Chapter Text
Jude can’t help but stare.
Not in that casual, teammate-sized glance that passes unnoticed between athletes, but in a kind of stillness that vibrates at the edges. A stare that lives in his throat, clenched. That burns behind his eyes. That dares someone to call it what it is.
How couldn’t he?
Kylian is electric, movements of lightning, rhythm and tempo tucked into each muscle like the man was carved from tempo itself. It’s rain in a thunderstorm, precise and relentless. No wasted steps. No unnecessary flares. Only power spun into grace, like a ballerina armed with a blade.
The lines of his body extend and coil with terrifying beauty, like a sculpture set into motion. Kylian leans to the right, hips swaying just slightly, one arm loose as he drops into his stride and Jude already knows what’s coming. He’s seen this cut, this feint, this lethal wind-up in every video, every montage, every YouTube compilation he shouldn’t have watched so religiously.
Still, his breath stumbles.
Kylian pulls back his left leg, arching like a Michelangelo figure in the moment before it comes alive. His muscles flex, his right arm hovers for balance, a soft inhale and then bang. The ball tears through the air with the kind of vengeance that makes you want to duck.
Jude swallows hard.
It's not even a match. Just training.
And yet, his chest swells, throat dries, fingers twitch. His heart beats like he’s watching the Champions League final with a boot on his neck.
Because this is him.
Kylian Mbappé.
The move to Madrid has looked effortless on him, like the club was always stitched into his skin. Like royalty just coming home. The players orbit him. Like planets, like moths. There’s always someone asking for something; advice, boots, shirts, a nod of approval. Even the staff linger too long, hands on his back, his shoulder, brushing his wrist like he's made of starlight and they want to say they touched it. Carlo beams when he speaks of him. The fans sing his name like gospel.
But Jude—
Jude adores him differently.
Quietly and desperately.
He knows Kylian like a favourite song. Like a secret he never told anyone.
From the day he was still Mbappe Lottin, red and white flashing across Ligue 1 highlights, to now, stripped to a mononym, draped in royal white, Mbappe. Jude knows it all. Every stage. Every smile. Every shift.
He knows how Kylian’s voice changes with language.
How his English trips over vowels, soft and awkward, his tongue chasing the consonants. How his French drops an octave, thick and lush like molasses. And Spanish—Spanish is something else entirely. Playful. Smooth. Light. Like he’s still learning it, still testing the weight of words in his mouth. It makes Jude’s stomach do something awful and beautiful at the same time.
And maybe that should’ve been the line.
The place where the admiration stopped.
But it isn’t.
Jude is a junkie and Kylian is the thing in the room he’s not allowed to touch, so instead, he hovers. He lingers longer than needed after drills. Finds excuses to ask questions. Makes jokes with no punchline just to see if Kylian will laugh. Watches the way sweat gathers at the hinge of his jaw. Counts the breaths between his answers.
Memorises them.
He thinks he’s being discreet.
Until he’s not.
“It’s impossible to mark him,” Jude huffs, bent over, hands on his knees, breath tumbling from his chest as he watches Kylian jog off ahead of him, back muscles flexing with casual command.
“He’s like a fucking wizard.”
Next to him, Aurélien lets out a laugh, more heat than humour and unscrews his water bottle. He douses his face, sighing loudly at the relief, while the Spanish sun scorches the pitch, baking the grass into silver steam.
“Maybe if you stopped staring at him and actually tried, you’d get a tackle in,” Aurelien says, flat and calm, barely looking at him.
Jude freezes.
His skin prickles like it’s been peeled. He blinks too fast and then he laughs, or tries to. It sounds strangled.
“I— I’m just not used to him yet,” he mutters, fingers fidgeting with his shorts, heart doing something horrible and tight. His ears burn and his neck too.
Aurelien doesn't even glance his way. He tilts his head back, drinks deep, already moving on. It was a throwaway comment, nothing deep to the sass.
Still, Jude hears it like a thunderclap, like someone holding up a mirror to his worst-kept secret.
Am I that obvious?
Madrid is like a love after a toxic one.
It treats you kinder, slower, with softness that startles you in the beginning. The sun here doesn’t just shine. It sings. It splits the sky open with that honey-coloured gold, pushing grey clouds to the edge of memory, whispering you can start again. On days like this, when the light pools gently over rooftops and the breeze is just enough to kiss your jaw, Kylian feels strangely at peace.
He thought it would take longer, but Madrid feels like it’s been his for lifetimes.
