writing: at first - xabi alonso(/steven gerrard)
sort of but not really s/x. i will write them; someday.
- again; pointless random, crap. i don't know why i bother; feelings to words? i dunno.
fic: at first | xabi alonso(/steven gerrard) | pg | five times xabi felt awkward/out of place/like he didn't understand | 800 words
at first
i.
It was sunny and the sticky heat made his shirt cling to him after hours of running and gallivanting up and down the grass out the back of the house.
His parents would host dinner once a week, for some of the neighbors in their estate and their children.
Xabi and Mikel used to organize the games; races, five a side football, just throwing a ball. John would sit in the corner and whine when he didn’t get chosen straight away, before being greeted by one of his brothers, an affectionate hand in his hair and he always forgave them.
There was one night, when the games had finished and he was sat alone on the grass as Mikel gathered the younger children for what he called ‘the warm down.’ She sat beside him on the grass and Xabi remembers the way her head fell perfectly onto his shoulder, and how her hand slipped so gracefully into his.
He couldn’t help the quake of nerves that ran through him though. Or the lump that gathered in his throat as her lips brushed gently over his. He can still recall the feel of the grass on his palms, the sickly scent of lavender perfume and the awkward, thick silences.
ii.
Xabi never realized how much one match could mean.
Not until he saw the look of disgust on Jamie’s face, or the way Steven’s shoulders drooped heavily, his neck bent and face looking down to the ground. Not until he experienced the deathly silence of Sami on the bus on the way home, or the blunt nature of Riise’s voice when he tried to make conversation.
Realizes how much this means, how every match here is a life or death, the cause of a good weekend or a bad one, a week of ridicule from workmates or a wonderous few days of gloating and basking in glory.
(He truly promises himself he will do better next time when he sees a young boy crying outside the gates, eyes swollen, shirt stained and programme crumpled in his small hands.)
iii.
“Here can you hold her for a second?”
And before Xabi knows it he has thrust the child into his arms. He gulps, a mumbling sound omitted from his throat as he watches Steven scarper after the older child.
Xabi looks down at the ball of yellow blanket sitting awkwardly in his arms, a scrunched up pink face protruding from the soft fleecy mound.
It feels oddly like all those times he tried being goalie, how foreign and strange the gloves felt on his hands.
Then just as it looks as though she is about to cry, her features relax and she settles comfortably into Xabi’s body.
He gets an odd, twisting sensation in his chest.
iv.
Xabi watches the other two, can hear their laughter and see the resounding thumps on shoulders and reassuring pats on backs though its all a million miles away to him.
Xabi watches them, and knows he shouldn’t be jealous. Has no right to be jealous; but he is.
He doesn’t think there is anything there between Steven and Danny. No.
He is jealous because Danny was one thing he will never be able to have. He can hear stories, look at pictures and see all the video clips; but he’ll never have Steven Gerrard’s past.
(There are odd reassuring moments like that night when Steven is pressed up against his back and his mouth is safely embedded in his hair and Xabi can reassure himself he has one thing Danny Murphy might not ever have again; Steven’s future.
Though, not even Xabi himself can say he has that.)
v.
It’s been years since he’s done this properly.
He walks down the beach, shoes laced together and dangling from his right hand, bare feet leaving prints in the sand.
He breathes in, can almost taste the faint salt in his mouth, a delicate breeze rattling through newly shorn hair.
He sits down, leans back and looks to the sky. Clear and blue and he expects the rain but it never comes.
(It always rained back home when I went to the beach.
Home. When did he start referring to back there as home?)
He hears rapid spanish whispers from behind his back, realizes a few kids in burgundy and blue shirts have recognized him. Their eyes wide, smiles the same and Xabi nods politely and makes his way further down.
Didn’t realize how hard it would be to adjust back into all this.
He thought he could just slip back into late meal times, and afternoon sleeps.
Recognizes that it’s hard to fit into a place; you never belonged too in the first place.
- again; pointless random, crap. i don't know why i bother; feelings to words? i dunno.
fic: at first | xabi alonso(/steven gerrard) | pg | five times xabi felt awkward/out of place/like he didn't understand | 800 words
at first
i.
It was sunny and the sticky heat made his shirt cling to him after hours of running and gallivanting up and down the grass out the back of the house.
His parents would host dinner once a week, for some of the neighbors in their estate and their children.
Xabi and Mikel used to organize the games; races, five a side football, just throwing a ball. John would sit in the corner and whine when he didn’t get chosen straight away, before being greeted by one of his brothers, an affectionate hand in his hair and he always forgave them.
There was one night, when the games had finished and he was sat alone on the grass as Mikel gathered the younger children for what he called ‘the warm down.’ She sat beside him on the grass and Xabi remembers the way her head fell perfectly onto his shoulder, and how her hand slipped so gracefully into his.
He couldn’t help the quake of nerves that ran through him though. Or the lump that gathered in his throat as her lips brushed gently over his. He can still recall the feel of the grass on his palms, the sickly scent of lavender perfume and the awkward, thick silences.
ii.
Xabi never realized how much one match could mean.
Not until he saw the look of disgust on Jamie’s face, or the way Steven’s shoulders drooped heavily, his neck bent and face looking down to the ground. Not until he experienced the deathly silence of Sami on the bus on the way home, or the blunt nature of Riise’s voice when he tried to make conversation.
Realizes how much this means, how every match here is a life or death, the cause of a good weekend or a bad one, a week of ridicule from workmates or a wonderous few days of gloating and basking in glory.
(He truly promises himself he will do better next time when he sees a young boy crying outside the gates, eyes swollen, shirt stained and programme crumpled in his small hands.)
iii.
“Here can you hold her for a second?”
And before Xabi knows it he has thrust the child into his arms. He gulps, a mumbling sound omitted from his throat as he watches Steven scarper after the older child.
Xabi looks down at the ball of yellow blanket sitting awkwardly in his arms, a scrunched up pink face protruding from the soft fleecy mound.
It feels oddly like all those times he tried being goalie, how foreign and strange the gloves felt on his hands.
Then just as it looks as though she is about to cry, her features relax and she settles comfortably into Xabi’s body.
He gets an odd, twisting sensation in his chest.
iv.
Xabi watches the other two, can hear their laughter and see the resounding thumps on shoulders and reassuring pats on backs though its all a million miles away to him.
Xabi watches them, and knows he shouldn’t be jealous. Has no right to be jealous; but he is.
He doesn’t think there is anything there between Steven and Danny. No.
He is jealous because Danny was one thing he will never be able to have. He can hear stories, look at pictures and see all the video clips; but he’ll never have Steven Gerrard’s past.
(There are odd reassuring moments like that night when Steven is pressed up against his back and his mouth is safely embedded in his hair and Xabi can reassure himself he has one thing Danny Murphy might not ever have again; Steven’s future.
Though, not even Xabi himself can say he has that.)
v.
It’s been years since he’s done this properly.
He walks down the beach, shoes laced together and dangling from his right hand, bare feet leaving prints in the sand.
He breathes in, can almost taste the faint salt in his mouth, a delicate breeze rattling through newly shorn hair.
He sits down, leans back and looks to the sky. Clear and blue and he expects the rain but it never comes.
(It always rained back home when I went to the beach.
Home. When did he start referring to back there as home?)
He hears rapid spanish whispers from behind his back, realizes a few kids in burgundy and blue shirts have recognized him. Their eyes wide, smiles the same and Xabi nods politely and makes his way further down.
Didn’t realize how hard it would be to adjust back into all this.
He thought he could just slip back into late meal times, and afternoon sleeps.
Recognizes that it’s hard to fit into a place; you never belonged too in the first place.