i don't believe in elvis.
6,000 something words and too many hours on Photoshop later, it's done!
commonplace
Note: click on the image in order to get a text version, if you'd like, for easier reading.
For: E. and Z.; without their brilliance this would never have been written. Danica, for her football love and humongous posts. And crack. Niche, because I love her.
Portugal and the days after ended up being a duplicitous sort of loss, the loss of a dream and the loss of a person. He packed his bags with a brutal sort of precision and tried not to think about Alex, the way her make-up was smudged around her face when he told her to go home, how Lilly had cried. And he loved her and everything, but she was so goddamned stupid sometimes and it was his World Cup and could she please not get drunk and high and start dancing on bar tables and come back to the hotel smelling of strange cologne, not when they had a wedding of all things planned that summer and -- No.
He wasn't going to think about this. He wasn't going to think about the shouting afterwards, or Robinson's inability to at least fucking move towards the ball, or how he just knew when his foot connected that it wasn't going in, or the media slaughter awaiting them, the cameras and microphones and shithole journalists.
The feeling was something like a helpless drunk fury, really; when his cellphone rang (he swore he had turned it off, fuck fuck fuck), he almost threw it across the room before he got a grip on himself. Stevie hated losing like he hated nothing else.
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry. You fought well." Hearing that voice took all of the anger out of him, suddenly. The fatigue started to seep through.
"You could say hello, you know."
He could hear the shrug through the phone.
"Come to Spain."
"What?"
"What I said. Visit me. I'll show you around." (What Stevie knew was unspoken, or maybe what he imagined, wanted to be: I know you're having an awful time right now, I know everything's gone wrong - you can forget about that here. I'll bring you to every corner cafe and record store and we'll watch the final in a tiny bar filled with shouts and smoke, we'll do all of this.)
"No, I can't just --"
"Steven. Stevie. Forget about all of that. If you want to come, then come." The words bordered on harsh, but the voice was kind, accent the tiniest bit stronger than it had been a month ago.
"I don't know. I."
"I'll give you a tour of the country, my home town. You can even do all those tourist things if you want."
"Okay."
"Yes?"
"Yeah."
"Then I'll be waiting. Call me when you know which flight you will take." He sounded a little surprised but pleased; as Stevie snapped the phone closed, he thought, what are you doing. You, you're supposed to be responsible, grown up, you're not supposed to go off running -- And, that, that's it. Fuck what he was supposed to do.
The second thoughts started when he stepped off the plane. He'd been to Spain before, but not by himself, not without a team or Alex, and it was different this way. The sounds were foreign, the smells sharper. Everything had shifted subtly.
He saw Xabi from a distance, sitting on a bench and looking the other way and felt awkward, suddenly. Unsure, standing there with his bags that he had almost wished were lost during the transport from one country to another, eyes dry and tired. Before he could figure out what to do, though, Xabi turned and saw him. Raised a hand and smiled, corners of his eyes turning up a little, and the tentative feeling passed - Stevie looked at him (he'd gotten a tan somewhere along the way, he noted offhandedly) and knew that this, this was what he needed. A place, a person who didn't have any expectations, any pretenses, anything. Something tight and nervous eased its way out of his shoulders, neck.
"Hi."
*
Stevie was in one of those moods the first few days, the ones where he liked pissing people off just so they would feel as miserable as he did. He knew he shouldn't, especially since it wasn't as if Spain had a good time of it either, but the memory of Portugal was still fresh and sharp and cutting in his mind and he just. He couldn't let it go. (What if that whiny little fucker hadn't said anything? Then again, what if Wayne hadn't been so, so stupid? And what if Frank hadn't gone first, what if he had hit --) It didn't help that the weather was shit, either, grey with that miserable light drizzle that never became proper rain and, thus, never disappeared. Wasn't Spain supposed to be warm? Where was the fucking sun? So he lazed around the room, watched television programs he couldn't understand, attempted to substitute grunts for words. Avoided eye contact. Xabi, though, was more patient than even he expected; it was quite impressive, really, the amount of bullshit he was able to put up with. It was more than Alex or Gratty 1 or Danny or even his parents would have taken.
Seventy-two hours of sullenness ended up being the limit as Xabi grabbed the remote out of his hand and turned the telly off.
"I did not bring you to Barcelona so you could watch Pasion de Gavilanes reruns all day."
"I like them."
"Steven. You wanted to come, yes? This is what you wanted to do? Sulk and watch stupid telenovelas?"
Stevie looked out the window. "Well, those sisters are fucking ace." The silence drew itself out for a minute before he heard the remote slam meticulously down on the table and turned around in time to see the door of the hotel room close. Well then. It was perversely satisfying at first, but then he realized that it was Xabi and, you know, shit. It was generally in a person's best interests not to piss him off, but Stevie had always been a bit rash, unthinking.
Forty-five minutes later, the door opened again just as he was beginning to get a little nervous and a lot remorseful. He found Xabi in the kitchenette and stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching him cut some unrecognizable orange vegetable that Stevie assumed he'd just bought from the produce vendor around the corner into neat cubes. After a minute, Xabi finally looked at him, as if asking, What?
"I'm sorry." A shrug. "I honestly am. For being an asshole, I mean," as if it needed clarification. A beat, a pause, and Stevie could see him take a breath, uncurl his hands. He looked tired around the very edges. Worn out. "That's not very new." Stevie kissed him, then. He didn't know why he did it; maybe it was the way the black cloth settled across Xabi's shoulders or the clean turn of his jaw or how cautiously forgiving he was. How there was still rain caught in his eyelashes and hair, even. Maybe it was an apology. Maybe it was a thank you, some attempt at gratitude. A soft noise, a surprised exhalation of the lungs, and Xabi's mouth opened under his, warm and natural and god, god. Xabi pulled apart after a few moments, hands warm against his Stevie's chest, a gentle sort of pressure. The silence thickened and he didn't know what to say.
"The pan is burning."
Stevie sat on the couch mentally slapping himself for the next fifteen minutes, because, just, what the fuck was he doing and what did he think he was going to accomplish by, by --
"It's orzo. I think you will like it. And, hey, those Elizondo sisters are crazy, no?" Stevie looked up from the shallow ceramic bowl Xabi was holding out to him and saw the slightest of smiles flit across his face; he smiled back in relief, cautious at first and then a full out grin as he took the plate. This, this was okay. This was good.
"Yeah, mate, they bloody well are. And, you know. Thanks."
"Someone has to educate you English about real food."
The weather cleared with his mood. Stevie woke the next day to the feeling of lightly filtered sun spilling across his back and the smell of coffee sneaking into his room. (Even the heat here wasn't the same. It had been a heavy pollutant hanging in the air in Germany on the worst days, clouding everything like a faint fog, diffusing colors and blurring shapes so that he had to squint, sometimes. Here, it was thick in a different way, a warm wash of color that was startling in its absence indoors, something intimate like a lover's scent that was hard to scrub off. The colors were saturated, bold and alive, and it took time for his eyes to get used to hushed blues and cool greys again.) Xabi was waiting for him in a black t-shirt and jeans, watching the news.
