Football AU: Now That I Am in Madrid and Can Think 5/?
The angel wings and Graham really did happen. The rest is pretty much crack.
December 2004
"Bramble?... Really?"
"They're at Garlands and Neil Mellor is gyrating on the dance floor just a few feet to their right, sandwiched between two large men wearing nothing but leather trousers and huge, ethereal angel wings strapped across their hairy chests. Ocassional fake angel feathers float above their heads. They're having an ABBA themed Christmas party.
None of that baffles Carra as much as Sami's pick of Titus Bramble.
"Milner's not that ugly, sure," Sami slurs apologetically, "but Bramble is... how you say? Cattle?... No, 's not right."
"Beefy?" Xabi lucky guesses.
"'s right. And Christ, that was a fucking beautiful own goal!"
To which Carra grunts like it's all starting to fall into place and what the hell has Milner done for us lately anyway? The team choruses something about how he should know and the general agreement that going by own goals Carra is the sexiest man in the Premier League is almost enough to save him from his turn.
Kewell is not that lucky.
"Cahill or Thomas Gravessen?" Sami inquires with all the gravity of a tipsy footballer in a gay club.
"Fuck off, I'm not fucking fucking blue noses!"
"Theoretically fucking, Oz," Stevie reassures him with a smirk.
Jerzy's eyes have gone progressively wider from the moment Sami had convinced the Garlands bouncers to let them inconspicuously slip into a quiet booth towards the back of the club. By now, he looks like a very drunk, very bearded lemur.
"You are all crazy! Alonso, why you encouraging them, you Basque infidel?"
Stevie nudges him in the ribs, in the most captainly way possible.
"Relax, Jerzy, the Pope won't mind a bit of theoretical buggery. You'll get your turn, don't worry."
"You have to pick, Harry," Sami is relentless in his pursuit of Everton confessions from the Australian. "It's called Who Would You Rather for a reason. Milan had to fuck Mancs in theory, you get blueshites. Only fair."
Milan's busting embarrassing dance moves next to and in the general direction of a busty redhead, oblivious to the fate that awaits his dressing room corner the next day. Provided any of his future tormentors stays conscious enough to remember it by then, his locker is on its way to being plastered with posters of Cristiano Ronaldo plus packets of antibiotics and condoms.
"Let Carra fuck them, he's emotionally invested."
"A'right, a'right..." Stevie tries to remember why he'd decided to bring them to Garlands in the first place, but it's all a bit hazy by now. "As your Captain, I'm making an executive decision: Carra gets Everton, you get Spurs later."
A fresh round of beers placates Kewell as much as not having to mentally fornicate with Toffees and Carra surprises absolutely nobody by chosing Gravessen, whose bald head he apparently finds irresistible.
"Stevieeee, my boy....," he purrs, "Freddie Ljungberg or Thierry Henry? Who'd yer rather?"
Sami lets out a prolongued oooooh and all but Jerzy seem to agree the Captain's challenge is the toughest one yet. Jerzy just thinks they're all going to Hell either way.
"Easy one," Stevie blinks fast at his beer. "Ljungberg's a gorgeous man, but come on... an underwear model would never look at the likes of me. And besides... Henry and I got more in common, we're comfortable with each other. I could actually respect him in the morning, you know?"
Xabi squints at him because Stevie's completely stone faced and between the beer and the Scouse it's hard for him to tell just how much he's taking the piss. He could actually physically slap himself over the head for even considering for a second to object to Stevie's insecurities.
Carra has no such inhibitions though.
"Bollocks!" he throws his head back against the booth, howling with drunken mirth. "You're full of it, mate! Ye'v always gone mad for the pretty ones!"
"I made my choice, a'right? Xabi..." Stevie looks straight at him and he suddenly feels a lot less tipsy. "Me or Raúl?"
A few timid protests break out and Kewell objects to the breaking of drinking game rules and the chaos such disturbing antisocial behaviour would lead to, but soon enough a focused silence descends on their booth. All glazy eyes are at least trying to focus on Xabi.
"Raúl is my Captain for longer," Xabi says after careful consideration, his voice as calm as always. "But you know I cannot choose a Madridista, my family would er... take me out of their testament. You... my father has already met and he likes you, I could take you home for the holidays. My mother would probably like you as well, she is always laughing at bad jokes."
"Of course you'd make the most practical choice, you..." Stevie laughs, his thumb fiddling with the label of his beer bottle. He sounds genuinely impressed with the (by now no longer) new guy's banter skills, although the rest are not as kind and try to push him to the dance floor as punishment.
"Fuck's sakes, Alonso, it's not called Whose Babies 'uld Yer Rather 'ave!"
They drag Jerzy along with some difficulty and they eventually join John Arne Riise, Milan and his inseparable redheaded dance partner just in time for Dancing Queen.
"Think we should tell Barros her name's Graham?" Carra shouts over his shoulder, catching Stevie in mid twirl as he tries to swing under Riise's arm. He shrugs, seemingly not having a strong opinion on the matter and loses grip of the Norwegian's hand, crashing into Xabi instead.
"He'll discover soon enough," Stevie laughs into the crook of Xabi's neck then looks up, half confused, half perfectly lucid and hyperaware.
"You are much better looking than Raúl," Xabi says as he'd say pass the salt or let me know when you burst forward on the left and walks off calmly to the bar. Stevie's rooted to the spot while the world goes on spinning to ABBA tunes around him. You're fucking pissed, Stevie, his brain objects, Go home!
