You don't believe in ghosts.
Stevie/Xabi draft.
(may or may not be unrequited. I dunno, you decide.)
They say you’ll know when you’re about to die.
You never really knew what that meant. Sixth sense? A sort of built-in death alarm? You used to think mockingly.
But sometimes, sometimes, when you have nothing to occupy your mind with, you think about dying. When you’re staying up alone on nights when Alex is out with her girlfriends and you’d already put Lexie and Lily to bed; during those five minute breaks in between trainings; that split second before diving in for the ball, you think you know.
Someone had told you once, that it was just plain morbid and you should just shut the fuck up and finish up that bottle or he’d do it for you.
You think that maybe it was Xabi. No wait, you know it was Xabi. It always is.
You’d mentioned it once to him, one night when you both had had one bottle too many and were still far too sober. You think it might have been Istanbul. Definitely Istanbul, you remember because the two of you were already five up your usual limit and still fully awake, sitting on the floor of your hotel room, cursing the alcoholic contents of Turkish boza.
Then he’d dragged you back to the bed, trophy in tow, because clearly you were the only one in the world who could get drunk on Turkish booze. And then he’d climbed into bed, put his arms around you and proceeded to drool onto your right shoulder.
Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he left, because come morning, you woke up alone in bed, with your arms wrapped around the Cup. But you can’t really be sure, and time has a funny way of doing things, like a trick it does occasionally, obscuring memories nobody really wants to remember.
You glance at your phone, silent as it has been all night.
Sometimes you wonder if it’s wrong of you. No, you know it’s wrong. That eventually you’d burn in hell just for this. But other times, nights like these, when Alex is out on another one of her girls’ night out and you’re simply missing Xabi far too much to care, you think maybe you don’t believe in ghosts.
You love Alex, terribly so. Sometimes you think you always have, even before you knew her. But loving and being in love are not quite the same thing. Never were, and you’d learnt that the hard way a long time ago.
You press your lips to Lexie’s forehead and tuck a stray hand back underneath the little blankie.
But still, you love them all the same.
And you think you’ll miss them the most once you’re gone.
That is, if there really is a life after death. Though you can’t quite see the point in there being one, actually. You think that the sole purpose of God or whichever bigshot up there, Buddha or Allah or something, that arbitrarily decides to let spirits live on is just to make you miss the things that you had in life, the things that you'll never have again.
You absently brush a hand across Lexie’s forehead, pushing her golden hair to the side as the reflections, from the telly you’d forgotten to switch off, flicker faintly across her sleeping face.
The things you love.
You reach for the remote control to turn the telly off, but just then it explodes in a burst of colour, illuminating the darkened room for a brief second. You look up in surprise, just in time to see John run mutedly across the screen. He’d just scored in that game against Greece, you realise as you watch John raise his arm and kiss his band triumphantly before the crowd, in that one immortal moment of solitude just before he is tackled by the rest of the team.
The things you never had.
You flick the screen off just as John reaches out that same arm to pull Frank in close, who was still struggling to get through to him.
Then proceed to jump off the bed in shock when your phone begins to vibrate on the side table, its lighted screen blinking in earnest.
You glance anxiously at Lexie, who’d merely turned over in bed, blissfully oblivious still. Relieved, you snatch it off the table and leave the room hurriedly.
“Xabi?”
“Open the door.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Sigh. Just open the door wlll you, Stevie.”
Perplexed, you swing the door open, only to see Xabi standing at your doorstep, grinning his ear off.
“Wha-”
But you’re cut off almost immediately when Xabi just pushes past you into the house.
“Just look at you. What the hell have you been up to? No wait, don’t bother I already know. Thinking, isn’t it, or whatever you call it. Personally, I’d say it’s brooding.”
Xabi rolls his eyes exaggeratedly from where he is already making himself comfortable on the sofa. He pauses mid-motion, and looks up suddenly at you, horrified.
“Oh god. Don’t tell me it’s that dying thing again.”
And you can only smile and ruffle your own hair ruefully in response, because watching Xabi lie there, looking like he just belonged, hurt something so deep inside.
The things you'll never have.
You close the door behind you and perch yourself on the edge of the armrest, because Xabi had stretched himself out all across the couch and you don’t know what will happen if you settle in right next to him. You fear that you might look too perfect together, on top of that worn beige sofa you and Alex had picked out at a furniture store a lifetime ago.
“Stevie?"
“Hmm what? Sorry I missed that.”
Xabi shakes his head at you, seemingly more amused than annoyed.
“I said if you die, you are not going to haunt us are you.”
You blink, and then you're answering before you can think better of it.
“Do you want me to?”
There’s a pause, stretched out for what seems like forever when Xabi just looks up at you, half in surprise; and the other, like he finally finally knows-
Then he smiles.
Slowly. Delibrately. Spreading wide across his face.
And you can only follow. Just like you always do when it comes to him.
“Now shush and let me watch the game, Lampard just scored.”
He says like there’s an answer in there somewhere. And you think maybe there was. But you’d already forgotten the question, or perhaps you never knew.
You think you ought to ask again.
But Xabi’s attention is already back on the game and you don’t believe in ghosts anyway.
