lolfandom.
"Never happening (again)"? I'm such a liar. Or I just like betraying myself. Not exactly threesome pr0n, but it'll do.
Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, Steven Gerrard/Fernando Torres | 1200 words | X. is his rationality, and F. is his selflessness.
coexistencias
It's something he doesn't normally notice (and isn't supposed to), but it becomes significant in May, another May, again: this team, and all its members, of different skin tones, and hair colours, different accents, and languages, but the only colour that matters tonight (every night) is red; the only language, football, the universal language.
And he's their captain, but, most likely, he doesn't deserve it. Because this isn't his loss, it wasn't his win, and it's not only about his tears.
In July, they sit alone in the Kop (and it echoes with silence louder than a symphony, ghosts of thousands of voices still as near as ever; this place is filled with ghosts), and he realises that rainwater can change hair colours, but not skin colours, and he has the urge to say how sorry he is but can't think of a fitting reason, or he just can't choose one (there is always a reason, there are a thousand reasons, as loud and uncontainable as the stand they're sitting in when it's full to capacity; he can be sorry that it wasn't another Istanbul, or because he was an ungrateful little fuck, or a bastard, plain and simple, a bloody bastard, or because he can't fix this, like he used to be able to fix everything). And Xabi needs reasoning, otherwise it's all shot to hell. Like this is, they are. But they've both changed. Steven will know it after this. (But people don't change that much. It's possible to live as the same man in different worlds.)
He'll know it when Xabi kisses him, and when he tells him how much he loves him, or used to love him (he doesn't know, doesn't know), and when Xabi tells him how much he loves something that's not him (something that still is him, but something that is not only him, and that makes all the difference). (When he doubts him, he knows he hasn't changed so much. It's true.)
In August, he tells Fernando that he understands, that it's all too fucked up sometimes (that an armband is a weight, and heart is not always all there is, and it's all he has-Fernando has something else too: carefree youth hardened into detached maturity far too early-Stevie's still a child), to feel better about himself.
By February, he wonders if maybe he can fix something again, after all.
(Because no one sees it (this world is a made-up one), but Stevie is a weak captain: a captain of heart and not of reasoning. He is a selfish captain, a captain who depends too much on everyone else to make up for what he doesn't have but always needs. Xabi was his rationality, and Fernando becomes his selflessness, and he doesn't know which one's more important. (Stevie's a child and Xabi's his instruction and Fernando's his praise, and none of it's probably necessary, none of it's supposed to be necessary.)
(Sometimes, of course, heart is the most important. This is where he doesn't realise that he doesn't have to need so much.))
In March, he gets out of bed, brushes blond hair out of a young face, presses a kiss against Fernando's cheek, puts on his shoes, and gets in his car and drives away.
He paces in front of his door for a minute, wondering if it's gone too far already, if this, he, will ever stop. He knocks, and Xabi's barely looked at him (anxious and terse) before he starts talking. (I've done something stupid. But what's really stupid is I think I'll do it again.)
"What do you want me to do? Forgive you? Tell you it's okay?"
"I want you to understand."
"Maybe I used to. But we've changed."
(The truth is that there are many different worlds that exist in the one we live in, and most often, the one everyone sees is the most fabricated. There are dozens under the surface that exist for one person, or two, or none at all. But it's possible to be the same man in different worlds.)
"You're still here, though. You didn't leave." (He still thinks that no one knows, that no one can feel it like he does. It's impossibility to him, not ignorance, but the way we sometimes can't imagine loving anything more than this, than a place, than a person; the way we sometimes can't imagine anyone loving as much as we do. And at that moment, it is unfalteringly true, to us.)
"Steven Gerrard may be all about Liverpool, but Liverpool's not all about Steven Gerrard. I hope he realises that sooner than I did."
(And this is the real reason for being sorry: for leaving when he started reminding him too much of himself, when it started meaning too much, when he got scared, when he knew he couldn't depend anymore, when it wasn't all about him anymore.)
When he returns, he's gone. Maybe he is indeed not as innocent as he had thought.
(Maybe he loves far too easily, and expects that love to be returned unconditionally no matter at what cost to the other person, the other entity. And when they can't, it breaks him completely. This is why people have left; this is why he almost left. Why relationships have fallen apart to the point of no turning back. (Sometimes, love is enough; sometimes, it's not.) He loves furiously and intensely, too fast, too soon, and it all ends before it should.)
It doesn't happen again.
In April, he tells him that there are things he has to work out (because some people are gone, and maybe they'll never come back, but some are still there, still here, and he knows now that it's not entirely beyond repair). There's hope still, and Fernando understands this. He knows he does (knows that he's not the only one, and won't be in the future; knows that his loyalty is not the only one that shouldn't be doubted). Knows he'll have to learn to be selfless himself, to be a captain himself (to make himself deserve it). Knows he'll keep scoring, and they may keep winning, and he'll get what he deserves at some point (for believing, for learning to love like Stevie always has).
In April, he apologises. For a year, a season, two years, or maybe four. And Xabi's eyes look like that night, with the ghosts of all of one hundred years around them, and the black saturated with shining water droplets (light in the dark, sound in the silence).
"I'm sorry."
And people never do change that much.
"I can't understand all of it."
"You're not supposed to." (There are eleven men on a field, five hundred thousand in this city, six billion in the world. He won't be so selfish again, but they can all be there for him, if he wanted it, if he let them.)
"I'm not supposed to," he repeats.
A captain is one man. He holds the expectation of many men (of different skin colours, backgrounds, religions, languages). He holds their faith. He can't do it alone. (But all men, captains or not, at some time, have to go at it alone.)
Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, Steven Gerrard/Fernando Torres | 1200 words | X. is his rationality, and F. is his selflessness.
coexistencias
It's something he doesn't normally notice (and isn't supposed to), but it becomes significant in May, another May, again: this team, and all its members, of different skin tones, and hair colours, different accents, and languages, but the only colour that matters tonight (every night) is red; the only language, football, the universal language.
And he's their captain, but, most likely, he doesn't deserve it. Because this isn't his loss, it wasn't his win, and it's not only about his tears.
In July, they sit alone in the Kop (and it echoes with silence louder than a symphony, ghosts of thousands of voices still as near as ever; this place is filled with ghosts), and he realises that rainwater can change hair colours, but not skin colours, and he has the urge to say how sorry he is but can't think of a fitting reason, or he just can't choose one (there is always a reason, there are a thousand reasons, as loud and uncontainable as the stand they're sitting in when it's full to capacity; he can be sorry that it wasn't another Istanbul, or because he was an ungrateful little fuck, or a bastard, plain and simple, a bloody bastard, or because he can't fix this, like he used to be able to fix everything). And Xabi needs reasoning, otherwise it's all shot to hell. Like this is, they are. But they've both changed. Steven will know it after this. (But people don't change that much. It's possible to live as the same man in different worlds.)
He'll know it when Xabi kisses him, and when he tells him how much he loves him, or used to love him (he doesn't know, doesn't know), and when Xabi tells him how much he loves something that's not him (something that still is him, but something that is not only him, and that makes all the difference). (When he doubts him, he knows he hasn't changed so much. It's true.)
In August, he tells Fernando that he understands, that it's all too fucked up sometimes (that an armband is a weight, and heart is not always all there is, and it's all he has-Fernando has something else too: carefree youth hardened into detached maturity far too early-Stevie's still a child), to feel better about himself.
By February, he wonders if maybe he can fix something again, after all.
(Because no one sees it (this world is a made-up one), but Stevie is a weak captain: a captain of heart and not of reasoning. He is a selfish captain, a captain who depends too much on everyone else to make up for what he doesn't have but always needs. Xabi was his rationality, and Fernando becomes his selflessness, and he doesn't know which one's more important. (Stevie's a child and Xabi's his instruction and Fernando's his praise, and none of it's probably necessary, none of it's supposed to be necessary.)
(Sometimes, of course, heart is the most important. This is where he doesn't realise that he doesn't have to need so much.))
In March, he gets out of bed, brushes blond hair out of a young face, presses a kiss against Fernando's cheek, puts on his shoes, and gets in his car and drives away.
He paces in front of his door for a minute, wondering if it's gone too far already, if this, he, will ever stop. He knocks, and Xabi's barely looked at him (anxious and terse) before he starts talking. (I've done something stupid. But what's really stupid is I think I'll do it again.)
"What do you want me to do? Forgive you? Tell you it's okay?"
"I want you to understand."
"Maybe I used to. But we've changed."
(The truth is that there are many different worlds that exist in the one we live in, and most often, the one everyone sees is the most fabricated. There are dozens under the surface that exist for one person, or two, or none at all. But it's possible to be the same man in different worlds.)
"You're still here, though. You didn't leave." (He still thinks that no one knows, that no one can feel it like he does. It's impossibility to him, not ignorance, but the way we sometimes can't imagine loving anything more than this, than a place, than a person; the way we sometimes can't imagine anyone loving as much as we do. And at that moment, it is unfalteringly true, to us.)
"Steven Gerrard may be all about Liverpool, but Liverpool's not all about Steven Gerrard. I hope he realises that sooner than I did."
(And this is the real reason for being sorry: for leaving when he started reminding him too much of himself, when it started meaning too much, when he got scared, when he knew he couldn't depend anymore, when it wasn't all about him anymore.)
When he returns, he's gone. Maybe he is indeed not as innocent as he had thought.
(Maybe he loves far too easily, and expects that love to be returned unconditionally no matter at what cost to the other person, the other entity. And when they can't, it breaks him completely. This is why people have left; this is why he almost left. Why relationships have fallen apart to the point of no turning back. (Sometimes, love is enough; sometimes, it's not.) He loves furiously and intensely, too fast, too soon, and it all ends before it should.)
It doesn't happen again.
In April, he tells him that there are things he has to work out (because some people are gone, and maybe they'll never come back, but some are still there, still here, and he knows now that it's not entirely beyond repair). There's hope still, and Fernando understands this. He knows he does (knows that he's not the only one, and won't be in the future; knows that his loyalty is not the only one that shouldn't be doubted). Knows he'll have to learn to be selfless himself, to be a captain himself (to make himself deserve it). Knows he'll keep scoring, and they may keep winning, and he'll get what he deserves at some point (for believing, for learning to love like Stevie always has).
In April, he apologises. For a year, a season, two years, or maybe four. And Xabi's eyes look like that night, with the ghosts of all of one hundred years around them, and the black saturated with shining water droplets (light in the dark, sound in the silence).
"I'm sorry."
And people never do change that much.
"I can't understand all of it."
"You're not supposed to." (There are eleven men on a field, five hundred thousand in this city, six billion in the world. He won't be so selfish again, but they can all be there for him, if he wanted it, if he let them.)
"I'm not supposed to," he repeats.
A captain is one man. He holds the expectation of many men (of different skin colours, backgrounds, religions, languages). He holds their faith. He can't do it alone. (But all men, captains or not, at some time, have to go at it alone.)