fic; the love song of chelsea football club
title: the love song of chelsea football club
pairing: steven gerrard/xabi alonso
rating: pg
disclaimer: not true
summary: two people and a transfer saga
May 2005
‘Don’t leave’
The cup glints in the dark corner of the room - bathed in the moonlight that slips through the open window. The air inside the room is thick and heavy with the heat of the night air and outside there is still singing and screaming scouse voices, the continued yell of: Fuck you five fucking times fuck yes you fuckers.
Stevie feels the press of Xabi’s lips against his hairline and reaches for his wrist where the blood is still humming like it was just after he took the penalty - skin still feverish and sweaty like the game hadn’t ended hours ago.
‘Mmm, - yer wha-’
‘I said-’ but his face swims before Stevie, a blurry haze and he’s moaning as Xabi’s tongue slips past his teeth and he can taste champagne. Xabi’s mouth is coated in champagne, he is sure of this. He wonders briefly if Xabi has bathed in champagne or if perhaps, he has some kind of champagne encoding in his DNA. Stevie also contemplates that he might currently be very, very drunk. But he is intrigued by the thought that Xabi could just be made of alcohol and he’s pretty into putting his theories to the test so he licks Xabi’s cheek for experimental purposes.
‘Ngah!’
‘You taste…’ Stevie offers by way of explanation
Xabi pulls away a little and studies Stevie, fixed with a mildly confused expression though his lips twitch and curve upwards like he’s resisting the urge to laugh. Stevie thinks that he hates when Xabi looks at him like this, all wise and superior and knowing. Oh I lived in Ireland when I was younger and I had to captain my club when I was 19 and really, everyone loves me because I can pass the ball so much better than you and what kind of midfielder can’t manage to keep possession and why don’t you just give me that armband if you’re going to keep getting yourself sent off whenever we play Everton.
Stevie frowns. Thinking is not his strong suit but it hurts his head even more after a few glasses. But then Xabi’s smoothing the hair from his forehead and there is this warmth in his eyes that is so ridiculously comforting and it makes the breath catch at the back of Stevie’s throat. Another side effect of this fancy, foreign champagne, no doubt. Xabi’s lips brush against his again and outside there are people still singing and in a few hours a group of players will fly back to Milan with a game that haunts them. Here, in this room, there is only this and Stevie’s back is bowed and Xabi moans - all delicious loss of control (Xabi is always, always in control) and he says again:
‘Don’t leave’
July 2005
£32 million is a lot of money
It’s more than a lot; it’s a record transfer fee. Sure, you think he’s important now but with that kind of money? You bring in 3, 4 players and it will more than compensate
You could get Essien from Lyon. Chelsea are obviously in the running and they want him but if we give them-
Sissoko too, from Valencia, would be a good bet. He’d do well here I think. With the money we could go in for both of them even. Maybe another striker?
And we’d still have Alonso
Yes, that is vital - Alonso will be here after the summer
Stevie strode down the halls of Melwood, another pointless ‘chat’ with Rick echoing in his ears. He stops to rifle through his jacket pocket before finding a strip of Paracetamol tablets and swallowing two without water. Someone is throwing a sledge hammer in a building quarry between his eyes and the sight of his reflection in the trophy cabinet is proof enough of the toll of the past few weeks.
‘Steven,’ he looks up in surprise to see Xabi at the end of the hall with a sheaf of papers and a loose gym bag. He looks relaxed in a crisp linen shirt though he goes awkward when Stevie smiles stiffly in response.
‘Thought you’d be in Spain by now, mate’ Stevie says, wincing at how worn and weary the words sound on his tongue.
‘Yes, I have a flight in a few hours’
The words Xabi do not say hang between them and Stevie’s never been one for good conversation anyway but he’d be pretty comfortable with the ground swallowing him whole right about now. Xabi steps toward him and at first it’s with purpose but he stops like he’s being controlled by a mechanical pulley. He must know what’s going on. Everyone knows what’s going on and for a second Stevie hates it so vehemently, he can taste bile at the back of his throat like all the lies and conjecture. Fuck it
‘You know,’ Stevie says lightly, ‘they were saying on TalkSport that there are all these statistics that prove the team perform better without me. Like, there are actual numbers and shit saying you have a better chance of winning if I’m not there,’ he laughs because a little part of him finds it funny in an arrogant way but also because he thinks he just might cry if he doesn’t
Xabi blinks and swallows hard, taken aback. ‘Stevie, I-’
He laughs harder and touches Xabi’s wrist gently, pretends not to notice him flinch, ‘You don’t have to say anything, Xabi. I don’t want pity or-’
‘I wasn’t,’ Xabi interrupts and he sounds frustrated now, gnawing on his lower lip, ‘I certainly don’t pity you.’ There is an almost revulsion behind the word and it fascinates Stevie, seeing Xabi likes this. He wonders if it’s because of all the pain meds he’s been taking.
