the villain's right to a showbiz exit.
Title: The Villain's Right to a Showbiz Exit
Pairing: Michael Owen / Steven Gerrard
Warnings: A little language.
Disclaimer: Lies.
Notes: Based on Jamie Carragher's testimonial match at the weekend.
Feedback > life. If you feel like giving constructive criticism, please do.
It felt right to be wearing red from head to toe, to be receiving the ball from Danny Murphy and trying to set up Emile Heskey. As he played, Michael listened to the cheers gradually drowning out the boos every time he took a touch, and it was all he could do not to think of what could have been, for a few more years, entirely his.
The ecstatic support of the Kop for the likes of Luís García, who'd sailed in with broken English and taken Michael's number ten, was so much louder than that which Michael got, though his reception certainly surpassed the ninety minutes of hoots and jeers that he'd been expecting. As the first half wore on, it seemed the fans got over their venting and eventually remembered the Owen who scored for them, who broke records for them, who won trophies for them, and by half-time, there was no booing at all, and Michael was grinning.
After passing Gerard Houllier, his smile more because he just hadn't bothered to wipe it off his face than out of a genuine pleasure to see his old boss, with whom there was still so much lingering awkwardness, though the Frenchman was perfectly gracious, the first person Michael saw upon entering the dressing room was Steven. Of course. He'd skirted past the reserves and he'd heard Joe Cole yammering alongside him, but Steven was all he noticed.
Michael watched him carefully, ignoring how pained he felt at the realisation that understanding Steven, recognising his moods, took longer these days. Steven had moved past hurt and into resignation. He was brief but not brisk; he stated his lone 'hello' patiently but with the slightest hint of incredulity, as though he were surprised to be saying it at all.
Michael remembered the conversation they'd had, back when his face was on back pages all over the country, and people were scratching their heads about the red who'd become a devil.
"I'm not like you, Stevie."
"You don't have to tell me that."
Steven had once been the mirror of Michael. Precocious teenagers, red-blooded through and through, with the same childishness shining through grins as they raised their heads proudly, arrogantly in victory and knowing, with not a glimmer of doubt, how good they were, before anybody else knew. Michael's arms had instinctively sought Steven's when the crowd roared around them, when less clued-up fans turned to each other and asked, "Who are these lads, then? They're not half bad!" Steven had been Michael's lift home after training, his beer after a win, his hug after a heartbreak; and Michael had been Steven's. He would look up and see himself staring back - all determination, and youth, and invincibility, in compact packages of energy that the world had yet to oppress.
He had since become so, so utterly removed from everything that Steven represented: constancy, and belonging.
"What made you change your mind?"
He had almost been able to hear Steven's shrug. "A bunch of things. The contract. The fans. My family, my mates. My team." My club.
"How close were you?" Michael had asked greedily, pressing his ear closer to the phone so as not to miss a single second's hesitation. "To leaving?"
He heard Steven exhale sharply. "Not as close as you, Michael."
He'd said he understood, but the Steven Gerrard who now turned away from Michael with an unsmiling nod didn't look like he understood at all.
When Michael had arrived earlier in the day, Steven hadn't yet, still on the plane that was taking him away from the England team and which would be waiting to return him to it. It had been an anxious wait, Michael's eyes constantly scanning the mess of familiar faces and newer ones bearing excited and somewhat nervy smiles, wondering whether Steven was really going to be turning up at all.
And then he saw him, breezing past the locker that used to be Michael's to get to his own, hurriedly changing into the kit that he wore like a second skin; that he'd never taken off. Everything was so rushed. They darted out to warm up, Michael rounded up in a little group with Danny, Steve Finnan and that García, and he willed himself not to crane his neck to look at Steven, who was kicking the ball back and forth with some of the younger red-clad boys a few metres away. But he couldn't resist, and was dully unsurprised not to see Steven looking back.
