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Xabi wakes up much sooner than he feels he should, startled when he feels a weight shifting closer to him, a pair of familiar lips on his own. He falls into the kiss passively, not as surprised as perhaps he ought to be, kissing back earnestly.
"Mm, why do you only ever kiss me when I'm sleeping?" he queries after the kiss had already been broken.
"You and I, we both know that's not true." Stevie dismisses nonchalantly, "Besides, I really need you to wake up."
Xabi reaches for his phone instinctively, reading the time with an exhausted sigh, "Steven, for the love of all that is holy, please tell me you didn't just wake me up at 2am because you were in the mood."
The man in question chuckles endearingly before planting a kiss at the side of Xabi's neck, "What, had a nice sleep?"
Xabi swears he can still see distant shores and waves peacefully hitting the bronze, sun-kissed sand when he closes his eyes, Steven somewhere in the water, laughing and, for once, defiantly not being a nuisance.
"Very."
"Stop being grumpy. It's lame." Stevie challenges, "I suggest we get up, get you dressed in that red robe of yours and go outside."
Xabi's eyes, previously threatening to close, open with a bolt to look Steven pleadingly, hands wandering at the small of his back. "...Or we can just chill in our underwear in bed? Or, even better, go back to sleep? You must be joking."
Stevie pouts, and it's almost, almost convincing. "Sorry, had some other plans. Maybe next time." He kisses his husband in a weak attempt to successfully convince him, "Come on Xabs, trust me!"
Xabi groans.
Getting him out of bed is problematic on a whole another level. Truly, he doesn't know why Steven could possibly even expect it to go any differently.
Xabi, lethargic and rather unwilling to co-operate, is not much of a help himself. It takes Stevie five minutes to have Xabi raise his hips and torso from the silky soft bedsheets so that he can pull the robe underneath him ("Come on, I didn't wear you out that much, you're just being lazy!"), and another ten to convince him to stand up. Plus some extra smooches there and there to make the man at least somewhat motivated. 'Baby steps', as Steven likes to call it. The nerve in this man, seriously...
Stevie was willing to play by his partner's rules as long as it meant he still had it his way. Gradually, they finally made their way downstairs, Xabi taking a stop by the kitchen sink to pour himself a glass of water, if only in an attempt at stalling. Stevie waits, resting against the frame of the entrance to the garden, ever so patient, before taking his husband's hand in his and leading the way outdoors. He pulls away the curtains with one arm, letting Xabi take the first step outside, before him. It was like that with everything and anything - Xabi first, first, first.
Their garden isn't as big and impressive as one might expect, actually rather small but has a home-like feel to it. Its corners are covered in Xabi's favorite roses that are pink and yellow in hue ("It doesn't look like tea, Steven, I don't know what you're talking about.") followed by Stevie's few square meters of strawberries and herbs, the grass freshly cut and soft under their bare feet. A goalpost on one side, a grill, a few chairs and a dinner table on another. It had rained the day before, and so mist still hung in the air and situated itself gently in their lungs with every breath they took. The grass kisses their feet with tiny droplets of water and bits of dirt, the whole scenery bathed in the light of millions of stars displayed over their heads.
Xabi wishes he were awake enough to have put on his slippers.
His tiredness starts slowly developing into melancholy with each time his eyes settle on some leaf, some star, maybe the moon. As much as he does not appreciate Steven depriving him of his eight hours of undistrupted sleep, he finds himself looking at the man with a rather fond smile. Absentmindedly, he strenghtens the hold on Steven's hand. They worked so hard for this future, dreamed of it, but also stubbornly tried to run away from it like the fools they were. Two idiots who didn't realize they were falling in love until they shared a kiss in front of millions of witnesses, two idiots who denied any mutual feelings for what seemed like a century, two idiots afraid to face what they desired most.
Xabi remembers when him and Stevie shared rooms before those few precious matches, recalls how often he found it irresistible to steal glances at Stevie's sleeping form, and, upon fearing being noticed, how he always managed to find a spot on a wall so interesting it would eventually take over his mind until he's fast asleep. As much as he longed to look at Steven in his calmest state, unaffected by all of the every-day worries, he always, always looked away. He kissed you then, idiot, why would he not want to kiss you again?
