(no subject)
title: this is how life goes.
pairing: xabi alonso/steven gerrard.
rating: r.
disclaimer: i'm lying.
word count: 6,079.
notes: this is entirely for slobberingboo because she is picasso and writes gold!!!! SHE IS MY ONE N ONLY!!! HAHAHA. so anyway. i'm really worried about posting this?? haha. this was really hard to write?? haha. i kept adding stuff and taking things away and the whole unrequited love thing...ah. i got rambly at a lot of parts. hahahahah. also i'm not sure if i'm happy with the ending!!!! ahhaah. but i'm kind of lazy so i just finished it. also i'm working on finishing some other ones, sooooo. oops. hahahaah. um, idr what else i had to say. i hope you enjoy it!
If I was ever yours, I never knew.
Xabi Alonso grows up to be the boy he always was. He grows up to be a man who is reserved and quiet. A man who is modest and humble, who seeks the best in himself and won’t settle for anything else. He grows up to be a man who refuses to cry in front of others.
When he is 6 years old and his pet dog passes away. His brother Mikel tells him, “It’s okay to cry if it’s for something you love.” He decides, yes, of course Mikel is right, but he runs to the bathroom to hide it.
When Xabi is 17 years old, he asks a girl out for ice cream. Her name is Arima. She is beautiful and has brown hair that flows like melted chocolate down her back. She has brown eyes that are richer than the earth, skin that is smoother than porcelain. He walks up to her (his best friend, Mikel, alongside him for moral support), and says, “I want to take you out to ice cream.”
She replies, “I don’t like ice cream.”
It is the first time he has gathered up his guts to ask a girl out, and he feels his heart break in two. He thinks he will never recover, no, not ever. That his heart will forever be dented with this first lost love. He’s wrong, of course, but-Arima, this girl, will forever be in the back of his head. Something to remind him of how a broken heart feels.
He grows up to be a man who thinks falling in love is a fallacy. He settles for a girl whom he loves, but isn’t in love with, because he figures that it doesn’t exist at all. Being in love, that is.
He’s wrong, of course.
It all starts in Liverpool.
July 2004.
Xabi calls his father one morning. “I have to talk to you.”
His father answers, “Okay,” and is over at Xabi’s within 15 minutes. After he’s seated at Xabi’s coffee table, and it seems as if Xabi’s not going to start talking anytime soon, he opens his mouth. “What is it, Xabi? What’s wrong?”
Xabi clears his throat. “Real Madrid. Liverpool.”
Periko raises an eyebrow. “What about them?”
Xabi shrugs momentarily, embarrassed slightly. He has always been intimidated by his father. He has always wished he could be his father. “They’re interested.”
Periko smiles softly. “Are you?”
Xabi fixes his eyes on the spot between his father’s eyes. He learned to do this when he was 11, when he realized that staring his father in the eyes was scarier than any horror film he had ever encountered. Plus, this way, it looks like he’s looking his father in the eyes. Kind of. “Liverpool seems intriguing, the Premier League has always interested me. And-Real Madrid is…well. It’s Real Madrid. The White Giants. Magic.”
Periko only replies, “Okay. Sounds like your decision is made.”
Xabi lowers his eyes down to his hands. “You’d be okay with it? If I went?”
“It’s your decision, Xabi. You can’t base your career around me.”
Xabi says, with a little more intensity, “But-would you be okay with it?”
Periko studies him, nods slowly after a few moments. “Yes, of course. You’re my son. Nothing is more important to me than you and your brothers’ happiness. Do you understand that, Xabi? Do what makes you happy.”
Xabi puts his head in his hands, he nods. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I think I’ll be happy with Real Madrid. It’s just…so much opportunity.”
He knows it doesn’t mean much to his father. His father who won the league with Real Sociedad. He thinks, maybe I can take them to first next season. He thinks, I took them to second last season. But second isn’t good enough, and it never was to Xabi. Never will be. You don’t win the league at second place.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi Alonso goes to Real Madrid CF.
This is how it goes:
Xabi Alonso goes to Liverpool FC.
August 2004.
It is electrifying, that moment. That moment that Xabi’s hand connected with Stevie’s hand. His skin is warm and Xabi will always remember it as such. After Stevie says something that Xabi presumes is supposed to be “welcome”, all Xabi can think about is the warmth of Stevie’s hand, voice, smile. He blushes at the thought and secretly curses himself.
It’s that smile of his, that gets him though. The warmth becomes a mere afterthought when the smile is directed at him.
“Xabi Alonso,” Xabi says slowly, hopes that Stevie has asked him something about the pronunciation of his name because even Xabi’s basic English skills don’t understand a word that is coming out of Stevie’s mouth.
Stevie smiles at him, and Xabi thinks that his legs might buckle beneath him if this continues. He’s trying to kill me, he thinks. Stevie introduces him to the vice-captain then, Jamie Carragher. If Xabi doesn’t understand what Stevie was saying, then Carra is literally speaking gibberish.
Later, he asks Luis, “What do you think?”
“I like it here, they’re all so nice. I just wish Carra would stop trying to speak German and stick to English.”
This is how it is supposed to go:
They understand Carra’s accent.
This is how it goes:
They don’t understand Carra’s accent.
May 2005.
It’s strange, Xabi muses, how Stevie is imperfect and perfect all at once. Just look at his hair, what could that be? That forward hairline, the too small eyes? The thin lips, the weird chin? But (but) he’s perfect. Xabi tries not to stare at him too often, because jesus christ, that is embarrassing.
He isn’t sure if Stevie has noticed, hopes that the fact that he hasn’t been confronted about it means that he hasn’t. It bothers Xabi, how much he likes to watch Stevie. He’s not perfect, he scolds himself. Except, the thing is, he is.
He waits for Stevie to say something motivational, to say something that will raise the spirits of the other lads. Because they’re 3 goals behind Milan at this point, and Rafa has never been much of a speaker. Stevie looks momentarily at Xabi, he looks panicked and fragile. Xabi wants to tell him, you can do this. God, if anyone in the world can do this, it’s you. He wishes painfully that he could do something, anything, to give them a chance in this match. If not for Liverpool, if not for the fans, then for Stevie.
In the end, Stevie says, “Our fans are out there, singing for us. Let’s give them something to sing about.”
This is how it is supposed to go:
AC Milan wins the Champions League.
This is how it goes:
Liverpool FC wins the Champions League.
November 2005.
It’s a fucking stupid party at Steve Finnan’s, with too many lamps letting off too much heat. Xabi sits on the couch as he desperately concocts hideous scenarios involving ugly, hairy old men and women dancing naked or playing sports to distract himself, because any minute now, Stevie’s going to sit really, really close to him since the only spot available is indeed, next to Xabi. It’s not even a complete spot, more like half a spot, with everyone squished together on the couch. And that just isn’t going to work for Xabi at all.
Before Xabi can really get the ball rolling with his horrendous imagery, Stevie is standing in front of him grinning like he’s won something, then he’s clambering onto the couch and positioning himself so he’s all long arms and legs draped over Xabi’s body.
Xabi grimaces and pushes at his leg. “Idiot, as if we’re not all uncomfortable enough already.”
Stevie laughs and pinches Xabi’s cheek in what could only be described as loving. He’s sitting so damn close to Xabi that Xabi can see the slow trickle of sweat making its way down the side of his face. The desire to lick it away coupled with the way Stevie’s legs keep slipping between Xabi’s thighs over and over again is enough to drive him out of his mind.
