more 5 things!
Just one for now. And also because I need to get my mind off the other thing I'm supposed to be writing. And whoa, it's been more than two weeks since I last posted something :O
For gullwatch, as always:
5 phone conversations Stevie and Xabi have had.
1.
The wood of the bar is freshly polished. The polish isn't even -- there are little nicks and ruts where the wood has been scarred and dimpled. Xabi runs his fingernails over these, allowing his hand to slow down a little with every nick his nails get momentarily caught in. He is aware of Carra's eyes on his hand, can feel his furrowed, hot stare so he stops, and picks up his drink. The side of the glass is slick with condensation, condensation that forms a glistening layer of wetness on the tips of his fingers.
(For some reason, Xabi does not like drinking from an undisturbed glass. He sets it back down on the bar.)
He throws Stevie a look -- Alex was in his lap and was she nibbling on his ear, how could he let her do that to him in public, did he even care that it made him look cheap -- but looks away just as quickly. Then he scans the dusty room to make it look like Stevie was not the only person he was interested in looking at.
This is the first time Xabi gets jealous.
He pays for his drink, and leaves quietly. He is almost home when his cell phone rings.
"Xabi. You okay? You left real early."
Xabi tenses up, finds it impossible that he could have slept with a man that could not even tell his mood.
"I was tired."
"That's bullshit and you know it, Xabi."
"Stevie, I am fine. You and Alex have a good night." He hangs up.
The next day, at training, Xabi is the same, dependable, constant person everyone knows him to be. He cannot find it in himself to be angry at a man who loves the mother of his children, the woman who is almost his wife. He knows that even though he may mean a lot to Stevie, there are some things that he can't give him.
2.
"San Sebastian is beautiful, Stevie."
"I can't come. I'm sorry."
Xabi doesn't tell him about the small boulevards and alleys, little nooks that he wouldn't be surprised if he could only find once. He forgets to mention the swell of the sea, the way he sits on the pier with his shoes carelessly tossed beside him -- the way he lets the spray dry on his feet, and doesn't bother with brushing off the powdered sea salt on his soles or even putting his shoes back on before he walks to some anonymous bistro for a cup of opulent, overwhelming coffee. He doesn't talk of ornate streetlamps, the smell of hot bread from the bakery a block away, the dizzying assault on his senses.
He knows Stevie has other things to do. Alex has no interest in going to Spain right now, not when their friend was getting married in two days. Stevie could never go to a place as important to him as San Sebastian without his daughters, and they don't deserve to be plucked from their little lives. Stevie also has an agent to remind him about photo shoots, interviews -- conveniently arranged so that the world could squeeze the most out of Steven George Gerrard in one day -- prior commitments, obligations.
Xabi isn't proud of himself for the way he pities Stevie. The way he considers himself that much more privileged for the life he gets to live, for that place he gets to tactfully retreat to when England and its cloying grey starts to become the only thing he can see whenever he blinks.
3.
Steven Gerrard can't sleep.
The girls have been put to bed (three fairy tales for one, a cuddle for the other, and feathery pecks on the nose for both), the leftovers from dinner have been cleared away (Stevie had sat waiting for the dishwasher to stop its annoying, mechanical whirring) and Alex was out with her friends, for a night on the town. Stevie had balanced Lexie on his hip as Alex powdered and curled and crimped -- he did not tell her that her perfume reminded him of the time he had taken his three favourite girls to the park, and Lilly-Ella had tried to eat an acorn, and when the air seemed to be tinted with orangey-gold that made it look surreal, artificially perfect; the time when form crises, pulled thighs and angry, incensed fans who could never understand what it meant to him to play for this club seemed to hold no real meaning in his life.
He hated sleeping alone in a bed for two.
His hands moved on their own, picking up his phone from the night-table and dialling a number that had burned its sequence into his fingertips.
"'Lo?" Xabi's voice was thick and slurred. Stevie could not make himself feel guilty for waking him up.
"Xabi."
"Stevie?" (Why are you calling me so late? Has something happened?) A bit clearer now. Stevie could see him blink the sleep from his eyes, could just about see him frown slightly.
"Yeah. I couldn't sleep."
