(no subject)
TItle - Pride
Pairing - Fernando Torres/Steven Gerrard (in a round about way)
Rating - R
Disclaimer - Not true
Summary - Part 3/7, yes.
The first thing they warned me about was the captain.
Tall, bold, arrogant, sensational, they told me that Steven Gerrard was the one in charge, Jamie Carragher his second in command and that the rest of the team were nothing better than foot-soldiers, bowing to his every request with an invisible salute and a "Sir, yes, sir!"
Why would I believe that?
I thought them foolish, building me up to a fall before I even arrived on British soil - the joke's on you, Torres, you gullible, naive idiot! He’s no monster. He’s no different to you. I’ll admit, I didn’t know what to expect - but I didn’t expect this.
They told me it was different in England than it was in Spain; that the Captain's role is far greater and deeper than my own was when I pulled on that red and white shirt, when I commanded the will and the desire of my team-mates out on that great, green pitch. I'd have to fall in line, they said, stripped of my badges and that arm-band that gave me such power; power I would never abuse, could not abuse.
They told me to expect the unexpected - and, here it is.
Here it is, in all its brazen un-glory, a disgrace to the profession, an abuse of power that only I, as a captain before, can see. Oh, but they melt at his feet, and he laps them up. All of them. I watch them look into his eyes and fold, like dominoes, all toppling over to please him. I see them fall in line, like good little boys wavering on the edge of adulthood yet still children.
Still children…
I see them laugh at his every joke and cater his every whim, each one desperate for that little shred of recognition that means their Captain is proud of them.
They claw for it, really they do, and anything he offers them only scratches at the surface, for them.
I see him take them, one by one, plucking them when they're ripe, perhaps, from the apple-tree of worshippers that all-but grows at the bottom of his garden. It's sour; sour, the way Lucas, a boy barely into adulthood, bows his head in shame, when the Captain calls him on a stray pass, how Kuyt's eyes light up when he's told that he did well, out there, knowing full well that he did not. The Captain gives him false hope as a way of sweetening him, and it's wrong. It's wrong, to do that, wrong to criticise one when you praise the other if that criticism is unwarranted, that praise undeserved.
I pat Lucas on the back and tell him “Well done,” and Gerrard glares at me as if I’ve stepped on his territory. My words, though, mean nothing to the young man with hair longer than my own and a face that reflects such sorrow after a 6 rated game that he believes has done nothing for his reputation.
I cannot comfort him; it’s not my job.
It isn’t Gerrard’s either, by the looks of it.
I see the way they clamour over themselves, hoping to achieve and acquire a kind word or a compliment that means so much to them, and I ask myself, are these men? Are these men that stand before me, following this playboy around from pillar to post? I wonder what spell he has them under; what invisible leash he has around their necks, what promises he has offered them, what gifts, what rewards.
Then, I see.
I see with my own eyes the unimaginable horror that this man has created within his ranks.
I see, with my own eyes, just what I have walked into - and the warnings ring, true.
Thank you.
Thank you, Garcia, for setting me straight before I even walked on Liverpool grounds.
“The way they look at him,” he told me, didn’t complete the sentence, simply shook his head and looked away.
I see the way Finnan reacts when the Captain offers him reward; a hand up, a suggestive glance towards the cloakroom where Armani coats populate, like designer ghosts hanging in darkness.
Come, those eyes say.
Come with me.
Finnan, he loses years before my eyes; reverts back to the persona of the star-struck child finally getting some special time with his hero. His eyes glow, gold.
He beams, bright as the sun.
I see him succumb and shrink, watch him melt beneath the scrutiny of Captain’s touch. I see him tilt his head to one side and, if he had hair as long as mine I believe he'd be twirling it in his fingers and playing the coy, coquettish woman with batted eyelashes and a delicate smile on his lips.
I see him led by the hand, eager, flirtatious, privileged. Then I see him thrown against a wall and kissed without love, sucking back anything the Captain sees fit to offer him.
Scraps.
He feeds them scraps, and they’re all so very hungry for him. Starving, perhaps.
I see him open and suggestible; vulnerable as the teenager he hasn't been for years as his flies are undone and his jeans pulled down around his ankles.
He's already hard; Gerrard has barely touched him, yet he's standing to attention like the good little soldier he is.
It embarrasses me.
He sinks to his knees, but this is not supplication. This is control.
This is control, and I refuse to be controlled by this.
He looks up.
He wants to shock me.
I stare, back.
"You and me soon, eh?" he says, and my blood does not run cold and my heard does not stop in my chest, and I do not feel the earth or the turf move beneath my feet. "I'll give you the full works. He was just the warm up."
This is my gift.
This is my intended reward, and Gerrard is my Man of the Match champagne.
Am I to be honoured?
He looks at me as if he expects it but I am a conquest for no man, no territory to be marked with sweat; with pearls of salt. He may be the Captain, but I do not salute him.
I am no deck of cards and I do not fold. I play my hand well, and it's a strong hand.
A full house.
I look him in the eye, yet he doesn't burn with intensity. He does not leave me dead in my tracks; does not force me to my knees with little more than a stare.
I smile at him.
I tell him "Some other time."
His eyes register confusion to my indifference, and I feed from it. That is my reward right there, the knowledge that I have established my place in this team; in Gerrard's world.
I am the one that rose above him, the one that turned him down.
I will not lay down my coat for him to walk upon; nor will I lay down my body.
