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The final whistle sounds in three short, sharp bursts; loud enough to shatter to sheer adrenaline that’s coursing through Jordan’s veins. Whatever was piped through the needle and into his knee at half time has worn off, too – dead leg is a bitch to say the least, and it’s been aching for the last ten minutes. It would be unbearable, if it wasn’t for the sheer elation that’s been pumping around Anfield since kick off.
But pretending to be okay doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over, they did it, he doesn’t have to play anymore, because they did it. They pulled off the best comeback the Kop has ever seen, scored four goals and didn’t concede any, and now they’re going to Madrid. To the final, for the second year in a row.
Jordan is so, so fucking proud of his team.
His knees buckle from the sheer relief and pure exhaustion and he collapses at the sideline. It’s unbelievable: Anfield is screaming and there are fans right in front of him, shouting words of praise and encouragement. He’s pretty sure he can see a few tear stained faces, too – and not only from his own teammates.
He wants to take it all in, to remember every single second, but instead he puts his hands over his face, just to hide the tears that are blurring his own eyes. They could be from the pain, or even from sheer elation. He's not sure. Either way, they're coming, and there's nothing he can do to stop them.
There's hands on his arm, strong and sure, trying to pull him to his feet, but it’s all a blur. It’s vague shapes and blocky colours, voices screaming that they’ve done it and the motion of scarves being waved about, and it’s all so overwhelming. Bile is burning up his throat from the pain and the pleasure and the fact he’s pushed himself way too far for the last forty-five minutes, but he takes a deep breath, dragging oxygen into his lungs and forcing his legs to keep himself upright.
They’ve already done it; they’ve already won and he’s already played his heart out – so there’s no point in giving up now. Not when they’ve come this far.
He can kind of recognise the people around him: Gomez’s aftershave and Milner’s tearful voice, but the fog over his mind doesn’t clear until there’s that one familiar person by his side. Those strong hands on his arms and that familiar presence, powerful and all consuming, until he can’t help put look up and watch, feeling more than a little spellbound.
Virgil is smiling so wide that his cheeks must ache from the force of it, but he doesn’t seem bothered. Instead, he locks those bright eyes with Jordan’s, curling his fingers around the back of his neck and tilting his head until his nose is knocking his temple. Every touch is soft, like he knows Jordan’s about to shatter into a thousand pieces, and he laughs breathlessly.
“We fucking did it, Jord,” he says, so quietly that Jordan almost misses it. Anfield is still roaring behind them, in front of them, all around them, but he’s stuck in this tiny little bubble that contains nothing but him and Virgil. “We did it!”
Jordan laughs, an ugly sound that's broken on a half sob, but he can't quite bring himself to care, given the circumstances. Instead, he throws his arms around Virgil's neck, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt. He needs to hold onto something so he doesn't fall straight back down, but he also needs to feel Virgil's heartbeat against his own chest.
That's something special in it's own right.
"We did it," Jordan repeats, just because he can barely believe it. He can feel himself beaming and he knows he couldn't stop even if he wanted to - not when Virgil tucks his face into the crook of Jordan's neck, in the scant space between his shoulder and his bicep.
"We did," he says - a confirmation, to make sure that neither of them are dreaming. Jordan can feel him smile against his skin, heat radiating off his cheeks as he laughs quietly. His hand slides up until he can tangle his fingers in Jordan's hair and he tugs sharply, just once. "I'm so fucking proud of you, Jord. My captain."
A shiver travels up his spine as Virgil presses a sloppy kiss to his cheek - cameras be damned, because neither of them care right now - and then he's gone, being dragged away by Gini with a flurry of Dutch words. Jordan gets it, he does; the whole team wants to celebrate with each other, there are press people waiting to be spoken to, and Virgil is a highly sought after man.
But Jordan still wants to stick to his side like glue.
He can't take his eyes off the younger man's retreating frame, even when Milly's arm slips around his waist to keep him standing upright. He wants to be next to Virgil, to cheer with him and celebrate with him and just soak in his presence, to be one with him, but he supposes there's plenty of time for that later.
