(no subject)
title: anything but love.
characters: steven gerrard/xabi alonso. implied fernando torres/sergio ramos.
rating: pg-13.
disclaimer: i'm lying.
word count: 2021.
notes: i want to preface by saying that I DON'T LIKE THIS. i feel like i haven't written them in forever. i'm a bit rusty, and i wrote this in like. half an hour. hahahahahahahaha. ooooops. but, well. here you go.
i.
Stevie tries to find a release in a myriad of things. He goes around and asks people for advice on what he should do, what types of things they did when they were put in his position. Most of them don’t have an answer, and it’s a bit awkward for the new lads who never knew Xabi.
It hits him with a jolt suddenly, that some of these people have never played alongside Xabi Alonso. That they don’t know how Xabi looks when he laughs. That they don’t know how Xabi sounds when he’s speaking English. That they don’t know how Xabi used to rub Stevie’s hair sometimes in an attempt to fix it, how he’d push his hand up into it and then smirk like he’d done something magnificent to it. “Look at you, Captain Fantastic,” he’d joke.
Stevie doesn’t know why he still thinks about that, how he can manage to concoct memories such as those. He seems to have blocked Xabi out of most of his memories, but that one still remains.
It’s Glen that turns to him one day and asks, “What was so special about him anyway?”
Stevie really isn’t sure anymore.
ii.
Their friendship was complicated. They had only kissed maybe twice in total. Including Istanbul, so.
It wasn’t like that between them. They weren’t in love, but what they had was deeper than most friendships and anyone who knew either of them could see it. Carra was jealous at first, like, you can’t be replacing me with a bloody Spaniard, not when Mikey left too, not when-
But that wasn’t the case and Carra soon realized it as well. It was a whole different level than that, and they weren’t best friends. They, themselves, still don’t know what they were.
All they know is that they weren’t in love.
iii.
They still talk sometimes. A text or phone call here and there, nothing too meaningful. Their chats are all stereotypically awkward. (“Xabi, mate, how are you?” “Good, good, Stevie. And how is Liverpool doing?” “Same as how you left it, lad. Nothing new, really.” “And the team?” “Oh, is that what you meant? We’re doing alright, fighting for fourth.” “Good, that’s where you should be.” “We.” “What?” “Oh, nothing.”)
But whenever Xabi visits, it feels almost the same as it used to be. They laugh and joke and Xabi touches his arm over and over again. He takes a deep breath and smiles a little. “Ah, I’ve missed Liverpool’s air.”
“You mean the cold? You must be dying of heat over there, aren’t you?”
Xabi laughs, rolls his eyes in the way that suggests that he thinks Stevie is endearing. “No, I’m surviving, somehow.”
“Beckham had a hard time there, at first.”
“He was English.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Xabi laughs again. “I just mean the crispness of the air here, you know?”
No, Stevie doesn’t, because he’s never breathed in otherwise. He’s never felt different air, therefore this air just seems. Normal. Like how air should be. “Yes,” he says, because he can’t say what he’s really thinking to Xabi. Xabi would try to rationalize it and say, well, yes you have - you’ve breathed in Istanbul, Athens, Madrid, etcetera. Always so rational, that Xabi. His rationality got him to leave, after all. If he wasn’t rational, he’d have stayed at the club he loved - putting his feelings before his pride.
Or maybe it was his irrationality, in the end.
Xabi says, “Come visit us in Madrid sometime - Álvaro and I will show you a good time, I promise.”
Stevie smiles at that. “Maybe next time Fernando visits.”
“Good,” Xabi says. He raises an eyebrow a little, in an attempt to act casual. “You ever watch La Liga matches? With Pepe or Fer, or you know - when you’re bored.”
The corner of Stevie’s lips twitch. Xabi reddens a little. Stevie says, “Well, yeah, you know. When I’m bored and want to watch an inferior league, sometimes.” He smirks. He’s lying, of course, because he watches Real Madrid almost weekly - and when it’s coinciding with his own matches, he TiVo’s it.
“Bastard,” Xabi replies, but he’s grinning.
Stevie’s not a Madridista by a mile, doesn’t even mildly support them. He’s not sure why he watches, but it makes him feel better when he says it’s to see how Álvaro is doing rather than say it’s because of Xabi. He doesn’t root against or for them, but he likes watching Xabi. Sometimes he wishes they’d lose, if only Xabi can see it was a mistake going there. If only Xabi could see that Real Madrid really doesn’t deserve him. He relishes in matches that they’re stuck in a draw and Xabi looks exasperated. He thinks, there you go. He thinks, see. He thinks, you don’t want to be there as much as I don’t want you there. He thinks, if you want to end matches in bloody draws, come back. Come home.
