hidroavión.

[pendules]

for liverlass.

prompt: AU. Frank Lampard is still a footballer. Xabi Alonso is not. Frank Lampard is writing his autobiography. Xabi Alonso is the chosen "ghostwriter" for said book.

All inaccuracy (and I am sure there is a lot-I know almost nothing about the process of ghostwriting etc. and there is only so much hurried research could do-in a blatant attempt to further the plot) is mine. Sorry.


ghostwriter

Frank doesn't even know the term before; he just thinks of him as "the bloke who actually writes the book", imagines him as an old guy with horn-rimmed glasses who speaks with a Scottish accent (maybe like Sean Connery). Wonders why he's worried about this anyway. The book will sell, whatever it turns out to be. His fans will buy it regardless; those who hate him (and he's resigned to the fact that there are quite a lot) won't regardless. Curiosity might prompt some who are indifferent. It doesn't matter too much to him though.

But he figures this might matter: the ghostwriter, his ghostwriter seems to hate him too. The probability is high, of course; pull any Englishman, and/or football fan, out at random, and there's a zero point something-more-than-five chance he hates his guts.

This guy, however, seems to be, at first glance, neither. Doesn't wear glasses, as far as he knows, has some kind of accent, but not a Scottish one, and will actually admit to liking Sean Connery later, but he couldn't possibly know that right now. He owns reading glasses, but not horn-rimmed ones, and Frank can't know that either. In short, he can't tell anything about him, can't read him. And Frank prides himself as a good judge of character (and so, prides himself among footballers, but that's a different story).

"So how does this work exactly?"

"I'm not too sure myself."

"You're new to this?"

"Yes."

"Great."

"That's a sarcastic 'great', I take it. Typical. Don't worry, we'll get it done."

"Typical? I- Wait- Your accent, it's weird. It's almost... Scouse?"

"Yes, I live in Liverpool."

"And you're Spanish?"

"Yes, but I've lived here for almost six years."

"So, who do you support then?"

"Does it matter?"

"Maybe. Come on."

"Maybe I don't support anyone. Maybe I'm into cricket."

"You're from Spain. No cricket there."

"How do you know?"

"Because."

"You going to victimise me for not being a Blue?"

"No, no. 'Course not. I'm a tolerant man. Scousers, however..."

"Fine. I've supported Liverpool since before I came here. Happy?"

"Ecstatic. That was definitely sarcastic, by the way."

"It's your book we're (I am) writing, you know. We're supposed to talk about you."

"Exactly. We're going to be doing that so much I figured we should give you your time in the spotlight."

"My life's uninteresting."

"Just because someone doesn't get to be on the telly everyday, that doesn't mean he's uninteresting."

"You would say that."

"It's true. I-"

"Can we not? Can we get to business, please?"

"Fine."

"Great."

"So you're really new to this?"

"Yes, but it's for the best, we thought. It'll give everything a fresh, new feel. The art of writing autobiographies, well, it's become quite monotonous. You don't want that."

"No."

-

"You did research. On me, I mean."

"Yes, of course."

"But we know nothing about you."

"That's not true. Your agent-"

"You tell me. What do you write?"

"It used to be only fiction. Some of my stories were published in various magazines. I wrote a few books, but they never made the cut. Haven't made it, I mean, not as yet. Then I did some interviews, short biographies, that sort, for some other magazines. I thought I'd try this next."

"You think you can do this?"

"It's easy. It's a cooperative endeavour. You do your part, I do mine."

"And what's my part?"

"To tell your story. I thought that much was obvious."

"Oh. Right." He gets up to get a glass of water, starts pacing between sips.

"If you're nervous, you shouldn't be writing an autobiography in the first place."

"I'm not."

"What's with all the sidetracking then?"

"I don't know."

"Let's start."

"Uh, maybe we can go into the living room..."

"Ok." Xabi follows him there.

"So, where do we start?"

"From the beginning, of course. And make sure to include only what's relevant, only what you want to put in. We'll cut down after, of course."

Of course. He might punch something then if he was any less tolerant, if he was lying before.

