erling tends to ruminate in the evening.
Erling watches as Graelish hoots with laughter, positively alight with mirth and the joy that comes with a feeling of absolute belonging, of rightness, like this is the place he was meant for, this team and this family, and he cannot bring himself to speak; instead he keeps a smile on his face as Graelish and Stonesy begin to down shots in a sort of drinking game.
A feeling of awkwardness possesses him, as he watches beer slosh around in someone elseâs mug, and before he can form a thought his mouth opensâhe is calling out to the bartender, ordering some top-shelf whiskey he remembers Kevin had gotten once, and the bartender stares at him, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.
Right, heâs forgotten. There arenât many tall and blonde Scandinavians in Manchester. The bartender seems to shake himself out of a stupor, and he whirls, to reach for an unopened bottle of amber liquid. Before Erling can protest, the bartender has already set the entire bottle in front of him, and scurried away.
Erling hears a muffled laugh. Turning his head, he spies dark curls of fine hair and a flash of eyes the exact same shade of brown as the liquid in the bottle; itâs Jude, and he meets Erling's gaze with no hesitation. Of course. Jude is no coward. The somewhat poor lighting does not take away from his sweeping features; it illuminates a golden diagonal across his face, and he breathes in, slowly, as Jude arches a brow and blinks like a sly fox, lashes casting crescent shadows under his eyes. He's nursing a drink, with a couple of empty glasses already on the counter. He says something; over the din of the bar Erling cannot make out the exact words, but he can see Jude's full lips moving, shaping syllables: Popular lad, huh?
He cannot hear Jude, but he can imagine the familiar Brummie accent and the sarcastic lilt to that rich voice, and he must be smiling stupidly because Jude laughs again, this time with abandon. He can feel himself flush; even though he still retains a tan from the sunny preseason, heâs sure the pink is evident on his cheeks.
Popular lad, indeed. He's settled at City, he thinks. Mostly. There are friendships that run deeper than star strikers and scoring records. There are inside jokes that are older than Erling's career. There are lively bars the team frequents, and it always ends up the same way: Graelish and Stones and Foden slapping each others' backs and some veterans huddled near the back, all straight bourbon and straight posture, and then Erling, who is probably welcome to join any of them but just. Just can't, just feels frozen within himself, and ends up ordering soda water and leaving early. It's at times like these when Erling misses them the most: Gio and Jadon and easy laughter and Jude, Jude's soft lips on his own.
It's not regret, this strange feeling overtaking him, it's something that he cannot put a name to. Something that hurts, vaguely, deep underneath his breastbone. He thinks, Jude should not have come, and then he immediately feels guilt curling up inside him. Madrid plays City once in a blue moon. All of Jude's friends, his England teammates, are here. Hell, Erling catches dinner with Martin every time Arsenal and City cross pathes, and they're in the same league. Why should Jude lose a rare opportunity for the sake of...
And Erling does not know what, exactly, he is to Jude. Ex-teammate? Ex...partner? They were not partners, at Dortmund; there is no word he can think of that encapsulates what they were. They were shadowy chaste kisses before a match and tears mixing together after, lazy embraces in the morning, limbs and souls tangled at night.
He cannot help it. Erling's vision tunnels; for a second there is only incandescent light sputtering above them and Jude's plush lips and Jude's set jaw and Jude, Jude, Judeâ
Before he can look away, Jude catches him: his gaze meets his once more, and this time the light catches just right and Erling can see his pupils: they are huge, covering nearly the entirety of his irises, and he cannot read Jude's expression save the sudden shift in his eyes, something that is wilder than his normal playfulness. Itâs too late for Erling to dissect it, because Jude gives him one final smile and picks up his drink, disappearing into a sea of bodies. Gone to find one of his English friends, he supposes. He stares at the tall glasses, full of melting ice and nothing else, left in Jude's wake. There is something else there: a scrap of paper, worn thin at the edges.
He dares to hope. He closes his fingers around the scrap and brings it into the light; he scans the careful print handwriting across its surface. Erling folds it carefully. Jude's drunk, he knows. Full of liquor and not in his right mind. Never mind that the paper is smoothed and thin, a sign of the wear and tear that comes with constant handling. He tucks the paper cautiously into his pocket.
Drunk or not, Jude traced a pen over paper somewhere: on the plane to England or back at Madrid or worse, somewhere from their shared past, in Germany. Erling doesn't want to think. He does not want to feel.
He does not drink. His body is the instrument that keeps him useful; he's avoided alcohol since the minute City triggered his release clause.
Something makes his hand move. The hand does not push the bottle away. For some inexplicable reason the hand uncaps the bottle, and brings it to his lips, and he sips. He thinks of Jude, somewhere across the room, dancing and drinking and living, and then Jude in Madrid, happy, moved on to the bigger and brighter things he was always destined for, and he swallows another mouthful. There is warmth flooding into him.
Even though Jude is here, but not. Even though Jude's path with him ended years ago. Even though there is a piece of worn paper setting fire to his trouser pocket. Despite everything, he can feel himself smile. Because the crowd of bodies parts, just for a second, and there is tall, graceful figure in his line of sight, the surface of his cheekbones gleaming like molten metal, strong nose evident in his handsome quarter-profile, fathomless eyes half-shadowed, and Erling is still smiling and wondering and daring to dream, just a little bit.
Before the crowd closes around him, Jude smiles back. Erling thinks that this must be a dream.
