christmas '10 (1)
we're leaving some things unsaid
From diskarte's stocking. Stevie/Xabi, Fernando, and a bit of Pepe and Carra. | This Spanish invasion of Merseyside was maybe not the best idea anyone had ever had - or, alternatively, maybe it really was.
There are a lot of things Stevie wants to tell Xabi, not because it would change anything or make him feel any better about this whole fucked up situation, but because - because he wants to be honest with him again. He thinks that's probably the worst part about him not being here - him not being able to look at Stevie and know exactly what he was feeling (he used to hate that before, or he thought he did). He probably wouldn't be able to now, though, anyway. Because Stevie's not that same person anymore. He's not the person Xabi met when he first came, and he's not the person he left. He's not sure who the fuck he is at all anymore. His club seems to be falling apart before his eyes, Rafa's gone (and although he could be strange and distant sometimes, he's started to feel like family - part of the Liverpool family and by extension, his), and Xabi's in fucking Madrid - and none of it's right. None of it feels right.
When you came here, I was confused. And angry, and stupid. You made me think I could be better than that. And I was. But then you - you fucking left. And you took some of that away. And I fucking hate that. I fucking hate you. And I hate myself for depending on you so much.
People always fucking leave. People always fucking leave me.
I don't know why I thought you'd be any different.
God fucking damn you, Xabi.
Fuck you. Fuck you.
He says it so many times that the message runs out.
(Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.)
I love you, he says into the dial tone.
He wakes up, body hanging halfway off the couch, dial tone still humming, remarkably loud in the otherwise dead-quiet room. He picks the phone up off the carpet, turns it off. He sits next to it on the couch. He wonders vaguely if Xabi had tried calling back at some point in the night. He remembers leaving the message, but he doesn't remember much of the content. For a moment, he hates alcoholic beverages of any sort. Really fucking hates it. Fucking hates -
Then, he starts to remember.
He thinks, Fuck.
He stares at the phone like it's a ticking bomb for the next half an hour.
When he finally (finally) finds his cell phone, there are three text messages.
The first two are from Carra and Gratty, making sure he didn't fall asleep on the driveway or the porch (or somewhere worse) after they'd dropped him off the night before. He responds identically to both (Fuck you very much.).
Then there's the next, received around 6am, before the other two:
I think we need to talk. Can't right now. Tonight?
And that's so fucking Xabi, responding so calmly and rationally to what he's sure was a raving lunatic's rant.
He thinks about not replying, about going back to sleep for the rest of the day and forgetting all about it.
Instead, he groans, yawns and stretches at the same time, and then replies: I was drunk. But of course you know that. And yeah. Tonight.
He decides to curl up on the couch and watch some bad reality show on the telly. Alex wakes up at some point during this, tsk's (Oh, shut up. and then she laughs, kisses him on the cheek), and then asks if he wants breakfast. He doesn't entirely trust his stomach yet though, so he passes.
His phone starts buzzing then. He looks down at it, expecting it to be Carra wanting to laugh at him some more, but sees three letters glowing at him instead: Fer. (He thinks for a second about when 'Torres' became 'Fernando' became 'Fer' - and decides this Spanish invasion of Merseyside was maybe not the best idea anyone had ever had - or, alternatively, maybe it really was.)
"Fernando? Hey, mate."
"Um, Stevie? Hi. I hope everything's okay." And okay, maybe he doesn't entirely like where this is going.
"...yeah. Why wouldn't it be?"
"Well, I just got a text from Xabi... He said he's worried about you."
And fuck.
It was definitely a bad idea. The worst idea anyone has ever had.
That phone call though? Stevie's really fucking happy about that now.
Fucking Xabi.
But first things first.
"Fernando?"
"Yes?"
"For the love of God, tell me no one told Pepe about this."
Stevie eventually persuades Fernando to go out to breakfast (or brunch, or whatever) with him (mostly just to make sure he doesn't spread this bit of gossip around any more than it already has).
"This team is ridiculous," is the first thing he says, sipping very, very strong coffee. He hopes that Fernando (or anyone else) will never point out the utter Spanish-ness of that habit.
"Well, technically, Xabi isn't -" He stops, looking kind of scared, and then silently starts chewing on a croissant.
Stevie seems to ignore it though. There are more pressing matters.
"Did you say he was worried about me? Before, I mean?"
"Yes. That's what he um, said."
"What...what does that even mean?"
