ASoFPiQS
Title: A String of Ficlets Posted In Quick Succession (That Were Almost Titled Three Things That Never Happened To Steven Gerrard And One That May Or May Not (Depending On Which Side of The Field You're Standing On) Until McClaren Made His Dumb Announcement The Day This Was Posted And Things Just Spiralled Downhill From There)
Pairing: Steven Gerrard/Frank Lampard, Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, John Terry/Frank Lampard/(Steven Gerrrard)
Summary: Other than being completely fiction, all ficlets have the added bonus of being AU. To a certain extent. All Steven Gerrard AUs of course.
***
1.
He ran a hand over the back of the jersey, fingers carefully tracing over his name printed in white bold letterings all across the blue fabric.
It felt soft to the touch, and smooth, and foreign, like something he was never meant to have but couldn’t help wanting all the same. And now that he finally had it, he didn’t quite know what to make of it; didn’t know what to think of what he had been given, except that it looked all wrong. Wrong and right all at the same time, because this was what he’d wanted, this was what he’d asked for.
But it still raised something uneasy in him each time he’d forget himself and his gaze would fall accidentally on the strange embossed numbering on the shirt. Strange because he’d never seen it used in conjuction with his name before. It wasn’t even the familiar No. 4, and certainly not his No. 8. Because it was his, it had been for all his life. Or so it felt like it.
But all his life he’d done what was expected of him, from the youth club to YTS and then to Liverpool. It was always what was Steven Gerrard supposed to do, and Steven Gerrard was never supposed to leave everything he’d ever known behind just to fly all the way to London. Yet there he was standing in the changing room at Stamford Bridge, staring blankly at the new attire he’d just been handed.
And it was all because they had asked him what he wanted. Like he could just name a figure, a price, and be done with it. Like they were really expecting him to answer them just like that while they all stared expectantly at him from across the room. But he wanted more than that, he wanted so much more. He wanted a chance to shine. He wanted to play football and win; games, Cups, awards, everything. He wanted- what he wanted Liverpool couldn’t give him.
He wanted to be wanted, to be needed.
And this time even Rafael couldn’t change the ending to this story.
“Hey Stevie, you comin’ or what?”
He looked up at John who had just popped his head into the room, with Frank of course. Frank and John, always Frank and John. Even he knew that, even before he was from Chelsea.
They looked at him expectantly, and when he had no apparent reaction, Frank gestured impatiently at the field. Oh yeah. He nodded and motioned for them to head on out first.
It was somewhat cheesy he knew, but as he donned his new No. 5 and stepped out onto the pitch, Steve thought, “Perhaps it’s just a new beginning.”
***
2.
Immediately after McClaran made the announcement, he called for a practice session.
So while the others went through their regular training routines, a select few were meant to undergo a day’s worth of intense penalty-shot practice. He’d said that it was so they’d be fully prepared the next time it was required of them, not that they were working towards more penalty shootouts, mind you.
But as Steve stood before the empty net, staring at the ball placed at his feet, he couldn’t help but think this felt like a smack in the face, like this whole show was a this was why you weren’t chosen. He wanted to tell McClaren that he needn’t do this, that he could’ve just told him outright from the start that Steve was never in the running in the first place. He wanted to scream outloud that it wasn’t his fault, that yes he missed his penalty, but Terry couldn’t even step up to take one when they needed him to.
But that was much too juvenile even for his taste.
He wanted- Oh Steve wanted a lot of things. But it didn’t matter now, not when everything had already been decided from the start. Not when regardless of what he did or whatever the others said counted for nothing. He kicked the ball forcefully, almost with a vengeance, and it netted neatly into the goal, curving in just by the right pole.
Perfect shot.
He stared at it balefully as it rolled around in the net.
He knew that moment would return to haunt him again. He just didn’t know that when it did, he would be standing alone in the middle of a field, facing next week’s qualifiers as England’s brand new vice-captain. The words tasted bitter even as he said it in his mind, like the nasty aftertaste of something unwanted in the back of his throat.
It wasn’t as if he wasn’t grateful (there was that taste, that dryness in his mouth again) for it, but there was just so much expectation. And yes the odds were 2-1 even before it began, but still. Who could blame him for wanting it this much?
He shook his head slightly, as though that could clear it of his thoughts. Because it wouldn’t do to still have such lingering thoughts about what could’ve been. Steve was a practical man, and he knew what it took to succeed out in the field.
