silhouette

of days gone by - gerrard/alonso

2007-09-30T20:03:49Z

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."

.

well known secrets - gerrard/alonso

2007-09-28T20:30:35Z

so err long time no fic. this is very random and not good and well ... just random!

well known secrets
steven gerrard/xabi alonso | R | random like i said | 2250 words

Steven Gerrard doesn’t enjoy being ‘coddled’, taken care of so to speak. Because what kind of man lets any woman (or anyone for that matter) wrap blankets round them, rub their forehead with a damp cloth and press the water bottle gently under the sheets so that it doesn’t burn them.

“A nancy, son that’s who.”

He can practically hear his fathers voice as Xabi lifts the bag along with his own from the back seat and holds the door open for Steven.

It might be just being polite though; like Xabi usually is. Always is.

He sets the rucksack down on the neat floor beside the sofa which Steven takes it to set himself upon, gathering his phone from his pocket; wincing at the pain in his thigh as he tilts his hips to get better access to it.

Presses a few keys to indicate to Alex he won’t be home tonight.

"Mate putting me up. See you tomorrow."

She won't know any different.

He hears the clink of bottles, the popping of a cap before he turns to see Xabi approaching the table and setting them on the glass surface, frowning at the stain beneath the magazine there and rubbing at it absentmindely.

Steven makes a low chuckling sound in the back of his throat; picks up the bottle he assumes is for him and takes a mouthful.

Xabi simply narrows his eyes before he heads back to the kitchen. Steven can hear the running water, and the clattering of plates. The very soft thudding sound the fridge makes when it opens and the bizarre half singing, half humming thing Xabi does when he’s cooking. Or cleaning. Showering. Sometimes even when he’s sleeping.

Steven’s yet to work out what the aimless tunes actually add up too; sometimes he wonders if he even cares. (Oh but he does; he just doesn’t let on he does.)

He’s awoken from his daydream by more clattering on the table in front of him, eyes the sandwich sitting there curiously, tilting his head as though it appeared out of thin air.

Xabi sits beside him, an indecipherable half grin on his face as he holds the hot water bottle in front of Steven’s eyes. He reaches down between his legs and presses the warm soothing material there, massaging more than he ought too and holding his gaze that bit more than is safe before he turns back to the television across the room.

Steven shifts uncomfortably, adjusts the bottle before finishing his drink, eating his the offered food. There’s a strange silence in the room and Steven almost gets the vibe that Xabi is … angry with him? Maybe.

He can smell alcohol off him; probably from after the match. Everyone deserves a celebration; despite the fact that Steven himself spent it in the doc’s office getting his fucking thigh prodded at till it was almost numb.

Xabi being Xabi though picked him up in the taxi he ordered himself, smiling as helped Stevie into the car. An amiable nod from the doc at the kind act between team-mates and friends.

Though Xabi hadn’t spoke at all the whole way home; has barely spoken yet in fact and the only noise in the room is the quiet buzz of the television set showing some old, awful comedy repeats.

“S’wrong with you?” Steven manages through a mouthful of the substance on the plate, wiping at his mouth as he does so.

All he gets is another shrug as Xabi’s fork delves into the pasta there.

Steven nudges him with his hand, brow furrowed and seeking answers.

“What?” Xabi’s agitated he can tell it by his eyes, voice, “you’ve barely acknowledged me all day. I thought you deserved the same back no?”

Steven shakes his head.

“What the fuck? How did I ignore you and why the hell am I here?"

Xabi smirks a little into himself when he thinks Steven isn’t watching.

“You.” He begins, scrapes at his plate with his knife now, “are useful for somethings.”

Stevie shrugs himself now. Picks himself up and heads to the bathroom, limping along, face screwed up in concentration at the pain back in his upper leg.

“You are finished now yes?”

Steven opens the door, when he's finished, to find Xabi standing there, one hand balanced on the door frame and the other tucked into his back pocket so that he's balanced in a very alluring pose.

“Ehm. Yeh.”

Steven goes to walk around him; is stopped by hand on his chest and a foot in his path. He looks up to meet that grin again, eyes that tell something else altogether.

“No.” Xabi barely whispers, hand clenched in Steven’s shirt, gazing at his mouth and the scent of alcohol is somewhat stronger now to Steven. He can virtually taste it himself as he inhales deeply.

“I have other plans for you.”

Stevie notices the living room is in darkness now, the television off and the lights in the kitchen cabinets dimmed down low. He swallows somewhat nervously as he catches the glint in Xabi’s eyes who quickly turns away; determined to quell the giddy smile his face tells of.

Xabi opens his bedroom door, also bathed in darkness Stevie notes as he reaches for the light switch. Xabi’s fingers clench around his wrist however, preventing any more movement.

“No,” a vibration of air against his earlobe.

He can’t see a fucking thing as he’s nudged gently to where he knows Xabi’s bed is, he can barely (just barely) make out the books scattered on Xabi’s table from the thin streak of moonlight and streetlights that filter through the curtains.

He feels the back of knees hit the mattress before he himself is pushed onto it, his back pressed against it as he’s nudged further up the bed.

However he doesn’t feel the press of the other body against his like he usually does; simply feels the sudden coolness of the air hitting his chest as his shirt is peeled off.

“Just. Lay still,” almost a command from the Spaniard as he walks over to the wardrobe to retrieve something.

Stevie’s never felt so restless on Xabi’s bed before now; never felt so restless ever in fact.

He feels a whole lot worse when Xabi comes back and he feels his right arm being yanked above his head and the tight pull of fabric around his wrist.

“Xabi seriously? What the...?"

Xabi just laughs, low and dark as he reaches for the other one before Steven can snatch it away from him.

Stevie tugs experimentally at the ties, finds they aren’t even loose in the slightest.

Fuck.

He didn’t even know Xabi liked this sort of thing.

Then again they never varied much from their routine.

Kiss. Fuck. Go home.

The occasional blow job in the showers after training, not much else.

Never this.

He feels Xabi lean over him now, the bed shift as his weight presses down into the mattress.

He can feel the breath against his face, the eyes drawing ever closer before Xabi leans over to switch on the lamp.

Steven can finally see again; see the glint in Xabi’s eyes fully now and the disheveled and simply filthy look on his face.

“Please. What are you doing? Xabi…” he’s pleading now. His heart beat speeding up as Xabi tilts his head, smiles almost malevolently.

“I wanted to try something new. Different. Change is good Gerrard.” He leans down, presses his lips against Steven’s throat and revels in the nervous hum under the skin.

“Hm. Xabi I don’t know if…” he’s cut short when he feels Xabi’s jaw open and a set of teeth sink neatly into the soft skin there.

Steven yelps, pushes up in hope of trying to force him off. No such luck.

Xabi presses him into the mattress with his hips, firm and hard (being the appropriate word). He runs his tongue over the vicious red marks forming there, breathes over them, gentle and hot.

His mouth travels further down, onto his chest pressing his tongue to nipples that harden instantly, sensitive to any sort of touch. Steven hisses as he feels Xabi blow cold air over one.

“Ok. Maybe you could untie me now we've experimented a bit yeh?” Steven is pleading now, eyes wide with what could be lust or anxiety (most probably both).

He makes a high pitched whimpering sound as Xabi presses his hand between his legs, tongue poking out mischievously between his teeth and the sight Steven flashes straight to his cock.

He still hasn’t worked out himself why he’s doing this; forcing Stevie into a situation he clearly doesn’t want to be in – yet. Maybe he just enjoys having the upperhand; the power he almost never gets.

Steven finds himself wracking his mind for excuses for tomorrow about the ferocious red teeth marks on his neck as he feels Xabi tracing patterns on his stomach, it only mildly distracts him as he thinks of various methods involving scarves and high necked jumpers.

He can feel the wet kisses being littered over his stomach better now; thinks that this might not be so bad if it weren’t for the amount of alcohol in Xabi’s system which has apparently turned him into some sort of, anti-Xabi. Oh and minus the ties that keep him chained to the headboard, that would make Steven feel a lot safer too.

“Christ Xabi come on.” Steven doesn’t know what he’s begging for; to be let go or for Xabi to hurry the hell up and fuck him and get it over with.

Xabi crawls back up his body, threads his fingers delicately through the other one’s hair and kisses him on the mouth, almost tender and its like a different person again.

Steven is afraid to move in fear of awakening the other Xabi again.

Too late though.

He feels teeth again, this time the side of his neck.

“Fuck,” a yelp and he feels Xabi smirk against his neck.

He breathes heavily, feels Xabi slither down his body again, fingers stroking at his thigh, a mouth pressed gently against the sore inner muscle there.

Steven sighs; finally content with something tonight. Wants to reach down and stroke the other one’s hair, clenches his fingers in frustration as he feels the ties around the taut bones there.

He feels Xabi breath over his cock, squirms into the sheets and tilts his hips up in search of friction or anything that will relieve him.

Xabi’s fingers tug at the hem of his boxers, ever so gently pulling them down and freeing him from the intense heat there and he gasps as he feels a tongue run over the head of his cock.

But Xabi only pulls away, tugs his legs apart and kneels between them, slowly unbuttoning his own shirt. He looks up at Steven from under hooded lids, hair falling over his face in an utterly seductive manner and Stevie can’t help but gulp slightly.

He wants to sit up so badly, to rip Xabi’s hands away and strip the man in front of him a lot faster. He watches, can feel his mind almost spinning away from him along with all other logical thought as he watches Xabi pop the button on his jeans. Long fingers trail along the zip and Stevie’s breath gets heavier as he waits for what is to be revealed.

He throws his head back onto the pillow; the mere tension in the air and the pain in his neck forcing him to stop. Though he can’t tear his eyes away for long as cranes his head forward again to watch as Xabi pulls down his own boxers, strokes himself ever so slowly.

Steven moans nudges his lower body slightly towards the other one’s body heat, Xabi only grins; less intent in the smile now. He leans down and kisses him properly before he reaches over to the bedside cabinet. Stevie follows his hand with his eyes. Feels a sense of anxious relief as he anticipates what’s to come.

He feels Xabi drag his nails down his stomach, winces slightly as he feels the burning sensation rip through the soft flesh there and his eyes widen when he watches as Xabi produces tequila instead of what Stevie expected to be lubricant.

He watches fascinated as Xabi pours some into the cap before drizzling it down his stomach, it burns but then the other man soothes it with his tongue, long sweeping motions and Stevie finds himself so much more relaxed now. Despite the vicious red marks on his neck and the purple bruises that are bound to be there on his wrists in the morning.

“Please.” He breathes against Xabi’s hair again as the other man licks at his neck, the stench of the alcohol all-consuming in the room.

Xabi growls against his neck before he screws the lid on the bottle and throughs it on the clothes on the floor.

And he finally gets what he wants. Xabi fucks him into the matress, headboard thumping once or twice off the wall and Stevie's fingers turn white from clenching it so very hard.

Xabi unties him after the sweat has cooled and Steven's arms feel like they might just fall off. They lay in silence after that till Xabi claps a hand over Stevie's waste and onto his wrists and soothes them his fingers.

"Experiments aren't that bad really you know."

we practice to decieve - alonso/beckham, casillas/beckham, gerrard/alonso

2007-06-03T21:38:09Z

this is err...weird. and very choppy i think. not sure on it but yeh. its AU and there will most probably be a sequel or two...not sure. ay. anyway, becks is rich business man, xabi is the boyfriend and thats pretty much enough for starters :)

we practice to decieve
david beckham/xabi alonso. david beckham/iker casillas. steven gerrard/xabi alonso | PG-13 | AU (alternate universe) | 1800 words

we practice to decieve

The sun has barely risen and neither have Xabi's hopes.

There's a single orange line acorss the bedspread, filtering through the gap in too thin curtains they don't even need. David sets his bag on the table and slips his phone into his pocket along with a packet of cigarettes he'll forget about later when he's queueing up to buy a more expensive packet. He needs to fix his hair again but can't turn on the light incase he wakes the other man. It's 6 o'clock when he glances back towards the dressing table, he pads over softly and kisses the other man asleep wrapped up in the sheets. He stirs and reaches out, threads fingers round a tense neck.

"You're going?" his voice is worn with sleep and cracks slightly at the last g.

David kisses him and grazes his nose softly against his cheek

"I'll be back before you know it."

Xabi manages a smile in the dark and runs his palm over the stubble he wishes was there. He says the same thing everytime and Xabi wonders why he wakes up anymore for this.

"Ok."

He sees David's eyes glisten in the dark with the guilt that Xabi knows he shouldn't feel. Xabi turns his head away; to hide the guilt that he himself should feel. Its a uncomplicated web that neither want to extract themselves from.

He hears the door shut and the sound of the tap running in the kitchen before the front door shuts too and David's car drives away from the house.

*

Xabi doesn't realise he fell asleep again until he wakes up and sees the clock blinking nine. He reaches for his book on the table beside his bed and his glasses. He only manages a few pages before it ends up on the floor among a pile of discarded clothing. He opens the window and welcomes the cool French air into the room.

He sighs as he casts his eyes over the fields, the blue sky and he wonders why his heart feels so heavy.

He likes France, likes how the sun feels on his back when he floats in the Mediterranean or in the pool and how the stone crunches under his feet when he takes the six mile walk into town. It dawned on him some time ago though, that maybe it was the familiar squeeze of the hand in his, the feel of lips against his own as the waves crested over his skin or the way the sun caught golden blonde hair; that maybe it was these things that made him love this place.

He makes his way downstairs, into the hall, kitchen and finally back garden to where he finds his hat from yesterday. Even outside feels isolated, he squints through the blinding sunlight at the vast house above him.

"It'll be fantastic Xabi, we'll love it. So much space, and no one to bother us." He'd whispered the words against his ear and Xabi had smiled and felt his heart beat right along with that of David's.

The more he thinks on it now, that maybe David is trying not to keep people from them but to keep Xabi from people.

It's six miles to the nearest village, which consists of a few shops, a bar and restaurant and a few other necessities. And Xabi doesn't often feel like taking on the 40 mile drive to Marseille for anything a little more adventurous. So he stays there for whatever number of days till David returns. Though not alone as his lover would think.

*

David likes Madrid better than anywhere else, he speaks Spanish not French, which some people would consider strange and some already have ("Why'd you leave Spain then?" .... "It's complicated." Oh yes). Xabi does though, the French rolls off his tongue as neat as Spanish or English and it irks him, that Xabi, his Xabi could quite easily converse with anyone he wanted. He's not possesive, he's loving he tells himself, he just cares about somethings more than others. He takes off his sunglasses when he is approached by Casillas outside the airport. Most of the time he actually is in Madrid on business, and even when he isn't Xabi believes he is anyway. He never looks him in the eye as when he tells him though, could never bear the thought of how Xabi's eyes would glisten with tears if he found out what his business trips were really like.

Íker's eyes are just as beautiful though, more so David often thinks when he's had too much Spanish wine on the balcony of his hotel room and Íker's mouth is on his. He never brings his guilt to Spain with him, leaves all thoughts of Xabi having to stay alone for a few days at the airport because this...this deserves his full attention.