Unfortunately, it was not so easy.
In his dreams, however, he never turned his head away. Only then could he unabashedly watch Steven's chest steadily rise and fall, how gently his eyes were shut, the angle in which his lips were slightly agape. Those were just dreams, unattainable and foolish.
These days, the dream is real - more authentic and substantial than he could have ever imagined in those nighttime fantasies. Even though Steven is a quite messy sleeper, with bits of drool escaping his lips every now and again, not at all the perfect picture Xabi imagined in his dreams, the reality is not that bad. Snoring proves to be little of an issue when you feel for someone so strongly.
As if he could read his mind, Stevie chuckles as he squeezes Xabi's hand,
"I still get this feeling sometimes, you know? I stand out here, and even though everything has changed, I still get those days when I feel like I'm twenty four again, and this stupid house with a garden and a husband is everything I dream of."
Xabi nods contendedly and looks down at the grass beneath his feet. Stevie settles for silence.
It feels comforting in a way, being silent with Steven. It's so different from what they always used to be - loud, at each other's throats, seemingly everywhere at once. Time passed, the retired life got to him, and Xabi found himself becoming a bit of a loner, an introvert even. The comfort of their own home was all he needed - no trophies, no conquering the world, no reaching the top. Not anymore.
"So, love, can you explain what force brought me here at this hour and for what purpose?"
Stevie laughs, "Thought I could practise a shot with me left foot from the spot. Could use some company from me husband, competition from me rival, advice from the pass master himself - you name it!"
Xabi looks him dead in the eye, "You're kidding."
"Oh, I'm deadly serious." The air is reverberating with Stevie's heartfelt laughter even as he leaves the garden to collect the football Carra gifted them on their wedding day, "Well I didn't buy that goalpost for nothing, did I?"
His lips are pursed, content with knowing the affect he has on Xabi.
Xabi, whose insides are burning with both anger and adoration respectively.
"We both know I'm better, so why bother?" he provokes instead.
"Oh, fuck off, will ya?" Stevie grins as he places the ball on the grass, "You'll never really know unless you find out! And don't try and recall them godlike statistics from forever ago because those, honey, are complete bullshit."
Xabi cannot help but break into a gentle smile himself, "I swear you're doing this just to infuriate me."
"Maybe I am." Stevie shrugs, a smirk seemingly permanently painted on his face, "Maybe not."
He passes the ball.
Xabi passes it back.
They shouldn't work this well after all those years spent apart, learning their technique from different masters, but they do.
"If I win..." Xabi murmurs, the ball back at his feet, "You do the dishes for a month. No excuses."
He slots the ball in the bottom left corner with ease. He looks back at Stevie, eyes innocent as ever, silently challenging.
Only then does he notice his husband is clad only in boxers, seemingly unaffected by the chilly air. Xabi tugs at his robe.
"Well, we both know that's not gonna happen, but, if you insist..."
They shoot in turns against an open goal. Xabi insists that it's much too easy that way, but the complaint goes unheard as Stevie places his fifth consecutive shot in the bottom right corner, all successful.
"Can you hear the crowd singing?" Stevie's voice goes quiet as his hand runs through the air, painting what Xabi can only guess is Anfield. "Can you hear your name sung by thousands of people devoted to loving you?"
"Sometimes. I don't think they ever loved me as much anywhere like they did here in Liverpool."
Stevie smiles, "Well, of course they didn't."
Xabi knows.
Xabi knows this particular smile because Steven is not oblivious to the fact that he is Liverpool embodied, all its roars and cries pumping within his veins, all its passion and love hidden in his eyes. It doesn't take a genius to figure that Liverpool loved him most partially because his midfield partner loves him most.
Red, oh, Steven is so red.
Liverpool is red. Sure, Munich was also red, but it was never the same.
Steven was obviously never meant to follow in his footsteps, anyway.
"Xabi's our midfield maestro..." he hears Stevie humming quietly, eyes closed, waiting right next to Xabi's side for his turn, "And his passing is sooo delightful..."
Xabi goes for the risky shot in the top right corner, legs shaky, but still manages. The song, even in the otherwise silent night, brings us memories he does not revisit often.
