Not!Football AU
I'm just experimenting with something, don't mind me.
Untitled Colombian Project
Rating: R (not this bit, but in general)
Chapter: Intro
Summary: In which Xabi is an Arsenal fan
Xabi stares at the condensation droplets splashed onto the oval window of the private jet, sees them swirling around on air currents sliced in invisible halves by the Cesna’s elegant metallic wing. He knows he’s extremely unlikely to find any clouds or rain drops once the plane finally makes contact with the Earth again, but if someone were to ask him on the spot which corner of the planet he’s being pulled towards by gravity, he’d have a hard time remembering the exact answer. When the slick flat screen of the in-flight monitor blinks at him with a reminder of the temperature and inevitably clear-sky-and-sunshine ground conditions in Cartagena, Xabi blinks back at it almost spitefully.
The memory of eight year-old Xabi crouched in the big leather armchair in his father’s study flies in unbidden. He sees himself poring over the ancient globe by the book case, mentally calculating distances between the meridians traced by his still pudgy index finger. Oman… to Sri Lanka… to Macao… to Papua New Guinea. The names glow on the ivory-surface of the globe, set alight by his overactive imagination. He’s read about Papua New Guinea’s fantastic creatures and wild volcanoes in his mother’s National Geographic collection…
Xabi blinks away this version of himself, collects his laptop off the white-leather bound empty seat next to him and straps himself in tighter in preparation for the landing. He’s been to Papua New Guinea twice in the meantime, landed there just last year in fact, but his only memories of the country are the pungent and familiar smells of the oil refinery and the chaos on the streets of Port Moresby.
The Colombian sun blinds him as soon as he steps onto the airstairs; not even his Ray Bans seem to be enough of a safeguard for the few seconds it takes Xabi’s retinas to adapt. A pot-bellied man in uniform greets him at the bottom of the stairs with just the right amount of fake affability and he’s ushered through the VIP terminal of Rafael Núñez International Airport with the minimum amount of fuss. Xabi’s been through the motions so many times that he pays no mind to the liveried chauffer waiting for him with a Conglomerado Chamartín - Eng. X. Alonso sign held in front of his standard black suit; he mumbles something indistinct in response to his polite greeting. It’s only later, in the air conditioned silence of the black limousine that Xabi notices the man’s strong accent as he’s caught unable to keep his eyes off the window and on the latest number of The Economist for more than ten seconds at a time.
“First time in Colombia, Sir?”
Oh great, here comes the special offer for the local brothel, twenty percent off for “friends of the owner”, Xabi thinks, the polite but firm refusal automated by years of practice.
“Actually… no. I have never been to Cartagena though.”
“It’s getting quite popular with oil men such as yourself,” the driver says.
Xabi is still waiting for some sort of sordid soliciting, but for whatever reason he just feels like satisfying this sudden burst of curiosity regardless.
“You’re also quite far away from home… Liverpool, right?”
“What gave me away?” the man chuckles. “I suppose you’ve been around quite a bit, seen the old place yourself.”
“Haven’t got around to it yet, actually. It’s kind of silly, considering I live in London,” Xabi says, a bit surprised to hear himself making conversation instead of recapping the latest talking points before his next briefing and turning the limo into his office away from the office like he normally does.
“Not a lot of oil in Liverpool. Let me guess… You’re an Arsenal man.”
Xabi laughs a little self-consciously and this is definitely a first.
“You don’t pick your team, it picks you. I used to live on Holloway Road when I came to London to study. Am I that obvious?”
“Seems to be the fashionable choice for expats, that’s all. Not a fan meself, but I suppose at least it’s not Chelsea…”
Xabi makes a disdainful face of Like I’d EVER… and knows just what to ask in retaliation, taking his 50-50 chance at payback:
“Everton?”
“Red or dead, mate,” the driver snorts indignantly. “Erm… Sir.”
Xabi likes the sound of his voice.
“The time difference here doesn’t make it easy to keep up with the team though. You’re in luck, you know, Chamartín’ll treat you like a king. They have some of the best facilities for employees I’ve ever seen. Not a lot in the way of entertainment, but that’s what Cartagena’s for if you don’t mind the drive.”
“That’s allright, I’m not exactly a life of the party kind of guy.”
The car comes to a gradual, smooth stop in the middle of the empty road and there’s barely any time for Xabi to notice it or register the full spectrum of what happens next. He sees a gun pointed at him at close range from the front seat and hears his driver’s pleasant voice whisper:
“That’s too bad.”
There’s a piercing sting in his shoulder next and that’s the second to last thing Xabi feels before he collapses on the backseat. The very last thing he feels is stupid for not wondering a bit earlier why the man with the iceberg-blue eyes was wearing black leather gloves in the stifling heat.
