Football AU: Now That I Am in Madrid and Can Think 20/22
Now That I Am in Madrid and Can Think 20/22
Rating: R (swearing, grownup stuff, etc.)
Summary: Xabi's fat kid nickname really was Sabrina. The Fat Frank tape is horribly real (do your own googling, please).
Carova is a real place with no roads. (Img. source)
August 2018
It’s nowhere near as unbearably hot as Stevie expected going by the wave of humidity that had sucked the oxygen out of his lungs as soon as he’d set foot on the airport tarmac. Out here, he can smell the ocean, although it’s still out of sight, can feel its saltiness stick to the hairs on his forearm when his hand hangs over the open window of the off road vehicle.
Stevie listens amiably to his driver’s slurred s-es as they make their way through ash white sand dunes peppered with shrubbery and sporadic seagulls drifting too far from the shore. His name’s Emiliano, he’s originally from Louisiana and he laughs heartily every time Stevie asks a question about the region, his massive, tan beer belly straining against his seat belt through his half-open shirt.
Emiliano predictably cracks up at Stevie’s Scouse gracias when they shake hands and Stevie sets off for the dark blue streak of the Atlantic across the beach, adjusting his light backpack that screams tourist. His eyes strain even behind his sun glasses, but he takes in his surroundings with a fair amount of confidence that he knows what he’s doing and where he’s going.
"Kaixo,"he says after his first three steps onto the dry planks of the small fishing dock.
He can’t tell if Xabi’s blinking at him in astonishment, he can barely tell if that’s Xabi sitting on the dock at all in fact, between the goggle-sized shades and the massive, floppy fishing hat.
“Esteban,” Xabi breathes out at long last, sounding anything but surprised. His chin drops to his chest and Stevie can finally see enough of his face to be able to tell he’s giggling, sliding the tip of his tongue between his teeth.
“Mikel said to take full responsibility,” Stevie shrugs and sets down his backpack before he gingerly leans to sit on the dock next to Xabi. “So, try not to hurt him too bad for giving away your secret lair.”
He settles in stiffly, keeping every inch of his body pulled in tight as to not accidentally brush against Xabi.
“I can sympathize; I know how annoying you can be when you don’t get your way.”
Xabi smiles and now that he’s closer Stevie can tell that he’s slender and pale as ever, but nowhere near the consumptive, frail shadow of his former self Stevie had imagined in some of his more anxiety-ridden nights of the last three months. His copper beard is thick and slick and not even coming off in tufts like Stevie’d imagined on one particularly embarrassing drunken night in some hotel in a far flung corner of Europe. Xabi looks toned and healthy and relaxed in his green shorts and his frayed but undoubtedly vintage graphic t-shirt. His bare feet are dangling high over the small waves lapping at the pillars that hold them over the ocean and he continues to maneuver the fishing tackle between his fingers as Stevie confesses, somewhat defensively:
“I considered using Lilly-Ella to collect intelligence after she told us she… trolls you on last.fm,” he mumbles, still unsure of the verb he’s just used, “but well… I’m not that kind of parent.”
“In other words, she told you to fuck off.”
“Gets her feist from her mother, that one. But then Mikel came to see us dismantle Bilbao in the Champions qualifier, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try my luck.”
“You didn’t dismantle Bilbao, they imploded like you knew they would under pressure. Not that I enjoyed it any less,” Xabi clarifies, casting the rod into the shimmering water again.
“They let you stay up to watch footie?”
“I downloaded the game. I haven’t slept less than 10 hours a night since the surgery; down from 16 hours in the first few days.”
“Suits you. You look… real good.”
“Are you here to recruit me while the transfer window’s still open?”
“You’ll be back when you feel like it. If you want to. “Stevie’s forehead creases and Xabi knows he’s worrying, trying to think of the right thing to say. “Never really agreed with Shanks, to be honest, there’s life and there’s football and football’s not what matters most… If I were you, I’d probably just put my feet up on that beautiful beach in San Sebastian and not want to work another day in my life. Nobody expects you… that’s not why... I just… wanted to see you.”
“I’m glad you came.”
