Where the wind whispers

Title: Glory Is…
Characters: Steven Gerrard/Jamie Carragher; mentions past Jamie/Michael Owen, Steven/Xabi Alonso, Steven/Fernando Torres
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Steven reflects over his lovers.
Words: 3,031
A/N: Felt like writing something and since Jamie was in my head I decided he should have a fic. And then my love for Steven kinda joined that so…that produced this fic. I hope you like it :) I quite like this one myself. :D


Morning Glory.

Glory is something that is achieved and not handed to you. It must be earned and respected and perhaps a little bit feared.

They had both learned that in the reserves as young lads—one playing for a team that he had loved since his infancy and the other playing for in a shirt that was supposed to have been blue—young lads that wanted to win things in their red shirts. Win things that other people only had ever dreamed of.

They played for Liverpool Football Club, the same club that had created legends and broken records; the team that had set the bar higher and pushed the bounds further than anyone else ever had before them. Liverpool Football Club was the team he had been raised to adore, to love with his entire heart and to breathe Kop air. There was no one else. His dad had made sure he knew that. Jamie, now Jamie had had the misfortune of being brought up Blue. He’d gotten some stick about that as a young lad in the training squads, but once he had played in that red shirt, he’d come to see that Red was the right color, the only color.

Steven could forgive the little blue part of Jamie that still existed. He couldn’t blame his best mate for keeping to his roots a little bit. He still didn’t have to like it though.

Their glory together had been somehow separate then. Jamie was a little older, a little smarter about the ways of life. He wasn’t as hot-tempered as Steven could be sometimes, he wasn’t so quick to get studs out in a tackle, though he could well have been tempted at times. Jamie didn’t need him then. Steven didn’t need Jamie then either. They had other people, other responsibilities and priorities to worry about instead of one another.

Jamie had had Michael to turn to when he had a problem. Michael. Michael, the Golden boy, the Prince of the Kop as they had called him. Jamie had and needed him. They had been best friends, inseparably so, for years. They were bound together, tighter than any coil and they had become more entwined than any root of any tree. It was almost scary how much they needed and relied upon one another.

Steven was almost jealous of that, but he refused to ever admit it. He didn’t like thinking about the prodigal son that left and never returned home and he hated to be envious of anything that Michael had ever had. He would never admit his jealousy of their closeness; he couldn’t. That would mean admitting to liking, or quite honestly, loving something that had once been Michael’s.

But Steven had seen Jamie be hurt badly by Michael’s leaving. It was then that he had sworn to himself silently that he would never let anyone come close enough to hurt him like that. He wouldn’t risk his heart, or perhaps his sanity, on love. Not when it could be so easily stripped away for a new contract in a new kit.

Steven Gerrard swore constantly to himself that he would not allow himself to love anyone that much.

Distinct Glory.

Winning was happiness, glorification, giddiness, relief, and perseverance all wrapped into one pristine package of perfection that was coveted by anyone who ever thought of entering any sort of competition. It was something sought by millions on a daily basis, something that was powerful enough to move nations. Winning could become a dangerous thing if coveted for too long. Winning was what everyone sought out to conquer because by conquering, you had gained what others longed for. Satisfaction from winning was a drug every sportsman craves, perhaps a little too much.

But losing, losing is sharp, bitter. It’s a cut that refuses to heal. It leaves scars that never quite fade, though whether from memory or from actuality becomes a mixed line no one ever quite sorts out. Losing is a cursed memory that you want to forget more than anything, but its finality leaves a distinct impression upon your very heart and soul that never quite fades. You can’t forget when you’ve lost, especially after you lose everything you’ve ever wanted.

Steven learned that lesson on a very warm day late in July.

Warm brown eyes that had once been compassionate and tender had melted into dull reflections of what they had once been. He wanted to go home, he’d said, he missed Spain.

Steven had been so angry then. He had lashed out at everyone—his family, friends, the team, himself—because he was so mad. It wasn’t just Xabi he was upset with, that would have been too easy. But himself, it was himself that he held to the highest standard of perfection and he had failed. He, himself had failed, horribly so, and he couldn’t forget it. He had played the game and lost; he had played and gambled with his and Xabi’s affections, and he had failed and lost everything.

He remembered the day he had promised he wouldn’t fall but he had failed himself. He had set himself up for failure and that had collapsed around him now.

Xabi had been Spanish class, a flair of change from the almost monotony that Liverpool had become. Steven had liked that. Xabi was reserved, not dramatic or one to be out in the clubs late at night, or even at all, and he had been very well educated and smart. He was refined, poised. A true European gentleman. He’d been perfect.

