of days gone by - gerrard/alonso
this is ... well. i'm not sure what i think of it. i wrote it a couple of months ago, in the summer on holiday but never posted it because i was never sure of it. i don't want to give a summary in fear of giving any of it away.
anyway. please say what you think; if its a completely sick/weird idea or whatever. be honest (but not too harsh plz :)) oh and btw it is AU, though a bit different. you'll see.
of days gone by
steven gerrard/xabi alonso (effectively) | pg-13 | au - yeah | 2200 words
The bed creaks unmercilessly as Xabi rolls over to reach for his glasses on the bedside table. It's barely gone seven and its a Saturday but he still has something of a smile on his face. The light is a peaceful yellow outside, reflecting off the water that rolls over the sand languidly, peaceful and awaiting the rush of summer to follow.
The warm water of the shower is calming, soothing old limbs that don't work like they used too. The water makes patterns over scars that aren't there but feel like they should be. He towels his hair dry in front of the cabinet in the living room that holds the many pictures and memories of days gone by, the TV is turned down low and the kettle boils in the corner.
Ten years is a long time, Xabi decides pulling on shorts and running his fingers over the scar on knee that tells of an injury that he never quite got over. It's exactly ten years since he left England at the age of 32. The summer was nearing it's end and slowing moulding into Autumn, it had been a good summer of sunshine and mild weather, the odd shower of drizzle and a pleasant pre-season. More so because of the four gleaming silver trophies sat side by side in an Anfield trophy room that had never seen such a triumph before.
He didn't do what they all expected him too; there was no lucrative deal from Barcelona, no any number of promises from Real Madrid. No. Xabi Alonso defied everyone and went home too a club who were floundering in La Liga, not a trophy in sight and one which could give only half of what he had earned previously.
In all, Xabi Alonso did what not many chose too, he disappeared and melted into the background and his name faded into Merseyside folklore.
There's a message on his answering machine from Mikel, he can barely understand him between the loud buzz of traffic in the background and the thick accent his brother's procured from his years on English soil. He listens too him scold someone in the back seat a quick "For God's sake please be quiet!" before he continues too talk to the answering machine.
Xabi was the one who everyone cooed over, Xabi was "the favourite" according to Mikel, the one that their parents expected the most of. Yet there they were in their forties, Mikel with his house in the Chesire countryside and the three young girls who bickered incessantly and the wife and Xabi with his fifth floor apartment in Donostia and a divorce to his name,their parents long gone.
It should have been different he thinks, lifting one picture that hasn't been faded or damaged. It was stowed in the drawer, underneath some letters and old documents that didn't matter. He runs his fingers over it, touching the flushed skin there, the two happy and in love grins and the bright eyes. Smiles and he remembers (kisses and tears and "You'll visit yeh?" and sheets that were still warm). The phone rings and he shuts the drawer quickly, but leaves the picture on the cabinet.
He didn't visit. Xabi Alonso never returned.
**
He meets her at the train station, the one he goes too every so often with his sketchbook in hand. He draws, pencil moving over the paper swiftly like the ball over the grass, images from inside his head and infront of his eyes being burned onto the paper.
The train from Madrid pulls in as usual and this is when Xabi leaves like he always does, to get a coffee and a sandwich from the little cafe near his house before returning home. He gets up just as the carriage doors open and the many passengers pour out, thinking of the allure of the caffeine.
"Oh, sorry," she utters, shoulder colliding with his causing her own drink to spill over his jacket.
"Oh my god, I'm dead sorry," she reaches frantically for tissues from her pocket, blonde hair falling across her face like a silky curtain before she's wiping at the fabric. "Seriously I am." Then she finally looks up.
Xabi smiles at her and tells her it's fine, that he didn't like the jacket much anyway and they walk out of the train station together as she drags her luggage behind her.
"I'm not being pushy here but, I'm just on my way to get a coffee, I'd like to buy you another?"
She looks up to utter a quick word, a "No thank you it's fine" but her eyes land on his face and she doesn't pull them away for several seconds, face falling just the slightest.
"That would be, nice," and her expression is normal again and they walk off, arms brushing occasionally, down the street towards the harbour.
