Chapter Text
There was a persistent itch in his upper back.
Erling flexed his shoulder, rotating to try to alleviate the sensation, but it instead made his skin seem to stretch farther than it should, something in his muscles burning.
He frowned. Maybe it was a huge pimple on his back that was causing the problem? That he should wait out until it fell off?
He stopped trying to reach the itch, simply opting to pull his white shirt over it and finish getting ready for the match. Brazil was a tough opponent to beat, and while he didn’t really believe that his team was that good, he would try everything to win. And no stupid itch was going to hold him down.
The jersey settled over his back wrong, rubbing against the itch no matter how many times he tugged on it.
Weirdly enough, it was now concentrated in two points right under his shoulder blades.
He opted to ignore it. It will get better after the match.
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After the match, it’s worse.
The itch had blossomed into a full blown ache that wouldn’t leave him alone no matter how much he clawed at his shirt to put distance between the fabric and his hurting skin.
Alone in the locker room, where he’d run after his match, without staying behind for any of the fans in the crowd, Erling leaned onto one of the walls for support. His breathing was ragged, his rib cage feeling like it was being crushed. He took off his jersey with such speed he almost ripped some of the stitches.
His last memories were a blur of cheering, scoring, but they were eclipsed by the feeling of fire being channeled into his entire being from the two points on his back.
He blinked hard. Was this the Brazilian punishment for beating their team? Neymar deciding he’s too much of a threat to be left in one piece…He almost laughed at the absurdity of the thought, but the muscles in his back twinged and he involuntarily let out a gasp.
The first half of the match had been good, almost great, he’d been walking around without problems, and had managed a goal with such a simple kick he’d felt like he was levitating in the air. It had felt like the air was back in his lungs and he could breathe properly, if only for that airborne second, and he had felt right.
It all went to shit in the second half though, after the halftime break. He’d started running after the ball, had gotten a great start, and when it came to kick it into the net, his left foot gave way as a burning sensation spread from his back to his limbs. His other foot had made contact and he’d scored, but he’d been dazed, out of sorts, and all of the noise had exacerbated the pain in his right side, until he felt freshly beaten all over.
Something twitched in his back, and without the iron grip he had on the tiles, his legs would’ve buckled.
The man twisted his head to look over his shoulder at…whatever was protruding out of his back, a muscle, a bone that he’d broken, something that would make sense medically and get him out of the dread seeping into his being.
There was a bone alright…but it was still under his skin, just pushing against it from the side of his spine. It bulged against the muscles, akin to a tumor, and he swallowed hard. He really, really hoped it was simply a tumor now. However, he knew it couldn’t be. Tumors don’t move. And they surely don’t have a mind of their own. And they most definitely don’t try to escape their host. That would be stupid.
He grit his teeth, his jaw muscles tensing as he tried to ignore the stabbing bites of pain that were making him shake all over. He gripped his right shoulder hard with his hand to try to find the problem and deal with it. Something caught his eye as the movement gave way to something.
He’d broken skin.
What?
Small droplets of blood dripped on the locker room tiles as he watched, transfixed, the twin gushes of blood flowing out of his back. In shocking symmetry, the two wounds were evenly spaced from his spine, as if carved out with surgical precision.
The right side, the one he was gripping, was losing a lot more blood than the left, and he eased the pressure he was putting on that side, until it suddenly exploded, something wet and slimy hitting the floor with a pathetic plop.
Erling only felt agony, falling down onto the still wet floor with clumsy movements. The blood had started to pool under him as well, a sea of red he was kneeling in, staining his shorts a deep crimson.
His ears popped as the left side tore away too, and if he screamed, he probably couldn’t have heard it over the pounding of his blood in his head rushing to try to mend the broken skin. His vision was blurry, and he couldn’t focus on anything, the sickly feeling of a fever starting to appear clouding his judgement.
He tore his left hand away from the floor to touch the wall he was facing, to get a little respite from the scorching warmth his body was exuding, and his eyes slipped closed after seeing his bloody hand shakily press itself to the white wall.
The touch was grounding, and he went through his meditations. If he could at least gather enough energy to yell loud enough, he could be saved. With the amount of blood he lost…his chances were dimming by the second.
He breathed deeply for a few repetitions, careful not to let the surplus of oxygen to his brain overwhelm him and put him in a sleepy state. He stayed alert, inhaling just enough to keep his heart pumping to keep the adrenaline present but not overbearing.
He opened his eyes, letting his hand fall back to its natural position.
Something soft brushed against it.
He yelped, looking around for whatever it was he’d felt, hoping that it wasn’t bits of muscle that had fallen when his back had burst open, and his gaze fell on something white in his periphery. He turned, fully assessing the ivory bits marked with red.
Feathers. A lot of them, strewn across himself on the floor. He gingerly picked one in his hand, turning the shaft over to see the blood smeared across it as if it had been pelted with a vermillion shower.
A sound came from behind him, and Haaland tilted his head towards it, towards his back, and came face to face with an expanse of these feathers towering over him, attached to his shoulder blades. His jaw dropped.
This wasn’t a tumor.
He had grown wings.