Xabi can hear Stevie exhale slowly and wants to tell him he knows too well that Stevie’s not fond of leaving home or flying, or heights such as the one they’re currently at for that matter, and that he’s missed him more than he’s missed decent paella, but he’s had too much time to think of it all for a whole summer and he lets the words on the tip of his tongue fall to the ground unspoken.
“So… what’s for dinner?”
“You eat what you catch.”
Xabi proudly presents him with the lone, four-inch Black Drum swimming in circles in the plastic bucket by his side and Stevie looks pained rather than impressed.
“You’re actually going to take a knife to this little thing?”
“Big and fucking hard, my arse,” Xabi chuckles and flings the slimy, agitated creature back into the ocean by its tail.
They settle for eating other people’s catch instead and head on foot for what Xabi claims is the only restaurant worthy of the name on the whole string of islands, after he dumps his fishing gear in a crusty rowboat moored to the foot of the dock. Stevie’s stomach’s still in Europe and his head still feels woozy from the constant thrum of the various engines that brought him here, so he doesn’t mind how distant the silhouettes of the seaside shacks passing for a resort seem to be.
Xabi walks barefoot in the surf, smiles when he realizes Stevie would still not take his flip flops off on the beach, even though his legs have long stopped carrying a multimillion pound insurance policy, and he’s savoring the taste of each word of their conversation along with the salty early evening air. They talk about everything, all the things they could never quite remember to say to each other during their weekly I’m Alive phone call, everything but football and tumors.
“Can’t really blame you for wanting to keep this place a secret, mate. My driver showed me the wild horses on the way here… Wait till Lexie sees the pictures I took, she won’t shut up about coming to feed them carrots till I give in. “
“They were a hit with Jon too… he came for a few days before school started… Had to learn the hard way the definition of wild, he kept insisting he would like to ride one,” Xabi reminisces, doubling down to pick up a shiny, flat stone washed in on a crest of foam.
He sends it skipping across the incoming wave five, six, seven, eight times with a quick flick of his wrist.
“They’re Spanish horses, you know. Their great-great-grandparents shipwrecked here when the conquistadors sank off this coast.”
“That’s… so bloody you,” Stevie shakes his head, his eyes watery and beautifully wide in the retreating light.
Their barbequed fish dinner at a tiny joint filled with coarse-skinned fishermen is a lazy, enjoyable prolongation of their walk. Stevie recaps the latest adventures of everyone at Melwood, Didi and Carra’s legendary boozy dinners at Carra’s restaurant; Xabi tells him about his Arsenal-loving physical therapist, about how he’s exercised more intensely over the summer than in most of his time as a professional athlete; about Jon’s visit and how much he loved fishing up and down the coast…
“We… had a great time,” Xabi murmurs, a bit surprised, like it’s finally sinking in after the fact. “My 91-year-old grandfather is challenging us to fishing baby squid from a Txipironera, like real men.”
...and they both have tears in their eyes as they recall that one time when Pepe replaced Jermaine Pennant’s porn with Lampard’s sex tape on an away trip.
They slowly sip their surprisingly good, fresh, green wine and Stevie can’t help but make a face when Xabi orders their second bottle.
“It’s unlikely I’ll die of liver disease,” he answers the unspoken question, regretting the sudden intrusion of present reality into their evening. “Mikel probably has told you… My final scan is next Thursday. If… if they still can’t see anything, I’ll be officially discharged.”
Xabi’s fingers fiddle with the stem of his wine glass and his unsure smile makes Stevie’s heart unfairly seize with anticipation.
“I knew you’d… I…” Stevie starts and stops. His gaze falters over Xabi, the warm amber of his eyes making him stupidly flustered. “Been doing some reading ever since… since you came here. I know the odds.”
“Then you know that the pain being mostly gone and a clear scan don’t mean anything for the next five, ten years. Not even for a year sometimes… And I can’t think of anything further than that.”
“You’re ahead of the curve already. Maybe not like those guys that run marathons six weeks after surgery, but… even twenty years…,” Stevie hisses, verging on irrationally angry. “We had lower odds at half time. In Istanbul… Dead serious, I looked it up,” he insists.
Xabi looks behind him at the dark purple and orange sky and Stevie deflates instantly when he realizes he has no right to spring his dumb but insistent hope on a man who’s had plenty of time to contemplate his mortality for quite a while.
