Chapter Text
Ever-present was the pressure to not merely perform but exceed the astronomically high standards set by Jobe’s predecessor, the ultra-versatile midfielder the young alpha had the pleasure of calling his own flesh and blood, Jude Bellingham. Proud, he was. Grateful, too, for the opportunity to make a name for himself in the sport he’d called home since his trainers were barely the size of his now-adult-sized palm.
There were times, though, where that pride and gratitude, however immense it might have been, paled in comparison to the weight that pressed upon him with every missed goal, every unruly fanchant that echoed his own feelings of inadequacy right back at him with uncomfortable clarity: “You’re nothing like your brother!”
Most times, he was able to shrug off the remarks, allow them to fuel his gameplay as he emerged onto the pitch with the sole intention of giving it his best shot, and learning from his mistakes if he failed. Use them to hone his craft and expand upon his skills, as any footballer worth his salt would do.
Others, though…
Sometimes he needed to quiet his mind—to take stock of his body and ground himself through the anxiety that stubbornly refused to abate despite his best efforts. Typically, that looked like training and exhausting every muscle in his body until the only stimuli he could internalize was the reverberation of his own heartbeat in his ears. Or, cracking jokes with the other blokes on the team, allowing himself to get lost in their shared camaraderie and easy companionship.
Unfortunately for Jobe, this didn’t appear to be one of those instances where his typical coping mechanisms would suffice. This day was Dortmund’s match against Bayer Leverkusen, a fellow regional heavyweight and prime challengers to Dortmund’s potential standing in their race toward a Champions League qualification to boot. Every single goal against Leverkusen had to be hard-won, and the intensity of these matches often warranted increased scrutiny from fans and club owners alike. Meaning, Jobe was in yet another position where a quality performance was paramount not only for his team, but the reputation he was working hard to establish for himself—for every misstep seemed to cement in stone the idea that he would fail to free himself from the swallowing tide of his brother’s shadow.
And it was an idea that Jobe could not stomach—burned behind his eyelids were the conjured images of his parent’s disappointed faces, ones that said they pitied their lesser, underachieving Alpha son. He felt sick at the thought alone.
No, no. He had to prove himself. He would.
If he could just get his panic-ridden body to fucking cooperate.
During moments where either his or Jude’s anxiety would overwhelm them, their father would cup their faces in his big, gentle palms, covering their ears and drowning out the outside world until it felt as if it had narrowed to that single point of contact—just them and Dad’s woody, citrus smell that felt like home. Then he’d have them identify something for their environment with their other four senses: sight, smell, taste, and touch. Until the tightening in their chests loosened and the world no longer seemed like it would shatter apart at the seams and take them with it. It always worked like a charm.
And as old habits die hard, Jobe found himself doing just that in the buzzing chaos of the pre-match tunnel lineup. Sequestered against the wall with his hands over his ears and his shoulders curled inward where his teammates knew to give him space, he assessed his surroundings for something, anything to latch onto.
Sight. Contrary to the ugly fear that had captured Jobe in its grasp, it was a rather beautiful day in Dortmund, Germany. The open-air structure of Westfalenstadion gave way to the stunning blue hues of the cloudless sky above, painting the field below in the rays of the sun that hung high within it. The stands were chockfull of black and yellow jerseys, amped fans whose joyous screams Jobe could feel rather than hear, in the rumbling beneath his feet and in the late November chill that carried the noise to him on the wind. His teammates were standing around him, some encased in their own conversations, others getting in some last minute stretches before they emerged onto the field.
Taste. Remnants of the REWE brand pineapple juice he’d drunk earlier still clung to his tongue, alongside the single spoonful of beef stew he’d managed to snag right before their tactical review earlier on in the day. He hadn’t had much of an appetite since. Rarely did on game days.
Smell. Distantly, the crisp late fall air; fresh-cut grass and damp earth; the sulfuric smell of smoke flares and canisters; savory spices and flavor notes from stadium food concourses. Proximally, the muted scents of his teammates smothered by recently applied scent patches. The warmth of his best mate’s cinnamon and pinewood scent that still clung to his jersey from when he’d slept against him on the buses just a few hours prior.
