Archive of Our Own

1. September 13, 2020.

It all starts when Jude joins Dortmund.

His first game is against Duisburg, first round in the DFB-Pokal.

To say he's nervous is an understatement, really. He had just moved from England all the way to Germany to play for this club; he barely spoke any German, didn't know anybody, all at the young age of seventeen.

The people within the organization were friendly enough, at least. By the time their season started, he had adjusted well enough to the new atmosphere. He’d become fast friends with the players, especially one of his older teammates, Erling Haaland.

At first, he’d thought Erling would be a bully—one of the biggest players on the team physically, three years older, and he’s a rising star? A practically guaranteed recipe for a sky-high ego and copious amounts of pride.

But no; in fact, Erling was more of a gentle giant than anything else.

Who, currently, is also playing truth or dare with him along with two other players—Jadon and Giovanni, huddled in a small circle at the back of the bus.

The vehicle is buzzing with a cacophony of voices and loud bursts of laughter occasionally, since their coach bans phones every bus trip to any game; so there isn't much to do other than talk to the other players.

Coach tells them it's good for “team bonding.”

Jude thinks it's a surefire way to get dragged into some type of public humiliation ritual, one way or another. Not that he'd ever say it out loud.

“Mate, how is it my turn again? I just went!” Jude protests as Giovanni stares him down, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Giovanni looks at Erling, then at Jadon, expression instantly shifting into a pitiful, pleading one. “Guys, I got a really good dare this time. Back me up here!”

Nobody wants to be the one getting asked truth or dare—they all only want to ask, the rascals—so, obviously, they all turn and look at Jude with their best attempt at puppy eyes.

Erling's looks particularly convincing.

Damn, Jude thinks, he's even got the pout nailed to a tee.

But that's not why he rolls his eyes and sighs in resignation, of course; he's just a good friend like that. That's the only reason why he gives in. Definitely. “Whatever, man. You guys suck.”

The other three instantly burst into cheers. “You're the best, bro!” Giovanni leans in, closing his eyes and making an obnoxious kissy face, puckering his lips.

“You are absolutely disgusting, bruv.” Jude shoves him away, his expression a weird mix of a laugh and a grimace. “Didn't know you were that starved of any action. Yeesh.”

Giovanni looks at him, horrified. “I'll have you know I get many girls. So many. In fact, too many to count, if I do say so myself.”

Everyone stares at him like he's grown a second head.

Giovanni clears his throat. “Ahem, anyway. As I was saying,” he grins evilly, “Jude Victor William Bellingham, truth or dare?”

Erling whistles. “Full government name too?”

Jadon chuckles. “Jude, you better watch out.”

Jude doesn't like where this is going already. “Truth.” He'll play it safe—and yes, truth or dare is that serious. To him, at least.

Giovanni smirks. “I was hoping you'd pick that.” A pause. “Who in this group do you think is the most attractive?”

“I am not answering that, mate.” Jude deadpans immediately.

Giovanni pouts. “Not even objectively speaking?”

Nope. Absolutely not. “Can I switch to dare?”

Jadon butts in. “I dare you to hold hands with the person you find most attractive in this group for the entire bus ride.”

The hand-holding was already bad enough, but for the entire bus ride? For the next five hours, give or take?

“Bloody hell,” Jude groans, dragging a hand down his face. “There's no way we're doing this.”

“We're doing this,” Giovanni and Jadon both say at once.

Jude looks to Erling for help, who just shakes his head, trembling with stifled laughter. There's a curious twinkle in his eyes, too, just in case Jude didn't get the message the first time: you're on your own for this one.

Realistically, Jude could call it quits right here and now and leave it at that—he knows his teammates would respect his privacy—but he's also a young, dumb seventeen year old with a competitive spirit that knows no bounds.

And yes, once again, truth or dare is, in fact, that serious. There is no way in hell Jude is going to look like a wimp over a stupid dare.

“Fine, fine,” Jude holds his hands up in surrender. “Just so you know, though, it'll never be one of you two nutters.” Then he grabs Erling's hand and refuses to look at the man in question. “There, happy?”

Giovanni and Jadon exchange looks. Shrug. “As long as you can keep this up for five hours.”

This is going to be one long fuckin’ bus ride.

Jude decidedly does not look at Erling, even after feeling a pair of eyes looking at him from the left.

Out of sight, out of mind, am I right? He thinks, smiling sweetly at Jadon and Giovanni. “Now, who's turn is it?

Audible gulps are heard from both of them.

Erling doesn't hide his laughter this time, squeezing Jude's hand.

Jude doesn't think about it until a few days later, far too occupied with daring Giovanni to open the window and bark at the nearest passing car.

The very next day, he scores the second goal for Dortmund in an overwhelming 5-0 victory, alongside becoming the youngest player to score a goal for the organization. In his debut game.

The first person to rush over to lift him up into the air on the pitch is Erling. The rest of their teammates gather round after him, yelling and cheering.

“Way to go, mate!”

“YEAH, JUDE!”

“LET’S FUCKIN’ GO!”

To say Jude feels like he's on top of the world right now would be an understatement.

The post-game interviews are, to be expected, absolutely chaos. Reporters swarm the conference room, all waiting for a chance to get a scoop with the latest promising young rookie.

“Jude,” one reporter asks, “could you tell us how you feel right now? In your first game you've already scored a goal, and now you're the youngest player to do it for Dortmund—walk us through your thoughts, will you?”

Erling sits beside him; Coach didn't want him to walk in there alone, thank god. Jude looks at the other man, who nods reassuringly.

Then he feels a hand brush against his under the table—a silent question.