"Ever been to Las Ramblas 2?"
"Las what?"
"No, I guess. Well, everyone has to walk there before leaving Barcelona."
"I've got no choice, then."
Xabi rolled his eyes. "Not anymore. Want some food first?"
They ended up eating churros as they stood outside La Boquería 3. The dough was crisp and soft all at once, leaving oil stains on the napkins and on his hands, while the hot chocolate was thick enough to stand the dough up in, and oddly satisfying despite the temperature.
"Rafa would have a bloody heart attack if he saw us."
Xabi licked a few crystals of sugar from the inside curve of his thumb and smirked a little. "Like he can talk about it."
"Oh, that's below the belt."
Looking at him then and throughout the day (as he ran his fingertips along the stone walls of building in the Barri Gotic, craning his head to stare all the way up the side of La Sagrada Familia with its spires and jeweled windows, looking over the entire city from Parc Güell), what Stevie noticed was how much more comfortable Xabi seemed, how their roles had switched. There was nothing cautious about him in Spain, where every word and sight was a natural thing, nothing guarded or reserved, kept in check. It was a subtle thing, a slight shift in the slant of his shoulders and the openness of his eyes, but it jumped out at Stevie as something unusual, unusual but good. And maybe he was imagining things, but Xabi looked taller even, more solid. As if the sun, the accents, everything, was soaking into him, slowly filling him up.
San Sebastian (or Donostia, or Basque Country, or whatever it was called - why did one place need three names anyway?) was beautiful. They spoke something called Euskera there along with regular Spanish, and Stevie didn't have a bloody clue what anyone was saying; even the ever trusty hola and gracias had pretty much abandoned him.
That didn't stop him from appreciating what looked like miles of beaches and clear, still water, though, nor the quaintness of unmoving fishing boats and teenagers playing football along the waterfront. Xabi pointed the sights out to him, saying, "I used to fish with my grandfather when I was young, before the beaches got busy," and, "I would follow Mikel and play on this very beach like those boys over there, I don't think I was drinking calimotxo 4 though." It was weird, trying to picture that, because Xabi would joke around with the rest of them and all of that, but he never seemed young, not really.
They had tapas at a place with a big ARZAK 5 written on the front of the building. Xabi tried teaching him the names of all the different pintxos 6 to little avail, because how the fuck do you pronounce something that has five consonants in a row? It was nice though, his muffled laughter and the noise, dark wine and massive scallops that really did taste like the sea, being introduced to the head chef and attempting to cobble together some hilariously awkward combination of English and simple Spanish. It was nice, learning, or trying to at least, something that had nothing to do with football or the press or locker room politics.
Everything was nice, nice and simple and content, and he'd thought, It would be easy to be happy here.
Xabi brought him to a bar with yet another name Stevie couldn't pronounce to watch the final. The bartender greeted Xabi when they stepped through the door, and the other people there, old men, middle aged fathers with teenage sons, college lads with their birds and mates, recognized them but didn't say anything. A few waved. They sat down at a table and waited.
"Allez les Bleus?" Xabi made a face at that. "Fuck no. Forza Azzurri. And your French is terrible."
The next few hours were a blur - empty beer bottles at first and then literally bowl-sized gin and tonics, yelling himself hoarse at the television screen and finding himself speechless seeing that red card, not understanding the rapid beats of the shouts and mutterings around him but fully understanding the universal language of groans, barely being able to watch the penalties but willing Pirlo to bury his out of amused sympathy, remembering what it was like to be a fan again, and being surprised at forgetting the bitter taste the tournament had left in his mouth for days after their defeat.
Stevie didn't know what time it was when they finally left, but the air was warm and the streets still noisy enough; he was a bit light on his feet ("What the fuck do you Spaniards put in your alcohol?") and Xabi's hand was warm against his elbow, breath close to his ear. The room was dark when he entered and promptly tripped, being the smooth, smooth person that he was, but Xabi had grabbed him, reflexes working despite everything, and half-pulled him upright. They were, he realized, standing very close in the narrow hallway, inches apart, hands on each other's arms; Xabi was looking straight at him and it was awfully dark so that all Stevie could see were the whites of his eyes, the wet curve of his mouth. Stevie didn't let go, but opened his mouth to --
"Stop. Just, stop. Whatever you are going to say, don't."
He didn't, he didn't and he completely forgot what he was going to protest about a moment later (you're somewhat drunk, I'm definitely drunk, and this is a really fucking terrible idea, I mean it, really fucking terrible), Xabi's mouth on his, bodies pressed together, one hand cool against his skin and the other pinning him to the wall (Stevie suddenly remembered how Xabi was stronger than he looked, then), and oh, oh. He could get used to this. Xabi's fingers worked his shirt open, lazy and bizarrely efficient at the same time, and suddenly there was his mouth traveling down his chest; Stevie shivered, curled a hand in Xabi's hair, and tried to forget, something that quickly became easy to do. "Shit, but you've got a fucking persuasive mouth --", he managed to get out before Xabi shut him up a second later.
In an unbelievably awkward move, Stevie started to talk, afterwards. He didn't know what propelled him to do it. Maybe it was the alcohol still wrecking havoc in his brain after years of careful moderation, maybe it was the feel of Xabi's fingers in his hair, the slow methodical circles they rubbed against his scalp. Maybe there was no reason other than the sudden, jolting reminder of what loneliness felt like, something he hadn't quite remembered, realized, until he wasn't alone again.
(That's the thing about being a footballer that people don't realize, a lot of the time. There are mates he would never, ever talk to if he wasn't one, people on his cell phone that are there simply because of what they do, because they go in that same circle. Sure, he's got Gratty and the rest, but there's always a sense of unease that comes with meeting new people. He's in the public eye more than he wants to be, and he would hate Alex for that if he didn't love her. He's known by millions and millions of people around the world, people who have seen his children and know the names of his parents, people he himself will never even hear of, and it's terrifying, sometimes.
It's terrifying and awful, because Stevie has wondered what it would be like to have best mates that are going to university and getting degrees, ones with normal lives and normal cars, before he realized that he wouldn't know how to get along with them anyway.
He wouldn't know, wouldn't know what to say or do or how to understand.)
Stevie felt a hand on his shoulder and stepped away from it, obvious and a little clumsy, surprised at himself.