Xabi had been the first taste of anything that Steven had ever had and craved more of instantly. Xabi was freedom in human form. He was passion and desire, sensitivity and kindness all in one simple, beautiful man. Steven never knew what perfection had looked like until he had seen Xabi.

And then he was gone. Taken away by the homesickness of Spain. Perhaps there were other things, perhaps there was nothing, but he was gone. No longer would he play in the best color in the world, but he had changed for a new strip, a white strip.

Steven wanted to hate him but he couldn’t. He’d loved Xabi; he had known it all along. He couldn’t hate what he had loved so deeply.

So he chose to forget.

Misplaced Glory.

Finding something you’ve lost is the best feeling in the world, after winning. The joy and immense pleasure you’ve received from placing your hands upon something that is valuable to you is something you don’t forget. Reprieved from worrying, you can hold your treasure close to you again.

But what if it isn’t really what you’ve lost that you find? What if you find something that isn’t meant to be yours in the first place? What if you’re just trying to replace a hole with only something that will carve into you deeper, making your wound even worse than it was?

Blonde hair with brown eyes was distinctively different than brown and darker brown. Steven tried to love Fernando the same, but it wasn’t what he had wanted. Xabi’s mark was still imprinted upon his flesh and would not fade, no matter what he had tried.

No amount of heavy scrubbing in the shower could take away the tenderness that had been in Xabi’s touch. No amount of heavy drinking could take away the memory of so many nights together. No amount of winning at even small challenges could take away the pleasure they had had together. No amount of sexual releases could take away the memory of Xabi’s hands and mouth. No amount of Fernando could take away Xabi’s name from his lips.

And he had tried. He had tried so hard.

He never wanted to hurt himself by allowing Xabi so close that he was no longer recognizable to himself. Every drunken rage stirred his bitterness about the promises he had made himself about never doing what Jamie had so foolishly done. He had broken himself by allowing Xabi so close. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

That was why he kept himself guarded from Fernando. He never let him close enough to hurt him. He told himself at night when he wasn’t with Fernando, just him lying in a bed somewhere, that Fernando couldn’t steal something that wasn’t there. He had convinced himself that he was heartless.

Then the argument was put to him by Jamie, always faithful and confident Jamie, that if he really was heartless, he couldn’t bleed Red. Steven would look at him and grunt out that he conceded Jamie’s point. The older Scouser would then squeeze his shoulder and tell him to look at the bright side, at least he knew what it had been like to love someone rather than never have experienced it at all. It was at that point in the discussion that Steven would lash out hurtfully and ask Jamie if he still loved Michael. Hurt would shine in Jamie’s eyes as the truth that yes, he still did, reflected there. But Jamie would tell him to fuck off and then remind him of training and the next match and that as a captain, he couldn’t turn up to either with a hangover.

Fernando had never imparted such wisdom before or since.

Steven guessed that it was for that reason, that he had never really let him so close anyway, that he didn’t mind when Fernando left for Blue instead of continuing on in Red.

Shining Glory.

Love was simple and complex at the same time. It was a concept that brought about many contradictions and paradoxes yet could be blindingly obvious and simple so that they were almost identical. It could make you stupid and do things you never would have otherwise previously thought of. It could turn you into a right bumbling moron that would run off to buy flowers or chocolates in hope of appeasing the other person if you upset your partner. It could turn you green with envy or cause you to see red with jealousy. Love twisted your emotions and sent you on a roller coaster of life. Love could turn you to a sobbing mess if it ended, no matter how. But love was the white light that made people forgive, forget, and learn to do it again. Love was kind and soft and worth it. It was always worth it.

Hate burned deeply and lasted years. It could instigate fights that words could not soothe. It burned red hot and stung sharper than any wound. It ripped open scars and could twist your mind with its power. Hate could ruin everything and crumble built up walls. It could tear apart families, lives, even countries with its venom. Hate was a poison that when once infected, it never completely came out. Hate was a disease that sucked the life from its victims with such intensity that their bones reflected the damage. Hate was darkness and tragedy that never released its grasp until everything it had been able to touch was destroyed. Hate was evil and those with any sense stayed away from it.

No matter how many times he had fucked up in the past—by saying something stupid or by doing something equally moronic—Jamie had never collapsed under the pressure. It was quite a feat considering he had done some very, very troubling things in his life.

Jamie wasn’t a refined European gentleman that enjoyed a good bottle of elaborate Spanish wine and listened to symphonies or operas. He wasn’t a freckle-faced kid that was Speedy Gonzalez on enhancements. He wasn’t able to always say the right thing at the right time or be quiet when he should have been. Jamie didn’t have the air of being a tender loving man. He wasn’t a supermodel or likely to ever be voted ‘best dressed’ or ‘best looking’.

