˚₊‧꒰ა 𝒜𝓃𝑔ℯ𝓁 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You’ve got time before you have to get ready for the game, England vs Ghana, so you’re taking some of this downtime to just exist. So much travelling, so much drinking, there’s always something needing done. From London to Boston to New York to Texas to New York and now, back to Boston. It’s been a lot. Obviously, you’re insanely grateful that your job gives you these types of opportunities, but God, after the World Cup you are taking a good, well earned break doing absolutely nothing. 

Alfie’s stood showing off his new England tops that he’d ordered on UberEats in New York. The grey one was a size smaller than he’d usually wear, but fuck, if it doesn’t look good. His biceps look massive, his waist looking trim. 

“And they only had this in a medium, hence why I look weirdly wham.” He flexes, posing nonchalantly for the vlog. 

“You look unbelievably wham,” you comment, looking up from your phone, just out of the view from the camera, “even if it is an England top.” 

“Well, I’m not gonna wear a shitty Scotland top, am I?” He scrunches up his face.

“You’d look unreal in a Scotland top. Like, you wouldn’t be leaving the bed type of unreal.” 

Alfie pauses, looks at the camera, back at you, then back to the camera. “Chat, might be buying a Scotland top off UberEats next.” 

“I’ll order you a medium.” 

While he continues talking to the vlog, you actually do order him a top from JD to be delivered to the house in New York. When he mentions the weather forecast for today, possible rain at the time of the game, you can’t help but comment. 

“Didn’t rain here when Scotland were playing.” 

“Actually,” he turns to face you, “Texas was far too hot, so I wouldn’t mind the rain.” 

“Pubs were open for us too, though.” You fake wince. “Must be so shit being an England fan.” 

“Scotland aren’t making it out of the group stage, England are winning the whole thing.” 

“We know we’re not gonna win anything, it’s just an excuse to drink, party and put traffic cones on top of statues. You lot are delusional, yappa yapping about ‘66 and going on and on and on about football ‘coming home’ and it’s just not happening.” 

“If, no, when England wins the whole thing, I want head every day for a year.” He looks so serious, like he actually thinks you’re losing if you have to get on your knees for him every day. 

“Fine.” You smirk, suppressing a laugh. 

“Fine.” 

-

Harry had joined the group for the Ghana game in Boston and he’d made everyone scrambled eggs for breakfast. The five of you were sitting round the table, plates empty after approximately 20 eggs were eaten between the five of you, laughing at the knee high socks Cal and Alfie had bought Chip. 

“Should get you a pair of them,” Alfie nudges your shoulder, “little knee high socks ting.” 

“You’re such a freak. What? You want the whole knee high socks and short skirt thing?”

“Don’t even need the skirt, to be honest,” he shrugs, “just the socks and nothing else is fine. In fact, you don’t even need the socks either. You could just kick about naked all day.”

“Bro, you are not right sometimes.” Cal shakes his head in disappointment. 

Harry pours a generous measure of Grey Goose into a glass, topping it up with the slightest bit of monster and slides it over the table to Alfie. “Here, down that and stop being a little freak.” 

If your boyfriend was a cartoon character his face would be green at the thought of the alcohol. Harry is very generous whenever he pours a drink, the last time he’d poured your vodka coke it tasted like nail polish remover, and Alfie had said earlier how he didn’t think he could do a full six weeks of drinking. 

“Nah, bro, I actually can’t.” 

You just sit back and watch him, Cal and Chip bicker back and forth like siblings. Cal tries to pressure him by using the vlog as an excuse, the fans, the content. Alfie looks like he might actually vomit at the thought of it. 

They agree on odds on, any number between 1 and 10. 

“Three, two, one…” 

“Four.” 

“Four.” 

Alfie just looks like a defeated man. He looks at you with big, sad eyes as if to say ‘help me’. 

The boys just laugh and cheer at him, and you try to hide the laugh but, when he’s looking at you like a broken man not 24 hours after acting the big man at the pub, you can’t help it. 