-

Three weeks, and he's had enough. Surely, surely, this guy can't be human. Put anymore condescension in a room with him, and you'd definitely trip over it. And he does it so well. Never once rolls his eyes, but shifts them in a way that's a hundred times worse; is infuriatingly offending without saying one single word of insult. His tone, his entire ambiance, is just one of complete disapproval, and he's so professional at it, Frank has no choice but to think that this is him, this is how he always is.

Even worse is the inexplicable effect it has on him, and more so, the fact that he does nothing about it, aside from mentally cursing him constantly.

-

Frank brings it up with his agent a month into it.

"So, everything working out?"

"I... guess."

"I think that's a no."

"Well... you never said the guy was one of those elitist types."

"What? He lives down at the docks. And not one of those fancy places the English guys from Liverpool that you know own either. It's a little place, an apartment. Run-down even. He hasn't been too successful, you know."

"And you hired him?"

"Everyone starts somewhere. This is his new job. You're his first."

"His first?"

"You know what I mean."

"So this is just a trial?"

"No. It's a job. And he's doing well, I hear."

"So it's official? It's not a joke or anything?"

"What? Of course not. What's your problem with the bloke anyway?"

"I don't have a problem. Apparently he does, though."

"He's smart. He'll do the job. That's all you should be concerned about."

"Right."

-

"So, you live by the water?"

"Did some research on me, did you? I wondered how long it would take."

"Yes, but-"

"Yes, I do. I don't think I could live too far from the sea for too long."

This, Frank is grateful for. A simple truth. And he doubts that even though he might tell people this in passing, he rarely gives away the fact that it means a lot to him.

"And you lived in Spain..."

"San Sebastian. It's in the Basque Country."

Frank remembers hearing about it, sometime, maybe in school, maybe after.

"And you came here..."

"Went to college. University of Liverpool. Been there ever since. Just doing what everyone else does: trying to survive."

"You must think it's so stupid, that some of us, most of us, we never went to college, or any of that stuff, and we make a hundred thousand pounds a week."

"I don't judge."

"You do. You judge everyday, every time you come here, talk to me, think you could never do that, be like that."

"Are we done? We're done, right? I really have to go."

Gets up to leave, and almost succeeds before Frank stops him outside the doorway.

"Hey! Wait! I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"You know what? People like you, they think they run the whole bloody world. Well, maybe you do. Maybe people like me give it to you on a silver platter. And it's not going to change. But I won't-"

"Won't what?"

"It's a job. I see you two hours a week, the next of which are on Sunday. Be there."

-

"I really am sorry," he says as soon as Xabi walks into the room the next time. He wonders if he's been rehearsing that all week. (Frank is mentally slapping himself for almost stumbling over the last two syllables. And also, for making such a big deal about this. The truth: it's all he's thought of for the last five days.)

They're quieter than usual, like it was in the beginning, only saying what was necessary. But more comfortable than usual too. Xabi actually smiles at a point or two. Frank relaxes.

When he gets up to leave, it comes bursting out. He's needed to say this.

"People like you, they have things that we can't. Normalcy. Privacy. Sometimes, I ache for that. It's hard, so fucking hard, knowing that millions of people are watching you, depending on you... But that's why we want normalcy: to be with the people we love. Then there'll only be them to depend on us. But if you don't have that, then nothing means anything. We all need that."

Xabi calls his mother the next morning, tells her he's not so sure anymore; she sounds almost relieved. He almost cries when she says that he should come home, if only for a while.

Come home.

-

"Do you miss it?"

Xabi jumps, startled. Only a second before, there was complete quiet, punctuated by no stray comments or questions.

"Do I miss what?"

"Spain."

"Maybe."

"For a writer, you sure have few words." He's teasing.

"And for a footballer, you talk too much. Your feet, they are supposed to do your talking."

"Ah, that's what they tell me." Frank smiles at him.

"It's... complicated. Both places are home in their own way. But you can't have it all. You can only be in one place at a time. So you should choose each place wisely."

"Why did you choose here? Me?"

"I didn't. It was a job, an opportunity..."

"You're lying to me now."

"My brother, he's a footballer, back in Spain, for our hometown club."