Michael had met the Liverpool youths only a few minutes after he'd arrived - and how youthful! ("Fifteen years old, shit!") - and though they grinned and blushed somewhat in the face of Michael Owen the hero, their adulation was tempered by recent images of the villain, the Michael Owen that was fresher in their young, crowded minds. He was warm and encouraging, seeing himself in those bright eyes and smiles, but wondering, somewhere in the back of his mind, whether they'd end up being a Steven or a Michael. And perhaps the worst thing he'd felt all day was the fact that he hoped it was the former.
He could still feel Steven's fingers running deftly over his back, sliding over shoulder blades that loosened and shivered. He remembered, when their early twenties claimed them and the intensity of their frienship and profiles and burdens had grown, how much easier it was for them to hold each other, touch each other, than it was to sit a metre apart and talk. How distantly appropriate it was, Michael thought, that they now weren't talking at all.
When the final whistle sounded and Michael sought out Carra, like a lonely child looking for his only friend in the entire school, and asked him where Steven was, Carra's "He's already left, mate. Duty calls and all that. Surprised Capello let him up at all" hit him harder than expected - and he had, to a certain degree, expected it. As the other players soaked up the heady, post-match atmosphere, Michael stood looking out onto the pitch that, for a few, brief, beautiful minutes, he'd shared with Steven again. And just as briefly, Steven had slipped in and out, darting back to captain his country while Michael was left remembering the day he had told Houllier that he wanted to leave.
He didn't trouble anyone with showy goodbyes, contenting himself with a quiet word of thanks and a last congratulations for the man in whose honour the day had been held. He raised an eyebrow at the representative from the 23 Foundation to whom he'd given his donation cheque, and, getting a nod in return, he cast an eye over the laughing faces of the men who still wanted to be there, and who were still wanted there, and made his exit.
His name would not be among those remembered when the floodlights on Old Trafford were cut off with a bang, and the traces of sweat and skin that he left on the grass were plunged into the darkness of yesterdays. That it would be remembered at Anfield, fondly perhaps by only a few, was, Michael thought, good enough.
And he left his old stadium, teammates, and hometown, neither a hero nor a villain - merely a jaded ex-genius, ex-lover and ex-Red, at once part of the gang and entirely isolated from it, sitting in a first class seat back to Manchester feeling a little less alone than when he'd arrived, but far lonelier.
Pairing: Michael Owen / Steven Gerrard
Warnings: A little language.
Disclaimer: Lies.
Notes: Based on Jamie Carragher's testimonial match at the weekend.
Feedback > life. If you feel like giving constructive criticism, please do.
It felt right to be wearing red from head to toe, to be receiving the ball from Danny Murphy and trying to set up Emile Heskey. As he played, Michael listened to the cheers gradually drowning out the boos every time he took a touch, and it was all he could do not to think of what could have been, for a few more years, entirely his.
The ecstatic support of the Kop for the likes of Luís García, who'd sailed in with broken English and taken Michael's number ten, was so much louder than that which Michael got, though his reception certainly surpassed the ninety minutes of hoots and jeers that he'd been expecting. As the first half wore on, it seemed the fans got over their venting and eventually remembered the Owen who scored for them, who broke records for them, who won trophies for them, and by half-time, there was no booing at all, and Michael was grinning.
After passing Gerard Houllier, his smile more because he just hadn't bothered to wipe it off his face than out of a genuine pleasure to see his old boss, with whom there was still so much lingering awkwardness, though the Frenchman was perfectly gracious, the first person Michael saw upon entering the dressing room was Steven. Of course. He'd skirted past the reserves and he'd heard Joe Cole yammering alongside him, but Steven was all he noticed.
Michael watched him carefully, ignoring how pained he felt at the realisation that understanding Steven, recognising his moods, took longer these days. Steven had moved past hurt and into resignation. He was brief but not brisk; he stated his lone 'hello' patiently but with the slightest hint of incredulity, as though he were surprised to be saying it at all.
Michael remembered the conversation they'd had, back when his face was on back pages all over the country, and people were scratching their heads about the red who'd become a devil.
"I'm not like you, Stevie."
"You don't have to tell me that."
