you drag me up and out
title: you drag me up and out
pairing: steven gerrard/xabi alonso
rating: pg-13
disclaimer: not true
summary: what stevie and xabi assuredly know about each other
o1.
Xabi knows that Stevie doesn’t like intimacy in public. Sometimes Xabi will feel overcome with want. It creeps up on him in training, when they’re eating lunch, in the dressing room just after a match - this fierce ache that begins in the pit of his stomach and flares as Stevie brushes past him to speak to Rafa, to get a fresh towel. And Xabi will want to grasp his arm and pull him to him, bring their bodies flush against each other. Or press a soft kiss to the side of his mouth - it would be chaste but a promise for later when they were alone. He will stare at Stevie across a room, sure that the other man must be able to feel his longing, if only for the pure force of it. Stevie will jerk his head, motioning for Xabi to meet him outside where he will run a frustrated hand through his gel-slicked hair. ‘For Christ’s sake Xabi, we’re at a charity dinner. What are you. You can’t.’ But Xabi won’t be listening, too busy making sure that there’s no one left loitering in the back garden before he pushes Stevie against a pillar, covering his mouth with his own. Stevie lets out a strangled gasp, hands coming to rest at Xabi’s shoulders - to push him away or pull him closer, Xabi isn’t sure but there they remain.
o2.
Stevie knows that Xabi likes books. When he first went to Xabi’s flat there was a worn chest on the side of his sofa stacked with thumbed-through paperbacks, their pages yellowed. On Xabi’s shelf he had two sets of encyclopaedias - red glazed and leather bound - and the Oxford English dictionary placed beside them. A copy of Philip Roth’s American Pastoral lay on the coffee table beside a blank notebook and ballpoint pen. ‘For when I don’t understand a word,’ Xabi had explained while smiling ruefully. He had asked, ‘Do you read, Stevie?’ and this was at the beginning when Stevie still felt like he had yet to pass a test he hadn’t signed up to take. Though Xabi’s mouth curved up easily around him and he never missed a chance to lay a friendly hand upon his shoulder, Stevie was unnerved and still unsure. Stevie had shrugged, ‘When I have the time,’ and Xabi nodded as though he were agreeing.
He tells Stevie that he doesn’t read books in Spanish anymore - ‘Unless I am reading a Spanish author, of course. I don’t want to lose from the translation, you know?’ Stevie blinks once, then twice. ‘Uh,’ he replies intelligently and Xabi’s lips quirk up like he’s enjoying some private joke. Stevie feels irrationally annoyed then - with Xabi and his secret smile, his treasure chest of books that have been read over and over. ‘I like Of Mice and Men. A lot. I wrote a fucking good book report on it once,’ he blurts out in a rush before turning a distinct shade of pink. Xabi grins at him and says, ‘I haven’t read it.’ Stevie blinks stupidly once again, ‘What?’ Xabi shrugs and takes a seat, motioning for Stevie to join him, ‘But you should tell me all about it.’
o3.
Stevie hopes that Xabi knows that he is grateful for a lot of things. Grateful for the fact that he still has his toe despite coming close to amputating it due to what he had labelled: A Vicious Attack By An Unsuspecting Garden Fork. Grateful for Alex and her laughter and the wonderful children she has given him. Grateful that he gets to play football at the best club in the world and know that he is privileged to captain it and to play with the people he does; to be supported by this never-ending ocean of faith and red-emblazoned hope. But also, he is grateful for him. In a weird way that he is not used to being. And he won’t say this, no he will never say this out loud. He will fuck Xabi and suck his cock and press up against him in the middle of night - sweat slicked bodies and tangled limbs, synchronised heartbeats, shallow breathing, the darkness that is Xabi’s eyes and the softness of his palm against Stevie’s jaw. But no, he will never say: Thank you, Xabi. Thank you for understanding and seeing and telling me when to stop and then picking out a pass and showing me when to start. Thank you for being there at the beginning although maybe it was the middle really, but I don’t seem to remember a lot of what was Before You. Thank you for you calmness, your heart, the blood I have sometimes tasted when I’ve kissed you too hard. Thank you for never making me say it. Thank you for knowing intrinsically, at once, despite my emotionally stunted upbringing and exterior that you, you, you, it is always you.
pairing: steven gerrard/xabi alonso
rating: pg-13
disclaimer: not true
summary: what stevie and xabi assuredly know about each other
o1.
