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For all the celebrating on the pitch, the flight back from Oslo calms down relatively quickly. There are beers and toasts and the occasional whoop from somebody’s family on FaceTime, but mostly everybody’s just fucking exhausted, loose and already half-asleep in their seats. John’s still keyed-up and buzzing, but he’s at least capable of sitting still through it.
Jack is not. And after the way he played tonight, John’s not surprised.
It’s a good distraction, at least. Watching him. He’s in fine form tonight, sat with his feet in Walks’ lap and the rest of him in Hendo’s. John will never stop his baffled admiration at the way Jack just short-circuits people’s normal boundaries.
He says something unintelligible that makes Hendo roar with laughter, and John knows it really must’ve been funny; Hendo cannot be provoked into changing his expression as quickly as some of the other boys. John catches the squeeze Walks gives Jack’s ankle. He does it again, and this time Jack squirms and kicks his foot free, then kicks Walks in the face. This is normal enough behaviour that nobody even looks up.
‘Prick,’ Walks says, loud enough for John to hear, his tongue poking out from behind his teeth as he grins. ‘Ain’t your foot supposed to be broken, anyway? Nasty tumble you took at the end of the game.’
‘Other one.’ As Walks knows perfectly well. ‘Still managed to play a full ninety though, didn’t I? You ain’t done that in years, have you, old man?’
Hendo snorts and Jack all but beams. Because it means something to him, that someone like Jordan likes him. It means something to Jack that all the lads like him; it means more, John thinks, than Jack would ever let on.
Walks slaps Hendo over the head. ‘You can’t laugh, dickhead. When you retiring? Gotta be soon, surely…’
John feels himself begin to tune out. He’s heard it all before: the banter, the casual back and forth. His attention shifts instead to Mason and Tyrone instead, the two sat in the seats in front of the other lads, heads bent together, expressions on their faces giving the impression they’re discussing some life or death situation. And then Tyrone’s mumbling something that makes Mason laugh, the back of Mason’s head hitting the seat, and he turns back to give Tyrone a look. It’s a look John is familiar with — he’s seen Jack aim it at him enough times by now to know. John can’t fault Mason aiming high tonight. He played well, too.
‘…gonna go talk to people who are nice to me…’ It’s Jack, and John’s eyes find him again, as they always tend to. He’s unfolding himself from Hendo’s lap, who’s laughing at one thing or another, John doesn’t know, but clearly the conversation had shifted away from Hendo’s old age to Jack in the minute John looked away.
‘And I’m taking this.’ Jack snatches Walks’ gin-and-tonic up and downs it in one, eliciting a small cheer from a few of the other lads who are still awake. ‘Dickhead.’ There’s no heat to it, he’s still smiling. He hasn’t really stopped.
‘You’re buying me another one,’ Walks retorts as Jack wanders down the aisle, but he doesn’t look arsed, letting his legs sprawl out in front of him and grinning.
Most of the lads are sleeping now. How so many of them have fallen asleep so quickly is beyond him. How the fuck do you sleep on a high wire?
Jack finds John. Predictably. ‘Alright?’ he says, slumping into the seat and looking up at John. ‘Hand alright?’
He’d taken a tumble, too. Little thing. ‘Fine,’ he says. And it is fine. They won the game. Only a friendly, but playing against Haaland feels a little like playing against a whole team in one man. But they’d only let him net two, one less than Kane. So his hand is fine. His hand has never been better. Well. Itching slightly through the adrenaline and painkillers, but it’s not the throbbing mess it was two hours ago. He might need to take another to sleep tonight, but there’s a good chance he won’t be sleeping tonight, anyway.
‘Good,’ Jack says. ‘We need all of you ship-shape an’ shiny for the start of the season, don’t we?’
The beginning of every season always seems to sneak up on him. The summers are too brief, the ever-watching eyes of fans and media and pundits sneaking back up on him before he has time to really rest. Never a day off.
‘Four more weeks,’ he mutters, almost as a reminder to himself. He flexes his good hand.
‘Four more weeks, baby,’ and there’s a spark of something in Jack’s eyes that wasn’t there this time last year. Second season at City and he’ll be joined up front by the best up-and-coming striker in the world. No wonder he’s already geared up.