No you don’t believe in ghosts.
Fin.
(may or may not be unrequited. I dunno, you decide.)
They say you’ll know when you’re about to die.
You never really knew what that meant. Sixth sense? A sort of built-in death alarm? You used to think mockingly.
But sometimes, sometimes, when you have nothing to occupy your mind with, you think about dying. When you’re staying up alone on nights when Alex is out with her girlfriends and you’d already put Lexie and Lily to bed; during those five minute breaks in between trainings; that split second before diving in for the ball, you think you know.
Someone had told you once, that it was just plain morbid and you should just shut the fuck up and finish up that bottle or he’d do it for you.
You think that maybe it was Xabi. No wait, you know it was Xabi. It always is.
You’d mentioned it once to him, one night when you both had had one bottle too many and were still far too sober. You think it might have been Istanbul. Definitely Istanbul, you remember because the two of you were already five up your usual limit and still fully awake, sitting on the floor of your hotel room, cursing the alcoholic contents of Turkish boza.
Then he’d dragged you back to the bed, trophy in tow, because clearly you were the only one in the world who could get drunk on Turkish booze. And then he’d climbed into bed, put his arms around you and proceeded to drool onto your right shoulder.
Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he left, because come morning, you woke up alone in bed, with your arms wrapped around the Cup. But you can’t really be sure, and time has a funny way of doing things, like a trick it does occasionally, obscuring memories nobody really wants to remember.
You glance at your phone, silent as it has been all night.
Sometimes you wonder if it’s wrong of you. No, you know it’s wrong. That eventually you’d burn in hell just for this. But other times, nights like these, when Alex is out on another one of her girls’ night out and you’re simply missing Xabi far too much to care, you think maybe you don’t believe in ghosts.
You love Alex, terribly so. Sometimes you think you always have, even before you knew her. But loving and being in love are not quite the same thing. Never were, and you’d learnt that the hard way a long time ago.
You press your lips to Lexie’s forehead and tuck a stray hand back underneath the little blankie.
But still, you love them all the same.
And you think you’ll miss them the most once you’re gone.
That is, if there really is a life after death. Though you can’t quite see the point in there being one, actually. You think that the sole purpose of God or whichever bigshot up there, Buddha or Allah or something, that arbitrarily decides to let spirits live on is just to make you miss the things that you had in life, the things that you'll never have again.
You absently brush a hand across Lexie’s forehead, pushing her golden hair to the side as the reflections, from the telly you’d forgotten to switch off, flicker faintly across her sleeping face.
The things you love.
You reach for the remote control to turn the telly off, but just then it explodes in a burst of colour, illuminating the darkened room for a brief second. You look up in surprise, just in time to see John run mutedly across the screen. He’d just scored in that game against Greece, you realise as you watch John raise his arm and kiss his band triumphantly before the crowd, in that one immortal moment of solitude just before he is tackled by the rest of the team.
The things you never had.
You flick the screen off just as John reaches out that same arm to pull Frank in close, who was still struggling to get through to him.
Then proceed to jump off the bed in shock when your phone begins to vibrate on the side table, its lighted screen blinking in earnest.
You glance anxiously at Lexie, who’d merely turned over in bed, blissfully oblivious still. Relieved, you snatch it off the table and leave the room hurriedly.
“Xabi?”
“Open the door.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Sigh. Just open the door wlll you, Stevie.”
Perplexed, you swing the door open, only to see Xabi standing at your doorstep, grinning his ear off.
“Wha-”
But you’re cut off almost immediately when Xabi just pushes past you into the house.
“Just look at you. What the hell have you been up to? No wait, don’t bother I already know. Thinking, isn’t it, or whatever you call it. Personally, I’d say it’s brooding.”
Xabi rolls his eyes exaggeratedly from where he is already making himself comfortable on the sofa. He pauses mid-motion, and looks up suddenly at you, horrified.
“Oh god. Don’t tell me it’s that dying thing again.”
And you can only smile and ruffle your own hair ruefully in response, because watching Xabi lie there, looking like he just belonged, hurt something so deep inside.
The things you'll never have.
You close the door behind you and perch yourself on the edge of the armrest, because Xabi had stretched himself out all across the couch and you don’t know what will happen if you settle in right next to him. You fear that you might look too perfect together, on top of that worn beige sofa you and Alex had picked out at a furniture store a lifetime ago.
“Stevie?"
“Hmm what? Sorry I missed that.”
Xabi shakes his head at you, seemingly more amused than annoyed.
“I said if you die, you are not going to haunt us are you.”
You blink, and then you're answering before you can think better of it.
“Do you want me to?”
There’s a pause, stretched out for what seems like forever when Xabi just looks up at you, half in surprise; and the other, like he finally finally knows-
Then he smiles.
Slowly. Delibrately. Spreading wide across his face.
And you can only follow. Just like you always do when it comes to him.
“Now shush and let me watch the game, Lampard just scored.”
He says like there’s an answer in there somewhere. And you think maybe there was. But you’d already forgotten the question, or perhaps you never knew.
You think you ought to ask again.
But Xabi’s attention is already back on the game and you don’t believe in ghosts anyway.
No you don’t believe in ghosts.
Fin.