Where the wind whispers

Title: Mine All Mine
Characters: OFC, Ryan Giggs, Steven Gerrard ; Mentioned by name: Dirk Kuyt, Fernando Torres, Jamie Carragher, Gary Neville, Rio Ferdinand
Rating: PG-13 for language & implications
Words: 2,925
A/N: Erm…well I was bored and this seemed like a good idea and uh…yeah. I have no real explanation for this one, only that it was in my head earlier and it came out. Hee :-D



A sea of red against red, two slightly different hues of the same color, bounced in time with the songs that combated the rival team’s chants. The noise was deafening from everywhere, it seemed that there wasn’t a moment’s peace anywhere in the entire stadium. Now usually, I wouldn’t mind that so much—I love the spirit that gets into the crowd during the matches. That spirit can drive a team forward and send them into greatness.

But when it’s my team, my team, that is down two goals to nothing in the enemy’s stadium—oh yeah, I really hate that. Hate isn’t even the word when it comes to them. A few minutes away and we hate each other; it really is a rivalry that not many can relate to.

I bit my lip hard at a few minutes till halftime. I could either sit here with the rest of the traveling Kop and wait out the break singing about our heroes that were trying their hardest to defend and attack or I could sneak down into the bowels of Old Trafford (okay so technically it’s not sneaking when you know exactly where your best mate is going to be at, at least, I wouldn’t call it as such) to find Stevie and voice my oh so humble opinion. I mean, he loves my opinions at least he says he does. He keeps me around so apparently they must be somewhat entertaining.

The prospect of singing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ really loudly was a tempting one, but I’d rather inspire my Reds by telling them to keep their chins up. When halftime mercifully finally came, I was already more than ticked off. Two goals to nothing? It wasn’t as if we hadn’t tried either, we had pushed up front all bloody day long but we weren’t scoring. It wasn’t even as if their defense was all that great either!

I waited long enough for the teams to clear the pitch and left my seat. I just hoped that I wouldn’t run into Gary fucking Neville otherwise somebody would have come out hurt…and it wouldn’t have been me either. It was fairly easy going for the most part; the fans were content to sing out their insults to one another instead of getting up and risk starting a fuss. It didn’t get to be so bad till I got to the hallway of where the dressing rooms were. Security was there but it really wasn’t that hard to sneak past the guard—a nice smile and a flash of a guest pass and it was smooth sailing after that.

My mind was running over the first half and all the plays that Liverpool had tried and failed to accomplish to score. I was so lost in thought that I almost missed the red shirt walking down the hall in my direction. I was about to ignore the person when I realized who it was.

Of course I knew who he was, every one who has ever heard of the Premiership knows who he is. I had met him a couple times, but Stevie had always been there and we had taken great pleasure out of ignoring him. Usually I’m not a bitch like that but, well, he is a Manc… However, I never really thought that I would ever run into him alone, let alone when I was in a right pissed off mood. It really was just coincidence that he had happened to put one of those two goals in past Pepe.

I was content enough to ignore him or give him a glare but I got to do neither of those things because he is the one that started things. At first it was a smirk when he recognized me around the same time I recognized him. Then he had to open his mouth and ruin that whole ‘ignore him’ idea that I was all set out to do.

“Well, well if it isn’t Gerrard’s girlfriend.” His smirk continued and I couldn’t help myself. I tried, for a brief second, but I couldn’t help it.

“Well, well if it isn’t United’s legendary vice captain.” Okay, so yes technically it was a low blow but watching his jaw clench like that? That made it so worth it.

“At least my team is winning and at least I scored unlike your boyfriend.” Rub it in mate, rub it in.

“By the end whistle you will be behind and then you’ll want to cry your eyes out but I’ll be grinning like a fool. And the stadium will sing of our win and your loss.” I smirked and stood straight up to make myself look imposing. Stevie usually laughs at me when I do that but he only smirked bigger.

He took a step closer, as if he wasn’t close enough to begin with, and lowered his voice. “In your wildest dreams that would never happen, love. We at United actually know what victory is.”

I don’t know what caused me to do it, I really don’t. But I had had enough. Enough of his smirking face, enough of losing, enough of just…enough. I was sick and tired of all the snark and just general bullshit. Say that I had a rough week or something, divine intervention maybe, but something definitely changed in that moment.