Jude links their fingers together, holding on like it's his anchor in a sea of critics and journalists.

“I, uh, first and foremost, am really happy, obviously,” he says, earning a chuckle out of the crowd. “Secondly, I know it's just the first step into my career here at Dortmund, so, job's not over yet.”

Another reporter raises their hand. “Jude, congratulations on the win. However, since this is your debut game, do you feel like that goal was more luck than anything else?”

Thank fuck Erling’s here, Jude thinks as Erling leans into the microphone, taking the burden off Jude's shoulders. “I believe what Jude did was not based on luck, but the hard work he's put in for many years to improve his skills. To say it was a fluke is nonsense,” Erling says, glaring at the reporter. “I think that's enough questions for today.”

The reporter ducks their head and shuffles away, clearly taken aback. A hushed murmur falls over the crowd.

Jude blinks, just as surprised as everyone else when Erling gets up and tugs on Jude's hand, still intertwined with his own. “Get up. We are leaving.”

Jude does nothing but nod, letting himself get dragged away by the other man. Nobody stops them.

When they exit the room, Erling immediately bursts into anger, his Norwegian accent particularly thick. “The fuck is wrong with that guy? So rude. Should be fired.”

Jude squeezes his hand. “It's fine, Erling. Not that deep. His boss probably told him to say that.”

Erling turns to him, clearly upset. “No. It is not okay. Next time someone asks you that, you skip the question. Or you call me. I don't care.”

Is that even allowed? Jude thinks as he watches the other man storm off, then looks down at his hand. Clenches it.

It still tingles with the leftover warmth from Erling's hand.

2. September 15, 2021.

Their first season at Dortmund is a blast. They win the DFB-Pokal, and Erling scores 41 goals across 41 games, becoming the club's top scorer. Jude himself scores 4 goals in 46 games as a midfielder; not bad at all.

Erling also ends up gaining the unofficial title of Jude's bodyguard on the field, because for some reason, players on the opposing team think Jude is an easy target just ‘cause he's young.

Even just four days ago, he'd gotten into a scuffle with a player on Bayer Leverkusen, which was quickly put to an end by Erling flying into the fray and towering over the Leverkusen guy—which was more than enough reason to back off.

Jude ignores the fluttering sensation in his stomach, because it's easier than confronting the way he's begun to see Erling in a different light within the past few weeks. Different how, he doesn't know; he's not exactly keen on finding out either.

He's got bigger fish to fry anyway; namely, the way he's running down the field after receiving the ball from Raphael. His defender is pressuring him heavily, but that doesn't stop Jude from hitting him with a quick shift of the ball from his right foot to the left. The other player freezes, giving Jude an easy path to the net.

“And it's Raphael to Bellingham, who freezes his defender! Bellingham down the field!”

He's about to shoot it himself when out of the corner of his eye, he spots Erling coming in from the right and his defender cutting across the field to stop Jude. Without hesitation, he slide-kicks it to Erling, who receives it perfectly with his right foot—

“Bellingham to Haaland, Haaland with the left kick—AND HE SCORES! ERLING HAALAND TO BRING DORTMUND UP 2-0 OVER LEVERKUSEN!”

Jude gets up immediately, running after Erling and damn near pouncing on him in celebration. Erling catches him with ease, huge grins spreading across both of their faces.

The game ends 2-1, with Jude and Erling scoring one goal each for Dortmund.

To say the locker room is loud would be an understatement.

It's a fuckin’ circus in here, Jude thinks to himself as soon as he walks in and gets wrapped in a giant group bear hug by more than half of the team. Loud cheers and whoops erupt from the back of the locker room. Water is sprayed everywhere. He can't stop fuckin’ smiling.

There's no other place he'd rather be.

“Where's Erling?” One of the guys suddenly ask.

Jude points to the door behind him. “Post-game interview.”

“Well, shit, we got to go and crash that thing. Move out, lads!”

More roaring laughter, and then the entire team stampedes out of the locker room, dragging Jude along with them.

On second thought, being back in bed in the hotel with the AC cranked up to the max sounds a tiny bit better. Just a bit.

They get to the outside of the conference room, where their captain, Reus, turns to them, holding a finger up to his lips. He beckons Jude to the front, then starts pushing him into the room.

“What? Me?” Jude whisper-yells, pushing back with all his might. Three more pairs of hands grab his arms, his back, and start shoving him towards the stand. He looks back, and the entire team is giggling with anticipation, watching eagerly. He's fairly sure the team looks like they've all gone bonkers to any staff passing by.

After about three seconds of protest, Jude gives in. Turns to look at Erling, who is currently giving an answer to one of the questions.

“Yeah, I mean, it was a hard game…”

Jude doesn’t hear the rest—it's like his vision suddenly tunnels, all background noise fading into the background. He doesn't know what compels him to do it, but he strides up to the stand—

And plants a kiss on Erling’s cheek.

It's more of a quick peck than anything, but it's kind of in front of a billion cameras, so it makes up for it.

The reporter questioning Erling chuckles and asks, “little kiss from Jude?”

Then the realization hits him like a truck.

Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. Do not think about it. Just go with the flow. Play it off.

So, of course, Jude follows the most natural course of action—he runs away.

He turns and walks off the steps, laughing for a multitude of reasons that he'll dissect… later (read: probably never.) Some of his teammates clap him on the back as he walks back out, and he faintly hears a few holler ‘someone's got a crush, eh?’

No. He does not. He does not have a crush on the gentle giant that is Erling Haaland, with his blonde hair that seems to gleam in the sun and huge stature that could probably make Jude melt into his arms, and his horrible humor that makes Jude somehow burst into giggles for no fucking reason—

Jude comes to a sudden halt.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh god. I just kissed Erling Haaland, Jude thinks as he playfully wrestles Giovanni and Jadon on the way back to the locker room to play off his weird behavior. And I have a crush on him.