Nearby, he can hear Kewell and Baros laughing manically, but he can’t seem to pay any attention to them. He’s staring at the coffee table in an attempt not to stare at Stevie. Carra says something and Stevie laughs into Xabi’s ear as he attempts to sit up. Xabi shivers, despite himself, and lets his head fall back against the armrest. Stevie’s palm is sweaty where it rests against Xabi’s neck, and the heat radiating from the denim-covered leg hooked over Xabi’s feels so intense that it burns.
He has a girlfriend, he thinks. I have a girlfriend, he thinks. Why the fuck am I thinking about Steven Gerrard?, he thinks. He gets up abruptly and bids his farewell to the group. The only one of them that seems to pay any attention is Stevie, and it makes Xabi want to throw up because he can’t figure why it brings butterflies to his stomach.
Stevie follows him. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
Xabi shrugs, casual-suave; totally cool. “Nothing.”
Stevie smiles warmly. “Come on, Xabs. You can tell me, you know that, right?”
Except he can’t. It hurts, suddenly and painfully, and Xabi feels as if he can’t breathe properly. “It’s nothing, Stevie. Go inside, have fun.”
And it’s not like he’s in love with Stevie or anything, right? Because a) falling in love doesn’t happen in real life, and b) it’s Steven Gerrard, his friend, companion, captain.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi thinks highly of his captain and they become great friends.
This is how it goes:
Xabi falls in love with his captain.
March 2006.
“Come over tonight, yeah?” Stevie asks.
Xabi shrugs, puts his things away. He mutters, “I’m not so sure about that.” He’s not sure why he says it, because it’s purely friendly, these nightly visits when both of their girlfriends are out.
Stevie looks confused. “Why not?”
Xabi stares at him. Xabi studies him. Xabi loves him. He says, “Nevermind. I’ll see you tonight,” because Xabi wouldn’t be Xabi if he didn’t comply to every need of Steven fucking Gerrard.
That night, after a few beers and some football, they head to Stevie’s room where Stevie rummages for a movie to watch in his bedside drawer.
Xabi considers himself the intelligent one, the mentally stable member of the squad with all the rationally thought out ideas. But-in this moment, all he can think about is that he wishes desperately to crawl into Stevie’s bed at least once and have it be for something more than just one of their late night conversations when their girlfriends are out of town and they have nothing better to do. The ones where he listens to Stevie prattle on for hours about how much he misses Alex when she’s not there. The ones where he wishes he could say, well I’m here. Notice me, god damn it.
Stevie finally takes a seat on the bed, exhausted. “I can’t find anything you’d like, lad. None of that Casablanca type we watched at your place the other day.”
Xabi laughs. “It’s alright, Stevie. We don’t have to watch that type of movie.”
Stevie smirks softly. “You must be some romantic, with all those classic romance movies you got over at your place.”
Xabi laughs, gets up and stretches a little to avoid Stevie’s eyes. “I don’t really believe in love.”
Stevie raises an eyebrow and laughs. “Bullshit. You with your thousands of romantic movies and your gorgeous girlfriend, I know you’re a sucker for that sort of crap.”
Xabi sighs. He looks over at Stevie. “I’m not,” he says softly. It’s sincere and real in a way that Stevie’s not used to seeing.
It causes him to go quiet for a few moments. “You know, when I was younger, I never thought I’d fall in love. I thought I’d be single forever, have me a different girlfriend every week.” He smiles. “But then-but then I met Alex.” Xabi stares pointedly at the ground and he feels nauseous. He can’t do this. He cannot. Do. This. Stevie continues, “Now, I know you love Nagore. You have that lovestruck look in your eyes that everyone gets when they’re in love. So maybe you’re just unwilling to admit it to yourself, eh?” He nudges Xabi’s shoulder and winks.
Xabi’s face feels hot. He walks over to a window, because he can’t seem to be able to look at Stevie right now. “Yeah, maybe,” he says quietly, but it’s evident even to Stevie that his voice sounds pained.
Stevie stands up, concerned, and walks over to him. “Xabi?”
Xabi refuses to turn to look at him, knows that if he does he’d probably fucking cry and that is not going to happen if he has any say in it. He rests his head against the window. “I’m just tired. Maybe I’m catching a cold or something.”
Stevie places a hand on his cheek as best as he can with Xabi leaning against the window. “You feel fine to me, mate.”
Xabi sighs. “I’m just-”
In love with you.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi falls in love with Stevie. Stevie falls in love with Xabi.
This is how it goes:
Xabi falls in love with Stevie. Stevie falls in love with Alex.
July 2006.
“I’m sorry,” Stevie says when he calls Xabi after the France match.
Xabi nods into the phone but doesn’t reply immediately. They sit like that, quietly, for a bit. The simple breathing of the other helping them calm themselves; Stevie for his next match, Xabi for the heartbreak of his last. Finally, Xabi says, “Good luck.”
“Thanks, Xabi. It means a lot.”
Xabi closes his eyes. “I-” he stops, and swallows his words. I love you, he was going to say. I’d wish you all the luck in the world if it meant you’d be happy, he was going to say. He says, “I hope you win it all, Steven.”
A few days later, it’s Xabi calling Steven. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly down the line.
He doesn’t expect an immediate reply, so he’s surprised when he receives one. “Me too,” Stevie says. His voice is quiet and not at all how Xabi remembers Stevie’s voice as. “When I get home, will you be there?”
For you, “Yes.”
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi or Stevie win the World Cup.
This is how it goes:
Xabi nor Stevie win the World Cup.
February 2007.
“Xabi, mate, we need the RSVP’s by this Friday.”
Xabi looks up, his face quizzical. “For what?”
Stevie grins broadly. The excitement etched in his face makes Xabi smile, but then: “The wedding, you daft twat.”
Xabi nods hurriedly, mumbles that he’ll try to see if his schedule is cleared for it.
He stares down at his shoes as Stevie sits down beside him. “I can’t wait to see her walking down the aisle, you know? It’s going to be beautiful.”
Xabi forces a smile. He repeats quietly, “Yeah, beautiful.”
And he’s not lying in his agreement. Because, sure, it will beautiful. Tragically, heartbreakingly, devastatingly-beautiful.
Stevie turns to look at him. “You’ll come, won’t you? I want you there, mate.”
Listen, Stevie, Xabi wants to say. Listen, I have something to tell you. Listen, I don’t think I can make it. I don’t think my heart can take it, he wants to say. I know it sounds cheesy and repulsive and I’m the one who didn’t even believe in love, remember? But, god, I love you, he wants to say. If I forget my own name, if I forget how to play football-how to kick a ball, even-I will still remember you, your face, your smile. I will remember I loved you, I know it, he wants to say. Please, Stevie, he wants to say. Please. Love me instead, he wants to say.
Xabi says, “Yes, of course I’ll come.”
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi goes to Stevie’s wedding, where he spends most of the night pretending to be happy. And by pretending to be happy, he truly becomes happy for Stevie.
This is how it goes:
Xabi doesn’t go to Stevie’s wedding. He stays in Spain and fucks Nagore in an attempt to forget about Steven fucking Gerrard.
November 2007.
They beat Newcastle 3-0. Goals by Steven Gerrard, Dirk Kuyt, and Ryan Babel, respectively. Xabi walks into the room he is sharing with Stevie. Stevie is staring blankly at the wall in front of him, and it worries Xabi immediately. “Stevie? Are you okay?”
Stevie looks up, surprised, as if he hadn’t noticed Xabi there until now. “Oh, hey, mate.”
Xabi nudges him, smiles encouragingly. “What’s wrong?”