Touch. His ears for one, as muffled by his palms as they were. The jostling of bodies around him. The gentle touch of a palm against his shoulder that raked along his spine until it settled on his lower back, another hand coming to pull his palm away from his right ear-
Wait…
“Jobe,” came a hushed voice right near his ear, deep and silken. Carney, every fiber of his being whispered at him, his body straining towards the sound and the touch before his brain could even catch up. Jobe opened eyes he didn’t even realize he’d closed to meet the concerned gaze of his fellow alpha. As his ears buzzed from the rush of his hearing returning in full swing, he was left to watch Carney’s full mouth as he opened it to speak again. “Come on back, yeah? Been looking for you for a minute, didn’t even realize you were damn near hyperventilating in the corner until Ostrzinski pointed you out. Today one of them days?”
Glued to the top of his mouth as his tongue was, Jobe couldn't even bring himself to speak. He hadn’t noticed his heaving chest until Carney had pointed it out, but now that he had it was all that he could feel, all that he could focus on. The anxiety still gripping his heart meant his old coping skills lent to him by his father hadn’t worked. They’d never not worked. Why, on all days, would they choose to fail him now?
Ever-attuned to Jobe as his mate was, Carney didn't even have to hear Jobe’s reply to sense his mounting desperation. Face drawn in equal parts concern and determination, Carney simply used the hand he’d pulled away from Jobe’s ear to lead him back down the tunnel from whence they came and Jobe was left with little choice but to follow closely behind, doing everything to not trip over his own winding limbs as he was pulled away from their teammates and down a long corridor—some not as close to the pair turned to watch them go, curious as to why they were heading in the opposite direction of the pitch so soon before they needed to head out. Those that knew them better barely spared a second glance, trusting that Carney would get the young alpha sorted in time for kickoff.
Both boys remained quiet until they reached the destination Carney had chosen for them both. The part of Jobe that perhaps should have been hackled at the idea of being led around by another alpha was quiet. Not necessarily a surprise there though, as it tended to take a backseat whenever he found himself in Carney's presence. Instead, all he could do was hone in on the grounding weight of Carney’s hand in his as he was pulled into a dark room and the door shut behind them.
“Carney-“ he started, the name thick on his tongue as he struggled to orient himself away from his own anxiousness. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Grown fucking man, letting his fears consume him so wholly, and before such a significant match at that. Why couldn't he just-
“Shh,” Carney shushed him, quieting noises Jobe hadn't even realized he was making aloud. The darkness did well to conceal his advance as he rounded on Jobe to crowd into his space. His breath and the heat that emanated from his body were the only things keeping Jobe tethered to his own. Distantly, he ached for the comfort of his scent, too. Greedy, the voice in the back of his mind murmured. He ignored it, choosing instead to focus on his mate’s hushed words that followed. “You’re alright, mate. Pressure’s just getting the best of you is all, I know. Just breathe with me. Can you do that?”
Muddled, Jobe went to nod until he remembered that Carney could not see him. When he went to speak in the affirmative, the only thing that left him, to his horror, was a whimper that broke free from his chest without his permission.
Fuck.
“Fuck,” Carney echoed, quietly. Stunned, perhaps. Jobe’s reluctant vulnerability was a novelty to the both of them as the younger alpha preferred to keep them closer to his chest more often than not. “Alright, mate. I’ve got you.”
Then, Carney’s palm was pressed to his chest, fingers spreading just over his heart. The warmth of it through his jersey seared Jobe to his core, lighting him aflame from the inside-out. Some deeply suppressed part of him absolutely burned with satisfaction at having the other alpha so close, his attention all Jobe’s for the keeping, however briefly.
So utterly consumed by these thoughts, the intent behind Carney’s touch wasn't made clear until his own hand was lifted to press against Carney’s chest, too, where Jobe could feel the steady lug-lug-lug of his heart beneath brown skin. He wanted him to mimic his breathing.
“With me,” Carney instructed, or encouraged, Jobe wasn't too sure. Either way, Jobe complied without question, his trust in his mate implicit. He heaved a breath, making conscious effort to slow his breathing until it somewhat matched the pace of Carney’s own where he had Jobe’s palm clutched to his chest. They stood there for what could have been minutes, hours, days, even, until Jobe was no longer on the verge of sending himself into cardiac arrest and his awareness of the world had been reduced to Carney's skin on his.
Once Carney seemingly trusted Jobe to keep his hand in place, he allowed his own to fall away. They just breathed, and breathed, and breathed together until Carney finally spoke up. “There you go. Told you I had you, didn’t I?”
