[public] football/soccer rps
An Abrupt Descent (Not the Ending You Were Looking For)
Football/Soccer RPS, Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, R (for language, sex, and general darkness)
871 words
For Stef, as always, for nitpicking my commas and encouraging me to write. And to the New York Mets for providing me with the necessary level of angst found here. Next year, boys, next year.
These are not my boys but if they were I would probably not do this to them anyway.
This is set at an indeterminate point in the near future.
i.
He wasn’t looking when it happened. He’d turned around to walk away because he was afraid of what he might do, afraid that it would be Istanbul all over again and that there’d be another two months of pretending and not touching. He was walking away when he heard the distinct crack and the silence of the crowd and the breaking of his heart and he didn’t have to turn around to know. The video is everywhere and he doesn’t know how he manages to not see it but he does. He doesn’t have to see what happened; it’s enough to remember the sight of the body, not breathing, and the smile that remained.
ii.
“You should smile more.”
Steven’s eyebrows furrowed as he faced Xabi. “Excuse me?”
“You should smile more.” Xabi glanced around at his teammates preparing for the match and lowered his voice. “You look so miserable these days.”
“We’ve lost five games in a row, Xabi, how happy do you expect me to be?”
Xabi shrugged, lifting his hand to rest on Steven’s shoulder. “There are other things.”
Steven’s laugh was bitter and loud enough to draw stares. “Like what? You and me?” He forcefully brushed Xabi’s hand away. “It doesn’t matter how cheerful I am on or off the pitch. No one cares.” He stormed off, not noticing that as his scowl deepened Xabi’s face reflected unquestionable concern.
iii.
Everyone said that it had been ironically graceful. Deep down, no one was surprised because that was how Xabi did everything, that was who he was. The fans thought of smooth passes and extraordinary goals on the pitch but Steven thought of the fluidity of a body under his and a tongue gliding along his ear off the pitch. Some people claimed that he almost seemed to soar for a moment before hitting the ground, that he just didn’t have the necessary height to really fly.
(No one would admit that he should have been able to remain standing, or that dying with grace was not the type of notoriety that most people would choose.)
iv.
Xabi asks “Are you sure about this?” but it’s only a formality because they’re already past the point for such questions. He’s asking because he’s supposed to and there’s no answer but any reassurances he might be looking for are found when he feels Steven’s tongue on his neck and the cool air hitting his skin as his shirt is removed. Steven fumbles with buttons and zippers but Xabi’s hands are steady and it’s only a moment before there’s no distinguishing between the two bodies.
(They say it’s a one time thing and then a one last time and then they decided that they could either stop justifying it or stop doing it and they stopped counting then.)
v.
They ask what Xabi meant and he knows what he’s supposed to say. He’s supposed to talk about the perfect teammate, the genius passer, the ideal midfielder. He’s supposed to tell the truth but not all of it, only what is already known. But there are plenty of other things to say, stories to tell, explanations to share.
(“You blew kisses to the fans.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they deserved it.”)
But they’re looking at him and he finally says, “He was just a kid.” He’s silent after that because that’s all there is to say; that’s the real tragedy. It’s not that a great footballer, or a great fuck, or a great guy is dead. It’s that he was 25 years old and another player ran into him fast and he fell down and his neck snapped. It should have been an embarrassing moment that everyone would remember, the time the kid made a fool of himself in front of everyone. Instead everyone will remember the fall and the crack and the complete lack of movement . And Steven’s not sure that there is more that he is supposed to remember about that moment.
vi.
The ball hits the back of the net before anyone realizes that Xabi has it. The crowd erupts and the midfielder is attacked by his teammates. Steven is there with everyone else and he realizes with a jolt that there’s a big grin on his own face. Xabi sees it too and it’s all right then; they’re okay now. There will be more later, when the crowd isn’t around, and Steven lets his grin widen as he backs away and faces the other direction.
vii.
There’s a line that was crossed. The location of the line is unknown and even afterwards, when they know that they have moved past that point, there is no telling when it happened. It could have been the first kiss, or the second, or the third. It could have been the hand sliding along a hip, or the shower they shared, or the collision of mouths and bare skin. It could have been the forty-seventh kiss, the one that everyone saw. There was a line, and they crossed it, and it could have happened at any time, but as Steven stands still, his hands gripping flowers to be left at a grave, all he thinks of is one solitary smile.