Ah, shit.

By the time their team gets back to the hotel, the first thing Jude does is jump into his bed and scream into the pillow.

It's a reasonable reaction.

Probably.

Erling steps in behind him, shutting the door. “That excited, huh?” He chuckles, slipping his bag off his shoulder.

The opposite, actually, but whatever. Jude shoots him a thumbs up, not raising his head. “Totally.” He replies, voice muffled by the pillow.

He doesn't notice Erling has made it to his bed until he feels a hand on his shoulder. “It was a good game. I'm proud of you.”

God, now that Jude has realized that he has fuckin—fuckin’ feelings for this guy, everything feels so weird. Strange, even. He feels like a young schoolgirl having her first crush. “Thanks, mate. You did good, too.” He mumbles, refusing to make eye contact.

He feels the hand on his shoulder leave, and for a moment, he misses the loss of warmth.

Until Erling picks him up and flips him over, then crawls over him and starts fucking tickling him.

Jude squirms away, trying to wriggle out of the other man's grasp to no avail. “Shit! What was—” he bursts into giggles when Erling switches to tickling his stomach. “—that—for?!”

Erling doesn't stop his attacks. True striker fashion, Jude supposes. “You're hiding something. What's wrong?”

Jude gasps for air, trying his best to fix Erling with a betrayed look while also trying not to laugh his ass off. “I—don't know what—you mean!”

“You never just say oh, you did well too. You always start talking my ear off after the game; what could've been better, what we did well.” Erling stops for a moment, letting Jude have a breather (finally) before resuming his assault. “So, I'll ask again: what are you hiding from me?”

On one hand, Jude's inner self preens—Erling has been paying such close attention to such small things. It makes his heart flutter.

On the other hand, he's caught red-handed, and the very reason why he's in this predicament to begin with is because of how close of attention Erling paid to him. “I swear—ack—that I'm not hiding anything, man!”

“You are.”

“Am not!”

Erling looks at him—no, studies him for a few more seconds. His gaze is particularly intense, almost smouldering with something Jude can't quite decipher. For a second, almost imperceptibly, he leans in.

Oh, fuck. They're doing this.

Jude's heartbeat is going at a million miles an hour. His eyes flutter, getting ready to close, and then—

Then Erling climbs off of him instead, perching himself at the edge of the bed. “Fine. But,” he adds, “I'm watching you.” He gets up and walks toward the bathroom. “I'm gonna shower first. Is that okay?”

Jude rolls back over, resisting the urge to scream into the pillow. Again. “‘s cool,” he mutters.

When Erling closes the door, Jude releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding in the first place. Grabs his phone. Starts scrolling.

Because, well, it's a whole lot better than thinking about what the absolute everloving fuck just happened.

He switches from Instagram to Tiktok and back to Instagram—mindlessly liking posts on his burner account. He barely even comprehends what he's watching before scrolling to the next video—but he doesn't need to use his brain when looking at these bright, flashy short form videos, and that's exactly what he needs right now.

It's just to relax and wind down (not because he's afraid of thinking about the object of his very, very annoying feelings.)

After what seems like hours of scrolling aimlessly, he hears the door click open and looks up to see Erling already dressed, towel slung around his neck and hair dripping. He's been growing it out—his bangs fall over his eyes, and Jude has to fight to not get up and push it out of his face.

He wonders what Erling's hair would feel like brushing over his skin as the other man peppers kisses all over his cheeks, nose, jaw—

Hormones, Jude insists. Just hormones, he thinks as he practically sprints into the bathroom and takes one of the quickest, coldest showers of his life.

Just hormones, he thinks as he comes out of the shower and sees Erling already lying down in bed, extremely shirtless.

It's just hormones, he tells himself as he goes to turn off the lights—but before he can, a hand covers his.

“Goodnight,” Erling says before leaning over and planting a kiss on Jude's cheek. Turns off the lights, hand still touching his own. Then he pulls away and turns onto his side, facing the wall.

Jude blinks, brain short-circuiting.

Then proceeds to almost robotically tuck himself in, staring at the ceiling.

I am so, so fucked.

He barely gets a wink of sleep that night.

Safe to say, it was not just the hormones.

3. September 14, 2022.

Erling signs with Manchester City a month after their season at Dortmund ends.

It leaves Jude heartbroken.

At this point, he's fully come around to accepting the fact that he has ever-growing feelings for Erling—and of course, that's right when he has to leave. Leave Jude hanging like the thread of a worn-out shirt, desperately clinging onto sanity without him.

It sucks.

They keep in touch everyday, of course, send each other memes and whatnot—but it's not quite the same as having the man around in person.

But today, he finally gets to see him again.

They had just played against Manchester City, losing by one goal. Of course, it's Erling's goal. He's like that—always has to try and one up Jude, keep the competition going, even in spirit, even if they're not together on the same team anymore.

And that is one of the many reasons Jude loves him. Even if he hates losing. He might just love Erling a little bit more.

So when he crosses the pitch to find Erling standing there, chatting away with one of his City teammates, he can’t even find it in himself to be that mad.

Nor can he keep a smile off his face when Erling finally spots him in the crowd, face visibly brightening. “Jude! Great game.” He strides over and wraps his arms around Jude, planting a kiss on his neck. “You did well.”

The kisses have also become a regular thing, somehow. Jude doesn't know how this ended up happening. There's a lot of things he doesn't know, clearly.