“AB getting peer pressured by a 41 year old man.” Chip jokes as Alfie downs the drink, definitely reconsidering his life choices. 

Not long after that, Cal’s booked the Uber and you’re getting ready to leave for the stadium. You’ve put on Alfie’s charity match top, you’d gathered a few football tops on the lead up to the tournament, a few concept tops for the big teams you like but a Ghana top wasn’t one of them. 

When you head back into the room, Alfie’s talking to his camera. 

“I can’t keep living like this, genuinely. Someone send help.” Hen whispers as if he’s being held captive. You’re genuinely convinced if he was ever kidnapped they’d send him back with an apology note. “... It’s not what it seems. They don’t let you do anything other than drink. It’s fucked. It’s absolutely fucked.”

Honestly, there’s never been a day since you met Alfie where he’s not made you laugh. Whether he’s meant it, with jokes or stories, the exaggerated way he acts, or when he’s not even meaning it with the faces he makes when he disagrees vehemently with something or he’s hard judging someone. This time, you know he’s not even playing it up for the vlog, he’s genuinely tired of the non-stop drinking. 

“If you need, babe, I’m sure I could forge you a sick note like I used to do for PE,” you offer jokingly, “once had the same note to get out of swimming in high school, I ‘had my period’ for like five weeks.” 

Your mum’s handwriting and signature were easy enough to copy, so every week of swimming you’d copied the note on a new sheet of paper and sat out of PE for the entire block, because fuck walking about with damp hair for the rest of the school day. Your school had two hair dryers and you’d have been as well just blowing on each other's hair to dry it because they were that bad. 

“Don’t even joke about that, seriously, I might need it.” 

-

It’s that kind of light, drizzling rain in the stadium, that awkward kind that doesn’t soak you or your clothes but it sticks to your hair and makes it frizzy. Thankfully, you had enough sense to grab one of Alfie’s caps before jumping in the Uber. It was still warm, definitely not hoodie or jacket weather, so yeah, maybe you look like a massive pick me with Alfie’s jersey and cap on, drinking pints with a group of guys at a football game, but fuck it. You’re having fun with your friends and boyfriend, drinking and watching England play abysmally against Ghana. 

You all consume pint after pint, after Alfie complaining about the amount of drinking, he’s battered. All of you are battered. 

The game ends nil-nil, and you spent 90% of the time filming the boys' reactions to the poor performance from England. So many clips of them thinking there’s going to be a goal, all of them stood together, tense and grinning, only to sigh and deflate when England missed. 

The majority of England fans have cleared out pretty quickly, a draw more like a loss for them, but the Ghana fans are celebrating like it’s a win. You end up cheering and dancing along with a group of Ghanaian women. It’s so fun meeting so many different people from different countries and cultures. 

“Everyone is absolutely fucking battered,” Alfie hides his camera as he speaks to it. “The Mrs is battered and dancing with a group of NPCs. Cal’s usually the dad of the group and he’s fucked, he’s gone. I’m the dad. I’m the dad of the group.” 

You overhear him talking and head over to him, draping your arms around his shoulders. “You could be the daddy.” You murmur with a drunken smirk. 

“I’m leaving that in to show the vlog how much of a freak you are.” 

“What you talking about?” You scrunch your face up in mock confusion. “I’m not a freak. In fact, I’m saving myself for marriage. We’ve never even kissed.” 

“A freak and a liar, woooow.” 

Fast forward to the five of you heading into Boston on the train. It was mobbed and Alfie and the boys might have, possibly, potentially, allegedly lied and told the station employee that he had seizures and got the five of you pushed to the front of the queue. 

“And I’m the liar, yeah?” 

“What?” He acts so innocent. “I just finessed the system.” 

-

Alfie barely vlogs the night out in Boston. Everyone’s far too drunk and he’s considerate that way. You have a great night regardless. Boston is as fun as it was the first time round. Granted there’s no Scots, no kilts, no bagpipes, no one stealing traffic cones to put on statues, but this time you’ve got the best company. A few more pints, a mountain of food shared between you all, the filthiest dirty fries ever that made Alfie look at you in disgust, and then it was back home for the night. 