They walk sometimes, hand in hand in the street; David in his suit and Íker in his smart shirt and they look like perfection. To top it off they walk into an expensive jewellers and David buys a five grand watch for the boyfriend Íker never asks about. Everything they are is based on the secrets they never tell.

*

Xabi watches him from the kitchen window, he splashes more water over his face to get rid of the feeling of sleep that still hangs over him despite the shower he just had.

He waits in the kitchen, fidgets with the letters sitting on the counter and looks like he's busy. He hears the lawn mower stop outside and moves to the fridge, takes out the ridiculously expensive orange juice and sets it on the counter as the back door opens.

Steven wipes his brow on the bottom of his shirt as he exhales loudly.

"Cheers." He mutters and picks up the glass before leaning against the counter and drumming his fingers against it like he always does.

"David's..."

"Away. Like always."

"Yeh."

The silence is awkward like it always is as Steven turns to leave the glass in the sink.

"I'll get the bru..."

He's stopped by fingers wrapped around his wrist pulling tighter by the second. Xabi kisses him, presses him against the counter and threads his fingers in his hair like he's meant too.

*

"It'd be nice if you, you know. Could be here all the time."

David smirks and drags on his cigarette, shifts in Íker's bedsheets and the sticky humid air.

"I'd only break your heart."

Feels like he is eighteen with some poor defenceless girl attempting to chat him up. Íker isn't defenceless though; Íker is Íker. He is equal and able and strong and its not that he feels bigger, more powerful when he is with Xabi; it's just he feels like Xabi is someone to take care of to look out for. Beckham likes the difference, the contrast.

Íker reaches over then and does something he's not supposed too; he slides his hand into David's as he settles back against the pillows, rubs circles on the damp skin there with his thumb.

David frowns and looks at them lying there joined in a way they shouldn't be before he looks away and he thinks of Xabi, closes his eyes before the image is gone interrupted only by the sound of Íker sighing and placing himself against David.

*

Xabi could settle for his this, if one day David were never to return (that though scares him but not in the way that it should), he thinks as Steven moves against him. The air from the now wide open window wraps itself round their bodies as they move in rapture. Steven's breath vibrates against Xabi's shoulder as they crest simultaneously and Steven kisses him on the mouth before removing himself from the bed.

He awkwardly puts his clothes back on, skin flushed and hair sticking up in all directions as he drags old jeans over his legs and pulls on his shirt again.

Steven grins at him, carefree and something else and Xabi is momentarily jealous. (He feels guilty later when he hands Steven the cheque David left for his work and he sees that his wallet has nothing but a few notes inside it.) Watches him leave the room and wishes he could be free; which is strange because it's not like he isn't happy, like he couldn't leave if he wanted too.

He pours them water in the kitchen as Steven searches in the cupboard for some tool, or brush or other.

"No gardener comes every single day."

Steven frowns and takes his glass.

"That is what David said too me."

The other man grins and drinks, shrugs half way through the mouthful.

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him." Steven finishes his drink and goes to head back outside before he turns back round.

"There's a game on the in the bar in town tonight, you fancy going for a drink and maybe dinner or something?" Steven looks hopeful, Xabi feels it but he shakes his head.

"I...I'm sorry I couldn't."

Steven smiles and mock salutes him, chants a polite "nevermind then" and Xabi feels horrible. Not for turning down the offer but because he wants to go but can't. Just can't because they aren't friends and Steven is just the man who cuts David's grass, cleans David's pool and ... fucks David's boyfriend. Xabi didn't even learn his name till after the third time, only because David came home from work early and said that "Stevie had done enough for the day."

An hour passes and Steven says he's done, he says goodbye and goes out the way he came in. Xabi hears him start his bike, the roar of the engine sparks something and he hurries to the door. Shouts at him to stop.

Xabi goes to the bar that evening. And after far too much alcohol he says too much. Steven stays the night and is gone before Xabi wakes. He is mildly relieved and sets to cleaning away every trace of anything that might hint that something happened; paranoid. His phone goes off on the bedside table and he blinks when he sees who it's from; 1 message, St.

*

Íker bids David farewell at the airport kisses him and David's heart stops when he whispers "Love you" against his mouth. David doesn't say it back and doesn't even know if wants too, he only manages a thought of "Too complicated" before he turns and enters the airport.

*

David returns in the early hours of the morning, just like when he left. He finds Xabi asleep as though he's never moved since he left. His heart contracts painfully and he climbs in with his clothes still on, wraps his arms around the sound body. Xabi exhales in his sleep.

David's phone goes off in his pocket; from Íker. He reads the words a few times ("Miss you.") and squeezes his eyes shut and finds himself asleep despite his filthy conscience; realises how fucking stupid he's been when he sees what he'g got there in his arms.

Xabi waits till he knows he's sound asleep and reaches for his own phone, opens the message again from earlier and lets out a shuddering, excited breath.

"Airport, 4 o clock tomorrow. See you then."

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on the brink - xabi alonso/frank lampard

2007-05-12T15:31:31Z

......you know what. i am not even going to come up with an excuse for writing this. i did it because i wanted to dammit. ( to be fair; i thought i'd got the thought of these two out of my head. alas that is not the case ) - i dunno if this actually has a plot. hmm.

on the brink
xabi alonso/frank lampard | NC17 | 3,100 words

on the brink

It’s all about sophistication really; about the paraphrasing with clever anecdotes and wry smiles that tell of too many secrets.

It’s about making the right friends Xabi. Not the nicest ones; the right ones.

Xabi isn’t cynical like his agent, or his brother who would quite happily parade nude on the cover of every magazine the length and breadth of Spain if it meant more exposure.

Xabi tends not to say yes to these things.

He said yes to Sociedad, under the watchful eyes and the proud smile of his father. He said yes to Liverpool beneath the tears of a team and a town on the North Coast of Spain.

He was persuaded into saying yes to Adidas. Wear the products, get the money; his agent put it bluntly. Smile for a few photos here and there. The figures in his bank account make him feel more comfortable than standing in front of a camera with a severe white screen him.

( “A week in Barcelona. A few photos all expenses paid, you can handle that Alonso?”

“Sure.”)

Sure. Until he called the company, hand clutching the phone and voice box pulled taut in his throat.

“…advertising reckon we’re biased towards the English team…”

Xabi wants to smirk and whisper ‘no way, never’ into the phone except he isn’t sarcastic and he learned from his mother that cheek was for cowards (so she’d said, after the buzzing in his ears had calmed from her endless tirade after he’d back talked at school.)

“So we needed someone else. Not English. Yeh. But someone who can speak; no fucking easy task y’know? So yeh that’s you”

Xabi stopped listening properly a while ago, fingers distracted by the pen and the discarded notepad on the table. He drums it over the words there, hastily scribbled down my Nagore that very morning; peppers…oranges…milk…

“Yeh it’ll just be you and…”

He can hear the man rustling with paper on the other side - …sugar…wine…

“…Frank Lampard; Chelsea an’ England.”

The drumming of the pen stops and Xabi utters a few polite sentences before leaning back in the chair and leaving the phone on top of the grocery list.

Frank looks like another British holidaymaker, standing in the middle of the airport with his sunglasses perched neatly on top of his head and his jacket slung over the suitcase stood beside him on the floor.

He smiles politely and shakes Xabi’s hand, and this is probably the first proper greeting he’s ever gave him, Xabi tends not to remember the ones before matches when the excitement and adrenaline is starting to flow and the only thoughts in his mind are the scent of the grass and the sea of red that surround them.

It’s warm and firm and Xabi feels the quick sting of cool metal on his fingers as Frank’s ring collides with his skin.

“Alright mate.”

Frank pulls his sunglasses down over his eyes in the mostly dull, windowless room and they stand awkwardly one behind the other in the check in queue.

They barely speak again until Frank offers him a mint before the plane is due to take off and inserts the headphones in his ears. It might be the offering of something; not friendship no definitely not. More of a; lets just get on for the week okay? – and Xabi takes it. Slips the sweet into his mouth as the plane roars into life, and he sets his head against the window and watches the sun climb into his line of sight from behind the clouds.

“Christ it’s warm.”

Frank whips off his tie shamelessly in the taxi and pops the first two buttons on his shirt as his head falls back into the headrest. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and immediately his lips are pulled into a grin when someone’s voice buzzes down the other side (Xabi wants to frown and say they can’t see, you do realize?)

He vaguely listens to the conversation, eyebrows arching ever so quickly every time Frank comes out with another coo of ‘sweetheart’ or ‘love’ or ,even once that makes almost makes Xabi laugh out loud; ‘darling.’

He feels like the young child watching his father kiss his mother and making gagging gestures with his brother from where they can’t see.

He thinks briefly of Frank’s reaction if he were to do that now and smirks in his almost half asleep state.

“Just Xabi.”

Frank says then, doesn’t even cast a glance at the other man just stares at his fingers in his lap as he continues the conversation; obviously stating who is along with him.

Just Xabi. No surname or nickname like he’s used to getting (“one of the lads from Liverpool”). Xabi; like a friend he discusses regularly at the dinner table or goes to the pub with every Saturday.

The phone clicks shut and the conversation stops as the car does too. It’s darker now, the light from behind the glass doors of the hotel casting an orange glow over them as they climb out and glance briefly around.

“Here we are.”

“Sorry about this.”

Frank rolls his eyes from his position on the other bed, he reaches behind and takes off his shirt. Casts it away and settles into the pillows, hands spread out lazily on his stomach.

“Why’re you apologizing, wasn’t your fault the stupid fuckers only have one room for us.”

Xabi sighs and frowns, bites his tongue from launching into a quiet harangue about the utter rudeness of English folk; the kind he starts when Carra makes the new lads get up and sing on their first night out or when Stevie sits in the corner and sulks for an hour before addressing anyone after one of those horrible 0-0 games.

He settles instead on…

“Sorry.”

And Frank rolls his eyes.

Xabi watches the clock that night as he tries to get to sleep, the sheets stick to his skin and there isn’t enough air in the room. When he opens the window he gets cold again and has to shut it. So.

He watches the clock and listens to the soft sound of sleep from the other bed (he momentarily wants to kill Frank Lampard because this is Xabi’s country and Xabi should be comfortable and Frank should be the one tossing and turning and …) and squeezes his eyes shut as he prays the rest of the week won’t go this slow. (He prays though he isn’t hopeful.)

“That’s it.”

The camera clicks and Xabi watches from the side as he pulls on his own jacket and seats himself in the chair with a bottle of water.

Frank smiles almost filthily at the camera, stands proud with his chest stuck out a mile in front of him and pulls the bottom of shirt up ever so slightly to reveal a sliver of golden skin when he puts his hands on his hips.

If Frank were a woman he’d be in one of those magazines Xabi and Mikel used to sneak into the house when they were teens, the kind his mother would roll up and slap them both once on the head with when she found them.

Xabi is sensible though; finds himself on the brink of laughter at the thought of he and Frank being anywhere near friends.

(For now.)

Xabi gets an odd quirk of guilt when he finally realizes they do have something in common, in the end.

They’re sitting outside a café, situated neatly in the bustle of Las Ramblas where the shade is still warm but comfortable enough to relax in for a half hour.

Frank drinks cider, sighs heavily as he closes his fingers around the damp glass, when the cool liquid greets his mouth and he leans back in his chair.

Xabi gets a bizarre look when he orders coffee, shrugs when Frank looks like me might actually come out with “what the fuck?”

He closes his eyes and savors it more than he’s savored anything in a while.

“It’d be easy to live here. To be happy here.”

Frank’s eyes look as though they are detached from the rest of him, wide and sparkling and staring into space. Xabi tilts his head and looks at him; funny he was thinking the same thing not ten seconds.

“It’s nice.”

Is all he manages and then Frank looks down at his feet, frown on his forehead and thoughts rushing behind his eyes now. And Xabi remembers he is not the only one there are transfer rumours about.

It is the fourth day before they finally get drunk (or even slightly friendly). Properly.

The photographer gets pissed off when Xabi can’t catch the ball right on the top of his foot for the snapshot and Frank spills an entire flask of tea over the neat snow white, linen table cloth.

They get let off early, waved away by the red faced director and Xabi acts as some sort of tour guide. Frank runs his fingers over the buildings they pass, the ones Xabi dictates about as though he is reading text from a book, like he is genuinely interested (Xabi isn’t sure if he actually is; but he appreciates the effort nonetheless.)

They go for dinner; and Xabi translates almost everything on the menu. By the time the waiter comes to serve them Frank has pretty much forgotten what they all mean and Xabi orders the same for them both.

“Thanks. My err, Spanish isn’t exactly fluent.”

He blushes a little and his shoulders tense as his hands fidget under the table. Xabi smiles genuinely at the sincerity in his voice.

“I win.”

Frank’s voice sings with the alcohol it is drenched in, he sets the glass gently down on the table and smiles smugly as Xabi glugs back the remnants of his glass.

“Rematch.”

Frank shakes his head and narrows his mouth sarcastically.

“Xabi lad. Incase you have not noticed. The last thirteen have been rematches.”

Xabi sways dangerously as Frank puts a hand on his shoulder ever so gently.

“So?”

“I’m getting water.”

“Coward.”

“Fuck off.”

“Ouch.”

A few women sit down beside them and if Frank weren’t in such a state he would be all smiles and perfect posture and can I buy you a drink?. As it is he lays back in his seat while Xabi makes bad jokes, every word that leaves his mouth being hailed with a chorus of giggles.

“Why do all the birds fancy you foreign lads?”

He muses as they walk away, heels clicking against the expensive floors.

Xabi winks and grins at him, and this is definitely a different person to the shy lad who insists on getting changed in the bathroom before they retire to sleep.

“Well. I can sort of see why.”

Xabi’s face grows hotter as Frank’s eyes evaluate him.

“Stop it.”

“Mmmhmmm.” Frank growls and clicks his tongue, mockingly.

“Seriously.”

Xabi narrows his eyes as the other man just laughs and shakes his head and mutters something about paranoia before taking another sip of water. The blush in Xabi’s cheeks doesn’t relinquish.

The first mistake, Xabi realizes later, was not getting changed in the bathroom. Like he should have done, would have done had it not been for the excessive amounts of alcohol in his system.

If Xabi were to analyze the situation properly (which does seem like something he would do, the more he thinks about it) he would probably discover that the moment the barman set down the vodka in front of him and Frank mentioned ‘drinking contest’ was the moment all was set to go wrong.

Xabi takes off his shirt and lets it fall to the floor, feeling the start of sleep beginning to creep into his mind and mist over his eyes.

He leans over the sink in the bathroom, doesn’t even shut the door this time as he turns on the tap and reaches for the cloth in his wash bag there. The water feels cool as he cups his hands and lets it fill the temporary bowl, splashes it over his face.

He hears the bed creak and expects to hear the buzz of the television any second.

He doesn’t.

There is no sound right then, only Frank’s fingertips ghosting his the sharp bones of his hips, tracing them out like braille as he presses a mouth against his neck.

“Frank.” It’s quick, almost a sigh.

“What’re y…”

“Don’t talk. Please.”

Xabi’s head falls to the side ever so slightly, as his lips part.

“Sor…”

“Don’t apologize.”