For now, he has to be the captain of Liverpool FC - trustworthy and standing strong, shining with pride. It's not a difficult job after nights like this.
.
He doesn't get to speak to Virgil again until they're back at the hotel.
They lock eyes across the dressing room every so often and exchange smiles and smirks, but Studge won't stop filming Jordan for his Instagram story and Virgil keeps hugging Gini, giving him enough praise for the rest of the team combined. They're a matter of feet away for the entire of the celebrations at Anfield, but the longing ache in Jordan's fingertips makes it feel like it stretches for miles.
He barely makes it into the lift before he's slumping against the wall, exhaustion seeping into every single part of his body. It makes his bones feel heavy, legs like lead, and it's not just the knock he took before half time, or the painkillers that wore off about two hours ago. It's from the adrenaline that's wearing off, draining from his veins as the seconds pass, and it's from the sheer relief that they've done it. They've fucking done it, and they're going to Madrid.
This time, it's theirs. They're going to be the champions of Europe, even if it kills him.
Every step is painful as the lift reaches his floor and the doors open, but he drags himself down the corridor anyway. His room is only the third one on the left, so it's not far at all, but it feels like he's running a marathon. Eyelids drooping, limbs weak, but he's dreaming of a hot bath and a good twelve hours sleep, so he makes himself walk.
He's only taken five steps before he feels a hand on his waist, half a comforting touch and half a supporting once. He'd know it anywhere; the heat radiating from the calloused skin and the length of those fingers, the pressure of it against his muscles.
"Hello, captain," Virgil murmurs behind him, other hand sliding along the length of Jordan's shoulders so he can sling his arm around him. They fall into step beside each other, Virgil matching every step even though walking this slow must be annoying for him. "Didn't think I'd get to see you again tonight."
There's honesty in his voice; pure truth tinged with a little bit of sadness but then covered in something that Jordan can only describe as joy. Like he's delighted that he managed to catch Jordan. Like knowing that they can finally spend a few uninterrupted minutes together has made his day.
Jordan knows exactly how he feels.
"Me neither," Jordan says. His words are quiet because his throat still hurts from screaming instructions on the pitch, from yelling walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart back at the thousands of fans that were thanking him for his team's performance, but the hallway is quiet and his voice bounces off the bare walls anyway. "Glad I did, though."
"How are you feeling?" Virgil asks. He's smiling at Jordan's words, but only slightly, like he's trying to stop a grin from breaking across his entire face. His mouth is pulled upwards at the corners, but the most special part is how it reaches the rest of him. There are crinkled, deep set lines at the edges of his eyes, and his cheeks are rounded from the force of it, flushing from the neck up with pleasure. He likes the soft moments, does Virgil – not that he'd ever admit it.
"Physically? Been better," Jordan says, trying to pretend like he's not floating on cloud nine right now. He keeps telling himself that it's only the semi final, that there's still a league game left and three weeks before the game they've all been working towards – and the small matter of the fact that they don't know who they'll be facing just yet – but it's all futile. He feels buzzed beyond belief, and he wants to soak it all up, even if it's just for tonight. "Mentally? I'm fucking flying, Virg. I always knew that we could do it, obviously. Because if anyone could, it was going to be Liverpool, right? But at the same time, it just seemed so impossible and I didn't even want to entertain the thought-"
"But the manager's words gave you that motivation," Virgil finishes for him. Jordan glances up and takes in the look on the younger man's face. His eyes are sparkling with the same elation that's tingling in Jordan's fingertips, and he's finally letting himself grin entirely. Jordan wants to kiss him. "And it was your motivation that made us want to do it, Jord. You're incredible, and I don't think you realise it. You left everything on the pitch tonight, and seeing you do it made us all do the exact same thing. This is your victory, because you lead us here."
Jordan feels the tips of his ears (and the rest of his face) flush bright red as Virgil snatches the key card out of his hand. Accepting praise has never quite been his strong point, because out of everything he does for this team – he doesn't do any of it for the attention.