But lo and behold, Cristiano ends up scoring in the last few minutes and all of Stevie’s hopes for Xabi’s newly discovered realization go down the drain. He always knew that he could rely on Cristiano to fuck things up.
iv.
It’s weird, with Fernando. And different. Because while he and Xabi were never physical, he and Fernando are. It makes him feel uncomfortable, although he'd never say anything to Fernando about it.
It was Fernando’s own advice to begin with: find someone else. He hadn’t known that, no, Stevie and Xabi were not like that and they never will be now, for that matter. But. It seemed like a good idea at the time and Stevie had thought, why not try it? He’d raked his mind for possible “replacers” and when he finally realized that he could just use Fernando, he nearly slapped himself for not having thought of it sooner.
It’s more of a release than anything, and neither of them even look at each other once it’s done. Stevie knows that they both don’t even like doing it much, not with each other, so he’s not sure why they do. Maybe it’s because he’s not willing to lose this too, not after he’s lost Xabi.
They talk about it one night, which is embarrassing enough in itself, since neither like talking about this. But Fernando had randomly brought up how in the last international break, Xabi had asked about Stevie. Stevie interrupts him, “We weren’t. We weren’t in love, or anything. We weren’t.”
Even to Stevie’s ears, they sound like a lie. Which is absurd, because they’re not a lie. They’re not. He and Xabi had never been In Love. They never will be. They were never given the chance.
Fernando looks at him for a long time after that. Finally, “You sure?” He earns a glare for that and chuckles a bit, getting up to pull up his pants. Stevie can’t get over the fact that Fernando seemed to know what he was talking about.
Stevie’s curious now. He asks, “What are you trying to get over?”
“What? What are you talking about?” Fernando looks at him a little too incredulously, and Stevie thinks, bingo.
“There was someone back in Madrid, wasn’t there?”
“No,” Fernando says forcefully like he’s trying to make a point. “There was-” No one, he’s about to say. He sighs. “There was,” he finishes a little defeatedly.
Stevie grins a little. “I knew it.” He says, “Who was it? Agüero?”
“What? No,” Fernando snaps, embarrassed that he’s let it slip. He wishes he had never brought up Xabi. Stupid, stupid Xabi. “He didn’t, uh,” he clears his throat. “Play for Atlético.”
Stevie raises an eyebrow before realization dawns over him. “It’s that guy you used to talk about a lot, isn’t it? The Real Madrid guy.” Fernando reddens a bit, and Stevie groans, “Oh, god. Him? Him?! Xabi’s musketeer guy?”
Fernando laughs a little fondly before he sighs wistfully. “Fuck off.”
Stevie nudges his arm, “The enemy, eh? I can’t picture me falling for a Toffee.”
“I hate you,” Fernando glares. Stevie glances at him and sees the lines etched around his eyes. Stevie thinks they’re lines of sadness, maybe. Lines of a broken heart, possibly.
“But you’re the one that left,” he murmurs, forgetting that Fernando can hear him.
Fernando scoffs a little, upset now. “Fuck you - do you think it doesn't hurt to leave?”
Stevie doesn’t know what to say to that. He can only sit there quietly until Fernando calms down. After a while, he says, “We should stop this, shouldn’t we?”
“Yeah,” Fernando murmurs. “Yeah, we should.” And then: “But - are you happy, Stevie?”
“Sure.”
He hopes that by pretending to be happy, he will truly become happy. Hopefully.
v.
It startles him one day, how little he remembers about Istanbul. He used to be able to conjure up any little detail about that day, but now. He can’t. He blames Xabi for it, and although some might say that that’s irrational, he knows it’s not. Because when Xabi left, Stevie tried blocking out everything and anything relating to Xabi.
He remembers bits and pieces. He remembers winning, of course. It’s the aftermath that he doesn’t remember; he doesn’t remember the kiss, or what Xabi said to him after the match. He doesn’t remember any of that and suddenly he’s so angry. Angry at Xabi and Real Madrid for taking Xabi and Mourinho for keeping Xabi and. He calls Xabi.
“I can’t believe you,” he spits.
And Xabi is confused, which is not really surprising considering he has no idea (nor has ever) about what’s going through Stevie’s mind. “What?”
“It’s your fucking fault. Everything is your fault,” he says.
“Stevie, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Calm down.”
“You just - you,” he stops and takes a deep breath. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Everything is your fault,” he repeats softly.
