The Teachable Imposture of Always; Gerrard/Alonso; R.
Title: The Teachable Imposture of Always
Characters: Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso
Prompt: 073.Light.
Word Count: 2240
Disclaimer: one word: fiction.
Rating: R
Summary: Part 2 of Fundamental Forces.
Author's Notes: "I made you breakfast, darling" from She's The Man. Title from the e.e. cummings poem. for parvardigar, again.
"Let's go out," Steven says, and by 'out' he means 'to the cafeteria'. He is young and reckless and carefree and stupid, with the occasional epiphany of clarity in his football-wrought brain.
"No, let's just. You know. Er." Xabi answers; he's trying very hard to read, but so far all he's read has been "'And what if I run away?' asked Raskolnikov with a strange smile. " Xabi is quiet and jaded and thoughtful and most of the time, eloquent.
"Why not?"
Xabi puts down his book. "I don't really…" He picks at the patterns of the duvet. "You don't have to go around with me and stuff, you know. I'm not your girlfriend or whatever."
Steven chuckles and butts his head against Xabi's chest. He's like a puppy, sometimes.
They move about for a moment. "Of course not," Steven says, voice muffled. He rests his eyes against the sharp part of Xabi's shoulder and presses his nose on Xabi's chest.
"Of course you're not my girlfriend." Steven pinches Xabi's forearm for no reason at all, other than just needing to move all the time. "First of all, you're a boy."
Xabi smiles. Steven lifts his head and presses their foreheads together. "Second of all, you're always tops." He laughs, and Xabi looks away. How Steven is so comfortable with his new found non-heterosexuality, Xabi will never know.
Steven presses his lips against Xabi's-these are the moments he remembers the most. They are soft and silent, and Steven feels Xabi's calloused fingers move up his chest and Xabi feels Steven's heartbeat with his fingertips. They kiss and kiss and kiss and there are little bursts of laughter from the boys out on the quad, and they don't know and they will never know-the white sheets are wrapped around Xabi's legs and Steven's lips are swollen.
All they can do is smile.
"Isn't Carra having a party tonight?" Xabi asks, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. (This feels so vulgar, he thinks.)
"Yeah, but I don't really want to go," Steven absently rubs the tips of his fingers together.
"Why not?" Xabi stands up on his bed and stretches.
"Homework," Steven says quietly.
"What?"
Steven clears his throat. "Homework."
Xabi stares at him. "Are you serious?"
"No," Steven is a mix of disgusted (with himself) and surprised (with himself).
"Steven Gerrard, have my honest, responsible, good student-ly ways rubbed off on you?"
"That seems to be the case," Steven says. He doesn't know how he feels, really. A bit lost. Disgruntled, maybe.
Xabi laughs and hugs Steven. "I have fulfilled my purpose!" He says, arms around Steven's neck.
There is one class Steven will never admit he likes, and that class is Art class. He's never been any good at it.
He's never been any good at a great many things (football obviously excluded) but he was very, very good at trying to be.
Art was no exception. He will never be able to create a distinct difference between foreground and background (just as half the losers in the class will never be able to score a goal) but he is very good at the attempt, and that's what matters (most of the time).
Their art teacher tells them to draw what they see when they wake up in the morning.
Steven thinks of the window, of the quadrangle, of the curtains and the gold ropes. (He thinks of Xabi, his eyes, and the dark circles around them.)
After four years of being five minutes early for his morning class, Xabi wakes up twenty minutes after his alarm clock rings. He sits up with a jolt, rubbing the sleep he's not used to getting from his eyes.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck shit what the hell, he thinks, and there are alarm clocks ringing in his head and oh my god, I am late for Spanish history.
He tumbles out of bed and pulls on a pair of pants and then he realizes that something is taped to his chest. It's a pack of cereal.
Xabi pulls the door to his Spanish history class open and stands on the threshold, awaiting certain doom. He has never been late for anything in his life.
Mr. Benitez stops from writing about the Civil war and looks directly at Xabi.
