steven gerrrard

Keeping an eye on his son, as he runs around amok with bursting excitement, Xabi can’t help but remember his first win

(hands, tongue, nose, kiss oh fuck yes.)

and even more so when Jon throws himself at George Gerrard, lifting his legs over his waist, and they whisper and laugh, hold each other tighter. It’s lots of things and then

(hands, tongue, nose, kiss oh fuck yes.).

Like fathers like sons.

Xabi can feel a pair of eyes boring down his back, he knows who it is without even looking. He turns around anyway, nodding at Stevie’s bemused face.

A love starts one night in Istanbul, ends after one night in Prague, and now a new love, one that may or may not have started in Lisbon.

Oh, those hazy European nights.

Xabi and Stevie have their first serious talk that night, since 21 years ago.

This time, it’s both of them who stand, ramrod straight (it’s constancy, again, the sense that everything has changed, but in all actuality, everything remains the same) and it’s Stevie who speaks first.

“Will they be ok?” he asks. Time has been good for him, the lines adding not so much a pre-mature weariness (as it had on those days), but a look of experience, of knowing. His eyes are still that deep, mercurial blue. He looks so much wiser now, older. They both are.

Xabi looks up at him, smiling and

“They’re braver than we were.”

And they are. They will be.

Weightless, now.