“Not too bad yourself, mate.” Jude pinches his side playfully. “You really had to go and score that goal, though, eh?”

Erling throws his head back, laughing. “Alt er tillatt i kjærlighet og krig, min venn!" (All is fair in love and war, my friend!)

Jude sort of misses when his bangs would flop back and forth with his head movements; now his hair is long enough to slick back and tie into a bun.

It's more practical now (he can't imagine playing with his hair flinging around in his face, god knows how Erling did it for years on end), but still—Jude's feelings aren't exactly practical, are they?

Erling pulls back to swing an arm around his shoulder, guiding him towards one of the tunnels. “Are you busy tonight?”

“Nah. Why?”

“Want to swing by my hotel?”

Jude’s heart skips a beat. He blinks, hard. He probably doesn't mean anything by it. Calm yourself. “Yeah, sure.”

“I'll send the address later,” Erling slips away, joining his team. He winks before turning around and walking away.

Jude stands there for a few seconds before Reus comes up to him and clasps his shoulder. “Jude? You good?”

Whatever. Now wasn't the time to think about it anyway.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “All good.” He turns around and jogs off the field to join his own team for the post-game debrief, replaying the scene of Erling winking at him in his brain over and over again.

Coach ends up asking if he has a concussion because of how absent-minded he is.

Erling still hasn't sent the address.

It's almost eight PM by now—the game ended almost three hours ago. Every time Jude's phone buzzes, he thinks it'll be a message from the other man, but nothing comes. Not to mention the fact that Jude has called Erling about ten times already, and still, no reply.

Erling hasn't ghosted him, surely… right?

The knock on his door makes him jolt. “Coming!” He exclaims.

Swinging the door open, he almost jumps from the sight before him. “Erling?”

Erling smiles. “Surprise.”

“What in the world are you doing here?” Jude grabs him by the collar and pulls him into the room, damn near slamming the door shut. “People will see.”

He doesn't know why he's acting like they're star-crossed lovers meeting in secret, but it's a pretty close thing. At least, that's what he thinks.

Erling shrugs. “So what? Let them look. I am just visiting my best friend after the game. Nothing wrong with that.”

Ignoring the pang in his heart from the word friend, he sputters, “It looks weird! We aren't—” he pauses, voice almost dropping to a whisper, “we aren't teammates anymore. We can't be together like we used to.”

Wow. He really is acting like a young maiden meeting her secret lover under the stars. Their entire conversation sounds straight out of a cheesy Hallmark movie, old-fashioned style. Roman Holiday, perhaps.

He doesn't dare to look up, ashamed. “Sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I just,” he takes in a deep breath, “I missed you,” he finally admits. “I missed you so much.” And it hurts like hell when you aren't here with me.

For a moment, it's so silent, Jude swears that time stops for a second. Then he hears Erling speak, voice so soft and intimate it makes Jude want to scream. “I missed you too.”

Jude finally looks up to see Erling gazing down with him, eyes filled with such an intense cacophony of emotions, it's damn near nauseating. “Every day, I wanted to drop everything and jump on a plane to come and see you. At night, I kept thinking: ‘screw City. I need to see Jude.’ And when I woke up, I would think of how to convince you to sign with us.”

Holy shit. That sounded like a… a fucking…

Jude throws himself into Erling's arms, laughing wetly. A tear slips down his cheek. “I'm glad, but I think you might get blacklisted from the country if you leave City for me, mate.”

Erling snickers, engulfing Jude in his warmth as he reciprocates the hug. “I don't think I was thinking rationally back then. Even now, all I can think about is coming back to you.”

God. Being with this man hurts so bad and feels so good at the same time, like a drug Jude can't quit. Like a moth to flame, he can't pull away. Can't stop loving this man for the life of him.

“Was it worth it?” He asks, burying his face in Erling's chest.

“Yes,” the other man murmurs, planting a tender kiss right behind Jude's ear. “So worth it.”

Jude doesn't cry.

He doesn't.

The wet spot forming on Erling's shirt where Jude's face is doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't.

He's also a lying liar who lies to himself by telling himself over and over that this doesn't mean anything. That this—this friendship that they have is enough. It will never always be enough.

It's not.

Why did you have to leave? Jude wants to ask, but he knows the answer already. He knows better than anyone else. Knows that he would have made the same choice, and he will have to make it in the future as well. It's just the natural progression of their careers—players are always on the move, always trying to get to the next level.

And it hurts knowing that one day, Jude will have to make the same choice to leave it all behind—the memories, the friends he made along the way, the love that blossomed in the midst of it all.

Hurts knowing that he and Erling will never be able to be together like they used to ever again.

Because one day, he will put the pen down on a contract and sign his signature, and choose to leave it in the past, no matter how much he wants to stay. Because that's what he has to do. That is what he was born to do.

Okay. Maybe he is crying.

Erling only pulls him closer, like he knows what Jude is thinking right now. Like he's already gone through it, and can only watch as Jude experiences it for himself.

They stay like that for what seems like eternity, rocking back and forth gently, locked in an embrace of everything unspoken now, and all the things they will never be able to say.

When Jude finally pulls away, the entirety of Erling's shirt is soaked in the chest area; it looks like he just had practice, for fuck's sake. Except the sweat is replaced by Jude's tears.

Erling, being Erling, brushes a thumb under his eye and beats him to the punch. “Don't worry about the shirt.”

Jude rubs his eyes, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry. You can borrow one of my shirts. I'll wash that one for you.”

He also likes the idea of Erling keeping something of his as a sort of keepsake—a reminder of him.

They gently untangle themselves from each other, and Jude points to… somewhere behind him. “I, uh, I'm going to get the shirt. Make yourself comfortable?” The last part comes out as a half-question as he backtracks into the bedroom, almost tripping over himself in the process.