**
"Are you ever going to tell me your name?" They never made it to the cafe, chose the quiet bar at the corner instead, "we've been chatting for at least two hours and I still haven't found out." She raises the wine glass to her lips, waiting expectantly.
"I'm Xabi if you must know," he feels perfectly fine even though he can see the glimmer of alcohol in her blue eyes.
She nods knowingly almost, and smiles a little.
"I suppose you'll be wanting to know my name then?" She winks cheekily and takes a drink before setting it down and raising her hand too his, "I'm ... I'm Ella."
He presses the raised hand back down into her lap before leaning over and kissing her on first her left cheek, then her right.
"We don't shake hands in Spain."
A comfortable silence fills the space between them before he continues.
"What age are you Ella?"
She pauses, like it's some sort of trick question, as though she has to contemplate it but manages an answer before Xabi can say anything else.
"25."
**
He feels somewhat disgusted with himself later when he hangs his stained jacket up and collapses on the sofa.
At least she is female Xabier he thinks before slapping himself gently on the forehead.
He goes too bed that night his heart full and a smile on his face nonetheless.
**
"Nice, very nice," she runs her fingers over the books on his shelf, peering gently at each title and grinning wryly in agreement with them.
"Satisfied then?" He hands her a cup of tea before sitting down beside her. "How long do you plan too stay here?"
She looks back, eyes fixed firmly on him.
"A while."
"You ... are very mysterious," he comments setting his cup down before reaching for something on the table, he stops when he feels her fingers on his hand.
"Just like you," her fingers are laced with his now, gripping tightly as though she's trying to hold on, to stop him from going anywhere.
She kisses him then, soft and quickly before she leaves with the click of the door.
**
Xabi asks her to stay eventually when she comments that her money can't quite keep up with her hotel rate. She presses her lips to his cheek in thanks and smiles warmly.
It happens again on the same sofa that night, her mouth on his and he tries to stop her, hands pressing gently against her waist.
"I'm too old for you."
Another kiss.
"This can't happen."
She stops and moves away ever so slightly.
"Nothing has happened."
And nothing ever does happen. They sleep together that night (and others), but only in a literal sense because Xabi doesn't actually have a spare bed and his couch is too small for either of them. She leans over and kisses him goodnight before rolling onto her side, her back facing him. He breathes in the scent of strawberries wafting off her hair before falling into a deep sleep.
**
A week passes and this Saturday morning Xabi is making breakfast for two, the knives and forks laid on the table alongside the cups of coffee. Shes comes out of the room, wrapped in her dressing gown, eyes still tired and hair tucked back behind her ears.
"Morning," she whispers and lays her hand gently on his shoulder.
"This will be ready soon," he gestures to the food and she nods gratefully before going to the table. She examines the pictures on the cabinet beside it. Xabi when he was younger with a fishing rod in his hands, Xabi on the beach as a teenager with his dad and his football. Another one, set down at the back as though it isn't meant to be there catches her eye. She lifts it, gazes upon the photograph before she feels the tears prick the corner of her eyes.
She presses it almost reverantly into her body and sighs.
"Okay, its ready!" Xabi says, leaves the plates of food on the table before she turns around still clutching the picture, a strange expression on her face.
"Do you love me?" It's barely a whisper but Xabi hears it and the whole mood in the room changes.
"Ell..."
"You used too, didn't you?"
"What? What are you talking about?" Xabi voice is different, worried but mostly confused.
"Not as much as you loved him though," and she turns the picture round, fingers lingering over the two young faces."I'm not 25 years old Xabi."
And in that instant it is as though the world has stopped but for the violent lurch in his stomach and the pounding in his chest.
"I'm 20 years old. I don't use that part of my name, no one calls me Ella..." She takes in a deep breath," everyone just calls me Lily."
Xabi walks forward suddenly then and pulls her into his arms, envelopes her in an embrace and breathes in her scent again as though he is meeting a brand new person, a more important person, and not that girl at the station. She's younger now, more beautiful now, means so much more too him now. And really she's just the same the more he looks upon her.
**
"You never came back to visit like you said you would."