So of course when McClaren announced his decision, he stood up and shook Terry’s hand gamely, because that was what was expected of him. Because that was practical. And when Terry had asked him to come along because him and the lads are going out for a bit of a drink, you know something of a celebration, for the both of us, he’d offered his congratulations but said, “Thanks, but no thanks, I still have this bit of practicing to do.” And they’d both smiled at each other, because they both knew that was why, and that Steve only had himself to blame.
He was midway towards the goal to pick up the ball, when he realised that he was being watched. Steve turned abruptly, just in time to see Frank standing a distance away from him, arms folded and staring intently at him. He frowned, perplexed. It wasn’t as if he was expecting it to be Frank, they all knew where he would be after practice. Or well he thought he knew.
But then he remembered that after a lifetime of being under Terry, Frank had wanted the post as much as he did.
Steve folded his arms and looked him straight in the eye.
“So forgot something again this time Frankie?”
They stood in silence for a minute, mirroring the other’s pose. It occurred to Steve in his mind’s eye, suddenly just how they must look, two grown men standing in the middle of a football field engaged in some sort of a staring contest. He bit his lip in an attempt to hold back a smile he could already feel forming on his face, because he was asking a serious question dammit. But it would hardly be the first time that Frank was around him when he lost control of himself.
And Frank had already noticed his failed efforts at not smiling, judging from the way his eyes were drawn to Steve’s lip that was caught between his teeth. He waited for Frank to look back up at him, then cocked his brow questioningly. But Frank only answered with one of his irrepressible grins, as he closed the distance between them.
“Well, I guess I did.”
He stepped up to Steve and looked him directly in the eyes, just before he took Steve’s face in his hands and brought their lips together. The alarms in Steve’s head were raised even as they’d only barely just touched, because private training or not, they were still in the middle of a fucking field. And even more so, there were still questions. Questions of what was he even doing back here; of whether this, whatever this was, would change what they had on the pitch, whether it would change everything; or if they would even have the chance to see if it would work.
But as he tilted his head and raised his arms to pull Frank closer, they simply melted away for the moment, along with the rest of the world.
***
3.
The first time Steven Gerrard met Xabi Alonso, he’d kissed him.
On the cheek, of course. But still he could remember the shocked silence in its wake, each time he looked at Xabi, and Jamie’s loud echoing laughter when Steve had tried to explain to him later after practice.
Xabi had only grinned, caught him by the neck and pulled him in close.
“I’m not gay. But thanks anyway,” he said, more like half-whispered actually, into Steve’s ear.
Then he’d laughed and went off with Luis, amidst general confusion and faint nervous laughter all around. But all Steve could think of was that Xabi had been practicing his English before coming here and what the fuck. Not necessarily in that order, but he was much too confused and preoccupied anyway with the look Xabi had thrown him over the shoulder as he and Luis walked away.
Jamie had explained to him later that men only greeted each other like that in Spain if they were gay and Steve was never trusting the Internet ever again. And really he was just trying to be the good responsible Captain that he was by attempting to welcome them properly to the squad and how the hell did Jamie know all these anyway?
It didn’t matter, Steve was not going to let this affect them and definitely not the team. It was just a silly misunderstanding. But when they all went out for a pool session after training, each time Xabi looked at him (or stood next to him or brushed against him as he lined up to take his shot or talked or laughed or smiled or) he felt himself automatically averting his eyes.
“Stevie. You may be the Captain, but... here let me show you.”
There he was again. He seemed to be everywhere and- apparently all pressed up against his back.
“Uh Xabi-”
“Put it like this, and you see that hole? Just sink it in.”
Xabi straightened and backed away far enough for him to take his shot. And he did.
Steve was horrible at pool, he knew it, even before his ball simply ricocheted off the edge of the table and ended up even further from the hole than he’d initially started out. It was just that, and nothing to do with the fact that he could still feel the phantom warmth of Xabi’s body pressed against him, and absolutely nothing to do with the grin Xabi shot him after he’d straightened up amid rousing laugher and clapping from the rest.
Somehow after that, they all ended up at Xabi’s place, only because someone had suggested that they check out Xabi’s and Luis’ new homes. And because things just could not go more wrong for him that day, Luis mentioned booze in the next room and suddenly the whole room was empty save for the two of them.
