Archive of Our Own

The remote clicked uselessly as Jude flicked past another German infomercial. Some bloke in a bad suit was gesturing wildly about a vacuum cleaner that could probably also cook breakfast. The volume was down to a murmur, a wash of static-edged syllables blending with the hum of the hotel air conditioning.

“This is sad,” Jude muttered, tossing the remote onto the duvet between them. “Actually dead in here.”

Erling didn’t look up from his phone. His thumb scrolled in a steady rhythm, screen glow painting his face in pale blue. He was sprawled on his side of the king bed, legs crossed at the ankles, wearing a grey hoodie that had seen better days.

“It’s fine,” Erling said, voice carrying that particular melodic but flat sound, sentences that ended without quite landing. “You pick something then.”

“I’ve been picking. There’s nothing. It’s all German TV and I can barely understand half of it.”

“You’ve been here for one year.”

“Yeah, and I can order food and tell someone where the toilet is. Doesn’t mean I want to watch a documentary about the history of sausage.”

Erling’s thumb paused mid-scroll. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t like sausage?”

“Oh, piss off.”

The laugh that followed was stupid, honestly, a sound that came from somewhere in Erling’s chest. He set his phone down on the nightstand, screen-side down, and shifted to face Jude properly. The hotel room was standard issue… beige walls, a print of some abstract thing above the headboard that looked like a mistake at the printing factory, curtains drawn tight against the Munich night. Somewhere down the corridor, a door thumped shut and muffled voices trailed past. Lights out was in a couple minutes. Something Marco had been specific about, which, standing in the hotel lobby with a look that said I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed, except I’m also a bit angry. Match tomorrow. Early start. No messing about.

Jude rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “What do you wanna do, anyway? Can’t sleep yet. Not even close.”

“Count goals?”

“What?”

“Instead of sheep. You count goals you score this season. I do this sometimes.”

Jude stared at him. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s practical.”

“It’s mental, more like.”

Erling shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Works. I’m asleep before ten.”

“Course you are.”

A beat of silence settled between them, the comfortable kind that came from months of shared bus rides and training ground lunacy. They’d been roomed together enough times now that the rhythm was easy—no need to fill every gap with chatter. But Jude was nineteen and wired on the particular restlessness that came before match day, the buzz that sat just under the skin and made everything feel slightly too bright. He’d already unpacked and repacked his kit bag twice. He’d checked his shoes. He’d texted his mum, his brother, and three different group chats. The TV flickered on, ignored. “Right,” Jude said, sitting up suddenly. The duvet pooled around his waist. “New plan.”

“No plans. Marco said rest.”

“Marco’s not here, is he?”

Erling’s eyebrow lifted. “He is two floors down.”

“Two floors down is basically a different country in a hotel this size. He can’t hear us.”

“What is the plan?”

Jude’s grin was quick. “Charades.” The word hung in the air.

“Charades,” Erling repeated, flat.

“Yeah. You know. Acting things out. No speaking. I do a thing, you guess what it is.”

“It’s midnight almost.”

“It’s half nine, you drama queen.”

Erling’s face did something complicated—a struggle between the genuine desire to take the piss and the equally genuine awareness that Jude was already climbing off the bed, socked feet hitting the hotel carpet with a soft thump. He was wearing black training shorts and a white shirt that he recently has only been sleeping in.

“Right,” Jude announced, positioning himself in the small clear space between the foot of the bed and the wardrobe. “You have to actually try, yeah? No just sitting there looking all unimpressed.”

“Nah.”

“Mate… just live a little.”

“Okay. Fine..”

“Ready?”

Erling sighed with his whole body, the sigh of a man who had accepted his fate but wanted the record to show he wasn’t happy about it. He shifted so his back was against the headboard, arms crossed. “Go.”

Jude’s first attempt was ambitious. He crouched low, face contorted into what he clearly thought was a expression of extreme speed. He made a zooming noise despite the no-speaking rule, then immediately shook his head at himself. “No sound effects,” he muttered. “Forgot. Right. Again.” The crouch. The pumping arms. The zooming face, minus the zooming noise this time.

“Running,” Erling said.

“Well, yeah, but more specific.”

“Sprinting.”

“Different sport.”

“Olympics. Hundred meters.”

Jude's arms dropped to his sides. “Olympics hundred meters?” He stared at Erling like the man had just suggested they forfeit tomorrow's match to go sightseeing. “Mate. That's not even close.”

Erling shrugged, the hoodie bunching around his neck. “You were running. Fast running. What else?”

“I was sprinting, yeah, but—” Jude pressed his palms together, frustration and amusement fighting for control of his face. “Right. Let me try again. Pay attention this time.”

“I am paying attention.”

“Properly.”

He reset himself at the foot of the bed, socked feet planted on the hotel carpet. The wardrobe mirror behind him reflected the back of his head, he then bent his knees. One hand came up, fingers curled around an invisible object at his hip. An object with weight. Something he was about to draw.

Erling's eyes narrowed. “A gun?”

“No! Well—actually, sort of. But not a proper gun. Think different sport.”

“Different sport.” Erling repeated the words like they tasted unfamiliar. “You said this already.”

“Because you're not guessing, are you?”

“I guessed Olympics.”

“That's a tournament, not a sport.”

Erling pushed himself up straighter against the headboard. The movement made the mattress shift, and Jude had to readjust his stance. “Give me a hint.”

“No hints. That's the whole point of charades.”

“One hint.”

Jude sighed, but the grin twitching at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. 9:47 PM.

“Football,” Jude said finally.

Erling blinked. “But we are football.”

“I know that. It's not football. It's something football-adjacent.”

“Adjacent.” Erling tested the word. “Adjacent is not a sport.”

“The hint isn't a sport, you absolute—the hint is that it's like football but it's not football. Think.” Jude resumed his position, hand at his hip, knees bent. Then he moved. Three long strides to the left, body low, and his right foot swung through an imaginary ball. The follow-through took him past the wardrobe and almost into the minibar. He spun around, breathless. “There. That.”

Erling was quiet for a moment. The hotel room hummed with the distant sound of Munich traffic, eleven stories below. “Uhhh… American football.”

Jude's jaw dropped. “How did you get from that to American football?”