“I’m sorry… I’m a real beaut, listen to me…”
Xabi’s hand catches his and he gathers his fingers off the tablecloth in a tight squeeze before Stevie even has the time to panic and instinctively search the eyes of the people around them. It takes a moment for him to register that in this time zone nobody’s looking at them nor gives a shit and by then Xabi’s hand slides back to his wine glass, fingers elegantly spread flat around its base.
“Steven… There have been some nights since the surgery when I’ve had to remind myself why… what I was even doing here. First, I want to see Jon go to University,” Xabi’s voice sounds so resolute, it’s enough to instantly detangle the knot in Stevie’s gut. “Also, it would be nice if I learned how to play golf. Properly this time,” the corner of his mouth curls wickedly and they both know exactly who’s to blame for the utter failure of past lessons in pre-season training camps.
“Also… I would like to see you lift the Champions League trophy again.”
Stevie lets out a big half-snort, half-chuckle, a little unnerved by how much he wants the same fucking thing.
“No pressure, eh?”
The cold sand numbs the soles of Xabi’s feet on their way back and by the time they stand on the porch of the beach house across the dock, the sky is inky black and dead quiet.
“When is your flight back?” he asks, voice low and shoulders slumped casually.
“Tomorrow afternoon. I have to call the driver to take me back to civilization, I have a room in Norfolk.”
“Good,” Xabi whispers.
He knows what he’s about to do has the potential to rank among his Top 3 Most Selfish Moves, on a list on which popping Klonopin like candy next door from his sleeping child does not even make the cut. And yet, when Xabi brings his hand to the back of Stevie’s neck and pulls him forward, kissing him with every ounce of determination he has, he knows it’s a risk he’ll gladly take. Stevie’s entire being stiffens in shock at first, but Xabi doesn’t give way until Stevie opens his mouth and lets his tongue dip inside. From then on, Stevie’s whole body leans into his touch and he wonders briefly if he has any sense of self-preservation before he figures that with this particular man, he’s never had any to begin with.
Once they’re on the other side of the door, they clutch clumsily at each other’s waistlines with unsteady hands.
“Glad you kept these… Sabrina,” Stevie breathes out against Xabi’s mouth, the flat of his palms sliding under his shirt down to his love handles. “I like you with a bit more meat on your bones.”
“You’ve always been a superficial bastard.” Xabi parts Stevie's legs roughly with his knee, applying just the right amount of pressure to exact his revenge. “How much time did you spend with my brother, exactly?”
Stevie has no clever retort because once Xabi lets his t-shirt waft to the floor, his hands take over from his brain and sweet fucking Christ he’s missed all this skin, all of it, more than it’s probably healthy to admit and there is no way this is going to last nearly long enough once they stumble to the bed.
Xabi inhales sharply when he feels Stevie’s hands on him, every part of him remembering the exact weight of each touch with a sense of desperation still wired through his body, wound tightly and ready to spring. Stevie’s mouth is slack and open against his, his movements sure and thorough, but Xabi can tell some part of him still holds back, still thinks of him as a fragile, dying man. Luckily, he knows exactly how to knock stupid ideas out of Stevie’s head, so he scrapes his fingers against the back of Stevie’s skull and drags his mouth from his jaw, down his neck and further down from his collarbone, wet and hot and eager. It pleases him to see just how well he still knows Stevie because one look at his face is enough to make sure he’s not going to be doing any thinking for a while.
Plenty of things have changed, but not this.
Stevie wakes up cold, his once fevered skin now dried and chilled by the early morning breeze creeping through a parted window. He walks around Xabi’s bedroom completely naked for as long as it takes him to retrace the slim trail of scattered clothing to the living room door. He finds his trousers and shirt neatly folded on top of a couch pillow and takes in the mountains of books and gym equipment surrounding him while he puts his clothes back on. He can finally wave away the slight feeling of dread lurching through his veins when he passes through the kitchen and feels the warmth of a half-drunk cup of tea seep through his palm. It smells bitter and oriental and Stevie’s surprised to think of Xabi as going for anything as nonscientific and non-peer reviewed as homeopathic remedies, but what does he know.