"I don't know. He thinks you're under a lot of stress? And you are. I mean, we all are." He looks kind of forlorn. And Stevie hates how sad he's sounding these days. He doesn't deserve it. None of them do.
"Who isn't though?"
"Yes. Everyone is under stress. But not everyone is calling former teammates at 2am to tell them how much they hate them."
Stevie winces. It sounds a lot harsher when someone else says it out loud than when his fuzzy brain tries to recollect the gist of his message.
"Have you said sorry?" Fernando says, as if that'll make it all better.
"No."
"Why not?" He looks surprised.
"Because I'm not. I mean, okay, I didn't mean some of it. But I was drunk. And mad. Or I was mad. Before. When he left."
"You didn't say it then, though."
"Because I was sad too, then."
"And you're not anymore?"
"I am. I just...don't have time to be sad anymore. It doesn't accomplish anything."
"And angry...drunk messages do?"
"I got his attention, didn't I? He thinks something's wrong."
"And it's not?"
Stevie could swear he's looking distracted now...almost as if he's texting under the table.
"Fernando," he says, in his sternest Captain-voice.
"Sorry," he says quickly, placing his phone on the table. He starts blushing for some odd reason. Stevie thinks it's kind of ridiculous that this same kid could get right up in JT's and Vidic's faces and give as good as he got on the pitch.
"I told him I'd talk to him tonight." He kind of half-shrugs, like it's no big deal. Like he took care of it. Like he's not actually scared to death.
"...are you nervous?"
"No. Of course not."
Then, "You really miss him, don't you?"
"Yeah," he says, softly. And then, "yeah," again, but it sounds like he's answering another question, the one that Fernando had really meant to ask.
"I'll take care of it," he says, sounding more confident than he is.
"I hope you do," Fernando says, and he's smiling kind of sadly, looking older and wiser than he normally does. Stevie's really grateful for him, then, for a moment.
"Thanks, Fernando," he says, seriously.
"No problem. I'm kind of worried about you too, Captain."
Carra does call to laugh at him some more when he gets home. But thankfully he doesn't mention any drunk-dialling, so he's relieved. It seems that Xabi hadn't, in fact, notified everyone he was on speaking terms with in Liverpool about his concern for Stevie. So that's something, at least.
He gets a few more hours of sleep, this time in an actual bed, and awakes to his phone buzzing next to his pillow.
"Yeah?"
"Steven," comes Xabi's heavily-accented voice. "Were you sleeping?"
"No," he lies, and Xabi knows better anyway.
"Fernando said you looked awful this morning," he says, casually.
Fucking kid.
"Is there some kind of Stevie-watch I know nothing about?"
"You're not that important, you know," Xabi says. "Only the captain of the most prestigious club in England."
"Oh, so that's all you two care about? Your beloved adopted club? I should have known."
"I bet you're glad I called Fernando and not Pepe or Carra or..."
"Very, very glad. But you didn't have to call anyone. You don't have to take care of me." Not anymore, he adds, silently. It's kind of embarrassing to admit he ever needed that though, in any way.
"Did you mean it, Steven?" And he sounds kind of worried, kind of tense, not like him at all.
"Of course I didn't. But I get angry about it sometimes. About you."
Xabi kind of makes this noise that he could take for a sigh, or something patronising, or something sympathetic. He never fucking knows.
"You need to not do that."
"What?"
"Dismiss me like that. Make it out like I'm too rash or emotional or some psychological shit like that."
"Steven...I don't. Really. I'm not. I just don't know what to say anymore."
"You miss it," he says, simply.
"Yes," and he sounds kind of distant, for a moment, like he's talking to himself, thinking out loud. "Every day."
"But you don't regret it," Steven finishes.
"Everything ends, Steven."
"Even you and me?"
"No, I don't think that ends," and his voice is so soft, so tender that Steven wishes he'd never had to hear the awful things he'd said to him.
"I don't hate you."
"I know."
"I miss you, though."
"Yes, that's what Fernando says. And Pepe..."
Stevie laughs.
"It'll get better," Xabi says. "Everything ends, right? The bad stuff will end too."
Stevie almost believes him. It's been hard to believe anything for a while, though, so he'll take it.
"Steven?" Xabi says, after a couple seconds of silence.
"Yeah, Xabi?"
"I'm kind of glad you got drunk last night."
"Me too. Maybe."
"I'll talk to you soon, Steven. Get some rest."
Two seconds after he hangs up, the phone rings again.
"Pepe?"
"So, I heard someone was whining like a little girl to his former #14 about how he can't live without him."