December 2004
"Bramble?... Really?"
"They're at Garlands and Neil Mellor is gyrating on the dance floor just a few feet to their right, sandwiched between two large men wearing nothing but leather trousers and huge, ethereal angel wings strapped across their hairy chests. Ocassional fake angel feathers float above their heads. They're having an ABBA themed Christmas party.
None of that baffles Carra as much as Sami's pick of Titus Bramble.
"Milner's not that ugly, sure," Sami slurs apologetically, "but Bramble is... how you say? Cattle?... No, 's not right."
"Beefy?" Xabi lucky guesses.
"'s right. And Christ, that was a fucking beautiful own goal!"
To which Carra grunts like it's all starting to fall into place and what the hell has Milner done for us lately anyway? The team choruses something about how he should know and the general agreement that going by own goals Carra is the sexiest man in the Premier League is almost enough to save him from his turn.
Kewell is not that lucky.
"Cahill or Thomas Gravessen?" Sami inquires with all the gravity of a tipsy footballer in a gay club.
"Fuck off, I'm not fucking fucking blue noses!"
"Theoretically fucking, Oz," Stevie reassures him with a smirk.
Jerzy's eyes have gone progressively wider from the moment Sami had convinced the Garlands bouncers to let them inconspicuously slip into a quiet booth towards the back of the club. By now, he looks like a very drunk, very bearded lemur.
"You are all crazy! Alonso, why you encouraging them, you Basque infidel?"
Stevie nudges him in the ribs, in the most captainly way possible.
"Relax, Jerzy, the Pope won't mind a bit of theoretical buggery. You'll get your turn, don't worry."
"You have to pick, Harry," Sami is relentless in his pursuit of Everton confessions from the Australian. "It's called Who Would You Rather for a reason. Milan had to fuck Mancs in theory, you get blueshites. Only fair."
Milan's busting embarrassing dance moves next to and in the general direction of a busty redhead, oblivious to the fate that awaits his dressing room corner the next day. Provided any of his future tormentors stays conscious enough to remember it by then, his locker is on its way to being plastered with posters of Cristiano Ronaldo plus packets of antibiotics and condoms.
"Let Carra fuck them, he's emotionally invested."
"A'right, a'right..." Stevie tries to remember why he'd decided to bring them to Garlands in the first place, but it's all a bit hazy by now. "As your Captain, I'm making an executive decision: Carra gets Everton, you get Spurs later."
A fresh round of beers placates Kewell as much as not having to mentally fornicate with Toffees and Carra surprises absolutely nobody by chosing Gravessen, whose bald head he apparently finds irresistible.
"Stevieeee, my boy....," he purrs, "Freddie Ljungberg or Thierry Henry? Who'd yer rather?"
Sami lets out a prolongued oooooh and all but Jerzy seem to agree the Captain's challenge is the toughest one yet. Jerzy just thinks they're all going to Hell either way.
"Easy one," Stevie blinks fast at his beer. "Ljungberg's a gorgeous man, but come on... an underwear model would never look at the likes of me. And besides... Henry and I got more in common, we're comfortable with each other. I could actually respect him in the morning, you know?"
Xabi squints at him because Stevie's completely stone faced and between the beer and the Scouse it's hard for him to tell just how much he's taking the piss. He could actually physically slap himself over the head for even considering for a second to object to Stevie's insecurities.
Carra has no such inhibitions though.
"Bollocks!" he throws his head back against the booth, howling with drunken mirth. "You're full of it, mate! Ye'v always gone mad for the pretty ones!"
"I made my choice, a'right? Xabi..." Stevie looks straight at him and he suddenly feels a lot less tipsy. "Me or Raúl?"
A few timid protests break out and Kewell objects to the breaking of drinking game rules and the chaos such disturbing antisocial behaviour would lead to, but soon enough a focused silence descends on their booth. All glazy eyes are at least trying to focus on Xabi.
"Raúl is my Captain for longer," Xabi says after careful consideration, his voice as calm as always. "But you know I cannot choose a Madridista, my family would er... take me out of their testament. You... my father has already met and he likes you, I could take you home for the holidays. My mother would probably like you as well, she is always laughing at bad jokes."
"Of course you'd make the most practical choice, you..." Stevie laughs, his thumb fiddling with the label of his beer bottle. He sounds genuinely impressed with the (by now no longer) new guy's banter skills, although the rest are not as kind and try to push him to the dance floor as punishment.
"Fuck's sakes, Alonso, it's not called Whose Babies 'uld Yer Rather 'ave!"
They drag Jerzy along with some difficulty and they eventually join John Arne Riise, Milan and his inseparable redheaded dance partner just in time for Dancing Queen.
"Think we should tell Barros her name's Graham?" Carra shouts over his shoulder, catching Stevie in mid twirl as he tries to swing under Riise's arm. He shrugs, seemingly not having a strong opinion on the matter and loses grip of the Norwegian's hand, crashing into Xabi instead.
"He'll discover soon enough," Stevie laughs into the crook of Xabi's neck then looks up, half confused, half perfectly lucid and hyperaware.
"You are much better looking than Raúl," Xabi says as he'd say pass the salt or let me know when you burst forward on the left and walks off calmly to the bar. Stevie's rooted to the spot while the world goes on spinning to ABBA tunes around him. You're fucking pissed, Stevie, his brain objects, Go home!