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They don’t hate each other. No, not at all. But it is a big deal… to Kylian, at least.
He and Erling follow each other on multiple platforms, watch each other play, and absentmindedly keep track of how many goals the other has scored. Tied at the moment. Kylian had told the reporters, “I don’t think about him. Maybe they’re the ones thinking about us.” Though, that statement came off as defensive after hearing Erling’s response: “they’re probably going to win.”
It’s easy to talk big in front of a camera. Kylian and his team have been doing very well. But for god’s sake, it’s Erling Håland, and the truth is, he thinks about him more than what’s acceptable for a mere rival. That doesn’t mean he’s going to back down, but somewhere along the line, he started believing that if everyone else cares so much, he should as well.
He remembers the first time he played against Erling, nearly a year and a half ago. Real Madrid vs. Man City. They scored against each other, the two. Kylian even gained the courage to playfully tug on Erling’s jersey when he passed by, which was met with a bright smile. That’s not to discredit the others. Real Madrid won, barely, and it was certainly an important game. But he never saw Erling that way until recently.
When did things get so serious?
Another match three months ago, same clubs. Being on the bench for the majority of the time, Kylian hardly recalls anything about the match, except for two things: they had won, and afterward, Erling patted him on the chest and gave him a hug. One of those is worth points towards his career, and the other theoretically means nothing.
In reality, what personal business does Erling have with him? They hardly know each other. Kylian’s better off hitting up anyone else he sees on a regular basis, all those talented people who’d be honored to be his number one... but his mind’s set on Erling, whether he likes it or not.
It doesn’t help that Erling is hard to read. Rather, he approaches the world with such simplicity that makes Kylian wonder if he’s been approaching life entirely wrong. No matter the outcome, Erling always accepts it, only looking back to learn. In contrast to Kylian’s self-described competitiveness, that trait is enough to make Erling unlike anything he’s ever seen, completely magnetic. Once in a generation. He wishes he could be like that, too.
The two countries aren’t far apart on the map. They’re way closer in rivalry, two men fighting to be number one. And the World Cup is the perfect opportunity to prove he can at least be a better athlete.
Word has it Erling won’t be playing the day of their match—tomorrow. What a joke, Kylian thinks. Why wouldn't he? It’s probably an attempt to throw him and his team off. To let the fans (and maybe some other curious teams) down is simply implausible. So Kylian’s plans to face Erling remain unchanged in his mind.
Sleep does not come easy to him in the unfamiliar hotel room. There Kylian lies, his finest pajamas unable to comfort him, muscles faintly aching from a previous game. Soft moonlight coats the floor underneath the curtains; he has a view of the entire city if he cares to step out on the balcony, but no. All his thoughts lead back to Erling. Hell, is he thinking about this too? Is he in the exact same spot, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this game will determine their futures for years to come?
Probably not.
Braut Haaland, 9. Mbappé, 10.
Kylian and Erling do not walk side by side when the first traces of the stadium’s light crowns their heads. Kylian’s at the very front of the line, acutely aware that Erling likely—most definitely—can see him from the back. The fans instantly roar from seeing the traces of flickering shadows alone. He gives them a quick scan, noting a split of navy and red. By now, he knows the public isn’t what’s making his heart rate simmer above baseline and throwing off his practiced breathing exercises. It’s seeing Erling again, right there… no. What matters is the game, the game, the game.
They momentarily part during the flag ceremony, allowing Kylian to breathe again. Somewhat. The loudspeaker and blaring music should be enough to block out any mental noise, but it doesn’t really. With the cameras in his space, he puts on his best concentrated face while singing the words to the national anthem through his dry lips, but the reporters can only guess and fail to estimate the amount of pressure he’s feeling.
The attention pans away when it’s Norway’s turn for inauguration. Being so far away, Kylian can’t see Erling’s face for himself. His instinct is to gaze at the giant screens above. Of course they linger longer on Erling, and although Kylian should keep doing his best to stay respectful, he slips on occasion. Erling sings proudly, gaze piercing through the blurry static, his face flawlessly smooth and clear of imperfections. His hair always has the appearance of being silky. Kylian dreams of being able to see it down in the flesh. Later near the locker rooms, if he’s lucky.
Suddenly, the crowd erupts into cheers and screams, marking the end of the ceremony. The flagbearers start to retreat. Any calm Kylian has been able to manifest drops beneath his feet. That’s his cue to get moving, just as they’ve practiced. He can only hope he doesn’t look as nervous as he feels.