He looks at the starlit sky and swears he can see the thousands of faces looking at him fondly like he's their king, their midfield maestro, all of them dressed in red and all showing the same, familiar passion. He turns to look at Steven, whose eyes are still dreamily closed, a loving tenderness in his smile, face kissed by moonlight and the silver glimmer of the stars.
"Everybody wants to know..." Xabi joins in, barely audibly, yet clearly enough for Stevie's grin to widen even further.
"Alonsooo..." Stevie's eyes open only to settle on Xabi's own, brown hues. Even though he could swear they were some distance apart moments ago, Steven comes closer, closer, until he can cup his husband's face in his hands. "Alonso."
Xabi feels impossibly small underneath the gentle weight of Steven's hands. So--
Steven doesn't allow Xabi's mind to wander off elsewhere as he closes the already small gap between them and, with one swift movement, connects their lips. Their kiss is full of fondness and yearning, but also an odd wave of calmness. Xabi has kissed those lips so many times, drew blood and gasps alike, and yet each and every kiss manages to stir up a warm feeling deep within his heart.
Twelve years ago, underneath the moonlit sky of the beautiful Istanbul, they would always rush things, craving the rapid waves of emotions and enjoying only what they allowed themselves to enjoy. Today, the kissing might as well take up their whole night and they would not mind in the slightest.
Stevie kisses him with such ease, as though he has already memorised all of the little crevices on his lips a million times over, like it's his favorite thing to do. Xabi relishes the fact he can let go of his usually racing mind and let Stevie take care of him, as he often does. Their lips work together just as well as their feet used to do on the football pitch. It should be at least somewhat surprising, yet it's not, not in the slightest.
Steven brushes the tips of his thumbs against Xabi's temples as Xabi's own hands fall further down until they settle on the very bottom of Steven's ribcage. With his right hand, he can feel his husband's steady heartbeat constantly quickening whenever Xabi lets out any soft noise into the kiss. The balanced rhythm is still, up to date, his favorite noise. Not even Anfield could compare to that, not the fans when they won the World Cup, not anything.
Xabi feels his whole body getting lighter, his own heart quickening with repressed compassion as he closes the remnants of space between their bodies greedily, harshly even, Stevie's chest hitting his own as he gasps into the kiss. They break apart, only for Stevie to fall into Xabi's arms in a weak embrace, breathing shallow and lips pleasantly swollen. They make their way up Xabi's neck, leaving feather light kisses all the way up to his jawline. Xabi holds him like he's the most precious thing the world has ever known.
Well, that might be because he is.
Steven laughs quietly, whispering into Xabi's ear, "I'll do the dishes."
"You don't say... So turns out I'm better than you, no?"
"Quit that or I'll bite." Steven responds half-jokingly, arms tightening around Xabi's torso, "We both know I just let you win."
Xabi thinks he might believe that, if only to feed Steven's ego. He inhales generously, admiring the scent of Steven's shampoo, aftershave and something intoxicating that just screams Stevie.
The world doesn't have to know the way his heart swells whenever he is around Stevie, thinking about Stevie or remembering Stevie from his past.
It doesn't have to know how badly in love he is, neither how genuine his smile is right now, nor how he feels Steven's shoulder getting slightly wet right where his eyes are touching it.
"I love you so much," Stevie breathes into the skin on his neck, "It's going to be the end of me."
Xabi's head rests snug against Steven's shoulder. Though no more words are spoken, he relishes in being able to leave them unsaid. It had always been Steven who was far better with words, on contraire to what his Scouse accent might imply. It was his words that first entered Xabi's heart and never quite left afterwards.
Xabi, however, speaks with actions, which is why his hands find their way to Steven's chin, prodding ever so slightly, before engaging him in another kiss. Though feather light, he knows it conveys everything he still fails to say sometimes.
"I do", he said when Steven first asked him whether he loves Liverpool as much as he claims to, still a young lad from far, far away, clean-faced and frankly clueless.
"I do", he breathed when Steven asked him if he loved him, the flight ticket to Madrid clutched in his hand.
"I do", he whispered in the altar. If anything, the wedding band on his finger served as a reminder that he is not the same Xabi who would always run away and turn his head away.
Neither of the men find much sleep that night, after all.
The stars shall be their only witnesses.