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It’s too often now that Dele wakes up before his alarm to chimes from his phone that come in a distinct order. The Twitter or Instagram chime first, then a brief pause, then a predictable wave of text messages with more social media notifications mixed in. Because Eric’s gone and posted something cheeky about him somewhere and the English boys think it’s hilarious and blow up their group chat. Same progression every time, at least twice a week.
Dele drags himself out of bed – yesterday was a big day and he feels it in every muscle – and over to where he keeps his phone. Far enough away so he can’t reach over in half-sleep and shut off the alarm. The group chat says top bants Eric! you’re a savage mate. and they say Dele’s the next Gascoigne, bollocks. you see Poch have a regular fit?! Lots of emojis from all participants. Dele smiles and sends trying to sleep over here. He flips to Twitter and has to scroll through hundreds of notifications until he finds Eric’s tweet and he laughs aloud. The fucking audacity of this one, he says to himself as he taps out a response.
The group chat lights up again. Banging response, D. Dier’s suspiciously absent from all this. Probably posting something about Dele on Instagram. Oi Harry you owe me twenty quid. No Kyle and Danny you both owe me fifty quid. Dele types out what was the bet?? before haphazardly throwing on his purple training gear and running a ruffling hand through his hair.
Whether he’d post about you on twitter or insta. well what if he posts an Instagram in like five minutes? nah it was where he would post first. that’s not what we said!!! Dele you need to get your boyfriend under control, causing a rift between us all over fifty quid like we don’t all have fifty quid.
Dele’s cheeks heat up and he goes back to Twitter, looking at Eric’s tweet and his own response again, unable to suppress a bright, satisfied laugh. He screenshots the tweet and throws his phone in his bag. His camera roll is filled with these screenshots, their group text is filled with these conversations. Because it happens twice a week now. And he still can’t shake the cold, wobbly stomach feeling he gets when one of the lads says get your boyfriend under control.
Because Eric is not Dele’s boyfriend. He’s his best friend and that’s all. And best friends give each other stick.
The minute Dele sees Eric at training, there’s no hello, just a run-up and a leap onto Eric’s back, arms wrapped around Eric’s throat, tightening only gently in a play throttle. Eric laughs and it gargles in his throat a bit as Dele’s arms press against his neck.
“Fucking hell, mate. After yesterday you’re an embarrassment to this club. A bottler. And you can’t keep your hands off me.”
“Got my brace yesterday in case you weren’t watching. Makes up for it, I think.”
“So did I and I’m not being carted around on Dier’s back!”
Harry yells from across the training pitch and whistles erupt. Dele laughs and slides down Eric’s back a bit, and Eric hoists him up from under his thighs, keeping his hands there firmly and fingers pressed it securely and suddenly Dele’s quite hot in the pleasantly breezy, cloudy London morning. Poch tells everyone to get to warming up and Eric abruptly drops Dele, hardly finding his footing as he hits the ground.
“Shit, did I actually choke you? You’re really red.”
Eric shakes his head no and massages his hands nervously as they begin to jog, staying side by side the whole time even though Dele’s itching to go a little faster and Eric lumbers a bit. It’s a normal dance, toying with the boundary between what they are and what they aren’t. The other lads know it’s all banter, it’s all their fierce closeness that’s been encouraged by Poch for months. Dele convinces himself he feels the same and behaves the same with all of his Lilywhite brothers but that Eric just happens to be there, to be the one he sees and touches first after scoring or assisting, to be the first one to come up and stretch with him or choose him for five-a-side when he’s captain or post about him online. He’s a good, diligent friend, and it’s all happening by happy accident. But Dele knows that's all denial and it’s stupid but it helps him keep his thoughts straight during football.
It’s a two-a-day, so they’ll have lunch and a rest before training again, and peckish Dele scarfs down his food and heads to the common room to nap. He finds a blanket and some pillows and strips out of his top and socks, burying himself on the couch before anyone else can. But he cannot get Eric’s fucking Instagram out of his head. He goes through all of Eric’s posts, going all the way back to when he still lived and played in Portugal, and counts how many of them he is in, how many are dedicated to him. He cycles between feeling silly and feeling absolutely brilliant. He goes through all of Eric's tweets and by the end he’s laughing so hard he’s crying, heart swollen with memories of each inside joke and the appreciation that Eric put their friendship on display.
“The fuck are you laughing so hard at? Thought you came in here to nap.”
Kieran plops down next to Dele, nearly crushing his outstretched legs, and Dele groans, shoving him away with his feet.
“I did, now piss off so I can.”
Dele’s serious face breaks with a laugh and Kieran snorts fondly. “Can’t keep a serious face for shit, Alli. Where’s your other half?”
“Who do you mean?”
Kieran rolls his eyes as Dele snickers and Eric walks into the common room, smiling and acknowledging his scattered, sleepy teammates before greeting Kieran and Dele.
“What’re you laughing at?”
“You, you’re getting right fat.”
Kieran doubles over with laughter and Dele covers his mouth to stop his laugh but can’t hide a full-body spasm as Eric furrows his brow and crosses his arms tightly over his stomach.
“Am not. Cheeky twats. If anyone’s getting fat, it’s you, Kier. At least I’ve got the height to make up for it.”
All three of them heave with laughter and when Kieran catches his breath, he hops up from the spot next to Dele and moves to the chairs with Son, Christian, and Érik, who have all since passed out.
“Here, sit next to your bird. I’m off.”
Eric doesn’t need a second invitation and slides under the blanket right beside Dele, a front row audience to the Belgians playing FIFA. It’s a normal scene but Eric won’t quit looking at Dele and without looking back, Dele slides his hand over to Eric’s under the blanket and wraps them together. Dele hears and out of the corner of his eye sees Eric grin and Dele can’t help but smile too, glancing over for a split second and thinking he’s never seen something that fills him up so much, Eric smiling like that.
“Hold my hand correctly, yeah? If you’re going to do it, might as well do it right.”
Eric whispers and Dele laughs, interlacing their fingers and squeezing, rubbing his thumb along the length of Eric’s wrist, massaging down on his pulse. Eric laughs back but it’s nervous and Dele feels how he sounds, but it’s worth it. Eric looks around the room before scooting closer to Dele so that their sides align and their hands rest on where their thighs meet.
“This okay?”
Dele’s face burns but he nods, smiling to himself as Eric stretches out like a cat and reclines, his head and neck flopping back slackly and his eyes shutting, satisfied. Their hands stay attached as Dele does the same, looking at Eric for maybe a bit too long before giving his hand a tight squeeze. Eric smiles in his half-sleep.
The familiar ping of an Instagram notification wakes Dele from his nap and he jolts up, involuntarily yanking his hand from Eric’s, but Eric doesn’t stir. Dele slaps Eric awake and Eric’s eyes blink open to a phone screen inches from his nose, a picture of him and Dele asleep on the same couch on Harry’s Instagram with the caption they’re wearing each other out with a kissy face emoji. Eric wipes his eyes and groans as he stretches. “Unprecedented likes, Dele. That’s got to be the most popular post in his history.”
They look at each other for a moment and Dele can’t be angry or embarrassed or cross or even pretend to be any of those things because Eric’s looking at him like he always does and it’s normal. Same progression every time, except now they’ve held hands.