"I." He gestured helplessly. "There's, you know, people." Xabi stared at him for a few seconds and took a step backwards, slow and deliberate, looked away. "Fine. Okay. I understand." The line of his profile was quiet, a little brittle. It was kind of funny in that unpleasant, sickening sort of way, because the only thing that had changed at all was him, and he felt as if everyone could see right through him, it, whatever. Things were different and he didn't know what to do or say or how to stop wanting to trace his hand along Xabi's spine. It was stupid and frustrating and he just didn't know.
And, god, he felt progressively worse for the next few hours, because he didn't mean it that way except maybe he did and he had no idea what he was doing and. And. Fuck. Dinner was strange and unsettling, the tap of silverware harsh and grating in his ears, the news announcer on the telly increasingly annoying until Xabi spoke.
"What do you want from me? What do you want this to be?" He hated the way Xabi was so frank, straightforward, about the important things. How there were some things he would never be able to ignore and delude himself into accepting. The way he was never afraid for longer than a moment.
"Look. I don't know. Honest. I have no fucking clue what I want and I know it would be easier if I did, but, I just. There's other people. There's other places after this is over. I'm getting married. Xabi, you have to know."
"I do. But right now we're here. What do you want? You know the answer."
"I. I want." Stevie bit his lip, looked down at his hands folded together on the table top, felt like he was eighteen again. He didn't know how to say any of it, wasn't brave enough to say any of it. Xabi reached across the table and separated those hands, wove his fingers through one of them, brushed his knuckles. Stevie could feel the light callous at the base of his thumb and the words came, sudden and unexpected and haltingly true. "I want to walk down beaches in the morning and have a kick about when no one's awake. I want to know what happens in that stupid show. I want have these sorts of pubs in Liverpool. I want to be able to pronounce the names of all those tiny little streets. I want to understand why you like coffee so much and how the people here can be so happy all the time and why the sun feels different." He paused and drew a breath. Xabi's thumb drew circles on his skin.
"You haven't spoken this much in months."
He let out a laugh, then, half amazement at himself, half shuddering relief; it was exhausting. "Yeah. Yeah."
"This isn't going to last." It wasn't a question.
"No, I guess not. I know."
"Are you good at pretending, for a while?" Xabi was looking at him once more, eyes wary and sharp again like they had been when they first met. It was strange, seeing that.
Stevie paused and it felt as if he was on the edge of something, something awful or something good he didn't know, but it was a strange hovering sensation, the slow motion replay of the split second before a rain drop crashes into the pavement below, the feeling of inertia right before a plunging drop. He paused, held his breath, and let it go again, because sometimes, sometimes he's the sort of person who'll step off the ledge just to know what it's like to fall, ignoring the inevitable end.
"I'm good enough, like."
Xabi glanced down and when he looked back up, that careful deliberation was gone. He smiled a little. "Okay then."
A ringtone suddenly filled the air and Xabi flipped his phone open, turning away slightly and speaking in Spanish. The only things Stevie could decipher were words like Mikel and padre and no, before Xabi looked at him apologetically and gestured, walking away.
Stevie found him standing by the balcony railing, later, hands in his pockets, shoulders suddenly narrow and thin.
"Hey." He didn't turn around or move at all. Stevie stood next to him and looked down at the quiet streets below in silence; there was something tight and strained around Xabi's mouth and he didn't know what to say. A young boy walked down the street, absentmindedly skipping diagonally across the stones as he went. It occurred to him, then, that maybe he wasn't the only one trying to pull off some great act of escapism, a disappearing trick; he wasn't the only way looking for some way to pretend. Forget.
"We are adults, right?"
"Yeah, mate. At least we say we are."
"And adults, adults don't run away from things."
"No, course not. Never." He grinned a little. Xabi gripped the ironwork and leaned back, head tilted towards the sky, turning towards him as he spoke.
"So what do we call this?"
Stevie looked at him, then, the way his neck arched back, the serious set of his eyes, the line of his face against the clear dusky sky; he looked at him and for a moment, a split second, there was nothing more profoundly striking in the entire goddamned world - for a moment, he could think of nothing but kissing him, and so he did and wanted to say, this is the way I will always remember you, this is the way you should stay forever, and maybe, maybe it was something like foolishness, a trick of light, a chemical imbalance in the brain; maybe it was just something stupidly akin to love, the simple kind like how he loved football and summer and that feeling he got standing on the pitch with the vibrations of tens of thousands of voices traveling through him, that sense of being furiously and wonderfully alive.
He broke away. There were only a few centimeters separating their faces. "I'd say this is a bloody celebration of youth." Xabi closed his eyes, let go of the railing, smiled. This time it was Xabi who moved first: the metalwork pressed lightly into Stevie's back; arms and legs and everything fitted snugly together, slid into place what with his hands in Xabi's hair, at the base of his neck; the sun was low in the sky and lit everything into something golden and glorious and wonderful like a fucking movie ending.
"Come on."
He woke early in the morning with a voice soft in his ear. "Wake up. Let's go."
The beach was a cool grey before dawn, a little misty. There was no one there and the tracks of yesterday's activities had all but disappeared from the sand. Stevie had to squint a little, blink a few times; it reminded him of England, almost. He shivered and the next hour was filled with the sound of the football hitting wet sand and, embarrassingly enough, water on several occasions. It was nice, the laughter that sliced itself through the air, warm and subdued, the way words weren't needed, the feeling of fine white sand against the soles of his feet. He'd missed this - playing for the sake of playing and nothing more, without thousands of eyes tracking him, without the stifling pride of a country clogging the air.
Stevie remembered what it was like, two years ago. At the beginning. How tentative and wary and calculating everything, everyone was. He didn't know what to do, with a new manager and new players, because he was a professional but he was also a captain, a local boy, a twenty three year old facing the intangible future. Fast forward almost twenty four months and even then, there were still the odd moments when he didn't know, when he could feel that old hesitancy creep back in. Maybe it was because Xabi could love Liverpool but never as much as he loved San Sebastian; because he knew Stevie, all the important terrifying things, but he didn't know Stevie like Danny knew him - his favorite ice cream flavor or rugby team or what brand of crisps he could never resist; because he was there for so many unforgettable moments but he wasn't there with Stevie at the academy or when he threw up before his first game.
He wasn't there for the treble and wasn't there for the heartbreak after that, not like Mikey was, or Jamie or Didi, any of them. It was, still is, easy for him to believe because he hadn't had that disappointment. Trusting him was dangerous, risky, a kind of challenge; he was someone different, unsafe, but it was also the sort of thing Stevie had always loved to take on. He took it on and it was easier than anyone would've thought.
If he tried to explain it, the why, the reason behind it, it would be something like this: like how his legs would be shaky, tired, after games when he was nineteen and how it still happened sometimes, even now, even six years later. How he'd be breathing hard, unsteady and more than a little cautious, reluctant to move, and how he could look across the field and there would always be somebody there. An understanding face, a shoulder to sling an arm around and lean on a little, slyly of course, because that wasn't the sort of thing he would want to make obvious. But it would be there, if he needed, if he wanted.