I have my pride
Pairing - Fernando Torres/Steven Gerrard (in a round about way)
Rating - R
Disclaimer - Not true
Summary - Part 3/7, yes.
The first thing they warned me about was the captain.
Tall, bold, arrogant, sensational, they told me that Steven Gerrard was the one in charge, Jamie Carragher his second in command and that the rest of the team were nothing better than foot-soldiers, bowing to his every request with an invisible salute and a "Sir, yes, sir!"
Why would I believe that?
I thought them foolish, building me up to a fall before I even arrived on British soil - the joke's on you, Torres, you gullible, naive idiot! He’s no monster. He’s no different to you. I’ll admit, I didn’t know what to expect - but I didn’t expect this.
They told me it was different in England than it was in Spain; that the Captain's role is far greater and deeper than my own was when I pulled on that red and white shirt, when I commanded the will and the desire of my team-mates out on that great, green pitch. I'd have to fall in line, they said, stripped of my badges and that arm-band that gave me such power; power I would never abuse, could not abuse.
They told me to expect the unexpected - and, here it is.
Here it is, in all its brazen un-glory, a disgrace to the profession, an abuse of power that only I, as a captain before, can see. Oh, but they melt at his feet, and he laps them up. All of them. I watch them look into his eyes and fold, like dominoes, all toppling over to please him. I see them fall in line, like good little boys wavering on the edge of adulthood yet still children.
Still children…
I see them laugh at his every joke and cater his every whim, each one desperate for that little shred of recognition that means their Captain is proud of them.
They claw for it, really they do, and anything he offers them only scratches at the surface, for them.
I see him take them, one by one, plucking them when they're ripe, perhaps, from the apple-tree of worshippers that all-but grows at the bottom of his garden. It's sour; sour, the way Lucas, a boy barely into adulthood, bows his head in shame, when the Captain calls him on a stray pass, how Kuyt's eyes light up when he's told that he did well, out there, knowing full well that he did not. The Captain gives him false hope as a way of sweetening him, and it's wrong. It's wrong, to do that, wrong to criticise one when you praise the other if that criticism is unwarranted, that praise undeserved.
I pat Lucas on the back and tell him “Well done,” and Gerrard glares at me as if I’ve stepped on his territory. My words, though, mean nothing to the young man with hair longer than my own and a face that reflects such sorrow after a 6 rated game that he believes has done nothing for his reputation.
I cannot comfort him; it’s not my job.
It isn’t Gerrard’s either, by the looks of it.
I see the way they clamour over themselves, hoping to achieve and acquire a kind word or a compliment that means so much to them, and I ask myself, are these men? Are these men that stand before me, following this playboy around from pillar to post? I wonder what spell he has them under; what invisible leash he has around their necks, what promises he has offered them, what gifts, what rewards.
Then, I see.
I see with my own eyes the unimaginable horror that this man has created within his ranks.
I see, with my own eyes, just what I have walked into - and the warnings ring, true.
Thank you.
Thank you, Garcia, for setting me straight before I even walked on Liverpool grounds.
“The way they look at him,” he told me, didn’t complete the sentence, simply shook his head and looked away.
I see the way Finnan reacts when the Captain offers him reward; a hand up, a suggestive glance towards the cloakroom where Armani coats populate, like designer ghosts hanging in darkness.
Come, those eyes say.
Come with me.
Finnan, he loses years before my eyes; reverts back to the persona of the star-struck child finally getting some special time with his hero. His eyes glow, gold.
He beams, bright as the sun.
I see him succumb and shrink, watch him melt beneath the scrutiny of Captain’s touch. I see him tilt his head to one side and, if he had hair as long as mine I believe he'd be twirling it in his fingers and playing the coy, coquettish woman with batted eyelashes and a delicate smile on his lips.
I see him led by the hand, eager, flirtatious, privileged. Then I see him thrown against a wall and kissed without love, sucking back anything the Captain sees fit to offer him.
Scraps.
He feeds them scraps, and they’re all so very hungry for him. Starving, perhaps.
I see him open and suggestible; vulnerable as the teenager he hasn't been for years as his flies are undone and his jeans pulled down around his ankles.
He's already hard; Gerrard has barely touched him, yet he's standing to attention like the good little soldier he is.
It embarrasses me.
He sinks to his knees, but this is not supplication. This is control.
This is control, and I refuse to be controlled by this.
He looks up.
He wants to shock me.
I stare, back.
"You and me soon, eh?" he says, and my blood does not run cold and my heard does not stop in my chest, and I do not feel the earth or the turf move beneath my feet. "I'll give you the full works. He was just the warm up."
This is my gift.
This is my intended reward, and Gerrard is my Man of the Match champagne.
Am I to be honoured?
He looks at me as if he expects it but I am a conquest for no man, no territory to be marked with sweat; with pearls of salt. He may be the Captain, but I do not salute him.
I am no deck of cards and I do not fold. I play my hand well, and it's a strong hand.
A full house.
I look him in the eye, yet he doesn't burn with intensity. He does not leave me dead in my tracks; does not force me to my knees with little more than a stare.
I smile at him.
I tell him "Some other time."
His eyes register confusion to my indifference, and I feed from it. That is my reward right there, the knowledge that I have established my place in this team; in Gerrard's world.
I am the one that rose above him, the one that turned him down.
I will not lay down my coat for him to walk upon; nor will I lay down my body.
I have my pride