“You kicked.”

“I kicked! I clearly kicked! American footballers don't kick, they throw. With their hands.”

“They kick sometimes. Field goal.” Erling pronounced it carefully, the English words sitting awkwardly in his mouth.

“You know what a field goal is but you don't know what sport I'm miming?”

Erling's face cracked into a dumb smile. It was a common expression, it really just looked he was trying not to laugh at his own joke.

“You're doing this on purpose,” Jude said.

“A little.”

“I knew it.” Jude grabbed one of the decorative pillows from the armchair near the window and hurled it at the bed. Erling caught it one-handed without leaning forward. Show-off. “Right. One more go. Last chance, and if you don't get it this time, I'm switching to films. Something easy. Finding Nemo. Something your nan could guess.”

“I do not have a nan.”

“Everyone has a nan.”

Erling set the pillow aside. “It’s grandma, by the way.”

“That's adorable.” Jude was already resetting, back at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips. “Focus up, grandma. Here we go.” This time he made it obvious. The sideways stance, the bent front knee. The way he brought both hands together, gripping an invisible bat. The slow, deliberate backswing, weight shifting onto his back foot. And then the swing itself—hips rotating, arms extending, the follow-through that sent an imaginary ball soaring over an imaginary boundary rope somewhere near the bathroom door. He held the pose.

Cricket. It was cricket. They'd talked about cricket at the team dinner last month, when someone arrived and put highlights of it on the common room television. Jude had tried to explain the rules to Erling and ended up drawing diagrams on a napkin.

Erling studied him way too hard. “Cricket?”

“Yes!” Jude threw his arms up. “Finally! I thought I was going to have to start miming the bloody ashes for you. How long was that, like, four minutes?”

“Maybe five.”

“Five minutes to guess cricket. Unbelievable.” Jude flopped onto the bed, landing on his back with enough force to bounce the mattress. Erling steadied himself with a hand against the headboard. “Right. Your turn. You get up.”

“I did not agree to take turns.”

“That's implied in charades. It's a two-player activity. You can't just sit there guessing and never do the miming. That's not a game, that's an audience.”

Erling didn't move. Outside, a siren wailed briefly, then faded. The clock read 9:52 PM.

“Well—I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

“Nobody's good at charades. That's what makes it funny.” Jude propped himself up on his elbows. His shirt had ridden up, exposing a strip of stomach above the waistband of his training shorts. “Come on. Something easy. I'll guess it in ten seconds.”

Erling considered this. He looked at Jude, then at the wardrobe, then at the window. His expression was difficult to read—but something flickered across it, which was a decision being made.

“Okay.”

Jude grinned. “Yes. Get up. My turn to be the audience.”

Erling swung his legs off the bed. He was taller standing than he seemed lying down, which shouldn't have been possible but somehow was. The hoodie hung loose on his frame, but there was no hiding the build underneath—the shoulders, the way he moved with that peculiar economy of motion, never wasting a gesture. He positioned himself between the foot of the bed and the wardrobe, exactly where Jude had been.

“Ten seconds,” he said.

“Ten seconds. Starting when you start.”

Erling nodded. Then he brought both hands up, palms facing Jude, fingers spread. He held them there, motionless.

Jude waited… Nothing happened.

“Are you going to—?”

“I started.”

“You're just standing there.”

“This is the mime.”

Jude squinted. “What, a wall? You're being a wall?”

“No.”

“A window?”

“No.”

“A really tall person who's forgotten how to move?”

Erling's mouth twitched. Then, all at once, his shoulders dropped. The hands came down, slapping against his thighs.

“I give up.”

“What do you mean you give up? You've been miming for thirty seconds.”

“This is stupid.” Erling's accent thickened the way it always did when he got frustrated, the words coming out clipped and final. “I don’t know how to show invisible things with my hands. What’s the point of this game?”

“The point is you're supposed to be bad at it. That's the whole—” Jude broke off, a laugh escaping before he could stop it. The sound filled the hotel room, bright and unguarded. “You absolute idiot. You can't quit after one turn.”

“I can.”

“You can't.”

“I just did.”

Jude shook his head, the grin still plastered across his face. “You're the most annoying person I've ever met.”

“How many of me have you met?”

“Thankfully just one. And he's absolutely useless at charades.”

Erling didn't answer, but he looked almost sheepish. Jude flopped backward onto the bed. The mattress swallowed him, duvet bunching up around his shoulders, and he let his arms fall out to either side. The ceiling above him was the same off-white as every other hotel ceiling he'd ever stared at, but there was a water stain in the corner near the window, shaped vaguely like Scotland. Then the bed shifted, way too hard. Erling had dropped down next to him, all six-foot-four of him landing with the kind of impact that sent Jude's left arm bouncing off the mattress. The springs groaned, Jude's head rocked toward the center of the bed, pulled by the sudden dip in gravity.

“Bloody hell, lad. You're like a sack of bricks.”

“Am not.”

“You genuinely just altered the earth's orbit. I felt that in my spine.” Jude turned his head to the side. Erling was right there, maybe six inches away, staring at the same ceiling. The hoodie had slipped further, exposing the pale skin of his throat. “Warn a man next time.”

“I will next time.”

“There won't be a next time. I'm not letting you near my side of the bed again.”

Erling made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a grunt. Hard to tell with him sometimes. The clock read 9:53 PM. Seven minutes until lights out. The thought felt distant and unimportant. Jude exhaled, long and slow. The ceiling stared back at him.

“I'm bored again.”

“You’re always bored.”

“I'm not always bored. I'm just bored right now. There's a difference.” He rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. His shirt twisted around his torso. “Let me think of something else to do. Something I've never done before.”

“We have seven minutes.”

“Not something we have to do now. Just, um, conceptually. Stuff I've never tried. Bucket list.” The lamplight caught the angles of Jude’s face, the slight furrow between his eyebrows. “I dunno. Bungee jumping.”

“Never gone bungee jumping?”

“Have you?”

“Uh—” Erling searched for the word. “Actually… no.”

“Lovely.” Jude's gaze drifted to the window, where the curtains didn't quite meet in the middle. A sliver of Munich night sky was visible, dark and starless. “You know what I've never done?”

