red.
Stevie/Lamps. Stevie/Xabi (implied).
(sometimes you find comfort in all the unexpected places)
Steve threw the jersey into the corner of the room, where it landed with a dull forceful thud.
It was times like these that he really hated Liverpool. Hated his teammates, hated Rafa. And hated that he was still a part of all this.
He knew he’d said that he would always love Liverpool, that he would stick with them till the end of his days because once a Red always a Red. And he will, always, always. But there are times when even the red hurts his eyes and it makes him ill just looking at it.
He kicked his towel across the room, covering the discarded jersey, and slumped onto the floor.
Because they could have won, they could have. But they didn’t. And it wasn’t nearly all Rafa’s fault. Steve didn’t pretend to agree with every decision he’d made today, and he couldn’t help but sneer and turn his head away when he heard Rafa’s post-match interview. But it wasn’t all Rafa (or Carra, or Robbie, or John). Because they were on the field too, him and Xabi and Luis and Peter. But they might as well have not been.
He sank lower onto the ground, stretching his legs fully before him, hitting the opposite wall. He leant back against the bed footboard feeling just slightly claustrophobic, but it was better than standing out on that field with only acres of defeat before him.
Steve drew his knees up to his chest and hid his head in his arms when his phone started ringing shrilly in the silence.
He breathed a sigh of relief when it ended for one peaceful second. Then picked right back up as though it had never stopped.
Xabi, he thought, as he groaned and crawled his way to his bag.
In hindsight, though, he probably should have known it wasn’t Xabi. Xabi would know better than to call him. Nobody bothers him when he gets like this, even Alex had chosen to sleep with the girls tonight.
Besides, Xabi had problems of his own.
Steve picked up his phone irritably, then frowned at the unknown number flashing on the lighted screen.
“’ello?”
For a moment, there was no reply. He could only just barely make out faint breathing on the other end, and Steve wondered wildly for an instant that maybe that stalker was back again.
“I’m sorry.”
It was so soft Steve could’ve missed it. But he didn’t. And well at least it wasn’t the return of the stalker, that’s a definite relief.
He blinked in surprise, because he knew instantly what he was sorry about. (Because there was no way it could be anything else but. He would never apologise for a match, neither of them would.) And he knew exactly what was happening with himself, but to have it face him so clearly like that twisted something deep inside.
He opened his mouth to answer; to say that he was sorry too perhaps, because he’d recognise that voice anywhere. And he wasn’t the only one down in a slump at the moment. (He knew because he’d watched the match after, he couldn’t help it.) To say that he was brave, because up till now Steve hasn’t stepped up for another penalty and he isn’t sure he’ll be able to when they ask of him. (Of course he can, of course. He has to.)
But all he let out was a long, shuddering sigh.
And it was met with a similar reply on the other end.
Steve closed his eyes for a brief moment, as he cradled the phone in his hand, feeling the tension finally finally ease out of him. There were still so many things he wanted to say, to ask (to scream, to shout, to cry).
But, he thinks, for now this would be enough.
“We’ll still kick your arses come Sunday though.”
He smiled when he heard Frank chuckle softly on the other end.
Yes, this would be enough for now.
Fin.
Endnotes:
This could be taken as being in the same verse as Dream Pair and its semi-sequel ASoFPIQS Untitled Ficlet #2. It makes more sense that way, but oh well, could be stand alone as well I guess.
(sometimes you find comfort in all the unexpected places)
Steve threw the jersey into the corner of the room, where it landed with a dull forceful thud.
It was times like these that he really hated Liverpool. Hated his teammates, hated Rafa. And hated that he was still a part of all this.
He knew he’d said that he would always love Liverpool, that he would stick with them till the end of his days because once a Red always a Red. And he will, always, always. But there are times when even the red hurts his eyes and it makes him ill just looking at it.
He kicked his towel across the room, covering the discarded jersey, and slumped onto the floor.
Because they could have won, they could have. But they didn’t. And it wasn’t nearly all Rafa’s fault. Steve didn’t pretend to agree with every decision he’d made today, and he couldn’t help but sneer and turn his head away when he heard Rafa’s post-match interview. But it wasn’t all Rafa (or Carra, or Robbie, or John). Because they were on the field too, him and Xabi and Luis and Peter. But they might as well have not been.
He sank lower onto the ground, stretching his legs fully before him, hitting the opposite wall. He leant back against the bed footboard feeling just slightly claustrophobic, but it was better than standing out on that field with only acres of defeat before him.
Steve drew his knees up to his chest and hid his head in his arms when his phone started ringing shrilly in the silence.
He breathed a sigh of relief when it ended for one peaceful second. Then picked right back up as though it had never stopped.
Xabi, he thought, as he groaned and crawled his way to his bag.
In hindsight, though, he probably should have known it wasn’t Xabi. Xabi would know better than to call him. Nobody bothers him when he gets like this, even Alex had chosen to sleep with the girls tonight.
Besides, Xabi had problems of his own.
Steve picked up his phone irritably, then frowned at the unknown number flashing on the lighted screen.
“’ello?”
For a moment, there was no reply. He could only just barely make out faint breathing on the other end, and Steve wondered wildly for an instant that maybe that stalker was back again.
“I’m sorry.”
It was so soft Steve could’ve missed it. But he didn’t. And well at least it wasn’t the return of the stalker, that’s a definite relief.
He blinked in surprise, because he knew instantly what he was sorry about. (Because there was no way it could be anything else but. He would never apologise for a match, neither of them would.) And he knew exactly what was happening with himself, but to have it face him so clearly like that twisted something deep inside.
He opened his mouth to answer; to say that he was sorry too perhaps, because he’d recognise that voice anywhere. And he wasn’t the only one down in a slump at the moment. (He knew because he’d watched the match after, he couldn’t help it.) To say that he was brave, because up till now Steve hasn’t stepped up for another penalty and he isn’t sure he’ll be able to when they ask of him. (Of course he can, of course. He has to.)
But all he let out was a long, shuddering sigh.
And it was met with a similar reply on the other end.
Steve closed his eyes for a brief moment, as he cradled the phone in his hand, feeling the tension finally finally ease out of him. There were still so many things he wanted to say, to ask (to scream, to shout, to cry).
But, he thinks, for now this would be enough.
“We’ll still kick your arses come Sunday though.”
He smiled when he heard Frank chuckle softly on the other end.
Yes, this would be enough for now.
Fin.
Endnotes:
This could be taken as being in the same verse as Dream Pair and its semi-sequel ASoFPIQS Untitled Ficlet #2. It makes more sense that way, but oh well, could be stand alone as well I guess.