Steven had once been the mirror of Michael. Precocious teenagers, red-blooded through and through, with the same childishness shining through grins as they raised their heads proudly, arrogantly in victory and knowing, with not a glimmer of doubt, how good they were, before anybody else knew. Michael's arms had instinctively sought Steven's when the crowd roared around them, when less clued-up fans turned to each other and asked, "Who are these lads, then? They're not half bad!" Steven had been Michael's lift home after training, his beer after a win, his hug after a heartbreak; and Michael had been Steven's. He would look up and see himself staring back - all determination, and youth, and invincibility, in compact packages of energy that the world had yet to oppress.
He had since become so, so utterly removed from everything that Steven represented: constancy, and belonging.
"What made you change your mind?"
He had almost been able to hear Steven's shrug. "A bunch of things. The contract. The fans. My family, my mates. My team." My club.
"How close were you?" Michael had asked greedily, pressing his ear closer to the phone so as not to miss a single second's hesitation. "To leaving?"
He heard Steven exhale sharply. "Not as close as you, Michael."
He'd said he understood, but the Steven Gerrard who now turned away from Michael with an unsmiling nod didn't look like he understood at all.
When Michael had arrived earlier in the day, Steven hadn't yet, still on the plane that was taking him away from the England team and which would be waiting to return him to it. It had been an anxious wait, Michael's eyes constantly scanning the mess of familiar faces and newer ones bearing excited and somewhat nervy smiles, wondering whether Steven was really going to be turning up at all.
And then he saw him, breezing past the locker that used to be Michael's to get to his own, hurriedly changing into the kit that he wore like a second skin; that he'd never taken off. Everything was so rushed. They darted out to warm up, Michael rounded up in a little group with Danny, Steve Finnan and that García, and he willed himself not to crane his neck to look at Steven, who was kicking the ball back and forth with some of the younger red-clad boys a few metres away. But he couldn't resist, and was dully unsurprised not to see Steven looking back.
Michael had met the Liverpool youths only a few minutes after he'd arrived - and how youthful! ("Fifteen years old, shit!") - and though they grinned and blushed somewhat in the face of Michael Owen the hero, their adulation was tempered by recent images of the villain, the Michael Owen that was fresher in their young, crowded minds. He was warm and encouraging, seeing himself in those bright eyes and smiles, but wondering, somewhere in the back of his mind, whether they'd end up being a Steven or a Michael. And perhaps the worst thing he'd felt all day was the fact that he hoped it was the former.
He could still feel Steven's fingers running deftly over his back, sliding over shoulder blades that loosened and shivered. He remembered, when their early twenties claimed them and the intensity of their frienship and profiles and burdens had grown, how much easier it was for them to hold each other, touch each other, than it was to sit a metre apart and talk. How distantly appropriate it was, Michael thought, that they now weren't talking at all.
When the final whistle sounded and Michael sought out Carra, like a lonely child looking for his only friend in the entire school, and asked him where Steven was, Carra's "He's already left, mate. Duty calls and all that. Surprised Capello let him up at all" hit him harder than expected - and he had, to a certain degree, expected it. As the other players soaked up the heady, post-match atmosphere, Michael stood looking out onto the pitch that, for a few, brief, beautiful minutes, he'd shared with Steven again. And just as briefly, Steven had slipped in and out, darting back to captain his country while Michael was left remembering the day he had told Houllier that he wanted to leave.
He didn't trouble anyone with showy goodbyes, contenting himself with a quiet word of thanks and a last congratulations for the man in whose honour the day had been held. He raised an eyebrow at the representative from the 23 Foundation to whom he'd given his donation cheque, and, getting a nod in return, he cast an eye over the laughing faces of the men who still wanted to be there, and who were still wanted there, and made his exit.
His name would not be among those remembered when the floodlights on Old Trafford were cut off with a bang, and the traces of sweat and skin that he left on the grass were plunged into the darkness of yesterdays. That it would be remembered at Anfield, fondly perhaps by only a few, was, Michael thought, good enough.
And he left his old stadium, teammates, and hometown, neither a hero nor a villain - merely a jaded ex-genius, ex-lover and ex-Red, at once part of the gang and entirely isolated from it, sitting in a first class seat back to Manchester feeling a little less alone than when he'd arrived, but far lonelier.