It wasn’t too late by the time you got in, and neither you and Alfie were tired enough for bed. Chip, Cal and Harry all passed out nearly straight away, the three of them far drunker than you two, but you’d decided to watch the first episode of the newest season of House of the Dragon. 

IT was one of the first things you watched together as a couple, that rule of you had to watch it with each other. First it was Game of Thrones, you’d sit probably the quietest you’d ever been and then House of the Dragon came out and especially after the ending to Game of Thrones, it was so much better. 

It’s funny how the Targaryen incest relationships are so normal in this show, like yeah, let’s ship an uncle and niece or siblings just because they have a dragon, but God forbid Jamie and Cersei do the same thing. 

The two of you are cuddled up in bed, HBO Max playing the intro to the episode. You’re draped over Alfie with your head on his bare chest. He’s got his arm over your shoulders and his fingers drawing idle shaped over your arm. 

“Afl?”

“Mhm?”

“If we were Targaryen’s would you marry me as your, like, sister-wife or niece-wife?” 

He doesn’t look at you or reply straight away, just thinks about what the proper response to that is. 

“...” 

“...” 

“I… I don’t know how to answer that, girl.” 

“Just tell me you don’t love me then.” You huff, obviously he should have said ‘yes, darling, in any universe, real or fictional, I would marry you no matter what.’ 

“You’re actually no right in the head,” he chuckles, tightening his arm around you to pull you closer, “you’ve just asked me if I’d commit weird, dragon incest with you.” 

“It’s fine in House of the Dragon though, it’d be normal,” you retort, leaning on your elbow to face him. “If we were Targaryen’s I’d marry you and make sure you were King.” 

“Fine, fine,” he sighs dramatically, “if we were fictional characters in Westeros, I’d marry you as my sister-niece-wife and make you Queen.” 

“See, you do love me.” You smile, patting his chest.

“I do, now shut up, the dragons are fighting.” 

"Today I'm here with my husband, my girlfriend, and her husband." Faith introduces the video. "And today we are doing drunk golf! Ethan, explain the rules because I have no idea." 

Ethan explains that you're playing a Scramble, which means both members of each team hit the ball and you chose where to hit from next based on who has the better shot, then both members of the team hit a ball from there and so on. If you lose a hole you take a shot, if you hit it in the water or lose the ball in the trees you take a shot, and if you three putt as a team you take a shot. 

You wouldn't be playing a full 18 holes, that would take far too long. Instead, you'll play six, and if it ends in a tie you'll play a seventh. Honestly, though, there's no way you and Faith are winning this. 

Harry and Ethan tee off first. Harry steps up and takes a practice shot, and despite knowing you shouldn't talk when he's taking a shot you can't help yourself. 

"Whoa, get a close up on those arms." 

In your defence, his arms do look amazing. Good enough to take a bite of, really. 

Harry and Ethan both hit good shots but Ethan's landed in the rough, which obviously meant Harry took the piss out of him. It was a hell of a lot better than anything you and Faith would be able to do today.

Faith used your clubs, Harry had insisted that if you were playing that you have clubs that were the right size for you. Who knew the length of the club would make such a difference? But apparently it does. She hits the ball and it makes it about twenty yards causing the boys to be little shits and laugh at her. 

"It's alright, babe, it's off the tee." 

Then, when it's your turn to tee off, Harry can't help himself either as he watches you bend over in the skort. 

"All we need right now is a strong gust of wind." 

"That's my wives arse you're talking about, you pervert." Faith scolds, then turns to you. “Your arse does look fantastic in that skort though.” 

"My wife," Harry argues, "you were maid of honour, you should remember." 

The argument is such a normal occurrence. If it's not you and Ethan arguing about Faith being your wife, it's Harry and Faith arguing about you being Faith's. It doesn't help that both you and Faith had said that if, God forbid, Harry and Ethan died, you'd marry each other and live together because fuck finding another man who would never be able to live up to them. 