That's the only way he knows how to explain it, this core understanding, this camaraderie, this idea that such different people can be all built around one, simple thing.
Sometimes he wondered, what would I be without it? What, where would we be without it? Would I still know you, would we still talk, would we still look at each other and see something to understand? They're pointless questions because things are the way they are, and this, the game the pitch the crowds, is never going to leave them. Not ten, twenty, thirty years later, not while blood still moves furiously through their veins. Stevie swears it's something built into every little bit of him, every cell and nerve ending, every bit of bone, because how else can he explain it? How else could anyone explain any of it?
It's a long-winded explanation for a simple question, but it's the only answer Stevie knew. This is why he came to Spain. This is how he knew Xabi meant everything he said, how he believed it, him. This is why he could look Xabi in the eyes and know that his own were giving just about everything away and not be afraid.
"Where are you going? After this, I mean." Stevie tried in vain to peel his eyelids open as he slouched down into the sofa - it was dark outside already, and the sound of loud car radio music and the hushed buzz of a city night came in through the open windows, competing with the quiet voices on the telly. The air was thick and sweet and cool against his skin, but Xabi's arm was warm from where it lay flung across Stevie's chest after a fruitless attempt at finding the remote between the cushions. He hmmmmm-ed under his breath for a moment, the sound of it low and pleasant like the satisfied, curling purr of a cat stretched out in the sun, before answering.
"Frégate Islands, after she comes back from her, her --", he paused for a second, other hand gesturing languidly in the air as he looked for the right phrase, "-- bonding session with her sister. They don't see each other too much nowadays."
"Birds week out, then?" There was that mmmhmmmm again. "Ashley Cole's going there for his honeymoon, did you know?"
"Maybe I will go say hello." Stevie snickered. "Or maybe not." Xabi nudged him with his elbow, chuckled a little. "What are you implying? Anyway, wake up, you might actually like this part. There are bombs and everything." He reluctantly pried an eye open. On the screen, Steve McQueen and General von Whatever were trying to kill each other. He closed it again. "Steven. I can't teach you about classic films if you keep falling asleep during them." The attempt to sound stern might have worked better if it wasn't interrupted by a muffled yawn in the middle; the sofa shifted as Xabi rolled over, propping himself up on his elbows; Stevie opened his eyes for real this time.
Their faces were very close, almost touching.
Xabi looked at him for what seemed to be a long time, half his face flickering, shifting colors from the light of the telly. It might have been uncomfortable a few months, even a few weeks ago - Stevie might have moved, said something daft, backed up against the arm of the sofa. As it was, he stayed still, let himself be watched, and watched back, strangely curious. He noted the way his breath made the hair around Xabi's ear move a little, how a pool of shadow collected itself in the hollow between his collarbones. It felt surreal.
"I never would have predicted this." When Xabi spoke, it was quiet, but the words still felt as if they were traveling straight from his mouth into Stevie's, untouched by air - they had a physical, tangible feel to them, as if he could sense each sound wave being absorbed into his skin.
"What?" Xabi's shoulders shifted slightly in what might have been a shrug. "I don't know. Just, this. You. All of it."
"Well, that narrows it down a bit." A smile. Stevie continued. "It won't be the same, though, will it."
"When we go back?"
"Yeah."
"Maybe not."
"This sounds really daft, but I sort of wish we could stay here longer."
"I thought you couldn't wait for number nineteen."
"That's not what I --" Xabi rested his fingers on Stevie's mouth, lightly. "I know. I wasn't serious." He was silent for a few seconds before speaking again. "Not, not everything has to change. And even if things change, they can still be good. Different, but good." Stevie ran his fingers absentmindedly along Xabi's collarbone, pressed a kiss against his neck.
"We're good."
"We are."
(He fell asleep with Xabi's hair tickling the underside of his chin, thinking things change, but you, god, I don't ever want you to. On the screen across the room, the prisoners were escaping in vivid Technicolor, boats and boats of them, sailing off into some safe unknown, shouts and laughter and happiness rising like a balloon into the air - fickle and momentary, maybe, but pure, beautiful nonetheless.)
*
"Wait. Xabi." He stopped and turned around, curious. The airport was crowded and Stevie could barely hear himself above the noise.
"I'm glad I said yes." (What he meant was: thank you for being you and being there, for the late dinners and good advice, for being patient and teaching me how to roll those double r's, for caring and trying in that quiet, determined way of yours, for reminding me. Thank you for just knowing.) A brief hesitation. "I'm glad you asked."
"I am really not that unselfish, you know." Simple words, as if he knew what Stevie had been thinking. A break in the air and he looked as if he wanted to say something more, to walk back towards Stevie, to stay. The moment passed and he lifted a hand in mock salute, eyes steady and assured. "I'll be seeing you."
It took Stevie a moment to understand what Xabi meant as he watched him walk past the sliding doors into the bright, electric sunshine and then something warm, warm and strong and reliable like a secret knowledge, some whispered code or polished key, settled in chest.
You're welcome.
Stevie shouldered his bag and headed towards his terminal. Everything was going to be fine. No, it was going to be more than fine. He could feel it and he couldn't fucking wait.
1Stevie's best mate with a ridiculous name, who puts up with far more than he should have to. Stevie's more glad than he'll ever say for that, and tries to show it when he can, in small ways - like not taking the piss too much when Gratty says he wants to be an actor.
2Las Ramblas - busiest and most popular boulevard in Barcelona, with plenty of side streets. Featuring entertainers, artists, vendors, food & drink; huge tourist attraction. Stevie didn't even realize that the statues were actually people until one of them moved, and, yeah, it freaked him out. Just a little. Xabi found it far funnier than he should have.
3La Boquería - huge and extremely busy market on La Rambla. Seafood and fruit and elbows absolutely everywhere. This is the sort of thing Xabi misses in England.
4Calimotxo is a drink that's half wine, half Coke.
5Arzak is a three-starred Michelin restaurant in San Sebastian. Xabi has fond, if somewhat hazy, memories of drinking there with Aitor, back in the Real Sociedad days.
6Pintxos is the Basque word for tapas. (You see? Stevie doesn't understand how exactly someone's supposed to pronounce a 'ntx'; he had a hard enough time back when Xabi first came, with people calling him Zabi and Chabby and Shavvy. Watching Spain in the World Cup had been maddening, with Xavi and Xabi on the same field. A Scouse accent was nothing compared to that.)
*
Credit: The photos of Spain are all from links on Wikipedia. Note #6 uses a stockphoto. All the other images (post-its, envelope, etc.) are my own photos. Fonts used: Emperor's Scrawl, Daniel, Feltpen, and Honey I Stole Your Jumper.