When he's alone, rummaging through his suitcase for the biggest shirt he has, he has to resist the urge to open the window and scream as loud as he can into the night.

Ever since he met Erling, his stress levels have, evidently, shot through the roof.

Such comes with the wonder of being in love, he thinks as he pulls out a white, simple cotton tee. It's slightly baggy on him, and it reaches below his waist, so it should fit Erling perfectly.

Actually, he wouldn't be surprised if it was Erling's in the first place—they'd stolen a lot of stuff from each other, whether accidental or on purpose. He's kind of glad they did, thinking back.

The blonde is sitting on his couch, scrolling on his phone by the time Jude comes out of the bedroom. He sits there like he belongs there, like he's just another normal part of Jude's routine.

He used to be.

“This should fit,” Jude says, holding out the shirt. There's a small thread hanging loose on the sleeve.

Erling nods, standing up and shrugging off his own top to put the piece of cloth Jude handed him on. As expected, it fits perfectly. “Thanks. I owe you one. I'll give it back when I next see you?”

Jude shakes his head. “No need. Just keep it.”

The fine lines around Erling's eyes crinkle as he grins. “Thanks.” Then his phone pings, and when he takes it out, the corners of his mouth downturn quickly. “Coach is looking for me.”

“Oh.”

“I guess I cannot stay for as long as I wanted to.” Erling looks disappointed.

“Nah. It's fine.”

They walk to the entrance of the hotel room, and Erling looks back one more time. “Thanks for the shirt.”

Jude’s voice comes out flat when he replies. “No problem.”

“See you next time?”

“Yup. See ‘ya.” He can feel Erling's eyes on him, but he can't find it within himself to make eye contact.

There's a beat before the door creaks open, then another, like Erling is waiting for Jude to say something. Anything.

He doesn't.

The door closes.

For the first time in his life, Jude feels nothing but pure, unadulterated loathing towards the sport of football.

4. October 30, 2023.

Jude signs with Real Madrid in June.

It had felt surreal, to say the least. Real Madrid is one of the biggest clubs in the world, after all—anyone would say the same thing.

Jude had thrown himself into practice, trying to adapt to a completely new country, new team environment, and playing with the pros, for real this time. Had to put his feelings on the backburner so he could level up his game enough to keep up with the reality of the harsh, unforgiving team standards that came with playing for such a famous club.

There was so much going on all at once, for a while, he'd forgotten all about that night in September.

That is, until he set his eyes on the subject of his wildest dreams and desires at the Ballon D’or gala. Which is right now.

Erling smiles, jogging towards him. “Jude!”

Jude freezes in his tracks. Blinks. “Erling?” He'd expected him to be here, of course, but… wow.

He's grown. A lot. Compared to the last time Jude had seen him in person—which was around a year ago? The difference was insane.

The suit Erling's wearing fits him like a second skin, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders and the trimness of his waist, not to mention the way his legs seem to stretch for miles.

“Hey,” Jude breathes, unable to take his eyes off the man. All of a sudden, it's like he's 19 again, back in that apartment on that warm September night. “Uh, how have you been?”

“Good, very good. What about you?” Erling replies, clasping Jude's shoulder. “Regret not coming to Manchester City yet?” He jokes.

Jude chuckles. “Not yet, my friend. Not quite yet. Ever thought about coming to Madrid?”

They look at each other for a beat, completely deadpan, before bursting into a fit of giggles. “Maybe one day,” Erling says. “Let us play against each other first though, yeah?”

“Fair enough, mister.” Jude punches his shoulder playfully. “Offer always stands, though.”

“Same here.”

Clearly, none of them are going to budge.

Jude opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by the telltale chiming of a bell. “Time to go,” he settles for saying instead. “Walk with me?”

Erling nods. “Okay. But tell me about how you've been. How is Madrid?”

Jude doesn't hesitate to burst into a long, long rant on the recent events in his life—moving to Spain, learning Spanish, playing with players like Mbappe, the team culture, the organization—everything. Erling listens intently, pitching in a few comments here and there where he feels like it.

They fall back into their old dynamics like they'd never separated in the first place.

It's nice, Jude supposes. Nice to have someone like Erling back with him. His feelings for the other man have gone from a raging storm of passion and hormones and ardor to something calmer, something more filled with yearning, more loving. Like the clouds parting after a storm to reveal the sun, or the tides receding to a gentle lapping against the rocks instead of crashing against them.

Or maybe it's just because he's pushed them so far down he can't remember what it's like to be in love anymore, and the distance between them has drifted a tad too far to come back from the cliff's edge.

But he doesn't think about that, no. He's gotten good at forcing his mind to think about something else. Wouldn't have made it this far without honing that skill to the best of his abilities. Mental resilience is just as important as the physical, after all.

They get called up later to the stage, and Jude wins the Kopa Trophy, given to the best player under 21 in the world, while Erling wins the Gerd Muller Trophy for being the season's top goalscorer. He even places second in voting for the actual Ballon D'or trophy, which is already an achievement in itself.

The celebrations proceed, and champagne bottles are popped. All types of refreshments are given out, and the ceremony goes well into the night.

Jude gets absolutely hammered by the end of it all, stumbling towards the exit. His driver should be here soon, but he kind of wants to stay for a while. Wants to walk along the bridges of Paris, looking over the horizon to watch the Eiffel Tower glow in all its ambient glory.

“Jude?” Jude looks up to see Erling waving a hand in his face. Huh. When did he get here? “Jude. Are you with me?”