“What.”

Jude was quiet for a moment. The silence stays for a second and then he seemed to catch up with himself, like he'd said more than he meant to by accident. “Kissed anyone. Properly, I mean.”

Erling didn't move. The hoodie rustled as he turned his head slightly on the pillow, pale eyes finding Jude in the dim light.

“What.”

“Not like—I've kissed people. Obviously. I'm not a complete lost cause.” Jude's hand came up, gesturing vaguely at the ceiling. “Just not properly. Not well. There was this girl at a party when I was sixteen and I basically missed her mouth entirely. Hit her chin.” Jude's hand dropped back to the duvet. “Point is, I'm rubbish at it. Never had the chance to get good, I suppose. Always football, football, football.” He said the word three times, each one flatter than the last. “You get so focused on training and matches and not getting injured that you forget there's a whole world out there where people just... snog each other properly.”

“Snog.”

“Kiss.”

Erling said nothing. The lamp on the nightstand cast a warm glow across his face, throwing shadows under his cheekbones. The room felt smaller than it had five minutes ago.

“Why are you telling me this.”

Jude blinked. “I dunno. Just thinking out loud, aren't I? You're lying there like a giant statue, I've got to fill the silence somehow.”

“You could think quieter.”

“Difficult. I'm not built for quiet thinking. Never have been.” Jude rolled onto his back again, resuming his study of the ceiling. Scotland-shaped water stain. Off-white paint. Sprinkler nozzle near the wardrobe. “Maybe I could practice someday. That's what you do, isn't it? With anything. You practice until you're good at it. Same as finishing drills. You do it over and over until your body just—” He snapped his fingers. “Knows.”

“Kissing is not like finishing drills.”

“No, I know that. Obviously. I'm just saying.”

The silence that followed was different from before. Jude could hear his own breathing, and Erling's too.

“You can practice on me.” Erling’s words came out flat matter of fact. The same tone he used when discussing anything.

Jude's head turned slowly. “What?”

“If you want to practice. You said someday. We are here now.” Erling was still staring at the ceiling, but his jaw had tightened, the muscle near his temple flexing just once. “It makes sense.”

“It makes sense,” Jude repeated, the words coming out somewhere between a laugh and a question. “Mate, that's—you can't just—what do you mean it makes sense?”

“We are teammates.” Erling shrugged, the motion barely visible under the hoodie. “We trust each other. You want to learn. I am available.”

“You're available? Like a bloody library book?” Jude propped himself up on his elbows again, staring at the side of Erling's face. “This is mental. You know this is mental, right?”

“You are the one who said you wanted to practice.”

“I said someday. I said maybe. I was making conversation. You're supposed to say ‘that’s rough’ and then we move on to something else. You're not supposed to offer yourself up as a practice dummy.”

“I am not a dummy.”

“You know what I mean.”

Erling finally turned his head. The pillow crinkled under the movement. His eyes met Jude's, and there was something in them that hadn't been there before.

“Do you want to or not.”

Jude opened his mouth. Closed it. The clock on the nightstand said 9:56 PM, and the television was still flickering mute on some German home shopping channel, and Erling Haaland was asking him if he wanted to practice kissing.

“I don't—” Jude swallowed, his throat had gone dry without warning. “Yeah. I mean. Okay. But this is weird.”

“Why is it weird.”

“Because you're my teammate. Because you're a man. Because—” Jude stopped. The reasons were all there, lined up neatly in his head, but saying them out loud suddenly felt like admitting to something he didn't fully understand yet.

“Does that matter?”

The question hung in the air. Jude thought about all the times he'd watched Erling in training, the way he moved with that strange precision. The way he listened, the way he spoke, the way he'd caught that pillow one-handed without even looking.

“No,” he heard himself say. “I suppose it doesn't.”

Erling shifted on the mattress. The springs creaked under his weight as he turned onto his side, facing Jude fully. The gap between them had narrowed without either of them moving—or maybe one of them had moved, Jude couldn't tell anymore, couldn't track the geography of the bed. I mean they were laying down together after all.

“Okay,” Erling said.

“Okay.”

The lamplight caught the blue of Erling's eyes. Up close, Jude could see things he'd never noticed before… his lips were actually really full, plump honestly, his skin was clear. Erling is pretty in general, effortless, truly.

“You're staring,” Erling said.

“Am I? Sorry. Nervous. Bit nervous.” Jude laughed, and the sound came out higher than usual. “This is ridiculous. I'm nervous about practice. Who gets nervous about practice?”

“Everyone. Before the first time.”

“You've done this before? The practice thing, I mean. Not—you know.”

Erling's expression didn't change, but something around his mouth softened. “No. But it’s the same principle. Training. Repetition.” He paused. “You said it yourself.”

“I say a lot of things.” Jude's heart was beating faster than it had any right to. “Right. Okay. How do we—what's the—?”

“You lean in,” Erling said. “And you do not hit my chin.”

Jude barked out a laugh, sharp and surprised. “Cheers for that. Very helpful. Top-tier coaching.”

Erling was looking at him patiently, utterly unreadable in some ways and completely transparent in others. He didn't move to close the distance himself. He just waited, one arm resting on the duvet between them. Jude's pulse thrummed in his ears. The gap between them was maybe four inches now. He could feel the warmth radiating off Erling's body, could smell something clean and faintly medicinal—hotel soap, probably, the same stuff they all used. Jude's hand found the duvet, gripping it for no reason other than needing something to hold onto. “Slow,” Erling murmured. “Like a warm-up.”

“Warm-up. Right. I can do warm-up.” Jude leaned forward. The first thing he noticed was that Erling's lips were slightly parted, and the second thing was that his own hand had moved without him even noticing, finding the sleeve of Erling's hoodie and anchoring there. The fabric was soft, worn thin from too many washes. Three inches. Two.

The lamp flickered again. Both of them froze. The light steadied, then dimmed, then brightened—a slow pulse that had nothing to do with either of them. Down the corridor, muffled through the door, footsteps approached and then passed. Someone coughed. The footsteps faded. Jude let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

“The electrics in this hotel are absolutely—”

“Jude.”

