fic: i will trace the shape of your abscence
title: i will trace the shape of your abscence
rating: pg
pairing/characters: steven gerrard & xabi alonso
disclaimer: this story is complete fiction.
summary: he came from sociedad to play in our midfield/his passing and his shooting are sublime
stevie can't believe this is happening again.
beside him, xabi has his head in his hands. he looks exhausted. five years is a long time, he says.
stevie stares at the wall. angry. devastated. devastateddevastateddevastated.
but we were so close, stevie thinks.
he says, i didn't realise you were counting down the days. because it's so easy to make xabi the bad guy here.
xabi looks at him, eyes levelled now. you know it's not like that, he says evenly, his own defenses rising into place.
he can't believe how calm xabi is. he wants xabi to be angry too, because this is a big deal, this is a huge fucking deal. he's leaving liverpool and all he can do is furrow his brow and say he's sorry but this is the next chapter in his life.
stevie wants to call bullshit. liverpool isn't a chapter. liverpool is a whole epic novel, liverpool is a never-ending story.
he knows he's being childish and petulant and it's these qualities that irritates xabi the most, but stevie (kind of) wants to hurt him. it's not something he is proud of, something he would never admit out loud but it's what he instinctively falls back into.
it is either that or laugh it off.
and stevie is afraid that he'll laugh so hard he'll cry.
he wants to tell him that liverpool doesn't need him, never needed him. how everyone will move on without a backward glance and quickly forget all about xabi alonso.
stevie bites his lip and stays silent. he may be a lot of things, but a liar is not one of them.
instead he says, just say what you mean for once.
xabi flinches like stevie had just backhanded him across the face.
just say it. you love liverpool. but it's not enough. stevie remembers all the people who have slipped from his grasp, no matter how hard he tried to hold on, no matter how hard he believed and thought, not this time, not you.
xabi wants to tell stevie not to take it personally, hollow words still echoing in his own ears.
when rafa had explained with short, measured words what he wanted, who he wanted (and did not want) xabi had made careful eye contact and nodded in all the right places, all the while his heart was gripped in a vice, squeezed tighter and tighter. and rafa with his distant eyes and dry hands had said, don't take it personally xabier.
and that is when xabi had froze, his head in mid-nod, eyes turned down to his feet. he had to bite the inside of his cheek, to stop himself from saying, but i'm a footballer, hands clenched into fists, this is football. he tasted blood in his mouth,
it's the most personal thing in the world.
when he looked up, rafa was already walking away.
xabi closes his eyes and thinks, this isn't easy but i'm not going to tell you how to feel.
stevie wants to stay angry. anger, he understands. anger he could channel into something productive. kick harder, run faster. but as he looks at xabi he remembers in the beginning, the way they always found each other on the field, hands twisting in hair and nails digging into skin. and now it was head pat, a squeeze of the shoulder, already walking away before stevie even had a chance to untangle himself from the team of limbs.
and he realises now that xabi was never going to stay.
stevie just wants to touch him, even if it's just fingertips pressed against the fragile skin on the inside of his wrist.
but xabi is not looking at him and stevie reaches out too late, a hand grasping at nothing. xabi stands and with long, purposeful strides he exists the locker room.
stevie stays behind and watches him (them, all of them) leave.
because this, this is what stevie does best.