It hits him sometimes, how calm things have become. How the adrenaline has thinned, leaving only quiet. No more cameras following his every blink. No more shouting matches in corridors, no politics disguised as team talks. No Neymar. No Parisian unrest breathing down his neck.
Just stillness.
And in that stillness, he finds himself.
But also, he finds himself alone.
Vini calls him out constantly, trying to drag him into the Madrid nightlife; rooftop parties, underground clubs, invite-only warehouse scenes with champagne flutes and bad reggaeton. Kylian always declines, tossing out half-truth excuses. Contract meetings. Apartment renovations. Didn’t sleep well. Vini laughs but stops insisting.
His house feels alone, even when his chef makes a nutritious meal. He eats it alone, by the balcony. His plate balances on his knee, fork between his fingers, eyes fixed on the quiet beauty of his neighbourhood. The buildings glow like ochre and rust, curved and charming. Nothing like the grey stone towers of Paris. The windows here are wider. They let light in like they have nothing to hide.
And still something aches.
It stirs quietly when he taps through Ousmane’s Instagram story. A dim-lit locker room, sweat glistening on foreheads, the familiar chant bouncing off the walls — trop facile, trop facile, trop facile. The boys are screaming. Someone’s drumming on a water bottle. He smiles, fondness flickering behind his teeth.
But the moment he puts the phone down, he loses his appetite.
At training, the cliques fall into place like instinct. The French boys. The Brazilians. The Spanish defenders who never shut up. It’s not exclusion. But it is reminder that he’s still new.
So he sticks close to Aurélien and Eduardo. They blend languages like breathing. Spanglish, Franglais, inside jokes that flicker between three countries. It helps. It softens the edges. Sometimes, Jude joins them.
And Jude.
Jude is different , just by the way he sticks out like a sore thumb, an Englishman in sunnyside Madrid. He’s impossible to ignore. He fits in but doesn’t at the same time. He doesn’t shrink from it either. His accent cuts through the air like grit in sunlight. Thick Brummie vowels, harsh and honest, punching through the soft swirl of Madrid Spanish. His ‘r’s roll awkwardly. His ‘s’ lingers too long.
And his French? An abomination but God, does he try.
“Wesh,” Jude says one morning, dropping the word like it’s hot coal. It lands with a thud of pure wrong.
Kylian chokes on his water, laughing so hard he nearly spits. A real laugh. Not just a chuckle. The kind that makes your ribs ache. The kind you feel the next day.
“That’s not how you use it,” he manages between wheezes, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You sound like a tourist.”
Jude rolls his eyes, arms crossed. “Still sounds cool.”
Kylian watches him. Watches how quickly he recovers, how he never quivers even when he’s wrong. Jude has an ignorant confidence to him, embroidered with an ego only Pharaohs hold. Not arrogance, not like the boys who bark just to be heard. Jude’s confidence is rooted. Old. Like he was born knowing who he is. There’s no need to impress. He just is .
It reminds Kylian of their first battle on the pitch. England vs France. The Qatar heat. The weight of the world on their backs. And Jude, nineteen and fearless bumping into him mid-duel, lip curled, eyes on fire, like he belonged there, dancing around the French midfield like it was a seven a-side game.
“How do you feint so fast?”
“Do you shoot with your dominant foot on cutbacks?”
“How wide do you open your hips before you curl it?”
“Is it instinct or is it practice?”
The questions come like rainfall, steady, insistent and always warm. Jude sits beside him on the bus, leaning in without meaning to, his thigh brushing Kylian’s like they’ve done this before.
He listens with lights in his eyes and Kylian watches him the way Jude grins when he understands something. The way he nods, too fast, eager. The way he bites his lip when Kylian demonstrates a turn with his hands, trying to mimic the curve of the ball.
This is Jude Bellingham?
When Jude gets the invite, he stares at it like it’s something holy. His thumb doesn’t tap, it hovers, awkward and trembling like it’s afraid the message might vanish if he dares press too hard. He reads it again. And again. Like repetition might change its meaning. Like the words might fold into something more personal. Something like: I meant you. Only you.
Hey Jude. I’m having a welcome party and wondering if you would like to come. I know it's a couple months late, but a party wouldn’t hurt, right?
That first line loops in his head like a Beatles song on vinyl.
He said hey Jude.
He said hey Jude.
He said hey Jude.
It’s stupid, he knows. Everyone must’ve gotten one. A mass invite. But the way his name sits there, nestled into those pixels, it feels intimate . Like Kylian typed it out, thought of him first, like Jude wasn’t just part of the crowd, but the reason the door was opened at all.
