Chapter Text
How long have I been under your spell?
More than a thousand words can tell
A spritz of cologne, the glint in your smile
Sweeps me away for miles upon--
"I only wanted to see you, laughing in the purple rain!"
Alisson groaned and covered his ears. His ballpoint pen dropped onto his open journal, rolled off the page, and fell onto the floor with a clatter. It was barely heard, though, over Pitaluga's loud singing. "I never asked you to sing the Prince discography, you know.”
"But that's one of his best songs!" Pitaluga set his saxophone down on the bed and paused the radio. "It kind of suits you too, y'know. You're probably writing a letter to Bobby and Flaco as we speak.”
Alisson hesitated, closing the journal. He'd never told Pitaluga about his poetry. It wasn't like there was much to talk about—this was only his third poem so far—but his poetry was very personal. If Straker hadn't recommended poetry as a way of dealing with emotions during therapy, Alisson would've never delved into the world of verse.
"I...am not! I'm making a schedule." Alisson had never been good at lying, especially not to his teammates. "I have a prior engagement, a present engagement, and a future engagement.”
"Uh-huh, okay. I get you, bro." Pitaluga nodded sagely. "It's with Virgil, isn't it?'
Alisson's ears burned like a flame. "Shut up, Celo. I swear, if you say another word I'm gonna lose it.”
Pitaluga's eyes widened in surprise as he took a couple of steps away from Alisson. "God, I thought the anger issues were the gaffer's problem.”
“I'm not mad. Just reminiscing." Alisson put down the journal and dropped it into his bag, zipping it up. "We'd better get going. The boss won't like it if we're late for the bus. We're visiting Everton’s new training ground before the match.”
"Bro, relax! You worry too much." Marcelo zipped up his leather jacket, brushing the dust off the studs. He wouldn't be playing a part in the match, but he always came to watch the matches. "I'm sure the boss will be just as chipper as usual.”
*
“What the (bleep) do you mean you’ll be working on a ‘project’ every day?!”
Lijnders was really glad Van Dijk had bought him a bleep button for his birthday. It came in handy for when a referee committed an (increasingly often and ridiculous) offense against the club, or when Klopp had one of his increasingly-mercurial raging swear episodes. This, despite the red card to Mac Allister that came from heck nowhere, happened to be the latter problem.
“It’s nothing, really. I’ll be driving off, spending four to six hours, and coming back.” Lijnders shrugged, putting his feet up on the dashboard. “You won’t even miss me, I swear!”
Klopp shook his head and muttered something in German. Lijnders would’ve tried to translate, but he didn’t bother. He knew about a quarter of it would be swears he’d regret knowing the meaning of.
“ Yes sir, I can boogie! But I need a certain SOOOOOONNNNNGGG!!!!” Robertson popped out of the glove compartment and pressed the gas. “Let’s step on it, gaffer! To the wedding chapel!”
Klopp and Lijnders gaped at Robertson as if he’d said they’d bought Mbappe for 200 billion pounds. “ What the HELL?”
Robertson shrugged, munching on an oatmeal cookie. “Marcinho said that we should be heading there. I don’t know, something about Ali being proposed to.”
On cue, Gakpo and Nunez appeared from the luggage hold over the bus. Both wore tuxedos without the coats, the coats being replaced by leather motorcycle jackets. “Yeah, it’s wedding time baby!”
“Wait a minute!” Klopp barely swerved past Kai Havertz riding on a donkey. “Who’s engaged? Who’s getting married? And why didn’t I know about this?!”
Gakpo rolled his eyes, wiping the hot pink face paint from his forehead. “I don’t know. Marcelo came screaming to us about Ali being engaged or something. I’ve never seen that guy in love with anything but a kitten.”
Pitaluga walked into the cockpit wearing a suit reminiscent of the one from “Smooth Criminal”. “Ali’s getting married to Virgil, and the ceremony is in fifteen minutes! We have to hurry for the couple’s nuptials!”
That seemed to wake Van Dijk up from his slumber. “Marcelo, what the HELL are you talking about?”
“I told you already, Marcinho!” Alisson rolled his eyes, taking a seat next to Van Dijk. “We’re not engaged! Christ, we’re not even dating! How’d you get that idea?”
“You said you were engaged for the past, present, and future.”
Alisson groaned, slamming his head into the seat. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you Cinho, but we’re not even close to that. So let’s call the whole thing off, okay?”
Pitaluga shrugged. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you Ali, but we can’t. I already called in your brother from Cyprus and all of Virgil’s Southampton teammates, and plus I got the best wedding planner in all of England for a few hundred bucks!”
Elliott appeared out of nowhere, wearing a Cheshire cat grin. "Plus, I invited the 21st century's very own MC Hammer to the event!"
Alisson's jaw dropped, Lijnders almost fainted, Van Dijk blanched to almost white, and Klopp froze.
Elliott continued, "You should have seen the look on MC Hammer's face when I told him he could rap at the wedding!"
Pitaluga nodded in agreement. "He was ecstatic!"
"Muriel?!"
"Sadio?"
"MC FREAKING HAMMER?!"
"We're getting married?!"
