of string instruments took up buzzing residence, and in his left pocket, his left hand clenched inadvertently as he watched Brett level his dazzling white-teeth-blonde-hair combination at their captain. "I’ll be right back," he murmured, and left.

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water carefully on his cheeks, and stared at himself in the panoramic mirrors. He was momentarily surprised to find his eyes were not green, that his face looked just as his face usually looked under unflattering fluorescent lights in a sophisticated establishment after a couple of mouthfuls of half-elegant Australian bubbly. But then, why would he look any different? He wasn’t jealous. Ricky was the captain. Brett was the man of the moment. They had to stand together. Look good together. For the photographers.

But he hadn’t seen it that way.

*

Ricky’s heart – well, really his stomach, or even his diaphragm – was doing the usual hop-around it did when Brett turned on the charm. Brett had been turning on the charm a lot lately. As the captain, it was Ricky’s job to notice these things. It was probably due to Brett’s recent – how to put this tactfully? – stupid behaviour, no, just 'behaviour' on-field. As the captain, it was also Ricky’s job to say things in a diplomatic way, especially at press conferences. And he was always practicing in his head, just in case.

But anyway, Brett was saying something witty – for a cricketer, and as Ricky was the captain, he was well aware that cricket-wit did not always scan with the general public – and Ricky’s insides were dancing. Brett, reasoned Ricky, had this effect on many people. Usually girls. Or women. But also Ricky.

And because Ricky was the captain, he had to be diplomatic when Brett turned on the charm. He couldn’t come right out – he couldn’t come out at all – and say that he wasn’t interested in Brett in that way. Because first of all, he didn’t know for sure that Brett realised what he was doing, and even if he did, well then Brett certainly didn’t know what else was going on.

What Else, of course, being Adam – no, Gilly. Gilly. A What Else that Ricky, as the captain, should not be involved with. A What Else that could lead to all sorts of problems. Accusations of favouritism would be the least of his worries.

So Brett turned on the charm, and Ricky’s insides flipped over, and Ricky looked out into the room to see Adam (no, 'Gilly') making hastily for the toilets. Bathrooms – that was the diplomatic term. Ricky waited for Brett to finish his witticism while treating his insides to a firm, captain-style talking to, then gave Brett a friendly slap on the back, laughed mate-ily, and excused himself.

*

Brett watched Ricky leave for a second or two too long, and missed the first part of a sentence directed towards him. "Sorry?" And he meant it in more ways than sorry-I-didn’t-catch-that and sorry-could-you-please-repeat-yourself.

"…this hair! You’ll have to do something about it."

And yet the woman didn’t get his attention until his head was grabbed and ruffled around. "Hey." He’d meant it to be an exclamation. He’d tried to put an exclamation mark on the end, and failed. Ricky was still leaving: there, a nod to Glenn’s wife; now a brief word with someone from the ABC; a glimpse of his collar behind the flowers.

And she was still talking. "… shorter all over. This really is not your style. You need more life in it."

Brett put on a smile, hoping his not-too-bad looks would wash over the falseness of it all. Not his style. He almost gagged as he tried out some innuendo. "And I suppose you’re here to give it to me?"

And there it was. The almost surprised double-take and the flutter of smirking eyelids. "Perhaps," she said, as Ricky kept leaving: past the alcohol service, around yet another flower arrangement, into the dim iris of the foyer, and then to the darker door – the pupil of the bathroom.

Suddenly Brett was tired of the game, and bitter. "Goodbye," he told the woman, and it came out like he was full of himself. He tried not to care as she sneered, tried not to care that he could see the hurt and let-down in her eyes, telling him that, underneath everything, he was only a fast bowler.

*
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