Stevie shrugs. “Did you hear the boos?”
Xabi’s face clouds with anger. He had heard the boos by the Newcastle fans for England’s failure to qualify to the Euros. He rubs Stevie’s hair affectionately. “It doesn’t matter.”
Stevie turns to look at him, and there is a trace of defiance. Anger. “Easy for you to say, Mr. Undefeated. You don’t have to go back to your country in shame.”
Xabi furrows his eyebrows and tries not to take what he has said to heart. “Stevie, stop it-”
Stevie glares. “No, you know what? You stop it. Stop pretending that everything will be alright when it won’t. We’re not going to the Euros. We’re going to have to sit at home and watch them.”
“I’m sorry,” Xabi says. He looks down at his hands because he sure as hell can’t look at Stevie.
Stevie stares at him. After a few moments, he says quietly, “Why didn’t you come, Xabi?”
Xabi looks up. He knows what Stevie’s talking about, but he pretends he doesn’t because he just really doesn’t want to fucking deal with this right now. Not now. Not ever. “What are you talking about?”
Stevie shrugs and turns back to the wall he had been previously staring at. “The wedding,” he offers.
Xabi’s face burns red in shame. He chews on his bottom lip for a few moments. He had been waiting for this. He was surprised when he didn’t get it when he first got back to Liverpool. And now, months later, he gets it. “There were last minute things in Spain that I had to get done.”
Stevie looks up abruptly. His voice contains three things: hurt, anger, shock. “It was that important that you couldn’t come to Liverpool for my bloody wedding?”
“I’m sorry,” Xabi repeats quietly.
“You’re sorry?! I wanted you there, Xabi. And I don’t even get a bleeding phone call explaining why the fuck you weren’t there when you said you’d come.”
Xabi scoffs. “You had Alex, you didn’t need me.” The words tumble out of his mouth and he regrets it instantly. Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck.
Stevie stops. The look of confusion on his face is almost comical. His voice is soft. “What?”
“Nothing,” Xabi mutters. He grabs a coat and heads for the door, but then Stevie’s hand is on his arm.
He repeats, with more force, “What?”
Xabi pulls his arm away. “I didn’t fucking mean anything by it. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. I’m sorry you didn’t make the Euros. I’m sorry-” I’m sorry I love you, he was going to say. “I’m just sorry.”
This is how it is supposed to go:
England qualifies for the Euros. And Stevie forgives Xabi for not coming to his wedding .
This is how it goes:
England doesn’t qualify for the Euros. And Stevie never forgets that Xabi didn’t come to his wedding, but pretends that day in their room never happened.
April 2008.
They just beat Arsenal to make the semi-final of the Champions League, and it’s time to celebrate. They are at Carra’s; Carra and Pepe already have their shirts off as they battle on the karaoke machine. It’s funny, Xabi thinks, because Pepe is singing a Julio Iglesias song while Carra is singing an Oasis song. No one can understand a thing they’re saying, their words meshing together.
He and Stevie give each other a look, and as they laugh, Steven leans in and whispers something along the lines of “they’re insane, why are we the only normal ones?” Halfway into the karaoke escapade, both Carra and Pepe switch to a certain song by Gerry & the Pacemakers and the rest of the team sings along. Stevie drapes an arm around Xabi’s shoulder, and Xabi can’t even make himself give a fuck about anything else as he leans into his touch.
They’re all drunk and happy and they pray Rafa doesn’t walk in randomly to see them because that would be a disaster.
At one point, Stevie presses his face into Xabi’s neck and mumbles, “I’m so drunk this isn’t good I’m so so soooo drunk.” Xabi only giggles in reply, and then rubs his forehead against Stevie’s. He can’t seem to stop smiling and slurring and, at one point, he speaks Spanish in which Stevie shouts, “I don’t know Spanish, I’m English!!!”
Stevie goes home with Xabi that night. In the secrecy of Xabi’s bedroom, Stevie leans in and kisses Xabi. It’s quick and hard and tastes like the beer they had drunk. They pull apart, and, even drunk, Stevie’s not prepared for the look Xabi gives him. The look of lust and want and need and something that Stevie can’t seem to acknowledge in the state he is in (or maybe, he doesn’t want to). He says, “I need to pee,” but before he is even out of the bed, he is suddenly throwing up on Xabi. And Xabi is, all too soon, more sober than he has been in hours. He pulls off his shirt before taking a hold of Stevie’s hand as he leads him to the bathroom. He helps him wash his face, only to be disappointed when a few moments later, Stevie throws up again. Xabi stands behind Stevie while Stevie throws up as he attempts to hold him up. When Stevie has thrown up all that he can throw up, Xabi washes his face again. He wraps an arm around him and can’t even think about the feel of Stevie in his arms as he walks him back to the bed. He puts Stevie in his bed where he falls asleep almost instantly. Xabi leans back against the wall, and-slowly, slowly, drops to the floor. He watches Stevie sleep, and wonders what the fuck he did wrong in life to deserve this. He wishes (he wishes) so fervently (not that Stevie would love him back, but-) that he wasn’t in love with Steven Gerrard.
In the morning, Stevie awakes with a pounding head. He sits up and wonders where the hell he is, when he sees Xabi-shirtless, asleep on the floor, head leaning against the wall. He gets up and shakes him awake. He whispers, “What happened last night?”
Xabi pushes himself up. He shrugs. “I don’t remember,” he lies.
After Stevie leaves, he sits on his couch and thinks back to the previous night. He remembers Stevie’s skin and his lips and his smile and his eyes on Xabi. He remembers and remembers and remembers, and he wishes that he didn’t.
Because almost having him is far worse than not having him at all.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi forgets about that night and things aren’t so bad because his feelings for Stevie aren’t as acute as they were before and the slowly fade away and maybe (just maybe) he can move on.
This is how it goes:
Xabi remembers everything about that night and he realizes that he has never loved anything more in his life than Steven Gerrard.
August 2008.
Campeones.
When everyone is still on a high from the Euros the month before, Xabi feels sick to his stomach.
Because-
how could he go back to a club who didn’t want him anymore?
And Stevie-
Stevie probably doesn’t even give a fuck.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi Alonso goes to Juventus FC.
This is how it goes:
Xabi Alonso stays with Liverpool FC.
March 2009.
4-1, at Old Trafford. Xabi sits at home and watches. He examines every move made, every shot passed. He looks for Stevie. He looks for Stevie, and he thinks, will he miss me, if I go? Or, will I just be a name of a player who used to play at Liverpool? (Not the midfield maestro who gave Stevie the crosses that defined his career.)
He calls him after the match, he can hear the who the fuck are Man Utd's in the background. Stevie is: only half listening to him, laughing at something someone says, humming ‘you’ll never walk alone’ under his breath, as Xabi relays his congratulations on the win.
It hurts Xabi a little bit. The fact that he’s not missed at all. It hurts him a little bit. The fact that Stevie won’t even listen to him. And he suddenly and painfully aches.
Because it hurts a little bit. When something you love, doesn’t love you back. Or maybe it hurts more than a little bit.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Stevie misses Xabi acutely at the Manchester match, and doesn’t forget for a moment that Xabi’s not there. He realizes with a jolt that yes, maybe, he feels what Xabi has felt for him all along.
This is how it goes:
Stevie doesn’t have an epiphany of any feelings for Xabi, and the fact that they beat Manchester United 4-1 overshadows the fact that Xabi’s not there.
May 2009.
They’ll name a city after us.
Istanbul.
“It’s named after us, you know,” Stevie tells him one day with a smile.