Now that his awareness was returning, Jobe could feel the embarrassment towards his own inadequacy veering back into his peripheral vision. He just made his teammate pull him away from the lineup and into another room so that they could do fucking breathing exercises together? All because he couldn’t handle his own shit without making it someone else’s problem. Fuck. Maybe everyone was right about him.
“M’sorry,” came tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop it, his fingers curling into Carney’s jersey beneath his fingertips as his distress returned anew, fueled by self-inflicted humiliation this time rather than his fears of failure. Jobe was grateful for the darkness now, for it saved him from having to see the surely pitying look on his mate’s face. Better yet, he could only imagine what his scent would be doing if it hadn't been trapped beneath the blockers. “Carney, m’sorry.”
What would the crowds say if they could see him now?
Pathetic.
Weak.
Useless.
“Jobe, Jobe,” Carney repeated, trying to reach him and failing. “Jobe, no. Don’t apologize to me, never to me. We’ve been here before—the chants,” Jobe flinched. Carney pressed ever closer. “The comments, the comparisons. Doesn’t mean shit if we don’t let it. And we won’t. We’ll just do what we always do: Go out there and give it our fucking all, yeah? Fuck the noise.”
We. Perhaps if he had been in a better headspace Jobe would've latched onto that, allowed himself to be comforted by it, even. As it stood, Jobe shook his head, so hard that his entire body moved with it, jostling the hand Carney still had pressed against him. “No, they’re fucking right. Look at me, I’m a fucking loser-“
A couple things happened then, too abruptly for Jobe’s addled brain to catch up. First, he heard the rustle of a scent patch being ripped off, then suddenly he was being enveloped by Carney’s scent—a projection of it that he could tell was meant to be comforting, all cardamom and spice. Next, Carney’s hand left his chest and (before Jobe was even given an opportunity to grieve the loss) it was coming up to cradle the side of his neck where his scent gland lied, four fingers cradling the side his neck and his thumb resting on his face just to the left of his mouth.
Jobe all but sagged into his touch, the fight to proclaim his own ineptitude all but sucked right out of him.
Carney’s scent blossomed something fierce at this easy acquiescence, going somewhat sharp at the tail end as his chest rumbled ever-so-slightly beneath Jobe’s hand like he’d had to fight to contain it. “Stop,” he murmured, voice pitched low. “You are a brilliant player, proper stunnin’ one at that. I don’t tolerate hearing that nasty shit from them, and I’m not going to take it from you either. We can sit here all day, with me saying the same thing over and over again if that is what it takes for you to get that through that head of yours.”
Jobe swallowed so hard his throat must've bobbed beneath Carney’s fingers because his grip tightened almost imperceptibly, his thumb careening closer to the corner of Jobe’s mouth. “But the team-“
“Forget them,” Carney interjected, unwavering. He stroked over Jobe's scent patch for good measure. “What’d I say earlier? Just you and me, remember?”
And…
And later on, Jobe would chalk his next move up to his being in a state of overwhelm at the time, trapped between Carney and the wall pressing incessantly at his back; beneath the weight of everyone’s expectations for him to surpass his older brother in success and importance despite his wanting none of that, only to play the sport that he loved most for as long as he was physically able; between the parts of himself that had secretly yearned for Carney’s touch for years and the parts that screamed that he should shy away from it on principle, on their both being alphas, on their both being men, too.
Any justification, any at all, would do where Jobe's next move was concerned. Because the younger alpha did not reply in any meaningful way, no. Overwhelmed, perhaps, by Carney’s steadfastness in his care for him and everything else that had transpired since the start of the day to now, Jobe sought comfort in the way he’d known himself to do, though only ever in the privacy of his own room or the comfort of his own home.
(It was a habit that he’d been teased for millions of times. Maliciously by schoolmates, teasingly but lovingly by his family, Jude especially. His penchant for having things in his mouth—the tip of a pencil during class, mint gum during training, his own fingers when all else failed to soothe him—had long since been a source of embarrassment for him. Most people rid themselves of such a habit by late childhood but Jobe's knack for it was still going strong despite his best efforts to rid himself of it.)
So strong, in fact, that caught in the heat of the moment, Jobe did not think twice about the appropriateness of his actions or the potential ramifications for them later on when he, guided by a false sense of security that only the absence of light could provide, slowly turned his head and sought out Carney’s wayward thumb with his mouth, encasing just the tip and stalling as the unexpectedness of the act registered for them both.