Steve chewed nervously on his lip and tried to cover the silence that had just descended upon them.
“So... it must be tough. Moving all the way here. But the lads, they’re of a good sort. And really you don’t have to worry, you’d fit right in.”
“You’re really bad at pool huh.”
He looked up in surprise and found Xabi staring straight at him.
“And you’re really random.”
Xabi didn’t respond, just flashed a lazy grin at him. Steve flushed embarrassedly, he tried to remember where he’d left off at his last attempt at any sort of normal conversation. But just then he felt something brush against his cheek and glanced up, only to find that the distance between the two of them had all but disappeared.
Steve blinked and tried to make sense of what was happening, but all he came up with was-
“I thought you said you weren’t gay.”
Xabi only smiled and leaned in.
“I’m not.”
So the first time Steve met Xabi, he’d also kissed him for the first time. But it wasn't to be the last.
***
4.
Steve stood near the outskirts of the group, listening to the others talk about the new boy who’d just transferred in.
Boy wouldn’t be right, Steve thought as he stared at the boy- no man, man, not boy perched atop a stone step a distance away from the group, face tilted away and body poised so casually that he was pointedly ignoring them.
“Redders’ cuzzin,” David was saying as their coach came up to them.
“Boys, come around.” He motioned for Frank to join them. “This is Frank Lampard, he’d just moved here and he’d be joinin’ us for trainin’ from now on.”
Frank stood up, but didn’t move from his spot. He squared his shoulders then turned to face them with a level gaze. It was strange, he thought. Steve had expected him to be taller, but he turned out to be rather the same height as Steve, in fact he himself looked to be taller by a fraction or so.
“Hi Frank.”
He stood there for a moment, before realising that it had gone silent around him and everyone was looking at him and that ohgod he was the one who had spoken. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to hunch himself as low as possible, preferrably into the ground, as the rest of the group murmured a chorus of Hey Frank’s rather belatedly.
“Right then, that’s it. C’mon out.”
Steve heard the rest of the team troop out after the coach onto the field. He reluctantly opened his eyes, only to find Frank looking straight at him. He quickly looked away, but not before the image of Frank standing there, with a slight frown on his face, was seared into his mind’s eye.
“We’d better get out there quick,” Steve mumbled, brushing past him.
Frank didn’t reply, just turned and followed him, with a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth as they both hurried to join the rest of the team.
*
Two weeks later, Steve still didn’t know any more about Frank Lampard than he did on the first day.
Sure he knew his father was the Frank Lampard Sr. and that he had just moved to Anfield all the way from London. But that was about it. They still knew virtually nothing about him. He was still Frank Lampard, Redders’ cousin who lived on the upper side of the district.
Part of it, okay who was he kidding, most of it, was because none of them had actually tried to get to know him. And he hadn’t volunteered any information himself either. So far Steve had only heard him speak twice, and that was only because he was rounding the corner when he caught the tail-end of Frank’s and the coach’s conversation as they entered his office.
But who could blame him, whenever Steve was around the boys, they’d be imitating and poking fun at Frank’s accent. His posh East London accent that Steve only ever heard on TV before, that he used to practice in front of the mirror every day until he finally realised that no matter what he just couldn’t rid his speech of its thick rich Scouse.
“Hey Stevie, you wanna come? Dave’s brother’s havin’ this party at his place tonight, there’s gonna be booze fer sure.”
No. Steve shook his head at the group of his teammates, waving at them to go ahead without him. He watched them go out the front gate before turning in the opposite direction and headed towards the changing rooms.
He’d seen Frank going in there as they were all leaving, and he just wanted to know- well he didn’t really know what he wanted. Something. Everything. He pushed open the door and stepped into the empty room. Empty, of course save for the both of them.
Two things struck Steve at once then; one, that Frank was currently taking a shower; and two, that communal showers never used to bother him as much as it did at that moment. He stood rooted to the spot, paralysed except for the wild pounding of his heart and the determined movement of his eyes that seemed intent on tracking the tiny water droplets as they traced a hypnotising path down the expanse of Frank’s back; past the shoulder blades, skirting along the side before circling the hip to the front-
It took him awhile before he realised that Frank had stopped moving as well and was looking straight back at him.
“Uh I just wanted to-”
He realised that there was just no way he could lie that he was just about to take a shower because Frank had seen him earlier.