The house is so still that all Stevie can hear is his breath rushing through his nose and it unnerves him enough to make him brave the crack of dawn morning chill on the porch. He can see the shape of Xabi’s shoulders among distant waves and the top of his head as he comes up for air. He can finally feel his pulse swirl back to its normal flow and can brush off the constant need to pinch himself. Xabi takes his time emerging from the waves and his lips are salty and cold when Stevie gets his hands back on him.
“I think I found an ending to my novel,” Xabi hums against Stevie’s collarbone and runs his fingers through Stevie’s bed-mussed hair as they lay tangled in the drafty bedroom.
“Is it a happy ending?” Stevie asks, warmth battling dismay in the pit of his stomach.
“It’s an honest ending.”
They walk in silence to Emiliano’s pick up point shortly before noon when they hear a loud plonk followed by a spray of wet sand splattered across their pant legs.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Xabi laughs incredulously as Stevie picks up the football from the waves.
They can barely make out the shape of a little girl no older than nine, maybe ten, hiding under a curly mop of hair, quite a few yards in the distance and Xabi waves back, duly impressed. He can tell from the set of Stevie’s shoulders and the small, pointed steps he takes back that the shot is going to curl long, sweet but powerful, straight to the ball owner’s feet and when it does… The glee in Stevie’s eyes makes him feel cold English wind sweeping across his neck, blades of December gales curling around the gasping communal breath of Anfield and for an instant Xabi hears the boom of energy released from forty-four thousand rib cages, perhaps his most poignant memory of the moment that changed both their lives and his forever.
What a hit…
“Nice cross, mister,” the tiny voice reaches across the dune before she gets distracted by chasing a younger sibling back to their beach house.
“He used to be not too bad at it either,” Stevie points to Xabi and after a brief moment of deliberation, the chase is paused for just long enough to send the ball rolling quietly on the sand back towards them.
By the time Emiliano pulls over the dune, he finds Stevie chasing Xabi across the beach and although his legs are rusty, Xabi still denies him possession calmly, his eyes never leaving the ball. Eventually, the tackles fly in hard and they're cussing at each other in that funny language that's not quite English, between bursts of laughter.
"Joder, you're such a diver, Gerrard!"
“Form is temporary… you know the rest,” Stevie says, mouth pressed against Xabi’s ear before he climbs back into the pickup truck.
Rating: R (swearing, grownup stuff, etc.)
Summary: Xabi's fat kid nickname really was Sabrina. The Fat Frank tape is horribly real (do your own googling, please).
Carova is a real place with no roads. (Img. source)
August 2018
It’s nowhere near as unbearably hot as Stevie expected going by the wave of humidity that had sucked the oxygen out of his lungs as soon as he’d set foot on the airport tarmac. Out here, he can smell the ocean, although it’s still out of sight, can feel its saltiness stick to the hairs on his forearm when his hand hangs over the open window of the off road vehicle.
Stevie listens amiably to his driver’s slurred s-es as they make their way through ash white sand dunes peppered with shrubbery and sporadic seagulls drifting too far from the shore. His name’s Emiliano, he’s originally from Louisiana and he laughs heartily every time Stevie asks a question about the region, his massive, tan beer belly straining against his seat belt through his half-open shirt.
Emiliano predictably cracks up at Stevie’s Scouse gracias when they shake hands and Stevie sets off for the dark blue streak of the Atlantic across the beach, adjusting his light backpack that screams tourist. His eyes strain even behind his sun glasses, but he takes in his surroundings with a fair amount of confidence that he knows what he’s doing and where he’s going.
"Kaixo,"he says after his first three steps onto the dry planks of the small fishing dock.
He can’t tell if Xabi’s blinking at him in astonishment, he can barely tell if that’s Xabi sitting on the dock at all in fact, between the goggle-sized shades and the massive, floppy fishing hat.
“Esteban,” Xabi breathes out at long last, sounding anything but surprised. His chin drops to his chest and Stevie can finally see enough of his face to be able to tell he’s giggling, sliding the tip of his tongue between his teeth.
“Mikel said to take full responsibility,” Stevie shrugs and sets down his backpack before he gingerly leans to sit on the dock next to Xabi. “So, try not to hurt him too bad for giving away your secret lair.”
He settles in stiffly, keeping every inch of his body pulled in tight as to not accidentally brush against Xabi.
“I can sympathize; I know how annoying you can be when you don’t get your way.”