Her eyes are still damp and there is a dark patch on Xabi's shoulder from her tears not to mention the wetness round his own.
"You don't know how difficult it would have been."
She narrows her eyes at him, breathing heavier as she stands up and peers down at him,
"What? You couldn't find space in ten years to come back and say hello. You couldn't find any room for a flight, no room for someone whose meant too matter in your busy scehdule..."
"It wasn't like tha..."
"He was never the same after you left. Mum went not long after you and then he ... changed," the tears are back rolling down her face and she could be 7 years old again standing there,"I just wanted him back. My dad."
She settles on her knees in front of him, taking his hands in her smaller and softer ones.
"I never cared what made him happy as long as he was."
The silence goes on for what feels like hours but it's not uncomfortable, not awkward. The ticking of the clock and the water that drips every so often from the tap are the only noise.
"How is he now?"
She shakes her head and runs a hand through her hair.
"Lex is leaving for London soon. He pretends he's fine about but... I don't know what he'll do after that, I can't just leave him alone in the house."
He hates being alone. Xabi says it aloud before Lily can and she nods.
They don't speak again for the rest of the night and Xabi sleeps on the sofa.
**
"I really should be getting home you know." Her face is more peaceful, she wasn't grinning like she had been for practically her whole stay. She looks more comfortable now, Xabi thinks and smiles at her, runs a hand over her head affectionately like he would do a child.
"Yes you probably should. Steven will be wondering where you got too," and they both pause at the mention of his name. A weight lifts off Xabi's chest, like he's been holding his breath for ten years.
"You know it's never...," she reaches for his hand and holds onto to it tightly, like he is her last hope,"it's never too late."
She lets go and gets up from the chair and Xabi notices the piece of paper pressed into his palm with the delicately scribbled digits in black upon it. He folds it reverantly and sets it on the counter.
**
He drops her off at the airport in the rain and she waves back at him through the fogged up window.
Its different being alone again, he muses. Then another thought ...
He doesn't have to be, as he catches sight of the note on the counter again. It's the same as it always was and he has no trouble pressing the numbers quickly into the phone.
The phone rings though his heart beats faster than it and then a click, a familiar voice.
"It's me."
.
anyway. please say what you think; if its a completely sick/weird idea or whatever. be honest (but not too harsh plz :)) oh and btw it is AU, though a bit different. you'll see.
of days gone by
steven gerrard/xabi alonso (effectively) | pg-13 | au - yeah | 2200 words
The bed creaks unmercilessly as Xabi rolls over to reach for his glasses on the bedside table. It's barely gone seven and its a Saturday but he still has something of a smile on his face. The light is a peaceful yellow outside, reflecting off the water that rolls over the sand languidly, peaceful and awaiting the rush of summer to follow.
The warm water of the shower is calming, soothing old limbs that don't work like they used too. The water makes patterns over scars that aren't there but feel like they should be. He towels his hair dry in front of the cabinet in the living room that holds the many pictures and memories of days gone by, the TV is turned down low and the kettle boils in the corner.
Ten years is a long time, Xabi decides pulling on shorts and running his fingers over the scar on knee that tells of an injury that he never quite got over. It's exactly ten years since he left England at the age of 32. The summer was nearing it's end and slowing moulding into Autumn, it had been a good summer of sunshine and mild weather, the odd shower of drizzle and a pleasant pre-season. More so because of the four gleaming silver trophies sat side by side in an Anfield trophy room that had never seen such a triumph before.
He didn't do what they all expected him too; there was no lucrative deal from Barcelona, no any number of promises from Real Madrid. No. Xabi Alonso defied everyone and went home too a club who were floundering in La Liga, not a trophy in sight and one which could give only half of what he had earned previously.
In all, Xabi Alonso did what not many chose too, he disappeared and melted into the background and his name faded into Merseyside folklore.
There's a message on his answering machine from Mikel, he can barely understand him between the loud buzz of traffic in the background and the thick accent his brother's procured from his years on English soil. He listens too him scold someone in the back seat a quick "For God's sake please be quiet!" before he continues too talk to the answering machine.