All I can say is that one minute I was glaring at him as if I wanted to pick him up and personally punt him into outer space and then the next I had a fistful of sweaty jersey and he was against the wall in a broom cupboard and my mouth was on his. Now I know how this looks—and it doesn’t look very good on my part. But for the record, it wasn’t like he was pushing me away in disgust either.

I didn’t even fully realize what I was doing until his finger was tracing the eight on the jersey I was wearing. It really paid to have best friends’ that played for the team and could loan you out genuine shirts when you wanted them.

When I came back to my senses, or as many of them as I could with him right there and pressed up against me like that, I realized that I was all up in his personal space and he was in mine. I was leaning on him and he was half sitting on a box and half leaning against the wall. And let’s just say from our positioning that he was very interested in the turn of events, very interested.

When I pulled away, I didn’t jump back because that would have been rude, he ran a hand slowly down my face and pushed some of my hair back behind my ear. He wasn’t smirking anymore, something I noticed rather quickly, and his eyes had softened.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” He said softly and then his expression went from soft and caring to horrified that he had actually said what he did. I pulled back at that and tried to ignore the pounding heart and heavy breathing that I now had come to terms with realizing.

“What,” I had to swallow to remember how my throat worked. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing! Nothing.” He said and straightened up. “You had better get back to your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” I don’t know why I said it, but it was the truth…

His head tilted. “But…you two…”

“Are best friends.” I shrugged. “Not that you’re really interested in my personal life or anything…” I watched him as I said the last part and he swallowed thickly.

“No, of course I’m not.” He gave me the once over again and seemed to be thinking something over in his head. “Want to go for a drink later?”

Never have I been so confused in all my life. I didn’t know what I was thinking, doing, or even feeling but something far bigger than me seemed to be at work here. I didn’t get to answer before Manc wonderboy started to ‘clarify’ what it was he wanted from going out for a drink.

“I-I mean, you know, to go over the match.” He seemed to be struggling with himself and I decided, for whatever reason, to give him a teeny bit of a break.

“Tell you what I’ll do: if Liverpool wins, you buy me a drink later. If United win, and trust me, if they win, then I’ll buy you one.” I watched with amusement sparking and dancing in my bloodstream as he quickly thought that one over.

“Done.”

I nodded and gave him one last kiss, hey, he was a good kisser! And then I left the cupboard. I was confused about what the hell just happened but it gave new inspiration for me to come up with something good to say for my Reds.

As halftime drew to a close and the players started lining back up in the tunnel, I walked by them quickly on my way back up to my seat. I grinned brightly at all the Reds and gave them a thumbs up and it was a fleeting moment but I caught the Manc number eleven’s eye and smirked slightly before walking out.

I watched the second half with renewed interest and cheered Liverpool on harder than I had in the first. At minute fifty one, Liverpool finally got a point on the board thanks to a great cross by Dirk to Stevie G. The traveling Kop screamed loud and sung the Steven Gerrard song louder than I’ve ever heard it. I watched with glee as a certain number eleven tried to regain his breath with his hands on his knees and watched the goal celebration.

The match continued on but it was pretty slow moving in the interest department. And I was extraordinarily pleased to see that United were having problems getting past the newly-revitalized defensive line that Carra was heading up. Then on minute eighty five the stadium exploded in a ear-splitting roar.

The pace of the game had increased and the ball was on one end before being moved quickly back up field before being snatched away to repeat the process over again. In one single perfect moment, Steven shrugged off Ferdinand long enough to pass to Fernando who moved with the agile grace we all know he has. While the clock moved closer to the last minute mark of regulation time at an alarming rate, Fernando’s leg came back and with every ounce of power the man had in his body, his leg came down to send the ball flying past the United defender’s heads. The ball hit the white of the post and bounced, it hovered for one moment and someone must have breathed because it went back in and right through Van Der Sar’s fingers.

For half a second, the stadium was stunned. Then screams of joy from the Liverpool fans had the ancient stadium rocking. I was no exception. After all, it wasn’t every day that your team took the FA Cup final to extra time against their main rivals. Extra time passed by slowly because of the pressure to score and a lack thereof. Finally the time ended and the call was made for the sides to pick their penalty takers.