Fucking Spaniards.
From diskarte's stocking. Stevie/Xabi, Fernando, and a bit of Pepe and Carra. | This Spanish invasion of Merseyside was maybe not the best idea anyone had ever had - or, alternatively, maybe it really was.
There are a lot of things Stevie wants to tell Xabi, not because it would change anything or make him feel any better about this whole fucked up situation, but because - because he wants to be honest with him again. He thinks that's probably the worst part about him not being here - him not being able to look at Stevie and know exactly what he was feeling (he used to hate that before, or he thought he did). He probably wouldn't be able to now, though, anyway. Because Stevie's not that same person anymore. He's not the person Xabi met when he first came, and he's not the person he left. He's not sure who the fuck he is at all anymore. His club seems to be falling apart before his eyes, Rafa's gone (and although he could be strange and distant sometimes, he's started to feel like family - part of the Liverpool family and by extension, his), and Xabi's in fucking Madrid - and none of it's right. None of it feels right.
When you came here, I was confused. And angry, and stupid. You made me think I could be better than that. And I was. But then you - you fucking left. And you took some of that away. And I fucking hate that. I fucking hate you. And I hate myself for depending on you so much.
People always fucking leave. People always fucking leave me.
I don't know why I thought you'd be any different.
God fucking damn you, Xabi.
Fuck you. Fuck you.
He says it so many times that the message runs out.
(Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.)
I love you, he says into the dial tone.
He wakes up, body hanging halfway off the couch, dial tone still humming, remarkably loud in the otherwise dead-quiet room. He picks the phone up off the carpet, turns it off. He sits next to it on the couch. He wonders vaguely if Xabi had tried calling back at some point in the night. He remembers leaving the message, but he doesn't remember much of the content. For a moment, he hates alcoholic beverages of any sort. Really fucking hates it. Fucking hates -
Then, he starts to remember.
He thinks, Fuck.
He stares at the phone like it's a ticking bomb for the next half an hour.
When he finally (finally) finds his cell phone, there are three text messages.
The first two are from Carra and Gratty, making sure he didn't fall asleep on the driveway or the porch (or somewhere worse) after they'd dropped him off the night before. He responds identically to both (Fuck you very much.).
Then there's the next, received around 6am, before the other two:
I think we need to talk. Can't right now. Tonight?
And that's so fucking Xabi, responding so calmly and rationally to what he's sure was a raving lunatic's rant.
He thinks about not replying, about going back to sleep for the rest of the day and forgetting all about it.
Instead, he groans, yawns and stretches at the same time, and then replies: I was drunk. But of course you know that. And yeah. Tonight.
He decides to curl up on the couch and watch some bad reality show on the telly. Alex wakes up at some point during this, tsk's (Oh, shut up. and then she laughs, kisses him on the cheek), and then asks if he wants breakfast. He doesn't entirely trust his stomach yet though, so he passes.
His phone starts buzzing then. He looks down at it, expecting it to be Carra wanting to laugh at him some more, but sees three letters glowing at him instead: Fer. (He thinks for a second about when 'Torres' became 'Fernando' became 'Fer' - and decides this Spanish invasion of Merseyside was maybe not the best idea anyone had ever had - or, alternatively, maybe it really was.)
"Fernando? Hey, mate."
"Um, Stevie? Hi. I hope everything's okay." And okay, maybe he doesn't entirely like where this is going.
"...yeah. Why wouldn't it be?"
"Well, I just got a text from Xabi... He said he's worried about you."
And fuck.
It was definitely a bad idea. The worst idea anyone has ever had.
That phone call though? Stevie's really fucking happy about that now.
Fucking Xabi.
But first things first.
"Fernando?"
"Yes?"
"For the love of God, tell me no one told Pepe about this."
Stevie eventually persuades Fernando to go out to breakfast (or brunch, or whatever) with him (mostly just to make sure he doesn't spread this bit of gossip around any more than it already has).
"This team is ridiculous," is the first thing he says, sipping very, very strong coffee. He hopes that Fernando (or anyone else) will never point out the utter Spanish-ness of that habit.
"Well, technically, Xabi isn't -" He stops, looking kind of scared, and then silently starts chewing on a croissant.
Stevie seems to ignore it though. There are more pressing matters.
"Did you say he was worried about me? Before, I mean?"
"Yes. That's what he um, said."
"What...what does that even mean?"
"I don't know. He thinks you're under a lot of stress? And you are. I mean, we all are." He looks kind of forlorn. And Stevie hates how sad he's sounding these days. He doesn't deserve it. None of them do.