This time, 4 years ago, they had the game of their lives.
Xabi laughs softly, but doesn’t object. Because, really, who doesn’t synchronize Istanbul with the magical match that took place there in 2005?
Stevie speaks again a few moments later, as they begin their jog. “So when’s the wedding?”
Xabi shrugs. “This summer.”
Stevie turns to smile at him. “Why haven’t I gotten me invitation yet then, mate?” Xabi stares at the ground, slightly ashamed. Stevie notices the look on his face, and he stops running. His own face is clouded over with 3 things: hurt, anger, shock. Xabi turns around and shrugs again, not able to say anything. Not able to look Stevie in the eye. Stevie blinks three times before starting to run again, this time faster, this time leaving Xabi behind.
Later, when Xabi’s ball doesn’t land directly at his feet, Stevie snaps. Breaks. Cracks. Whatever you want to call it. “Jesus, Xabi, can’t you just give me the fucking ball when I need it?!”
Xabi blanches. “Are you serious?”
Everyone has stopped and is staring at the two, wide-eyed. Rafa begins walking briskly over. Stevie walks over to Xabi and gives him a hard push, his anger spilling out like water out of a faucet. “You fucking prick.”
Xabi gapes, he’s not sure what to do. He pushes back, but softly. Not at all the way Stevie had pushed him. “Stop it, Stevie.”
Stevie scoffs. “I can’t believe you.”
“And what can’t you believe?” Xabi asks calmly. Because this is Xabi. Calm and reserved. Because this is Xabi. He’s quite good at hiding his feelings, you know.
Steven begins to count it off his fingers. “First, your bloody pass is off. Second-” he stops for a moment, takes a deep breath, and continues in a softer voice that is only meant for Xabi’s ears. “You don’t come to my wedding. And third, you don’t invite me to yours.”
Xabi looks at his face. Thinks, I’d give the world for you. Thinks, I prefer your happiness over my own. Thinks, be happy for me, Stevie. I’m trying to move on, please be happy. Thinks, I’m trying in the only way I can.
He says, “We’re trying to keep it small.”
I can’t have you there, he thinks. I couldn’t watch you get married and I can’t have you watch me, he thinks.
Stevie sighs. He scuffs his foot across the grass and gives a quiet laugh, a little bit incredulous. “You’re breaking my heart here, Alonso.” He says it as a joke, but Xabi can’t seem to laugh. I’m breaking my own more, he thinks. You’re breaking my own more, he thinks.
Rafa has reached them now, and asks (quite angrily), “And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”
Stevie simply shakes his head and walks away.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi invites Stevie to his wedding and Stevie goes in an attempt to atone for the fact that Xabi didn’t go to his.
This is how it goes:
Xabi doesn’t invite Stevie to his wedding.
August 2009.
Stevie gives him a look that is close to contempt. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
Stevie scoffs and shakes his head. He sits down and gets up and sits down and gets up again. “Why?”
Xabi shrugs. “It’s something I have to do.”
Stevie nods finally. “Right, well. Good for you. I hope you do well with Real Madrid.”
“Me too,” Xabi says softly.
Stevie smiles a little. “You’ve been a pleasure to play with, Alonso.”
Xabi grins broadly. It is tinged with sadness. “You too, Gerrard.”
Stevie leans in and gives Xabi a quick hug. They bid their farewells and Xabi is left alone with himself and his heart.
Xabi wishes he had said, I love you. Xabi wishes he had said, I’m leaving so I can finally try to be happy. I’m leaving because I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone, and it just fucking hurts all the time and I can’t even breathe without feeling like I’m drowning. Drowning with what? I don’t know myself, he wishes he had said. Maybe with all the love I have for you, for Liverpool. Maybe. He wishes he had said, it’s difficult sometimes. The fact that you don’t feel the same way, it’s difficult. Sometimes, sometimes I sleep at night and I look for stars to wish on. I wish for you, on those stars. He wishes he had said, does that make sense? Probably not, I know, but. But. He wishes he had said, I love you. Remember that, will you? That I loved you so much I left.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi Alonso stays with Liverpool FC.
This is how it goes:
Xabi Alonso goes to Real Madrid CF.
December 2009.
Xabi goes to the Arsenal vs. Liverpool match. Arsenal win.
He walks into the locker rooms, after the match. The morose look on everyone’s faces is enough to crack his heart, but then he sees Stevie. His heart? It all but shatters. Stevie has his head in his hands and is shaking it quietly. Xabi sits beside him and nudges his leg. Stevie looks up, and a smile graces his features when he sees who’s beside him. “Hey, mate,” he says quietly.
“I’m sorry about the loss,” Xabi replies.
Stevie shrugs and sits up. “Yeah, well.”
Xabi watches him. Xabi studies him. Xabi (still) loves him. “You know what I think? I think if you give some motivational speech about giving the fans something to sing about-I think your luck will improve, no?”
Stevie laughs and says, “Yeah, sure.” And then: “Hey, come over tonight.”
Xabi heart lurches. He curses himself for getting put in situations like this time and time again. “Okay,” he says.
That night, after a few beers, Stevie says, “It’s not the same without you, you know.”
Xabi shrugs in reply. “You guys don’t need me. It’s all psychological. You think you can’t breathe without me, but really, you can.”
Stevie shakes his head. “It’s hard though, you know? Breathing without you, I mean.”
And maybe that’s what makes Xabi snap. Break. Crack. Whatever you want to call it. Except, he’s different from Stevie. He’s calm and reserved. He hides what he feels. He wants to say, finally. He wants to say, I thought I could leave and what I feel for you could fade away. Looks like it can’t. “You shouldn’t rely on me,” he says.
He wants to say, I love you. I’ve loved you from the beginning, Stevie. He wants to say, love me back.
But he doesn’t.
(What could have happened is this: Xabi says, "You know, I loved you once."
Stevie looks up, his features are somewhat traced with understanding. Finally. "I know.")
What he says is this: “The world really will shine brighter if you give more of those motivational speeches of yours, you know.”
Stevie laughs. And Xabi realizes, he still doesn’t get it. So maybe Stevie will never love him the way he wants him to love him. So maybe Stevie will forever only think of Xabi as the man who seemed to know where he was at every given moment on the field. So maybe they are destined to only be friends for the rest of their lives, and Stevie will never realize what Xabi feels for him. Maybe in the end, that’s all that matters: their friendship. Maybe Xabi’s not willing to risk it for anything else in the world. Maybe that’s why Stevie and Xabi just isn’t meant to be. Maybe that’s why Stevie and Xabi will forever be separate: Stevie and Xabi.
He thinks, maybe this is the moment I will look back on and say, “Well, that was a stupid move,” but at the moment, it feels right.
He thinks, well, this is life.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi tells Stevie that he’s been in love with him since the moment he laid eyes on him. It must’ve been fast and hard, because you don't tiptoe into love, you fall helplessly into it and that's the only way it's done right. Stevie realizes that he’s madly in love with Xabi and he showers him with all the love in the world. They're simply. Happy.
This is how it goes:
(Stevie falls asleep in the middle of some old, classic romantic movie Xabi had found in Stevie's cabinet. Xabi watches him sleep and murmers with a sigh, "I love you."
It's the first time he's said it out loud and somehow it feels more real.
Stevie shifts closer and slips an arm around Xabi. He doesn't know what he's doing, of course, he's asleep, but. But it's enough. That moment, it's enough.)