"Ah," he says, putting down the piece of chalk turning to face Xabi. "Just the boy I wanted to see." The entire class looks up from their books and notebooks. This is all a bad dream, Xabi thinks desperately to himself.
"I." He doesn't know what to say. There is no real excuse to being late for class when studying in a boarding school. You can't say you were caught in traffic because there is no traffic.
His tie is loose, his shirt almost untucked. His pen is bleeding continuously into his hand.
Xabi's day could not have started any worse.
The class remains silent.
"Take your seat," Mr. Benitez says coldly, and Xabi shuffles towards his seat in the middle of the classroom. His classmate's eyes follow him, and when the period (finally, finally, finally) ends, Xabi lags behind to apologize (profusely).
"Xabier," Mr. Benitez says without looking up from grading papers.
"Uh, sir," Xabi starts hesitantly. He's always been on good terms with Mr. Benitez, but only because he's never gotten the chance to be on Mr. Benitez' bad side. "I'm so sorry that I was late today, it will never happen again sir, I promise."
"Better keep to it, Xabi. Not late, ever again, you understand?"
"Very much sir, yes I do understand." Xabi realizes that he's becoming too affirmative about everything.
"All right, you can go."
Xabi feels a bit shocked at how lightly he's being treated, then realizes that he is being treated lightly. He almost runs out of the room but remembers that he had to have some semblance of dignity in front of teachers, so he walks out briskly then runs all the way to Literature class at the end of the hall.
Steven's in the shower when Xabi gets back from his meeting. He skipped dinner (again-it's something he's become used to) and his stomach lets out a low grumble.
The setting sun casts a dull yellow glow on the room and Xabi wearily takes off his jacket. His fingers are an off shade of violet, thanks to his bleeding pen. He flips open his to-do list.
He sinks down onto his bed, sighing. Another one of those nights, then, he thinks forlornly. Steven emerges from the shower, grinning.
"Hello," he says, pulling on a shirt.
Xabi doesn't look up from picking at the imaginary dirt on his trousers.
"Not all right, are you?" Steven asks. It's obvious that he's used to how Xabi is acting-anyone else would show extreme concern.
Xabi sucks on his bottom lip.
"A kiss to make it better?" Steven tries.
Xabi stands up, stretches. He smiles (but it never reaches his eyes).
"Sorry, just had to reboot there. Slight malfunction."
"Damn viruses, can get them off anything," Steven smirks, patting Xabi's cheek. "Sure you don't need to recharge, or something? I'm running out of computer jargon."
Xabi scoffs. "My batteries are eternal."
"They are not you were late today, don't think I didn't hear about it."
"I was mentioned in your social circle?" Xabi looks at Steven, wide-eyed and sarcastic.
"You us sound like a bunch of birds," Steven remarks.
Xabi opens his mouth, and then shuts it. "I'm going to go do some work now."
Steven goes to sleep at 10 (lights out) and wakes up at 3am. Xabi's head is resting on his laptop. Steven watches him for a moment, the dull white glow of the monitor illuminating the little bumps and dark spots on Xabi's face. Steven gets up.
"Hey," he shakes Xabi softly. "Wake up."
Xabi cracks an eye open and glares at Steven accusingly. "Go away," he says, or tries to.
Steven's eyebrows rise. He gently pulls Xabi up and pushes him toward his bed.
"You don't always need to do work 3 days in advance, you know."
Xabi is ready with a sarcastic remark but Steven places his hand on his mouth.
"Enough."
Xabi lies down on his bed and watches Steven. "I don't need you to tuck me in to bed, thanks."
Steven smirks and shakes his head; You don't understand, do you? He seems to say. He lies down beside Xabi and kisses Xabi's cheek. "You really ought to shave," Steven says, and Xabi gives a half-hearted smile before falling asleep.
*
The weeks progress and they see less and less of each other.
Xabi thinks, it's all right, it's not like we ever saw much of each other anyway.
Steven leaves post-its on Xabi's chest every morning (he never wakes him up, though).