‘He’s having a good night, eh?’ John says, gesturing back to Walks, who’s taking selfies with some of the boys who’re sleeping.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Jack replies, grinning. ‘He’s loving it.’
Walks, somehow, like always, senses eyes on him and looks up, making a face when he sees them from the other end of the plane.
‘What a beauty,’ Jack laughs, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out two little pewter vikings. ‘Want one?’ he asks casually, as if it’s a completely normal thing to offer somebody off the cuff.
John frowns. ‘Where did you even get them from?’ he asks slowly. The first viking looks like it’s in pain, face scrunched in agony; the second looks like it’s angry, one of his little silvery fingers pointing outwards accusingly.
Jack shrugs. ‘One of the Norwegian fans gave them to me after the game. Quite nice, ain’t they?’
’No.’ John makes a face and picks up the angry viking. ‘Looks like he’s about to hate-crime us.’
‘Oi, leave off,’ Jack says, taking the angry viking back. ‘They’re nice in their own way.’
John just rolls his eyes. ‘Whatever you say, Princess.’
Jack turns in his seat, then turns back to John. ’What we got here, then?’ He gestures toward Mason and Tyrone, who are so deep into a conversation that not even a plane crash could drag them back up. ‘Look proper cozy. Any ideas?’
Jack’s looking at him again now. And, God. He looks — John doesn’t know how he looks.
He does have some ideas about Ty and Mason, but he’s looking at Jack now and… well, entirely different thoughts are forming.
’S’cute,’ Jack says, unaware of what’s building up in John. He’s looking over at them again. ‘Bit unexpected. I always thought Ty and…’ He stops to crane his neck around, then stops and says, ‘We really gotta do something about him.’
He’s like this sometimes. Most of the time, actually. Hopping from topic to topic as things occur to him. John doesn’t tend to interrupt him. It’s enough just being along for the ride.
‘Something about who?’ he asks absently, not taking his eyes away from Jack.
‘Walks. Obviously.’
John glances at him. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘We gotta get him laid.’ Jack huffs and rolls his eyes, as if it was obvious. ‘Come on, man, keep up.’
John hums. ‘Good luck with that. Pretty sure he’s only interested in — ‘ He stops, reconsiders whether or not it’s a good idea to finish that sentence. Probably not.
‘In?’ Jack prompts, eyes saucer-wide, and John knows he’s properly got Jack’s attention now.
‘I mean, it’s just a theory. But, you know. You know.’
‘Spit it out, would you?’
‘Well. You. Pretty sure he’s only interested in you.’
John has known Jack for a long time. It’s always fun to see him make an entirely new face.
‘Are you having me on?’ he whispers, leaning in so he’s not much more than an inch away from John’s face. John can only describe the expression on his face as one of a man who’s just been told the plane’s being flown by a… a pewter viking. ‘Get out, man. What a crock of shit. You gotta be lying.’
John shakes his head. ‘Have you ever lied to you?’
‘You lie to me all the time.’
John frowns. ’Like when?’
‘Like when you told me that a chicken lived without a head for eighteen months. You’re so full of shite, you are.’
‘That’s true,’ John says, letting out a honking laugh. ‘I read about it.’
Jack just hits him lightly over the head. ’Shut it.’ He still looks completely dumbstruck, mouth hanging open. Oh, it’s so fun to throw him off-balance. John still loves it just as much. ‘Are you sure?’ he hisses, glancing up at Walks, who’s blowing into a sleeping Dec’s ear. For some reason. Sometimes it’s best not to question it.
‘I’m sure,’ John says sagely.
‘How sure?’
‘Very.’
‘That’s fucking mad, ain’t it? How’d you even know he likes fellas…’ Then his eyes widen, and John can physically see the cogs turning. It’s the quickest he’s ever seen Jack put two and two together. ‘You two… You never?’
‘Once.’
‘Once?’
There’s a moment of silence. Then, ‘Twice.’
‘John,’ Jack says again. ‘That’s bad.’ He sounds fucking thrilled.