He turns around as Frank presses him into the edge of the marble sink with his hips, teeth grazing smooth skin that makes Xabi sigh again and the alcohol in his blood buzzes victoriously. His hands find their way into Frank’s hair and he tugs it, tugs it until that mouth is level with his own, on his own. They kiss soft and slow, nothing like drunken one night stands (this) is depicted in films, hot and hard and Xabi feels like it should be rougher.

Then it is, before he knows it. Frank’s hand finds it ways down the front of his trousers, slipping deftly over straining underwear and Xabi sinks his teeth into Frank’s bottom lip and tastes the copper tang of passion in his mouth.

They end up on Xabi’s bed eventually, after initial stumbling and struggles with jeans that just wouldn’t give up. He takes Xabi’s wrists and pins them above them, in a display of dominance and kisses his mouth again, closes his eyes when he feels Xabi’s eyelashes brush his cheek gently.

He lets his hands go and is glad he did so when he feels them slide around him, stroking his back with long delicate fingers that press into all the right places.

Frank’s fingers trail to Xabi’s cock, he touches it briefly before they slip to the side and find their way around his thigh. He pushes at it, and Xabi complies lifting it ever so slightly and letting his legs fall open that little bit more. He feels so exposed then when Frank stops kissing him, moves up farther and lets two fingers slip into Xabi’s mouth.

Frank feels faintly inadequate as he observes the man beneath him; eyes soft and cheeks pink from lust and exertion. For a second he’s never felt more sober in his life and he gulps nervously until Xabi presses up against him and his mind is back to having no control over the throbbing in his lower body. He prepares Xabi with quick, precision as the younger man moans and lets his hand wander to his owncock, stroking in time with Frank’s movement until there is none.

And then again there is.

He enters him quickly, nearly too quickly and Xabi gasps, winces and he closes his tight, bites down on his own hand.

Frank chews his lower lip anxiously and leans down, kisses his collarbone.

“I’m sorry.”

Xabi’s legs press tighter around him, thighs quivering with anticipation as he runs a hand through damp hair.

“Don’t apologize.”

He practically smirks then and Frank grins back and begins to move. Xabi relishes the different kind of adrenaline rush now, arching up into the hot body above him as the alcohol keeps him going and keeps the guilt and wrong of what they’re doing away from his mind.

He grins to himself as the thought of the photographer enters his mind just then (he’s not sure why), standing there mouth gaping as he watches them fuck on the bed and Xabi doesn’t know what the hell is wrong with him but whatever is in the Spanish vodka has given him some sort of personality transplant, as he feels himself harden even more at the thoughts of the flash going off there behind Frank’s head.

Frank thrusts harder into him, the bed creaks violently from their efforts, headboard cracking once against the wall and Xabi’s head cracking once against it.

“Fuck,” he curses more from the sheer concentrated lust of it all than the pain he barely feels.

Frank replaces Xabi’s hand with own, prying the fingers away and stroking in time with his thrusts as Xabi reaches behind and grips the headboard; knuckles turning white as it goes back the typical rough nature Xabi expected.

And he enjoys it better like this (probably more than it should) because this; isn’t love, no, not even slightly. He gives up on trying to give it a label, whatever the fuck this is when Frank looks up at him then, eyes dark, and, green glowing and emblazoned with zeal. Beads of sweat cling to his forehead and his hair and Xabi comes just as one drops subtlely onto his chest, mixing with the rest of the bodily fluids that make his skin glisten in the yellow glow cast over the room.

His mouth catches painfully on the other mans just as he comes too in the tight grip of Xabi’s body, groans flowing over Xabi’s tongue and into his body, just like his come.

It only takes a few minutes before something sets in, Xabi quivers uncontrollably, sweat cooling and stomach turning and it doesn’t stop until Frank climbs out of his bed and he hears the creak of springs as he settles into the other one.

Xabi’s head rests against the window in the plane as he watches the miserable grey sky and the rain fall against it, sliding gracefully down the pane.

The opposite to when they were flying to Barcelona.

He realizes it’s not just the weather that has changed for this return journey.

Frank offers him a mint, but he doesn’t stop there. He asks if he wants a drink, something to eat, all of which Xabi politely refuses.

They converse about everything and nothing and Frank’s iPod didn’t even make its way into his hand luggage for this journey.

They’re almost back in London, Xabi can see the land again and the dull grey shade that hangs over most of England most of the time. It doesn’t depress him like it probably should though; feels more familiar actually than the Spanish sunshine did when he stepped off that plane a week ago (which is something in itself really.)

“Are we friends now?”

Xabi smile is wry and cheeky as he turns back to watch the other man’s reaction. Frank’s head bows as he laughs quietly.

“Nah.”

“Didn’t think so.”

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- if you managed your way to the end of that crap above; you get to request one crazy pairing fic (or non crazy. whatever. normal otps are fine too). yep that is correct. any pairing you want. (except germans. yeh. or manchester utd) ok so. yeh. go ahead.

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iv. scholars - the college au

2007-05-09T22:17:45Z

please forgive how crappy and rusty my writing is. gah.

iv. scholars
- college au
- characters in this part: steven gerrard. xabi alonso. frank lampard. daniel agger. gabriel paletta. steve finnan. (brief mention of andriy shevchenko)
- rating (for this part) : pg
- words: 1,532

iv. scholars

Somewhere between the coffee shop in the afternoon and standing at the bus stop in the dark, Xabi Alonso consumed too much alcohol.

He sways dangerously, groping for the cool metal, nudging his shoulder off it painfully instead.

“Fuck.” He mutters, rubbing under his jacket as the rain begins to spit miserably from the sky.

Steven parks himself on the ground under the shelter, neither of them daring to go near that strange beige coloured substance that coats the bench.

Steven giggles quietly as Xabi attempts to sit down beside him, stumbles a little and knocks his head off the plastic pane this time.

“You’re going to be fucking black and blue tomorrow mate,” Steven’s practically giddy now, rocking from side to side like a hyperactive child, too much vodka buzzing in his bloodstream.

Xabi glares and reaches into his pocket, pulls out his last cigarette and the box of matches.

“Give us one of those lad,” Steven reaches over and snatches it quickly from between the pads of his fingers, inhales deeply before exhaling exaggeratedly.

“That’s ni…” He stutters into a choking fit, eyes watering and burning red before forcing it back into the hand of the Spaniard who is giggling by now.

“Didn’t think you’d be the type for this,” Steven eyes him up and down, nodding approvingly, stock taking done it seems.

“What?”

“Getting pissed wey strangers.”

Xabi shrugs, takes another puff of the cigarette before letting the smoke slip from between his lips.

“I am glad you did,” Steven pouts and pats Xabi’s head patronizingly, like a mother would do to her child, or the family pet.

Xabi just blinks wearily a few times before sighing and staggering to his feet again, squinting as he glanced down the road for any sign of headlights or a glowing bus number in the dark.

He felt Steven pressed up against him, shoulder against his and head drifting onto the padding in his jacket.

“I’m so fucked tomorrow.” He half whispers and closes his eyes, groaning as though trying to will away the hangover drifting ever closer.

“We are so fucked if we don’t get a bus. What time is it?”

“Nnggh. Er. Half eleven.”

Xabi turns round, eyes wide and tongue between his teeth.

“Steven.” He manages through gritted teeth. “The buses stop at eleven.”

“Oh.”

Xabi blushes as he belts Steven into the backseat, watching Frank in the mirror, eyes narrowed and mouth tight.

He gets into the front seat, and coughs quietly as though to excuse himself, glancing over at his friend as his hands twitch nervously in his lap.

“Sorry about this.”

“Whatever. Where the fuck does he live so we can drop ‘im off?”

Steven muttered an address to them, eyes shut and head lolling dangerously to the side occasionally as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

“Jesus Xabi, you pick them don’t you.”

“We had a few drinks.”

“Either you’re lying or he just can’t take his alcohol.”

Xabi grunts and shifts in his seat, can practically feel the headache coming already.

“More than a few then.”

Frank rolls his eyes and brings the car too a screeching halt outside a dark apartment block. Steven fumbles with his seatbelt before opening the door and climbing out. He salutes Xabi through the window and winks at him before ambling towards the double doors.

“What’s wrong with you tonight?”

Xabi was leaning to the side again, eyeing Frank’s sorrow filled expression curiously.

“Nothing.”

Xabi reaches over and puts his hand carefully on his shoulder, long fingers pressing gently against the fabric before stroking the tense muscle soothingly.

“You can tell me.”

Frank looks up, small pearls of tears dotting the insides of his eyes, casting an eerie glow over the intense green there.

“It’s just.” He coughs away the thick lump of emotion in the back of his throat, “ I…I just.”

He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes furiously. Xabi was sitting up now, genuinely worried.

Frank clenches his hands tightly around the steering wheel, breathing deeply over and over.

“I’ve fucked it all up.”

Xabi presses cool lips against his cheek, lingering a moment and letting the warm breath sooth the wet tracks the few tears that escaped had left.

“It’s ok.”

He pulls him into an embrace, stroking his shoulder softly and uttering quiet soothing words into his ear, like an older brother or even a mother would do.

Steven had finally succeeded in getting the door open, he punches the air in victory and jumps once off the ground, grinning a little to himself.

He turns round to wave again, still seeing the streams of light from the car headlights along the ground.

Raises his hand, but stops midway at the sight before him. He feels a lump in his throat and a bizarre heaviness in his stomach that causes his arm to sink back to his side.

He simply shoves his hands back into his pockets and makes his way inside and down the corridor to his room.

Agger and Paletta sit in the exact same spot every morning at ten o’clock before either have any classes.

Agger brings cigarettes. Paletta brings coffee from Starbucks down the road. It’s routine, plain and simple. They sit on wall across the road from the park and people walk past and cast awkward glances at them. With their cigarettes letting off thick clouds of grey fog and all dressed in their clothes that just give off ‘punk’ or something similar.

Everyone gets a label.

Daniel would rather have a label and stand out than, than have none and be another dull face in the crowd. It’s always been his way.

This morning though Daniel takes one sip of his coffee (“One sugar yeh? I didn’t get it wrong?” Gabriel frowns) and stabs the cigarette out on the wall before its anywhere near done.

“Seriously. What the fuck is wrong with you this morning?”

Daniel grunts and shifts on the wall, his curled fist knocking the coffee on the ground so that is splashes rather artistically over the grey paving stones.

Gabriel rolls his eyes and slinks down off the wall, he walks over to stand in front of his friend.

“You’re thinking about him again.”

Daniel blushes and looks away.

“Mate. He is like what fifty? You are what twen…”

“Thirty one.”

“Eh?”

“He’s thirty one.”

Gabriel shakes his head.

“Whatever, Dan that’s still a difference.”

Suddenly Daniel looks like the lost child, confused and hurt who doesn’t know where to turn. He shifts, fist clenching around the edge of the stone he’s seated on.

“I know. But…”

He hops off the wall and grabs his back cast wildly all on the ground.

“Doesn’t matter. Come on, we’ll be late.”

Steve leans precariously over the sink in the staff toilets, head spinning and fuck I’m not even meant to be in here.

He lifts his fist and clenches it tightly, stares vengefully at the mirror and thinks of the cracking sound it would make, the sheer release from ramming his knuckles into it.

But the anger soon abides, and is replaced with sheer horror and disbelief.

He feels his chest tighten and he clutches quickly at the top button on his shirt, pops it before pulling off his tie and flinging it away from him.

What the fuck is he supposed to do now?

He presses his palms into the sockets of his eyes and groans around them.

Hears Shevchenko’s words over and over again in his head, like a fucking awful song stuck on repeat.

We have no choice but too…

Christ how could he have been so stupid, how could he have let himself get into such a situation? The taste of the tequila refreshes in his mouth and he almost throws up again, memories come flooding back that he couldn’t remember before. Daniel eyes, glowing amidst the crowds of people.

Close. So close. Too close.

His mouth, on his, gentle and hot. Hands stroking his back, his sides; he reaches down and brushes his fingertips there, can almost feel the tracks, the marks left. He remembers his mouth on his neck, breath on his cheek and god that was nice.

Steve shakes his head and leans into the mirror again, the surface feeling soothing and smooth against his forehead.

He did not just think that. No. No fucking way. He’s a professional; he can’t believe he even let anything like this happen.

He scrunches his eyes shut, pressed firmly together because this isn’t the right time for showing emotion. He’ll do that later when he’s wallowing in the pits of a collapsed career with his bottle of whiskey in hand.

He exits the bathroom and glances around, feels like the eyes of every student and teacher burn through him, judging him from all angles.

He can see the front door already and all he wants is to go home, a shower and a sleep because fuck his mind is a mess right now and…

“Finnan.”

A hand on his shoulder. He gulps and turns around, greeted with a smile and a flash of dark eyes.

“Morning, Daniel.”

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(a brief) contemplation - steve finnan/daniel agger

2007-04-27T19:17:41Z

ok so this one is sort of for in_the_shadows7 who wanted steve finnan/daniel agger and i did use the prompt she gave me in the fic but oh god; im not sure this is really good enough to be a fufilled request =/ its a few prompts i nicked off 10_promptsfor inspiration (they are bolded) and really is just a few drabbles strung together with no connection. anyway here;

(a brief) contemplation
steve finnan/daniel agger | R | 800 words | a few short drabbles. sort of.

(a brief) contemplation

castle

Fortress Anfield they call it. He’d read about it before, about legendary nights and of a crowd that could make a chill run through anyway; the excitement, the fear, the sheer beauty of it all. (Love for football, and love for a person is not all that different; Daniel contemplates. Because while there are many different types of love; they all equate to one thing.)

Daniel feels the same way he did when he first kissed a girl, the first time he walks out at Anfield. The grass crunches under his boots, tells of a cold February night and he feels his muscles tense and taut as the anxiety takes hold.

His heart starts beating faster, and his breath catches in his lungs that few seconds longer than it should as he looks up the crowd as it reaches its crescendo of their beloved anthem.

He smiles, contented, please when it is all over and realizes the journey has only just begun.

simple things

Daniel enjoys the simple things in life; contrary to what people would believe to be their lifestyle. He likes the smell of coffee in the morning, remembers waking up to it all the time back home when he was younger and when his mother still wasn’t sure if it was safe to be feeding her precious Daniel caffeine.

He’d walk in on her singing, humming happily to herself and set the mug down in front of him quietly, winked and made a quiet gesture as she pointed down the hall to the room in which his sleeping father lay.

There are things that seem meaningless and pointless to anyone else who has not experienced them; he wishes he could take photographs, lock the memories away in boxes so no one else could see such perfection.

He likes the way Steve’s arm fits perfectly round his waist as he lays against him on the sofa in his living room, which can barely contain one of them.

Or the way he always slurps his tea in the morning with foggy eyes and hair stuck up in all directions. (“What’s so fucking funny?” Daniel loves the sound of Steve’s voice in the morning, thick with fatigue and that brief annoyance.)

“What are you smiling at?”

Steve reaches over just then, and places his hand into Daniel’s and presses his fingers down into the spaces between Daniel’s own.

(Daniel loves. He loves.)

music

Steve shifts beneath him, winces again and makes that quiet almost whimpering sound that barely squirms from between his lips.