The weekend comes. Steven has a game, and Xabi has meetings upon meetings. They see each other across the cafeteria and force smiles.
Steven loses the game.
Xabi prints out the wrong proposal, reminders and schedules.
Xabi's typing on his laptop (when is he ever doing anything else these days? Steven asks himself) when Steven arrives from the game. Xabi's still typing after Steven finishes his shower.
"You're still here," Steven says for lack of anything else to say. He's tired and angry.
"Yes, I am." Xabi answers, he doesn't turn to face Steven. Doesn't even shrug. He is sick of everyone's shit.
They are quiet.
"I need a drink,"
"I need a cigarette." They say it at the same time; smirk at the irony everything. Student council president and football captain, needing their vices.
They lock themselves in the bathroom, and Steven drinks his Grey Goose and Xabi smokes his Marlboros.
(They kiss and pretend to know what one another's vices mean-and they're addicted, addicted to sin, alcohol, cigarettes and each other.)
*
"What is wrong with you?" Steven tries very hard not to raise his voice. He is not angry at Xabi-he's angry at everything, at the team, at his parents, at this godforsaken school, everything but Xabi.
Xabi's angry, now, too. At least we have something in common, Steven thinks bitterly. Steven feels like the epitome of angry teenager: irrational and hormone-driven.
"There's nothing fucking wrong with me-maybe, maybe there's something wrong with you." Xabi's face pinches in.
Steven couldn't care any less.
"You can go fuck yourself!" Steven has crossed the point of no return.
Xabi forms a fist and punches him.
They throw each other around the room, throwing dirty punches and kicks, shouting expletives and each other's names.
They soon stop, with bleeding lips and swollen shins.
Xabi thinks (knows) that this has all stemmed from lack of communication, but that's what boys don’t do, or ever will do.
They don't apologize. There's nothing to forgive.
Xabi curls up beside Steven that night, whispering words he's too scared to vocalize to Steven's pillow, hoping that one day he can get the message across. He wakes up with Steven's arms around him (Xabi is like the water Steven tries to cup in his palm).
*
No one suspects anything, or at least, Xabi hopes no one does.
"Look," he says to Steven one night. The yellow sulfur lamplights outside filter through the curtains and illuminates a single path on the carpet.
"Don't pretend this is going to last."
"What?" Steven says. He turns to face Xabi. "What on Earth are you talking about?"
Xabi moves his arms about. Tries to articulate himself. "It's just. This. This thing."
Steven is silent. "Yes…?"
"Steven, have you ever thought about the future?"
"I don't believe in the future."
"What?"
"I don't believe in having to prepare for something you're not even sure is going to happen."
"What do you call training?"
"That's different. There are constants in life, things you know are inevitable. Besides, even games are susceptible to changes caused by uncontrollable variables."
"Everything about…our relationship is 'susceptible to uncontrollable variables'."
"I know. That's why I don't think about it in long-term."
Xabi tries to find a way to argue, but decides that fighting Steven (physically, mentally) is futile.
*
Their relationship has no boundaries. No limits, no exceptions, no rules. No unspoken bonds or understandings.
During the window of unprohibited internet access, Xabi sees a picture of Steven kissing another girl.
He doesn't care, not really. It doesn't matter. They never set rules or anything.
Steven returns from his weekend out and pats Xabi on the cheek. "Miss me?"
"No, and I'm sure you didn't miss me."
"Ah. Saw the pictures, then." Why Steven's so casual-or why Xabi's so angry, is surprising to Xabi.
"Look, Steven, I." He exhales.
"No, Xabi, don't. Don't even try to give me any shit for that. We never said anything about being exclusive, and you never implied that you wanted it like that, hell, you don't even act like…like we do anything."
Xabi is quiet. Steven leaves. Only then does Xabi realize how he feels (really).
Xabi falls asleep at 11. Steven creeps back into the room at 1. He falls asleep on Xabi's bed breathing out apologies.
*
They are often times, still uncomfortable with each other. Knowing that they each know each other's idiosyncrasies, vices, schedules and secrets often becomes unnerving.