Where the space between them was once occupied by words meant to comfort, heaving breaths, and Jobe’s knack for self-deprecation there was nothing, now. Just two young men, suspended in the air by the realization that the trajectory of their relationship had been altered forever, whether for better or for worse.
Utterly mortified, Jobe immediately went to pull away and devolve right back into spewing absentminded apologies but before he could escape far enough to do so, Carney snapped from his stupor and pressed his thumb marginally deeper into the warm cavern of Jobe’s mouth, his scent flaring back to life simultaneously, an even headier take on yesterminute’s cinnamon.
“Okay,” the elder alpha whispered, his voice like summer rain to the suddenly unbearable heat of mortification that had encapsulated Jobe. He didn't sound upset, luckily. Curious, maybe. Caught off guard, definitely. But not upset, at least. “Okay. If this is what it takes. Take what you need.”
A better, less mentally and emotionally exhausted Jobe would not have taken him up on his offer. He would have shamefully--and reluctantly--removed himself from the other alpha's embrace, apologized for his actions, and stumbled from the room with haste until he was back in line with the rest of the team ready to do his goddamn job, regardless of how his nervous system felt about it. He probably would have gone on to avoid Carney for however long he was able until his weak heart or Carney's impossibly forgiving nature found him right back up underneath the alpha, where he always ached to be.
But this day had been one hell of a clusterfuck for Jobe as it was, and Jobe was a weak, weak man--a slave to his desires and dysregulated nervous system. His attempts to cope in all of the ways that were socially appropriate had failed him and desperation was licking at his heels like an angry tide. He just wanted his brain, however briefly, to be quiet enough for him to take in a single, non-shallow breath that didn't make his chest feel as if it would cave in with every inhale.
So. Take Carney up on his offer he did.
And he let the chips fall where they may.
The incessant itch in Jobe's gums compelled him to lean further into the palm cradling his neck, bobbing his head forward a little to take more of the alpha’s thumb before stopping, inhaling to inspect his scent for any subtle notes that might betray any reluctance that Carney might've felt but was too courteous to come out and say. Miraculously he found none, but still waited to give the older man the opportunity to pull away and give Jobe the lashings that he no doubt deserves.
And yet, Carney did not take advantage of the out he was given and instead stayed firmly planted in front of Jobe, a man of his word to the end. With that, Jobe allowed himself to get a bit greedier, pressing forward until he’d taken Carney’s thumb to the base. Instantaneously, it was like every anxious thought from before that had been rattling around inside of his skull faded into the background, into nothingness. His doubts and worries were quieted by his best mate’s reliable presence and the weight of his thumb on his tongue; the part of him that ached for this satisfied at having gotten what it wanted.
Had Jobe's mouth not been preoccupied he probably would have verbally expressed his gratitude. Instead, he brought his tongue to taste the salt on Carney's thumb, attempting and failing to quell his quiet sigh of delight, and almost startling away as Carney's chest came alive beneath his palm once more as he spoke.
“Is that good?” Carney murmured, his pinky coming to stroke at Jobe’s covered scent gland--covering it a choice he resented, now--as his own scent ebbed and flowed in the sacred space that surrounded them. “Is that what you needed?”
Because a verbal confirmation would necessitate pulling away completely, Jobe decided to forgo an answer for wrapping his tongue around Carney's thumb instead and suckling, moaning quietly despite himself at the scrape of Carney's nail against his sensitive soft palate.
Yes. He hoped his actions conveyed what his words could not. Yes, it’s so good. Thank you. Please don't make me stop.
It appeared as though his nonverbal affirmation was well-received because the next time Carney's chest rumbled beneath his palm, it was accompanied by a low, deep growl that Jobe was not expecting but did not shy away from. Perhaps if this had been any other alpha, Jobe's hackles would have been raised. Maybe he would have responded with a growl of his own, or bared teeth and snarled words as he was known to do on the pitch. But his body instinctively knew, maybe before his mind did, that this was not just some other alpha. This was Carney: his best mate for what felt like forever. The man that encouraged his shenanigans, made him laugh so hard it hurt, and crowded him into dark rooms when his own mind became too much for him to bear.
He was safe, here.
Having taken this into account, it did not surprise Jobe when, in lieu of some act of compensatory aggression, his body instead responded with a low simmering in his gut that manifested in the form of a renewed suckling of Carney's thumb and a high whine from the back of his throat that he lacked the wherewithal to even consider being embarrassed about.