Daniel smiles as he leans down, sweeps his lips over Steve’s voice box and feels the gentle buzz of satisfaction beneath the skin.

He moves gently, ever so slightly at first and feels Steve relax around as he slowly builds his pace.

Steve smiles and his head lolls to side, his cheek flushed and rosy against the whiteness of the pillow. He moans into it as Daniel presses deeper inside him, bites even at the material.

Daniel fingers find their way into his hair, tugs gently to bring the other man’s head back to his own and stares into eyes that tell so much more than words ever could, striking green ablaze with lust and passion, and. Love.

Steve comes. Loudly, groaning incoherently in Daniel’s ear as his back arches off the mattress and up into the body of his lover.

Daniel listens, eyes closed and takes in everything as the words pass his ears like a sweet symphony, music and notes flowing from swollen lips.

scarred/spotless

Daniel watches intently in the mirror as Steve runs long fingers over his back, he closes his eyes at the soft touches over the lightly raised skin and remembers the stories from the ink on his back. Can still feel the sting as Steve presses his lips there.

Steve’s body is immaculate, nothing to tell of the crunching tackles or the nasty cuts or breaks that comes with their profession. Daniel knows though; that his soul is a different matter.

He sees the pain hidden behind everything, can practically see the wall built across Steve’s mind when he looks in his eyes, (though he hasn’t worked out yet; whether its to keep something in. Or keep something (someone) out.)

But he doesn’t say anything; just waits. Smiles when he sees the nervous flinch of Steve’s shoulders and the frown on his forehead and places a hand on his should; an “its ok.” And all is right.

(And Steve does tell him. One day.

It’s awkward and they smile, and Steve blushes but there is Daniel again with that hand on his shoulder, lips against his and –

“I didn’t know you were so complicated.”)

afraid

There are people that say love is the scariest thing, the most frightening feeling in the world – Daniel dares to disagree; thinks if this is fear he would happily spend his life afraid.

+ add shadow_prosefor more of my fic/fic updates
+ feel free to leave a prompt/request here. or any AU prompts here

</div>

interlude - steven gerrard/mikel arteta

2007-04-20T22:26:20Z

short drabble thing. i have a larger fic involving these two in the works, and i really don't like this but still. until then here; xabi goes to barca. stevie goes to find clarification, finds something else instead.

interlude
steven gerrard/mikel arteta | pg-13 | 500 words | turning over leaves

interlude

Stevie pulls him closer, hand fisted in his hair clenched like a vice around the black strands and tugging furiously at them. He uses his strength, presses against him and revels in the fact he could hurt him, break him (he won’t though. He won’t.)

He feels the other tongue in his mouth vibrate, tastes the whimper and the desperation there. It could be a plea to stop, a voice trying to cry out, to let him go. But the way Mikel pushes against him he begs to differ.

He doesn’t notice his belt is undone till he reaches down to undo it himself, finds two warm hands already there, tucked safely between the denim and the blazing skin.

Stevie stops, looks into unfamiliar dark eyes and theres a moment of awkwardness, an interlude when time stops. Stevie doesn’t listen to the rules that attempt to hold him back, doesn’t wait for gravity or time.

He leans forward again and kisses him, hard and unforgiving and feels his trousers slip farther down revealing the top of his thighs and he’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so far gone.

Mikel presses him against the opposite wall, and Stevie thinks of the other side of the wall, the reverse. Of all those nights staggering in drunk, smiles and laughs pushing their way through their mouths before they collided.

Xabi.

It’s barely a whisper but Mikel hears it, his shoulders slouch sympathetically and he presses his palm against Steven’s heart.

I know.

Steven nods and leans forward again.

It’s not much but it helps ease the gaping pain in his heart. He clings to him all night (like he clings to hope; to the hope that things will work out. To the thought that Barcelona isn’t that far away. To the hope that love never dies.)

Steven will sit up half awake the next morning with guilt eating the lining of his stomach as he catches a glimpse of an unfamiliar room, of the tufts of black hair and the various items of clothing littered across the floor.

In Barcelona Xabi wakes up in a foreign room, eyes dusty and a dull ache in the bottom of his stomach, Nagore’s hand twists comfortably into his and he smiles at her.

He feels a sudden pull at his heart; a lump in his throat as he reaches for his phone. Presses familiar digits into it and waits as it rings.

Mikel scrabbles with the denim on the floor and flips the phone open before he can even think. Answers.

The phone clicks dead on the other side as Steven stares horrorstricken at Mikel.

And Steven feels like what he was clinging to; what he was holding on for is gone. Slipped away through clumsy fingers. They sit in silence.

(What they don’t realize is; the sound could quite easily have been the breaking of a heart, the shattering of a dream, the trickling of tears down a cheeks in an alien hotel room in all too proverbial country. Though neither of them will never know.)

</div>

Stuff about Scholars (College AU): I really want to write more of it though I am having creative troubles at the minute; under alot of pressure at school but, still I want to write!

So. If you haven't read here are the three parts so far; one. two. and three

I'd like to write drabbles, ficlets involving the characters in the story (I know its only short so far but still) so if anyone would like; please feel free (I beg you) to request ficlets involving those characters. You can ask about their pasts, their presents, simply character insights. Like for example; 'how did john and frank meet' (random example by the way - feel free to still request it though) and i will write a short-ish ficlet on that. It can be anything involving the characters in the stories so far.

Also; you can request pairings, storylines you would like to see happen in it. Anything goes. I am desperate. I am begging here. *puppy eyes*

</div>

holding out (holding on) - john arne riise/luis garcia

2007-04-09T18:31:52Z

for tasteslikeboyswho wanted luis/john . totally not what you asked for but still its them (and i promise i shall write you a reverse visit ie. luis returning to liverpool. i promise there will be 'rediscovery' in that one dear ;] ) now; this is set around the beginning of march, and i a) don't know if luis was still in spain at this stage b) don't know if luis has a house in barcelona and c) don't know if john would get time off for this. but for the sake of fiction lets pretend he was, he has, and he would ;D

holding out (holding on)
john arne riise/luis garcia | pg | john goes to spain | 700 words

holding out (holding on)

Somewhere along the way John goes to Spain. It happens on a whim, between the new, dismal English sun and the sickly sweet glow of Catalonia. Between the early morning cloud that anticipates rain, and the evening refrain of crickets as the sun sinks lower into the horizon.

John thinks it could be a mistake, considers for only moment when the plane lands on the runway and the glare of yellow light blinds him through the window (like a realization.) His mind a mess as he steps off, jacket already sticking to his back (nervous sweat or just heat he’ll know) and his bag clutched in his left hand..

It hits him like a blow to the head; that he’s never been here before on his own.

This Barcelona is different to the one he conquered not so long ago with his team (and without Luis). This time its different, more personal somehow. Like every single person is looking down at him and every street sign and shop window glares. You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong.

He knows Luis’ house, has the address scribbled down a yellow post it note from once before when he sent a postcard during the summer. He kept it in the box in his second drawer beside his bed, with other things. Ticket stubs, and jewelry, he even found one of those novelty toys his daughter won at a fair he took her too. The stuff that is pointless and trivial to everyone else but is far to important to John for him to throw away.

The house looks different in March, John thinks. Calmer, not as bright or vibrant as that one July he visited however the subtleties of Spring he finds, are just as beautiful. There are lilac flowers in pots either side of the door and a magazine laying on the front doorstep.

John picks it up and leaves it to the side as he steps up onto the porch, feels his stomach twist sickeningly as his knuckles connect with the white wood. Three long taps and two quick, short ones.

Luis answers eventually, his mouth open and eyes bright. His son stands behind him, hand fisted in the loose gray trousers and he looks up at John from under his hair, apprehensive and unsure. He smiles after a second though and John smiles back, realisez that the little boy finally recognizes him. Its makes his heart stop the furious thudding for a second and his stomach relaxes.

“Hi.” Luis’ voice sounds different, he thinks.

“Hello.”

Its awkward, and it should be and it shouldn’t. Its been well over a month (which at first seems a long time but really it isn’t John recognizes considering he went most of his life without knowing him.)

Joel pads away on the wooden floor and through a doorframe to the right where John can hear the gentle buzz of the television.

Luis closes the front door as John steps inside and all he can do then is kiss the man standing in front of him. No words necessary and it’s a ‘god I’ve missed you’ and something that tastes like a ‘thank you’ all in one.

John relishes it. Can barely remember their last kiss; (barely. But yes he still remembers. Remembers the way Luis’ tears felt like ice against his cheeks, the soft panting almost sobbing sounds. The bitter sting of the January air against their skin. And the whispered promises and goodbyes in the darkness.)

His hands travel up to his hair (thinks short. Too short. Remembers the Luis of earlier, when he could tangle his hands in the heavy black strands, or reach over during the night and feel them catch and settle between his fingers.)

“I’ve missed you.”

Luis has tears in his eyes again and John just laughs low and soft in the intimacy of it all, runs his thumb over his cheeks and wipes away the silver tear trickling a path down golden skin.

He kisses his hair and holds him close. Luis reaches round and clings to his shirt, shuddering gently against the taller man. Finally feels whole again. Decides he never wants that feeling to stop.

+ leave any fic requests/prompts HERE if you wish. au prompts should be left HERE
+ feel free to add shadow_prose for fic updates

</div>

iii. scholars - college au

2007-04-08T16:55:21Z

here we go. been so long since i've written. have a whole heap of stuff in the works but anyway. here we go. hope it isn't too shit.

iii. scholars
- college au
- characters in this part: steven gerrard. xabi alonso. steve finnan. daniel agger. gabriel paletta. frank lampard. john terry.
- rating (for this part) : pg-13
- words: 1,400

iii. scholars

“English hm?”

Xabi frowns. Realized long ago when he met Frank that not all people from England use (or sound) exactly Shakespeare language (or how the actors in Romeo and Juliet would sound) but god this boy. Sounds more gibberish than anything, like he’s taking the dictionary and ripping it to shreds with his tongue.

He speaks rapidly fingers wrapped around the mug he’s holding and he’s had a permanent blush on his face for the past half hour.

They ended up in a coffee shop on campus somehow when Xabi saw how lost he looked outside the lecture hall. Xabi chooses a table in the corner and gets them their drinks, tea and a coffee for himself.

Its warm inside. And Xabi removes his scarf, stretching his neck in the sudden rush of air against the flush skin.

“Yeh I’m from Merseyside.”

“Ah. Do they all sound like you there?”

Steven laughs, head lolling to the side and he grins afterwards in a boyish sort of way.

“There’s a lot worse. Trust me.”

“Perhaps I definitely should not visit then.”

“Hm might not be the place for you.”

And it’s the awkward silence again filled with nothing but a slurp from Xabi and a spluttering from Steven as he spills some of the hot liquid on his wrist.

“Fuck,” he mutters, holding it gently before turning back to the other man, “where you from?”

“San Sebastian,” he pauses adds, “in Spain.” Just to make sure the boy knows.

“Yeh I know where it is. Me dad’s mate has his boat there, nice place. Lot nicer than England”

Xabi nods. Smiles. He thinks Steven will reckon he’s impressed but the boy still looks in the same dazed mood he was at the start of class.

All of a sudden Steven’s face changes, mood swing if you will. Quickly.

“Anywhere’s nicer than England.”

They don’t say anymore for a while; though Xabi is already intrigued. He always was one for delving into stories, for analyzing a character’s (Steven in this case) backdrop.

This time will be no different.

Steve Finnan leans over the counter in his kitchen as he feels his stomach turn again. Fuck. His eyes burn if he turns on the lights and his head literally spins.

He’ll be damned if he ever goes drinking with the younger students again.

(That thought just gives him another sour feeling in the bottom of his stomach. Old. Too old for all that old Finns.)

He grins slightly to himself standing there against his sink, swaying in the darkness, as he remembers Daniel’s and Gabriel’s pleading faces. Their chortles of laughter when he finally agreed.

He doesn’t remember much after his fourth of fifth drink. Though god he wishes he hadn’t let Agger get him his drinks all night.

“Probably asked for triples. Little bastard.”

His phone rings over on the coffee table, vibrating loudly against the wood and Steve groans as it hums right into his brain and disrupts the tranquility that was slowly building there again.

Probably someone from college. Wondering why he’s sick.

“Hello?” he realizes how croaky he sounds, coughs to clear his throat.

“Ah your up sir. Didn’t think you’d rise for a week after last night.”

Steve makes a disgruntled, harsh noise in the back of his throat.

“ I’m never going drinking with you’s again.”

“Hey now wasn’t me who told the barman to add tequila to all your drinks?”

“Tequila?!?!”

His head throbs even harder now as he thinks of the exotic liquid wreaking havoc in his body.

“Err yeah. That’s Gabriel for you. You should hear some of my stories about him Steve …”

“No, no its fine I don’t think I want too. And,” he stops, frowns, “don’t call me Steve.”

Finds it strange, makes a peculiar twisting sensation in his stomach.

“Why not? That’s your name St…”

“I said don’t. I’ll see you tomorrow in class Daniel.”

Hangs up and feels the astringent sting of guilt in his guts now.

His phone buzzes again and he curses as he picks it up.

“What no…”

“Ahh Professor Finnan. It’s Shevchenko here. I need to have a word…”

“He doesn’t remember.” Agger stares almost dumbstruck at the phone, eyes blank and forehead wrinkled in bewilderment.

Gabriel looks at him sympathetically, lays a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Daniel lifts his hand and presses his fingers into his eyes, lets it wander to his lips as it grazes them absentmindedly. Reminiscing almost.

“He doesn’t remember kissing me.”

Gabriel puts the arm further round his friend.

“He was really drunk mate.”

But Daniel doesn’t speak. Just stares off into space with one thought on his mind.

Either Steve didn’t remember; or he was choosing not to remember.

Frank picks up the various items of clothing littered across the floor with ease as he tiptoes round the room; careful not wake the other man asleep in the single bed.

His back aches as he bends to lift his shirt, can all but hear it crack from tension. He needs to remind John that he should really get a double bed or he won’t be able to make it through his team’s next game if they keep this up.

He manages his shirt, socks. Almost his jeans before the zipper catches on his skin and he yelps. Immediately brings his band up to his mouth and bites.

“What the fuck are you screaming about?”

John rubs his eyes, manages a lop sided grin in the darkness of the room as he watches Frank redo his trousers.

Frank just smiles back; doesn’t answer as he leans down and kisses him again.

“Please stay?”

Frank bites his lip and lets his eyes wander to the floor, like hes considering it and he wants too but …

“I can’t I have work to do. And class in the morning. And Xabi locks the fucking door and won’t let me in if I’m later than midnight.”

John rolls his eyes and leans back on his elbows in the bed.

“You always do this.”

And he sounds genuinely hurt.

“Can’t you just tell this Xabi, who sounds worse than me own mum if I’m totally honestly, you’re coming to see me?”

Frank refuses to meet his stare. He reaches for his jacket, cast over the back of the armchair in the corner.

“I really have to go.”

And he kisses him again, before his hand meets the door handle and he’s walking out.

“Fuck you Frank.”

“What?”

“Fuck. You. You can’t even bring yourself to tell your smart arse friends about me.”

