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John has to hold himself more than just a few times from barging straight to the journalists, and cameras, and these idiotic questions that’s been thrown at Pickford.
“Why you think you lost?”, “Did the penalties in previous games affected you emotionally?”, “Will Southgate be around in the next World Cup?”, “Will you?”
Idiots. Like, to be honest, Stones himself is not an embodiment of politeness and care, he says wrong stuff, he might be too straightforward, but this is too much even for him. He decides to intervene when he sees Pickford rubbing his eyes angrily and hear his voice break. Enough is enough. They have Kane and Southgate to deal with the press.
The thought is completely selfish, because, of course, he knows how hard it’s for those two now, maybe the worst of all them, really. But, well, he’s not their boyfriend, he’s Jordan’s, and he has to take care of the man he loves. Those to will take care of each other, he knows it, as they always do.
“With me. Now.” He grabs Jordan’s arm and pulls him to the closes exit he sees. He knows this stadium well enough, and knows there are some places where no one would think to look for them. At least not until it’s time to head back to the hotel.
He feels Jordan’s skin under his palm, hot, and slightly wet, the pulse on his wrist quick and unsteady. He hears a quiet sob and finally drags them both into a small room with all sorts of equipment and cold, damp air. It’ll do for now.
When the door closes behind them, he hugs Jordan, as tight as he can, enveloping the man with his body. Now, Pickford cries openly, sobbing and sniffing, gasping for air and shaking with his whole body. The loss of the game hadn’t felt as bad, as this. It was sad, yes, heartbreaking even, but now John feels his entire body, his being aches so much.
“Shhh, it’s okay, cry it out, babe,” he whispers, stroking Jordan’s hair gentle. Fuck, he’s not too good at comforting and soothing others, but now he feels that just his presence might be enough. Just being with Jord. “You did good out there. We all did. you that, right?”
Jordan nods slowly, his face is still pressed to John’s neck. John feels his T-shirt getting wetter by the second, but he couldn't care less about it. He slides his palm up and down Jordan’s back, slow, pressing tight, trying to massage stiff muscles a little.
Finally, after some time, Jordan’s breath seems to even, and he stops sobbing, just sniffing quietly. John presses small kisses to his temple, his wet cheek, the corner of his lips. Jordan opens them willingly, as he always does, lets Stones kiss him deep, hard enough to drag a low moan from him. They kiss like that for a while, the whole world melting behind, even if for these moments.
Stones knows there would be more tears, probably even some from himself. He knows there would be meetings, and discussions, and hurt, and doubts, and a long, long way until they all recover from this loss.
But Stones also knows that they will, eventually. They’ll push back, they’ll come around stronger, and they will win.
It’s all not important tonight. What is — the man in his embrace, who presses to him so tight and firm, who needs all his attention and care now.
“Stonesy…” Jordan looks at him with red, puffy eyes, and John says “I love you” right when Jordan says the same. It’s really funny and heart-warming how close they got over the years, sometimes they don’t need words at all.
They both laugh. It’s not a happy laugh, maybe just amused a little, and then Jordan kisses him once more, whispering right into John’s mouth, voice hoarse from all the crying: “Let’s go home, Stonesy.”
And John smiles and nods.