John bites down on the side of his tongue to stop himself from laughing, feeling like a school boy laughing with a mate at the back of class. It’s strange to think they’ve never had this conversation before. A stark reminder of how much they still have to learn about each other. ‘It weren’t bad, actually,’ he says, and Jack has to shove his hand across his mouth to muffle his laughter.
It hadn’t been bad. But John had been half-worried that sleeping with Kyle would come with too many strings, which is why it hadn’t really resulted in anything. John had spent most of his career indulging in lowkey hook-ups with other lads, none of which had ever come to much. And that was fine. He’d understood right from the start what he was getting himself into — the difficulties that came with this career.
With Jack it had never been difficult. It was easy, second-nature. More natural to acknowledge it than to not. More natural to act on it than to not.
‘Shit, man,’ Jack says. ‘Didn’t know you was so easy.’ He grins, and the buzzing in John’s chest is back. ‘Actually, yeah I did.’
It’s not been that long — six months on and off, or there abouts — but it feels like longer. John can remember the first time, confident hands under the waterline of the ridiculous blow-up jacuzzi Jack ordered from Argos when they were pissed one night. That feeling. It doesn’t take a lot for the same raw, wolfish feeling in the pit of his stomach to resurface, not when Jack looks at him like that.
More natural than to be with him than to not.
‘Your eyes broken or summat?’ Jack says softly, teasingly, nudging John’s arms with his. ‘Can’t take your eyes off me.’ Pause, smiles again. ‘And why would you want to?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Don’t be mean to me.’
‘I think you like when I’m mean to you.’
Jack shrugs, his jumper straining around his arms and eyes gleaming under his hair. ‘I like it too.’
Jesus. John digs his fingers into his armrests, and the biggest smile he has ever seen spreads across Jack’s face.
Nothing has ever lasted longer than the half-hour descent into London.
-
Actually, no, the drive to the hotel is longer. Holy shit.
They don’t bother to get their suitcases out of the car. There’s no point, and neither can be arsed either way. On their way up, John doesn’t miss the way Jack’s still fiddling with those damn vikings.
‘Really?’ he says, glancing down at them.
Jack shrugs, walking up to the door with a viking in each hand. ‘Not leaving them in the car. Someone might steal them.’
‘No one in their right mind would want to steal them,’ John tells him flatly.
‘I dunno. I think you’d be surprised.’
‘Sure, whatever.’ John holds the hotel door open and lets them both inside. ‘Just keep them in your pocket. I’m not having them stare at us all night.’
Jack snickers as he kicks off his shoes. ‘No? Could be a little fun.’
‘You think everything’s fun,’ John says as Jack sets the vikings carefully on the chest of drawers opposite the bed. ‘Nah, fuck off. Turn them away.’
‘You’re so paranoid,’ Jack says, but turns them so they’re facing the wall. ‘Behave, fellas.’ Then he turns to face John, and the smile slips from his face, turning into something else entirely.
It’s been a while since they’ve been alone. Jack keeps looking at him, like he’s seeing him for the first time.
John doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to talk about the vikings, about the games, or the new season, or anything really. He just wants to do it, now, and so when Jack crosses the two feet to crush him into the wall and fit their mouths together, John sags with relief.
Oh, fuck. Oh, John had forgotten, a little. And then Jack tilts his head just so, and he remembers. He fists one hand in Jack’s hair, hard, and licks into his mouth when he gasps. The unrelenting press of him, everywhere. The too-hard grip of his fingers into John’s upper arms. He hasn’t gotten too careful. Good.
It’s a brutal kiss, and it lasts five seconds, and John jars his elbow awkwardly against the wall, and it’s heaven. He pulls away and mouths over Jack’s cheekbone. ‘Okay?’ says, and feels Jack nod. ‘You good?’
‘Yeah,’ Jack says, swallowing. ‘Fuck.’ They’re both in this, whatever it is, and if there’s a way out then John doesn’t know it. He doesn’t want to. ‘Yes,’ he says again, voice clearer, and presses his mouth to John’s jaw until he turns back to find his mouth again.
Two seconds, a bite, enough friction to make John’s toes curl. Just enough.
John can almost smell it. The smell of the two of them, almost obscene. John smiles, leans in to kiss the hinge of Jack’s jaw while he slides a hand between them. It’s so easy.
