(no subject)
Title: Pressure
Character(s): Xabi Alonso/Cesc Fabregas
Word Count: 747
Rating: PG
Notes: I felt bad that a lot of new people had friended me when I hadn't posted since July. Therefore, this, which is the first thing I've written without Steven in it, I think. Set during the last international break, and thanks to parka_girl for the prompt.
You used to love international duty. Your father was so proud when you first got called up; he didn't say much, but you could tell every time he looked at you, and dinner that night coincidentally had all your favorite foods in it. Some of that glow, the pride of living up to his name, stuck with you every time you got named in a squad - qualification, Euro, hell, even friendlies. You loved it more after you went to Liverpool, because you had a ready-made reason to go back home throughout the season, to see all your old opponents (not your old teammates, because Sociedad aren't the same, and you feel obscurely guilty about that every time you talk to Mikel), to speak Spanish on the pitch again. It feels transgressive now, like passing notes in class, and you sometimes think you can feel Rafa radiating disapproval from Melwood. But it all comes back to you, you switch easily between Liverpool and Spain, just like switching languages. If not quite natural, at least mostly effortless.
Until the World Cup. You scored the first goal, something you never thought you'd do. You'll never tell Steven or Carra, or, really, anyone at Liverpool, but that was better than the Champions League goal, better than scoring from your own half, better than anything you'd done at Anfield. Spain tore through their group, and it had started with you. You let yourself believe that you all could do it this time, that you'd stop being the running joke of Euros and World Cups. Everyone believed it. And then fucking France happened. Zidane flipped a switch and was back to 1998 again, and suddenly you all just fell apart. Maybe it was the pressure or maybe you just got outplayed, but you were going home and cheering for England. Everyone got pictures of Cesc crying afterward, but you've been at this longer. You managed to hold it in until you got down the tunnel.
And now you're back with the squad for the second time since June. And if you thought you were sick of internationals after the World Cup, well, losing to Northern Ireland will salt that wound nicely. You remember when England lost to them last year. You couldn't even bring yourself to tease the Liverpool boys afterward; Steven wore this disbelieving kicked-puppy look for a week or so, and Carra yelled even louder on the pitch and didn't speak at all off it. You know how they feel now, and god, you're so tired of losing.
So you train like you always do, but harder. If you lose to Sweden, Spain's Euro campaign could be over two years before it starts, and you're determined that won't happen. You're ready for whatever's ahead. Except not playing. You sit on the bench, getting more and more frustrated, watching your qualification slip away, watching Cesc struggle with the midfield and wishing like hell you could be out there. If you thought it'd do any good, you'd ask Luis what you did wrong. But you know he won't tell you anything, and so you sit, willing your team to turn things around. And then the first half is over and Cesc is on the bench next to you.
You say something to him about the match, and it's not till then you notice that his hands are clenched on his legs and he's looking anywhere but the pitch. And then you get it. You're not the only one that's frustrated and confused. You remember yourself at nineteen, captaining Sociedad and barely able to handle that pressure, and you mentally curse Luis for putting everything on Cesc. You're not that much older than he is, but somehow you feel protective, almost like you feel about your Liverpool teammates. Almost without realizing it, you reach out and put your hand on one of his. He looks over at you for the first time, not sure what's going on. You want to tell him not to worry, that it'll all be okay, but you can't, since you don't believe that yourself. You start talking about something else altogether, and he relaxes visibly, leaning into his chair and unclenching his hands. He tells you about the concerts he goes to in London and talks about Arsenal and Senderos trying to teach him English, and before you both realize, the second half's over. You don’t notice that your hand is still on his.
Character(s): Xabi Alonso/Cesc Fabregas
Word Count: 747
Rating: PG
Notes: I felt bad that a lot of new people had friended me when I hadn't posted since July. Therefore, this, which is the first thing I've written without Steven in it, I think. Set during the last international break, and thanks to parka_girl for the prompt.
You used to love international duty. Your father was so proud when you first got called up; he didn't say much, but you could tell every time he looked at you, and dinner that night coincidentally had all your favorite foods in it. Some of that glow, the pride of living up to his name, stuck with you every time you got named in a squad - qualification, Euro, hell, even friendlies. You loved it more after you went to Liverpool, because you had a ready-made reason to go back home throughout the season, to see all your old opponents (not your old teammates, because Sociedad aren't the same, and you feel obscurely guilty about that every time you talk to Mikel), to speak Spanish on the pitch again. It feels transgressive now, like passing notes in class, and you sometimes think you can feel Rafa radiating disapproval from Melwood. But it all comes back to you, you switch easily between Liverpool and Spain, just like switching languages. If not quite natural, at least mostly effortless.
Until the World Cup. You scored the first goal, something you never thought you'd do. You'll never tell Steven or Carra, or, really, anyone at Liverpool, but that was better than the Champions League goal, better than scoring from your own half, better than anything you'd done at Anfield. Spain tore through their group, and it had started with you. You let yourself believe that you all could do it this time, that you'd stop being the running joke of Euros and World Cups. Everyone believed it. And then fucking France happened. Zidane flipped a switch and was back to 1998 again, and suddenly you all just fell apart. Maybe it was the pressure or maybe you just got outplayed, but you were going home and cheering for England. Everyone got pictures of Cesc crying afterward, but you've been at this longer. You managed to hold it in until you got down the tunnel.
And now you're back with the squad for the second time since June. And if you thought you were sick of internationals after the World Cup, well, losing to Northern Ireland will salt that wound nicely. You remember when England lost to them last year. You couldn't even bring yourself to tease the Liverpool boys afterward; Steven wore this disbelieving kicked-puppy look for a week or so, and Carra yelled even louder on the pitch and didn't speak at all off it. You know how they feel now, and god, you're so tired of losing.
So you train like you always do, but harder. If you lose to Sweden, Spain's Euro campaign could be over two years before it starts, and you're determined that won't happen. You're ready for whatever's ahead. Except not playing. You sit on the bench, getting more and more frustrated, watching your qualification slip away, watching Cesc struggle with the midfield and wishing like hell you could be out there. If you thought it'd do any good, you'd ask Luis what you did wrong. But you know he won't tell you anything, and so you sit, willing your team to turn things around. And then the first half is over and Cesc is on the bench next to you.
You say something to him about the match, and it's not till then you notice that his hands are clenched on his legs and he's looking anywhere but the pitch. And then you get it. You're not the only one that's frustrated and confused. You remember yourself at nineteen, captaining Sociedad and barely able to handle that pressure, and you mentally curse Luis for putting everything on Cesc. You're not that much older than he is, but somehow you feel protective, almost like you feel about your Liverpool teammates. Almost without realizing it, you reach out and put your hand on one of his. He looks over at you for the first time, not sure what's going on. You want to tell him not to worry, that it'll all be okay, but you can't, since you don't believe that yourself. You start talking about something else altogether, and he relaxes visibly, leaning into his chair and unclenching his hands. He tells you about the concerts he goes to in London and talks about Arsenal and Senderos trying to teach him English, and before you both realize, the second half's over. You don’t notice that your hand is still on his.