Chapter Text
Jamie Carragher’s soulmark was nothing special.
No, seriously. Who in God’s name wanted a ratty Manchester United badge permanently etched into their skin? Nobody. At all. Ever. Nada. Including Jamie. Especially Jamie. He was a Scouser. A proud one. The kind to voluntarily choose damnation over having a Manc as his soulmate. Also the kind to end up having one anyway because apparently the universe despised him.
So, no. The soulmark was nothing special whatsoever.
Obviously, Stevie revelled in his best mate having a Manc soulmate. He laughed every time he saw the grotty badge on Jamie’s ribcage, smirked every time Jamie whipped him with a towel in response. He loved the idea of Jamie being that unlucky; the idea of Jamie pulling the short straw. Why? One, because he was a tosser; two, because he had the perfect soulmark. And soulmate.
Xabi Alonso. Spanish, sophisticated, funny, talented, gorgeous Xabi. Awesome with the ball too, in Jamie’s professional opinion. He was also Stevie’s everything. Like, Stevie’s everything. From the very second they had been introduced, Stevie had been reeled in, hook, line and sinker. Perhaps it was due to the soulmark, perhaps not; nonetheless, he was fully gone for Xabi. And Xabi was gone for Stevie too. They had fallen in love, very hard and very quickly. They were perfect.
Jamie despised them (no, he despised their bond; he loved Stevie like a brother and so was forced to love Xabi like one too).
”Carra, you bellend!”
Okay, maybe he despised Stevie.
”Oi!” Stevie, closely followed Xabi, bounded across Melwood’s grassy ground and threw an arm around Jamie’s shoulders. “My team in training, aye? We need some Manc luck.”
Jamie’s scowl was deep enough to turn milk sour. “Fuck you.” He spat, throwing Stevie’s arm off him. “Manc luck, my arse.”
Stevie, having now taken residence under Xabi’s arm (where he may as well live; he was obsessed, you see), smirked. “Taking your Manc problem well, I see.”
Jamie involuntarily shivered. “I don’t have a Manc problem, you thick fuck.” He placed a hand over his ribcage, over the soulmark as though the placement would somehow hide the truth beneath it. “He could be a…United fan without being a Manc.”
Stevie had the bare-faced audacity to snort into Xabi’s shoulder. Xabi gently tapped him on the hip in warning - or to shut him up, it was hard to tell. “Jamie, mi amigo, I have a Liverpool badge.”
Stevie, eyes brimming with a kind of love which made Jamie inwardly sigh, kissed his boyfriend’s collarbone - yes, that was where said Liverpool badge was. “He does. I have a Sociedad one.”
Jamie rolled his eyes. “I’m so, so happy for you.” Obviously, he was deeply seething on the inside. He was envious of the love they shared, the safety they had. “Anything else you wanna rub in before you go?”
”Nah.” Stevie reached over and clapped his best mate on the shoulder. “You’ll find your soulmate soon, lad. I know you will.” Then, the Liverpool captain spun on his heel and walked away, boyfriend in tow. “My team in training, Carra!”
Jamie sighed.
~~~~~~
Gary Neville hated soulmates.
Not specifically his own (though he already disliked her too; she was Scouse, according to the Liverpool badge on his hipbone), but the whole concept in general. Why the hell should some useless, permanent ink on his skin determine his future? His family? Basic human rights included having the ability to choose who you loved, but all the soulmate bullshit limited that.
Gary wanted a nice girl. A quiet one. Maybe someone who enjoyed reading fiction books or watching football; perhaps someone who made a spreadsheet or two to keep track of their daily routine. Because Gary was a sad prick and did that too. Shocker. But nice girl or not, she was from Liverpool. A Scouser. Because yes, he was that unlucky.
He was also unlucky having Paul Scholes as a best mate too. “Gaz!” Said ginger tosspot called from across the Cliff grounds. “Found your Scouser, mate?” Alongside Gary’s little brother, Phil, Scholesy made his way across the grassy pitch. “Or are you still looking?”
”Do one.” Gary grumbled, tired eyes falling on his brother. Phil looked…fucked. Like, he looked completely fucked. Literally. His lips were red, cheeks even redder. “Fiz, are you feeling…okay?”
Phil nodded unconvincingly. “Yeah, I’m very okay. Fab, actually.” Then, his eyes were on Scholesy. Briefly. And then they were up on the clouds, the birds - anywhere other than his brother. Freak. “D’you reckon you’ll find your Scouser this weekend?”
Changing the subject. Suspicious.
”Give over, will you?” Gary rolled his eyes a tad dramatically, crossing his arms over his chest almost defensively. “Why would I find the Scouser this weekend, like?”
Yes, the Scouser. Never his Scouser.
Scholesy and Phil looked appalled, like he’d asked why the sky was blue or why Becks always smelled like strawberries (it was the hair gel, obviously). “We’re away at Anfield this weekend, that’s why.”
Gary groaned. A big, full-bodied groan that made Phil chuckle quietly. “C’mon, mate. It could be worse.” When he earned a straight blank stare from Gary, he shrugged. “Might find your soulmate there, Gaz.”
”Shame, that.” Gary spat. “Honest to God, I couldn’t give two.”
Phil blinked. “Why?”
Scholesy also blinked. “Who’s pissed in your chocolate pillows today?”
The older Neville scowled. As usual. “Have I ever told you I actually wanna find her?”
Phil snorted. Rude. “Mate, everybody wants to find their soulmate.”
Then, Scholesy piped up. Tosser. “Gary, has anyone ever told you your soulmate’s really a…woman?”
Gary blinked once. Then, he was practically doubled over, holding his belly and laughing hysterically like a hyena on crack. “Oh, that was good! Well done, Scholesy.” He wiped a tear from his eye (dramatic, much). “Nearly had me fooled, mate.”
”Who said I was joking?”
Gary stopped and stared. And stared. “Why would she not be a woman, like? What else is she gonna be, a fucking iguana?”
“Funny.” Scholesy chuckled. Yes, he actually full-on chuckled. Alexa, play ‘It’s a Miracle’ by Barry Manilow. “Seriously, Gaz. This she could be a…man.”
”Oh, yeah.” He realised. “Oh, no.”
The younger Neville frowned. “No?”
”No.” Gary repeated. “I’m not gay.”
Scholesy looked taken aback. He’d changed his tune, hadn’t he? “You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing, Gary.”
”No, it’s— I’m not! I am straight, though.”
Scholesy and Phil hummed in unison. The lady doth protest too much.
~~~~~~