They don’t always do it like this, Jack yielding this way when John drags him down onto the bed, but he likes the way Jack’s lips part in readiness, the soft sound he makes when Jack leans the final inch to press their mouths together.
The kiss goes rough all at once. Jack’s mouth is stupid, the kind of mouth that wins Miss World, and John doesn’t ever love it more than when it’s hot and wet and moving against his own.
John knows how this will go. This isn’t slow, exploratory, love-making. In the dim light, Jack looks red-mouthed and urgent, his pupils wide. John knows the same look is reflected on his own face. In the silence they look at each other - hanging on the edge, deciding which way to fall.
And then Jack’s moving, pressing John against the bed, hands dragging down his chest, taking everything John gives and returning it times ten.
‘God,’ John says, raw, and watches Jack tug down his underwear, look at him kind of appraisingly. There’s this moment where he feels suddenly too exposed, laying there half-undressed underneath Jack, and another moment where he thinks about how much he likes it. To feel seen. To feel comfortable being seen. To welcome it, after so long in the dark. Jack’s kissing him again, not seeming to notice or mind John’s moment, focused like kissing John is a play he’s trying to master.
Jack pulls his mouth away then, and John doesn’t have time to pull him back up before he’s licking a strip down his chest, mumbling nothing against his warm skin. He travels down, down, until he’s taking John in completely.
‘Jesus fucking fuck,’ John says, all overwhelmed nonsense, and Jack smirks before taking him into his mouth again, all wet and hot and a million sensations that have John biting his lip to avoid babbling even more.
Jack is, like, irritatingly good at this, looking completely pornographic as he bobs up and down the length of John, taking him almost all the way into his mouth. The first time Jack had given him a blowjob he’d known instantly that he’d done it before, had have to have done it a lot before, because, sure, it’s difficult for a blowjob to be bad, but it’s definitely not easy for one to be this good.
Jack does something with his tongue that makes John’s breath catch in his throat, gets a hand on the base of John’s dick to hold him in place when his hips buck, instinctive. Jack goes down on him like he means every second of it, and John has to keep closing his eyes so he doesn’t go under entirely.
Jack looks best like this. John likes him all ways, but there’s something about this. He can almost imagine his own face as he gazes down: open, stupidly fond. In love, probably.
It’s an embarrassingly short amount of time before his legs are shaking and he’s tapping at the side of Jack’s head, frantic. ‘I’m gonna —‘ When he comes a second later, it feels like slipping into a warm bath. Like strong hands massaging a knotted muscle loose. It feels — ‘So good,’ he says. And before he can say anything, Jack’s climbing back up the bed, kissing him until John tastes like nothing but himself.
And — maybe that’s how you sleep on a high wire. When you have nothing left undone.
Jack’s kisses get softer, closer, tiny presses of lips that barely make a sound. How long they stay there, barely moving. Hours, days. They don’t talk. Like this, they don’t really have to. John exhales, and it rattles through him. ‘So good, gorgeous,’ he says, idiotically, again, because it’s the only thing he can manage, and he hears Jack makes a little noise that John has never heard before.
‘Gorgeous?’ Jack murmurs against his mouth, and it sounds like he’s giggling. Menace.
‘Just kiss me again,’ John says, pulling him back in, because somewhere in the last six or so months, Jack has ruined his life.
Jack kisses him again, and again, and John’s too distracted to do more than let him rub off against his thigh until he comes with a sigh, folding into him. John can take his weight, hooking a leg around his hip on the off-chance he’s considering going anywhere.
Fingers card through his hair. Slender. He leans into it. Feels nice. He could fall asleep right here. And then something catches his eye over Jack’s shoulder.
‘Um,’ he starts. ‘Jack?’
Jack doesn’t move. ‘Hm?’
‘Did you turn the vikings around?’
‘You wha’?’ His voice is hardly more than a whisper.
‘The vikings,’ John says. ‘Did you turn them around?’
‘No?’ He’s laughing, John can feel it.
‘You’re a prick.’
‘Yeah, but, haven’t you heard?’ He lifts his head just so. ‘I’m gorgeous.’
'Shut up.'
Jack's laughing again, John can feel it from where he's pressed up against him. 'Make me.'
John does.