But Jamie was honest. He was consistent. He didn’t tell lies or half-truths. If he couldn’t do something, he would tell you that, but he would also try. Jamie liked to please people but he wasn’t arsed about what happened if he failed. He did his best and that’s all that mattered. He was respectable in that he stood by what he believed in. Jamie liked to go round the pub and have a pint. He listened to the Beatles and sang along, even if he couldn’t sing very well. He was loud and liked to laugh, eyes twinkling with amusement. He sometimes did things wrong and made mistakes.

He wasn’t perfect, but he never claimed to be.

Throughout the years of Steven’s bullshitting about how his life wasn’t perfect or how he had mucked up with Xabi or Fernando, Jamie sat there and listened. He told him what he thought and not what Steven wanted to hear. Jamie didn’t make things prettier than the truth. If the truth wasn’t pretty, then Jamie was going to shine a spotlight on it, not dress it up with bows and ribbons hoping to make you feel better. If he was in a bad mood or he just simply didn’t want to listen to Steven’s complaints, he would tell him to grow a pair and then use them.

Steven hated Jamie’s brashness as much as he adored it. Though, using the word adore with Jamie isn’t an occurrence he did often.

It had taken him a while to realize his affections for Jamie. It had taken him a lot longer to realize that he was going to have to admit them eventually.

Jamie was hurt badly, enough to be stretchered off, and for the first time Steven realized what it was like to have his heart in his throat. Until Jamie had moved, Steven had been so afraid, so worried that Jamie had been that badly hurt that he would never breathe, never mind walk or anything else, ever again. He couldn’t imagine how much relief flooded through him when Jamie moved and the medics took him off. It was then that he knew he would have to tell his best mate how he felt.

Trying to find the strength within himself to do that, though, was hard. He didn’t want to be in love with anyone else. That would open himself up again. The scar that Xabi had left wasn’t healed. He had wanted to wait until that scar was completely patched up and as it had never been but that hadn’t happened.

He had walked down to see Carra a little later after the match. Jamie had told him that if he was soft enough to cry in front of him that he was going to have to kick him up the arse. Steven had laughed a little. He realized that Xabi’s scar would never heal completely. He would have to live with it. And when Jamie leaned over and took a strong hold of his hand, Steven accepted that maybe loving Jamie wasn’t as bad of a thing as he had originally feared.

When he had finally gotten around to telling him that he loved him, Jamie had just shaken his head with a smile. All that he had done was ruffle Steven’s hair and say ‘took you long enough to realize’. Then they had sat and watched Match of the Day before a small kiss goodnight.

It hadn’t been awkward and it hadn’t been passionate. It only had been comfortable, just like everything else with Jamie was.

Fading Glory.

Time could be a cruel thing. It could play with the mind and make your face change into a softer, more wrinkled version of yourself. It could bring about chaos on your mind and make you forget that which you knew you had experienced and take away your most precious memories. It could leave you alone after years of loving and being with the same person. It could hurt you, but it could also make you mellow out and except life as it happened. It could bring you joy, and sorrow, but it would always bring you life.

They were older now, the wiser part remained up for debate. Jamie was close to retiring age; Steven knew he would be next up in line after Jamie went. Liverpool Football Club would not be the same without King Carra adorning the changing rooms on a constant basis. The halls would seem a little darker and the cheers from Anfield would seem a little bit duller.

King Carra would be sorely missed.

“You’re not thinking of me leaving again, are you?”

The voice from the lad from Bootle sounded behind him. Steven didn’t turn his eyes away from looking out across an empty pitch and stadium.

“Not in the slightest.” Steven replied as he always did. As far as Jamie was concerned, he would play football forever, even long after he went to the grave. ‘Bury me with my boots on,’ he’d said before. Steven smiled to himself at the memory.

“You’re lying Captain.” Jamie came down the few rows and sat one seat apart from him.

They both sat in silence and looked at the empty stadium. So many years and so many things had happened here.

They’d won here, lost here, drawn here. Lived, laughed, loved here. They had cried here. They’d screamed here. They’d fought here. If they had it their way, they’d die here.

“I’m not gone yet, you know.” Jamie said to interrupt the silence.

“But you will be one day,” Steven countered.

“And so will you lad.” Jamie looked over calmly.

“Never.” Steven shook his head, determination resting in his blue eyes.

“You just don’t want to give up the armband. Power’s gone to your head, lad.” Jamie teased and looked back at the pitch with a smile on his face.

“Don’t be jealous just cause you don’t have it.” Steven smirked and Jamie’s eyes darkened a little.

“Bring the armband home tonight Steven.”

Steven grinned and turned back to the pitch.

Glory could fade as could love. Hate remained true until it was vindicated. But there was one thing that would last forever.

Friendship.