He knows better. He knows logic.
But hope is louder.
The days blur; matches, recovery, training, press. The season barrels on like a runaway train. Through it all the party drums in Jude’s mind the loudest. Not the lights. Not the music. Not the free-flowing alcohol or expensive crowd.
Him.
Seeing him again.
In his own space. Outside of the locker room, beyond the pitch. Unstripped and real.
That Saturday comes like a punch. The clock races faster that morning, like it wants him unprepared.
Jude changes three times before Vini even rings his doorbell. First a button-up that makes him look like he’s trying to impress a boardroom. Then a sweatshirt that feels too juvenile. Finally, he settles on the graphic tee. A print of a niche UK rapper no one in Madrid would know. It’s cool. Effortless and stupid.
Why did I wear this? The thought bounces around his head like a chant.
Vini’s loud outfit enters the room first with a presence that sucks all oxygen from the room. His shirt is silk, bright as a peacock, chains swinging with every step like punctuation marks on his ego.
“Mate!” Jude laughs as Vini takes the moment to show himself of, hands flicking his chin like he’s posing for Vogue.
“I’m ready to let loose. Hurry up, Bellingham I don’t want to be late.” Vini grins, lips pulling like he’s already tipsy on attention.
Jude laughs. It’s hollow. The kind you give when you’re trying to hide nerves behind noise. He’s barely holding it together. His palms are sweating. His knees feel stupid. Like they’ve forgotten how to bend without knocking into each other.
The car smells like spice and cologne and a hint of fear. The closer they get to Kylian’s place, the tighter his throat feels. Sweat creeps at the back of his neck and under his nose, slick and shameful. He tugs at the hem of his shirt again. The rapper’s face taunts him from the mirror in the backseat. A stranger on his chest.
Why did I wear this?
He imagines Kylian opening the door. Sees his face. That grin, lazy and laced with something unreadable. He pictures him saying, hey Jude, again, like it means something. Like it’s just them in the room.
Jude swallows the thought like it’s poison. He doesn't realise he’s fidgeting until Vini smacks his arm.
“Take a drink, bro. You’re gonna sweat through the seat.”
Jude offers a weak laugh and takes the flask from Vini’s diamond-dusted fingers like it’s a holy relic. The smell hits first, sharp and merciless, memories of bad decisions and black nights flood his mind.
“Vodka?” Jude coughs, swirling the liquid like it might suddenly transform into wine.
The sip is fire. It scorches his chest and makes his shoulders drop like a weight’s been lifted.
“Let me hold onto this,” he says, his voice steadier now. But it’s a lie. A prop.
Outside the window, the sky is bruising with twilight. The Madrid skyline dips behind hills like it’s hiding secrets. And when the car finally turns into Kylian’s neighbourhood, a cul-de-sac of walled luxury, bougainvillea curling over stone like veins, Jude feels his stomach somersault.
This isn’t just a party.
This is his moment.
His chance.
And maybe, maybe, he’s about to walk into something that will change everything .
Jude and Vini step into the house like they’ve wandered into the wrong film set.
The hall is quiet not eerily so, but calm, controlled, curated. Not the chaotic mess of music and limbs Jude expected. The thud of bass doesn’t chase them in. Instead, the hush is soft, ambient. Distant laughter carries from deeper inside, echoing like a private joke they weren’t part of.
The hallway is warm and dim, the walls soaked in amber from the flicker of candles placed deliberately in every corner. Shadows dance against textured paint. Sculptures lean forward as if they’re whispering secrets. The air smells of peaches and woodsmoke.
Jude shifts nervously, cheeks flushed from more than just the vodka. He slips the flask into the back pocket of his jeans and runs a hand over the graphic on his chest, suddenly regretting everything he’s wearing.
Kylian lives in a museum or maybe a gallery. A still frame of himself, reimagined and artistic. He hears the laughter again, fuller this time. Down the hall. It draws them in.
Vini breaks the silence first, stepping boldly into the living room.
“God, aren’t we dressed for the wrong occasion.” The typical rounds of greetings begin, handshake, how are yous and hugs float around as they stumble deeper.
The room is dipped in gold and candlelight. Scattered bodies lounge on low-slung couches, the hush of low conversation floating like perfume. There’s no DJ, no red cups. Just wine in crystal glasses and a playlist of soulful R&B drifting through the air. And right in the centre of it, glowing without even trying, is Kylian.
Jude sees him before anything else.