“That’s not…”

“Christ whatever would they think. Bringing that up at one of your snooty tea parties in the library. ‘Oi lads I’m shagging some bloke over the other side o’ town. Yeh he works in a pub, lives in some shit hole and can’t afford his electricity bill. Hows about that?’”

Frank feels a lump in his throat and can’t work out if it’s fury or annoyance or, plain guilt.

“John stop it I don’t think that.”

Frank sits at the end of the bed, reaches out for the other mans hand but it is snatched away from him.

“This was never going to work,” John stares out the window at the night sky, watches the lights of some of his neighbors turn off and the brief flickers of movement of people wandering home drunk.

“What?” Frank’s voice is barely audible, “what the hell are you o…?”

“We were just kiddin’ ourselves. We’re too different Frank. Could you ever see your parents looking pleased about meeting someone like me?”

The expression on John’s face is so honest it breaks Frank’s heart and this time when he reaches out for his hand he lets him. Its warm and intimite and Frank wants nothing more than to push him back down into the bed again.

“Don’t do this.” Frank whispers and John lets go, the absence felt in Frank’s palm. Cold and bitter.

And he leaves because he has no other choice.

+ leave any fic requests/prompts HERE if you wish. au prompts should be left HERE
+ feel free to add shadow_proseshadow_prose for fic updates

</div>

division - john terry/frank lampard

2007-03-18T00:44:54Z

for walked_onwater and her au prompt she left here

division
john terry/frank lampard | pg-13 | rivalry can develop

frank slams the paper furiously down on the kitchen table, sits himself down and glups back the mug of tea left before him.

“fucking bastards.” he mutters, wants to fucking scream but his mother is upstairs and that wouldn’t go down well.

dear mr lampard……didn’t go as well as we’d hoped……wish you luck for all future endeavours……

he feels the tears trickle down his cheeks; can’t hide the emotion though knows he has too. his dad didn’t even want him to go to that trial; god knows what he would think if his frank actually wanted to sign for chelsea.

he shudders at the thought.

“fuck them.” He snarls, throws the letter into the bin with an almighty slam, “chelsea dunno what they could’ve got.”

frank goes back to the west ham youth team; he trains and works like he does all the other times. there’s a new boy on trial when he goes in on wednesday, hovering beside the coaches with a serious and nervous expression that can only ever be seen plastered all over the faces of new trainees.

in their very first session that morning frank is tackled. hard. turns round to see an able and ready smirk there. he growls, a vibrating sensation in the back of his throat as he gets up ready to use more than words to defend himself.

“lampard just get on with it,” someone shouts to him so he breathes and turns round and retreats further up the pitch.

at dinner, he finds his space taken. This john has worked himself quite neatly into the group here (what? two hours after coming…), has himself settled beside two his ‘his lads’ cole and lawson. listens to their loud laughter echoe across the room as he sits down at the other side of the canteen, gritting his teeth all the time.

the third (and final thing frank is willing to take) is when he sees who has quite happily left his bags in frank’s space in the locker room.

Everyone else is gone by then, just john’s bags sitting there and the shower is on full blast he can hear.

He walks round, straight up to him and pushes him up against the tile from behind.

“do you have a problem with me?” he hisses into the younger boy’s ear, nails digging crescents in his back. Frank looks down, can see the bruises from training on the boys legs, the cut on his forearm and elbow and the pained expression on his face. He eases off ever so slightly, still forceful all the same.

john gulps, shakes his head.

“not with you no.”

frank almost backs off completely when he feels the tables turn, john turns round and backs him into the opposite wall. One hand pressing his chest into the stone cold tiles and the other pulling at his hair.

“you.” John snarls , “are a big fucking bully.”

he grabs his towel, walks out. Frank sees the trail of blood running from his arm, feels slightly guilty before he shakes it off and goes out to get changed.

John’s stuff is gone. He gets ready quickly and walks out to wait outside, stops briefly outside the toilets when he hears noises from behind the door. He listens.

Feels his chest shudder when he hears the gasping sobs from inside and knows most definitely what it is. He never mentions that again (doesn’t know whether its to spare john the embarrassment or himself the guilt.)

john crouches down, lifts a calloused rock from the bed of sand there and polishes the dirt off with his sleeve. he flexes his wrist, feels the taut bones there crack in anticipation. the sound of foot steps crackling on the rubble interrupts the placid reverie.

he turns sharply.

the other boy there nods, walks forwards; expensive shoes marking a path over the damp sand.

“hey,” he says; quiet, words reverberating and hanging in the air.

john sends the stone skimming across the glassy surface of the water with a gentle flick of the wrist and the delicate scrape of fingers releasing the rock.

“hello,” he says simply, casting a quick glance at frank dressed in his fancy coat from a store that john probably doesn’t even know exists yet. he clenches his hands as he eyes frank’s gloves, notices the sudden numbness spreading across the bare exposed skin there. (its summer and yet, its cold. he does not understand english weather himself sometimes.)

“what’re you doing here then?”

frank kicks gently at the pebbles, watches a few tumble with a soft ‘plop’ into the water, shockwaves vibrating across their reflections.

“i came for a walk.”

john pulls his hat down further so it covers the tips of his ears; red and flushed with the cold.

“you don’t live round here.”

frank doesn’t answer, chooses instead to sit down on the bench beside the water. they stay in silence that way; john works his way through several more stones, each one thrust with more power and eagerness that the one before it. john’s way of releasing stress; his version of alcohol abuse or sticking a needle in his arm.

it is frank who speaks first though not he who pushes the conversation further.

“what do you want me to say? nothing i do or say seems to impress you or your fucking ponce of a coach,” joh practically snarls, balancing a larger stone in the palm of his hand.

frank leans forward into his scarf, balancing himself on his knees with his elbows; in an almost looming manner, his words muffled through the red fabric wound round his neck.

“ so john. where do you really wish you were then?”

the movement of john’s arm stops mid skim, falls gently to his side and his shoulders slump in what looks like defeat.

“chelsea.”

frank wants to say something smart or sarcastic; something to make john feel an inch tall. Its almost as though the other boy senses this, mutters almost inaudibly (though frank knows he is speaking, he can see the words); “just a stupid dream.”

frank thinks “yeh it was mine too” but doesn’t it out loud. doesn’t dare repeat those words to someone he barely knows when even his father doesn’t know.

“sorry.” frank almost whispers.

john nods, a half smile that might even be grateful.

something changes afterwards. a mutual respect is developed, frank passes to john, to frank, who shoots. scores. its like telepathy. It only happens twice, none of the rest of the boys having developed anything akin to respect (or even sympathy) for john.

Rather spend their time droving into him with their studs high, clamping their calfs around his ankle so that he buckles and falls over. Its only when he walks past the physio’s door one day; sees john on the table holding an icepack to his inner thigh does he realize the type of people he socializes with.

(“what happened?”

he pulls the bag away. Frank can see the purple spots that indicate six perfect stud marks, he can still see the trail of dry blood leftover too.)

“ you want to go to the park. the one beside mullens?” his voice sounds different through the phone, a gentle buzz instead of the usual glowering tone he is used too.

john pauses, fiddes with the pencil in his fingers, cogs turning in his head at the same time.

frank continues; “ just for a jog, might bring a ball or something.”

john agrees. hangs up and feels the sudden jitter in his stomach.

it happens every two nights; so that john can help his dad at the garage and frank do his chemistry homework or those maths equations he’s struggling with.

frank gets dropped off in his car the very first time; his father peering out over the glass at the other boy standing by the pitch with a bicycle balanced precariously on his hip.

the second time john finds frank there on the grass already; ball at his feet and bike laying haphazardly on the grass beside the goalpost.

it’s a routine that moulds quickly into their lives; imprints itself in their lifestyles at least for the time being like schoolwork or a temporary tattoo.

( “ you want to come with me to allister’s john? reckon we could make a good job of his motor.”

“sorry can’t. not tonight.” )

one night they sit side by side till well after dark, neither is wearing a watch and the patterns the stars form as each one bursts into life is far too distracting for either too notice.

the sweat on their bodies cools like condensation on a window pane; frank’s cheeks still pink from exertion.

“this is alright,” frank comments once.

john simply nods, lays back on the grass and settles down into what is a perfectly adequate pillow. he closes his eyes. they’re lying in the middle of the pitch, directly in the center circle divided only but the white line that runs through it; like rivals.

(which is what they are really; chelsea and west ham. blue and claret. two boys fighting it out for that dream they want and need a little bit more than anything else.)

all he can hear is the distant hum of traffic and the occasional shouts from a mother trying to persuade her children to come inside or a few drunken men wandering along the footpath.

john feels the grass shift beside him, looks down and sees frank’s hand placed firmly on the white ling; fingers spread like an exploding star, the divide broken. frank leans before laying down too alongside him, their heads and parallel. frank shifts closer so that he is sure he will be heard (its not like he wouldn’t be heard in this deathly silence, but anyway.)

his eyes however, are still focused firmly on the stars, unable to tear himself away in fear of missing something.

“you ever think theres something more to life than football?”

“there has to be.”

john turns his head to continue, to speak on when he suddenly acknowledges the mouth pressed against his own ceasing the words from flowing. john panics momentarily; doesn’t know what to do and the whole time the only thought in his mind is oh my god you are kissing a boy.

frank pulls away again, gulps before he attempts another kiss this time reaching round, pressing his fingers into john’s too short hair and exhaling softly through his nose as their lips meet. eyes open, he attempts eye contact; finds he can’t do it so he tries to focus on that freckle on john’s cheek before his eyes water up and he closes them tight. presses harder up against john in tandem and feels their knees touch, he jerks at the sudden movement before he is pinned on his back into the grass by the younger boy.

he doesn’t know what they’re doing, limbs shaking and mouth quivering, breaths huffing unevenly as he feels john’s fingers trail nervously to the gap where his shirt and his trousers meet. he strokes the undeveloped muscle there, spreads his hand out fully over the soft skin and is met with a soft moan from frank who quivers from the sensuality of it all.

then he feels john reaching for the waist of his shorts, feels fingers trailing around the top of his boxers and he almost lets him. almost spits out the words caught in the back of this throat; the please, hurry up.

it comes out as some form of strangled moan, he pulls away and fixes his shirt stands up and looks blearily around for his ball, his jacket and his bicycle.

walks (and half runs) away, shouts back “sorry i have to go.”

john doesn’t come back to west ham; and frank assumes he gave up. Left for home again and went back to whatever it was he did before.

frank goes back to normality, to his homework and dinner with his parents and watching tv in the evenings or going for a jog with his dad. he meets his girlfriend, cassie. Walks with her instead, hands folded together like something out of a romance novel. The first time he kisses her; is his first real kiss he blushes when he says it, bows his head and smiles at her shyly.

(it was never a good start really. lying.)

frank continues training; makes friends and loses them (“all parcel and package of the game my son”) in one season and works his way further up the ranks. a perfect life set out for frank lampard.

frank strokes her hair as he plaits delicate braids into each strand, the brown locks slipping through his fingers everytime he attempts to thread the bead on the end.

he keeps one eye on the television at the same time.

“imagine if you were a footballer daddy.”

He glances at his knee, clenches his eyes shut as he feels the sting of water in the corners.

“yes sweetheart. wouldn’t that be great”

she nods. the hair falls away from frank’s fingers and he laughs slightly, pulls her onto his knee.

“you’d be just like. him”

she points at the screen, at the man with the band around his arm and the royal blue shirt firmly on his back.

frank kisses the top of her head, feels her little arms wrap delicately round his neck.

“ T-E-R-R-Y. terry. like the dog, down the street. terry.” she giggles.

He watches as the match starts, watches john with what could be jealousy or pride (he’s not quite sure.)

thinks of what could have been for a mere second before he feels a set of lips on his cheek.

“i love you just the way you are daddy.”

thinks; I’d rather have it all.

+ feel free to add shadow_prose for fic updates
+ any prompts/requests should be left HERE and au prompts/requests for the au meme HERE

</div>

ii. scholars - college au

2007-03-15T19:01:22Z

hm. and again.

ii. scholars
- college au
- characters so far: steven gerrard. cesc fabregas. frank lampard. xabi alonso. phillipe senderos. john terry. andriy shevchenko
- rating (for this part) : pg-13
- words : 1,749

ii. scholars

his alarm clock buzzes and he reaches over and presses it instantly, having already been awake for the past hour.

the sun is out today; streaming through the thin, veil like curtains and the gentle breeze drifts through the slightly cracked open window. steven sighs and sits up, cradling his head in his hands. he pulls his shirt off and rummages in the nearest bag for a clean one, scattering several different pairs of socks, underwear, a scarf all across the floor.

there are a few others lingering in the corridor when he finally makes it out of his room; dressed and somewhat neater. he gets the expected looks from all of them, the quick analysing scan up and down before they turn away and forget his existence was even brought to their attention.

he notices the occasional glances as he walks through the courtyard. it reminds him oddly of his old town; where everyone knew each other and newcomers stood out like sore a thumb. he attempts to stare right back at some of the more ignorant students. stumbles on a step that wasn’t there last time he looked; his books tumble out of his bag. and into possibly the last puddle of rain water, still drying under the sun.

“fuck.” he snarls under his breath, gathers himself up and practically sprints across the pavement.

cesc slips the papers under franks door, crouching down on the floor and trying warily to slide it under so that it doesn’t catch on the frame. he scuffles with it for at least five minutes before it glides neatly under the door, awaiting frank who should not be up for another (cesc glances at his watch), fifteen minutes.

cesc stands, rubs his hands smugly and snorts a little.

“stupid fucker.” he thinks . “I’m not scared of him.”

he hears movement behind the door and sprints for his life down the corridor.

xabi stirs beneath the covers, the blinds are rustling in the breeze and it sounds like there is someone parked outside their door.

he shifts in the bed, feels his arm budge against the other person and groans when he feels the dull throbbing sensation in his back.

“fucking last time I do that again,” muttering as he shifts closer to the edge of the bed to try and manoeuvre himself off the mattress.

frank grunts; pulls him back in by his wrist.

“frank.” he whispers, “seriously. stop. I have to get up.”

the other man snorts, pulls him tighter.

“but.” pauses. “I’m cold.”

xabi rolls his eyes, he sits up in the bed. feels like he’s just pressed his back against a pane of glass, winces when he feels the breeze skulk in round his chest. he runs his hand across his lower back, massages it with his fingertips.

“seriously frank. sex every time?”

frank smirks; eyes still closed.

“good way to keep warm no?”

xabi narrows his eyes; reaching over for the clean shirt on his dresser.

“maybe we could just get the radiator fixed.”

“oh wow that sounds exciting.”

frank turns over, sighs as he relaxes into the pillow again.

“I’m serious.”

frank sits up, hair sticking up in every direction and eyes bleary still adjusting to the brightness of the room.

“ah for fucks sake. shut up. its not like i dragged you in ‘for a fumble under the sheets.’”

xabi blushes.

“…and its not like you said no anyway.”

xabi gets dressed in silence.

“i was cold ok?”