“Yeah.” Jude tightened his grip on the hoodie sleeve. “Yeah, all right. I'm doing it.” He leaned in the rest of the way. The kiss landed soft. Softer than he'd expected—none of the collision he'd braced for, none of the awkward geometry of that party when he was sixteen. Erling's lips were warm and still, and Jude could feel the slight catch of breath from Erling’s nose against his cheek, and somewhere in the back of his mind he registered that his eyes had closed without being told to… it lasted maybe three seconds. Jude pulled back, his eyes opened. The room swam back into focus, lamplight, duvet, wardrobe, water stain.

“That was—” He cleared his throat. “Was that all right?”

Erling's eyes were still on him, pupils wider than they'd been a minute ago. “You did not hit my chin.”

Jude laughed, and the tension that had been winding tighter and tighter in his chest finally snapped. “Progress. Genuine progress. I’m proud of myself.”

“You could try again.”

The words were casual. Deliberately casual—Jude could hear it now, the effort Erling was putting into making them sound like nothing. Like an observation about the weather. Like a comment on the training schedule. Either way, Erling was asking to go again, which sounded kind of desperate if you actually decided to think about it. Jude wasn’t thinking though, so, no time to tease.

“Again?”

“For repetition.” Erling's hand moved on the duvet, just slightly, the fingers curling toward Jude's but not quite touching. “The first one was good. But you could be better.”

Jude stared at him. “You're weirdly good at this for someone who said he wasn't good at charades.”

“This is not charades.”

“No.” Jude's voice came out quieter than he intended. “No, it's not.”

The clock read 9:58 PM. Jude leaned in one more time and Erling leaned in too which… again the kiss barely lasted.

“That was better.”

Erling’s breath still brushed Jude’s mouth—they hadn’t moved far, maybe an inch, maybe less. The duvet had bunched somewhere near their elbows and neither of them had bothered to fix it. Jude’s hand was still twisted in the hoodie sleeve. He couldn’t seem to let go. “Better?” He tried for casual and landed somewhere closer to winded. “That’s all you’ve got? Better? I felt like that one was genuinely decent.”

“Okay. It was decent.”

“Decent is an improvement.” Jude’s pulse was doing something stupid in his throat. He could feel it there, a fluttering thing that made swallowing difficult. “I’m progressing. You’re witnessing progression in real time.”

“You are still too quick.”

“Too quick?”

“You pull away too fast. Like you’re afraid of it.” Erling starts. “A kiss should last longer than a heartbeat.”

Jude wanted to argue. The instinct rose up automatically—that defensive little spark that always fired when someone told him he wasn’t doing something right. But the words died somewhere between his brain and his mouth, because Erling was giving him this look, and it was very hard to be defensive when someone was staring at you like they were trying to memorize the shape of your face.

“Right,” he managed. “Longer. Got it. Anything else, coach?”

The corner of Erling’s mouth twitched. “Do not call me coach.”

“Why not? You’re the one giving feedback. Very detailed feedback. ‘Good but could be better.’ ‘Too quick.’ ‘Last longer.’ You’ve got a whole curriculum planned out, haven’t you?”

“Jude.”

He stopped talking. The way Erling said his name—it made his stomach drop and tighten all at once, Jesus. “I’m nervous,” Jude blurted. “That’s why I’m talking so much. In case you hadn’t guessed. Nerves. I get chatty.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“You told me. Before.” Erling’s hand moved on the duvet, not far, just the fingers uncurling slightly, the knuckles brushing against Jude’s wrist. “You don’t have to be nervous.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one being evaluated.” Jude laughed and the sound came out frayed. “I’m kissing a man. Right now. This is—I’ve never done this before. With anyone, really, but definitely not with—you know. A teammate who’s willing to teach me this stupid stuff.”

“Yeah well—I know more than you.”

“About kissing?”

“Yes.”

“How much more?”

Erling didn’t answer.

“Right,” Jude said slowly. “Okay. So you’ve—you’ve done this. With people. Multiple people, presumably, if you’re standing there being all cryptic about it.”

“I’m not standing. I’m lying down.”

“You know what I mean.”

Erling’s gaze slid back to him. It was careful now, measured in a way it hadn’t been before. “Do you care at all?”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe.” Jude’s brain was doing that thing where it raced ahead of his mouth, thoughts tumbling over each other. “It just means you actually know what you’re talking about. Which is—fine. Good, actually. Better than both of us fumbling around like idiots.”

“You are not an idiot.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Jude huffed out a breath. “Right then. Show me.”

“What.”

“Show me. You said I was too quick. You said I pull away too fast. You clearly know how it’s supposed to go, so—” He gestured vaguely at the space between them, at Erling’s mouth, at the whole improbable situation. “Show me how it’s done.”

“You’re sure.”

It wasn’t a question, to be fair, Erling’s voice was too flat for that—but it also was not a question. Jude understood all of the sudden that he was being given an exit. A last chance to laugh this off and roll back to his side of the bed and pretend none of it had happened. He didn’t take it though.

“I’m sure. Go on. Impress me.”
Erling moved, his hand left the duvet and found the
side of Jude’s face. His palm was warm, dry. The thumb settled just below Jude’s cheekbone, a feather-light pressure that sent something skittering down the side of Jude’s neck. His fingers curled around the curve of Jude’s jaw.

“Oh,” he said. Stupidly. “Okay. Different.”

“You talk too much,” Erling murmured.

“You mentioned.”

Erling’s thumb tilted his chin up—the lamplight caught the pale blue of his eyes one last time before his lashes lowered and his mouth met Jude’s. It wasn’t like the first two. The first had been tentative, a question mark made of lip and breath. The second had been better—softer, surer, Jude leaning in with something approximating confidence. The pressure was firmer from the start, no hesitation, no testing-the-waters uncertainty. The hand on his jaw kept him exactly where Erling wanted him. Jude’s mind went blank, which not completely, some small, distant part of him was still cataloguing details, tucking them away for later. It lasted longer than a heartbeat, longer than several heartbeats. Jude lost count somewhere around the point where his own hand found Erling’s shoulder, not the hoodie this time, gripping the actual shoulder, the hard muscle underneath the fabric. When Erling finally pulled back, Jude’s eyes stayed closed for a full second longer than they needed to.