They, for all their power and position, do not know how to communicate to each other.
Characters: Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso
Prompt: 073.Light.
Word Count: 2240
Disclaimer: one word: fiction.
Rating: R
Summary: Part 2 of Fundamental Forces.
Author's Notes: "I made you breakfast, darling" from She's The Man. Title from the e.e. cummings poem. for parvardigar, again.
"Let's go out," Steven says, and by 'out' he means 'to the cafeteria'. He is young and reckless and carefree and stupid, with the occasional epiphany of clarity in his football-wrought brain.
"No, let's just. You know. Er." Xabi answers; he's trying very hard to read, but so far all he's read has been "'And what if I run away?' asked Raskolnikov with a strange smile. " Xabi is quiet and jaded and thoughtful and most of the time, eloquent.
"Why not?"
Xabi puts down his book. "I don't really…" He picks at the patterns of the duvet. "You don't have to go around with me and stuff, you know. I'm not your girlfriend or whatever."
Steven chuckles and butts his head against Xabi's chest. He's like a puppy, sometimes.
They move about for a moment. "Of course not," Steven says, voice muffled. He rests his eyes against the sharp part of Xabi's shoulder and presses his nose on Xabi's chest.
"Of course you're not my girlfriend." Steven pinches Xabi's forearm for no reason at all, other than just needing to move all the time. "First of all, you're a boy."
Xabi smiles. Steven lifts his head and presses their foreheads together. "Second of all, you're always tops." He laughs, and Xabi looks away. How Steven is so comfortable with his new found non-heterosexuality, Xabi will never know.
Steven presses his lips against Xabi's-these are the moments he remembers the most. They are soft and silent, and Steven feels Xabi's calloused fingers move up his chest and Xabi feels Steven's heartbeat with his fingertips. They kiss and kiss and kiss and there are little bursts of laughter from the boys out on the quad, and they don't know and they will never know-the white sheets are wrapped around Xabi's legs and Steven's lips are swollen.
All they can do is smile.
"Isn't Carra having a party tonight?" Xabi asks, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. (This feels so vulgar, he thinks.)
"Yeah, but I don't really want to go," Steven absently rubs the tips of his fingers together.
"Why not?" Xabi stands up on his bed and stretches.
"Homework," Steven says quietly.
"What?"
Steven clears his throat. "Homework."
Xabi stares at him. "Are you serious?"
"No," Steven is a mix of disgusted (with himself) and surprised (with himself).
"Steven Gerrard, have my honest, responsible, good student-ly ways rubbed off on you?"
"That seems to be the case," Steven says. He doesn't know how he feels, really. A bit lost. Disgruntled, maybe.
Xabi laughs and hugs Steven. "I have fulfilled my purpose!" He says, arms around Steven's neck.
There is one class Steven will never admit he likes, and that class is Art class. He's never been any good at it.
He's never been any good at a great many things (football obviously excluded) but he was very, very good at trying to be.
Art was no exception. He will never be able to create a distinct difference between foreground and background (just as half the losers in the class will never be able to score a goal) but he is very good at the attempt, and that's what matters (most of the time).
Their art teacher tells them to draw what they see when they wake up in the morning.
Steven thinks of the window, of the quadrangle, of the curtains and the gold ropes. (He thinks of Xabi, his eyes, and the dark circles around them.)
After four years of being five minutes early for his morning class, Xabi wakes up twenty minutes after his alarm clock rings. He sits up with a jolt, rubbing the sleep he's not used to getting from his eyes.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck shit what the hell, he thinks, and there are alarm clocks ringing in his head and oh my god, I am late for Spanish history.
He tumbles out of bed and pulls on a pair of pants and then he realizes that something is taped to his chest. It's a pack of cereal.
Xabi pulls the door to his Spanish history class open and stands on the threshold, awaiting certain doom. He has never been late for anything in his life.
Mr. Benitez stops from writing about the Civil war and looks directly at Xabi.