“I mean, the coach wanted to see you. I saw you and ‘im talkin’ before. Today, I mean. Everythin’ a’right?”
He trailed off and for a minute the only sound in the room was the frantic beat of his pulse as they stood staring at each other. He swallowed nervously, and wondered if he’d made a mistake coming back here, and really when had his throat gotten so dry.
“C’mere.”
Frank turned slightly towards him so that Steve was no longer just facing his back.
“I’m not a fag.”
But he goes anyway.
He stopped just before the shower but Frank reached out and pulled him in under the water with him. Steve backed up against the wall as Frank crowded in on him. He felt like a twat, like he probably should do something, move, take off his clothes because this was already his spare pair for the week, but he just couldn’t do anything except watch as Frank edged in on him.
“Neither am I.”
Frank leaned in, half-grinning, and snaked a hand in between them, cupping him through his sodden trousers and when the hell had he gotten hard?
“I-”
He broke off with a moan when Frank just pressed the heel of his palm harder against his groin, and Steve could only grind his hips back against it in answer. He shut his eyes and hit his head back against the wall as Frank undid the button on his pants. The sound of his zipper being lowered, teeth by teeth, aganisingly slowly echoed heavily in his ears.
It took him a moment before he noticed that it had stopped and Frank was looking up at him, hands frozen in place. He blinked, and wondered what he had done wrong just then.
“’ave you done this before?”
Steve paused, then shook his head hesitantly, having lost his voice somewhere along the way. But whatever Frank was looking for, he must have found it because he was unzipping his trousers again like he hadn’t stopped until they pooled around Steve’s ankles. He had Steve’s boxers peeled away from his skin and a hand around his cock in one swift motion. Steve could only thrust his hips up into his hand as Frank began jerking him off roughly.
“Don’t- don’t stop.”
He wasn’t going to last long he knew. He gritted his teeth and tried to rock up into Frank’s rhythm. Frank curled a hand around his balls and with a slight tug that was it for Steve. A flick of his thumb across the head of his cock and Steve was coming hard; bucking, arching, knees weakening.
He leaned back heavily against the wall and tried to catch his breath as Frank pressed up against him, holding him up. Frank was hard too, he realised, feeling Frank’s erection trapped between them.
“Can I- I mean can you show me?”
Frank just looked intensely at him for a moment, then took his hand and slowly led him downwards, as though afraid any sudden movement would spook Steve away. Cautiously, Steve wrapped a hand around Frank. He looked up at Frank when Frank tightened their grip and began to move their hands along his length. Steve stared, transfixed, as they both jerked Frank off slowly, rhythmically. Steve licked his lips and Frank moaned, rocking against him. Emboldened, he reached around Frank and ran a finger down the curve of his arse, ghosting over his hole. Steve felt Frank stiffen, then jerk and then he was coming too against Steve.
They stood there under the rush of the water, leaning on each other for a minute, breathing almost in unison.
“Where d’you learn to do that?”
“I didn’t. I heard the others talkin’ before.” He blinked, then realised what he’d just said. “Not that they’re fags or anythin’, ‘cos they’re not.”
Frank only looked at him and chuckled softly before straightening and untangling the both of them. Steve watched as he reached for the towel hanging by the side and stepped out of the shower. Frank was already dressed and sitting down to put on his shoes before Steve realised that he hadn’t gotten what he'd came for. Hadn’t asked his question.
“Why did you move here from London?”
Frank froze, in the midst of tying his lace, back facing Steve once more.
“Weren’t you goin’ to West Ham with your father?”
Steve waited as Frank resumed tying his laces, then picked up his backpack and walked towards the door. And paused.
He turned around to face Steve, and gave him a look that Steve only half-understood. Then it disappeared as quickly, only to be replaced with the same slight smile as before.
“I’ll catch ya tomorrow, Stevie.”
And then he was gone, leaving Steve alone shivering slightly in his damp clothes to ponder about what had just transpired between them.
***
End Notes:
1. And that was where I initially wanted to end the first ficlet. But then the Lamps in my head wouldn't stop bugging me until he got some. So this is what happens when there's a half-naked Lamps dancing around with a sombrero in my head.
2. This could be taken as in the same 'verse or as somewhat as a sequel for Dream Pair. It was written with that idea anyway, also before any sort of announcement for the England Captaincy was made.