To be continued...
Untitled Colombian Project
Rating: R (not this bit, but in general)
Chapter: Intro
Summary: In which Xabi is an Arsenal fan
Xabi stares at the condensation droplets splashed onto the oval window of the private jet, sees them swirling around on air currents sliced in invisible halves by the Cesna’s elegant metallic wing. He knows he’s extremely unlikely to find any clouds or rain drops once the plane finally makes contact with the Earth again, but if someone were to ask him on the spot which corner of the planet he’s being pulled towards by gravity, he’d have a hard time remembering the exact answer. When the slick flat screen of the in-flight monitor blinks at him with a reminder of the temperature and inevitably clear-sky-and-sunshine ground conditions in Cartagena, Xabi blinks back at it almost spitefully.
The memory of eight year-old Xabi crouched in the big leather armchair in his father’s study flies in unbidden. He sees himself poring over the ancient globe by the book case, mentally calculating distances between the meridians traced by his still pudgy index finger. Oman… to Sri Lanka… to Macao… to Papua New Guinea. The names glow on the ivory-surface of the globe, set alight by his overactive imagination. He’s read about Papua New Guinea’s fantastic creatures and wild volcanoes in his mother’s National Geographic collection…
Xabi blinks away this version of himself, collects his laptop off the white-leather bound empty seat next to him and straps himself in tighter in preparation for the landing. He’s been to Papua New Guinea twice in the meantime, landed there just last year in fact, but his only memories of the country are the pungent and familiar smells of the oil refinery and the chaos on the streets of Port Moresby.
The Colombian sun blinds him as soon as he steps onto the airstairs; not even his Ray Bans seem to be enough of a safeguard for the few seconds it takes Xabi’s retinas to adapt. A pot-bellied man in uniform greets him at the bottom of the stairs with just the right amount of fake affability and he’s ushered through the VIP terminal of Rafael Núñez International Airport with the minimum amount of fuss. Xabi’s been through the motions so many times that he pays no mind to the liveried chauffer waiting for him with a Conglomerado Chamartín - Eng. X. Alonso sign held in front of his standard black suit; he mumbles something indistinct in response to his polite greeting. It’s only later, in the air conditioned silence of the black limousine that Xabi notices the man’s strong accent as he’s caught unable to keep his eyes off the window and on the latest number of The Economist for more than ten seconds at a time.
“First time in Colombia, Sir?”
Oh great, here comes the special offer for the local brothel, twenty percent off for “friends of the owner”, Xabi thinks, the polite but firm refusal automated by years of practice.
“Actually… no. I have never been to Cartagena though.”
“It’s getting quite popular with oil men such as yourself,” the driver says.
Xabi is still waiting for some sort of sordid soliciting, but for whatever reason he just feels like satisfying this sudden burst of curiosity regardless.
“You’re also quite far away from home… Liverpool, right?”
“What gave me away?” the man chuckles. “I suppose you’ve been around quite a bit, seen the old place yourself.”
“Haven’t got around to it yet, actually. It’s kind of silly, considering I live in London,” Xabi says, a bit surprised to hear himself making conversation instead of recapping the latest talking points before his next briefing and turning the limo into his office away from the office like he normally does.
“Not a lot of oil in Liverpool. Let me guess… You’re an Arsenal man.”
Xabi laughs a little self-consciously and this is definitely a first.
“You don’t pick your team, it picks you. I used to live on Holloway Road when I came to London to study. Am I that obvious?”
“Seems to be the fashionable choice for expats, that’s all. Not a fan meself, but I suppose at least it’s not Chelsea…”
Xabi makes a disdainful face of Like I’d EVER… and knows just what to ask in retaliation, taking his 50-50 chance at payback:
“Everton?”
“Red or dead, mate,” the driver snorts indignantly. “Erm… Sir.”
Xabi likes the sound of his voice.
“The time difference here doesn’t make it easy to keep up with the team though. You’re in luck, you know, Chamartín’ll treat you like a king. They have some of the best facilities for employees I’ve ever seen. Not a lot in the way of entertainment, but that’s what Cartagena’s for if you don’t mind the drive.”
“That’s allright, I’m not exactly a life of the party kind of guy.”
The car comes to a gradual, smooth stop in the middle of the empty road and there’s barely any time for Xabi to notice it or register the full spectrum of what happens next. He sees a gun pointed at him at close range from the front seat and hears his driver’s pleasant voice whisper:
“That’s too bad.”
There’s a piercing sting in his shoulder next and that’s the second to last thing Xabi feels before he collapses on the backseat. The very last thing he feels is stupid for not wondering a bit earlier why the man with the iceberg-blue eyes was wearing black leather gloves in the stifling heat.
To be continued...