"So you felt the need to make sure that I couldn't sleep either?" Another question. Stevie loved Xabi when he was just waking up -- it took him that much longer to wrap his mind around things, he grumbled and whinged harmlessly. There was none of that certain composure -- born of giving too many interviews, deflecting too many probing questions and playing too many 'crucial, all-important, must-win' games -- he exhibited to the rest of the world.
Stevie smiled. A small, amused smile.
4.
Both their countries have failed to deliver on their promises. They have made fools of themselves on, oh, only the most public, most crucial stage they would have to perform on in their footballing careers. Newspapers inform them that they are jokes, a smear on the reputation of their respective countries. They mock and rave, dismiss as rich bastards those they hailed mere days ago.
Stevie does not know what to say to Xabi. Saying nothing would be better than a few carefully arranged, choreographed words that would only ridicule this moment.
On the 1st of July, he goes to sleep listening to Xabi's even breathing, from another part of the world. The repititive comfort from hearing him inhale, and then breathe out calms him. Just before he is fully asleep, he sees in his head Xabi's head tucked into his pillow, and sees the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheeks. His lips are slightly parted, and he can see the smallest portion of his two front teeth.
When he wakes up the next morning, his phone battery is almost flat. It lasts long enough for him to fire off a quick message to Xabi, thanking him for a peaceful night.
5.
"And you have to give Lexie her milk in about an hour, or she'll be hissy."
"I will."
"If she gets hungry, there're some apple cubes in the fridge."
"I don't think she'll be hungry anytime soon."
"Why?"
"She was eating something off the floor a while ago, ants I think --"
"You let my daughter eat some fucking bugs?"
"Stevie. My parents let me eat ants. They're all protein. They won't kill her, you know."
"Fuck, Xabi, I'm never letting you bloody babysit my daughters ever again."
(Xabi will always be the first person Stevie calls when he needs someone to watch the girls in a pinch. They love him. He lets them jump on his knees and eat Nutella off a spoon. He tells them funny stories about their Daddy. Stevie also knows that Xabi will treat his daughters like they were his own children, like goddesses. If Xabi says the ants are edible, so be it. But that doesn't mean that the first thing he did when he got home was not to make Lexie promise never to eat "those little black dots".)
For gullwatch, as always:
5 phone conversations Stevie and Xabi have had.
1.
The wood of the bar is freshly polished. The polish isn't even -- there are little nicks and ruts where the wood has been scarred and dimpled. Xabi runs his fingernails over these, allowing his hand to slow down a little with every nick his nails get momentarily caught in. He is aware of Carra's eyes on his hand, can feel his furrowed, hot stare so he stops, and picks up his drink. The side of the glass is slick with condensation, condensation that forms a glistening layer of wetness on the tips of his fingers.
(For some reason, Xabi does not like drinking from an undisturbed glass. He sets it back down on the bar.)
He throws Stevie a look -- Alex was in his lap and was she nibbling on his ear, how could he let her do that to him in public, did he even care that it made him look cheap -- but looks away just as quickly. Then he scans the dusty room to make it look like Stevie was not the only person he was interested in looking at.
This is the first time Xabi gets jealous.
He pays for his drink, and leaves quietly. He is almost home when his cell phone rings.
"Xabi. You okay? You left real early."
Xabi tenses up, finds it impossible that he could have slept with a man that could not even tell his mood.
"I was tired."
"That's bullshit and you know it, Xabi."
"Stevie, I am fine. You and Alex have a good night." He hangs up.
The next day, at training, Xabi is the same, dependable, constant person everyone knows him to be. He cannot find it in himself to be angry at a man who loves the mother of his children, the woman who is almost his wife. He knows that even though he may mean a lot to Stevie, there are some things that he can't give him.
2.
"San Sebastian is beautiful, Stevie."
"I can't come. I'm sorry."
Xabi doesn't tell him about the small boulevards and alleys, little nooks that he wouldn't be surprised if he could only find once. He forgets to mention the swell of the sea, the way he sits on the pier with his shoes carelessly tossed beside him -- the way he lets the spray dry on his feet, and doesn't bother with brushing off the powdered sea salt on his soles or even putting his shoes back on before he walks to some anonymous bistro for a cup of opulent, overwhelming coffee. He doesn't talk of ornate streetlamps, the smell of hot bread from the bakery a block away, the dizzying assault on his senses.
