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The room was cold, but Kyle and Jack's arms restraining his body were hot.
Julian struggled, trying to break free from their hold. The cruel laughter rang out around him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head.
"Come on, mate," Kyle said, annoyed. "It's not even that bad."
Julian blinked back tears as he felt the disinfectant wipe rub over his wrist, and he struggled more, kicking and squirming, but ultimately staying in place.
"Please," he gasped, trying to pull away, "please... por favor, no lo quiero, please, no."
"Someone gag the bitch," he heard another teammate groan, and he sobbed quietly, shaking his head again.
The initial prick of the gun against his veins had him jumping backwards, only to be held tighter by Kyle and Jack. He struggled, but Kevin held his hand forearm firmly, glaring holes into the side of his head.
"Shut the fuck up," the Belge hissed, and Julian could only bite his lip, refusing to look any of them in the eye.
He wasn't sure for how long he was trapped in their tight embrace, the tattoo gun forcing lines into his skin that he couldn't even see.
It was meant to be a gift before he left for Madrid, a way of reminding him of everything he achieved at City. But to Julian, it was a punishment, a brand that he would have to carry with him until the end.
"There, all done," Kyle said, his voice distant, and Julian felt himself fall to the floor limply with no one to hold him up anymore.
From his position curled up on the floor, he heard his teammates leave the room, laughing and chattering to each other in English that he couldn't be bothered to translate.
"Have fun in Madrid," Kevin said sarcastically, before shutting the light off. Julian lay on the ground, sniffling and trembling, his arm throbbing, his cheeks stained with tears.
It must've been a few hours before the lights turned on again, and Julian closed his eyes, fearing whoever was in the doorway.
"Who the fuck is th- Julian!"
Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him into an upright position. Eyes still closed, Julian sobbed, fighting the tight embrace of whoever was holding him.
"No," he cried, "please, no more, no quiero más, por favor!"
"It's okay Julian!" The person said, their voice slightly panicked. "It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you."
Julian simply cried, and the person held him, gently whispering to him in accented English, as another person rushed in.
"Erling? What happened here?"
"I don't know," the man responded, who Julian had now identified as Erling. The Norwegian pulled Julian impossibly closer, running a hand through his hair. "I just found him on the floor in the dark!"
"Oh my God," the other person whispered, and Julian flinched, feeling a cold hand on his forearm. He hesitantly opened his eyes, Manuel's horrified face coming into his vision.
"Hi Juli," Manuel said sweetly, but he wasn't able to hide the sheer mortification on his face. "I'm not going to hurt you, okay? I'm just going to check you out."
Julian shivered, but nodded, allowing Manuel to see his arm.
"Dear God," the Swiss breathed out. He lifted up Julian's limp arm, and he could hear Erling gasp.
"Those bastards," the Norwegian growled, "I'll kill every one of them."
Julian closed his eyes as soon as he saw his arm come back into his vision, not wanting to look at his wrist.
"Juli," Manuel said again, and the Argentinian reluctantly opened his eyes. "Who did this to you?"
Julian hesitated, but Manuel gave him a soft, reassuring look. He swallowed, blinking before answering. "Jack, Kyle, Kevin."
Erling muttered something in Norwegian behind him, words that Julian had heard him call opponents on the pitch before.
"Why did they do it?" Manuel asked, and Julian's eyes filled with tears once more.
"They said it was a... gift," Julian said quietly. "They wanted me to... to recordarlos."
"Pieces of shit," Erling said, and Julian just curled further into himself.
"We're going to get you some help, okay?" Manuel said, looking past Julian's head and staring directly at Erling. The two seemed to have a silent conversation that ended in Manuel nodding, and Julian felt himself being lifted up.
"Let's go, liebling," Manuel said gently, guiding Julian out of the room. "Do you want to go home, or is there somewhere else you want to go to?"
Julian pondered his question, taking small steps, his legs like jelly. Emilia was in Spain already setting up their new place, and he had nothing left in Manchester expect a mostly empty house.
"I... I need to go to London," he whispered out. "London?" Manuel said, trying to confirm. Julian nodded.
If anyone could help him, it would be Enzo. His friend knew more about tattoos than most other people he knew, and the thought of being alone right scared him.
"You wanna see Enzo, yeah?" Erling asked, and Julian nodded, blushing at the question.
"I'll drive him," Manuel volunteered, and Julian froze in his tracks, looking up at the Swiss.
"You don't have to do that," he said frantically. "I can, I can drive myself."
"No, you're not in the right state of mind to be driving right now."
"But Manuel, it's a long drive," he tried to reason, but Manuel simply shook his head.
"I will drive you, Erling will deal with this."
Julian let out a resigned sigh, knowing that nothing he said could change their minds. He let himself be led to Manuel's car, falling asleep to the memories of tattoo guns and warm arms around his chest.
-
Phil didn't know what he was expected for a Monday night training session cool down, but it certainly wasn't Erling slamming the locker room door open.
The team jumped as the Norwegian stormed in, ignoring their curious stares and marching directly to Kyle. The Englishman looked up from his phone, opening his mouth to speak before Erling grabbed him, slamming him against the lockers.
"Hey!" John shouted, and they all jumped up, crowding around to see the commotion.
"What the fuck did you do to him!" Erling yelled, slamming Kyle against the lockers again when he didn't answer.
"He deserved it," Kyle choked out. "He thought he could just leave like that!"
"Deserved what?" Rico asked from somewhere in the crowd, and Erling turned to face him, Kyle still in his tight hold.
"Ask him" he spat in Jack's general direction. "This fucker took photos and everything."
"Took photos of what?" John asked, his voice on the edge of dangerous. At the team's stares, Jack rolled his eyes, opening his phone, muttering under his breath. He turned his phone around, showing a photo to the rest of them.
Gasps echoed around the room, angry muttering and glares being directed back at him. Phil felt his heart drop at photo on Jack's phone screen.
The hand in the photo was so recognisable, blue nail polish that was done by Emilia, braided Albiceleste bracelet that was made by Paredes' daughter, tan skin from the international break in Argentina. What he didn't recognise was the five letter word scarred into the middle of his wrist, glaringly obvious.
"You piece of shit," Phil breathed out, turning to face Jack.
The fight that happened after would be talked about in the news for days, how nearly half the team was refusing to speak to other team mates, how Julian was spotted in London despite still having one more week of training with City before he moved to Madrid.
All of it would blow over in time, when another controversy came and went, but the five letters on Julian's wrist, no matter which tattoo specialist Enzo and Rodri directed him to, would always sit permanently under his skin for everyone to see;
bitch