“…and you climbed into MY bed. I think I deserve a little gratitude for letting you occupy my sleeping space.” frank gestures wildly at the sheets before leaning down and examining them. “ahh shit, those need washed again.”

xabi rolls his eyes again, sighs in frustration as he watches frank study the white fabric with such concern on his face.

neither of them mean for this to happen (xabi tells himself that every time. they both know that this isn’t the sort of thing friends do every so often – normal friends go the pub for a drink or go to see a game in town. xabi climbs into frank’s bed and is promptly fucked until he’s satisfied and warm enough to curl into a ball and sleep.)

the debate continues until they’re both dressed and frank’s finally discovered the papers on the floor beside the door.

“you’re paying for the radiator if you want it fixed so fucking much.”

xabi glares at the back of frank’s head and slams the door shut.

cesc waits in his usual seat in the corner of the coffee shop. he orders his usual

( “black, one sugar thanks.”)

and waits. waits until the person he is finally waiting for comes; sometimes it takes a few minutes and sometimes cesc will wait anything up too three hours. but it doesn’t matter he waits nonetheless.

the coffee shop door opens with the same jingle it does everyday; and he steps inside. cesc stands up, feels his face explode into a grin and walks forward. he practically collapses against him, into the frame of the taller more brusquely built man.

“phil.” he sighs into his neck, taking in the warm morning scent of soap and aftershave.

frank frowns when he enters the hall, jerks his head to an area half way up the seating arrangement.

“who the hell is this?” he mutters to xabi, mouth sloping to the side in his attempt at being discreet, “and why is he is in our seats?”

xabi tilts his head at the man, shrugs.

“must be a new student. come on.” he pushes at frank’s elbow urging him further into the room.

“oi you.” frank points at the man like a gangster out of one of those incredibly cheesy films, “there are our se.. fuck xabi what was that for?”

xabi has the skin on frank’s upper arm pinched between his fingers.

“just sit behind for heavens sake.”

if people didn’t know any better; they would probably think xabi was frank’s brother (or worse. his mum.)

he guides him into the seat and sits him down. they open their notebooks, xabi gathering his few pages of neat blue handwritten notes and stapling them together. frank flicks quickly through the typed folder of pages cesc printed off his laptop. doesn’t cast a glance at any one of the words there.

“oh yeah, forgot to say; i have to leave this thing early?”

xabi casts a suspicious glance at him.

“what for?”

“i have things to do. people to see.” he winks then.

xabi turns back to his work in his hands and mutters a quiet “whatever.”

john waits at the same corner of the street where the closed down bookshop and the rather rough looking bar that shows illegal football, meet.

he pulls his hood up over his head, a fair attempt and trying to strive off the dull american drizzle of rain. buses pass by, and cars some of which he could never dream of affording in a million years. he pulls a cigarette out of his pocket; fumbles around in the other for some form light.

“fuck sake.” he grumbles when he finds no matches there and glances around for a newsagent.

there’s one just down the street; could have bought his matches and be back standing at the corner in about five minutes if he wanted. he turns to walk away when he hears the voice behind and the slamming of a door.

“oi you standing me up?”

a grin.

“frank.” he nods at him in acknowledgment.

the other man walks forward, pushes up his umbrella so there both underneath.

“Christ you’re drenched.” a quick flash of teeth as they walk to the nicer pub down the road; thoughts about matches and cigarettes long gone from john’s mind.

“well you took long enough in coming.”

frank shrugs.

“it’s a price I pay for me education.”

john snorts at that as they step inside to the warmth of the bar.

“what you ‘avin?”

“beer ‘ill do nicely thanks.”

he leans over the counter to shout get the woman’s attention, waving a crisp note at her. is about to say something when he feels a hand there creeping under his shirt.

“would rather have you though,” john’s voice barely a whisper, a sigh in his ear.

frank backs away from the bar, tries to quell the blush in his cheeks.

“so er.” he coughs . “how far is it to your place from here?”

xabi has barely noticed that frank has slipped silently out of the seat beside him, his brow lowered and eyes narrowed in concentration at the screen in front of him.

“ok now. pair up everyone.” the professor’s voice a mile away.

xabi shakes his head, turns to the empty seat beside him, and finally becomes aware of the vacant space there. he glances around quickly. recognises no one else that would give him the time of day.

“hi err. i don’t have one either.”

a voice from the seat a few down the row, in front of him. the lad is waving his pencil at him shakily in an effort to gain attention.

he shrugs; makes an attempt at a polite smile and moves to sit beside him.

he smells like … damp. his skin is so white the cold practically radiates off him.

the man opens his tattered copy of the book and takes his pencil to start scrawling important notes beside the prose there.

“what’s your name?”

xabi never usually bothers with the simplicities; doesn’t bother to indulge in the pointless small talk that actually is meaningless (why bother attempting conversation with someone you’ll never talk to again in your life?)

though; there is something terribly intriguing about this boy.

“steven.”

“i am xabi.”

he nods, seemingly interested but there is something horribly distant about the blank look in his eyes. so xabi doesn’t probe further, opens his book up and takes his pen.

“ok then,” he smiles again and leans over towards him to allow him to copy his notes. steven smiles in gratitude and seems, ever so slightly, to allow himself to relax.

andriy scowls and shuffles the documents back into the folder, shoving them haphazardly into the filing cabinet and slamming it shut.

he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the cell phone there, presses four for speed dial.

“hello i’d like to speak to professor finnan. its quite urgent.”

+ leave any fic requests/prompts HERE if you wish. au prompts should be left HERE
+ feel free to add shadow_prose for fic updates
</div>

i.scholars - the college au

2007-03-12T22:57:46Z

ok so, people give me prompts for fics....and naturally i start something all together different. sorry folks.

anyway this is a sort of au series i'm starting. college/university with footballers, based in new york. age differences etc. don't really come into play here for the convenience of the plot.

i. scholars

-college au
characters so far: xabi alonso. frank lampard. cesc fabregas. joaquín sanchez. steven gerrard. ( more to come .... )
rating (for this part) : pg-13
words: 940 (short this time. next will be longer.)

xabi can hear the buzz of the over whelmingly loud music through the headphones, a continuous hum over his shoulder. his grip tightens on the pen as he adjusts his glasses, and scribbles down a few more notes.

‘one notices when reading …’

the incessant thrum continues.

‘she is unusually intelligent, thoughtful (worries about the essential integrity and tribulations of…’

“oh for fucks sake frank can you turn that thing off.” he throws the pen at the open notebook in front of him, the ink splatters mockingly over the neat print there.

frank raises his eyebrows, gestures with his hands and points to the earphones before turning back to the book in his lap.

xabi slides back on the chair before marching over to him, reaching for the white cords there and snapping them away.

“i said stop.”

frank just laughs, mutters the words ‘ ok mother’ and reaches into the drawer pulling out another set.

“don’t you have work to do?”

frank shrugs, turns a page in the magazine.

“that kid fabregas; the annoying one down the hall, he’s doing it for me.”

xabi just rolls his eyes, he hates acting like his dad or his older brother (or god forbid, his mother). he gets the feeling frank knows its for his own good anyway; if it wasn’t for xabi, frank would still be doing a lot of things that mrs lampard definitely wouldn’t be proud of.

he sighs and shakes his head at frank; reaches up and ruffles his hair in an amiable sort of way before going back to his work, reaching over to the stereo and turning it up full blast.

it doesn’t help him concentrate in the slightest; but it pisses frank off none the less.

cesc watches joaquín from the window, the papers scattered across the carpet glare acrimoniously at him from their resting spot but the only thing he can concentrate on is the sight he sees before him.

joaquín has his arms around her waist now, one hand snaking down carefully to the curve of her ass under the denim, one slowly entwining itself in her hair.

he tilts his head as she does, watches as their lips inch every closer. closes his eyes. before he shakes himself out of it and closes the blinds and runs a hand through his hair.

he lifts the papers laying abound in a chaotic mess in front of him, re-arranging them for that bastard lampard to pick up in the morning.

he clenches his fist around the mug on the dressing table as he thinks of his smug grin and the nod of his head as rushes off to a class he’s already ten minutes late for.

“wanker,” cesc mouths before he takes a gulp of the coffee on his desk and looks rebelliously at the packet of cigarettes on joaquín’s bedside locker before he hears the door clatter open. he expects to turn around and see the tall blonde girl there, clinging to joaquín’s arm; the smell of alcohol reverberating across the room.

but tonight its just him on his own with the slightest hint of a grin on his face.

he nods at cesc, before settling gently on his bed.

not five minutes later, cesc hears the soft snores and sighs that indicate sleep and he turns off the lamp next to his computer and turns down the sound.

smiles gently before turning back to the screen and preparing himself for a long night.

“now gerrard, you don’t get second chances around here.”

“yes sir.”

the old, pointed looking man stares at him; cold eyes boring holes in him. he’s clearly heard all the stories from this boy’s dad, has it all written down at the back of a notebook in a filing cabinet somewhere.

“you would not even be here if it was not for your father’s.” he coughs, “generous donation.”

steven nods and shoves his hand back into his pocket and drags his suitcase behind him, walks carefully down the gilded corridors covered in paintings and photographs feeling awkward like a stain on his mothers white couch, after him.

he’s led across a courtyard, past a fountain and a row of neatly trimmed plants into a building. its cold inside he notes as he pulls his jacket tighter around him and proceeds to lift his suitcase to carry it up the few flights of stairs. when they finally get there, after the seemingly never-ending journey and deathly silence, steven is handed a key.

“your room is at the end of the corridor. pretty much the same as the students, basic utensils. all you’ll need.”

steven nods at him and proceeds to walk to the end of the long hallway before he slips the key into the door at the very end. the room is bitterly cold, very much so. he spies the few boxes he brought with him on the floor beside the bed. he takes off his jacket and his shoes before he climbs under the covers, exhausted from the journey over.

he hears the gentle pattering of the rain on the window now; thought he came to new york to get away from weather like this. if he’d looked it up he’d have realised that he should’ve expected exactly this.

then again; steven always was one for making rash decisions, especially with his father breathing down his neck to “get his fucking life together.”

and so. here he is. in a different country, in a bed that’s not his own and tears that aren’t really there (its just the cold) trickling down his cheeks.

p.s. please do say something like "yeh this is utter shite, no one is going to want you to write more of this" if you think so =) i'll probably end up writing it anyway, just don't know if i'll want to post or not.
</div>

various: steven/xabi, david/iker, john/frank.

2007-02-28T20:28:48Z

various short fics that probably wouldn't qualify as whole fics.

aurora
steven gerrard/xabi alonso. R .

“it’s cold.”

steven turns his head to look at the other man sitting just a little down on the bench.

he’s saw the repeats on sky sports and read the stories but seeing and hearing xabi alonso is a different thing altogether. words vibrating in air, and delicate pale skin. tired eyes and creases in his forehead that tell of stress and worry.

“yeh.”

it might not qualify as a conversation and it’s certainly not the kind of enthralling, interesting conversation that would go down as memorable, but steven remembers it. he remembers.

ii.

the ball leaves his foot as though in slow motion, gliding across the grass. inch by inch. each blade of grass caving under the vigour of the perfectly weighted pass. thousands of breaths are held.

he meets it with the perfect, calculated precision that steven will learn to associate with him later. foot striking the ball as he watches it curl into the top left hand corner of the net.

anfield erupts and he sprints off to the other corner of the pitch so that all steven can make out is the stark white lettering on the back of his shirt that tells of a hero.

team-mates span out; clear the way back to their various positions and he grins. raises his arms in some sort of invitation and steven takes it.

iii.

he stares at it a little, a mixture of apprehension and curiosity lining his face as he stares it up and down.

“why are they so big?”

“that’s ‘ow they make ‘em here mate.”

steven lifts his glass and takes a mouthful of the golden coloured liquid.

xabi watches him, an expression of almost awe on his face.

steven laughs and nudges the other glass towards him.

“you have to try it sometime.”

xabi sits still for a few moments before his arm jolts forward. his fingers wrap around the glass, barely able to manage it as he gulps.

he sips it cautiously and nods his head, raising his eyebrows a little.

“is not bad.”

steven grins and clinks his glass with the other man’s.

“too right!” the subtle clang rings out, “cheers.”

iv.

it happens in a hotel room in london after another bitter defeat at the hands of another set of rivals.

he walks ahead, music in his ears blocking out all other sound as steven slides the card into the door opening it to the darkened room.

he walks forward and leaves his stuff on the bed, walks over to the desk leaning over it and sighing heavily before turning around to face the other man.

“we’ll get better.”

steven doesn’t look up.

“rafa. he ah, he knows what he is doing. just wait.”

“for what? a miracle.”

steven stands up, stalks slowly on the carpet.

“it that is what it takes.”

the next time xabi looks up steven is right there in front of him. eyes large and sad and staring at him.

“what’s wro…”

steven presses him against the desk, hips firm against his until the edge imprints itself on xabi’s back.

he reaches round and threads his fingers over his collar, under it to feel the warm expanse of xabi’s neck as he kisses him.

he smells of soap and of aftershave, and steven can still feel the heat of the shower on his skin.

it’s soft and inquisitive, gentle; something xabi didn’t even think steven was capable of.

he exhales softly as his lips feel bare again, warmth gone and nothing but moisture there in it’s place.

he stares into clear, liquid blue eyes before steven goes into the bathroom.

they don’t speak of it for a while.

xabi doesn’t recall how they found themselves in this scenario. to be honest the more he thinks on it; he doesn’t honestly care.

steven’s breath is ragged as he tries desperately to say something.

“a-are. you sure?”

xabi doesn’t answer straight away; kisses him again fingers wound tightly in his hair, tugging ever so slightly.

“please.” barely a whisper.

steven unbuttons his shirt slowly, xabi trying desperately to speed the process along until steven covers the other man’s hands with his own; a strange shift in personalities.

steven traces every inch of xabi’s body with hands, mouth, his eyes; before he finally kisses him full on the mouth.

he presses gently against him, before sliding in and xabi moans softly, breath almost hitching in his throat; hips rising off the bed.

steven places a hand on his thigh to still him, holds him there, stroking gently the firm muscle until the expression on xabi’s face is anything but pained.

he starts off slowly, easing himself back and forth until he feels xabi breath against his cheek.

“more.”

the pace he sets is faster then, continuous strokes that have xabi’s throat quivering and his eyes screwed shut. their bodies move in tandem, stomachs glistening with perspiration and harsh breathy pants leaving their throats.

steven presses hard against him, fucking down into him as xabi half smiles wearily reaching up around his damp neck and bringing steven’s mouth down hard on his own.

“kiss me.”

and steven obliges, the movement of his hips never ceasing.

it doesn’t take long for either. xabi pushes up against him and steven reaches round, presses the palm of his hand against the small of his back as he feels and hears xabi come.

he presses his lips against the column of xabi’s throat, groaning low and gravely as he finishes.

he pulls out of him, retreating to the other side of the bed. he sits up, back facing the other man and legs still quivering as they settle on the floor.

when he lays down again, xabi is turned away. sheets pulled up around his waist so that all steven can see is his head and the long stretch of his back.

he runs his fingers down it before they settle on his hip and he feels xabi quiver ever so slightly. he reaches round and takes steven’s hand in his own, entwining their fingers and pulling it over him so that it’s pressed against his chest.

they fall asleep that way and when they wake up in the morning; their still in the same position.