‘You left Sociedad’ there is an edge to his words and Xabi’s eyes narrow, his stack of papers held tightly to his chest
‘I wont let you do this to me,’ he steps closer and breathes the words so Stevie can feel them against his skin and there is a dizzying memory lodged in the back of his mind - the scrape of teeth and the metallic taste of blood. Xabi steps back, away from Stevie, once again the calming presence he had been since arriving at Merseyside.
‘Have a good trip,’ Stevie’s throat feels raw and his headache comes rushing back as though it had never left
Xabi looks on the verge of saying something else and Stevie silently pleads with him not to. Let’s leave it like this and you can remember me and not hate me and you can be their hero now. I don’t want it anymore, I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. They'd rather have you, anyway
I’ll see you, Steven.’ Xabi walks through the Melwood doors and into the midday sunshine and Stevie says behind and watches him leave
February 2011
‘How are you coping?’
‘I worry about you when you phone to “check up on me”’
‘I worry about you anyway’
‘Well, don’t. Stop. I’m fine’
Xabi grunts like he knows this is clearly not true but he’s argued with Stevie before, is completely aware of how little sense and logic are involved
‘You know if you’re mad-’
‘Fuck off if you’re going to give me some lecture about what I did or, can I please remind you, did not do five years ago’
‘Well…’
‘Hanging up, Alonso’
‘I just mean- Do you remember what it was like? I remember when I heard you handed in the transfer request and I couldn’t. Uhm, the television was not on the next day but Nagore put on the news to check something and they were announcing about your “U-turn” and I- well. There was an interview with this boy, he was maybe 16 or 15, and he said he skipped school when he heard the news. I don’t know why I always think of that but you remember, no?’ Xabi finishes weakly like he’s afraid of what Stevie will say in response and Stevie clutches his phone tight in his hand
‘Yeah,’ he lets it out like a sigh
‘I think, sometimes, what it would have been like if you left’ Stevie can hear the smile in Xabi’s voice and it makes him smile too, needlessly, without reason
‘Yeah?’
‘Mm. No more Phil Collins requests at the Christmas party’
‘Oi!’
‘I am glad, I was always glad that you stayed. It meant a lot.’
‘To Liverpool?’
‘Yes, them too’
pairing: steven gerrard/xabi alonso
rating: pg
disclaimer: not true
summary: two people and a transfer saga
May 2005
‘Don’t leave’
The cup glints in the dark corner of the room - bathed in the moonlight that slips through the open window. The air inside the room is thick and heavy with the heat of the night air and outside there is still singing and screaming scouse voices, the continued yell of: Fuck you five fucking times fuck yes you fuckers.
Stevie feels the press of Xabi’s lips against his hairline and reaches for his wrist where the blood is still humming like it was just after he took the penalty - skin still feverish and sweaty like the game hadn’t ended hours ago.
‘Mmm, - yer wha-’
‘I said-’ but his face swims before Stevie, a blurry haze and he’s moaning as Xabi’s tongue slips past his teeth and he can taste champagne. Xabi’s mouth is coated in champagne, he is sure of this. He wonders briefly if Xabi has bathed in champagne or if perhaps, he has some kind of champagne encoding in his DNA. Stevie also contemplates that he might currently be very, very drunk. But he is intrigued by the thought that Xabi could just be made of alcohol and he’s pretty into putting his theories to the test so he licks Xabi’s cheek for experimental purposes.
‘Ngah!’
‘You taste…’ Stevie offers by way of explanation
Xabi pulls away a little and studies Stevie, fixed with a mildly confused expression though his lips twitch and curve upwards like he’s resisting the urge to laugh. Stevie thinks that he hates when Xabi looks at him like this, all wise and superior and knowing. Oh I lived in Ireland when I was younger and I had to captain my club when I was 19 and really, everyone loves me because I can pass the ball so much better than you and what kind of midfielder can’t manage to keep possession and why don’t you just give me that armband if you’re going to keep getting yourself sent off whenever we play Everton.
Stevie frowns. Thinking is not his strong suit but it hurts his head even more after a few glasses. But then Xabi’s smoothing the hair from his forehead and there is this warmth in his eyes that is so ridiculously comforting and it makes the breath catch at the back of Stevie’s throat. Another side effect of this fancy, foreign champagne, no doubt. Xabi’s lips brush against his again and outside there are people still singing and in a few hours a group of players will fly back to Milan with a game that haunts them. Here, in this room, there is only this and Stevie’s back is bowed and Xabi moans - all delicious loss of control (Xabi is always, always in control) and he says again:
‘Don’t leave’
July 2005
£32 million is a lot of money
It’s more than a lot; it’s a record transfer fee. Sure, you think he’s important now but with that kind of money? You bring in 3, 4 players and it will more than compensate
You could get Essien from Lyon. Chelsea are obviously in the running and they want him but if we give them-
Sissoko too, from Valencia, would be a good bet. He’d do well here I think. With the money we could go in for both of them even. Maybe another striker?