Xabi whispers, “Stevie,” and it sounds painfully broken.
“Fernando, Liverpool, Istanbul, it’s all your fault, Xabi. You fucked them all up for me and it’s all your fault, you fuck,” he’s tired. So tired, and it’s evident now, even to Xabi who is miles and miles away. He gives Xabi no time to reply before hanging up.
Fernando comes over later, after a desperate (and confused) call from Xabi. He says, “Stevie,” and frowns.
Stevie just shakes his head. “I’m not. I’m not in love with him. I’m not. We weren’t like that. We weren’t. We aren’t.”
vi.
Xabi visits after that, and the first thing Stevie says to him is, “Aren’t you too busy to be on vacation?”
Maybe he’s trying to pretend the phone call didn’t happen. He’s not sure, but whatever he was trying to do doesn’t work.
Xabi frowns a little and says, “I’m never too busy for you, Stevie.”
Stevie wants to scoff but holds back. “Oh.”
Xabi smiles a little encouragingly, like Stevie’s some fucking child. Like he needs encouragement. (Which he does.) He moves forward and tentatively runs his hand into Stevie’s hair, molding it into something he thinks is quite magnificent. He grins, “Look at you, Captain Fantastic. Looking sharp as ever.”
And suddenly Stevie wants to cry. He can’t remember the last time he had, but at this moment, he wants to. Instead he lets out a chuckle. “My hairline isn’t going to change, no matter how many times you try.”
Xabi pats his face. “I’d never try to change you, Gerrard.”
They ease into silence as they walk past the park that is just outside of Stevie’s. Xabi sits down on a bench and takes a deep breath. Stevie wonders if he’s thinking about Liverpool’s atmosphere again. He looks at him for a long time and finally says, “We had something special, didn’t we?”
Xabi smiles at that and says, “Yes,” but it wasn’t love. Right? Stevie thinks, we weren’t in love. That’s not possible, right, Xabi? We’re footballers, we’re married, we’re - men. It wasn’t love. We weren’t in love.
Right?
He says quietly, “We were - it was-” He stops and clears his throat. He shifts from one leg to the other and his voice is softer than before. “We were in love, weren’t we?” The moment it leaves his mouth, he knows it’s true.
Xabi stuffs his hands into his coat. He is quiet for a bit, until he says thoughtfully, “I think we were.”
characters: steven gerrard/xabi alonso. implied fernando torres/sergio ramos.
rating: pg-13.
disclaimer: i'm lying.
word count: 2021.
notes: i want to preface by saying that I DON'T LIKE THIS. i feel like i haven't written them in forever. i'm a bit rusty, and i wrote this in like. half an hour. hahahahahahahaha. ooooops. but, well. here you go.
i.
Stevie tries to find a release in a myriad of things. He goes around and asks people for advice on what he should do, what types of things they did when they were put in his position. Most of them don’t have an answer, and it’s a bit awkward for the new lads who never knew Xabi.
It hits him with a jolt suddenly, that some of these people have never played alongside Xabi Alonso. That they don’t know how Xabi looks when he laughs. That they don’t know how Xabi sounds when he’s speaking English. That they don’t know how Xabi used to rub Stevie’s hair sometimes in an attempt to fix it, how he’d push his hand up into it and then smirk like he’d done something magnificent to it. “Look at you, Captain Fantastic,” he’d joke.
Stevie doesn’t know why he still thinks about that, how he can manage to concoct memories such as those. He seems to have blocked Xabi out of most of his memories, but that one still remains.
It’s Glen that turns to him one day and asks, “What was so special about him anyway?”
Stevie really isn’t sure anymore.
ii.
Their friendship was complicated. They had only kissed maybe twice in total. Including Istanbul, so.
It wasn’t like that between them. They weren’t in love, but what they had was deeper than most friendships and anyone who knew either of them could see it. Carra was jealous at first, like, you can’t be replacing me with a bloody Spaniard, not when Mikey left too, not when-
But that wasn’t the case and Carra soon realized it as well. It was a whole different level than that, and they weren’t best friends. They, themselves, still don’t know what they were.
All they know is that they weren’t in love.
iii.
They still talk sometimes. A text or phone call here and there, nothing too meaningful. Their chats are all stereotypically awkward. (“Xabi, mate, how are you?” “Good, good, Stevie. And how is Liverpool doing?” “Same as how you left it, lad. Nothing new, really.” “And the team?” “Oh, is that what you meant? We’re doing alright, fighting for fourth.” “Good, that’s where you should be.” “We.” “What?” “Oh, nothing.”)