</div>

notes
david beckham/iker casillas. pg-13 .

david decided he hated confrontation a while after he got married.

and he knows it makes him sound terrible and “a real pratt” but talking. just isn’t his thing. notes, letters, messages; yeh those he prefers.

he reaches over and takes the pen from the table, flips open the notebook and grazes his fingers over it.

“dear.” (fuck no. dear? what the hell.)

he crumples it up and throws it in the can across the room.

decides to go without an opening. launches himself straight into until he’s rambled over three pages of the book as a slideshow of images rattles though his mind.

iker’s hands in his hair, mouth against his neck and the words he whispered against david’s cheek as they made love.

he shakes his head and rips it up gently like the memories, lets the pieces scatter over the black marble before he sweeps them into his hands and throws them away too.

he settles on a final message. writes it carefully, watching the liquid ink write the other’s man’s destiny; the thing that determines his happiness.

“i love you.

i’m sorry.”

he’ll know I mean once he turns on the television; david thinks as he picks up his jacket and opens the front door quietly and leaves.

</div>

not enough
john terry/frank lampard. pg .

he kisses her hard, back against the wall and hand stroking the long strands of hair that fall gracefully down her back and over her shoulders.

when he runs his mouth down her neck, she makes a high pitched sighing sound clinging to his arms and holding him close.

the stench of perfume drifts into his nostrils and he squeezes his eyes shut only to find all he can think of is strong hands, forceful passionate kisses in a locker room and muscles.

he pulls away from her. limbs no longer touching. he glances up at her face and sees the tears there.

“john please. please.”

her voice is pleading, low and almost begging. and he feels awful.

(awful that he can’t give her what she needs.

that she can’t be what he wants no matter how much he wishes she was.

the fact that she knows is tearing his heart apart.)

he shakes his head, turns away from her.

but she won’t leave. she’d never leave no matter what he did. the last thing she clings to is moments like this, rare moments of passion when he feels lonely or deprived (she doesn’t know this; she thinks that he actually wants her again.)

“I’m sorry.”

her mouth opens to reply but no words meet the air as the sound of one of your children crying fills the air.

she walks away swiftly, dress swishing behind her and heels clicking daintily across the floor.

he slides down onto the floor, hands in his hair, breathing deeply.

the fact that any of this isn’t enough anymore, kills him through and through.

+ feel free to add shadow_prose for fic updates
+ feel free to leave any prompts or requests here. i'd also like a few of those au meme prompts so those could be left here.
</div>

epiphany : sami hyypiä/xabi alonso

2007-02-26T19:09:43Z

written way back in december for jb_slasheras part of the secret santa fic exchange. she requested sami/xabi. they never posted the masterlist for it so i figured i could go ahead and post this here

epiphany
sami hyypiä/xabi alonso | pg | 1250 words

He reaches over and takes your hand, his fingers cold, you think, as they intertwine with your own. The snow in the background drifts down silently settling in hair and on shoulders that already carry too much and the faint hum of Jingle Bells is a steady background music.

He turns to your, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes as he struggles to contain them, never one for showing emotion is Xabi.

One finally escapes and trickles down his paler than usual skin, a glistening trail in it’s wake. You reach up and let fingers graze over it, your palm cupping his face. He leans into the touch and presses a soft kiss there.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s merely a whisper but you hear it, not that he needed to say it anyway.

“So am I.”

And he looks at you, something in his eyes you can’t quite gauge though you know you’ve seen it before

****

It doesn’t seem that long ago that he was heading off to Germany, leaving you to sulk alone in your apartment (you weren’t really sulking but you didn’t tell him that. You let him coddle you and hold you and listened to his whispered pleas of sorry and I’ll be back before you know it. You smiled wryly whenever he brought you breakfast into your bedroom the morning before he left, chuckling as you sipped the warm coffee in the mug. You looked up and the breath in your throat hitched at the way he was staring at you.

“I have to go,” he‘d murmured and got up off the seat and left.

And it bothers you. You think you know what that look was, but you‘re too afraid to convince yourself it was.)

You watched all the Spain matches, including the France one and whenever the final whistle goes and Spain is out, you can’t stop that little lurch of excitement in your stomach that he’s coming home. Of course you don’t tell Xabi that. You tell him other things; I’m sorry. I missed you. I lo… You don’t finish the last one. Not because you don’t mean it (because of course you do), purely because you’re afraid he won’t say it back.

“Did you miss me?” you add and you feel like a fucking teenager but Xabi just laughs.

“Of course I did my l…” but he stops. You don’t dare ask him to finish the sentence.

****

Liverpool is different when he returns to it. Everything is different. It’s like before Xabi there was no life in the city because now, you can’t imagine what it would be like to survive here alone.

His first day back you spend on the sofa with him in your arms, and it’s a little awkward at first. It’s almost like you don’t know him anymore, like you don’t know this tanned Xabi with shorter hair and a stronger accent than before. You sit at the table and watch him wander round your kitchen.

“Sami. Where did you move the sugar?” and everything is back to normal.

****

You finally return to normal football. None of this pre-season friendly shit, and the Community Shield you see as nothing more than another friendly.

Still hurts though. When they choose that Danish kid over you. You feel a little better whenever Rafa announces the other names on the bench along with you. Stevie. Bellamy. Xabi…

He sits with Gerrard the whole time, converses about something or the other and you sit at the other end, arms folded and you listen to Jerzy rant about. Well, nothing.

You return home that night. Alone. You undress and climb into bed and pull the covers round your head before you hear your phone buzz on the night stand and you reach over to pick it up.

1 Message - Xabi

….

“Can we meet up tomorrow?”

You smile and scroll down further.

“We need to talk.”

****

He comes round and it starts off Xabi just talking, blabbering about nothing. Then he stops and you look up and he’s staring again.

“We can’t do this anymore.”

And then it’s yelling and shouting and you can feel tears gathering in the bottom of your eyes, you don’t know whether it’s anger or sorrow or. He doesn’t know until everything falls silent again and Xabi’s mouth is quivering and his hands shaking.

“Why are you doing this?” you whisper stepping forward and he doesn’t look at you.

“Because I,” he starts, voice hoarse, “because I’m. I’m scared. I think I, I lo..”

But he stops again and moves forward, wraps his arms around you.

“I’m just being stupid,” he mutters against your shirt, breath warm against your neck.

****

It all happens too quickly and all you remember is going down on the pitch and you couldn’t get back up. The pain blurs your vision and you would scream if you could. They carry you off on a stretcher, the blur of the red and white kits. You can feel hands patting you comfortingly, murmurs of voices and condolences and the stadium announcer; replacing him will be number 5, Daniel Agger. That’s the only way to describe how the kid’s came in and took over, replacement.

But then, you feel a hand on yours gripping, feel him walking quickly beside the medics and a whisper of “It’s okay.” And you know it’s Xabi.

It’s the last thing you hear before you pass out.

****

The city is cold. Freezing air biting at skin and raising the hair on your arms. You sit side by side on a bench in silence. You couldn’t believe it when they told you.

No football. Ever again. It hit you harder than you thought it would, because you never thought giving up football would be this hard (you think maybe it wouldn’t be so hard if you’d given it up yourself. But no, not like this, you don’t like having it snatched away from you like this.)

Xabi’s still quiet, wallows in his own disbelief. You told him you’re going back home, to your family and your son.

He reaches over and takes your hand, his fingers cold, you think, as they intertwine with your own. The snow in the background drifts down silently settling in hair and on shoulders that already carry too much and faint hum of Jingle Bells is steady background music.

He turns to your, tears prickling in the corner of his eyes as he struggles to contain them, never one for showing emotion is Xabi.

“I’m sorry.” It’s merely a whisper but you hear it, not that he needed to say it anyway.

“So am I.”

And he looks at you, something in his eyes you can’t quite gauge though you know you’ve seen it before.

He looks at you longer this time, gulps and you just know he’s going to do it now.

“I love you,” a whisper through the winter air.

And you wish he’d said it sooner, and from the look on his face, you know he wishes he had too.

“I love you too,” and he leans into you and you realise, his hair tickling your cheek; you’d choose him over football any day.

feel free to add shadow_prosefor fic updates
feel free to leave any prompts/requests here. i'm still looking for more prompts for the AU meme, so if you have any please leave those here

</div>

the alternate universe meme

2007-02-24T11:01:42Z

the AU (alternate universe) meme

(a) a pairing
(b) a colour, place, time of the day and season
(c) a cracked up AU situation of your choice
(d) a ten word prompt-sentence involving the AU

you can request more than one as i'm sort of out of fic ideas at the moment

post your prompts for this meme here

star-crossed : xabi alonso/frank lampard

2007-02-12T23:20:11Z

star-crossed
xabi alonso/frank lampard . R . 1891 words . AU: xabi alonso & frank lampard aren't footballers.

yours is an odd love story. two worlds colliding like paint on a canvas on a or blood splattering on a stark white wall; tragic and sinister, strangely artistic.

( it's not until later you realise the cliché of your romance.

of two strangers in a city that neither of you can call their own.)

like watching one of those disaster films. the ones where you know its awful and horrible but you watch anyway, keen too see where it goes. sometimes it ends up well. others; it doesn't.

you feel so out of place it's unreal. you regret the pledge you made yourself about getting a drink in the first bar you see. its white and clean and you can see your reflection when you lean over the bar to hail one of the waiters there.

"can i help you?" his first words to you.

you just nod, give him your order and he brings it too you.

and that. is normally the extent of your conversations with strangers in strange bars and new cities.

"i have never seen you here before," his eyes are amused and the way he tilts his head seems like he almost might care.

"just moved here. from London," you answer and talk a sip.

he nods, and reaches round and unties the small black apron around his waist. he comes out the door at the end of the bar and sits beside you.

"you are a foreigner too then?" and you notice the accented lilt in his voice.

"xabi. from Spain." he holds out and his hand to you, an offering (of friendship. you hope.)

"frank." and you grip his hand and smile quickly before turning back to the bar.

you pass anfield and goodison everyday on your way from your flat into the city.

football is simply another implication of your past you don't want to talk about; another reason why you're here in the first place. you'd played football for the love of the game, for the feel of the grass on the legs as your opponent crumbled under a tackle, of the sound of the ball catching in the back of the net and the cries of delight from team-mates.

your first love (prose, poetry, words in rhythm and sentences that flowed like eternal fountains.) was just that more important than shin guards and cold grass on saturday mornings. your father never accepted that. he never accepted you.

xabi tells you sometime later about his brush with the game. about his father and brother and about playing on sand every sunday morning, dribbling the ball carefully around bunches of seaweed and rocks and trying to keep it out of the sea. he tells you of his father's proud smile and learning to score from his own half ( "no way." disbelief. he nods and smiles proudly.)

you notice how his face drops as he moves onto the second part of the story. of cold white hospital beds and of grim faces and your mother's tears. of waking up to that sharp pain in your knee before everything faded to black.

it's like teenage xabi is sitting there baring his soul to you and you can see the water in the corners of his eyes.

then he shakes his head, looks up and (half) smiles. and he's a different person again.

you feel guilty as he walks away, says his goodbyes. you gave up football, xabi had it snatched from him.

you watch a match together in one of the pubs near where you live. the place is swarming with men in red and the air thick with tension and excitement. you sit in a confused daze with your pint balanced on your knee. you've never followed football, only played. hero worship was never your thing.

"it is the champions league final," he informs you.

you nod and take a mouthful of beer.

the match starts and you spend more time watching xabi during the first forty five minutes, than you do actually staring at the screen. you watch as he winces with each mistake, like each misplaced pass or ill-timed challenge is a stab in the back.

he shakes his head when the third goal goes in and silence befalls the entire pub.

"over mate?" you ask. xabi seems strangely disappointed for a team he doesn't even support.

"no. if they start thinking like you though," he pauses (for dramatic effect you can only assume)," then yes. it is."

it is in a grotty pub in the north west of England that xabi alonso teaches you the first part of keeping the faith, of believing; never give up.

you remember a quote you read during your countless hunts through books in libraries in London;

"When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you, 'til it seems as though you could not hold on a minute longer, never give up then, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn."

you repeat the words aloud to xabi. he nods confidently.

"now. watch the tide turn."

you do. you watch red and white collide once again and you gaze in disbelief as red emerges in a blaze of glory.

(football and literature are not worlds apart after all.)

"have you ever been in love?"

its cold outside and you can practically feel the storm clouds overhead.

"i." you stop, contemplate it.

he laughs, looks at you.

"you are meant to be good with words no?" a smirk

"not with speaking." (not with thing's like this)

an aching silence. "well. what would you write?"

you shrug and lay down on the grass, the moisture creeping into your hair.

(you can't put it into words. you're not that good.)

it happens in your cold kitchen in Liverpool. there is snow on the ground outside and the windows are fogged with condensation. you sit at the kitchen table, head balanced on one hand and phone in the other.

you don't remember ringing xabi, but you must have because he’s there sitting in front of you, questionable concern in his eyes and he just. waits.

(xabi was always waiting. waiting for you to realise what he'd known all along. waiting for you to tell you what you were thinking, despite the fact he already knew.)

and you tell him of your fathers harsh words and of regret and confusion until your standing at the window not wanting him to see you cry. you feel him behind you, looming like your conscience or something more sinister. you turn to face him, noses inches apart.

the first time he kisses you it's awkward and sudden and that crashing feeling again (despite the fragility, the gentleness of it all.) he pulls away from you, hand warm on your neck and breath soothing on chapped lips.

the second time is with more conviction, mouths open and breath ragged sharing youth and life.

you stumble up the stairs, unable to kiss and navigate your way through the house at the same time apparently, but that doesn’t mean you give up at the first hurdle.

it's the morning after you remember most.

waking up to golden skin, sunlight catching in dark hair and yellow light seeping through the thin curtains. the elegant curve of xabi's back and the long expanse of lightly tanned skin. you long to run your fingers up it, to count the vertebrae in spine and read the messages inscribed there in his bones.

you turn over onto your side and lay there, gazing upon the person before you. you could right pages about xabi, blocks of prose; delicate descriptions (like the fine golden hair on his arms) and stanzas of detail, exact and perfectly structured ( like xabi's cheekbones or his eyes.) sublime features you could drench in metaphor.

he takes you to his house that afternoon and it's everything you imagined it to be. large and clean and white (oh so white.)

"my parents, they bought it for me." he blushes a little at that, hangs his head a little. proud man.

he shows you the kitchen (you run your fingers over the cold marble there) and the living room (you marvel at the astounding red brick fireplace.) he takes you upstairs and shows you the bedroom, the bathroom and the little balcony. then he takes you up to the attic and you stare in amazement at your surroundings.

there are photographs pinned to the wall, stills of flowers, trees. of countryside’s and magnificent buildings all in black and white ("is more elegant no?"). he stands in the middle of the room as your stare at each individual picture there.