"Oi, shut up, I'm taking my shot now." You turn round, fake glaring at Harry before turning to Faith. "You're an angel, I'd never tell you to shut up." 

"Now that's just fucking rude." Ethan retorts.

You take your shot and it's a fairly decent shot. Nowhere near as far as Harry or Ethan's, but it's on the fairway. 

"Oi, that was decent, y'know." Ethan looks genuinely surprised. 

"Thanks," you smile, "I would say Harry's a great teacher but I think he just takes me to the driving range so he can look at my arse when I'm taking a shot." 

"Can't blame him, babe." Faith looks at your ass, smacking it as she passes you on her way back to the golf cart. 

As the four of you get situated on your golf carts, you over hear Harry. "You know, sometimes I feel like I have to go all caveman on Y/N in front of Faith to like, re-establish the fact that she's my wife." 

"What? Like piss on her leg like a dog or something? Mark your territory?" Ethan laughs. 

"Yeah!" 

"I'll try anything once, but you're not pissing on me, that's where I draw the line." 

-

Half way through, you're all definitely tipsy. You and Faith have lost two of the three, but Harry and Ethan have three putted on the second hole and one of Harry's tee shots ended up in another continent it went that far left. 

The drunker you all get the worse you play, everything’s hilarious, the jokes are getting wilder and you and Faith are making Harry and Ethan seriously consider their life choices. It’s one thing when they have to deal with you both drunk on a night out, but on a golf course in the middle of the day trying to film a video is a whole other story. 

You almost took Harry out when you pretended to take a shot like Happy Gilmour, full run up to the tee and all. Only for the club to go flying out of your hand straight towards your husband’s head. Then, Faith makes Ethan dramatically miss a shot when he goes to take his second tee shot and she pokes him in the ass with the end of one of the clubs. 

Now on the fourth green, Faith steps up to putt. The ground is sloping to the right and it's a fair distance to put so you try to direct Faith on where to aim, but she's clueless. 

"I don't want to proper whack it and send it flying. It's not like mini golf, there's no bumpers at the side." 

The two of you are giggling because everything's funny after however many shots of sambuca. 

“Here, do a practice shot.” You step up behind her doing the ‘guy thing’ where you wrap your arms around her, hands over hers as you swing the club, swaying your hips together. “Swing back to like, here and then follow through, don’t slow down when you hit the ball.” 

“I feel like I’m intruding.” One of the camera crew comments. 

“You are.” You and Faith deadpan and turn to look at him in sync. Your arms still wrapped around her as you break character after a second and burst into laughter again. You step back from her after a couple practice swings and pat her ass. “You got this, babe.” 

She, in fact, did not have it. She slowed down as she swung the club forward to hit the ball and it still landed about 5 feet from the hole. 

You take your shot, not great and the total opposite problem to Faith’s. It goes maybe 2 feet past the hole but it should be a straight forward final putt. 

Harry and Ethan take their next shot. Harry, ever so gently, smacks the ball right off the green and insists he ‘never hit it that hard’. Ethan’s ends up near yours, all of you now putting for a bogey. 

The boys go first and Harry putts it first try as if he isn’t numerous shots of sambuca deep. 

Then it’s Faith’s turn. It looks like it’s going to miss spectacularly, but the slope of the green has it turning more than anyone expected and it trickles right into the hole and the two of you celebrate like you’ve just won The Masters. You’re cheering, jumping up and down, hugging each other. It’s a tie for this hole but it feels like a win. 

-

On Hole 6, the boys have already won, it’s 3-1 with the draw on the fourth, and one to play. You’ve all had another couple shots, a lost ball here, one in the pond there. 

“We can’t get beaten this badly, we have to win another one.” Faith says as you drive to the sixth tee, neither of you should be driving a golf cart this tipsy. 

“I think, if they play bad enough then, we have a chance, and honestly? Ethan’s fucked, so there’s a chance.” 

