nothing left to lose (part 1)
So this is my first fanfic ever and who better to write about that my favourite bromance Stevie G and Xabi Alonso. Hope you guys like it! <3
He held his breath, thinking that maybe somehow if time stopped moving, if he could just freeze the world and rewind to that night when he had screamed at Xabi and take back all the words he had said, erase the look on Xabi’s face that kept flashing before his eyes, the Spanish player wouldn’t have left.
It had been after the game against Bolton, the first time he’d stepped onto the pitch since his injury six weeks before. Watching the team - his team’s performance over the past month had been painful. Every time they lost it seemed to dig a deeper hole in their confidence, he could see it in their faces, could feel it during the training sessions in the morning. And even worse, he could feel it from the fans. As he ran to his team’s side of the field he noticed the stands were more empty than usual. For a brief moment he felt anger sweep through him but then he knew he had to brush it off. He blocked everything out, and focused on the game. When the whistle blew, Steven had walked off happy that they had won, but tired.
Back in his hotel room, he took off his soiled jersey and stepped into the shower, letting the warm water trickle down his body and create steamy circles on the mirror as he closed his eyes and replayed moments of the game in his head. The goal by Nando had been important. It seemed like the boy had started doubting himself and his ability recently although Steven knew he had something special. He knew the goal had elevated his confidence, and that was definitely a good thing.
Turning around in the shower, his eyes snapped open when he heard a knock on his door. He let the water rain over him for another ten seconds, then turned off the taps and pulled a towel around his waist. He walked to the door, drops of water dripping down to the cream coloured carpet, glancing at the clock that stood beside his bed on the way - it was 11.35pm - and opened the door.
‘Hello?’ he said when he saw nobody. He was just about to shut the door when a familiar voice called out to him.
‘Steven?’ He knew who it was before he saw the six-foot tall Spaniard walk out from the corner a few metres away. Instantly his heart stopped as he watched Xabi, clad in a white t-shirt, jeans and a black sweater approach him, a slight smile on his lovely face.
He backed into his room quickly, not wanting anyone to see Xabi. As the midfielder stepped into the room he quickly shut the door behind him.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he asked, his voice stern. The smile from Xabi’s face disappeared.
‘I watched the game, Steven. You were good, so good. You were.. what do they call it?’ his forehead creased in thought. ‘Amazing. You were amazing.’
‘Fuck, Xabs, I told you I don’t want to see you. Just.. just leave.’
‘Steven..’ he started, but he could not find the words to finish. The insensitive tone of the Scouser’s voice was like a knife through his heart. ‘I just came to..’
'To what, Xabs? To fuck my life up again? I think you’ve done that enough.’
At these words Xabi immediately regretted coming down to Liverpool. He had hoped Steven would be happy to see him. It was a new year after all. He knew the last time they’d left things at a bad place, but he thought maybe by now Steven would have forgiven him. He looked down at the carpet, willing the tears that had started to well up in his eyes to go away.
‘I’ve had enough, Xabs. I can’t do this anymore. It’s all so fucking fucked up, and it’s tiring and it’s painful. I’ve just.. I’m done. What we have - what we had, Xabs, wasn’t real. We were stupid, I was stupid. I should never have allowed myself to let it happen. It was all a fucking big mistake, Xabs. That’s all it was.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Xabi looked back into the bright blue eyes, the same eyes that had stared lovingly at him, the same eyes he would wake up to in the mornings following the nights they spent together that now seemed cold and hostile. He curled his fingers up into a fist, trying to hold back the emotions that threatened to spill from his lips. ‘I love you, Steven. I’m sorry I fucked things up. I.. I could never stop loving you. Even if I tried.’
‘I.. Fuck. Just.. leave, Xabi.’
And Steven had watched without a word as the midfielder turned and started to walk away, his feet heavy against the carpeted floor of the dimly lit hallway. It baffled him, the way his love for the man was so closely intertwined with hate. It was so difficult to pull the two emotions apart. So hard to remember the kisses they had shared - first soft and shy when they were still exploring their feelings, exploring each other’s bodies and then passionate and rough when they’d gotten comfortable with each other, without remembering the quarrels - the raised voices and angry glares, the weeks, sometimes months, without talking, the lonely feeling that engulfed him every time Xabi left, the way he wanted to scream his heart out although he knew nobody would hear him.