Notes: I really don't know what to say! Thank you if you read the entire thing. And the biggest thank you of all to of_doom for her fantastic input, ♥ ♥ ♥.
commonplace
Note: click on the image in order to get a text version, if you'd like, for easier reading.
For: E. and Z.; without their brilliance this would never have been written. Danica, for her football love and humongous posts. And crack. Niche, because I love her.
Portugal and the days after ended up being a duplicitous sort of loss, the loss of a dream and the loss of a person. He packed his bags with a brutal sort of precision and tried not to think about Alex, the way her make-up was smudged around her face when he told her to go home, how Lilly had cried. And he loved her and everything, but she was so goddamned stupid sometimes and it was his World Cup and could she please not get drunk and high and start dancing on bar tables and come back to the hotel smelling of strange cologne, not when they had a wedding of all things planned that summer and -- No.
He wasn't going to think about this. He wasn't going to think about the shouting afterwards, or Robinson's inability to at least fucking move towards the ball, or how he just knew when his foot connected that it wasn't going in, or the media slaughter awaiting them, the cameras and microphones and shithole journalists.
The feeling was something like a helpless drunk fury, really; when his cellphone rang (he swore he had turned it off, fuck fuck fuck), he almost threw it across the room before he got a grip on himself. Stevie hated losing like he hated nothing else.
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry. You fought well." Hearing that voice took all of the anger out of him, suddenly. The fatigue started to seep through.
"You could say hello, you know."
He could hear the shrug through the phone.
"Come to Spain."
"What?"
"What I said. Visit me. I'll show you around." (What Stevie knew was unspoken, or maybe what he imagined, wanted to be: I know you're having an awful time right now, I know everything's gone wrong - you can forget about that here. I'll bring you to every corner cafe and record store and we'll watch the final in a tiny bar filled with shouts and smoke, we'll do all of this.)
"No, I can't just --"
"Steven. Stevie. Forget about all of that. If you want to come, then come." The words bordered on harsh, but the voice was kind, accent the tiniest bit stronger than it had been a month ago.
"I don't know. I."
"I'll give you a tour of the country, my home town. You can even do all those tourist things if you want."
"Okay."
"Yes?"
"Yeah."
"Then I'll be waiting. Call me when you know which flight you will take." He sounded a little surprised but pleased; as Stevie snapped the phone closed, he thought, what are you doing. You, you're supposed to be responsible, grown up, you're not supposed to go off running -- And, that, that's it. Fuck what he was supposed to do.
The second thoughts started when he stepped off the plane. He'd been to Spain before, but not by himself, not without a team or Alex, and it was different this way. The sounds were foreign, the smells sharper. Everything had shifted subtly.
He saw Xabi from a distance, sitting on a bench and looking the other way and felt awkward, suddenly. Unsure, standing there with his bags that he had almost wished were lost during the transport from one country to another, eyes dry and tired. Before he could figure out what to do, though, Xabi turned and saw him. Raised a hand and smiled, corners of his eyes turning up a little, and the tentative feeling passed - Stevie looked at him (he'd gotten a tan somewhere along the way, he noted offhandedly) and knew that this, this was what he needed. A place, a person who didn't have any expectations, any pretenses, anything. Something tight and nervous eased its way out of his shoulders, neck.
"Hi."
*
Stevie was in one of those moods the first few days, the ones where he liked pissing people off just so they would feel as miserable as he did. He knew he shouldn't, especially since it wasn't as if Spain had a good time of it either, but the memory of Portugal was still fresh and sharp and cutting in his mind and he just. He couldn't let it go. (What if that whiny little fucker hadn't said anything? Then again, what if Wayne hadn't been so, so stupid? And what if Frank hadn't gone first, what if he had hit --) It didn't help that the weather was shit, either, grey with that miserable light drizzle that never became proper rain and, thus, never disappeared. Wasn't Spain supposed to be warm? Where was the fucking sun? So he lazed around the room, watched television programs he couldn't understand, attempted to substitute grunts for words. Avoided eye contact. Xabi, though, was more patient than even he expected; it was quite impressive, really, the amount of bullshit he was able to put up with. It was more than Alex or Gratty 1 or Danny or even his parents would have taken.
Seventy-two hours of sullenness ended up being the limit as Xabi grabbed the remote out of his hand and turned the telly off.
"I did not bring you to Barcelona so you could watch Pasion de Gavilanes reruns all day."
"I like them."
"Steven. You wanted to come, yes? This is what you wanted to do? Sulk and watch stupid telenovelas?"
Stevie looked out the window. "Well, those sisters are fucking ace." The silence drew itself out for a minute before he heard the remote slam meticulously down on the table and turned around in time to see the door of the hotel room close. Well then. It was perversely satisfying at first, but then he realized that it was Xabi and, you know, shit. It was generally in a person's best interests not to piss him off, but Stevie had always been a bit rash, unthinking.
Forty-five minutes later, the door opened again just as he was beginning to get a little nervous and a lot remorseful. He found Xabi in the kitchenette and stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching him cut some unrecognizable orange vegetable that Stevie assumed he'd just bought from the produce vendor around the corner into neat cubes. After a minute, Xabi finally looked at him, as if asking, What?
"I'm sorry." A shrug. "I honestly am. For being an asshole, I mean," as if it needed clarification. A beat, a pause, and Stevie could see him take a breath, uncurl his hands. He looked tired around the very edges. Worn out. "That's not very new." Stevie kissed him, then. He didn't know why he did it; maybe it was the way the black cloth settled across Xabi's shoulders or the clean turn of his jaw or how cautiously forgiving he was. How there was still rain caught in his eyelashes and hair, even. Maybe it was an apology. Maybe it was a thank you, some attempt at gratitude. A soft noise, a surprised exhalation of the lungs, and Xabi's mouth opened under his, warm and natural and god, god. Xabi pulled apart after a few moments, hands warm against his Stevie's chest, a gentle sort of pressure. The silence thickened and he didn't know what to say.
"The pan is burning."
Stevie sat on the couch mentally slapping himself for the next fifteen minutes, because, just, what the fuck was he doing and what did he think he was going to accomplish by, by --
"It's orzo. I think you will like it. And, hey, those Elizondo sisters are crazy, no?" Stevie looked up from the shallow ceramic bowl Xabi was holding out to him and saw the slightest of smiles flit across his face; he smiled back in relief, cautious at first and then a full out grin as he took the plate. This, this was okay. This was good.
"Yeah, mate, they bloody well are. And, you know. Thanks."
"Someone has to educate you English about real food."
The weather cleared with his mood. Stevie woke the next day to the feeling of lightly filtered sun spilling across his back and the smell of coffee sneaking into his room. (Even the heat here wasn't the same. It had been a heavy pollutant hanging in the air in Germany on the worst days, clouding everything like a faint fog, diffusing colors and blurring shapes so that he had to squint, sometimes. Here, it was thick in a different way, a warm wash of color that was startling in its absence indoors, something intimate like a lover's scent that was hard to scrub off. The colors were saturated, bold and alive, and it took time for his eyes to get used to hushed blues and cool greys again.) Xabi was waiting for him in a black t-shirt and jeans, watching the news.