"Ah," he says, putting down the piece of chalk turning to face Xabi. "Just the boy I wanted to see." The entire class looks up from their books and notebooks. This is all a bad dream, Xabi thinks desperately to himself.
"I." He doesn't know what to say. There is no real excuse to being late for class when studying in a boarding school. You can't say you were caught in traffic because there is no traffic.
His tie is loose, his shirt almost untucked. His pen is bleeding continuously into his hand.
Xabi's day could not have started any worse.
The class remains silent.
"Take your seat," Mr. Benitez says coldly, and Xabi shuffles towards his seat in the middle of the classroom. His classmate's eyes follow him, and when the period (finally, finally, finally) ends, Xabi lags behind to apologize (profusely).
"Xabier," Mr. Benitez says without looking up from grading papers.
"Uh, sir," Xabi starts hesitantly. He's always been on good terms with Mr. Benitez, but only because he's never gotten the chance to be on Mr. Benitez' bad side. "I'm so sorry that I was late today, it will never happen again sir, I promise."
"Better keep to it, Xabi. Not late, ever again, you understand?"
"Very much sir, yes I do understand." Xabi realizes that he's becoming too affirmative about everything.
"All right, you can go."
Xabi feels a bit shocked at how lightly he's being treated, then realizes that he is being treated lightly. He almost runs out of the room but remembers that he had to have some semblance of dignity in front of teachers, so he walks out briskly then runs all the way to Literature class at the end of the hall.
Steven's in the shower when Xabi gets back from his meeting. He skipped dinner (again-it's something he's become used to) and his stomach lets out a low grumble.
The setting sun casts a dull yellow glow on the room and Xabi wearily takes off his jacket. His fingers are an off shade of violet, thanks to his bleeding pen. He flips open his to-do list.
He sinks down onto his bed, sighing. Another one of those nights, then, he thinks forlornly. Steven emerges from the shower, grinning.
"Hello," he says, pulling on a shirt.
Xabi doesn't look up from picking at the imaginary dirt on his trousers.
"Not all right, are you?" Steven asks. It's obvious that he's used to how Xabi is acting-anyone else would show extreme concern.
Xabi sucks on his bottom lip.
"A kiss to make it better?" Steven tries.
Xabi stands up, stretches. He smiles (but it never reaches his eyes).
"Sorry, just had to reboot there. Slight malfunction."
"Damn viruses, can get them off anything," Steven smirks, patting Xabi's cheek. "Sure you don't need to recharge, or something? I'm running out of computer jargon."
Xabi scoffs. "My batteries are eternal."
"They are not you were late today, don't think I didn't hear about it."
"I was mentioned in your social circle?" Xabi looks at Steven, wide-eyed and sarcastic.
"You us sound like a bunch of birds," Steven remarks.
Xabi opens his mouth, and then shuts it. "I'm going to go do some work now."
Steven goes to sleep at 10 (lights out) and wakes up at 3am. Xabi's head is resting on his laptop. Steven watches him for a moment, the dull white glow of the monitor illuminating the little bumps and dark spots on Xabi's face. Steven gets up.
"Hey," he shakes Xabi softly. "Wake up."
Xabi cracks an eye open and glares at Steven accusingly. "Go away," he says, or tries to.
Steven's eyebrows rise. He gently pulls Xabi up and pushes him toward his bed.
"You don't always need to do work 3 days in advance, you know."
Xabi is ready with a sarcastic remark but Steven places his hand on his mouth.
"Enough."
Xabi lies down on his bed and watches Steven. "I don't need you to tuck me in to bed, thanks."
Steven smirks and shakes his head; You don't understand, do you? He seems to say. He lies down beside Xabi and kisses Xabi's cheek. "You really ought to shave," Steven says, and Xabi gives a half-hearted smile before falling asleep.
*
The weeks progress and they see less and less of each other.
Xabi thinks, it's all right, it's not like we ever saw much of each other anyway.
Steven leaves post-its on Xabi's chest every morning (he never wakes him up, though).
The weekend comes. Steven has a game, and Xabi has meetings upon meetings. They see each other across the cafeteria and force smiles.