Xabi smiles and now that he’s closer Stevie can tell that he’s slender and pale as ever, but nowhere near the consumptive, frail shadow of his former self Stevie had imagined in some of his more anxiety-ridden nights of the last three months. His copper beard is thick and slick and not even coming off in tufts like Stevie’d imagined on one particularly embarrassing drunken night in some hotel in a far flung corner of Europe. Xabi looks toned and healthy and relaxed in his green shorts and his frayed but undoubtedly vintage graphic t-shirt. His bare feet are dangling high over the small waves lapping at the pillars that hold them over the ocean and he continues to maneuver the fishing tackle between his fingers as Stevie confesses, somewhat defensively:
“I considered using Lilly-Ella to collect intelligence after she told us she… trolls you on last.fm,” he mumbles, still unsure of the verb he’s just used, “but well… I’m not that kind of parent.”
“In other words, she told you to fuck off.”
“Gets her feist from her mother, that one. But then Mikel came to see us dismantle Bilbao in the Champions qualifier, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try my luck.”
“You didn’t dismantle Bilbao, they imploded like you knew they would under pressure. Not that I enjoyed it any less,” Xabi clarifies, casting the rod into the shimmering water again.
“They let you stay up to watch footie?”
“I downloaded the game. I haven’t slept less than 10 hours a night since the surgery; down from 16 hours in the first few days.”
“Suits you. You look… real good.”
“Are you here to recruit me while the transfer window’s still open?”
“You’ll be back when you feel like it. If you want to. “Stevie’s forehead creases and Xabi knows he’s worrying, trying to think of the right thing to say. “Never really agreed with Shanks, to be honest, there’s life and there’s football and football’s not what matters most… If I were you, I’d probably just put my feet up on that beautiful beach in San Sebastian and not want to work another day in my life. Nobody expects you… that’s not why... I just… wanted to see you.”
“I’m glad you came.”
Xabi can hear Stevie exhale slowly and wants to tell him he knows too well that Stevie’s not fond of leaving home or flying, or heights such as the one they’re currently at for that matter, and that he’s missed him more than he’s missed decent paella, but he’s had too much time to think of it all for a whole summer and he lets the words on the tip of his tongue fall to the ground unspoken.
“So… what’s for dinner?”
“You eat what you catch.”
Xabi proudly presents him with the lone, four-inch Black Drum swimming in circles in the plastic bucket by his side and Stevie looks pained rather than impressed.
“You’re actually going to take a knife to this little thing?”
“Big and fucking hard, my arse,” Xabi chuckles and flings the slimy, agitated creature back into the ocean by its tail.
They settle for eating other people’s catch instead and head on foot for what Xabi claims is the only restaurant worthy of the name on the whole string of islands, after he dumps his fishing gear in a crusty rowboat moored to the foot of the dock. Stevie’s stomach’s still in Europe and his head still feels woozy from the constant thrum of the various engines that brought him here, so he doesn’t mind how distant the silhouettes of the seaside shacks passing for a resort seem to be.
Xabi walks barefoot in the surf, smiles when he realizes Stevie would still not take his flip flops off on the beach, even though his legs have long stopped carrying a multimillion pound insurance policy, and he’s savoring the taste of each word of their conversation along with the salty early evening air. They talk about everything, all the things they could never quite remember to say to each other during their weekly I’m Alive phone call, everything but football and tumors.
“Can’t really blame you for wanting to keep this place a secret, mate. My driver showed me the wild horses on the way here… Wait till Lexie sees the pictures I took, she won’t shut up about coming to feed them carrots till I give in. “
“They were a hit with Jon too… he came for a few days before school started… Had to learn the hard way the definition of wild, he kept insisting he would like to ride one,” Xabi reminisces, doubling down to pick up a shiny, flat stone washed in on a crest of foam.
He sends it skipping across the incoming wave five, six, seven, eight times with a quick flick of his wrist.
“They’re Spanish horses, you know. Their great-great-grandparents shipwrecked here when the conquistadors sank off this coast.”
“That’s… so bloody you,” Stevie shakes his head, his eyes watery and beautifully wide in the retreating light.
