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The full-time whistle blowing on their first Singapore friendly is like tinnitus to Jason's ears. Shaking hands with Arteta after a loss does little to soothe the headache that has been building since he stepped on the plane. There's an ambient hum of tension running through the whole team, the silence around Alex's absence is a vacuum that petty squabbles rush to fill.
Tripps. Tell Osula to sit down.
You what?
He's doing too much, bro. Got his camera in my face.
I'm not his da, Fabi. What's it got to do with me?
He's your bitch, isn't he?
Jason is on his feet before the words have finished leaving Fabian's mouth. Fixes him and Kieran with a glare, and they've got enough sense not to argue. Mumble their apologies and scurry back to their seats.
And now this. A seemingly meaningless loss. But it doesn't feel that way.
Later, when he follows Eddie into their hotel room, the door closing behind them feels like a line drawn under something. Eddie paces in front of the floor to ceiling window overlooking the compound. Stops only to clear his throat. Coughs, thumps his closed fist on his chest hard, twice, and clears his throat again.
Glances in Jason's direction. "I don't want to hear it," he says, somewhat redundantly. He coughs into the crook of his elbow. Resumes his pacing.
Jason nods his acknowledgement even though Eddie's not looking. Somehow feels like he can see him all the same.
They hadn't let him in when Eddie was admitted to the RVI with pneumonia. Next of kin only, they told him apologetically. The words on loop in his head, accompanied by a sharp spike of pain in his chest that wasn't dulled by chain smoking whilst walking laps of the hospital grounds.
A short walk to the park, and it doesn't take long to find someone dealing gak. A lad on a bike cycling in slow circles in the middle of the underpass. He tutted at the price but pulled the notes out of his wallet without argument. Sleight of hand and he pocketed the wrap, sloped back to the hospital to crush, cut, and snort it in a disabled toilet.
When he emerged, sniffing hard and squinting into the light, he walked straight into Ste Purches who took one look at him and said, "Go home."
He opened his mouth to argue but Purchy cut him off. "I know," he said. And Jason knew he did. As much as he could. "At least try to get some sleep." Jason sniffed again to clear the remnants of the coke from his nose. Talk about ships that had sailed.
Eddie stops pacing and stares out the window. Takes a deep, slow, steadying breath that Jason mirrors. "I really thought Alex was going to be on that plane, you know?" he says eventually.
Jason knows.
"You know where Yasir was then I finally managed to get hold of him? The fucking golf course. Reckon he'd be more interested if they put eighteen holes in St James Park." He rubs an exasperated hand over his face and turns around to look at Jason. "What the fuck are we going to do?" he asks.
We. Us. The two of them.
Couldn't think of anywhere Eddie could go he'd not follow. Next of kin only, and standing alone at the side of the pitch. Too much like Bournemouth. Every game lasting an eternity. Something he'd sworn would never happen again.
That old, familiar, inexorable pull.
His hands curl into fists at his sides. His thumb presses to the raised scar on his finger where Anthony Gordon's tooth once split open his knuckle. "What do you say to the fiery little upstart with a split lip and a black eye?" Jason had asked. "Nothing - I already told him. Twice." Eddie had chuckled. "Good boy."
Nobody else might know how to handle Alex, but Jason thinks he has a pretty good idea.
Eddie's gaze follows the tense line of his arms, the muscles flexing, down to his clenched fists. He bites his bottom lip. The tiny flash of tongue always drives Jason wild. His voice is low when he says, "come to bed." It isn't a question and he doesn't wait for an answer.
Jason lets him lead the way, without hesitation.