4. This is supposed to be set somewhere between U-21 and the youth club. In my mind, they were 18 and 16 respectively but I'm not entirely sure about the whole system in English football before professional club so I might have screwed up the timeline somewhat. *sheepish grin*
Aaaand... Fin.
Pairing: Steven Gerrard/Frank Lampard, Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, John Terry/Frank Lampard/(Steven Gerrrard)
Summary: Other than being completely fiction, all ficlets have the added bonus of being AU. To a certain extent. All Steven Gerrard AUs of course.
***
1.
He ran a hand over the back of the jersey, fingers carefully tracing over his name printed in white bold letterings all across the blue fabric.
It felt soft to the touch, and smooth, and foreign, like something he was never meant to have but couldn’t help wanting all the same. And now that he finally had it, he didn’t quite know what to make of it; didn’t know what to think of what he had been given, except that it looked all wrong. Wrong and right all at the same time, because this was what he’d wanted, this was what he’d asked for.
But it still raised something uneasy in him each time he’d forget himself and his gaze would fall accidentally on the strange embossed numbering on the shirt. Strange because he’d never seen it used in conjuction with his name before. It wasn’t even the familiar No. 4, and certainly not his No. 8. Because it was his, it had been for all his life. Or so it felt like it.
But all his life he’d done what was expected of him, from the youth club to YTS and then to Liverpool. It was always what was Steven Gerrard supposed to do, and Steven Gerrard was never supposed to leave everything he’d ever known behind just to fly all the way to London. Yet there he was standing in the changing room at Stamford Bridge, staring blankly at the new attire he’d just been handed.
And it was all because they had asked him what he wanted. Like he could just name a figure, a price, and be done with it. Like they were really expecting him to answer them just like that while they all stared expectantly at him from across the room. But he wanted more than that, he wanted so much more. He wanted a chance to shine. He wanted to play football and win; games, Cups, awards, everything. He wanted- what he wanted Liverpool couldn’t give him.
He wanted to be wanted, to be needed.
And this time even Rafael couldn’t change the ending to this story.
“Hey Stevie, you comin’ or what?”
He looked up at John who had just popped his head into the room, with Frank of course. Frank and John, always Frank and John. Even he knew that, even before he was from Chelsea.
They looked at him expectantly, and when he had no apparent reaction, Frank gestured impatiently at the field. Oh yeah. He nodded and motioned for them to head on out first.
It was somewhat cheesy he knew, but as he donned his new No. 5 and stepped out onto the pitch, Steve thought, “Perhaps it’s just a new beginning.”
***
2.
Immediately after McClaran made the announcement, he called for a practice session.
So while the others went through their regular training routines, a select few were meant to undergo a day’s worth of intense penalty-shot practice. He’d said that it was so they’d be fully prepared the next time it was required of them, not that they were working towards more penalty shootouts, mind you.
But as Steve stood before the empty net, staring at the ball placed at his feet, he couldn’t help but think this felt like a smack in the face, like this whole show was a this was why you weren’t chosen. He wanted to tell McClaren that he needn’t do this, that he could’ve just told him outright from the start that Steve was never in the running in the first place. He wanted to scream outloud that it wasn’t his fault, that yes he missed his penalty, but Terry couldn’t even step up to take one when they needed him to.
But that was much too juvenile even for his taste.
He wanted- Oh Steve wanted a lot of things. But it didn’t matter now, not when everything had already been decided from the start. Not when regardless of what he did or whatever the others said counted for nothing. He kicked the ball forcefully, almost with a vengeance, and it netted neatly into the goal, curving in just by the right pole.
Perfect shot.
He stared at it balefully as it rolled around in the net.
He knew that moment would return to haunt him again. He just didn’t know that when it did, he would be standing alone in the middle of a field, facing next week’s qualifiers as England’s brand new vice-captain. The words tasted bitter even as he said it in his mind, like the nasty aftertaste of something unwanted in the back of his throat.
It wasn’t as if he wasn’t grateful (there was that taste, that dryness in his mouth again) for it, but there was just so much expectation. And yes the odds were 2-1 even before it began, but still. Who could blame him for wanting it this much?
He shook his head slightly, as though that could clear it of his thoughts. Because it wouldn’t do to still have such lingering thoughts about what could’ve been. Steve was a practical man, and he knew what it took to succeed out in the field.