"Oh."

"He was always the favourite. The pride of the family."

"Oh." Finally understands. Thinks: you must hate me. And maybe, you have every right to.

"I couldn't stay anymore." Shrugs. He looks, to Frank, here and now, like a completely different person to the one who walked into his kitchen that first time. He feels he shouldn't be seeing this (but is so grateful for it too).

Then he continues, although he knows Frank already knows, like he needs to say it, for himself, out loud (to him): "I came here trying to convince myself that I was right to despise it, all of it. That I wasn't a bad person for leaving. But it didn't, it didn't work-"

And when Frank kisses him, it's like he's kissing that person, the fragile one buried under it all (the raised eyebrows, and twitching lips, and terseness).

Xabi almost convinces himself that it's someone different too.

And afterwards, in his bed:

"Tell me one of your stories."

"It's about a man who lives on a lake, one of those really huge ones, maybe in America. And he owns one of those seaplanes, you know the kind, though I don't quite know why, because he doesn't go anywhere; it's probably to get supplies from the nearest town, wherever that might be, because it's isolated, his house. And he spends all his days outside, near the water, writing poetry about his dead lover."

"And that's it? That's not a story."

"I live near the water. (Says it now like it's a case of identity, and it is.) People like us, our lives are uninteresting. Anyone who writes otherwise is a liar."

"It's fiction, Xabi. You can find the extraordinary in the uninteresting."

"I never finished that one. I don't know why I even told you."

"You should, you should."

"I think I threw the first draft into the sea. It seemed... fitting. I wish everything was simple as this, your story."

"If it's simple, we're doing it wrong."

"You're right. It's not. I'm glad it's not. I'm glad I met you. Glad I got to know you."

He suddenly feels now that this is wrong. Wants to say, not all of them are like this. Some of them are really fucking arrogant bastards. And none of it's your fault. You deserve so much better.

But Xabi stops him by kissing him, and he forgets until the morning.

-

He protests the next time. Pulls away, grabs his wrist. "We shouldn't. You have... things to work out. This will only complicate it more."

Xabi says, "It's not about them. Not anymore. Not about anyone else."

And Frank just stares at him for a second. He looks neither helpless nor disdainful this time. Something else he hasn't seen.

A second later, he lets him.

-

And so it goes, for what seems like a rather long time. Frank doesn't complain to anyone anymore (including himself); Xabi talks to his mother, father, brother weekly for the first time in years. Frank tells his story, and he makes notes. They sometimes settle into their periods of comfortable silence, still. Frank might squeeze his spare hand while he's perusing his notes (they always sit next to each other now), changing something here or there, scratching that out... not letting go until he looks up. Then he might carefully remove his glasses and kiss him softly... Xabi will (always) wait a few minutes before scolding him, telling him he has work to do. Goes home, and sits outside with only the sea for company, and writes. Sometimes doesn't. When he said he was only comfortable near the sea, that was before he'd met Frank. Before he thought, waking up in his arms, and painstakingly getting up without stirring him awake too, maybe I could be comfortable (happy) here too.

-

This is the last evening, the last time, and they know it, for varying reasons.

He removes himself from his bed in the morning, and this time, doesn't try to sneak out while he's still asleep. He actually almost waits for him to wake up. When he does, he leans in, presses his index finger against the lips on the verge of parting (they close), says, you talk too much. Just shut up and listen. I have to say this.

"Thanks. For being smart. For being different than I expected. For being you. And we're done; it's done. Final draft's off to be published."

Frank nods, doesn't sit up.

"I'll miss you. I mean, it'll be weird."

"I know. Maybe I'll be back, sometime, maybe I'll come visit."

"Oh, no. No. You'll be too busy with your lakes and planes for little old me."

"It's a seaplane, actually. And I don't know how to fly."

"You should learn then."

Xabi, he thinks, you should never stop talking like this, dreaming, believing, even when you don't have to dream anymore for yourself, believing in other people.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Have a good trip."

"It's bound to be a bestseller."

"Yeah, yeah."

-

The book is on the shelves, after over a year, and Frank begins to wonder if he really was a ghost to begin with.