Jude hiccups and shoots him a wobbly peace sign. Or is that a thumbs up? “Suuper with you,” he slurs, leaning on Erling when his legs nearly give out. They somehow make it down the stairs, by some miracle. “You know, I haven't seen you in forever.”

Erling doesn't react. “I know.”

“Why didn't you come to visit?”

“I did, Jude. Don't you remember?” Oh. Right.

“Oops,” Jude giggles. “Nah. Just means y’need to… to swing by moore…”

“I will, min kjære.”

Jude blinks, and they're sitting down on a park bench all of a sudden, and the Eiffel Tower gleams in the distance, shining bright like always. “Wh-whas’ that s’pposed t’mean?” He sways from side to side before an arm comes around his shoulder and pulls him close. His head rests on Erling's shoulder. A firm shoulder. Very nice, he thinks, delirious.

“Min kjære?” Erling pauses, muttering something under his breath Jude can't quite pick up on. Something about not remembering tonight, or whatever. Semantics. “It means my love in Norwegian. A pet name for the one we love most.” His voice sounds sad, almost pained as he says it.

“Sounds nice,” Jude mumbles, words tumbling out of his mouth before his mind can catch up. “I wish you loved me.”

Silence.

“What?” Jude shrugs—or, well, does his best attempt at shrugging. Being drunk off his ass certainly doesn't help. “I love you. Is it that repulsive?”

“No.” The reply comes almost immediately. “Never. Just,” a sigh comes from above him. “You won't remember this, will you?”

Jude snickers. “Yup.” He barely even remembers the question, but he's totally going to remember this.

Distantly, in some part of Jude's mind that is still, well, aware of what's going on, he's glad that nobody will see them, because god knows what the tabloids and the media are going to say about seeing two players together in such a… compromising position.

He feels Erling's soft puffs of breath on the top of his head. It's so peaceful.

Jude almost wishes they could stay like this forever.

“I have loved you since we were teenagers, kjære,” Erling starts. “Never stopped. I almost—” a breath, “almost let it slip last year in September, but I held back.”

“...Why?” Jude yawns. The food must be making him sleepy.

“I knew you were going to leave Dortmund sooner or later, and if I did confess right then and there…” he trails off. “How would that influence your career trajectory? Would you follow me to Manchester City at the drop of a hat, no matter what they offered you?”

Jude hears Erling sigh heavily, and wants to wrap his arms around him to comfort him, but his limbs feel so heavy, he can only settle for listening instead.

“Anyway,” Erling continues. “I thought that the best choice was to take a step back and let you make your own choice on where to play. A contract is not so easily broken, Jude. If you were unhappy here at City, I would not know what to do with myself. It would have been my fault for influencing your decision to come here because of my own selfish desires.”

Jude swears that Erling keeps talking, but man, it is really hard to stay awake right now.

“I hope you can forgive me one day for keeping this from you. Please understand that I only had your best interests at heart, and…”

Jude doesn't hear the rest; he ends up dozing off, right then and there.

Faintly, he feels a soft kiss pressed to his forehead. “Sleep well, min kjære.”

When Jude wakes up the next morning in his hotel room, he recalls nothing but a pounding migraine and a mysterious ache in his heart.

He doesn't end up dwelling on it, since he proceeds to keel over instead, a wave of nausea hitting him.

He rushes to the bathroom and retches, expelling last night's contents almost immediately.

Whatever he did last night, it couldn't have been good.

So he texts Erling, fumbling for his phone on the bathroom counter.

jude: hey, did i do something last night?

It only takes a few seconds for a reply to come.

erling: no, no worries, but you did drink a lot of alcohol

Evidently.

jude: yup. really hit me this morning.

jude: you sure i did nothing else?

The speech bubble pops up, disappears, then pops up again after a while.

erling: i wouldn't have let you anyway

Jude breathes a sigh of relief.

jude: thanks mate, cheers

At least he has confirmation now that he hasn't done anything illegal or harmful to his reputation, but—

Why does he still feel like there's something he's missing?

5. July 9th, 2026.

The World Cup is in full swing, and England has advanced to play in the quarterfinals.

Against Norway.

“Yo, Jude, you seeing this?” A phone is shoved in Jude's face, and he has to squint to focus on the small text.

It's a Twitter post.

rice 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿🇧🇩 (usohtsuki): they're saying norway will send us packing but they don't know about the effect jude's omega pheromones have on haaland (GIF)

It has almost 80,000 likes.

Jude has to rub his eyes to see if he's reading things right. “...Omega… pheromones? What's that supposed to mean?”

Morgan shrugs. “No idea. I think it means you're going to seduce that hunk of meat before the game, somethin’ like that.”

Oh.

Jude rolls his eyes. “Superb explanation, Rogers.”

“‘m just sayin’! Nothing wrong with boosting our chances to win,” Morgan waggles his eyebrows. “The clips of you two at Dortmund are trending right now.”

Now, that has Jude snatching the phone out of Morgan's hands, ignoring the hey! coming from the other man, and starts scrolling.

Jesus.

There are thousands upon thousands of posts of people just analyzing every single clip of them from Dortmund; every hug, every kiss, every goal, every glance, for fuck's sake.

There are also thousands more, speculating how the match on Saturday will go.

nyra (@nyrania22): and speaking of missing… jude still having that fanart of him and haaland hanging in his living room 🥹 (image)

🇧🇦BosnianSigma🇧🇦 (🇫🇷🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿) (@sephirothrule34): genuinely at this point the only chance england has in stopping haaland is if they send in bellingham to distract him by seduction or something

gio ★ (@colinfarrelsgf): spreading his omega hormones to everyone like a bee spreading pollen on a beautiful summer day (GIF)

Jude hands the phone back to Morgan and buries his face in his hands, groaning. “Alright. I think I get the gist of it now.”