So of course when McClaren announced his decision, he stood up and shook Terry’s hand gamely, because that was what was expected of him. Because that was practical. And when Terry had asked him to come along because him and the lads are going out for a bit of a drink, you know something of a celebration, for the both of us, he’d offered his congratulations but said, “Thanks, but no thanks, I still have this bit of practicing to do.” And they’d both smiled at each other, because they both knew that was why, and that Steve only had himself to blame.
He was midway towards the goal to pick up the ball, when he realised that he was being watched. Steve turned abruptly, just in time to see Frank standing a distance away from him, arms folded and staring intently at him. He frowned, perplexed. It wasn’t as if he was expecting it to be Frank, they all knew where he would be after practice. Or well he thought he knew.
But then he remembered that after a lifetime of being under Terry, Frank had wanted the post as much as he did.
Steve folded his arms and looked him straight in the eye.
“So forgot something again this time Frankie?”
They stood in silence for a minute, mirroring the other’s pose. It occurred to Steve in his mind’s eye, suddenly just how they must look, two grown men standing in the middle of a football field engaged in some sort of a staring contest. He bit his lip in an attempt to hold back a smile he could already feel forming on his face, because he was asking a serious question dammit. But it would hardly be the first time that Frank was around him when he lost control of himself.
And Frank had already noticed his failed efforts at not smiling, judging from the way his eyes were drawn to Steve’s lip that was caught between his teeth. He waited for Frank to look back up at him, then cocked his brow questioningly. But Frank only answered with one of his irrepressible grins, as he closed the distance between them.
“Well, I guess I did.”
He stepped up to Steve and looked him directly in the eyes, just before he took Steve’s face in his hands and brought their lips together. The alarms in Steve’s head were raised even as they’d only barely just touched, because private training or not, they were still in the middle of a fucking field. And even more so, there were still questions. Questions of what was he even doing back here; of whether this, whatever this was, would change what they had on the pitch, whether it would change everything; or if they would even have the chance to see if it would work.
But as he tilted his head and raised his arms to pull Frank closer, they simply melted away for the moment, along with the rest of the world.
***
3.
The first time Steven Gerrard met Xabi Alonso, he’d kissed him.
On the cheek, of course. But still he could remember the shocked silence in its wake, each time he looked at Xabi, and Jamie’s loud echoing laughter when Steve had tried to explain to him later after practice.
Xabi had only grinned, caught him by the neck and pulled him in close.
“I’m not gay. But thanks anyway,” he said, more like half-whispered actually, into Steve’s ear.
Then he’d laughed and went off with Luis, amidst general confusion and faint nervous laughter all around. But all Steve could think of was that Xabi had been practicing his English before coming here and what the fuck. Not necessarily in that order, but he was much too confused and preoccupied anyway with the look Xabi had thrown him over the shoulder as he and Luis walked away.
Jamie had explained to him later that men only greeted each other like that in Spain if they were gay and Steve was never trusting the Internet ever again. And really he was just trying to be the good responsible Captain that he was by attempting to welcome them properly to the squad and how the hell did Jamie know all these anyway?
It didn’t matter, Steve was not going to let this affect them and definitely not the team. It was just a silly misunderstanding. But when they all went out for a pool session after training, each time Xabi looked at him (or stood next to him or brushed against him as he lined up to take his shot or talked or laughed or smiled or) he felt himself automatically averting his eyes.
“Stevie. You may be the Captain, but... here let me show you.”
There he was again. He seemed to be everywhere and- apparently all pressed up against his back.
“Uh Xabi-”
“Put it like this, and you see that hole? Just sink it in.”
Xabi straightened and backed away far enough for him to take his shot. And he did.
Steve was horrible at pool, he knew it, even before his ball simply ricocheted off the edge of the table and ended up even further from the hole than he’d initially started out. It was just that, and nothing to do with the fact that he could still feel the phantom warmth of Xabi’s body pressed against him, and absolutely nothing to do with the grin Xabi shot him after he’d straightened up amid rousing laugher and clapping from the rest.
Somehow after that, they all ended up at Xabi’s place, only because someone had suggested that they check out Xabi’s and Luis’ new homes. And because things just could not go more wrong for him that day, Luis mentioned booze in the next room and suddenly the whole room was empty save for the two of them.
Steve chewed nervously on his lip and tried to cover the silence that had just descended upon them.
“So... it must be tough. Moving all the way here. But the lads, they’re of a good sort. And really you don’t have to worry, you’d fit right in.”