Their barbequed fish dinner at a tiny joint filled with coarse-skinned fishermen is a lazy, enjoyable prolongation of their walk. Stevie recaps the latest adventures of everyone at Melwood, Didi and Carra’s legendary boozy dinners at Carra’s restaurant; Xabi tells him about his Arsenal-loving physical therapist, about how he’s exercised more intensely over the summer than in most of his time as a professional athlete; about Jon’s visit and how much he loved fishing up and down the coast…
“We… had a great time,” Xabi murmurs, a bit surprised, like it’s finally sinking in after the fact. “My 91-year-old grandfather is challenging us to fishing baby squid from a Txipironera, like real men.”
...and they both have tears in their eyes as they recall that one time when Pepe replaced Jermaine Pennant’s porn with Lampard’s sex tape on an away trip.
They slowly sip their surprisingly good, fresh, green wine and Stevie can’t help but make a face when Xabi orders their second bottle.
“It’s unlikely I’ll die of liver disease,” he answers the unspoken question, regretting the sudden intrusion of present reality into their evening. “Mikel probably has told you… My final scan is next Thursday. If… if they still can’t see anything, I’ll be officially discharged.”
Xabi’s fingers fiddle with the stem of his wine glass and his unsure smile makes Stevie’s heart unfairly seize with anticipation.
“I knew you’d… I…” Stevie starts and stops. His gaze falters over Xabi, the warm amber of his eyes making him stupidly flustered. “Been doing some reading ever since… since you came here. I know the odds.”
“Then you know that the pain being mostly gone and a clear scan don’t mean anything for the next five, ten years. Not even for a year sometimes… And I can’t think of anything further than that.”
“You’re ahead of the curve already. Maybe not like those guys that run marathons six weeks after surgery, but… even twenty years…,” Stevie hisses, verging on irrationally angry. “We had lower odds at half time. In Istanbul… Dead serious, I looked it up,” he insists.
Xabi looks behind him at the dark purple and orange sky and Stevie deflates instantly when he realizes he has no right to spring his dumb but insistent hope on a man who’s had plenty of time to contemplate his mortality for quite a while.
“I’m sorry… I’m a real beaut, listen to me…”
Xabi’s hand catches his and he gathers his fingers off the tablecloth in a tight squeeze before Stevie even has the time to panic and instinctively search the eyes of the people around them. It takes a moment for him to register that in this time zone nobody’s looking at them nor gives a shit and by then Xabi’s hand slides back to his wine glass, fingers elegantly spread flat around its base.
“Steven… There have been some nights since the surgery when I’ve had to remind myself why… what I was even doing here. First, I want to see Jon go to University,” Xabi’s voice sounds so resolute, it’s enough to instantly detangle the knot in Stevie’s gut. “Also, it would be nice if I learned how to play golf. Properly this time,” the corner of his mouth curls wickedly and they both know exactly who’s to blame for the utter failure of past lessons in pre-season training camps.
“Also… I would like to see you lift the Champions League trophy again.”
Stevie lets out a big half-snort, half-chuckle, a little unnerved by how much he wants the same fucking thing.
“No pressure, eh?”
The cold sand numbs the soles of Xabi’s feet on their way back and by the time they stand on the porch of the beach house across the dock, the sky is inky black and dead quiet.
“When is your flight back?” he asks, voice low and shoulders slumped casually.
“Tomorrow afternoon. I have to call the driver to take me back to civilization, I have a room in Norfolk.”
“Good,” Xabi whispers.
He knows what he’s about to do has the potential to rank among his Top 3 Most Selfish Moves, on a list on which popping Klonopin like candy next door from his sleeping child does not even make the cut. And yet, when Xabi brings his hand to the back of Stevie’s neck and pulls him forward, kissing him with every ounce of determination he has, he knows it’s a risk he’ll gladly take. Stevie’s entire being stiffens in shock at first, but Xabi doesn’t give way until Stevie opens his mouth and lets his tongue dip inside. From then on, Stevie’s whole body leans into his touch and he wonders briefly if he has any sense of self-preservation before he figures that with this particular man, he’s never had any to begin with.
Once they’re on the other side of the door, they clutch clumsily at each other’s waistlines with unsteady hands.
“Glad you kept these… Sabrina,” Stevie breathes out against Xabi’s mouth, the flat of his palms sliding under his shirt down to his love handles. “I like you with a bit more meat on your bones.”