They should call you Mystic Meg because the boy in question can’t stop laughing at his own joke long enough to take a shot. His laugh makes the rest of you laugh, and he tops it. The golf ball goes no more than three feet in front of him. He ends up bent over, holding on to the driver to keep him up right as he laughs and tries to re-tell the joke, but every time he tries he just laughs all the more.  

“I have no idea what we’re laughing at.” You say, laughing anyway. 

“Neither do I and I heard the joke.” Harry replies. 

By the time you get to the green, Faith’s lost a ball which resulted in another shot of sambucca and Harry and Ethan somehow have one more shot than you and Faith. You have a chance of winning this hole at least. 

It’s a par four and you’re at the edge of the green at your third shot, playing for a bogey if you hit it close enough to the hole to one putt. The boys are on the green on their fourth shot but they’re at the total opposite side of the green to the hole and they need to one putt to get a bogey. 

Faith goes first and hits it surprisingly well for how drunk you are, not too far from the hole. Success. 

You go next and try to remember how to properly chip the ball like Harry taught you. You take a couple practice swings, determined to at least win this hole, your competitive streak coming out in full force. 

You get the club under the ball and chip it up in the air. The little, pink golf ball bounces on to the green and rolls along the grass. You watch it slow down as it gets closer to the hole. 

Faith is jumping on the spot as if trying to shake the ground to get it to keep rolling. Harry and Ethan are watching completely still, shocked that after so much booze you’ve managed to hit such a good shot. 

The ball rolls right up to the edge of the hole, almost stopping, but whether by sheer luck or a light gust of wind, it tips over the edge and into the hole. 

If you and Faith celebrated like you’d won The Masters before, you were celebrating as if you’d conquered the world now. You’ve lost the game, but won the last hole in such a great way. Thank God there’s no one else on the course because no doubt you’d get noise complaints.

“We still won.” Ethan reminds you both as you jump up and down hugging. 

“Fuck off, don’t ruin this moment.” You glare at him as you and Faith hug like long lost lovers meeting again. 

“Exactly, that was spectacular.” Faith backs you up. 

-

After your celebration, Faith does the outro to the video and you all get packed up to head back home. 

Harry walks with his arm slung over your shoulder as you head into the carpark to wait for your taxi. 

“That last shot was like- What’s the golf equivalent to Goal of the Season?” You ramble on, leaning half of your weight on him. “That shot was that.” 

He affectionately rolls his eyes at you. “Alright, Tiger Woods, it wasn’t that good.” 

“Never seen you chip a putt that good before. At least I haven’t snapped a club, or thrown one into the trees, or swore down I’d never play golf again and threatened to sell my clubs.” 

He grabs you into a playful choke hold, pulling you back against his chest as you both chuckle. “I’ll have you know, I have done that before. You just weren’t there to see it.” 

You don’t even need to turn around to see the face he’s making, that one that says ‘not so smart now, are you?’. You reach a hand back to poke at his side, which in hindsight wasn’t a great idea. 

He flinches to the side as your finger pokes his ribs, the arm around your neck tightens accidentally and he pulls you with him. 

“Oh shit!” He panics straight away. He turns you to face him, hands framing your face as he looks you over. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you can’t help but chuckle. Whenever you play fight and he gets the slightest bit too carried away he panics like this. “My fault. I shouldn’t have poked you.” 

He pulls you to his chest, arms tight around your shoulders and repeatedly kisses your head. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise, it’s fine.” You look up at him, fingers laced behind his neck. “You can buy me a McDonalds on the way home if you feel that bad. 

He sighs at your innocent smile, but concedes anyway. “Alright then, Tiger Woods, lets get you a McDonalds. Least I can do for nearly choking you out.” 

“You don’t mind choking me in bed, not much difference.” You shrug, grinning when he blushes. You can’t help it, especially when he gets all flustered and awkward talking about your bedroom escapades in public. 

“Right, that’s enough from you.” He points his finger at you as he scolds you. 

The taxi pulls up at the perfect time. Food, home, and a night on the couch with your man. Perfect.