Morgan snickers. “We're counting on you to, y'know, distract him in any way you deem fit,” he waggles his eyebrows suggestively as he speaks. “You should message him.”

Jude slaps him upside his head. “How about you focus on not getting yelled at by Coach during practice, eh?”

“Aye, it ain't my fault I'm just creative! Of course we're going to deviate from the original play during the game!”

“That's fine until you start taking it yourself every play and whip out straight bullshit to try and score!”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

They bicker for the rest of the plane ride to Miami.

They both end up getting yelled at during practice—Morgan for being, well, Morgan, and Jude for “having his head up in the clouds.”

During recovery, he gets hit in the face by a stray shoe. He barely reacts.

It's really not his fault. Jude can't stop thinking about those posts. And Morgan's suggestion.

You should message him.

That wouldn't be fair to any of them. Right?

Right?

During lunch, he doesn't message him.

During their afternoon workout, he resists.

During dinner, he tells himself that they can just talk after the game, win or lose.

He ends up messaging Erling when he's back in his hotel room alone.

“Talk about no self-control,” Jude mutters as he types out a quick greeting.

jude: hey. how do you feel?

Straight to the point—that's how they've always been.

erling: pretty good. you?

jude: ready to beat you is how i feel.

Jude chuckles when he sees the reply.

erling: i think you meant the other way around.

jude: nah, mate, i think we got this

erling: we'll see

Jude reacts with a thumbs down and puts his phone down, grinning. He's about to go and shower when it starts ringing, and it's the special ringtone he set for a certain somebody's contact.

He picks up. “Erling? What's up?”

“Jude?” Erling's voice comes out slightly muffled. “Hi.”

Even the sound of Erling saying his name brings him right back to reminiscing about what they once had.

“Hi,” Jude breathes. “Did you need something?”

He hears someone mutter I need you, almost inaudibly, and his heart drops for a moment, but he quickly dismisses it as something playing in the background. Maybe Erling's watching a movie right now. “Nah. Just checking in.”

“Oh. Cool.”

The other line goes quiet. Jude doesn't know how to fill the silence anymore.

Then: “Do you ever miss Dortmund?”

Jude blinks, surprised. “Uh. Yeah. ‘Course.”

“I do too.”

Jude expects him to continue, but when he doesn't, he asks, “What is this about, Erling?”

There's a beat before a quiet sigh comes through the other line. “Nevermind. I will just tell you after the game.”

Erling is acting really fucking weird, to say the least. “Tell me what?”

“Now is not the right time,” Jude hears Erling curse under his breath—“det er aldri riktig tidspunkt (it is never the right time.)”

“What isn't the right time? Erling?”

The line cuts out, but not before Erling adds: “I will talk to you after the game. I'm sorry. See you.”

Then he hangs up.

Jude stares down at his phone incredulously. I'm sorry? It's never the right time?

“What in the cryptic bullshit was that?” Jude mutters, setting his phone down with more force than he meant to use. “Whatever.”

When he gets in the shower, he's never able to adjust the temperature to the right setting. Instead, something tugs at his mind. Like he's trying to recover a memory that had gotten plucked out of his mind. A careful blank.

His mind goes back to the 2023 Ballon D’or awards. Even if it was three years ago, Jude remembers most of the night vividly well, oddly enough; but his memory abruptly cuts off after receiving the Kopa Trophy.

Erling had told him he'd gotten wasted out of his mind, but hadn't done anything.

What am I missing? Jude tries to recall every moment they've spent together (which was scarce in recent years), but stubbornly enough, nothing in particular comes up.

Except for that night in September, back in 2022, and the Ballon D'or awards.

So, either Jude is a dense idiot, or Erling lied to him. Or both.

It's probably both.

When he gets in bed, sleep evades him. It's almost impossible to not think about Erling. Like the years Jude spent practicing to forcefully take his mind off the other have all gone down the drain, leaving him bare, vulnerable.

Why would he lie?

He wants to leave his hotel room and go find Erling, right now—but he can't. His team matters more than his stupid, stupid feelings that he's harbored for almost 6 years. This is no longer Dortmund. This is the World Cup.

They are no longer teenagers, no longer able to abandon their responsibilities for each other at any given moment.

They've grown up.

So Jude waits, because that's the only thing he can do, and he also trusts Erling to tell him the truth.

+1. July 11th, 2026.

England wins 2-1 over Norway.

It's not a pretty game—Norway almost has three goals, foiled only by their own mistakes, but it gets the job done. Jude scores both goals for England.

And he's going to the semi-finals in the World fucking Cup.

His mind is completely blank for the rest of the time he's subbed off—he's on top of the world. Nothing else matters. He's helped his team reach the semi-final in one of the biggest tournaments ever in sports, it's hard to think of anything else, really.

Then he looks at Erling, face buried in his hands.

All of a sudden, advancing to the semi-finals doesn't seem as good as it was a minute ago.

When the game ends, he looks for Erling immediately. They find each other pretty quick. “Hey,” Jude greets him, hugging the other man.

“Hey. Good game,” Erling replies. There's a smile on his face that seems a bit too real for a man who just lost in the quarterfinals of the World Cup. “Let's talk later?”

Jude nods.

“I'll send the address later.” And then he's clapping Jude on the back and letting him go.

Jude barely has time to react before one of his teammates comes up and gives him a bear hug, and it takes everything within himself to not chase after the other man.

Just a few more hours. Patience.

Waiting has never been Jude's strong suit, but he sure has a lot of goddamn practice doing it.