Xabi knows that Stevie doesn’t like intimacy in public. Sometimes Xabi will feel overcome with want. It creeps up on him in training, when they’re eating lunch, in the dressing room just after a match - this fierce ache that begins in the pit of his stomach and flares as Stevie brushes past him to speak to Rafa, to get a fresh towel. And Xabi will want to grasp his arm and pull him to him, bring their bodies flush against each other. Or press a soft kiss to the side of his mouth - it would be chaste but a promise for later when they were alone. He will stare at Stevie across a room, sure that the other man must be able to feel his longing, if only for the pure force of it. Stevie will jerk his head, motioning for Xabi to meet him outside where he will run a frustrated hand through his gel-slicked hair. ‘For Christ’s sake Xabi, we’re at a charity dinner. What are you. You can’t.’ But Xabi won’t be listening, too busy making sure that there’s no one left loitering in the back garden before he pushes Stevie against a pillar, covering his mouth with his own. Stevie lets out a strangled gasp, hands coming to rest at Xabi’s shoulders - to push him away or pull him closer, Xabi isn’t sure but there they remain.
o2.
Stevie knows that Xabi likes books. When he first went to Xabi’s flat there was a worn chest on the side of his sofa stacked with thumbed-through paperbacks, their pages yellowed. On Xabi’s shelf he had two sets of encyclopaedias - red glazed and leather bound - and the Oxford English dictionary placed beside them. A copy of Philip Roth’s American Pastoral lay on the coffee table beside a blank notebook and ballpoint pen. ‘For when I don’t understand a word,’ Xabi had explained while smiling ruefully. He had asked, ‘Do you read, Stevie?’ and this was at the beginning when Stevie still felt like he had yet to pass a test he hadn’t signed up to take. Though Xabi’s mouth curved up easily around him and he never missed a chance to lay a friendly hand upon his shoulder, Stevie was unnerved and still unsure. Stevie had shrugged, ‘When I have the time,’ and Xabi nodded as though he were agreeing.
He tells Stevie that he doesn’t read books in Spanish anymore - ‘Unless I am reading a Spanish author, of course. I don’t want to lose from the translation, you know?’ Stevie blinks once, then twice. ‘Uh,’ he replies intelligently and Xabi’s lips quirk up like he’s enjoying some private joke. Stevie feels irrationally annoyed then - with Xabi and his secret smile, his treasure chest of books that have been read over and over. ‘I like Of Mice and Men. A lot. I wrote a fucking good book report on it once,’ he blurts out in a rush before turning a distinct shade of pink. Xabi grins at him and says, ‘I haven’t read it.’ Stevie blinks stupidly once again, ‘What?’ Xabi shrugs and takes a seat, motioning for Stevie to join him, ‘But you should tell me all about it.’
o3.
Stevie hopes that Xabi knows that he is grateful for a lot of things. Grateful for the fact that he still has his toe despite coming close to amputating it due to what he had labelled: A Vicious Attack By An Unsuspecting Garden Fork. Grateful for Alex and her laughter and the wonderful children she has given him. Grateful that he gets to play football at the best club in the world and know that he is privileged to captain it and to play with the people he does; to be supported by this never-ending ocean of faith and red-emblazoned hope. But also, he is grateful for him. In a weird way that he is not used to being. And he won’t say this, no he will never say this out loud. He will fuck Xabi and suck his cock and press up against him in the middle of night - sweat slicked bodies and tangled limbs, synchronised heartbeats, shallow breathing, the darkness that is Xabi’s eyes and the softness of his palm against Stevie’s jaw. But no, he will never say: Thank you, Xabi. Thank you for understanding and seeing and telling me when to stop and then picking out a pass and showing me when to start. Thank you for being there at the beginning although maybe it was the middle really, but I don’t seem to remember a lot of what was Before You. Thank you for you calmness, your heart, the blood I have sometimes tasted when I’ve kissed you too hard. Thank you for never making me say it. Thank you for knowing intrinsically, at once, despite my emotionally stunted upbringing and exterior that you, you, you, it is always you.