“Oh,” he said again, the word came out breathier than before. “Okay. That was.”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, didn’t have the words. Erling’s thumb was still resting below his cheekbone. “That was better,” Erling said quietly. “For you?”

Jude laughed, and the sound was half-air, “Yeah. That was. Yeah. Significantly better. I think I actually learned something.”

“Good.”

“You’re very good at this. Which I suppose you know. Now.”

“I know.”

The lamp flickered. They both ignored it this time, or maybe they didn’t notice it, too focused on the six inches of space between their faces, the warmth still lingering where Erling’s palm met Jude’s skin. “The light,” Erling said after a moment. “It’s distracting.”

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Liar.”

Jude’s mouth curved. “Yeah, all right. Probably haunted. We should complain.”

Erling’s hand dropped from his face. The absence of it was almost physical, a cold spot on Jude’s jaw where warmth had been. But he wasn’t pulling away, he was reaching across Jude’s body, his arm extending toward the nightstand, and Jude had a brief, disorienting moment of awareness: Erling was leaning over him. The hoodie brushed his chest, ghe weight of him shifted the mattress. The lamp clicked off. Darkness rushed in, but it wasn’t complete darkness since the curtains didn’t quite meet in the middle, the same gap Jude had noticed earlier, and through it came a sliver of Munich night. Not moonlight, exactly. Streetlamps, maybe, or the glow of the city itself, reflected off low clouds. It was enough to see by… barely.

“Better,” Jude sighed. “I like it like that. Very atmospheric. Very—you know. Cinematic.”

“You’re still talking.”

“I told you. Nerves—”

Erling kissed him again, this time there was nothing tentative about it. His mouth found Jude’s in the half-dark with an accuracy that suggested he’d been waiting, had been planning this kiss since the moment he’d reached for the lamp. His hand cradled Jude’s jaw again, but differently now, more urgent, the fingers spreading into Jude’s hair, the thumb pressing just below his ear. Jude let out a hum, swallowed immediately by Erling’s mouth. To be fair, it was a peck. Technically. Nothing more than lip against lip, no tongue, no teeth, nothing that would qualify this as anything other than innocent practice between teammates. But it lasted. And lasted. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Jude lost track again, because the only things that existed were the pressure of Erling’s mouth, the warmth of his hand, the slow shift of the mattress as one of them moved—he couldn’t tell who moved at this point, maybe both of them—and the space between them narrowed from inches to centimeters to nothing at all. His hand was still on Erling’s shoulder. It tightened without permission, fingers digging into muscle, and somewhere in the back of his mind a voice that sounded like it was saying bloody hell, Jude, what’re you doing, but the voice was very quiet and very far away and entirely easy to ignore.

Erling’s thumb traced a small circle on the skin below Jude’s ear. The kiss deepened, not in the way Jude had seen in films, all open mouths and drama, but in a subtler way. Erling’s bottom lip slotted between his, just for a moment, and then pulled back. A peck. Then another. And another. Each one lasting longer than the last, until Jude couldn’t tell where one kiss ended and the next began. Until his breathing had gone shallow and uneven and his other hand had found Erling’s hoodie again—the fabric bunched in his fist this time, pulling, just slightly, just enough that Erling’s body shifted closer in response. Jude was getting lightheaded. From lack of oxygen, probably—he kept forgetting to breathe, kept getting lost in the rhythm of it, the give and take, the way Erling made these tiny sounds in the back of his throat that Jude felt more than heard.

“Erl.” His own voice startled him, rougher than he’d ever heard it. “Ah. This is—”

“Hm? Good?”

“Yeah. Very good. Maybe too good. I’m getting a bit.” He didn’t finish. Erling’s mouth found his again, and this time his hand slid from his jaw to the back of his neck, fingers pressing against the hair there, and Jude’s train of thought derailed completely. The room had gotten warmer, that was just them though—the heat building in the narrow space between their bodies, the duvet twisted somewhere around their waists. Jude’s fingers traced the edge of the collar of Erling’s hoodie in the dark, the worn fabric, the warm skin just beneath. He wasn’t kissing back so much as he was participating now—matching Erling’s rhythm, leaning into the pressure, letting his own mouth soften and yield and then, tentatively, pressing back. The clock on the nightstand ticked over to 9:59 PM.

“Mate.” Jude’s hand tightened on the hoodie collar. “We should probably—”

Erling kissed him again, harder this time. His breathing had gone uneven too.

“We should probably—hey—” Jude tried again, but the words came out muffled against Erling’s mouth, and he didn’t pull away to finish them. Jude felt the mattress dip even more, then Erling was moving, not away, but over, one hand planted beside Jude's shoulder, the other still cradling the back of his neck.

"Okay. We're—this is happening differently now."

Erling’s weight settled above him, hips bracketing Jude's, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs. The hoodie hung loose from Erling's shoulders, fabric skimming Jude's chest where his shirt had ridden up.

"Why are you still trying to talk?”

"Force of habit. Can't seem to—"

Erling's mouth found his again, the angle was different now. Gravity had opinions about where lips should meet, and Erling was letting it guide him—the kiss was slower but somehow more, the pressure of his body a warm constant against Jude. Jude's hand slipped to Erling's shoulder blade, fingers spreading over the hard ridge of muscle there. Erling's thumb traced the curve of Jude's jaw, a slow arc that ended at the hinge of it. He pressed gently, enough that Jude's lips parted on a sound he hadn't planned to make.

"There," Erling murmured against his mouth. "Like that."

Jude didn't know what "like that" meant until Erling's tongue touched his lower lip. The tip of it traced the seam of Jude's mouth, feather-light, asking permission in a language that had nothing to do with words. Jude's fingers tightened on Erling's shoulder. His heartbeat was doing something ridiculous in his chest—stuttering, then racing, then stuttering again. "I don't—" he tried, but the words died when Erling's tongue swept against his. His mouth opening wider. Erling made a sound—approval, possibly, and deepened the kiss. Tongue sliding along Jude's mouth. Jude's hand fisted in the back of Erling's hoodie. He couldn't help it. His hips shifted under Erling's weight, a tiny involuntary movement that made the his breath catch.

"Easy." Erling pulled back just enough to speak. "Slow. You’re learning."