When he gets to the hotel, it's quiet. It has Jude feeling more anxious than he should.

Maybe it’s the leftover adrenaline from the game, maybe it's the anticipation of something else, he doesn't know.

But he's going to find out, one way or another.

The city lights are bright, and people rush back and forth to their respective destinations. It does something to calm Jude's nerves, in a way—maybe it's the calm evening breeze brushing against his face, or the sun painting the sky bleeding gold as it sets.

He presses the button for the elevator, and waits.

Erling isn't telling him to come over just for a casual hangout—that much is obvious. He clearly wants to tell him something; something bigger than the both of them.

It's nerve-wracking, to say the least.

Jude steps into the elevator, pressing the button for the second floor. 1059. That's the room number.

The ride up is deafeningly silent, save for the sound of his own breathing—in and out, inhale, exhale—and the pounding of his heart. The sliver of hope that creeps up his chest; the once long stamped out flame of devotion that had yearned to reignite, it all comes back in full force like a tidal wave.

When he gets out of the elevator, every step feels like crossing a thousand miles over the sea. It feels like wading into the ocean, submerging oneself deeper with each foot forward. It feels painful and freeing at the same time.

He reaches the room. 1059, in gold lettering. Raises his hand to knock. Hesitates.

Then—

The door opens before he can put his hand down. Reveals the cause of so much of his anguish and so much of his joy.

Standing there in the doorway is Erling, hair loose around his shoulders, wearing that same plain, white cotton t-shirt from that fateful September night and a lopsided smile that spells the word ‘trouble.’

The same smile that haunts Jude's dreams more often than he'd like to admit.

Jude's breath catches in his throat. This has to be on purpose.

Either the universe is playing some sort of cruel joke on him, or… or…

Erling stays silent, opening the door all the way and stepping aside, extending his hand.

And what else can Jude do but take it?

Erling leads him to the couch, where they sit down facing each other. Jude's heart is thumping so loudly, he wonders if Erling can hear it.

He wonders if Erling feels the same way as he does.

“Do you know why I wanted you to come over?” Erling speaks first, breaking the silence. He still has that infuriatingly tender smile on his face.

Yes. “No.” Erling knows he's lying. The other man told him once that Jude fidgets whenever he lies, and right now, he's doing nothing to stop it.

They could cut to the chase like they usually do—stop beating around the bush, but Jude thinks they could wait for a few more minutes.

He's waited almost six years, after all.

“You're lying.”

“I know.”

“You already remember Paris, don't you?”

“I do.”

“You remember what I said?”

Jude nods.

“You forgive me?”

Jude laughs, unable to stifle it. “You never had to apologize in the first place.”

The beam on Erling's face grows ever wider. “Then you already know what I'm about to say to you.”

The lines around his eyes crinkle slightly when he smiles. How has Jude never noticed before? He makes a mental note to come back to that before he links both of their hands together, like the way couples do before saying their vows. “You don't need to say it, kjære. I already know.”

And of course, he has to throw Erling's own pet name right back at him, because who would he be if he didn't?

He doesn't know who leans in—him or Erling, or maybe both—but when their lips press together, full of devotion, fireworks explode behind Jude's eyes as he closes them.

The world shrinks down to the sound of the hotel curtains swaying from the wind outside and the silent conversation he and Erling exchange, conveying all the things that words simply do not do justice.

Six years of pining, of tears, of agony, of ecstasy, of bliss, of every human emotion possible—it all comes to a stop at this moment.

Jude feels like he's just finished the world's most agonizing, lengthy marathon; or like a thread on a shirt finally stitched back together. Like the London fog parting to reveal the sun once more; the rainclouds clearing to make way for a rainbow.

Like after years of wandering, lost, he's made it back home.

Back to Erling.

They pull away to catch their breath, matching obnoxious grins stuck to their faces.

In all the ways Jude had dreamt this would go, he always imagined lengthy speeches and dramatic bursts of anger turned to sadness, then joy.

Instead, it’s calm—almost anti-climatic, in the best way possible.

Jude smiles into their kiss, because he knows; knows that it's finally over, and he can finally let the little teenage boy who'd first fallen head over heels for his teammate rest.

“Are you not worried about people seeing us, anymore?” Erling whispers to him when they break apart.

“Screw them. We can figure it out later.” Jude pulls him back in for another kiss, this time sweeping his tongue over the other man's lips, asking for entry.

“And—the media?”

“They already hate me. What's a little more?”

“The league—mmph—might not like this—”

“Don't care.” Jude suddenly stops. “Unless you do? If you do, then—”

“No, no,” Erling quickly shuts him down. “Nothing like that. I know you, well, in the past, you did not like the idea of people seeing us together.”

Oh. That. “I didn't want your reputation to be damaged right after you moved teams, Erling. You know how the British media is. Hell, any tabloids would have put us through the shredder back then.” Then he adds: “We're the best players in the world, now. If they see us now? To hell with it all. They can't do anything about it.”

His own boldness surprises him, honestly.

“Wow. Who are you and what have you done with the real Jude?” They share a chuckle. Then, Erling's face turns serious. “You're sure, though? I don't want to do anything you are not comfortable with.”

Jude's heart squeezes tightly. How much time have they wasted apart, just because they were both high-profile athletes? “Let's just take it slow for now. Work our way up from there, yeah?”

“Like how we used to?”

“Like how we used to.”

They spend the rest of the night catching up on all the things they missed during their time apart, discussing the future, and even though Jude’s phone buzzes nonstop with texts from his team asking where he is and why he's not at the club with them, he doesn't care.

For the first time in a long, long time—

Jude's heart feels lighter than a feather, soaring into the sky.