This story falls into the category of what could have been, because, you see-Xabi never (really) tells Stevie that he loves him. And Stevie never tells him that he feels the same way.
pairing: xabi alonso/steven gerrard.
rating: r.
disclaimer: i'm lying.
word count: 6,079.
notes: this is entirely for slobberingboo because she is picasso and writes gold!!!! SHE IS MY ONE N ONLY!!! HAHAHA. so anyway. i'm really worried about posting this?? haha. this was really hard to write?? haha. i kept adding stuff and taking things away and the whole unrequited love thing...ah. i got rambly at a lot of parts. hahahahah. also i'm not sure if i'm happy with the ending!!!! ahhaah. but i'm kind of lazy so i just finished it. also i'm working on finishing some other ones, sooooo. oops. hahahaah. um, idr what else i had to say. i hope you enjoy it!
If I was ever yours, I never knew.
Xabi Alonso grows up to be the boy he always was. He grows up to be a man who is reserved and quiet. A man who is modest and humble, who seeks the best in himself and won’t settle for anything else. He grows up to be a man who refuses to cry in front of others.
When he is 6 years old and his pet dog passes away. His brother Mikel tells him, “It’s okay to cry if it’s for something you love.” He decides, yes, of course Mikel is right, but he runs to the bathroom to hide it.
When Xabi is 17 years old, he asks a girl out for ice cream. Her name is Arima. She is beautiful and has brown hair that flows like melted chocolate down her back. She has brown eyes that are richer than the earth, skin that is smoother than porcelain. He walks up to her (his best friend, Mikel, alongside him for moral support), and says, “I want to take you out to ice cream.”
She replies, “I don’t like ice cream.”
It is the first time he has gathered up his guts to ask a girl out, and he feels his heart break in two. He thinks he will never recover, no, not ever. That his heart will forever be dented with this first lost love. He’s wrong, of course, but-Arima, this girl, will forever be in the back of his head. Something to remind him of how a broken heart feels.
He grows up to be a man who thinks falling in love is a fallacy. He settles for a girl whom he loves, but isn’t in love with, because he figures that it doesn’t exist at all. Being in love, that is.
He’s wrong, of course.
It all starts in Liverpool.
July 2004.
Xabi calls his father one morning. “I have to talk to you.”
His father answers, “Okay,” and is over at Xabi’s within 15 minutes. After he’s seated at Xabi’s coffee table, and it seems as if Xabi’s not going to start talking anytime soon, he opens his mouth. “What is it, Xabi? What’s wrong?”
Xabi clears his throat. “Real Madrid. Liverpool.”
Periko raises an eyebrow. “What about them?”
Xabi shrugs momentarily, embarrassed slightly. He has always been intimidated by his father. He has always wished he could be his father. “They’re interested.”
Periko smiles softly. “Are you?”
Xabi fixes his eyes on the spot between his father’s eyes. He learned to do this when he was 11, when he realized that staring his father in the eyes was scarier than any horror film he had ever encountered. Plus, this way, it looks like he’s looking his father in the eyes. Kind of. “Liverpool seems intriguing, the Premier League has always interested me. And-Real Madrid is…well. It’s Real Madrid. The White Giants. Magic.”
Periko only replies, “Okay. Sounds like your decision is made.”
Xabi lowers his eyes down to his hands. “You’d be okay with it? If I went?”
“It’s your decision, Xabi. You can’t base your career around me.”
Xabi says, with a little more intensity, “But-would you be okay with it?”
Periko studies him, nods slowly after a few moments. “Yes, of course. You’re my son. Nothing is more important to me than you and your brothers’ happiness. Do you understand that, Xabi? Do what makes you happy.”
Xabi puts his head in his hands, he nods. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I think I’ll be happy with Real Madrid. It’s just…so much opportunity.”
He knows it doesn’t mean much to his father. His father who won the league with Real Sociedad. He thinks, maybe I can take them to first next season. He thinks, I took them to second last season. But second isn’t good enough, and it never was to Xabi. Never will be. You don’t win the league at second place.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi Alonso goes to Real Madrid CF.
This is how it goes:
Xabi Alonso goes to Liverpool FC.
August 2004.
It is electrifying, that moment. That moment that Xabi’s hand connected with Stevie’s hand. His skin is warm and Xabi will always remember it as such. After Stevie says something that Xabi presumes is supposed to be “welcome”, all Xabi can think about is the warmth of Stevie’s hand, voice, smile. He blushes at the thought and secretly curses himself.
It’s that smile of his, that gets him though. The warmth becomes a mere afterthought when the smile is directed at him.
“Xabi Alonso,” Xabi says slowly, hopes that Stevie has asked him something about the pronunciation of his name because even Xabi’s basic English skills don’t understand a word that is coming out of Stevie’s mouth.
Stevie smiles at him, and Xabi thinks that his legs might buckle beneath him if this continues. He’s trying to kill me, he thinks. Stevie introduces him to the vice-captain then, Jamie Carragher. If Xabi doesn’t understand what Stevie was saying, then Carra is literally speaking gibberish.
Later, he asks Luis, “What do you think?”
“I like it here, they’re all so nice. I just wish Carra would stop trying to speak German and stick to English.”
This is how it is supposed to go:
They understand Carra’s accent.
This is how it goes:
They don’t understand Carra’s accent.
May 2005.
It’s strange, Xabi muses, how Stevie is imperfect and perfect all at once. Just look at his hair, what could that be? That forward hairline, the too small eyes? The thin lips, the weird chin? But (but) he’s perfect. Xabi tries not to stare at him too often, because jesus christ, that is embarrassing.
He isn’t sure if Stevie has noticed, hopes that the fact that he hasn’t been confronted about it means that he hasn’t. It bothers Xabi, how much he likes to watch Stevie. He’s not perfect, he scolds himself. Except, the thing is, he is.
He waits for Stevie to say something motivational, to say something that will raise the spirits of the other lads. Because they’re 3 goals behind Milan at this point, and Rafa has never been much of a speaker. Stevie looks momentarily at Xabi, he looks panicked and fragile. Xabi wants to tell him, you can do this. God, if anyone in the world can do this, it’s you. He wishes painfully that he could do something, anything, to give them a chance in this match. If not for Liverpool, if not for the fans, then for Stevie.
In the end, Stevie says, “Our fans are out there, singing for us. Let’s give them something to sing about.”
This is how it is supposed to go:
AC Milan wins the Champions League.
This is how it goes:
Liverpool FC wins the Champions League.
November 2005.
It’s a fucking stupid party at Steve Finnan’s, with too many lamps letting off too much heat. Xabi sits on the couch as he desperately concocts hideous scenarios involving ugly, hairy old men and women dancing naked or playing sports to distract himself, because any minute now, Stevie’s going to sit really, really close to him since the only spot available is indeed, next to Xabi. It’s not even a complete spot, more like half a spot, with everyone squished together on the couch. And that just isn’t going to work for Xabi at all.
Before Xabi can really get the ball rolling with his horrendous imagery, Stevie is standing in front of him grinning like he’s won something, then he’s clambering onto the couch and positioning himself so he’s all long arms and legs draped over Xabi’s body.
Xabi grimaces and pushes at his leg. “Idiot, as if we’re not all uncomfortable enough already.”
Stevie laughs and pinches Xabi’s cheek in what could only be described as loving. He’s sitting so damn close to Xabi that Xabi can see the slow trickle of sweat making its way down the side of his face. The desire to lick it away coupled with the way Stevie’s legs keep slipping between Xabi’s thighs over and over again is enough to drive him out of his mind.