"Trying to." Jude's own voice came out thin and reedy. "Bit difficult when you're—"

Erling kissed him again, his tongue sweeping past his lips, tangling with his, clearly nothing like the chaste pecks they'd started with. Erling’s hand slid from his jaw into his hair. Gripping just enough to tilt Jude's head back, opening him up, taking the kiss deeper still. It was too much and not enough all at once. Jude's free hand found Erling's hip, thumb hooking under the hem of the hoodie where it had ridden up. The skin there was warm, softer than he'd expected.

"Jude." The single syllable came out rough. "You’re—"

"What?"

"Responsive."

"Is that good?"

A huff of breath against his cheek. "Yeah."

The word went straight to Jude's stomach, settled there, warm and liquid. He was hard in his training shorts, had been for a while now, probably, though he'd been too distracted to notice, and the realization made his face feel hot. Erling had to know. There was no way he couldn't know, pressed together like this. But Erling didn't mention it, just kissed him again, tongue sliding against his in a rhythm that Jude tried desperately to match. He was getting better. He could feel it happening in real time—the way his mouth learned to move with Erling's instead of just yielding to it.

A tiny sound escaped Jude's throat, then another. He couldn't stop them. Every time Erling's tongue curled against his, every time his fingers tightened in his hair, another noise slipped out—breathy and pathetic and completely beyond his control. His face burned with embarrassment, but Erling didn't seem to mind.

"This means nothing," Jude gasped between kisses. "Right? Just—practice. We said."

Erling pulled back. "Yes," he said. "Practice."

"Good. Great. Just checking."

"Jude."

"Huh?"

"Stop checking."

Then Erling's mouth was on his again. Jude's hand slipped higher under Erling's hoodie, palm flat against the small of his back, the muscle there was solid and hot and Erling made a sound that vibrated against Jude's tongue. Erling's weight settled more firmly between his thighs, and the pressure drew a groan from somewhere deep in Jude's chest. His hips rolled up—an automatic response to the friction, the heat, the overwhelming thereness of Erling's body against his.

"Sorry. Can't—" Jude's voice cracked. "Can't help it."

"Don't."

The word landed like a command or permission. Jude couldn't tell which and didn't care. Erling's hand left his hair and found his jaw again, thumb pressing at the corner of his mouth, coaxing it wider. The kiss deepened impossibly, tongues sliding together in the wet heat of it, and Jude let himself be coaxed. His mouth opened, his tongue met Erling's, and the tiny sound that came out of him this time was closer to a moan. Jude's fingers dug into Erling's back, he was drowning in this—and well the clock on the nightstand clicked over to 10:00 PM. They both heard it and neither of them stopped. Erling's mouth trailed from his lips to the corner of his jaw, leaving a damp path that made Jude shiver then back up. Tongue tracing the shell of his ear, teeth grazing the lobe. Jude's hips bucked, a helpless little movement that pressed his boner against Erling's thigh.

"Erling—" His hand slid up Erling's back, fingers spreading over the ridges of muscle, mapping the landscape of him. The hoodie had ridden up completely now, and there was nothing but skin under his palm—warm, slightly damp with sweat, the spine a firm line beneath his touch. Jude's other hand joined the first. Both of them tracing the planes of Erling's back, the dip of his waist, the flare of his hips above the waistband of his joggers. "You're good at this," Jude exhaled against his mouth. "The teaching. Very thorough."

"Practice."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"It is what it is."

Jude laughed, giddy, and Erling swallowed the sound. Jude's fingers traced down Erling's spine, learning the geography of him by touch alone. The slight dip at the small of his back. The way the muscle flared at his shoulders. The heat radiating from his skin like a furnace. He was so hard it ached. Training shorts doing absolutely nothing to hide it..

"Sorry. It just—"

"Don’t apologize." The words came out rough. "It’s normal."

Normal. Right. Just a normal physical response to a normal practice session between normal teammates. Jude clung to that thought even as his hips rolled up again, even as the friction made his breath stutter and his fingers clench on Erling's back. His lungs honestly burned. Not in the way they burned after a sprint, that sharp ache that meant he'd pushed hard and could push harder. This was different. This was his body forgetting to breathe because his mouth had been occupied for what felt like an eternity. He pulled back gulping for air. "Bloody hell," he gasped. "Forgot—forgot breathing was a thing."

Munich's ambient glow through the curtain gap caught the edge of Erling's jaw, the shine on his bottom lip, the way his chest rose and fell under the rumpled hoodie. He looked fucked, and Jude had done that. The thought sent something hot and possessive through his stomach. "Gimme a sec," Jude started, but his body had other ideas. Before the words finished leaving his mouth, he was already pushing up to Erling’s lips again. Back to the wet slide of tongue and the press of lips that had learned each other's shape in the last however-many minutes.

Erling's weight settled heavier against him. And god, he was heavy. All of him pressed Jude into the mattress like he was trying to fuse their bodies together through sheer gravitational force. The springs creaked, the duvet had long since surrendered, bunched somewhere around their knees. Jude's training shorts had twisted, and his shirt was somewhere near his armpits, and none of it mattered because Erling's tongue was against his and the weight was—the weight was good. Crushing him, actually. Jude's breathing became this shallow, deliberate thing he had to work for, and somehow that made everything sharper. The taste of Erling's mouth, both of his hands are underneath his hoodie now, fingers splayed like he was trying to cover as much territory as possible. Jude's nails dragged down, not on purpose though, it was just an involuntary curl of his fingers. Erling hissed, practically inhaling through his teeth. His hips pressed down, a tiny jerky movement that ground his weight against Jude's lap.

Erling breathed against his mouth. "Wait. Wait."

Jude's hands froze. "Shit. Sorry. Did I—?"

"Don’t stop."

Jude wasn't sure he'd heard right until Erling's forehead dropped to his shoulder and made a sound that was definitely not disapproval. Jude's fingers moved again, nails tracing twin lines down the landscape of Erling's back—the ridges of muscle, the dip of his spine, the slight sheen of sweat that had gathered in the small of his back.

"Good?"

"Good." Erling's face was still buried in Jude's shoulder, his breath hot through the fabric of his shirt. "Again."

