Todavía
Title: Todavía
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Please don't tell me you need me to tell you this is a work of fiction.
What else...: Oh, yeah. I wrote this during the emotional roller-coaster of last week and before the CL matches. So that might explain the title. It's all rambling basically. I just had a lot of feelings last week, k?
"I wish...," Xabi's voice flutters through the line, deep and accented, "I wish I could have been there," he says, a little hurriedly, and Stevie is startled by how utterly exhausted he sounds. "I saw a video of Carra at the eh... remembering ceremony?"
"Vigil."
"Yes, vigil. He looked so... official."
"We're all going to live under his boot once he takes over Labour and runs for mayor. Good thing we have enough dirt on him to sink his political career before it takes off, eh?"
He hears Xabi's breath ease for a fleeting moment.
"I'm sorry I did not have time when the report was published. I read parts of it on the plane back to Madrid... I wanted to punch someone."
Stevie catches himself before he says something stupid about being seated next to Higuain and mitigating circumstances because he's gone through everything from wanting to punch several people himself to wiping away furtive tears as he read over and over the same five lines of the official Hillsborough report.
"I can't imagine what it must have been like for you," Xabi says gloomily.
"Are you OK?" Stevie asks all of a sudden, taking advantage of Xabi's trailing off into the distance.
"Am I OK?"
His wholly unconvincing huff of laughter sounds even faker over the line.
"No, I suppose I'm not." Xabi exhales at last. It shocks him to realize how simultaneously relieved and on edge the admission makes him feel. "But it's only football. I don't care what Shankly said, it's not really that important."
"It'll come back to you," Stevie says, hoping he doesn't sound too patronizing. "We both have fucking Mancs to deal with next week, if that's not a great way to blow off steam, I don't know what is."
"Have you been talking to Iker?"
The mental image of his two captains exchanging pep talk notes in Scouse and Iker's very own brand of English makes Xabi chuckle. Stevie is as pleased to hear it as he is mad at himself for the way his heart contracts with the sound.
"Yeah, told him if our 17-year old new left winger can make Yaya Touré look like a bloody amateur, the world's most expensive midfield better try to keep up, that kind of thing. Captain Talk."
"We'll try, but I saw Sterling in match highlights. His movement... joder, is hard to not feel sorry for Touré, no? Teach that kid to give it all for Liverpool and it will be my turn to worry about him next year." The sting of pride prevents Xabi from adding not like I'll qualify for the Champions League next year anyway. "Is he always like that?"
"All fire, all the time. Cocky. Thinks he's got it all figured out."
"So not exactly different from a 24-year old I met at Melwood. But with better hair."
"Oy, not all of us can live off our looks, Mr. Hugo Boss," Stevie snorts, refraining from reminding either of them just how much Xabi loved running his fingers through his unfortunate forward hairline.
There are a lot of things Stevie doesn't tell Xabi. He doesn't say I wish you were here too or You're the only one who's wondered what it was like for me or You'll play in the Champions League next year all right, don't be daft. Says: "Don't let Touré link up with Dzeko" instead and he doesn't need to say anything else because Xabi knows it means much more than the mildly treasonous bit of common sense he's just dispensed.
There's silence for a moment or so and Xabi does say exactly what's on his mind because he's discovered it's easier to breathe this way.
"I'm tired, Stevie. It's fucking September and I'm tired."
"It's called ageing, mate, quit whinging. You want to hear something funny? My manager is seven years older than me."
"I should put off my midlife crisis until Wednesday, is what you're saying?" Xabi asks with what feels like genuine amusement for the first time in three weeks or so.
"Christ, took you a while. I'm supposed to be the thick one, remember?"
When they say goodnight the same way they say hello, without bothering with the debris of polite conventions, their back and forth slotting naturally in place and ebbing away until next time, Xabi feels selfish, as if he was at the wrong end of that conversation, but he can't bring himself to regret it.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Please don't tell me you need me to tell you this is a work of fiction.
What else...: Oh, yeah. I wrote this during the emotional roller-coaster of last week and before the CL matches. So that might explain the title. It's all rambling basically. I just had a lot of feelings last week, k?
"I wish...," Xabi's voice flutters through the line, deep and accented, "I wish I could have been there," he says, a little hurriedly, and Stevie is startled by how utterly exhausted he sounds. "I saw a video of Carra at the eh... remembering ceremony?"
"Vigil."
"Yes, vigil. He looked so... official."
"We're all going to live under his boot once he takes over Labour and runs for mayor. Good thing we have enough dirt on him to sink his political career before it takes off, eh?"
He hears Xabi's breath ease for a fleeting moment.
"I'm sorry I did not have time when the report was published. I read parts of it on the plane back to Madrid... I wanted to punch someone."
Stevie catches himself before he says something stupid about being seated next to Higuain and mitigating circumstances because he's gone through everything from wanting to punch several people himself to wiping away furtive tears as he read over and over the same five lines of the official Hillsborough report.
"I can't imagine what it must have been like for you," Xabi says gloomily.
"Are you OK?" Stevie asks all of a sudden, taking advantage of Xabi's trailing off into the distance.
"Am I OK?"
His wholly unconvincing huff of laughter sounds even faker over the line.
"No, I suppose I'm not." Xabi exhales at last. It shocks him to realize how simultaneously relieved and on edge the admission makes him feel. "But it's only football. I don't care what Shankly said, it's not really that important."
"It'll come back to you," Stevie says, hoping he doesn't sound too patronizing. "We both have fucking Mancs to deal with next week, if that's not a great way to blow off steam, I don't know what is."
"Have you been talking to Iker?"
The mental image of his two captains exchanging pep talk notes in Scouse and Iker's very own brand of English makes Xabi chuckle. Stevie is as pleased to hear it as he is mad at himself for the way his heart contracts with the sound.
"Yeah, told him if our 17-year old new left winger can make Yaya Touré look like a bloody amateur, the world's most expensive midfield better try to keep up, that kind of thing. Captain Talk."
"We'll try, but I saw Sterling in match highlights. His movement... joder, is hard to not feel sorry for Touré, no? Teach that kid to give it all for Liverpool and it will be my turn to worry about him next year." The sting of pride prevents Xabi from adding not like I'll qualify for the Champions League next year anyway. "Is he always like that?"
"All fire, all the time. Cocky. Thinks he's got it all figured out."
"So not exactly different from a 24-year old I met at Melwood. But with better hair."
"Oy, not all of us can live off our looks, Mr. Hugo Boss," Stevie snorts, refraining from reminding either of them just how much Xabi loved running his fingers through his unfortunate forward hairline.
There are a lot of things Stevie doesn't tell Xabi. He doesn't say I wish you were here too or You're the only one who's wondered what it was like for me or You'll play in the Champions League next year all right, don't be daft. Says: "Don't let Touré link up with Dzeko" instead and he doesn't need to say anything else because Xabi knows it means much more than the mildly treasonous bit of common sense he's just dispensed.
There's silence for a moment or so and Xabi does say exactly what's on his mind because he's discovered it's easier to breathe this way.
"I'm tired, Stevie. It's fucking September and I'm tired."
"It's called ageing, mate, quit whinging. You want to hear something funny? My manager is seven years older than me."
"I should put off my midlife crisis until Wednesday, is what you're saying?" Xabi asks with what feels like genuine amusement for the first time in three weeks or so.
"Christ, took you a while. I'm supposed to be the thick one, remember?"
When they say goodnight the same way they say hello, without bothering with the debris of polite conventions, their back and forth slotting naturally in place and ebbing away until next time, Xabi feels selfish, as if he was at the wrong end of that conversation, but he can't bring himself to regret it.