But whenever Xabi visits, it feels almost the same as it used to be. They laugh and joke and Xabi touches his arm over and over again. He takes a deep breath and smiles a little. “Ah, I’ve missed Liverpool’s air.”
“You mean the cold? You must be dying of heat over there, aren’t you?”
Xabi laughs, rolls his eyes in the way that suggests that he thinks Stevie is endearing. “No, I’m surviving, somehow.”
“Beckham had a hard time there, at first.”
“He was English.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Xabi laughs again. “I just mean the crispness of the air here, you know?”
No, Stevie doesn’t, because he’s never breathed in otherwise. He’s never felt different air, therefore this air just seems. Normal. Like how air should be. “Yes,” he says, because he can’t say what he’s really thinking to Xabi. Xabi would try to rationalize it and say, well, yes you have - you’ve breathed in Istanbul, Athens, Madrid, etcetera. Always so rational, that Xabi. His rationality got him to leave, after all. If he wasn’t rational, he’d have stayed at the club he loved - putting his feelings before his pride.
Or maybe it was his irrationality, in the end.
Xabi says, “Come visit us in Madrid sometime - Álvaro and I will show you a good time, I promise.”
Stevie smiles at that. “Maybe next time Fernando visits.”
“Good,” Xabi says. He raises an eyebrow a little, in an attempt to act casual. “You ever watch La Liga matches? With Pepe or Fer, or you know - when you’re bored.”
The corner of Stevie’s lips twitch. Xabi reddens a little. Stevie says, “Well, yeah, you know. When I’m bored and want to watch an inferior league, sometimes.” He smirks. He’s lying, of course, because he watches Real Madrid almost weekly - and when it’s coinciding with his own matches, he TiVo’s it.
“Bastard,” Xabi replies, but he’s grinning.
Stevie’s not a Madridista by a mile, doesn’t even mildly support them. He’s not sure why he watches, but it makes him feel better when he says it’s to see how Álvaro is doing rather than say it’s because of Xabi. He doesn’t root against or for them, but he likes watching Xabi. Sometimes he wishes they’d lose, if only Xabi can see it was a mistake going there. If only Xabi could see that Real Madrid really doesn’t deserve him. He relishes in matches that they’re stuck in a draw and Xabi looks exasperated. He thinks, there you go. He thinks, see. He thinks, you don’t want to be there as much as I don’t want you there. He thinks, if you want to end matches in bloody draws, come back. Come home.
But lo and behold, Cristiano ends up scoring in the last few minutes and all of Stevie’s hopes for Xabi’s newly discovered realization go down the drain. He always knew that he could rely on Cristiano to fuck things up.
iv.
It’s weird, with Fernando. And different. Because while he and Xabi were never physical, he and Fernando are. It makes him feel uncomfortable, although he'd never say anything to Fernando about it.
It was Fernando’s own advice to begin with: find someone else. He hadn’t known that, no, Stevie and Xabi were not like that and they never will be now, for that matter. But. It seemed like a good idea at the time and Stevie had thought, why not try it? He’d raked his mind for possible “replacers” and when he finally realized that he could just use Fernando, he nearly slapped himself for not having thought of it sooner.
It’s more of a release than anything, and neither of them even look at each other once it’s done. Stevie knows that they both don’t even like doing it much, not with each other, so he’s not sure why they do. Maybe it’s because he’s not willing to lose this too, not after he’s lost Xabi.
They talk about it one night, which is embarrassing enough in itself, since neither like talking about this. But Fernando had randomly brought up how in the last international break, Xabi had asked about Stevie. Stevie interrupts him, “We weren’t. We weren’t in love, or anything. We weren’t.”
Even to Stevie’s ears, they sound like a lie. Which is absurd, because they’re not a lie. They’re not. He and Xabi had never been In Love. They never will be. They were never given the chance.
Fernando looks at him for a long time after that. Finally, “You sure?” He earns a glare for that and chuckles a bit, getting up to pull up his pants. Stevie can’t get over the fact that Fernando seemed to know what he was talking about.
Stevie’s curious now. He asks, “What are you trying to get over?”
“What? What are you talking about?” Fernando looks at him a little too incredulously, and Stevie thinks, bingo.
“There was someone back in Madrid, wasn’t there?”
“No,” Fernando says forcefully like he’s trying to make a point. “There was-” No one, he’s about to say. He sighs. “There was,” he finishes a little defeatedly.
Stevie grins a little. “I knew it.” He says, “Who was it? Agüero?”