"Mmm, I know," the older man crooned, pressing closer to Jobe until their thighs were pressed together on one side while the other side barely maintained enough space for Carney's arm between them. The proximity forced Jobe's hand from Carney's chest and he allowed it to fall down the sharp lines of Carney's body until it found a foothold on his hip instead, keeping the alpha there as if he'd float away in the absence of his touch. "I know. There you go. I'm here."
On his next bob down, Carney suddenly pressed his thumb forward to meet Jobe halfway. It hit him like a gunshot when he realized that, instead of simply keeping his hand stationary and allowing the younger alpha to "take what he needed," Carney had taken to gently thrusting his thumb into Jobe's mouth, almost as if he intended to fuck him with it--
The realization forced Jobe's eyes to clamp shut and his eyebrows to draw together against an onslaught of desire, red-hot and undeniable in its intensity. Jobe could only thank whatever higher power might reside above that his undoubtedly fucked-out expression (and the hardness now poorly contained by his shorts) was concealed by the dark abyss around them as he stuttered out a broken, "Alph-Carney, please."
Carney inhaled sharply between his teeth as if Jobe's pleading had physically harmed him somehow as he brought his unoccupied hand to Jobe's hip and tugged him closer until Jobe could feel the significant bulge that he had trapped beneath his shorts, too. The only thing Jobe had the brain capacity to do is moan, long and only for Carney's ears.
"You feel that?" Came Carney's next question, his voice impossibly rough and deep. Almost like he wanted Jobe just as bad as Jobe wanted him. Impossible.
When Jobe nodded, helplessly, willing to give Carney whatever he wanted so long as he didn't stop, Carney hooked his thumb behind Jobe's bottom row of teeth and pressed down hard so that the wet noises of his thumb on Jobe's tongue had no choice but to fill the space between them. Maybe even loud enough for passersby to hear. Jobe was immediately ashamed to admit that that did something for him.
"'M so fucking hard," Carney whispered, directly into Jobe's ear, this time. "Wish I could see you. Know you look so good like this, mouth all wet and open for me."
Jobe had never known Carney to be so foul-mouthed, never thought he'd be given the opportunity to know. But now that he had, he knew that he would--they would--never be the same. Any semblance of normalcy had been squashed by Jobe's newly acquired knowledge of the filth his pretty, mild-mannered mate was capable of. Though he was not well-versed in this aspect of intimate relationships, the one thing he knew with stunning clarity was how much he loved this. Needed it, even.
But just as Jobe went to tell the alpha as much, to maybe make a case for him to touch him, really touch him, a knock on the door came and doused the both of them in ice-cold water.
And just like that, the moment, the momentum, was broken. Irrevocably.
“Lads,” Serhou’s voice traveled through the door as Jobe and Carney stood frozen on the other side. "Coach has been looking for you. Told me to tell you that it was time to head on."
Without another word, Serhou turned and stalked away from the door, taking whatever might have blossomed here with him.
And Jobe?
Jobe felt stripped bare, like a fish flayed open for all to bear witness to what had once been buried safely within.
That feeling increased tenfold when the two of them separated without fanfare. Carney pulled his thumb free of Jobe's mouth, Jobe wiped his face clean of any spittle that might have gathered there. Hands which were once gripping hips fell away, and the only noise that came from either of them was the rustling of their clothes as they worked to conceal what little remained of their already flagging erections.
While Jobe felt bereft without Carney's touch, the anxiety that once consumed him did not return in its absence. That, he guessed, he should be thankful for. It was difficult to access any semblance of gratitude, though, when he'd been high on the endorphins that accompanied having something--someone--he wanted so badly clutched in his grasp and being wanted in return, just to be left to crash back down alone in the aftermath.
And besides, what, exactly, did this mean for the trajectory of their relationship? Would they even be able to look each other in the face? Would it affect their chemistry on the pitch? Outside of it? The teams'?
Consumed by his thoughts, Jobe did not notice that Carney had already moved toward the door to release the secrets these four walls had kept so briefly into open air until he heard the clink of the doorknob turning.
But because Carney was his best mate, come what may, he did not open it without taking a moment to check in with Jobe first. "You good?"
No. Was Jobe's immediate, resounding answer.
Can we talk about this? Was the second.
He gave a voice to neither.
Instead, when he finally unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth to speak, the taste of Carney's skin still heavy on it, all he could rasp out was, "Yeah. M'good."
And so it was.
Carney was gone and back down the corridor before Jobe could even consider asking him to stay.