And we’d still have Alonso
Yes, that is vital - Alonso will be here after the summer
Stevie strode down the halls of Melwood, another pointless ‘chat’ with Rick echoing in his ears. He stops to rifle through his jacket pocket before finding a strip of Paracetamol tablets and swallowing two without water. Someone is throwing a sledge hammer in a building quarry between his eyes and the sight of his reflection in the trophy cabinet is proof enough of the toll of the past few weeks.
‘Steven,’ he looks up in surprise to see Xabi at the end of the hall with a sheaf of papers and a loose gym bag. He looks relaxed in a crisp linen shirt though he goes awkward when Stevie smiles stiffly in response.
‘Thought you’d be in Spain by now, mate’ Stevie says, wincing at how worn and weary the words sound on his tongue.
‘Yes, I have a flight in a few hours’
The words Xabi do not say hang between them and Stevie’s never been one for good conversation anyway but he’d be pretty comfortable with the ground swallowing him whole right about now. Xabi steps toward him and at first it’s with purpose but he stops like he’s being controlled by a mechanical pulley. He must know what’s going on. Everyone knows what’s going on and for a second Stevie hates it so vehemently, he can taste bile at the back of his throat like all the lies and conjecture. Fuck it
‘You know,’ Stevie says lightly, ‘they were saying on TalkSport that there are all these statistics that prove the team perform better without me. Like, there are actual numbers and shit saying you have a better chance of winning if I’m not there,’ he laughs because a little part of him finds it funny in an arrogant way but also because he thinks he just might cry if he doesn’t
Xabi blinks and swallows hard, taken aback. ‘Stevie, I-’
He laughs harder and touches Xabi’s wrist gently, pretends not to notice him flinch, ‘You don’t have to say anything, Xabi. I don’t want pity or-’
‘I wasn’t,’ Xabi interrupts and he sounds frustrated now, gnawing on his lower lip, ‘I certainly don’t pity you.’ There is an almost revulsion behind the word and it fascinates Stevie, seeing Xabi likes this. He wonders if it’s because of all the pain meds he’s been taking.
‘You left Sociedad’ there is an edge to his words and Xabi’s eyes narrow, his stack of papers held tightly to his chest
‘I wont let you do this to me,’ he steps closer and breathes the words so Stevie can feel them against his skin and there is a dizzying memory lodged in the back of his mind - the scrape of teeth and the metallic taste of blood. Xabi steps back, away from Stevie, once again the calming presence he had been since arriving at Merseyside.
‘Have a good trip,’ Stevie’s throat feels raw and his headache comes rushing back as though it had never left
Xabi looks on the verge of saying something else and Stevie silently pleads with him not to. Let’s leave it like this and you can remember me and not hate me and you can be their hero now. I don’t want it anymore, I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. They'd rather have you, anyway
I’ll see you, Steven.’ Xabi walks through the Melwood doors and into the midday sunshine and Stevie says behind and watches him leave
February 2011
‘How are you coping?’
‘I worry about you when you phone to “check up on me”’
‘I worry about you anyway’
‘Well, don’t. Stop. I’m fine’
Xabi grunts like he knows this is clearly not true but he’s argued with Stevie before, is completely aware of how little sense and logic are involved
‘You know if you’re mad-’
‘Fuck off if you’re going to give me some lecture about what I did or, can I please remind you, did not do five years ago’
‘Well…’
‘Hanging up, Alonso’
‘I just mean- Do you remember what it was like? I remember when I heard you handed in the transfer request and I couldn’t. Uhm, the television was not on the next day but Nagore put on the news to check something and they were announcing about your “U-turn” and I- well. There was an interview with this boy, he was maybe 16 or 15, and he said he skipped school when he heard the news. I don’t know why I always think of that but you remember, no?’ Xabi finishes weakly like he’s afraid of what Stevie will say in response and Stevie clutches his phone tight in his hand
‘Yeah,’ he lets it out like a sigh
‘I think, sometimes, what it would have been like if you left’ Stevie can hear the smile in Xabi’s voice and it makes him smile too, needlessly, without reason
‘Yeah?’
‘Mm. No more Phil Collins requests at the Christmas party’
‘Oi!’
‘I am glad, I was always glad that you stayed. It meant a lot.’
‘To Liverpool?’
‘Yes, them too’