"I don't know about that," he says quietly, staring at the floor like he wants it to open up and swallow him whole. It does feel good, though, he can admit that. Virgil is an incredible captain and a leader to this squad in his own right, and he controls his national team with ease that Jordan is infinitely jealous of.
"I do," Virgil says, ducking his head and speaking directly into Jordan's ear. He lifts his gaze again, eyes darting left, right, then left again, making sure nobody is around before he curls his palm around the back of Jordan's neck and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. "I mean every word I just said, Jord. We couldn't have done this without you. I'd even go as far as to say we couldn't have done any of this season without you."
Then he pushes the door open, holding it so Jordan can step over the threshold. This room feels like home just as much as his actual house does, and he can feel all his muscles relax inch by inch as he looks around. He doesn't expect Virgil to follow him, but he does exactly that, toeing his trainers off by the closed door and pulling his hoodie over his head.
He's made himself at home entirely, and he's just – standing there, in the middle of Jordan's hotel room, in his white socks and comfy joggers and baggy t-shirt. Looking like he wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Looking like he belongs. Jordan realises then that it's not the hotel room that feels like home.
No – home is simply the man that's standing right in front of him.
Virgil catches his trailing gaze (because he is definitely, absolutely checking him out) and raises his eyebrows suggestively, huffing out a quiet laugh at the way Jordan purses his lips in response. He knows entirely how Jordan feels about him by now – he knows that he feels like he's on fire every time Virgil touches him, or the way his mind goes into overdrive over something as stupid as their eyes meeting over lunch. It would be embarrassing, if Jordan wasn't aware of the fact that Virgil feels the exact same way.
"I love you," Jordan says suddenly, shattering the thick, tense silence that has settled between them. The words force up his throat so suddenly that he doesn't have time to stop them, not that he wants to. Tonight is a night for good vibes and miracles and huge, life changing moments, so this doesn't feel out of place in the slightest. It fits perfectly with the sincerity of the evening, and Jordan feels it right down to his toes. He's not even worried that Virgil isn't going to say it back, because even though neither of them have actually spoken the words yet, it's been threaded through every single kiss for the past few weeks.
It's the easiest thing Jordan's ever done in his life.
The smile on Virgil's face stretches impossibly wider, and he takes a few large strides until there's only a matter of millimetres between them. He's towering over Jordan in a way that would probably terrify someone else – anyone else – but Jordan just feels his breath catch in his chest. He looks up, and sees forever in those dark eyes.
"I love you, too," Virgil says, and then his mouth is on Jordan's. The older man has been waiting for this for what feels like days, but it's really only been a matter of hours. He kisses back slowly, languidly, one hand around the nape of Virgil's neck. The other slides up the back of his t-shirt and he traces the line of Virgil's spine with his fingertips, revelling in the miles of warm, bare skin that's his and his alone to touch.
They kiss for what could be forever; Jordan doesn't know. He's lost in it, in the slide of Virgil's tongue against his own and the taste of his mouth, minty and fresh. He drowns in the way Virgil's hands grip his waist tight, keeping him safe. The way he's holding Jordan says more than words ever could.
You're safe. I'll take care of you. I promise.
Jordan wouldn't ever doubt that, and he lets himself melt into the embrace, breaking the kiss with a sigh. His nose slides across the sharp line of Virgil's cheekbones and his eyes flutter open, because he wants to remember this moment. He wants to be able to live in it forever.
Virgil is breathing a little shakily and his fingers are trembling where they're fisted in Jordan's t-shirt. It would be jarring, if Jordan hadn't seen him like this before: spread out across a bed, dark skin stark against the white sheets, letting Jordan take him apart with his mouth and fingers, not caring enough to hide his reaction.
It makes Jordan feel so fucking special.
(It's because he's so calm, normally, in every aspect of his life. Especially when he's got a football at his feet, but anybody who's seen him play knows that, and Jordan doesn't think he even breaks a sweat in training).