"Ever been to Las Ramblas 2?"
"Las what?"
"No, I guess. Well, everyone has to walk there before leaving Barcelona."
"I've got no choice, then."
Xabi rolled his eyes. "Not anymore. Want some food first?"
They ended up eating churros as they stood outside La Boquería 3. The dough was crisp and soft all at once, leaving oil stains on the napkins and on his hands, while the hot chocolate was thick enough to stand the dough up in, and oddly satisfying despite the temperature.
"Rafa would have a bloody heart attack if he saw us."
Xabi licked a few crystals of sugar from the inside curve of his thumb and smirked a little. "Like he can talk about it."
"Oh, that's below the belt."
Looking at him then and throughout the day (as he ran his fingertips along the stone walls of building in the Barri Gotic, craning his head to stare all the way up the side of La Sagrada Familia with its spires and jeweled windows, looking over the entire city from Parc Güell), what Stevie noticed was how much more comfortable Xabi seemed, how their roles had switched. There was nothing cautious about him in Spain, where every word and sight was a natural thing, nothing guarded or reserved, kept in check. It was a subtle thing, a slight shift in the slant of his shoulders and the openness of his eyes, but it jumped out at Stevie as something unusual, unusual but good. And maybe he was imagining things, but Xabi looked taller even, more solid. As if the sun, the accents, everything, was soaking into him, slowly filling him up.
San Sebastian (or Donostia, or Basque Country, or whatever it was called - why did one place need three names anyway?) was beautiful. They spoke something called Euskera there along with regular Spanish, and Stevie didn't have a bloody clue what anyone was saying; even the ever trusty hola and gracias had pretty much abandoned him.
That didn't stop him from appreciating what looked like miles of beaches and clear, still water, though, nor the quaintness of unmoving fishing boats and teenagers playing football along the waterfront. Xabi pointed the sights out to him, saying, "I used to fish with my grandfather when I was young, before the beaches got busy," and, "I would follow Mikel and play on this very beach like those boys over there, I don't think I was drinking calimotxo 4 though." It was weird, trying to picture that, because Xabi would joke around with the rest of them and all of that, but he never seemed young, not really.
They had tapas at a place with a big ARZAK 5 written on the front of the building. Xabi tried teaching him the names of all the different pintxos 6 to little avail, because how the fuck do you pronounce something that has five consonants in a row? It was nice though, his muffled laughter and the noise, dark wine and massive scallops that really did taste like the sea, being introduced to the head chef and attempting to cobble together some hilariously awkward combination of English and simple Spanish. It was nice, learning, or trying to at least, something that had nothing to do with football or the press or locker room politics.
Everything was nice, nice and simple and content, and he'd thought, It would be easy to be happy here.
Xabi brought him to a bar with yet another name Stevie couldn't pronounce to watch the final. The bartender greeted Xabi when they stepped through the door, and the other people there, old men, middle aged fathers with teenage sons, college lads with their birds and mates, recognized them but didn't say anything. A few waved. They sat down at a table and waited.
"Allez les Bleus?" Xabi made a face at that. "Fuck no. Forza Azzurri. And your French is terrible."
The next few hours were a blur - empty beer bottles at first and then literally bowl-sized gin and tonics, yelling himself hoarse at the television screen and finding himself speechless seeing that red card, not understanding the rapid beats of the shouts and mutterings around him but fully understanding the universal language of groans, barely being able to watch the penalties but willing Pirlo to bury his out of amused sympathy, remembering what it was like to be a fan again, and being surprised at forgetting the bitter taste the tournament had left in his mouth for days after their defeat.
Stevie didn't know what time it was when they finally left, but the air was warm and the streets still noisy enough; he was a bit light on his feet ("What the fuck do you Spaniards put in your alcohol?") and Xabi's hand was warm against his elbow, breath close to his ear. The room was dark when he entered and promptly tripped, being the smooth, smooth person that he was, but Xabi had grabbed him, reflexes working despite everything, and half-pulled him upright. They were, he realized, standing very close in the narrow hallway, inches apart, hands on each other's arms; Xabi was looking straight at him and it was awfully dark so that all Stevie could see were the whites of his eyes, the wet curve of his mouth. Stevie didn't let go, but opened his mouth to --
"Stop. Just, stop. Whatever you are going to say, don't."
He didn't, he didn't and he completely forgot what he was going to protest about a moment later (you're somewhat drunk, I'm definitely drunk, and this is a really fucking terrible idea, I mean it, really fucking terrible), Xabi's mouth on his, bodies pressed together, one hand cool against his skin and the other pinning him to the wall (Stevie suddenly remembered how Xabi was stronger than he looked, then), and oh, oh. He could get used to this. Xabi's fingers worked his shirt open, lazy and bizarrely efficient at the same time, and suddenly there was his mouth traveling down his chest; Stevie shivered, curled a hand in Xabi's hair, and tried to forget, something that quickly became easy to do. "Shit, but you've got a fucking persuasive mouth --", he managed to get out before Xabi shut him up a second later.
In an unbelievably awkward move, Stevie started to talk, afterwards. He didn't know what propelled him to do it. Maybe it was the alcohol still wrecking havoc in his brain after years of careful moderation, maybe it was the feel of Xabi's fingers in his hair, the slow methodical circles they rubbed against his scalp. Maybe there was no reason other than the sudden, jolting reminder of what loneliness felt like, something he hadn't quite remembered, realized, until he wasn't alone again.
(That's the thing about being a footballer that people don't realize, a lot of the time. There are mates he would never, ever talk to if he wasn't one, people on his cell phone that are there simply because of what they do, because they go in that same circle. Sure, he's got Gratty and the rest, but there's always a sense of unease that comes with meeting new people. He's in the public eye more than he wants to be, and he would hate Alex for that if he didn't love her. He's known by millions and millions of people around the world, people who have seen his children and know the names of his parents, people he himself will never even hear of, and it's terrifying, sometimes.
It's terrifying and awful, because Stevie has wondered what it would be like to have best mates that are going to university and getting degrees, ones with normal lives and normal cars, before he realized that he wouldn't know how to get along with them anyway.
He wouldn't know, wouldn't know what to say or do or how to understand.)
Stevie felt a hand on his shoulder and stepped away from it, obvious and a little clumsy, surprised at himself.
"I." He gestured helplessly. "There's, you know, people." Xabi stared at him for a few seconds and took a step backwards, slow and deliberate, looked away. "Fine. Okay. I understand." The line of his profile was quiet, a little brittle. It was kind of funny in that unpleasant, sickening sort of way, because the only thing that had changed at all was him, and he felt as if everyone could see right through him, it, whatever. Things were different and he didn't know what to do or say or how to stop wanting to trace his hand along Xabi's spine. It was stupid and frustrating and he just didn't know.
