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You’re not supposed to sneak off, after a game. Certainly not supposed to twist your way through unfamiliar hallways with your head down, not supposed to duck into the first unused room you can find.
It’s some sort of fate, then, that they both end up here.
Erling lowers himself to the ground next to Jude, long legs stretching out in front of him, skin nearly brushing against Jude’s with the proximity. He’s back in his regular clothes, now, long hair washed and loose around his shoulders.
Jude sighs. Lets his head rest back against the wall. Erling always looks so normal, after matches. So human. Jude’s always been jealous of that. It takes hours for the tremor in his own shoulders to fade away.
(It was never like that before. Football never used to hurt. Never used to scare him. Never used to sound like a hundred thousand voices in his head. Back then, it just was.)
Erling is watching him. He nudges Jude’s shoulder. “Hey, Jude.”
His singing is rough, and he draws out the lyric a bit too long, but Jude likes how it sounds in his voice. He smiles, despite himself.
Erling smiles too, looking forward, voice quiet enough that they won’t be overhead. “Na, na, na, nananana, nananana—”
“A little less intimidating than yours, no?” Jude jokes, knocking his shoes against Erling’s. Regular trainers. No way to tell they were head to head on the pitch an hour ago.
Erling makes a face. “I don’t know if I enjoy being so popular on TikTok.”
Jude does laugh at that. He gets it.
Then they’re quiet, for a while.
There’s probably so much they should say. Jude knows there is, because he knows he thinks it sometimes: I should tell Erling about that, or more often, I would’ve told Erling about that, before.
In a way, this is familiar, isn’t it? Sitting next to each other like this after a match. Some part of Jude used to think it would always be like this.
He’s always been a bit naïve.
“You shake so much,” Erling murmurs eventually. “Even your thighs.”
Jude draws his feet a bit closer, so that his legs bend. He presses his palms against his knees. That gives them a little more stability, though not quite enough to stop it. He wishes Erling wouldn’t notice.
Erling hums, unconvinced. He shifts closer, and for a moment, Jude wants to flinch, wants to push him away—the opposition, the threat—but he doesn’t. He lets Erling slide his arm behind his neck, wrap his hand around one of Jude’s shoulders, rest his forehead gently against the other. Jude’s breath stutters, for a moment.
“Shhh,” Erling murmurs. He puts his other hand on Jude’s knee, over Jude’s. “I’m just adding pressure. It feels better, doesn’t it?”
Erling’s warm palms, pressed into Jude’s skin, arms curled around him, like he’s holding him together. He is holding him together—holding him tight enough that his muscles can’t find room to shake.
“Don’t let go,” Jude mutters, and it sounds desperate, and he has to blink away the hot tears in his eyes. “S’ good. Helps.”
“I’ve got you,” Erling rumbles, adjusting his grip, legs drawing up and pressing against Jude’s. “You can breathe.”
And Jude can breathe—does breathe, does actually breathe, maybe for the first time since the tournament started. Inhale and exhale, slow, real, alive. Human.
“What did you think of it?” Jude whispers, tracing circles onto his own skin. “Sharing a pitch again?”
Erling raises his head, exhales in a bit of a laughing huff. “I would prefer England did not have you.”
“I think we should get you.” (Jude doesn’t really mean that. Well, maybe he does. He isn’t sure.)
“But it was nice,” Erling adds, more quietly. “I like to see you play.”
You don’t really see it, in recordings. You can’t feel it, the thud of boots on the ground, the frantic movement, the precision, the force of a kick, of a fall. It’s not the same.
“What if we play, then?” Jude suggests.
Erling draws back, head tilting.
“Find some grass somewhere,” Jude says, sitting up a little straighter. “Kick the ball around. You know. Play.”
Erling smiles a bit. “When will we next be together?”
Jude hesitates, deflating. He doesn’t know.
“So tonight, then,” Erling decides. “We will have to wear disguises. And we must wait for dark.”
How irresponsible, Jude thinks a little giddily. You’re not supposed to do things like that. The risk of injury is far too high. The exhaustion alone! The deviation from routine! What a nightmare.
“Unless you are too scared,” Erling says, grinning. “Was it the chant?”
Jude laughs. Stretches his legs—they’re still weak with exhaustion, but they’re not shaking anymore. “2:00 am. I’ll be there.”
Erling’s voice is soft. “I’ll find you.”