“You’re really bad at pool huh.”
He looked up in surprise and found Xabi staring straight at him.
“And you’re really random.”
Xabi didn’t respond, just flashed a lazy grin at him. Steve flushed embarrassedly, he tried to remember where he’d left off at his last attempt at any sort of normal conversation. But just then he felt something brush against his cheek and glanced up, only to find that the distance between the two of them had all but disappeared.
Steve blinked and tried to make sense of what was happening, but all he came up with was-
“I thought you said you weren’t gay.”
Xabi only smiled and leaned in.
“I’m not.”
So the first time Steve met Xabi, he’d also kissed him for the first time. But it wasn't to be the last.
***
4.
Steve stood near the outskirts of the group, listening to the others talk about the new boy who’d just transferred in.
Boy wouldn’t be right, Steve thought as he stared at the boy- no man, man, not boy perched atop a stone step a distance away from the group, face tilted away and body poised so casually that he was pointedly ignoring them.
“Redders’ cuzzin,” David was saying as their coach came up to them.
“Boys, come around.” He motioned for Frank to join them. “This is Frank Lampard, he’d just moved here and he’d be joinin’ us for trainin’ from now on.”
Frank stood up, but didn’t move from his spot. He squared his shoulders then turned to face them with a level gaze. It was strange, he thought. Steve had expected him to be taller, but he turned out to be rather the same height as Steve, in fact he himself looked to be taller by a fraction or so.
“Hi Frank.”
He stood there for a moment, before realising that it had gone silent around him and everyone was looking at him and that ohgod he was the one who had spoken. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to hunch himself as low as possible, preferrably into the ground, as the rest of the group murmured a chorus of Hey Frank’s rather belatedly.
“Right then, that’s it. C’mon out.”
Steve heard the rest of the team troop out after the coach onto the field. He reluctantly opened his eyes, only to find Frank looking straight at him. He quickly looked away, but not before the image of Frank standing there, with a slight frown on his face, was seared into his mind’s eye.
“We’d better get out there quick,” Steve mumbled, brushing past him.
Frank didn’t reply, just turned and followed him, with a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth as they both hurried to join the rest of the team.
*
Two weeks later, Steve still didn’t know any more about Frank Lampard than he did on the first day.
Sure he knew his father was the Frank Lampard Sr. and that he had just moved to Anfield all the way from London. But that was about it. They still knew virtually nothing about him. He was still Frank Lampard, Redders’ cousin who lived on the upper side of the district.
Part of it, okay who was he kidding, most of it, was because none of them had actually tried to get to know him. And he hadn’t volunteered any information himself either. So far Steve had only heard him speak twice, and that was only because he was rounding the corner when he caught the tail-end of Frank’s and the coach’s conversation as they entered his office.
But who could blame him, whenever Steve was around the boys, they’d be imitating and poking fun at Frank’s accent. His posh East London accent that Steve only ever heard on TV before, that he used to practice in front of the mirror every day until he finally realised that no matter what he just couldn’t rid his speech of its thick rich Scouse.
“Hey Stevie, you wanna come? Dave’s brother’s havin’ this party at his place tonight, there’s gonna be booze fer sure.”
No. Steve shook his head at the group of his teammates, waving at them to go ahead without him. He watched them go out the front gate before turning in the opposite direction and headed towards the changing rooms.
He’d seen Frank going in there as they were all leaving, and he just wanted to know- well he didn’t really know what he wanted. Something. Everything. He pushed open the door and stepped into the empty room. Empty, of course save for the both of them.
Two things struck Steve at once then; one, that Frank was currently taking a shower; and two, that communal showers never used to bother him as much as it did at that moment. He stood rooted to the spot, paralysed except for the wild pounding of his heart and the determined movement of his eyes that seemed intent on tracking the tiny water droplets as they traced a hypnotising path down the expanse of Frank’s back; past the shoulder blades, skirting along the side before circling the hip to the front-
It took him awhile before he realised that Frank had stopped moving as well and was looking straight back at him.
“Uh I just wanted to-”
He realised that there was just no way he could lie that he was just about to take a shower because Frank had seen him earlier.
“I mean, the coach wanted to see you. I saw you and ‘im talkin’ before. Today, I mean. Everythin’ a’right?”
