Fics like Shoulder. Ball. Shoulder.

Four messages greeted him on the screen. Jude read them twice. No jokes. No insults. Not even a smug remark about the state Erling had left him in. Erling had never worried about waking him before, particularly when he wanted another round in the middle of the night. Apparently, saying goodbye was where consideration of Jude’s sleep schedule became important. Or regret was. Fine. Jude regretted it too. Not Erling. The timing. The bruises. The fact that now, in three days’ time they were supposed to stand on opposite sides of a World Cup quarter-final and pretend neither of them knew what the other sounded like with his face pressed into a hotel pillow. When had understanding Erling become this difficult? At Dortmund, Erling had filled every available space, and Jude had never needed to search for hidden meaning in anything he said or did. Now, Jude had four messages and no idea what any of them meant. At least they had no punctuation. That felt reassuringly normal. OR Erling sneaks into Jude's hotel and they have extremely competitive sex, leaving Jude unable to run three days before the World Cup quarter final. Everybody handles this badly, not least Thomas Tuchel.

Fics like Shoulder. Ball. Shoulder.

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