“What? No,” Fernando snaps, embarrassed that he’s let it slip. He wishes he had never brought up Xabi. Stupid, stupid Xabi. “He didn’t, uh,” he clears his throat. “Play for Atlético.”
Stevie raises an eyebrow before realization dawns over him. “It’s that guy you used to talk about a lot, isn’t it? The Real Madrid guy.” Fernando reddens a bit, and Stevie groans, “Oh, god. Him? Him?! Xabi’s musketeer guy?”
Fernando laughs a little fondly before he sighs wistfully. “Fuck off.”
Stevie nudges his arm, “The enemy, eh? I can’t picture me falling for a Toffee.”
“I hate you,” Fernando glares. Stevie glances at him and sees the lines etched around his eyes. Stevie thinks they’re lines of sadness, maybe. Lines of a broken heart, possibly.
“But you’re the one that left,” he murmurs, forgetting that Fernando can hear him.
Fernando scoffs a little, upset now. “Fuck you - do you think it doesn't hurt to leave?”
Stevie doesn’t know what to say to that. He can only sit there quietly until Fernando calms down. After a while, he says, “We should stop this, shouldn’t we?”
“Yeah,” Fernando murmurs. “Yeah, we should.” And then: “But - are you happy, Stevie?”
“Sure.”
He hopes that by pretending to be happy, he will truly become happy. Hopefully.
v.
It startles him one day, how little he remembers about Istanbul. He used to be able to conjure up any little detail about that day, but now. He can’t. He blames Xabi for it, and although some might say that that’s irrational, he knows it’s not. Because when Xabi left, Stevie tried blocking out everything and anything relating to Xabi.
He remembers bits and pieces. He remembers winning, of course. It’s the aftermath that he doesn’t remember; he doesn’t remember the kiss, or what Xabi said to him after the match. He doesn’t remember any of that and suddenly he’s so angry. Angry at Xabi and Real Madrid for taking Xabi and Mourinho for keeping Xabi and. He calls Xabi.
“I can’t believe you,” he spits.
And Xabi is confused, which is not really surprising considering he has no idea (nor has ever) about what’s going through Stevie’s mind. “What?”
“It’s your fucking fault. Everything is your fault,” he says.
“Stevie, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Calm down.”
“You just - you,” he stops and takes a deep breath. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Everything is your fault,” he repeats softly.
Xabi whispers, “Stevie,” and it sounds painfully broken.
“Fernando, Liverpool, Istanbul, it’s all your fault, Xabi. You fucked them all up for me and it’s all your fault, you fuck,” he’s tired. So tired, and it’s evident now, even to Xabi who is miles and miles away. He gives Xabi no time to reply before hanging up.
Fernando comes over later, after a desperate (and confused) call from Xabi. He says, “Stevie,” and frowns.
Stevie just shakes his head. “I’m not. I’m not in love with him. I’m not. We weren’t like that. We weren’t. We aren’t.”
vi.
Xabi visits after that, and the first thing Stevie says to him is, “Aren’t you too busy to be on vacation?”
Maybe he’s trying to pretend the phone call didn’t happen. He’s not sure, but whatever he was trying to do doesn’t work.
Xabi frowns a little and says, “I’m never too busy for you, Stevie.”
Stevie wants to scoff but holds back. “Oh.”
Xabi smiles a little encouragingly, like Stevie’s some fucking child. Like he needs encouragement. (Which he does.) He moves forward and tentatively runs his hand into Stevie’s hair, molding it into something he thinks is quite magnificent. He grins, “Look at you, Captain Fantastic. Looking sharp as ever.”
And suddenly Stevie wants to cry. He can’t remember the last time he had, but at this moment, he wants to. Instead he lets out a chuckle. “My hairline isn’t going to change, no matter how many times you try.”
Xabi pats his face. “I’d never try to change you, Gerrard.”
They ease into silence as they walk past the park that is just outside of Stevie’s. Xabi sits down on a bench and takes a deep breath. Stevie wonders if he’s thinking about Liverpool’s atmosphere again. He looks at him for a long time and finally says, “We had something special, didn’t we?”
Xabi smiles at that and says, “Yes,” but it wasn’t love. Right? Stevie thinks, we weren’t in love. That’s not possible, right, Xabi? We’re footballers, we’re married, we’re - men. It wasn’t love. We weren’t in love.
Right?
He says quietly, “We were - it was-” He stops and clears his throat. He shifts from one leg to the other and his voice is softer than before. “We were in love, weren’t we?” The moment it leaves his mouth, he knows it’s true.
Xabi stuffs his hands into his coat. He is quiet for a bit, until he says thoughtfully, “I think we were.”