Nearby, he can hear Kewell and Baros laughing manically, but he can’t seem to pay any attention to them. He’s staring at the coffee table in an attempt not to stare at Stevie. Carra says something and Stevie laughs into Xabi’s ear as he attempts to sit up. Xabi shivers, despite himself, and lets his head fall back against the armrest. Stevie’s palm is sweaty where it rests against Xabi’s neck, and the heat radiating from the denim-covered leg hooked over Xabi’s feels so intense that it burns.
He has a girlfriend, he thinks. I have a girlfriend, he thinks. Why the fuck am I thinking about Steven Gerrard?, he thinks. He gets up abruptly and bids his farewell to the group. The only one of them that seems to pay any attention is Stevie, and it makes Xabi want to throw up because he can’t figure why it brings butterflies to his stomach.
Stevie follows him. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
Xabi shrugs, casual-suave; totally cool. “Nothing.”
Stevie smiles warmly. “Come on, Xabs. You can tell me, you know that, right?”
Except he can’t. It hurts, suddenly and painfully, and Xabi feels as if he can’t breathe properly. “It’s nothing, Stevie. Go inside, have fun.”
And it’s not like he’s in love with Stevie or anything, right? Because a) falling in love doesn’t happen in real life, and b) it’s Steven Gerrard, his friend, companion, captain.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi thinks highly of his captain and they become great friends.
This is how it goes:
Xabi falls in love with his captain.
March 2006.
“Come over tonight, yeah?” Stevie asks.
Xabi shrugs, puts his things away. He mutters, “I’m not so sure about that.” He’s not sure why he says it, because it’s purely friendly, these nightly visits when both of their girlfriends are out.
Stevie looks confused. “Why not?”
Xabi stares at him. Xabi studies him. Xabi loves him. He says, “Nevermind. I’ll see you tonight,” because Xabi wouldn’t be Xabi if he didn’t comply to every need of Steven fucking Gerrard.
That night, after a few beers and some football, they head to Stevie’s room where Stevie rummages for a movie to watch in his bedside drawer.
Xabi considers himself the intelligent one, the mentally stable member of the squad with all the rationally thought out ideas. But-in this moment, all he can think about is that he wishes desperately to crawl into Stevie’s bed at least once and have it be for something more than just one of their late night conversations when their girlfriends are out of town and they have nothing better to do. The ones where he listens to Stevie prattle on for hours about how much he misses Alex when she’s not there. The ones where he wishes he could say, well I’m here. Notice me, god damn it.
Stevie finally takes a seat on the bed, exhausted. “I can’t find anything you’d like, lad. None of that Casablanca type we watched at your place the other day.”
Xabi laughs. “It’s alright, Stevie. We don’t have to watch that type of movie.”
Stevie smirks softly. “You must be some romantic, with all those classic romance movies you got over at your place.”
Xabi laughs, gets up and stretches a little to avoid Stevie’s eyes. “I don’t really believe in love.”
Stevie raises an eyebrow and laughs. “Bullshit. You with your thousands of romantic movies and your gorgeous girlfriend, I know you’re a sucker for that sort of crap.”
Xabi sighs. He looks over at Stevie. “I’m not,” he says softly. It’s sincere and real in a way that Stevie’s not used to seeing.
It causes him to go quiet for a few moments. “You know, when I was younger, I never thought I’d fall in love. I thought I’d be single forever, have me a different girlfriend every week.” He smiles. “But then-but then I met Alex.” Xabi stares pointedly at the ground and he feels nauseous. He can’t do this. He cannot. Do. This. Stevie continues, “Now, I know you love Nagore. You have that lovestruck look in your eyes that everyone gets when they’re in love. So maybe you’re just unwilling to admit it to yourself, eh?” He nudges Xabi’s shoulder and winks.
Xabi’s face feels hot. He walks over to a window, because he can’t seem to be able to look at Stevie right now. “Yeah, maybe,” he says quietly, but it’s evident even to Stevie that his voice sounds pained.
Stevie stands up, concerned, and walks over to him. “Xabi?”
Xabi refuses to turn to look at him, knows that if he does he’d probably fucking cry and that is not going to happen if he has any say in it. He rests his head against the window. “I’m just tired. Maybe I’m catching a cold or something.”
Stevie places a hand on his cheek as best as he can with Xabi leaning against the window. “You feel fine to me, mate.”
Xabi sighs. “I’m just-”
In love with you.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi falls in love with Stevie. Stevie falls in love with Xabi.
This is how it goes:
Xabi falls in love with Stevie. Stevie falls in love with Alex.
July 2006.
“I’m sorry,” Stevie says when he calls Xabi after the France match.
Xabi nods into the phone but doesn’t reply immediately. They sit like that, quietly, for a bit. The simple breathing of the other helping them calm themselves; Stevie for his next match, Xabi for the heartbreak of his last. Finally, Xabi says, “Good luck.”
“Thanks, Xabi. It means a lot.”
Xabi closes his eyes. “I-” he stops, and swallows his words. I love you, he was going to say. I’d wish you all the luck in the world if it meant you’d be happy, he was going to say. He says, “I hope you win it all, Steven.”
A few days later, it’s Xabi calling Steven. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly down the line.
He doesn’t expect an immediate reply, so he’s surprised when he receives one. “Me too,” Stevie says. His voice is quiet and not at all how Xabi remembers Stevie’s voice as. “When I get home, will you be there?”
For you, “Yes.”
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi or Stevie win the World Cup.
This is how it goes:
Xabi nor Stevie win the World Cup.
February 2007.
“Xabi, mate, we need the RSVP’s by this Friday.”
Xabi looks up, his face quizzical. “For what?”
Stevie grins broadly. The excitement etched in his face makes Xabi smile, but then: “The wedding, you daft twat.”
Xabi nods hurriedly, mumbles that he’ll try to see if his schedule is cleared for it.
He stares down at his shoes as Stevie sits down beside him. “I can’t wait to see her walking down the aisle, you know? It’s going to be beautiful.”
Xabi forces a smile. He repeats quietly, “Yeah, beautiful.”
And he’s not lying in his agreement. Because, sure, it will beautiful. Tragically, heartbreakingly, devastatingly-beautiful.
Stevie turns to look at him. “You’ll come, won’t you? I want you there, mate.”
Listen, Stevie, Xabi wants to say. Listen, I have something to tell you. Listen, I don’t think I can make it. I don’t think my heart can take it, he wants to say. I know it sounds cheesy and repulsive and I’m the one who didn’t even believe in love, remember? But, god, I love you, he wants to say. If I forget my own name, if I forget how to play football-how to kick a ball, even-I will still remember you, your face, your smile. I will remember I loved you, I know it, he wants to say. Please, Stevie, he wants to say. Please. Love me instead, he wants to say.
Xabi says, “Yes, of course I’ll come.”
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi goes to Stevie’s wedding, where he spends most of the night pretending to be happy. And by pretending to be happy, he truly becomes happy for Stevie.
This is how it goes:
Xabi doesn’t go to Stevie’s wedding. He stays in Spain and fucks Nagore in an attempt to forget about Steven fucking Gerrard.
November 2007.
They beat Newcastle 3-0. Goals by Steven Gerrard, Dirk Kuyt, and Ryan Babel, respectively. Xabi walks into the room he is sharing with Stevie. Stevie is staring blankly at the wall in front of him, and it worries Xabi immediately. “Stevie? Are you okay?”
Stevie looks up, surprised, as if he hadn’t noticed Xabi there until now. “Oh, hey, mate.”
Xabi nudges him, smiles encouragingly. “What’s wrong?”
Stevie shrugs. “Did you hear the boos?”