And, god, he felt progressively worse for the next few hours, because he didn't mean it that way except maybe he did and he had no idea what he was doing and. And. Fuck. Dinner was strange and unsettling, the tap of silverware harsh and grating in his ears, the news announcer on the telly increasingly annoying until Xabi spoke.
"What do you want from me? What do you want this to be?" He hated the way Xabi was so frank, straightforward, about the important things. How there were some things he would never be able to ignore and delude himself into accepting. The way he was never afraid for longer than a moment.
"Look. I don't know. Honest. I have no fucking clue what I want and I know it would be easier if I did, but, I just. There's other people. There's other places after this is over. I'm getting married. Xabi, you have to know."
"I do. But right now we're here. What do you want? You know the answer."
"I. I want." Stevie bit his lip, looked down at his hands folded together on the table top, felt like he was eighteen again. He didn't know how to say any of it, wasn't brave enough to say any of it. Xabi reached across the table and separated those hands, wove his fingers through one of them, brushed his knuckles. Stevie could feel the light callous at the base of his thumb and the words came, sudden and unexpected and haltingly true. "I want to walk down beaches in the morning and have a kick about when no one's awake. I want to know what happens in that stupid show. I want have these sorts of pubs in Liverpool. I want to be able to pronounce the names of all those tiny little streets. I want to understand why you like coffee so much and how the people here can be so happy all the time and why the sun feels different." He paused and drew a breath. Xabi's thumb drew circles on his skin.
"You haven't spoken this much in months."
He let out a laugh, then, half amazement at himself, half shuddering relief; it was exhausting. "Yeah. Yeah."
"This isn't going to last." It wasn't a question.
"No, I guess not. I know."
"Are you good at pretending, for a while?" Xabi was looking at him once more, eyes wary and sharp again like they had been when they first met. It was strange, seeing that.
Stevie paused and it felt as if he was on the edge of something, something awful or something good he didn't know, but it was a strange hovering sensation, the slow motion replay of the split second before a rain drop crashes into the pavement below, the feeling of inertia right before a plunging drop. He paused, held his breath, and let it go again, because sometimes, sometimes he's the sort of person who'll step off the ledge just to know what it's like to fall, ignoring the inevitable end.
"I'm good enough, like."
Xabi glanced down and when he looked back up, that careful deliberation was gone. He smiled a little. "Okay then."
A ringtone suddenly filled the air and Xabi flipped his phone open, turning away slightly and speaking in Spanish. The only things Stevie could decipher were words like Mikel and padre and no, before Xabi looked at him apologetically and gestured, walking away.
Stevie found him standing by the balcony railing, later, hands in his pockets, shoulders suddenly narrow and thin.
"Hey." He didn't turn around or move at all. Stevie stood next to him and looked down at the quiet streets below in silence; there was something tight and strained around Xabi's mouth and he didn't know what to say. A young boy walked down the street, absentmindedly skipping diagonally across the stones as he went. It occurred to him, then, that maybe he wasn't the only one trying to pull off some great act of escapism, a disappearing trick; he wasn't the only way looking for some way to pretend. Forget.
"We are adults, right?"
"Yeah, mate. At least we say we are."
"And adults, adults don't run away from things."
"No, course not. Never." He grinned a little. Xabi gripped the ironwork and leaned back, head tilted towards the sky, turning towards him as he spoke.
"So what do we call this?"
Stevie looked at him, then, the way his neck arched back, the serious set of his eyes, the line of his face against the clear dusky sky; he looked at him and for a moment, a split second, there was nothing more profoundly striking in the entire goddamned world - for a moment, he could think of nothing but kissing him, and so he did and wanted to say, this is the way I will always remember you, this is the way you should stay forever, and maybe, maybe it was something like foolishness, a trick of light, a chemical imbalance in the brain; maybe it was just something stupidly akin to love, the simple kind like how he loved football and summer and that feeling he got standing on the pitch with the vibrations of tens of thousands of voices traveling through him, that sense of being furiously and wonderfully alive.
He broke away. There were only a few centimeters separating their faces. "I'd say this is a bloody celebration of youth." Xabi closed his eyes, let go of the railing, smiled. This time it was Xabi who moved first: the metalwork pressed lightly into Stevie's back; arms and legs and everything fitted snugly together, slid into place what with his hands in Xabi's hair, at the base of his neck; the sun was low in the sky and lit everything into something golden and glorious and wonderful like a fucking movie ending.
"Come on."
He woke early in the morning with a voice soft in his ear. "Wake up. Let's go."
The beach was a cool grey before dawn, a little misty. There was no one there and the tracks of yesterday's activities had all but disappeared from the sand. Stevie had to squint a little, blink a few times; it reminded him of England, almost. He shivered and the next hour was filled with the sound of the football hitting wet sand and, embarrassingly enough, water on several occasions. It was nice, the laughter that sliced itself through the air, warm and subdued, the way words weren't needed, the feeling of fine white sand against the soles of his feet. He'd missed this - playing for the sake of playing and nothing more, without thousands of eyes tracking him, without the stifling pride of a country clogging the air.
Stevie remembered what it was like, two years ago. At the beginning. How tentative and wary and calculating everything, everyone was. He didn't know what to do, with a new manager and new players, because he was a professional but he was also a captain, a local boy, a twenty three year old facing the intangible future. Fast forward almost twenty four months and even then, there were still the odd moments when he didn't know, when he could feel that old hesitancy creep back in. Maybe it was because Xabi could love Liverpool but never as much as he loved San Sebastian; because he knew Stevie, all the important terrifying things, but he didn't know Stevie like Danny knew him - his favorite ice cream flavor or rugby team or what brand of crisps he could never resist; because he was there for so many unforgettable moments but he wasn't there with Stevie at the academy or when he threw up before his first game.
He wasn't there for the treble and wasn't there for the heartbreak after that, not like Mikey was, or Jamie or Didi, any of them. It was, still is, easy for him to believe because he hadn't had that disappointment. Trusting him was dangerous, risky, a kind of challenge; he was someone different, unsafe, but it was also the sort of thing Stevie had always loved to take on. He took it on and it was easier than anyone would've thought.
If he tried to explain it, the why, the reason behind it, it would be something like this: like how his legs would be shaky, tired, after games when he was nineteen and how it still happened sometimes, even now, even six years later. How he'd be breathing hard, unsteady and more than a little cautious, reluctant to move, and how he could look across the field and there would always be somebody there. An understanding face, a shoulder to sling an arm around and lean on a little, slyly of course, because that wasn't the sort of thing he would want to make obvious. But it would be there, if he needed, if he wanted.