“You’ve always been a superficial bastard.” Xabi parts Stevie's legs roughly with his knee, applying just the right amount of pressure to exact his revenge. “How much time did you spend with my brother, exactly?”
Stevie has no clever retort because once Xabi lets his t-shirt waft to the floor, his hands take over from his brain and sweet fucking Christ he’s missed all this skin, all of it, more than it’s probably healthy to admit and there is no way this is going to last nearly long enough once they stumble to the bed.
Xabi inhales sharply when he feels Stevie’s hands on him, every part of him remembering the exact weight of each touch with a sense of desperation still wired through his body, wound tightly and ready to spring. Stevie’s mouth is slack and open against his, his movements sure and thorough, but Xabi can tell some part of him still holds back, still thinks of him as a fragile, dying man. Luckily, he knows exactly how to knock stupid ideas out of Stevie’s head, so he scrapes his fingers against the back of Stevie’s skull and drags his mouth from his jaw, down his neck and further down from his collarbone, wet and hot and eager. It pleases him to see just how well he still knows Stevie because one look at his face is enough to make sure he’s not going to be doing any thinking for a while.
Plenty of things have changed, but not this.
Stevie wakes up cold, his once fevered skin now dried and chilled by the early morning breeze creeping through a parted window. He walks around Xabi’s bedroom completely naked for as long as it takes him to retrace the slim trail of scattered clothing to the living room door. He finds his trousers and shirt neatly folded on top of a couch pillow and takes in the mountains of books and gym equipment surrounding him while he puts his clothes back on. He can finally wave away the slight feeling of dread lurching through his veins when he passes through the kitchen and feels the warmth of a half-drunk cup of tea seep through his palm. It smells bitter and oriental and Stevie’s surprised to think of Xabi as going for anything as nonscientific and non-peer reviewed as homeopathic remedies, but what does he know.
The house is so still that all Stevie can hear is his breath rushing through his nose and it unnerves him enough to make him brave the crack of dawn morning chill on the porch. He can see the shape of Xabi’s shoulders among distant waves and the top of his head as he comes up for air. He can finally feel his pulse swirl back to its normal flow and can brush off the constant need to pinch himself. Xabi takes his time emerging from the waves and his lips are salty and cold when Stevie gets his hands back on him.
“I think I found an ending to my novel,” Xabi hums against Stevie’s collarbone and runs his fingers through Stevie’s bed-mussed hair as they lay tangled in the drafty bedroom.
“Is it a happy ending?” Stevie asks, warmth battling dismay in the pit of his stomach.
“It’s an honest ending.”
They walk in silence to Emiliano’s pick up point shortly before noon when they hear a loud plonk followed by a spray of wet sand splattered across their pant legs.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Xabi laughs incredulously as Stevie picks up the football from the waves.
They can barely make out the shape of a little girl no older than nine, maybe ten, hiding under a curly mop of hair, quite a few yards in the distance and Xabi waves back, duly impressed. He can tell from the set of Stevie’s shoulders and the small, pointed steps he takes back that the shot is going to curl long, sweet but powerful, straight to the ball owner’s feet and when it does… The glee in Stevie’s eyes makes him feel cold English wind sweeping across his neck, blades of December gales curling around the gasping communal breath of Anfield and for an instant Xabi hears the boom of energy released from forty-four thousand rib cages, perhaps his most poignant memory of the moment that changed both their lives and his forever.
What a hit…
“Nice cross, mister,” the tiny voice reaches across the dune before she gets distracted by chasing a younger sibling back to their beach house.
“He used to be not too bad at it either,” Stevie points to Xabi and after a brief moment of deliberation, the chase is paused for just long enough to send the ball rolling quietly on the sand back towards them.
By the time Emiliano pulls over the dune, he finds Stevie chasing Xabi across the beach and although his legs are rusty, Xabi still denies him possession calmly, his eyes never leaving the ball. Eventually, the tackles fly in hard and they're cussing at each other in that funny language that's not quite English, between bursts of laughter.
"Joder, you're such a diver, Gerrard!"
“Form is temporary… you know the rest,” Stevie says, mouth pressed against Xabi’s ear before he climbs back into the pickup truck.