Then comes the part that isn’t shown on TV, the final wrapup and pep talk before the game. Fans yell at them. Kylian’s teammates glance at him when he becomes the subject of conversation, in the same way he does to Erling. Some of them notice, but don’t speak up. It’s not like Kylian to be so distracted, and he’s well aware of that, too. Before anything starts, he squeezes water out of those advertised-to-hell Powerade bottles onto his face for good measure, sending a cold shock throughout his body. To hell with his childish feelings, and let the games begin.
Kylian makes his way into the center of the field, but… Erling stays behind, on the bench. So the rumors are true.
It’s a strange feeling, having his heart sink and fill with relief at the same time. He’d already psyched himself out enough with the image of Erling’s massive frame charging at him, flattening him with ease… now replaced with the worry of being observed by him the whole time. The easier thing to manage should’ve been obvious. It’s all in his head, Kylian tells himself. To hell with his childish feelings. And with as much strength he has left, he empties his head as the kickoff timer ticks down to one.
In less than thirty seconds, Kylian receives a long pass. Goes as far as his legs will take him. Shoots. The ball bounces off the top of the rim. The whole world saw that. Erling did. A sense of terror ripples through him as the replays echo throughout the stadium.
He would be correct to believe that marks the beginning of a series of failures. Missed pass after missed pass, failed assists, having the ball stolen from him, and being called out for being offside, as usual… god, Kylian’s just so off. And why is it that whenever he looks over, Ousmane seems to be there, more involved than what was discussed? His first goal is sweet, making it at a tight angle. The second’s much like the first, equally impressive. By the third, he’s joined the race for the Golden Boot. Kylian sneaks a glance at Erling’s worried face after that, his blue eyes staring off in the distance. Kylian’s heart melts.
All of it’s well deserved on his teammate’s part, but everyone expected it to come from him. Wasn’t this supposed to be his chance to prove he’s a better player than Erling?
Seeing as Kylian isn’t contributing much, it’s not long after the second half’s beginning when he’s called to the bench as well. From where he’s standing, he realizes he’s going to pass by where Erling’s sitting. He considers pretending to be too focused to look, but… oh, who is he kidding? He folds like a piece of paper when the object of his obsession is right in front of him. There’s still disappointment plastered all over his face, but Kylian swears up and down it eases up when they meet eyes. Erling smiles, and Kylian gives him a slight nod, nothing that could hint at more.
As he sits and watches, like before, his mind starts to drift instead of paying attention, imagining the reports that’ll come out of this. Dembélé Scores Hat Trick, Does France Need Mbappé?
The referee’s whistle breaks his thoughts. Kylian checks the score: 4-1. He hadn’t even noticed when someone scored the fourth. It’s over. They won.
In spite of everything, the crowd goes wild when he steps back onto the field for the post-match ceremony. People of all teams and occupations flood the enormous space. No one has a chance of being alone. Both teammates and opponents offer him hugs, handshakes, and praise. Four cameramen come to follow him. The whole drama… really was in his head, a match that could possibly be passed off as a bad day. That is, until the inevitable.
Erling’s face appears in Kylian’s line of sight when he least expects it, shaking hands with his fellow teammates. When Erling runs towards him—exactly in the way Kylian’s visualized a thousand times—it feels like a wave crashing over him, a tide pulling him in. Kylian blinks, and there he is, a foot away. An arm snakes around his shoulder without asking, fingers brushing his throat. Kylian, much like how he performed in-game, doesn’t know what to do with himself. He opts for a quick side hug.
“Thanks for beating us.”
Kylian laughs nervously before the words register: Norway gets the so-called easier path, right. He waited the entire day and more for this, and now he can’t control the shakiness in his French-accented English. I hardly did anything worth noting, he would say if there weren’t people watching. “Erling, I…” didn’t get to play against you. Your name sounds so good coming off my tongue. “…hah. Your team did well.”
Erling shakes his head. “Not as well as yours,” he rebuts, sporting a soft smile. “Keep it up and you’ll definitely win.”
And he’s off.
Kylian kicks himself as he watches Erling move on to another member of his team. That’s all he could muster up? Pathetic. Right now, he’s less of a dictator and more like a puppet under Erling’s omnipresent control. He can’t let him slip away. He needs to plan his next move, stat. The game’s not over.
Kylian spends what feels like at least an hour slugging through interviews and talking to people he hardly remembers the face of. He tells them the match went exactly how he expected it to, which is true to some degree. Reporters flock to Ousmane for once. It’s during one of those moments where he manages to slip away.