Football/Soccer RPS, Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, R (for language, sex, and general darkness)
871 words
For Stef, as always, for nitpicking my commas and encouraging me to write. And to the New York Mets for providing me with the necessary level of angst found here. Next year, boys, next year.
These are not my boys but if they were I would probably not do this to them anyway.
This is set at an indeterminate point in the near future.
i.
He wasn’t looking when it happened. He’d turned around to walk away because he was afraid of what he might do, afraid that it would be Istanbul all over again and that there’d be another two months of pretending and not touching. He was walking away when he heard the distinct crack and the silence of the crowd and the breaking of his heart and he didn’t have to turn around to know. The video is everywhere and he doesn’t know how he manages to not see it but he does. He doesn’t have to see what happened; it’s enough to remember the sight of the body, not breathing, and the smile that remained.
ii.
“You should smile more.”
Steven’s eyebrows furrowed as he faced Xabi. “Excuse me?”
“You should smile more.” Xabi glanced around at his teammates preparing for the match and lowered his voice. “You look so miserable these days.”
“We’ve lost five games in a row, Xabi, how happy do you expect me to be?”
Xabi shrugged, lifting his hand to rest on Steven’s shoulder. “There are other things.”
Steven’s laugh was bitter and loud enough to draw stares. “Like what? You and me?” He forcefully brushed Xabi’s hand away. “It doesn’t matter how cheerful I am on or off the pitch. No one cares.” He stormed off, not noticing that as his scowl deepened Xabi’s face reflected unquestionable concern.
iii.
Everyone said that it had been ironically graceful. Deep down, no one was surprised because that was how Xabi did everything, that was who he was. The fans thought of smooth passes and extraordinary goals on the pitch but Steven thought of the fluidity of a body under his and a tongue gliding along his ear off the pitch. Some people claimed that he almost seemed to soar for a moment before hitting the ground, that he just didn’t have the necessary height to really fly.
(No one would admit that he should have been able to remain standing, or that dying with grace was not the type of notoriety that most people would choose.)
iv.
Xabi asks “Are you sure about this?” but it’s only a formality because they’re already past the point for such questions. He’s asking because he’s supposed to and there’s no answer but any reassurances he might be looking for are found when he feels Steven’s tongue on his neck and the cool air hitting his skin as his shirt is removed. Steven fumbles with buttons and zippers but Xabi’s hands are steady and it’s only a moment before there’s no distinguishing between the two bodies.
(They say it’s a one time thing and then a one last time and then they decided that they could either stop justifying it or stop doing it and they stopped counting then.)
v.
They ask what Xabi meant and he knows what he’s supposed to say. He’s supposed to talk about the perfect teammate, the genius passer, the ideal midfielder. He’s supposed to tell the truth but not all of it, only what is already known. But there are plenty of other things to say, stories to tell, explanations to share.
(“You blew kisses to the fans.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they deserved it.”)
But they’re looking at him and he finally says, “He was just a kid.” He’s silent after that because that’s all there is to say; that’s the real tragedy. It’s not that a great footballer, or a great fuck, or a great guy is dead. It’s that he was 25 years old and another player ran into him fast and he fell down and his neck snapped. It should have been an embarrassing moment that everyone would remember, the time the kid made a fool of himself in front of everyone. Instead everyone will remember the fall and the crack and the complete lack of movement . And Steven’s not sure that there is more that he is supposed to remember about that moment.
vi.
The ball hits the back of the net before anyone realizes that Xabi has it. The crowd erupts and the midfielder is attacked by his teammates. Steven is there with everyone else and he realizes with a jolt that there’s a big grin on his own face. Xabi sees it too and it’s all right then; they’re okay now. There will be more later, when the crowd isn’t around, and Steven lets his grin widen as he backs away and faces the other direction.
vii.
There’s a line that was crossed. The location of the line is unknown and even afterwards, when they know that they have moved past that point, there is no telling when it happened. It could have been the first kiss, or the second, or the third. It could have been the hand sliding along a hip, or the shower they shared, or the collision of mouths and bare skin. It could have been the forty-seventh kiss, the one that everyone saw. There was a line, and they crossed it, and it could have happened at any time, but as Steven stands still, his hands gripping flowers to be left at a grave, all he thinks of is one solitary smile.