That's the only way he knows how to explain it, this core understanding, this camaraderie, this idea that such different people can be all built around one, simple thing.
Sometimes he wondered, what would I be without it? What, where would we be without it? Would I still know you, would we still talk, would we still look at each other and see something to understand? They're pointless questions because things are the way they are, and this, the game the pitch the crowds, is never going to leave them. Not ten, twenty, thirty years later, not while blood still moves furiously through their veins. Stevie swears it's something built into every little bit of him, every cell and nerve ending, every bit of bone, because how else can he explain it? How else could anyone explain any of it?
It's a long-winded explanation for a simple question, but it's the only answer Stevie knew. This is why he came to Spain. This is how he knew Xabi meant everything he said, how he believed it, him. This is why he could look Xabi in the eyes and know that his own were giving just about everything away and not be afraid.
"Where are you going? After this, I mean." Stevie tried in vain to peel his eyelids open as he slouched down into the sofa - it was dark outside already, and the sound of loud car radio music and the hushed buzz of a city night came in through the open windows, competing with the quiet voices on the telly. The air was thick and sweet and cool against his skin, but Xabi's arm was warm from where it lay flung across Stevie's chest after a fruitless attempt at finding the remote between the cushions. He hmmmmm-ed under his breath for a moment, the sound of it low and pleasant like the satisfied, curling purr of a cat stretched out in the sun, before answering.
"Frégate Islands, after she comes back from her, her --", he paused for a second, other hand gesturing languidly in the air as he looked for the right phrase, "-- bonding session with her sister. They don't see each other too much nowadays."
"Birds week out, then?" There was that mmmhmmmm again. "Ashley Cole's going there for his honeymoon, did you know?"
"Maybe I will go say hello." Stevie snickered. "Or maybe not." Xabi nudged him with his elbow, chuckled a little. "What are you implying? Anyway, wake up, you might actually like this part. There are bombs and everything." He reluctantly pried an eye open. On the screen, Steve McQueen and General von Whatever were trying to kill each other. He closed it again. "Steven. I can't teach you about classic films if you keep falling asleep during them." The attempt to sound stern might have worked better if it wasn't interrupted by a muffled yawn in the middle; the sofa shifted as Xabi rolled over, propping himself up on his elbows; Stevie opened his eyes for real this time.
Their faces were very close, almost touching.
Xabi looked at him for what seemed to be a long time, half his face flickering, shifting colors from the light of the telly. It might have been uncomfortable a few months, even a few weeks ago - Stevie might have moved, said something daft, backed up against the arm of the sofa. As it was, he stayed still, let himself be watched, and watched back, strangely curious. He noted the way his breath made the hair around Xabi's ear move a little, how a pool of shadow collected itself in the hollow between his collarbones. It felt surreal.
"I never would have predicted this." When Xabi spoke, it was quiet, but the words still felt as if they were traveling straight from his mouth into Stevie's, untouched by air - they had a physical, tangible feel to them, as if he could sense each sound wave being absorbed into his skin.
"What?" Xabi's shoulders shifted slightly in what might have been a shrug. "I don't know. Just, this. You. All of it."
"Well, that narrows it down a bit." A smile. Stevie continued. "It won't be the same, though, will it."
"When we go back?"
"Yeah."
"Maybe not."
"This sounds really daft, but I sort of wish we could stay here longer."
"I thought you couldn't wait for number nineteen."
"That's not what I --" Xabi rested his fingers on Stevie's mouth, lightly. "I know. I wasn't serious." He was silent for a few seconds before speaking again. "Not, not everything has to change. And even if things change, they can still be good. Different, but good." Stevie ran his fingers absentmindedly along Xabi's collarbone, pressed a kiss against his neck.
"We're good."
"We are."
(He fell asleep with Xabi's hair tickling the underside of his chin, thinking things change, but you, god, I don't ever want you to. On the screen across the room, the prisoners were escaping in vivid Technicolor, boats and boats of them, sailing off into some safe unknown, shouts and laughter and happiness rising like a balloon into the air - fickle and momentary, maybe, but pure, beautiful nonetheless.)
*
"Wait. Xabi." He stopped and turned around, curious. The airport was crowded and Stevie could barely hear himself above the noise.
"I'm glad I said yes." (What he meant was: thank you for being you and being there, for the late dinners and good advice, for being patient and teaching me how to roll those double r's, for caring and trying in that quiet, determined way of yours, for reminding me. Thank you for just knowing.) A brief hesitation. "I'm glad you asked."
"I am really not that unselfish, you know." Simple words, as if he knew what Stevie had been thinking. A break in the air and he looked as if he wanted to say something more, to walk back towards Stevie, to stay. The moment passed and he lifted a hand in mock salute, eyes steady and assured. "I'll be seeing you."
It took Stevie a moment to understand what Xabi meant as he watched him walk past the sliding doors into the bright, electric sunshine and then something warm, warm and strong and reliable like a secret knowledge, some whispered code or polished key, settled in chest.
You're welcome.
Stevie shouldered his bag and headed towards his terminal. Everything was going to be fine. No, it was going to be more than fine. He could feel it and he couldn't fucking wait.
1Stevie's best mate with a ridiculous name, who puts up with far more than he should have to. Stevie's more glad than he'll ever say for that, and tries to show it when he can, in small ways - like not taking the piss too much when Gratty says he wants to be an actor.
2Las Ramblas - busiest and most popular boulevard in Barcelona, with plenty of side streets. Featuring entertainers, artists, vendors, food & drink; huge tourist attraction. Stevie didn't even realize that the statues were actually people until one of them moved, and, yeah, it freaked him out. Just a little. Xabi found it far funnier than he should have.
3La Boquería - huge and extremely busy market on La Rambla. Seafood and fruit and elbows absolutely everywhere. This is the sort of thing Xabi misses in England.
4Calimotxo is a drink that's half wine, half Coke.
5Arzak is a three-starred Michelin restaurant in San Sebastian. Xabi has fond, if somewhat hazy, memories of drinking there with Aitor, back in the Real Sociedad days.
6Pintxos is the Basque word for tapas. (You see? Stevie doesn't understand how exactly someone's supposed to pronounce a 'ntx'; he had a hard enough time back when Xabi first came, with people calling him Zabi and Chabby and Shavvy. Watching Spain in the World Cup had been maddening, with Xavi and Xabi on the same field. A Scouse accent was nothing compared to that.)
*
Credit: The photos of Spain are all from links on Wikipedia. Note #6 uses a stockphoto. All the other images (post-its, envelope, etc.) are my own photos. Fonts used: Emperor's Scrawl, Daniel, Feltpen, and Honey I Stole Your Jumper.
Notes: I really don't know what to say! Thank you if you read the entire thing. And the biggest thank you of all to of_doom for her fantastic input, ♥ ♥ ♥.