"you have words. i have pictures."

you turn back to him, moving forwards and kissing him softly. you feel his fingers in your hair and he hums gently into himself.

you make love on white sheets in a room bathed in sunlight. you run your fingers over the beads of perspiration on xabi's chest up to the sinewy muscles in his neck before you place your mouth there. he moans appreciatively, bows his head to bring it back up to yours and your lips meet in a hot searing kiss.

you come simultaneously, culminating like the crest of a wave on the beach.

afterwards, you feels his fingers against yours, intertwining gently before they still and you hear his gentle snores from behind.

"do you remember you asked me what love was?"

"yeh."

you reach over and squeeze his hand in yours. he smirks knowingly lays back down on the grass and shields his eyes from the sun. you can't see it in the shadow, but you know's smiling.

yours is an odd love story. two worlds colliding like paint on a canvas on a or blood splattering on a stark white wall; tragic and sinister, strangely artistic.

( you tell xabi the cliché of your romance. of two people in a city they can't call their own but how they damn tried to.)

like watching one of those disaster films. the ones where you know its awful and horrible but you watch anyway, keen too see where it goes. sometimes it ends up well. others; it doesn't.

xabi alonso leaves after a year of romance, of love and hope and of faith. you kiss him one last time outside your apartment. your bodies are bathed in the orange glow of the sunset through the window and your grip on his collar tightens the longer and harder you kiss him.

(xabi always knew this was destined to end in anguish, you could always tell. you just didn't say anything.

you think that maybe that means, you knew all along too.)

he looks in your eyes when your down and its like he can see every single thought that is rushing at a thousand miles per hour through your mind.

he reaches up and pushes your hair back from your forehead before he presses his nose into it.

"i will miss you."

you gulp and nod. "and me you."

he lifts hi bag off the floor and proceeds to walk down the stairs.

"don't worry frank. i'll see you again."

and you listen to him. it's something else he has taught you; trust.

+ feel free to add

shadow_prose for any fic updates
+ and please leave any requests/prompts here

</div>

Collision - Steven Gerrard/Íker Casillas

2007-02-08T23:16:07Z

collision
steven gerrard/iker casillas . R . 1500 words

You know what you want. And that makes you just like me.

You throw the phone away, watching as it skids across the carpet and halts at the wall. You run your hands up the back of your neck and up through your hair gripping handfuls along the way.

You can hear it bleep again rebelliously but you just slam yourself in the bathroom. You lean over the sink, closing your eyes at the reflection in the mirror and breathing in the cold air surrounding.

You run the water the cold water, cupping it in your hands and splashing it gently over face; over and over again until your eyes sting.

Stupid, fucking Xabi, definitely knows how to fucking twist the knife in.

You shake your head and reach over to grab the cologne on the shelf, having had enough of moping about a hotel room in Manchester, and asking yourself repeatedly why you just can't go home.

You pull on your jacket, begrudgingly picking up your phone and heading out into the dark streets, the wind nipping fiercely at the clothed skin under your jacket.

You turn left into a street before going down some stairs, your ears met with loud voracious music that vibrates the very floor.

You sit at the bar quietly before ordering a vodka. Double. Straight. Christ you'll regret it in the morning but it's not like there's anyone to bother you, nothing to wake up for. (There hasn't been for a while)

You down the drink quickly, it stings your throat and you can feel your eyes prickle before you inhale quickly and it's gone, just the pleasant buzzing sensation left behind and the tang of vodka on your tongue.

"Hi, didn't expect you here."

You turn round and he's standing there in front of you, glass in hand and cigarette in the other. And he's alone.

The only times you've ever come into contact with Íker Casillas before has been on a pitch, or at that stupid party thing Xabi dragged you too when you were in Madrid for the weekend. Íker had been surrounded by a thick gaggle of young girls and women the entire evening, clearly enjoying the attention.

"Erm. Hi."

And you don't really have anything to talk about. Except football. And you don't particularly fancy talking about that right now.

"Good match," And he raises his glass at you ," captain."

You smirk a little, right corner of your mouth raising just a little and you clink your glass against his, elegant like some fancy dinner party. You look him up and down quickly, hands tucked into expensive trousers, probably-designer shirt hanging loose and unbuttoned twice at the top.

"Yeh." And you still don't know why he's talking to you, "hardly much of a captain. Forty five minutes is hardly all that."

He shrugs.

"Well it's hardly like my team even needed me."

You just shake your head and laugh and take a mouthful of your new drink. And so you two sit like that for what could be hours, quiet companion-like silence sometimes broken with brief comments or quick spurts of conversation which die as quickly as they sprouted. Two captains, local boys for their teams who carry far too much on frail shoulders that often feel like they bear the weight of the world.

You get up to leave, making quick excuses about being tired, drunk, that you have to get up early tomorrow.

He grabs your wrist as you turn away, grip strong and nails digging into your skin.

"What for?"

You look down at the fingers gripping your skin.

"Xabi?"

You stare at him, raising your eyebrows while your voice quivers.

"Wh-What?"

He just grins, mischievous glint in his eyes.

"I won't tell anyone."

His grip loosens and you sit back down suddenly intrigued by the man in front of you. You order two more shots of vodka and place it down in front of him when it comes. You gulp before you attempt looking up at his face.

"How, er. How did you know about.. That?"

He just smirks, yet again and lifts his glass to his lips and tips it gently, looks like one of those Bond-type spies all dressed in black, cigarette in one hand. Glass in the other.

"I have people who tell me things."

Apparently he sounds like a spy now too.

“I know what it’s like. Getting involved with a teammate I mean.” He looks down.

You nod and smile a little, remembering Xabi saying something about Íker and Beckham a while back. You don’t say anything now more.

The next time you get up to leave he follows you out into the street again, tugs gloves out of his pocket, expensive black ones that add to the mass of black sheathing his body.

You tell the driver where to go when you (both) climb into the cab, Íker doesn't say anything just sits back and watches quietly out the window at the bypassing blur of misty yellow streetlamps.

When he gets out of the taxi after you at the hotel neither of you speak until you get to your door, fumbling with the key card eventually trying to stifle the laugh in the back of your throat.

“So,” you gulp and turn to him smiling before the door finally opens, he follows you inside , “ you just invite yourself back eh?”

You turn around and he presses you up against the door, hand in your hair tugging painfully and the other pressed against your chest. You exhale shakily, lungs shuddering and you can feel him pressed right there against your thigh.

Eyes focused only on yours, dark and intense. So much so you turn away, squirming a little. You become aware of his face inching ever closer to your own, warm breath against your face, uncomfortable and making you writhe back against the door.

“We are more alike than you think.” His words vibrate against the stubble on your chin. “Steven.”

You shiver as he says your name, blushing as you do so and looking at the ground before you feel his fingers under your chin bringing your head up to his own.

Before you can even respond he presses his mouth to your own, hard and forceful. You shift underneath his grip and he grunts frustrated and kisses you harder until you can taste the copper-tang of blood in your mouth.

His hands practically rip the buttons off your shirt, insistent and frustrated when he can’t get them undone quick enough.

He tosses it away, unwanted, unneeded and kisses you again hurried and rushed like you’re running out of time; against the clock. And maybe you are. Because tomorrow morning you won’t have an excuse for this, and it will be back to normal every-day stuff. But right now you’re drunk and he’s drunk and well. You’re not going to try and stop what he’s started now.

Then you’re both naked and for a second it’s just both of you standing there, awkward. But it’s only a nanosecond and he’s kissing you again.

You push him onto your bed and climb over him, mouth never leaving the others until you’re gasping for breath and your lungs feel like they might capsize.

You pull away from him, getting off the bed and scrabbling your bag. You grip the contents and climb back onto the bed, pressing them into his palm.

He pushes you onto your back, reaching down between your legs and you wait, biting your lip in your anxiety before he pushes inside of you, hard and fast.

You can hear his breathing become more shallow, quicker as he works himself in and out and then you feel guilty. It hits you like a fucking ton of bricks, that no, you shouldn’t be doing this and oh god it’s wrong.

You close your eyes, feeling his lips on yours again, his nose pressed against your cheek; cold unlike the rest of him.

He presses himself deep inside you and you arch off the bed, a quiet moan escaping your throat as you come hard against his stomach and into his hand.

He finishes not long afterwards, grunting loudly as he comes inside of you, his chest heaving and a name on his lips that definitely isn’t yours. He rolls away onto the other side of the bed.

You can feel the tears in the corners of your eyes as you press your head into the pillow, your head pounding like your hangover has caught up with you way too quickly.

You murmur something about the bathroom before you get and go inside. The faint scent of cologne still hangs there from earlier and you lean over the sink as you feel your stomach lurch as the thought of what you just did overcomes you.

When you finally open the door again your bed is empty and all of his belongings gone. There’s a note on the dressing table, a hasty message scribbled in black pen.

Thank you.

And you throw it away in the bin beside the dresser, sit on your bed and hold your head in your hands as you feel the thin stream of tears trickle down your face.

+ feel free to add here :) thanks

shadow_prose for any fic updates
+ and please leave any requests/prompts </div>

into the sunset - john terry/frank lampard

2007-02-04T22:15:11Z

into the sunset
john terry/frank lampard . pg-13 . 800 words

for: nathan4haley ( might be a little different than what you asked for. sorry.

You think (hope) it might end like one of those fairytale-like movies.

Where it's raining and they kiss and there are tears and declarations upon declarations of undying love. And then the rain would stop and one would get into his car and ride off into the sunset. And that would be that.

Fin. Over. End. (Until the sequel; whenever the lovers would be reunited and the world would be happy. Again)

You know he'd laugh and shake his if he found out you thought about them like something from a film, like something from one of the sappy novels in Elen's bookcase (the pathetic ones one you used to laugh at and tease her about before she'd sigh and say their take on love is probably better than your own Frank. )

But this. This isn't a film, isn't a story. And sometimes real life doesn't have sequels (most times, real life doesn't have sequels. Not happy ones, at least.)

--

"Where would you go. If you had too?"

John is quiet, contemplation or something like it. He looks dumbstruck you realise when you look up.

" If I had a choice?"

You nod.

"Nowhere."

And you can't really expect anything else from John Terry. Christ, you think if you cut his arm there would be a thin trail of ink-like blue cascading gently down his arm.

"Why do you ask?" He smirks at you and raises his bottle to his mouth, takes a swig.

"Just wondering, you know. Thinking about transfers and that."

And silence again. Because he knows all too well what you're thinking.

--

The rumours circulate for weeks, months, maybe more. But not once does he mention them, and so you carry on as normal.

The heavy mist of confusion descends upon your brain, thick and fast but you don't let it phase you. At least, you pretend it doesn't phase you. Until.

He comes back to yours as usual, like he does every Thursday after training. That night as your pull on your shirt again and he flicks aimlessly with the remote he pauses on the sports channel, just the usual adverts. February Football.

It scrolls through the games coming up before John turns to you.

"Hey. That could be you."

You look at the screen and see "Barcelona v Liverpool" imprinted on the screen.

You swallow hard and turn away and pull up your shorts again.

"Me? Playing for Liverpool, yeh right." a nervous laugh.

He just sighs and turns off the TV and rolls over in the bed. You don't speak again until the next morning.

--

You're last kiss is like every other kiss you've ever had melded together. It's like your first one without the clumsy hands and misplaced lips, better than those drunken ones after cup wins and celebrations (but still with that element of delirious excitement, that sudden rush of adrenaline so strong you just need him. right. then.)

When he pulls away from you, your eyes meet for just a second and it's like he knows. Like he understands what you've been trying to say for the past hour and a half. Knowing that this is your equivalent or scribbling down a goodbye note.

Mouth on his.

I'm sorry.

Kissing him desperately against the locker until your lungs feel like they might give out.

This is what I have to do.

Pulling away before leaning back in to press your teeth gently against his neck.

signed: Frank.

--

In the end it's sort of like a film, you think. He drives you to the airport. You call Elen, tell her you'll see her in a few days when she comes over with Luna.

You hang up and you realise that the car's stopped and that the radio is off and there's nothing but silence and John present.

He just smiles solemnly at you and reaches over and takes your hand in his, squeezes it gently for a nanosecond before your palm feels empty again and your fingers cold.

"This isn't the end."

You look up at him. And he's staring at you.

"What?"

But he doesn't answer, he gets out of the car and gets your case out and sets it on the ground. You're about to lift it and make your way to the terminal before he steps forward and wraps his arms around you. You close your eyes and press your face into his jacket and inhale the scent there.

Then he's back in the car, he salutes you out the window before he pulls away.

And you realise what he was saying and you smile smugly to yourself and remember one of those awful, cliché lines in one of Elen's novels.

there's no such thing as endings in real love stories.

</div>

luxuria - steven gerrard/xabi alonso

2007-01-05T14:03:09Z

Luxuria
Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso . pg-13 . lust or love.

not here for you entertainment

Christmas Tales

2007-01-05T14:01:25Z

Title: 5 Christmas Tales
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): Andriy Shevchenko/Kaka, Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, Fabio Aurelio/Mark Gonzalez, Iker Casillas/David Beckham, Xabi Alonso/Frank Lampard (all in that order)
Disclaimer: Not true, all a figment of my overactive imagination.
Summary: So basically a sort of 5 things fic. I picked 5 pairings and wrote a drabble-y thing for each (random very very random drabbles I warn you =D). I have no idea if all these footballers actually celebrate Christmas but hey, this is all fiction so =) And yes I have no idea where the last one came from, but I am planning a longer fic with that pairing so ;-)

so this is christmas and what have you done?

phonecalls - xabi alonso/iker casillas

2007-01-05T13:58:41Z

phonecalls
xabi alonso/iker casillas . pg . calls between .

he's sees it in the paper..

Home Is Where You Make It - Daniel Agger/John Arne Riise

2007-01-05T13:54:31Z

home is where you make it
daniel agger/john arne riise . pg . new teams and friends

if you fall you don't fall alone

Prompts/Requests

2007-01-05T13:27:36Z

Any fic requests/prompts you might have please leave them here.

Leave all requests/prompts in this post; a **pairing and a prompt* preferably.

* Ideas for prompts:

- single word prompts
- situation / idea / something
- a 5 things prompt
- a lyrics prompt
- an AU prompt using the following form:
(1) A pairing
(2) A colour, place, time of the day and season
(3) A cracked up AU situation of your choice
(4) A ten-word prompt involving the AU

Thank you, all is appreciated :D
xx

** I will write any pairings involving these players;

Steven Gerrard. Xabi Alonso. Frank Lampard. Iker Casillas. David Beckham. John Arne Riise. Daniel Agger. Luis Garcia. Fernando Torres. Steven Finnan. Fabio Aurelio. Mark Gonzalez. John Terry. Cesc Fabregas. Joaquin Sanchez. Phillipe Senderos. Robin Van Persie. Andriy Shevchenko. Fernando Morientes. David Villa. Sergio Ramos. Ricardo Kaka. Michael Ballack. Harry Kewell. Jose Reina. Raul Gonzalez.

However I will try any pairings (as long as I get something to go on; pictures, perhaps some background info if I really have no clue about them) except Italians, the German NT or Manchester Utd.
</div>

The Start

2007-01-05T13:21:21Z

Hi this is the fic community/journal of indigologic. Only the author can post here however feedback is loved. I will be re-posting old fic from my other journal to here. =)!

xx