Watching a penalty shoot out for the cup is not as nerve-wracking as watching one for say, the Champions League, but it was still nail-biting to watch. United were consistent in their attack but they struggled against the sheer awesomeness of the Pepe Reina. Van Der Sar was good too, but when it really came down to it, Pepe was still the best considering.

Pepe saved two of the three that had been sent against him, damn Ryan Giggs for being so accurate today! Liverpool had tied United’s two and Steven was up for the third. The rest of the supporters and I waited with excited faces and held breaths while our hero went to take his stance. I don’t know how in the world it feels to be a penalty taker, especially the one that could potentially win the match, but I don’t think I would like the experience to find out. I don’t have the best nerves and it was hard enough to watch!

My eyes were glued to the pitch but they weren’t focused solely on Stevie G. Despite my better instincts, I found myself looking at the United number eleven and found myself remembering pretty damn realistically of how it felt to be pressed against him in the darkness. When I realized I was downright staring at him, my cheeks burned. I cleared my throat and refocused on the correct color red number eight and watched as the whistle was finally given and Steven drew pulled back far enough to take his kick.

Thousands of pairs of eyes watched the ball clear Stevie’s boot and soar through the air. The momentum the ball had was no match for Van Der Sar. Madness erupted and I think at some point I screamed so loud I went soprano but I didn’t care. We had beaten Man United for the FA Cup. But who gave a damn? The Reds swamped their captain with hugs and pats of affection and I could only grin and kiss the crest on my shirt. It was beyond bloody brilliant to be a Liverpool fan sometimes.

Time became one of those unimportant details as a shower of confetti fell onto Old Trafford. Usually I would never want to see Old Trafford swamped in confetti but when the lyrics ‘walk on through the wind, walk on through the rain’ rang out in a couple thousand voices strong, it was too much to take. I sat down and watched the Liverpool fans around me sing their hearts out while tears of complete and utter happiness poured down my cheeks.

There are so few moments in life as remarkable and memorable as one like that but how precious they are.

Somehow I found myself a mess and was sobbing on Stevie’s shoulder in a Manchester club. Stevie was being praised a hero for what he’d done and a few sullen others were silently damning him to the deepest depths of hell. I didn’t care, he was my Stevie G and I told him so. He was too happy to be embarrassed by the praises but they were well earned after that match.

In my glee and enthusiasm I had forgotten about one brief moment earlier but it seemed someone else hadn’t. I was on my way back from the bar when I felt myself being pulled into a dark corner of the bar. I was about to fight off my ‘attacker’ when I realized who it was.

“I owe you a drink.” He said simply and was about to pull me out of the darkness but I was my persistent self and dug my heels in.

“Just a minute Giggsy,” I blame the alcohol for calling him that so openly, even if it was in a dark corner. He gave me a sad sorrowful expression and it seemed as if he thought I was going to gloat about or something. I can’t imagine why he would think that… “Let me buy you one. You deserve one after today…”

Surprise was clearly etched across his face but I didn’t mind that. I’ve got enough manners, or have had enough personal experience, to know that you don’t rub defeat in the face of the losers. However, I still am a tad deviant.

“I’ll buy you one after you dance with me for a minute.”

He seemed resigned to his fate about that and put his hands on my waist. It was another weird experience but I put arms around his neck and pressed a tad closer to him. I do have to admit that he did smell rather good when he wasn’t covered in sweat.

“Congratulations.” He murmured softly by my ear and I shivered at the suddenness of the word.

“Thanks.” I smiled slightly at him. If it had been anyone else, for example Carra or Stevie, I would have launched off a recap of the shootout but since he was there and he wasn’t in the best of moods—if the brooding look in his eye was anything to go by—I didn’t. “You had me worried there for a minute, I thought you might win.”

“It was close.” He conceded and he got that sad look again.

I have never been cruel. Occasionally bitchy and slightly heartless on the rarest of occasions possibly. But cruel? No. For that reason, I realized I needed something to distract him with because I hate the sad, lost look on men’s faces. So I leaned the few inches forward and kissed him right there in the semi-darkness. It took a second but he responded back quickly and pulled me even closer.

Even to this day, I still don’t know how or why but from that day on we were bound to each other hook, line, and sinker. Call it the ultimate forbidden fruit or what you will, but we cannot resist. I know that one day all this will have to be sorted out and that somebody will find out about us but none of those things seem to matter whenever we’re together.

Because when we are together, we never walk alone.