He trailed off and for a minute the only sound in the room was the frantic beat of his pulse as they stood staring at each other. He swallowed nervously, and wondered if he’d made a mistake coming back here, and really when had his throat gotten so dry.
“C’mere.”
Frank turned slightly towards him so that Steve was no longer just facing his back.
“I’m not a fag.”
But he goes anyway.
He stopped just before the shower but Frank reached out and pulled him in under the water with him. Steve backed up against the wall as Frank crowded in on him. He felt like a twat, like he probably should do something, move, take off his clothes because this was already his spare pair for the week, but he just couldn’t do anything except watch as Frank edged in on him.
“Neither am I.”
Frank leaned in, half-grinning, and snaked a hand in between them, cupping him through his sodden trousers and when the hell had he gotten hard?
“I-”
He broke off with a moan when Frank just pressed the heel of his palm harder against his groin, and Steve could only grind his hips back against it in answer. He shut his eyes and hit his head back against the wall as Frank undid the button on his pants. The sound of his zipper being lowered, teeth by teeth, aganisingly slowly echoed heavily in his ears.
It took him a moment before he noticed that it had stopped and Frank was looking up at him, hands frozen in place. He blinked, and wondered what he had done wrong just then.
“’ave you done this before?”
Steve paused, then shook his head hesitantly, having lost his voice somewhere along the way. But whatever Frank was looking for, he must have found it because he was unzipping his trousers again like he hadn’t stopped until they pooled around Steve’s ankles. He had Steve’s boxers peeled away from his skin and a hand around his cock in one swift motion. Steve could only thrust his hips up into his hand as Frank began jerking him off roughly.
“Don’t- don’t stop.”
He wasn’t going to last long he knew. He gritted his teeth and tried to rock up into Frank’s rhythm. Frank curled a hand around his balls and with a slight tug that was it for Steve. A flick of his thumb across the head of his cock and Steve was coming hard; bucking, arching, knees weakening.
He leaned back heavily against the wall and tried to catch his breath as Frank pressed up against him, holding him up. Frank was hard too, he realised, feeling Frank’s erection trapped between them.
“Can I- I mean can you show me?”
Frank just looked intensely at him for a moment, then took his hand and slowly led him downwards, as though afraid any sudden movement would spook Steve away. Cautiously, Steve wrapped a hand around Frank. He looked up at Frank when Frank tightened their grip and began to move their hands along his length. Steve stared, transfixed, as they both jerked Frank off slowly, rhythmically. Steve licked his lips and Frank moaned, rocking against him. Emboldened, he reached around Frank and ran a finger down the curve of his arse, ghosting over his hole. Steve felt Frank stiffen, then jerk and then he was coming too against Steve.
They stood there under the rush of the water, leaning on each other for a minute, breathing almost in unison.
“Where d’you learn to do that?”
“I didn’t. I heard the others talkin’ before.” He blinked, then realised what he’d just said. “Not that they’re fags or anythin’, ‘cos they’re not.”
Frank only looked at him and chuckled softly before straightening and untangling the both of them. Steve watched as he reached for the towel hanging by the side and stepped out of the shower. Frank was already dressed and sitting down to put on his shoes before Steve realised that he hadn’t gotten what he'd came for. Hadn’t asked his question.
“Why did you move here from London?”
Frank froze, in the midst of tying his lace, back facing Steve once more.
“Weren’t you goin’ to West Ham with your father?”
Steve waited as Frank resumed tying his laces, then picked up his backpack and walked towards the door. And paused.
He turned around to face Steve, and gave him a look that Steve only half-understood. Then it disappeared as quickly, only to be replaced with the same slight smile as before.
“I’ll catch ya tomorrow, Stevie.”
And then he was gone, leaving Steve alone shivering slightly in his damp clothes to ponder about what had just transpired between them.
***
End Notes:
1. And that was where I initially wanted to end the first ficlet. But then the Lamps in my head wouldn't stop bugging me until he got some. So this is what happens when there's a half-naked Lamps dancing around with a sombrero in my head.
2. This could be taken as in the same 'verse or as somewhat as a sequel for Dream Pair. It was written with that idea anyway, also before any sort of announcement for the England Captaincy was made.
4. This is supposed to be set somewhere between U-21 and the youth club. In my mind, they were 18 and 16 respectively but I'm not entirely sure about the whole system in English football before professional club so I might have screwed up the timeline somewhat. *sheepish grin*
Aaaand... Fin.