So hard to think of the way it felt to wake up to see Xabi beside him, tangled in sheets and covers, his eyes the most intense shade of brown, his voice still drunk with sleep, without thinking of how difficult it was to wake up every morning knowing it was going to be another dreadful day. So hard to remember having the brilliant midfielder on his team, and all the times they’d won, and also lost together, without remembering that he had left them, left him, that he was now in another club, eight hundred miles away.
Now Steven sat in his bed, Alex fast asleep beside him, watching his lover’s team play with the television on mute so as not to wake his wife up. He loved her, or at least he thought he did. He liked having her around, the way she knew what was on his mind before he said it, the way she was understanding and gentle and kind, the way she was such a good mother to his children. He didn’t want her to find out about him and Xabi; he knew she would be terribly upset, he knew she would probably act like it didn’t matter, and put up a brave front although deep inside she would be crushed. He could not bear the thought of hurting her so badly, and making her cry.
That was love wasn’t it? Wanting to prevent somebody from hurting, wanting to protect her from feeling the kind of anguish he’d been through? Steven couldn’t decide if it was love, or just the guilt from having done what he had done.
His eyes followed the Spanish footballer across the screen. Xabi wasn’t playing very well. He looked sloppy on the field, and he’d let the Getafe midfielders slip past him several times already. In fact, Getafe looked more threatening than did Real. For the team that was in the second position in the league, Real was playing rather poorly. Steven wondered if what he had said two nights ago was the explanation for Xabi’s poor performance. For a brief moment he revelled in the fact that he would have such a great impact on the man, and then realised he was finding pleasure in the midfielder’s pain.
Suddenly it dawned upon him that he really loved Xabi, that no matter how many times Xabi had walked away, he would always take him back eventually. That his frustration, no matter how immense, would never overshadow his love for the man. This realisation scared him; he could not believe how weak he was, to have allowed this to happen, to have allowed himself to open up his heart wholly when he’d sworn to love and cherish Alex for the rest of their lives to a stranger who had walked into his team, completely unaware of the mess he’d cause in Steven’s life.
He watched as Ronaldo skilfully put in a third goal for the team in the 57th minute, and then as Getafe scored another five minutes before the whistle blew. Then he switched off the television, looked over to see if Alex was still asleep and pressed the speed dial button on his phone. Four letters popped up, prominent against the bright white background: Xabs. Steven stared at the name until his eyes became a blur.
He held his breath, thinking that maybe somehow if time stopped moving, if he could just freeze the world and rewind to that night when he had screamed at Xabi and take back all the words he had said, erase the look on Xabi’s face that kept flashing before his eyes, the Spanish player wouldn’t have left.
It had been after the game against Bolton, the first time he’d stepped onto the pitch since his injury six weeks before. Watching the team - his team’s performance over the past month had been painful. Every time they lost it seemed to dig a deeper hole in their confidence, he could see it in their faces, could feel it during the training sessions in the morning. And even worse, he could feel it from the fans. As he ran to his team’s side of the field he noticed the stands were more empty than usual. For a brief moment he felt anger sweep through him but then he knew he had to brush it off. He blocked everything out, and focused on the game. When the whistle blew, Steven had walked off happy that they had won, but tired.
Back in his hotel room, he took off his soiled jersey and stepped into the shower, letting the warm water trickle down his body and create steamy circles on the mirror as he closed his eyes and replayed moments of the game in his head. The goal by Nando had been important. It seemed like the boy had started doubting himself and his ability recently although Steven knew he had something special. He knew the goal had elevated his confidence, and that was definitely a good thing.
Turning around in the shower, his eyes snapped open when he heard a knock on his door. He let the water rain over him for another ten seconds, then turned off the taps and pulled a towel around his waist. He walked to the door, drops of water dripping down to the cream coloured carpet, glancing at the clock that stood beside his bed on the way - it was 11.35pm - and opened the door.
‘Hello?’ he said when he saw nobody. He was just about to shut the door when a familiar voice called out to him.
‘Steven?’ He knew who it was before he saw the six-foot tall Spaniard walk out from the corner a few metres away. Instantly his heart stopped as he watched Xabi, clad in a white t-shirt, jeans and a black sweater approach him, a slight smile on his lovely face.
He backed into his room quickly, not wanting anyone to see Xabi. As the midfielder stepped into the room he quickly shut the door behind him.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he asked, his voice stern. The smile from Xabi’s face disappeared.
‘I watched the game, Steven. You were good, so good. You were.. what do they call it?’ his forehead creased in thought. ‘Amazing. You were amazing.’