Steven loses the game.
Xabi prints out the wrong proposal, reminders and schedules.
Xabi's typing on his laptop (when is he ever doing anything else these days? Steven asks himself) when Steven arrives from the game. Xabi's still typing after Steven finishes his shower.
"You're still here," Steven says for lack of anything else to say. He's tired and angry.
"Yes, I am." Xabi answers, he doesn't turn to face Steven. Doesn't even shrug. He is sick of everyone's shit.
They are quiet.
"I need a drink,"
"I need a cigarette." They say it at the same time; smirk at the irony everything. Student council president and football captain, needing their vices.
They lock themselves in the bathroom, and Steven drinks his Grey Goose and Xabi smokes his Marlboros.
(They kiss and pretend to know what one another's vices mean-and they're addicted, addicted to sin, alcohol, cigarettes and each other.)
*
"What is wrong with you?" Steven tries very hard not to raise his voice. He is not angry at Xabi-he's angry at everything, at the team, at his parents, at this godforsaken school, everything but Xabi.
Xabi's angry, now, too. At least we have something in common, Steven thinks bitterly. Steven feels like the epitome of angry teenager: irrational and hormone-driven.
"There's nothing fucking wrong with me-maybe, maybe there's something wrong with you." Xabi's face pinches in.
Steven couldn't care any less.
"You can go fuck yourself!" Steven has crossed the point of no return.
Xabi forms a fist and punches him.
They throw each other around the room, throwing dirty punches and kicks, shouting expletives and each other's names.
They soon stop, with bleeding lips and swollen shins.
Xabi thinks (knows) that this has all stemmed from lack of communication, but that's what boys don’t do, or ever will do.
They don't apologize. There's nothing to forgive.
Xabi curls up beside Steven that night, whispering words he's too scared to vocalize to Steven's pillow, hoping that one day he can get the message across. He wakes up with Steven's arms around him (Xabi is like the water Steven tries to cup in his palm).
*
No one suspects anything, or at least, Xabi hopes no one does.
"Look," he says to Steven one night. The yellow sulfur lamplights outside filter through the curtains and illuminates a single path on the carpet.
"Don't pretend this is going to last."
"What?" Steven says. He turns to face Xabi. "What on Earth are you talking about?"
Xabi moves his arms about. Tries to articulate himself. "It's just. This. This thing."
Steven is silent. "Yes…?"
"Steven, have you ever thought about the future?"
"I don't believe in the future."
"What?"
"I don't believe in having to prepare for something you're not even sure is going to happen."
"What do you call training?"
"That's different. There are constants in life, things you know are inevitable. Besides, even games are susceptible to changes caused by uncontrollable variables."
"Everything about…our relationship is 'susceptible to uncontrollable variables'."
"I know. That's why I don't think about it in long-term."
Xabi tries to find a way to argue, but decides that fighting Steven (physically, mentally) is futile.
*
Their relationship has no boundaries. No limits, no exceptions, no rules. No unspoken bonds or understandings.
During the window of unprohibited internet access, Xabi sees a picture of Steven kissing another girl.
He doesn't care, not really. It doesn't matter. They never set rules or anything.
Steven returns from his weekend out and pats Xabi on the cheek. "Miss me?"
"No, and I'm sure you didn't miss me."
"Ah. Saw the pictures, then." Why Steven's so casual-or why Xabi's so angry, is surprising to Xabi.
"Look, Steven, I." He exhales.
"No, Xabi, don't. Don't even try to give me any shit for that. We never said anything about being exclusive, and you never implied that you wanted it like that, hell, you don't even act like…like we do anything."
Xabi is quiet. Steven leaves. Only then does Xabi realize how he feels (really).
Xabi falls asleep at 11. Steven creeps back into the room at 1. He falls asleep on Xabi's bed breathing out apologies.
*
They are often times, still uncomfortable with each other. Knowing that they each know each other's idiosyncrasies, vices, schedules and secrets often becomes unnerving.
They, for all their power and position, do not know how to communicate to each other.