Jude obeyed, nails scraped upward this time, from the waistband of Erling's joggers to the middle of his spine, and the sound Erling made went straight to Jude's groin. "You're—" Jude swallowed, his throat clicked. "You're really something, you know that?"

Erling kissed the corner of his mouth. Not a proper kiss, just a press of lips, a brief warm pressure that lingered a half-second longer than necessary. Then the other corner. Then the hinge of his jaw. A slow trail of pecks that made Jude's breath stutter and his fingers clench against Erling's back.

"Hey."

"Mmm." Another peck below his ear.

"I'm—" Jude's voice cracked, his face felt like it was on fire. "I'm really..."

"Really." Erling's mouth had reached his jawline. Then his chin. Then the corner of his mouth again, and Jude's train of thought messed up for a solid three seconds.

"Turned on," he managed. The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other like they were trying to escape before he could take them back. "I'm really turned on. Like. Properly. Very. Obviously."

Erling's mouth stilled. Jude's heart hammered against his ribs, and he was suddenly, acutely aware of every point of contact between them—the weight of Erling's hips, the heat of his skin under Jude's palms.

"Okay," Erling said quietly.

"Okay? That's it? I just—I told you I'm—and you're just—okay?"

"I can tell." Erling's thumb traced the edge of Jude's jaw. "You’re not hiding it well."

A laugh burst out of Jude—nervous and half-hysterical. "Really boosting my confidence here mate."

"I can tell," Erling repeated, slower this time, "because I am too."

"You're—" Jude's voice came out smaller than he'd intended. "Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

Neither of them moved. The clock on the nightstand must have been ticking toward something—ten-fifteen, ten-twenty, Jude had lost track entirely—but the sound of it was swallowed by the hum of the heating system and the much louder sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. Erling leaned down and kissed his cheek, and then another closer to his jaw, and another, at the corner of his mouth. As if he couldn't stop himself. As if talking was something they were trying to do but his mouth had other priorities.

"You're—" Jude's voice wobbled. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what."

"Distracting me. With the—the little kisses. While we're trying to have a conversation." He should be embarrassed by how breathless he sounded. He was, a bit, but not enough to stop. "We're supposed to be addressing things."

"Addressing." Another peck, the apple of his cheek this time.

"Yeah. Addressing. Communicating. Being adults about—" Jude's breath caught as Erling's mouth found the sensitive spot just below his ear. "—about the fact that we're both, you know. In a state."

Erling pulled back. Far enough that Jude could see his face in the half-dark—the flush on his cheekbones, the slight furrow between his brows that meant he was thinking hard about something.

"A state?”

"Massive state. Significant state. State of states."

"You’re deflecting with words."

"I know." Jude closed his eyes. Opened them. "I know. Sorry. Nerves. Still bloody nervous, apparently, even though we've been kissing for—how long has it been?"

"I dunno. Long."

"Long," Jude echoed. "Yeah. Long."

Erling was still watching him. Patient in that infuriating way of his. Jude swallowed. "We could." He stopped. Swallowed again. "We could, um. Do something. About it. If you wanted." The words came out shy. Painfully shy. The kind of shy that made him feel about twelve years old, asking a girl to dance at a school disco. His face was going to catch fire. They'd find nothing left of him but a pile of ash.

Erling's thumb traced his lower lip. "Mm," he said. "Let me think."

Jude waited. The seconds stretched. Erling's breathing had deepened again, his chest rising and falling against Jude's. "What're you thinking about?" The question slipped out before Jude could stop it. "You've got your serious face on."

"I do not have a serious face."

"You absolutely have a serious face. I've seen it. It's the face you're making right now."

Erling's mouth twitched. "I am thinking about what you said."

"Which bit? I said a lot of bits. Most of them embarrassing."

"'We could do something.'" Erling repeated the words. "What did you mean."

"I meant," Jude said, and his voice was steadier than he'd expected, "that I don't want to stop. That I want—more. Of this. Of you." The confession hung in the air, terrifying. "But I don't know what more looks like. And I don't want to mess it up. And you're the one who—who actually knows what he's doing, so. I thought maybe you could." He trailed off.

"Okay," Erling said.

"Okay? You keep saying okay, and I don't know what that means."

"It means okay." Erling's mouth curved, just slightly. "I’m thinking. Give me a second."

"You've had a second. You've had several seconds."

"More seconds."

"Greedy." Jude huffed out a laugh, then Erling leaned down and pressed a kiss to the center of his forehead.

"I have an idea," Erling murmured against his skin. "But you have to trust me."

"I trust you." The words came out immediately, automatically. Before Jude had even thought about them. "Obviously I trust you. You're my teammate."

Erling's palms pressed into the mattress on either side of Jude's shoulders, and he lifted himself—not off, but up—creating a pocket of space between their bodies that hadn't existed before. Jude's hands slipped from Erling's back as his torso rose above him, and suddenly he was looking up at Erling from the pillow. He felt small, not in a bad way. Erling's shoulders blocked out the sliver of light from the curtain gap. His arms were braced on either side, the hoodie hanging loose, and Jude was caged between them.

"You're—you're quite large from this angle."

"I’m the same size as before."

"Yeah, but I wasn't under you before, was I? Perspective matters. Context. I'm experiencing you from a whole new—" he stopped himself suddenly. “Ah—sorry." Jude's hands found Erling's waist—the hoodie had ridden up again, and his palms met bare skin just above the waistband of the joggers. The heat of him was startling. "Sorry. Go on. Do your thing. Your idea. I'll be quiet."

"You won’t."

"Probably not. But I'll try."

One hand lifted from the mattress, Jude watched it move—he realized where it was going. Erling's palm settled over the front of Jude's training shorts. The pressure was light, the warmth of his hand through the thin fabric, and Jude's hips bucked—a tiny, involuntary jerk that pressed his cock harder against Erling's palm. "Fuck," Jude breathed. "Sorry. That just—happened."

"Stop apologizing."

"Hard habit to break. I apologize for everything." Jude's hands tightened on Erling's waist, his knuckles were white. "Is this—is this your idea? The thing you wanted to do?"

"Part of it."