He knows Stevie has other things to do. Alex has no interest in going to Spain right now, not when their friend was getting married in two days. Stevie could never go to a place as important to him as San Sebastian without his daughters, and they don't deserve to be plucked from their little lives. Stevie also has an agent to remind him about photo shoots, interviews -- conveniently arranged so that the world could squeeze the most out of Steven George Gerrard in one day -- prior commitments, obligations.
Xabi isn't proud of himself for the way he pities Stevie. The way he considers himself that much more privileged for the life he gets to live, for that place he gets to tactfully retreat to when England and its cloying grey starts to become the only thing he can see whenever he blinks.
3.
Steven Gerrard can't sleep.
The girls have been put to bed (three fairy tales for one, a cuddle for the other, and feathery pecks on the nose for both), the leftovers from dinner have been cleared away (Stevie had sat waiting for the dishwasher to stop its annoying, mechanical whirring) and Alex was out with her friends, for a night on the town. Stevie had balanced Lexie on his hip as Alex powdered and curled and crimped -- he did not tell her that her perfume reminded him of the time he had taken his three favourite girls to the park, and Lilly-Ella had tried to eat an acorn, and when the air seemed to be tinted with orangey-gold that made it look surreal, artificially perfect; the time when form crises, pulled thighs and angry, incensed fans who could never understand what it meant to him to play for this club seemed to hold no real meaning in his life.
He hated sleeping alone in a bed for two.
His hands moved on their own, picking up his phone from the night-table and dialling a number that had burned its sequence into his fingertips.
"'Lo?" Xabi's voice was thick and slurred. Stevie could not make himself feel guilty for waking him up.
"Xabi."
"Stevie?" (Why are you calling me so late? Has something happened?) A bit clearer now. Stevie could see him blink the sleep from his eyes, could just about see him frown slightly.
"Yeah. I couldn't sleep."
"So you felt the need to make sure that I couldn't sleep either?" Another question. Stevie loved Xabi when he was just waking up -- it took him that much longer to wrap his mind around things, he grumbled and whinged harmlessly. There was none of that certain composure -- born of giving too many interviews, deflecting too many probing questions and playing too many 'crucial, all-important, must-win' games -- he exhibited to the rest of the world.
Stevie smiled. A small, amused smile.
4.
Both their countries have failed to deliver on their promises. They have made fools of themselves on, oh, only the most public, most crucial stage they would have to perform on in their footballing careers. Newspapers inform them that they are jokes, a smear on the reputation of their respective countries. They mock and rave, dismiss as rich bastards those they hailed mere days ago.
Stevie does not know what to say to Xabi. Saying nothing would be better than a few carefully arranged, choreographed words that would only ridicule this moment.
On the 1st of July, he goes to sleep listening to Xabi's even breathing, from another part of the world. The repititive comfort from hearing him inhale, and then breathe out calms him. Just before he is fully asleep, he sees in his head Xabi's head tucked into his pillow, and sees the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheeks. His lips are slightly parted, and he can see the smallest portion of his two front teeth.
When he wakes up the next morning, his phone battery is almost flat. It lasts long enough for him to fire off a quick message to Xabi, thanking him for a peaceful night.
5.
"And you have to give Lexie her milk in about an hour, or she'll be hissy."
"I will."
"If she gets hungry, there're some apple cubes in the fridge."
"I don't think she'll be hungry anytime soon."
"Why?"
"She was eating something off the floor a while ago, ants I think --"
"You let my daughter eat some fucking bugs?"
"Stevie. My parents let me eat ants. They're all protein. They won't kill her, you know."
"Fuck, Xabi, I'm never letting you bloody babysit my daughters ever again."
(Xabi will always be the first person Stevie calls when he needs someone to watch the girls in a pinch. They love him. He lets them jump on his knees and eat Nutella off a spoon. He tells them funny stories about their Daddy. Stevie also knows that Xabi will treat his daughters like they were his own children, like goddesses. If Xabi says the ants are edible, so be it. But that doesn't mean that the first thing he did when he got home was not to make Lexie promise never to eat "those little black dots".)