Chapter Text
Stevie switches off the lights and curls around Xabi's huddled form, trying to cover as much of him as possible. Xabi's feet are freezing, which is hardly a surprise after half a decade of away trips, and Stevie struggles to find a way to be an effective big spoon.
"Hope you're not coming down with something," he whispers once they've settled into a cocoon, mostly on Xabi's side of their composite bed.
"Old age. Decrepitud," Xabi grumbles. "They should just shoot me in the head on my next birthday."
"We're not old."
"I don't feel old, you know. But I am still almost forty. You're turning forty next year!"
"I'll throw a party before the firing squad comes for me, you're invited," Stevie promises, wondering if it's a good idea to bring up his elixir of youth - getting together with a bunch of older footballers from previous generations and putting on a Liverpool kit in front of a singing crowd. "Is that why you didn't want to come, we're making you feel old?" he asks instead, not all that eager to hear the answer.
Xabi turns around to face him in the semi darkness of their room. He puts his arm around Stevie's waist and scoots closer, desperate to preserve as much warmth as possible.
"I am being ridiculous, I know. I just..." Stevie waits. Xabi can feel his toes starting to regain sensation. "I don't care so much that I am old," he says and Stevie doesn't roll his eyes out because it's pointless in the dark anyway.
"I just didn't want to come here and see that football gets old too, you know?"
Stevie does know actually.
"We looked pretty decent out there today," he reasons. "Not top four, but not pub league either, I reckon we could still steal a living saving Crewe from relegation in League 1, at least."
"Journeymen midfielders save the day? Sounds good."
Xabi's fingertips are drawing little spirals on Stevie's red jumper.
"When I played at Eibar, half of my teammates were old enough to be my parents. The club didn't have money for flights on away trips, so most of the time we had to be on the bus at 6 a.m. and go up and down the whole half of Spain in one day." He lifts his head of the pillow to readjust it while his colder, left foot slips between Stevie's.
"I used to sit in the back pretending I was reading my book, but I was actually staring at these big men who were uh... butchers and fishermen and plumbers and had kids to feed at home. But they were on that bus every time, at 6 a.m. because they loved football and loved each other. I remember I wondered if I will still love football like that when I am that old. Bueno... It was a theoretical problem, I don't think I really believed people lived that long actually, it just didn't seem real," Xabi chuckles. "But I liked looking at my teammates' big hands and lines on their faces. I didn't realize there could be so many lines on someone's face until I met you."
Stevie knocks his knee against Xabi in protest but since his face is extra crinkly from the slow grin on his face, it's not much of a rebuttal.
"Yeah, I can see it, you know," Stevie confesses," as if he's just now discovered that he rather likes listening to Xabi's voice rambling in the dark. "The quiet rich kid with that mushroom head of hair, sitting in the back and eyeing everyone. Must have been fun to slum it with the commoners for a while."
"They used to try to find me a girlfriend at every gas station we stopped at on the road."
Stevie erupts into giggles at that and it ripples through Xabi's arms and into his chest until their noses are almost touching on the pillow and it's almost too easy for Xabi to kiss the last traces of Stevie's laughter off his mouth and then kiss him again, slowlier, more for old times sakes. He's finally warm and sleepy and knows he needs to stop if Liverpool's midfield and their pride are to stand any chance in what Carra's branded as a massive derby tomorrow. Soon, he'll stop soon.
When he does break off another series of kisses, he shifts again, looking for enough light to look straight into Stevie's eyes.
"Promise me I'll go first."
"Go where? "
"You're older, but you eat less and still get up early in the morning to kick a ball so chances are. . . I'm. Um. You have to die after me. Promise?"
"Will do, mate," Stevie laughs. "No big deal, I guess it's cause I'm used to watching you leave? "
He has to kiss Xabi for another ten minutes at least to shut him up about that one. It's effective to the point where Stevie feels him grow heavier and more comfortable by his side, face buried in his shirt collar, and is about to fall asleep himself when he feels Xabi's mouth against his neck.
"Stevie?"
"Hmm?"
"We'll destroy Scholes and Keane tomorrow," Xabi announces and finally lets go of Stevie's shirt to roll over and sleep.
"They're proper fucked - our ginger's in a different class than their ginger," Stevie says, renewing his struggle with sleeping arrangements in this position.
"This isn't working, your arse is too big," he concludes."Turn around."
Xabi groans, but maneuvers himself so as to cover Stevie's back. The man was born to be a little spoon, but instead of acknowledging it, Xabi sticks his cold fingers up under Stevie's shirt just to hear him hiss. He wakes up at dawn with his nose still pressed up to the nape of Stevie's neck.
The stadium buzzes under a blanket of low clouds hanging heavy like goose feathers. They see each other briefly before the game. Xabi catches the look on Stevie's face when he sees the armband resting on top of his neatly folded kit - a darker red this season - and they acknowledge each other with the smallest of smiles before they're sucked back into the familiarity of sock tape, Lucozade, cleats, slaps on the back and Carra's yelling.
They walk out into fresh falling snow and it's not Anfield but it's red, nothing but red, and it's loud and the song still does things to his insides. Xabi sees his name on a banner and stares like a deer in headlights throughout the presentation. Stevie's hand curls around his fingers discreetly but at the exact same moment when, on Stevie's other flank, Dirk Kuyt leans over to adjust his right sock. He straightens up immediately and grabs his Captain's other hand for dear life, scrambling to hold hands with Vladimir too before the official YNWA starts. And so it daisychains all the way to Pepe's big, warm gloves.
Xabi squeezes Stevie's hand harder and cracks a crooked smile at the huge wet snowflakes melting in Stevie's hair.
He still calls in sick at the Bernabeu Legends tournament, a decision he knows is the only possible option when he sees the excitement with which Michael Owen changes kits at half time.