"Part of it. Right. Okay. Good. Great, actually. Very on board with this part." He was babbling. He knew he was babbling. The words were tumbling out of him like water from a broken tap, and he couldn't stop them any more than he could stop the way his hips kept shifting, pressing into Erling's palm in tiny, desperate increments. Erling's thumb traced the outline of him through the shorts, mapping the shape of him through the fabric, from base to tip. Jude’s head pressed into the pillow. A sound escaped his throat—high and needy.

"You sound good."

"No—I sound like a—like a—" Jude's voice cracked as Erling's thumb found the head and circled. "God."

"Not god. Just me."

"Shut up."

Erling's hand left his shorts. The absence was almost painful. Jude bit his lip to keep from complaining, and then Erling's fingers were at his waistband, hooking under the elastic. The shorts slid down. Enough for the fabric to bunch at his thighs, and the cool air of the hotel room hit his cock—he was so hard it was almost embarrassing, curving up toward his stomach, the head slick already—and then Erling's hand was back, and this time there was no fabric between them.

Jude's whole body jerked. "Ah—" The sound tore out of him before he could stop it. Erling's palm was warm and dry, wrapped around him with a gentleness that made his eyes sting. "I might not last very long. If you—if you do anything. Just so you know. Full disclosure."

"I’ll be careful."

"That's not—I don't want you to be careful, I just want you to know that I'm—that this is—" He couldn't finish the sentence. Erling's thumb had moved, sweeping over the head, spreading the moisture there, and words had become impossible. Jude's hands fisted in the sheets. His hips rolled up into Erling's grip—and then he was stroking, slow and steady, from base to tip and back again.

"You’re doing so good."

"Not doing anything. Just—lying here. You're doing all the—" A twist of Erling's wrist. Jude's voice shattered. "Fuck." Erling's thumb swept over the head again. Jude's hips bucked. His hands left the sheets and found Erling's thighs—the joggers were still in the way, frustratingly, and he tugged at them without thinking, fingers clumsy and desperate.

"Off," he gasped. "Want these off."

Erling's hand stilled before going down and shoving his own joggers down past his hips. Jude helped… or tried to. His fingers tangled with Erling's, both of them fumbling in the dark, and then the fabric was gone and Erling's cock was pressed against his hip. He was big. Of course he was big. He was Erling Haaland, and everything about him was big, and Jude shouldn't have been surprised but he was, he was.

Erling kissed him, a press of lips that was there and gone before Jude could deepen it. Both of Erling’s hands were on him, sliding down his sides, hooking under his thighs, and suddenly he was being shifted, adjusted, repositioned on the mattress like he weighed nothing at all.

“What are you—”

“Trust me.”

Erling settled between his thighs. His hips pressed forward, and his cock slid against Jude’s, and the contact made them both suck in air at the same time. Hot skin against hot skin, the slide of pre-cum between them. Jude’s hands found Erling’s shoulders and gripped hard enough to bruise. Erling’s hand wrapped around both of them, stroking. His hand was big enough to hold them both, fingers spread, and the friction was different from anything Jude had ever felt—not just his own hand, but both of them at once, sliding together, the ridge of Erling’s cock against his own.

“Like that?” Erling’s forehead pressed against Jude’s, breath coming in hard pants. “This is what you wanted?”

“Holy—don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Erling’s hand moved again, faster this time. The slide was slicker now, pre-cum smearing between them, and Jude’s hands flew to Erling’s hair—fingers tangling in the blonde strands, gripping, pulling, and the sound Erling made was almost a growl. His rhythm stuttered, hips jerking forward. “You’re so—” Jude couldn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t know what word he was reaching for. Beautiful? Handsome? Sexy?? His brain couldn’t settle on anything that felt big enough. Erling was above him and around him and everywhere at once, hand stroking their cocks together, breath hot against his mouth, Jude was dying for it. Pressure built and his hands tightened in Erling’s hair, he could feel himself getting close—that familiar coiling heat low in his stomach, his thighs started to tremble.

“Wait,” Jude gasped again. “Wait, I’m—” The stroking continued, Jude’s hips rolled up to meet it, matching the rhythm, and the slide of their cocks together was so good it was almost unbearable. His hands were fisted in Erling’s hair, and he was making sounds he didn’t recognize—he truly didn’t want to stop. “Close,” Jude breathed. “I’m close, I’m so close, Er—”

Erling’s hand sped up. The strokes came faster, firmer, and the friction was perfect, Jude thought he might die from it. His hands left Erling’s hair and clawed down his back, nails scraping over skin and muscle. “Jude. Jude. I’m—” Erling’s mouth crashed against Jude’s before he could even try to respond. The kiss was really all just tongue and teeth, Jude moaned into it as he finally fucking came between them, coating Erling’s hand and his own stomach. Erling following a second later, a groan tearing from his throat as he pulsed against Jude’s cock.

Which for a long moment, neither of them moved. The room was quiet except for their breathing, both of them panting. Erling’s hand was still wrapped around them, loose and gentle now, and Jude could feel the sticky warmth spreading between their stomachs, cooling in the air.

“Wow. I’m fucked up.” Jude sighed out loud.

Erling made a sound that might have been a laugh. He was exhausted. “Clearly.”

“You’re heavy.”

“Sorry.” Erling started to move, but Jude’s hands tightened on his back.

“No. Stay. I like it.”

Erling settled back against him. His forehead found Jude’s shoulder, breath warm against his neck. “Okay.”

They laid there in the dark. The clock on the nightstand ticked past something—Jude couldn’t see the numbers, didn’t care to look. His body felt utterly boneless. “Definitely practice, huh?”

“Totally you idiot.”

Jude smiled into the darkness. His hands traced lazy patterns on Erling’s back—the ridges of muscle, the dip of his spine, the places where sweat had gathered and cooled. The mess between them was starting to dry, sticky and uncomfortable, but he couldn’t bring himself to care yet. Not when Erling’s weight was still pressing him into the mattress,.

“Thanks for the lesson,” he said quietly.

Erling lifted his head. “It’s nothing.”

“We should probably clean up,” Jude said, even though he didn’t even bother moving.

“Yes.”

“In a minute.”

“In a minute,” Erling agreed, despite the fact he’s already dozing off. Oh well.