With his heart pounding a bruise against his ribs, Jordan leans in for another kiss. He can't resist, seeing Virgil so shaken, up close and personal. He's glad, because he really doesn't like being alone. But they've been kissing for barely a minute when a phone chimes with a text, echoing across the hotel room like a bullet through glass. It's a shock to the system, and Virgil makes a noise of protest, one large hand curling around Jordan's cheek to stop him from breaking the kiss.
"Read it," Jordan says, using his best captain's voice as he pulls away. He barely moves, though, just far enough that he can whisper into the space between them, and his lips are brushing Virgil's as he speaks. "It might be important."
Virgil rolls his eyes – and Jordan is so close that the movement is blurred, but he catches it anyway – and pulls his phone out of his pocket, huffing out a sharp breath when he sees the notification. "It's only Gini," he says, only half paying attention as he unlocks his phone. His mouth is already sliding against the underside of Jordan's jaw like he can't drag himself away. "He said everyone's in the bar having a drink. Apparently, Klopp has allowed us all one beer and one glass of champagne."
"Generous," Jordan snorts, but he gets it. There's still a few weeks left of the season, arguably the most difficult part of the last ten months, and they all need to be on the top of their game. Besides, Jordan doesn't even drink when the team needs him. "D'you want to go?"
"I don't know," Virgil says, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth as he reads the text again. He still hasn't moved away from the heat of Jordan's body, keeping one hand on his skin at all times, and Jordan can't help but flush at the warmth that floods his veins at the realisation. "Are you coming down?"
"No," Jordan says. He decided roughly thirty seconds after the ref blew the final whistle that he was going to crawl into bed and stay there for as long as possible, at least until Klopp or Pep came and dragged him out – hopefully when the sun is high in the sky and he's slept for a good ten hours. "But I'm probably just going to crash out as soon as my head hits the pillow. You should go and celebrate with the boys, though. You deserve it."
He untangles himself from Virgil's grip, feeling the exhaustion hit him all over again – like a tonne of bricks to the chest, overwhelming and uncomfortable. He feels like he left his heart in Anfield tonight, part of it on the pitch and the rest with the Kop, and he needs to reset. He needs to sleep, properly, just to be able to take it all in. Just to realise how big of a miracle it really was.
"I'd rather stay here. With you," Virgil says, watching Jordan as he sits on the edge of the bed and starts stripping his clothes off methodically. He's barely even thinking by this point; he can practically hear the duvet calling his name and his eyelids are painfully heavy. "If that's alright?"
The uncertainty in the words bring Jordan back to reality, and he smiles, a soft, little bashful thing that he can't stop from spreading over his face. He feels honoured, in a way, that Virgil is choosing to spend time with him over the rest of their teammates. Everyone will want a piece of Virgil after his performance in the game, and watching him play was breathtaking. Everyone will want to praise him, to tell him that they couldn't have done it without his immense skill, but here he is – preferring to crawl into bed with Jordan instead. Preferring to stay the night.
Maybe this thing isn't new, not in any sense of the word: they've been dancing around each other for what feels like years but is only months, and the relationship itself isn't exactly fresh, but they're men. They don't talk about their feelings or their emotions, not unless they're forced to. Even after they've spat harsh words at each other on the pitch, they don't talk about it. They leave it all out there where it belongs, and go back to being them as soon as the ninety minutes is up.
But this is new. This is soft in a way that Jordan didn't know Virgil could be; with his words instead of his touches, and his eyes instead of his mouth. This is Virgil laying his heart out for Jordan to see, for Jordan to keep, if he wants to.
And he's never wanted anything more in his life.
"Of course," he says, patting the space on the bed next to him. He crawls under the duvet in just his underwear, trying to ignore the dull throbbing in his knee as he settles into a comfortable position. Virgil's next to him not even two minutes later, miles of bare skin just begging for Jordan to touch. "'M not gonna be brilliant company though. Think I'm already half asleep."