‘Fuck, Xabs, I told you I don’t want to see you. Just.. just leave.’
‘Steven..’ he started, but he could not find the words to finish. The insensitive tone of the Scouser’s voice was like a knife through his heart. ‘I just came to..’
'To what, Xabs? To fuck my life up again? I think you’ve done that enough.’
At these words Xabi immediately regretted coming down to Liverpool. He had hoped Steven would be happy to see him. It was a new year after all. He knew the last time they’d left things at a bad place, but he thought maybe by now Steven would have forgiven him. He looked down at the carpet, willing the tears that had started to well up in his eyes to go away.
‘I’ve had enough, Xabs. I can’t do this anymore. It’s all so fucking fucked up, and it’s tiring and it’s painful. I’ve just.. I’m done. What we have - what we had, Xabs, wasn’t real. We were stupid, I was stupid. I should never have allowed myself to let it happen. It was all a fucking big mistake, Xabs. That’s all it was.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Xabi looked back into the bright blue eyes, the same eyes that had stared lovingly at him, the same eyes he would wake up to in the mornings following the nights they spent together that now seemed cold and hostile. He curled his fingers up into a fist, trying to hold back the emotions that threatened to spill from his lips. ‘I love you, Steven. I’m sorry I fucked things up. I.. I could never stop loving you. Even if I tried.’
‘I.. Fuck. Just.. leave, Xabi.’
And Steven had watched without a word as the midfielder turned and started to walk away, his feet heavy against the carpeted floor of the dimly lit hallway. It baffled him, the way his love for the man was so closely intertwined with hate. It was so difficult to pull the two emotions apart. So hard to remember the kisses they had shared - first soft and shy when they were still exploring their feelings, exploring each other’s bodies and then passionate and rough when they’d gotten comfortable with each other, without remembering the quarrels - the raised voices and angry glares, the weeks, sometimes months, without talking, the lonely feeling that engulfed him every time Xabi left, the way he wanted to scream his heart out although he knew nobody would hear him.
So hard to think of the way it felt to wake up to see Xabi beside him, tangled in sheets and covers, his eyes the most intense shade of brown, his voice still drunk with sleep, without thinking of how difficult it was to wake up every morning knowing it was going to be another dreadful day. So hard to remember having the brilliant midfielder on his team, and all the times they’d won, and also lost together, without remembering that he had left them, left him, that he was now in another club, eight hundred miles away.
Now Steven sat in his bed, Alex fast asleep beside him, watching his lover’s team play with the television on mute so as not to wake his wife up. He loved her, or at least he thought he did. He liked having her around, the way she knew what was on his mind before he said it, the way she was understanding and gentle and kind, the way she was such a good mother to his children. He didn’t want her to find out about him and Xabi; he knew she would be terribly upset, he knew she would probably act like it didn’t matter, and put up a brave front although deep inside she would be crushed. He could not bear the thought of hurting her so badly, and making her cry.
That was love wasn’t it? Wanting to prevent somebody from hurting, wanting to protect her from feeling the kind of anguish he’d been through? Steven couldn’t decide if it was love, or just the guilt from having done what he had done.
His eyes followed the Spanish footballer across the screen. Xabi wasn’t playing very well. He looked sloppy on the field, and he’d let the Getafe midfielders slip past him several times already. In fact, Getafe looked more threatening than did Real. For the team that was in the second position in the league, Real was playing rather poorly. Steven wondered if what he had said two nights ago was the explanation for Xabi’s poor performance. For a brief moment he revelled in the fact that he would have such a great impact on the man, and then realised he was finding pleasure in the midfielder’s pain.
Suddenly it dawned upon him that he really loved Xabi, that no matter how many times Xabi had walked away, he would always take him back eventually. That his frustration, no matter how immense, would never overshadow his love for the man. This realisation scared him; he could not believe how weak he was, to have allowed this to happen, to have allowed himself to open up his heart wholly when he’d sworn to love and cherish Alex for the rest of their lives to a stranger who had walked into his team, completely unaware of the mess he’d cause in Steven’s life.
He watched as Ronaldo skilfully put in a third goal for the team in the 57th minute, and then as Getafe scored another five minutes before the whistle blew. Then he switched off the television, looked over to see if Alex was still asleep and pressed the speed dial button on his phone. Four letters popped up, prominent against the bright white background: Xabs. Steven stared at the name until his eyes became a blur.