"Who isn't though?"
"Yes. Everyone is under stress. But not everyone is calling former teammates at 2am to tell them how much they hate them."
Stevie winces. It sounds a lot harsher when someone else says it out loud than when his fuzzy brain tries to recollect the gist of his message.
"Have you said sorry?" Fernando says, as if that'll make it all better.
"No."
"Why not?" He looks surprised.
"Because I'm not. I mean, okay, I didn't mean some of it. But I was drunk. And mad. Or I was mad. Before. When he left."
"You didn't say it then, though."
"Because I was sad too, then."
"And you're not anymore?"
"I am. I just...don't have time to be sad anymore. It doesn't accomplish anything."
"And angry...drunk messages do?"
"I got his attention, didn't I? He thinks something's wrong."
"And it's not?"
Stevie could swear he's looking distracted now...almost as if he's texting under the table.
"Fernando," he says, in his sternest Captain-voice.
"Sorry," he says quickly, placing his phone on the table. He starts blushing for some odd reason. Stevie thinks it's kind of ridiculous that this same kid could get right up in JT's and Vidic's faces and give as good as he got on the pitch.
"I told him I'd talk to him tonight." He kind of half-shrugs, like it's no big deal. Like he took care of it. Like he's not actually scared to death.
"...are you nervous?"
"No. Of course not."
Then, "You really miss him, don't you?"
"Yeah," he says, softly. And then, "yeah," again, but it sounds like he's answering another question, the one that Fernando had really meant to ask.
"I'll take care of it," he says, sounding more confident than he is.
"I hope you do," Fernando says, and he's smiling kind of sadly, looking older and wiser than he normally does. Stevie's really grateful for him, then, for a moment.
"Thanks, Fernando," he says, seriously.
"No problem. I'm kind of worried about you too, Captain."
Carra does call to laugh at him some more when he gets home. But thankfully he doesn't mention any drunk-dialling, so he's relieved. It seems that Xabi hadn't, in fact, notified everyone he was on speaking terms with in Liverpool about his concern for Stevie. So that's something, at least.
He gets a few more hours of sleep, this time in an actual bed, and awakes to his phone buzzing next to his pillow.
"Yeah?"
"Steven," comes Xabi's heavily-accented voice. "Were you sleeping?"
"No," he lies, and Xabi knows better anyway.
"Fernando said you looked awful this morning," he says, casually.
Fucking kid.
"Is there some kind of Stevie-watch I know nothing about?"
"You're not that important, you know," Xabi says. "Only the captain of the most prestigious club in England."
"Oh, so that's all you two care about? Your beloved adopted club? I should have known."
"I bet you're glad I called Fernando and not Pepe or Carra or..."
"Very, very glad. But you didn't have to call anyone. You don't have to take care of me." Not anymore, he adds, silently. It's kind of embarrassing to admit he ever needed that though, in any way.
"Did you mean it, Steven?" And he sounds kind of worried, kind of tense, not like him at all.
"Of course I didn't. But I get angry about it sometimes. About you."
Xabi kind of makes this noise that he could take for a sigh, or something patronising, or something sympathetic. He never fucking knows.
"You need to not do that."
"What?"
"Dismiss me like that. Make it out like I'm too rash or emotional or some psychological shit like that."
"Steven...I don't. Really. I'm not. I just don't know what to say anymore."
"You miss it," he says, simply.
"Yes," and he sounds kind of distant, for a moment, like he's talking to himself, thinking out loud. "Every day."
"But you don't regret it," Steven finishes.
"Everything ends, Steven."
"Even you and me?"
"No, I don't think that ends," and his voice is so soft, so tender that Steven wishes he'd never had to hear the awful things he'd said to him.
"I don't hate you."
"I know."
"I miss you, though."
"Yes, that's what Fernando says. And Pepe..."
Stevie laughs.
"It'll get better," Xabi says. "Everything ends, right? The bad stuff will end too."
Stevie almost believes him. It's been hard to believe anything for a while, though, so he'll take it.
"Steven?" Xabi says, after a couple seconds of silence.
"Yeah, Xabi?"
"I'm kind of glad you got drunk last night."
"Me too. Maybe."
"I'll talk to you soon, Steven. Get some rest."
Two seconds after he hangs up, the phone rings again.
"Pepe?"
"So, I heard someone was whining like a little girl to his former #14 about how he can't live without him."
Fucking Spaniards.