Virgil laughs softly, turning onto his side. They're so close that Jordan can feel every puff of warm breath against his mouth, their noses bumping every time one of them shifts slightly. Virgil's hand comes up to cup his cheek, thumb stroking gentle circles just under his eyes. He probably looks awful, dark smudges like bruises where Virgil is touching, but he can't quite bring himself to care.
"Get some rest, Jord," Virgil whispers, tipping his head forward. He catches Jordan's lips in a kiss; one that's so soft and tender that it makes something squeeze tight in the older man's chest, and his eyelids flutter shut before he does something stupid – like cry. "You must be exhausted."
He doesn't think he's ever been more exhausted in his life; he doesn't know how many minutes of football he's played since he decided to pick the sport up properly, but those ninety-five were easily the hardest. Every second of it seemed to drag, but not because it was tedious.
It was because he's never wanted anything more, ever.
And he's got it, now. They scored four times, thanks to his teammates, and they didn't concede, thanks to this man laying right here in his bed, the one that's telling him how proud he is. How much he loves Jordan. And he's telling the truth, bare-faced and vulnerable in the honesty of it all.
They're in the final again. They're going to Madrid, and this time, they're going to win. Liverpool are going to be six times European champions, and Jordan's going to win his first ever cup as captain, and he's going to do it with a liver bird on his chest and with hope in his heart. They're going to win, because he's going to make sure of it.
Laughter bubbles up his throat before he can stop it, and he's pretty sure he's reached delirious by this point, but it doesn't matter. He's allowed to be, isn't he? He's flying high on the ecstasy of the remontada, as Barca themselves would call it, and he's probably a broken man – in more ways than just physically – but he's so, so fucking happy. He's never felt like this before.
"What?" Virgil asks, but he's not judging Jordan for his little outburst. Instead, he's smiling, eyes lit up with amusement like he does understand and he feels exactly the same, but he wants to clarify. Just to make sure, because he can't quite believe it's real either.
"Just..." Jordan says. He flips onto his back and aims his grin at the ceiling, so forceful it's making his cheeks hurt. Virgil's hand slips down and onto his chest, fingertips drumming a rhythm right over his heart, and his palm is warm, and he's alive, they both are, and life made sure they found each other, and now they're going to win. Together. For each other. "I just can't believe we did it."
"I can," Virgil says, smoothing his fingers over the sharp line of Jordan's collarbone. He rises to rest his weight on one arm, hovering over Jordan with a bright smile and dangerous eyes. Is it really any wonder, Jordan thinks to himself. That I fell in love with you? "Because we've got the best captain in the entire world. I don't know if you've heard, but he's the driving force of this team, mega talented. Best footballer in the world."
"You flatter me," Jordan says. He rolls his eyes but he's blushing at the same time, blood rushing from his chest right to the tips of his ears. Virgil laughs and ducks down to kiss him, leaning into Jordan's touch when he curls his fingers around the back of his neck and pulls him even further down before managing to bring himself to push him away. "Sleep now. Praise me tomorrow."
Virgil drops back down, completely on Jordan's side of the bed now – one leg slung over his thighs, an arm around his waist and his face tucked into the curve of Jordan's shoulder. They're even sharing the same pillow, and normally, he'd be shoving Virgil away, but he can't even bring himself to care right now.
At this moment in time, it feels like they could be the same person and Jordan wouldn't know any different.
"I love you," Virgil whispers quietly like he can't help himself, dragging Jordan back from the edge of sleep. His hand finds Jordan's and he tangles their fingers together, like all the other points of contact, aren't quite enough, and he presses a kiss to his temple. "Captain."
"I love you, too," Jordan says into the darkness, even though Virgil's breathing has started to even out into a calming pattern. It's such a rush, now he's said those words – it's out there in the open and they're both okay with it, more than okay with it, and they both feel the same. They're finally on the same page: they love each and they know it, and really, that's enough to keep Jordan going for a lifetime. "My vice-vice captain."