The stadium’s tunnels are dark, backlit by color-changing LEDs in the floor, bouncing off the matching black tiles and walls. Kylian’s footsteps echo off the walls, eerily quiet. He follows where his feet take him, nowhere exact, but vaguely in the direction of the locker rooms. It’d be nice to change out of his sweat-soaked clothes, but he finds himself doing everything to slow his pace. The posters on the walls become the most interesting things in the world. Some of his heroes are there. One day, if he can get his act right, he’ll be there, too.
A shadow floods his peripherals. It’s the second time Erling appears out of the blue, and Kylian does a double-take despite hoping for this. He walks with one of his teammates, but from what he can see, Erling’s eyeing him back.
“Erling,” Kylian calls out again, more confident this time, but not by much. The conversation between the other two ceases. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yeah?” Erling whispers a few quick words to his teammate before he pats him on the back and sends him on his way. Alone, they meet in the center of the hallway. “What’s this about?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me.”
Erling flashes that smile of his, but pairs a shrug with it. “Ah, I’d love to, but I’m on a strict diet, you know?”
Kylian blinks; he wasn’t expecting that response, but of course it makes sense. How could he have forgotten? It’s like the entire world is working against him to make this fall through. “Man. Another time? After this?” He sounds like a desperate fan.
“Yeah.” It falls silent between them. Classic Erling. “I don’t have your number, do I?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Kylian knows so. His heart swells as he picks his phone out of his pocket and hands it over, completely satisfied at finally having a spot for Erling in his contact list. Erling’s fingers are surprisingly delicate as they grace over Kylian’s phone, tapping on the glass like it’ll break. He wouldn’t be surprised if it did from the sheer strength of him, nor would he be mad. Kylian can’t take his eyes off of it.
“I should be the one treating you to dinner,” Erling mumbles, a slight laugh making its way into the statement.
“Huh?”
“Tell you what.” Erling hands the phone back, a twinkle in his eye. Kylian glances at Erling’s number to ensure he’s not dreaming before shutting it off. “I know how hard you’ve been working for this. If you win the World Cup, I’ll take you out.”
It’s like he’s decided their fate already, sacrificing himself and his effort for it. Kylian’s mouth hangs open. He replays the words again: take you out. There’s no explanation for this; if they’re both so certain France is going to win, then…
“Why? What do you mean?”
A sly glint has taken over the gentle light in him, something Kylian’s never seen before.
“We both have a lot to talk about.”
In his heart, Kylian knows. Knows that Erling’s felt this all along. He doesn’t need to hide it anymore.
Kylian dares a step forward, and Erling backs up in the same stride.
“What about your work? If you win?”
“Doesn’t change anything,” Erling insists. Another step, same response. There’s a clear outline of his back on the wall, breaking a spot in the display of lights, turning his skin and jersey a shade of neon blue. One more, and he’ll be entirely pressed against it. “I, um… hope I’m not the only one who’s tired of this fake rivalry.”
That’s exactly the entry point he’s been searching for.
“So, you feel it too.”
Erling nods. He looks down at Kylian through hooded eyes, down at the curious thing he is. No matter what the statistics say, it feels like there’s a foot of difference between them. Kylian doesn’t mind it. He’s the one with all the bark.
He takes the last step.
Never has he fully confronted the fantasy of exploring the other’s body. His hands tremble as they grasp at Erling’s sides, feeling the solid and sticky warmth of him, which he accepts. This is what perfection feels like. Once he’s done enough ogling, Kylian tilts his head up, awaiting Erling’s reaction. He’s still got that smile on his face.
“People can see us, Kylian.”
A chill goes down his spine—he’s never heard Erling say his first name before, and he needs to hear it again for as long as he lives. The outside world has tried time and time again to persuade him otherwise, to pit them against each other, but clearly, it’s only managed to bring them closer. So be it if someone with a camera walks in on this very moment. Both of them will stay frozen until one of them moves, and Erling is physically unable to.
Kylian has to stand on his toes to reach him. Their lips fit together perfectly, both incredibly full, not just in mass, but in passion. Despite how much Kylian wants to give him tongue, it’ll have to wait for a special occasion. Some time after dinner.
When Kylian pulls away, his body buzzes with electricity, completely renewed. If only he could’ve felt that way before the match. Erling appears pleased with himself as well, or proud of Kylian, or both. Finally, Kylian lets off, releasing him. The warmth drains from his palms, but he’ll remember this moment for years to come. Erling ruffles his short hair, his palm nearly fitted to him.
“See you soon.”