Xabi’s face clouds with anger. He had heard the boos by the Newcastle fans for England’s failure to qualify to the Euros. He rubs Stevie’s hair affectionately. “It doesn’t matter.”
Stevie turns to look at him, and there is a trace of defiance. Anger. “Easy for you to say, Mr. Undefeated. You don’t have to go back to your country in shame.”
Xabi furrows his eyebrows and tries not to take what he has said to heart. “Stevie, stop it-”
Stevie glares. “No, you know what? You stop it. Stop pretending that everything will be alright when it won’t. We’re not going to the Euros. We’re going to have to sit at home and watch them.”
“I’m sorry,” Xabi says. He looks down at his hands because he sure as hell can’t look at Stevie.
Stevie stares at him. After a few moments, he says quietly, “Why didn’t you come, Xabi?”
Xabi looks up. He knows what Stevie’s talking about, but he pretends he doesn’t because he just really doesn’t want to fucking deal with this right now. Not now. Not ever. “What are you talking about?”
Stevie shrugs and turns back to the wall he had been previously staring at. “The wedding,” he offers.
Xabi’s face burns red in shame. He chews on his bottom lip for a few moments. He had been waiting for this. He was surprised when he didn’t get it when he first got back to Liverpool. And now, months later, he gets it. “There were last minute things in Spain that I had to get done.”
Stevie looks up abruptly. His voice contains three things: hurt, anger, shock. “It was that important that you couldn’t come to Liverpool for my bloody wedding?”
“I’m sorry,” Xabi repeats quietly.
“You’re sorry?! I wanted you there, Xabi. And I don’t even get a bleeding phone call explaining why the fuck you weren’t there when you said you’d come.”
Xabi scoffs. “You had Alex, you didn’t need me.” The words tumble out of his mouth and he regrets it instantly. Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck.
Stevie stops. The look of confusion on his face is almost comical. His voice is soft. “What?”
“Nothing,” Xabi mutters. He grabs a coat and heads for the door, but then Stevie’s hand is on his arm.
He repeats, with more force, “What?”
Xabi pulls his arm away. “I didn’t fucking mean anything by it. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. I’m sorry you didn’t make the Euros. I’m sorry-” I’m sorry I love you, he was going to say. “I’m just sorry.”
This is how it is supposed to go:
England qualifies for the Euros. And Stevie forgives Xabi for not coming to his wedding .
This is how it goes:
England doesn’t qualify for the Euros. And Stevie never forgets that Xabi didn’t come to his wedding, but pretends that day in their room never happened.
April 2008.
They just beat Arsenal to make the semi-final of the Champions League, and it’s time to celebrate. They are at Carra’s; Carra and Pepe already have their shirts off as they battle on the karaoke machine. It’s funny, Xabi thinks, because Pepe is singing a Julio Iglesias song while Carra is singing an Oasis song. No one can understand a thing they’re saying, their words meshing together.
He and Stevie give each other a look, and as they laugh, Steven leans in and whispers something along the lines of “they’re insane, why are we the only normal ones?” Halfway into the karaoke escapade, both Carra and Pepe switch to a certain song by Gerry & the Pacemakers and the rest of the team sings along. Stevie drapes an arm around Xabi’s shoulder, and Xabi can’t even make himself give a fuck about anything else as he leans into his touch.
They’re all drunk and happy and they pray Rafa doesn’t walk in randomly to see them because that would be a disaster.
At one point, Stevie presses his face into Xabi’s neck and mumbles, “I’m so drunk this isn’t good I’m so so soooo drunk.” Xabi only giggles in reply, and then rubs his forehead against Stevie’s. He can’t seem to stop smiling and slurring and, at one point, he speaks Spanish in which Stevie shouts, “I don’t know Spanish, I’m English!!!”
Stevie goes home with Xabi that night. In the secrecy of Xabi’s bedroom, Stevie leans in and kisses Xabi. It’s quick and hard and tastes like the beer they had drunk. They pull apart, and, even drunk, Stevie’s not prepared for the look Xabi gives him. The look of lust and want and need and something that Stevie can’t seem to acknowledge in the state he is in (or maybe, he doesn’t want to). He says, “I need to pee,” but before he is even out of the bed, he is suddenly throwing up on Xabi. And Xabi is, all too soon, more sober than he has been in hours. He pulls off his shirt before taking a hold of Stevie’s hand as he leads him to the bathroom. He helps him wash his face, only to be disappointed when a few moments later, Stevie throws up again. Xabi stands behind Stevie while Stevie throws up as he attempts to hold him up. When Stevie has thrown up all that he can throw up, Xabi washes his face again. He wraps an arm around him and can’t even think about the feel of Stevie in his arms as he walks him back to the bed. He puts Stevie in his bed where he falls asleep almost instantly. Xabi leans back against the wall, and-slowly, slowly, drops to the floor. He watches Stevie sleep, and wonders what the fuck he did wrong in life to deserve this. He wishes (he wishes) so fervently (not that Stevie would love him back, but-) that he wasn’t in love with Steven Gerrard.
In the morning, Stevie awakes with a pounding head. He sits up and wonders where the hell he is, when he sees Xabi-shirtless, asleep on the floor, head leaning against the wall. He gets up and shakes him awake. He whispers, “What happened last night?”
Xabi pushes himself up. He shrugs. “I don’t remember,” he lies.
After Stevie leaves, he sits on his couch and thinks back to the previous night. He remembers Stevie’s skin and his lips and his smile and his eyes on Xabi. He remembers and remembers and remembers, and he wishes that he didn’t.
Because almost having him is far worse than not having him at all.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi forgets about that night and things aren’t so bad because his feelings for Stevie aren’t as acute as they were before and the slowly fade away and maybe (just maybe) he can move on.
This is how it goes:
Xabi remembers everything about that night and he realizes that he has never loved anything more in his life than Steven Gerrard.
August 2008.
Campeones.
When everyone is still on a high from the Euros the month before, Xabi feels sick to his stomach.
Because-
how could he go back to a club who didn’t want him anymore?
And Stevie-
Stevie probably doesn’t even give a fuck.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi Alonso goes to Juventus FC.
This is how it goes:
Xabi Alonso stays with Liverpool FC.
March 2009.
4-1, at Old Trafford. Xabi sits at home and watches. He examines every move made, every shot passed. He looks for Stevie. He looks for Stevie, and he thinks, will he miss me, if I go? Or, will I just be a name of a player who used to play at Liverpool? (Not the midfield maestro who gave Stevie the crosses that defined his career.)
He calls him after the match, he can hear the who the fuck are Man Utd's in the background. Stevie is: only half listening to him, laughing at something someone says, humming ‘you’ll never walk alone’ under his breath, as Xabi relays his congratulations on the win.
It hurts Xabi a little bit. The fact that he’s not missed at all. It hurts him a little bit. The fact that Stevie won’t even listen to him. And he suddenly and painfully aches.
Because it hurts a little bit. When something you love, doesn’t love you back. Or maybe it hurts more than a little bit.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Stevie misses Xabi acutely at the Manchester match, and doesn’t forget for a moment that Xabi’s not there. He realizes with a jolt that yes, maybe, he feels what Xabi has felt for him all along.
This is how it goes:
Stevie doesn’t have an epiphany of any feelings for Xabi, and the fact that they beat Manchester United 4-1 overshadows the fact that Xabi’s not there.
May 2009.
They’ll name a city after us.
Istanbul.
“It’s named after us, you know,” Stevie tells him one day with a smile.
This time, 4 years ago, they had the game of their lives.