Xabi was the one who everyone cooed over, Xabi was "the favourite" according to Mikel, the one that their parents expected the most of. Yet there they were in their forties, Mikel with his house in the Chesire countryside and the three young girls who bickered incessantly and the wife and Xabi with his fifth floor apartment in Donostia and a divorce to his name,their parents long gone.
It should have been different he thinks, lifting one picture that hasn't been faded or damaged. It was stowed in the drawer, underneath some letters and old documents that didn't matter. He runs his fingers over it, touching the flushed skin there, the two happy and in love grins and the bright eyes. Smiles and he remembers (kisses and tears and "You'll visit yeh?" and sheets that were still warm). The phone rings and he shuts the drawer quickly, but leaves the picture on the cabinet.
He didn't visit. Xabi Alonso never returned.
**
He meets her at the train station, the one he goes too every so often with his sketchbook in hand. He draws, pencil moving over the paper swiftly like the ball over the grass, images from inside his head and infront of his eyes being burned onto the paper.
The train from Madrid pulls in as usual and this is when Xabi leaves like he always does, to get a coffee and a sandwich from the little cafe near his house before returning home. He gets up just as the carriage doors open and the many passengers pour out, thinking of the allure of the caffeine.
"Oh, sorry," she utters, shoulder colliding with his causing her own drink to spill over his jacket.
"Oh my god, I'm dead sorry," she reaches frantically for tissues from her pocket, blonde hair falling across her face like a silky curtain before she's wiping at the fabric. "Seriously I am." Then she finally looks up.
Xabi smiles at her and tells her it's fine, that he didn't like the jacket much anyway and they walk out of the train station together as she drags her luggage behind her.
"I'm not being pushy here but, I'm just on my way to get a coffee, I'd like to buy you another?"
She looks up to utter a quick word, a "No thank you it's fine" but her eyes land on his face and she doesn't pull them away for several seconds, face falling just the slightest.
"That would be, nice," and her expression is normal again and they walk off, arms brushing occasionally, down the street towards the harbour.
**
"Are you ever going to tell me your name?" They never made it to the cafe, chose the quiet bar at the corner instead, "we've been chatting for at least two hours and I still haven't found out." She raises the wine glass to her lips, waiting expectantly.
"I'm Xabi if you must know," he feels perfectly fine even though he can see the glimmer of alcohol in her blue eyes.
She nods knowingly almost, and smiles a little.
"I suppose you'll be wanting to know my name then?" She winks cheekily and takes a drink before setting it down and raising her hand too his, "I'm ... I'm Ella."
He presses the raised hand back down into her lap before leaning over and kissing her on first her left cheek, then her right.
"We don't shake hands in Spain."
A comfortable silence fills the space between them before he continues.
"What age are you Ella?"
She pauses, like it's some sort of trick question, as though she has to contemplate it but manages an answer before Xabi can say anything else.
"25."
**
He feels somewhat disgusted with himself later when he hangs his stained jacket up and collapses on the sofa.
At least she is female Xabier he thinks before slapping himself gently on the forehead.
He goes too bed that night his heart full and a smile on his face nonetheless.
**
"Nice, very nice," she runs her fingers over the books on his shelf, peering gently at each title and grinning wryly in agreement with them.
"Satisfied then?" He hands her a cup of tea before sitting down beside her. "How long do you plan too stay here?"
She looks back, eyes fixed firmly on him.
"A while."
"You ... are very mysterious," he comments setting his cup down before reaching for something on the table, he stops when he feels her fingers on his hand.
"Just like you," her fingers are laced with his now, gripping tightly as though she's trying to hold on, to stop him from going anywhere.
She kisses him then, soft and quickly before she leaves with the click of the door.
**
Xabi asks her to stay eventually when she comments that her money can't quite keep up with her hotel rate. She presses her lips to his cheek in thanks and smiles warmly.
It happens again on the same sofa that night, her mouth on his and he tries to stop her, hands pressing gently against her waist.
"I'm too old for you."
Another kiss.
"This can't happen."
She stops and moves away ever so slightly.
"Nothing has happened."