Pitaluga and Elliott nodded. "Yep, and we've got your whole wedding planned to a T.”
"Droga."
"Scheisse."
"Verdomme."
*
They arrived at the wedding chapel in one piece, which was a miracle considering how many curse words were thrown around the bus on the way. Alisson had spent the bus ride hiding under the bus seats, glaring at Pitaluga the whole time, while Van Dijk ranted to Gakpo, who had his fingers firmly plugged in his ears. And poor Endo tried to understand the entire chaotic situation on the team he’d been on for less than forty-eight hours.
“ Virgil proposed to Ali?” Endo snorted, watching cars pull up in the chapel parking lot. “Jesus Christ, I should've stayed in Stuttgart.”
Alisson popped out from under the seat, scaring the heck out of Endo. “And I should’ve stayed in bed today, but we can’t all get what we want, now can we?”
“Relax, kid.” Adrian grinned cheekily, pulling Alisson onto the seat between them. “At least you won’t have to see the crap show that Harvey and the others concocted as a wedding.”
“That’s nothing! I’m going to get married to Virgil! I’m too young to get married!”
Endo just stared. “You’re thirty!”
“Exactly!” Alisson took one look out the window and turned redder than Nunez’s face when he first saw Mac Allister’s red card. “Oh God, Muriel’s coming right this way!”
Meanwhile, Klopp and Lijnders watched the chaos in utter confusion. Robertson had long bumped them out of the driver’s seat, and despite their efforts to turn back the wedding was still on. Most of the players wore a hilarious combination of tuxedos and leather jackets—Klopp could guess who made the dress code—and multicolored ties.
At least, those who wore ties wore hideous multicolored ties. Because Muriel Becker, to Klopp’s shock, showed up in a normal suit.
“My baby brother is getting married!” Muriel yanked Alisson from behind the chairs and trapped him in a bone-crushing hug. It was clear which Becker was the happier one of the two. “Come on, you’ve got to get dressed! I’m your best man, so everything’s gonna be alright. You’ve got to see inside, the musicians are here!”
Muriel pulled away from Alisson and finally seemed to notice that something was off. “You don’t seem too happy. Who’s the bride?”
“Groom.” Alisson sighed, staring at Muriel like he’d just won and lost the lottery at the same time. “You know, there’s a reason why I said you would never be my best man at my wedding.”
Muriel rolled his eyes, dusting off Alisson’s shoulder. “You were eight then. Eight-year-olds never mean anything they say while they’re quibbling with their older siblings.”
“Whatever. I’d have you as my best man in a time loop if it meant I didn’t have to marry Virgil.”
Muriel, who was taking a long swig of the coconut water Matip had given him, choked and spat the poor drink out the window. At least, he tried—it ended up in the face of a freaking mad Nunez. “ Virgil van Dijk?!”
Van Dijk nodded, shooting glares at Pitaluga. Apparently, Nunez thought Pitaluga had thrown the coconut water at him. Now the two tumbled down the bus stairs and out of the bus, cursing at each other in every language they knew. “Somebody thought Ali’s ‘prior engagement’ meant he was engaged to me.”
“ Ay caramba.” Muriel pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about the youth of these days. “And they wonder why I’m bald. Good luck, Virgil.”
Alisson stared at Muriel, betrayed. “What about me?”
Van Dijk tried to wriggle his arm out of the suit jacket Attenberry-Allen had put on him. “Why me?”
Muriel pointed outside. A man and two women who looked similar to Van Dijk walked towards the bus, dressed up in wedding attire. “Your brother, sister, and mother are all here, so good luck explaining to them that you’re getting married to your goalkeeper.”
*
“Hot damn!” Robertson gazed at the setup in the back of the wedding chapel. “For a wedding chaotically planned in two hours during a match, we actually did pretty well.”
“Of course we did!” Pitaluga took up a mojito cocktail from the refreshments table and drained it in one go. “It’s really easy when you’ve got the best wedding planner in all the Premier League!”
Matip’s eyes widened. “Did you say the Premier League? A footballer planned this?”
“Well, who do you think planned it? Our very own Martin Odegaard!” Elliott waved to the Norwegian, who was with a group of Arsenal players. “Oh, there they come now!”
Mac Allister gasped, ducking behind Nunez. “Darwin, you’ve got to hide me!”
“I’m not hiding any fugitives!” Nunez pushed Mac Allister in front of him, ruffling his hair. “Go ahead and talk to the man of your dreams.”
“I don’t have a crush on him, idiota!”
Pitaluga smirked deviously. “Looks like we’ll be planning another wedding soon, buddy.”
Odegaard wore a dark blue suit and white button-down that made his ice blue eyes look bluer. He was flanked by Gabriel Martineli, Bukayo Saka, and Emile Smith-Roe, who—in direct contrast to Odegaard—were all smiling.
“What’s the matter?” Pitaluga glanced at Odegaard and handed him a glass of water. “You look like a nervous groom on his wedding day.”
“Actually…it looks like there is a nervous groom on his wedding day.” Odegaard looked ready to pull his hair out. He gripped the water glass tightly, but didn’t drink a single drop. “Virgil’s ran off.”