Xabi laughs softly, but doesn’t object. Because, really, who doesn’t synchronize Istanbul with the magical match that took place there in 2005?
Stevie speaks again a few moments later, as they begin their jog. “So when’s the wedding?”
Xabi shrugs. “This summer.”
Stevie turns to smile at him. “Why haven’t I gotten me invitation yet then, mate?” Xabi stares at the ground, slightly ashamed. Stevie notices the look on his face, and he stops running. His own face is clouded over with 3 things: hurt, anger, shock. Xabi turns around and shrugs again, not able to say anything. Not able to look Stevie in the eye. Stevie blinks three times before starting to run again, this time faster, this time leaving Xabi behind.
Later, when Xabi’s ball doesn’t land directly at his feet, Stevie snaps. Breaks. Cracks. Whatever you want to call it. “Jesus, Xabi, can’t you just give me the fucking ball when I need it?!”
Xabi blanches. “Are you serious?”
Everyone has stopped and is staring at the two, wide-eyed. Rafa begins walking briskly over. Stevie walks over to Xabi and gives him a hard push, his anger spilling out like water out of a faucet. “You fucking prick.”
Xabi gapes, he’s not sure what to do. He pushes back, but softly. Not at all the way Stevie had pushed him. “Stop it, Stevie.”
Stevie scoffs. “I can’t believe you.”
“And what can’t you believe?” Xabi asks calmly. Because this is Xabi. Calm and reserved. Because this is Xabi. He’s quite good at hiding his feelings, you know.
Steven begins to count it off his fingers. “First, your bloody pass is off. Second-” he stops for a moment, takes a deep breath, and continues in a softer voice that is only meant for Xabi’s ears. “You don’t come to my wedding. And third, you don’t invite me to yours.”
Xabi looks at his face. Thinks, I’d give the world for you. Thinks, I prefer your happiness over my own. Thinks, be happy for me, Stevie. I’m trying to move on, please be happy. Thinks, I’m trying in the only way I can.
He says, “We’re trying to keep it small.”
I can’t have you there, he thinks. I couldn’t watch you get married and I can’t have you watch me, he thinks.
Stevie sighs. He scuffs his foot across the grass and gives a quiet laugh, a little bit incredulous. “You’re breaking my heart here, Alonso.” He says it as a joke, but Xabi can’t seem to laugh. I’m breaking my own more, he thinks. You’re breaking my own more, he thinks.
Rafa has reached them now, and asks (quite angrily), “And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”
Stevie simply shakes his head and walks away.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi invites Stevie to his wedding and Stevie goes in an attempt to atone for the fact that Xabi didn’t go to his.
This is how it goes:
Xabi doesn’t invite Stevie to his wedding.
August 2009.
Stevie gives him a look that is close to contempt. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
Stevie scoffs and shakes his head. He sits down and gets up and sits down and gets up again. “Why?”
Xabi shrugs. “It’s something I have to do.”
Stevie nods finally. “Right, well. Good for you. I hope you do well with Real Madrid.”
“Me too,” Xabi says softly.
Stevie smiles a little. “You’ve been a pleasure to play with, Alonso.”
Xabi grins broadly. It is tinged with sadness. “You too, Gerrard.”
Stevie leans in and gives Xabi a quick hug. They bid their farewells and Xabi is left alone with himself and his heart.
Xabi wishes he had said, I love you. Xabi wishes he had said, I’m leaving so I can finally try to be happy. I’m leaving because I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone, and it just fucking hurts all the time and I can’t even breathe without feeling like I’m drowning. Drowning with what? I don’t know myself, he wishes he had said. Maybe with all the love I have for you, for Liverpool. Maybe. He wishes he had said, it’s difficult sometimes. The fact that you don’t feel the same way, it’s difficult. Sometimes, sometimes I sleep at night and I look for stars to wish on. I wish for you, on those stars. He wishes he had said, does that make sense? Probably not, I know, but. But. He wishes he had said, I love you. Remember that, will you? That I loved you so much I left.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi Alonso stays with Liverpool FC.
This is how it goes:
Xabi Alonso goes to Real Madrid CF.
December 2009.
Xabi goes to the Arsenal vs. Liverpool match. Arsenal win.
He walks into the locker rooms, after the match. The morose look on everyone’s faces is enough to crack his heart, but then he sees Stevie. His heart? It all but shatters. Stevie has his head in his hands and is shaking it quietly. Xabi sits beside him and nudges his leg. Stevie looks up, and a smile graces his features when he sees who’s beside him. “Hey, mate,” he says quietly.
“I’m sorry about the loss,” Xabi replies.
Stevie shrugs and sits up. “Yeah, well.”
Xabi watches him. Xabi studies him. Xabi (still) loves him. “You know what I think? I think if you give some motivational speech about giving the fans something to sing about-I think your luck will improve, no?”
Stevie laughs and says, “Yeah, sure.” And then: “Hey, come over tonight.”
Xabi heart lurches. He curses himself for getting put in situations like this time and time again. “Okay,” he says.
That night, after a few beers, Stevie says, “It’s not the same without you, you know.”
Xabi shrugs in reply. “You guys don’t need me. It’s all psychological. You think you can’t breathe without me, but really, you can.”
Stevie shakes his head. “It’s hard though, you know? Breathing without you, I mean.”
And maybe that’s what makes Xabi snap. Break. Crack. Whatever you want to call it. Except, he’s different from Stevie. He’s calm and reserved. He hides what he feels. He wants to say, finally. He wants to say, I thought I could leave and what I feel for you could fade away. Looks like it can’t. “You shouldn’t rely on me,” he says.
He wants to say, I love you. I’ve loved you from the beginning, Stevie. He wants to say, love me back.
But he doesn’t.
(What could have happened is this: Xabi says, "You know, I loved you once."
Stevie looks up, his features are somewhat traced with understanding. Finally. "I know.")
What he says is this: “The world really will shine brighter if you give more of those motivational speeches of yours, you know.”
Stevie laughs. And Xabi realizes, he still doesn’t get it. So maybe Stevie will never love him the way he wants him to love him. So maybe Stevie will forever only think of Xabi as the man who seemed to know where he was at every given moment on the field. So maybe they are destined to only be friends for the rest of their lives, and Stevie will never realize what Xabi feels for him. Maybe in the end, that’s all that matters: their friendship. Maybe Xabi’s not willing to risk it for anything else in the world. Maybe that’s why Stevie and Xabi just isn’t meant to be. Maybe that’s why Stevie and Xabi will forever be separate: Stevie and Xabi.
He thinks, maybe this is the moment I will look back on and say, “Well, that was a stupid move,” but at the moment, it feels right.
He thinks, well, this is life.
This is how it is supposed to go:
Xabi tells Stevie that he’s been in love with him since the moment he laid eyes on him. It must’ve been fast and hard, because you don't tiptoe into love, you fall helplessly into it and that's the only way it's done right. Stevie realizes that he’s madly in love with Xabi and he showers him with all the love in the world. They're simply. Happy.
This is how it goes:
(Stevie falls asleep in the middle of some old, classic romantic movie Xabi had found in Stevie's cabinet. Xabi watches him sleep and murmers with a sigh, "I love you."
It's the first time he's said it out loud and somehow it feels more real.
Stevie shifts closer and slips an arm around Xabi. He doesn't know what he's doing, of course, he's asleep, but. But it's enough. That moment, it's enough.)
This story falls into the category of what could have been, because, you see-Xabi never (really) tells Stevie that he loves him. And Stevie never tells him that he feels the same way.