And nothing ever does happen. They sleep together that night (and others), but only in a literal sense because Xabi doesn't actually have a spare bed and his couch is too small for either of them. She leans over and kisses him goodnight before rolling onto her side, her back facing him. He breathes in the scent of strawberries wafting off her hair before falling into a deep sleep.
**
A week passes and this Saturday morning Xabi is making breakfast for two, the knives and forks laid on the table alongside the cups of coffee. Shes comes out of the room, wrapped in her dressing gown, eyes still tired and hair tucked back behind her ears.
"Morning," she whispers and lays her hand gently on his shoulder.
"This will be ready soon," he gestures to the food and she nods gratefully before going to the table. She examines the pictures on the cabinet beside it. Xabi when he was younger with a fishing rod in his hands, Xabi on the beach as a teenager with his dad and his football. Another one, set down at the back as though it isn't meant to be there catches her eye. She lifts it, gazes upon the photograph before she feels the tears prick the corner of her eyes.
She presses it almost reverantly into her body and sighs.
"Okay, its ready!" Xabi says, leaves the plates of food on the table before she turns around still clutching the picture, a strange expression on her face.
"Do you love me?" It's barely a whisper but Xabi hears it and the whole mood in the room changes.
"Ell..."
"You used too, didn't you?"
"What? What are you talking about?" Xabi voice is different, worried but mostly confused.
"Not as much as you loved him though," and she turns the picture round, fingers lingering over the two young faces."I'm not 25 years old Xabi."
And in that instant it is as though the world has stopped but for the violent lurch in his stomach and the pounding in his chest.
"I'm 20 years old. I don't use that part of my name, no one calls me Ella..." She takes in a deep breath," everyone just calls me Lily."
Xabi walks forward suddenly then and pulls her into his arms, envelopes her in an embrace and breathes in her scent again as though he is meeting a brand new person, a more important person, and not that girl at the station. She's younger now, more beautiful now, means so much more too him now. And really she's just the same the more he looks upon her.
**
"You never came back to visit like you said you would."
Her eyes are still damp and there is a dark patch on Xabi's shoulder from her tears not to mention the wetness round his own.
"You don't know how difficult it would have been."
She narrows her eyes at him, breathing heavier as she stands up and peers down at him,
"What? You couldn't find space in ten years to come back and say hello. You couldn't find any room for a flight, no room for someone whose meant too matter in your busy scehdule..."
"It wasn't like tha..."
"He was never the same after you left. Mum went not long after you and then he ... changed," the tears are back rolling down her face and she could be 7 years old again standing there,"I just wanted him back. My dad."
She settles on her knees in front of him, taking his hands in her smaller and softer ones.
"I never cared what made him happy as long as he was."
The silence goes on for what feels like hours but it's not uncomfortable, not awkward. The ticking of the clock and the water that drips every so often from the tap are the only noise.
"How is he now?"
She shakes her head and runs a hand through her hair.
"Lex is leaving for London soon. He pretends he's fine about but... I don't know what he'll do after that, I can't just leave him alone in the house."
He hates being alone. Xabi says it aloud before Lily can and she nods.
They don't speak again for the rest of the night and Xabi sleeps on the sofa.
**
"I really should be getting home you know." Her face is more peaceful, she wasn't grinning like she had been for practically her whole stay. She looks more comfortable now, Xabi thinks and smiles at her, runs a hand over her head affectionately like he would do a child.
"Yes you probably should. Steven will be wondering where you got too," and they both pause at the mention of his name. A weight lifts off Xabi's chest, like he's been holding his breath for ten years.
"You know it's never...," she reaches for his hand and holds onto to it tightly, like he is her last hope,"it's never too late."
She lets go and gets up from the chair and Xabi notices the piece of paper pressed into his palm with the delicately scribbled digits in black upon it. He folds it reverantly and sets it on the counter.
**
He drops her off at the airport in the rain and she waves back at him through the fogged up window.
Its different being alone again, he muses. Then another thought ...
He doesn't have to be, as he catches sight of the note on the counter again. It's the same as it always was and he has no trouble pressing the numbers quickly into the phone.
The phone rings though his heart beats faster than it and then a click, a familiar voice.
"It's me."
.