He’s leaned back on a wide velvet chair, legs relaxed, one arm thrown carelessly over the backrest like he owns not just the house, but the night. He’s laughing. Of course he’s laughing. The kind of laugh that folds his whole face into light.
The cardigan he’s wearing is too soft for this world, grey and loose, but it hugs him in all the right places. His beanie is tugged low over his head, his ears slightly flushed and pink at the edges. And his smile, God, it arrives in stages. The corners of his mouth first, then the dip in his cheeks, and finally those deep dimples that ruin Jude every time.
He looks too beautiful to be real.
And then he’s walking towards them, a strong stride in his gait and those eyes find him.
“Hey, Jude.”
Three words, soft and casual, but to Jude, it sounds like scripture. Like a song written only for him. Jude’s mouth parts, breath caught in his throat.
“Hey...” It comes out too airy, too light, too naked. “I made it,” he adds quickly, trying to force normalcy back into his bones.
Kylian grins, the kind that feels like sunshine and teeth.
“It’s good to see you too, Bellingham.”
Then he moves on.
Just like that.
No hug. No hand on the shoulder. No lingering look. Just a smile and then he’s gone, pulled into Vini’s orbit.
Jude watches it happen. How Kylian's expression brightens, how his voice lifts, how they lean in, whisper something, laugh too loud. It’s playful, easy. Vini’s laugh is an eruption, and Kylian meets it with something softer, like he’s always had a private laugh just for him.
And Jude stands motionless, heart sinking just a notch too fast.
He shouldn't be surprised. Vini and Kylian go back longer. Have more inside jokes. History. But it burns anyway.
Not jealousy, not exactly but something sharp. Something like being left out of a memory you thought you were building together.
Jude looks down at his shoes. Then at the wine glasses. Then at the floor. He can feel the warmth rising to his face, the ache of realisation crawling up his spine like a fever.
He isn’t special.
Not here. Not tonight.
Just another guest at the party.
And still, some part of him hopes, desperately hopes that Kylian will look over. That he’ll catch his eye from across the room. That he’ll come back. Say something else.
The night bleeds, slow and quiet. Stoic, a haze of flickering candles, low jazz from the speakers, and half-drunk glasses of wine catching stray glints of light.
Jude feels nothing.
Not boredom, not exactly, more like misplacement. He’s become the ornamental third in every conversation. A polite listener with a glass in hand and a nod that doesn’t reach his eyes. Laughter floats around him like perfume, fragrant and far. No matter where he stands, he is an extra in someone else’s story.
And Kylian, he’s everywhere.
Kylian’s like neon, like superstition and Jude’s orbs find him, always. Like if he stares hard enough, Kylian might catch it, might glance back, might do something.
But he doesn’t.
Kylian floats through the party like warm smoke. He laughs easily, too easily. He leans in when he talks, arm brushing against the shoulder of whoever’s beside him. He hugs freely, speaks softly, dances even when no one else is. He’s magnetic. And everyone wants a piece.
Even when Kylian makes his way to the circle where Jude sits with Vini and Rodrygo, even then, it’s fleeting. He slips in with a grin, some inside joke already on his tongue, eyes flicking between Vini and Rodrygo with a shared history Jude can’t trace. Jude doesn’t laugh. He just sips what’s left in his cup and pretends the alcohol hasn’t long stopped doing its job.
Then it happens. A sigh slips out. Unintended but honest. An exhale of ache and disappointment. Three pairs of eyes swing to him and the alcohol that once gave him confidence dwindles away at the mere stare from Kylian.
Rodrygo tilts his head. “Are we boring you, Bellingham?”
Yes, “No.” He lies with a smile that feels like it’ll crack if he holds it too long.
Kylian looks at him. And for a moment, Jude believes there’s something there. Perhaps a flicker of recognition, of concern, of knowing. But the moment is gone too fast. Kylian’s face is unreadable, his stare smooth and flat like marble. A stone wall. He swallows hard, the vodka churns in his stomach like regret and he tries to push back the daunting thought he’s been escaping all night.
Time passes in slow, unsparing strokes. Later, Jude finds himself leaning against the marble of the kitchen island, hand loosely cupped around another drink he won’t finish. The conversations around him blur into noise, a collage of voices and laughter stitched over the gentle hum of the speakers.
To his left, Aurelien rambles on about Los Angeles and Lambo rides and something about crypto. Jude’s only half-listening. His right ear is tuned to the balcony where Kylian stands in a pocket of golden light, surrounded by Ousmane and Achraf, their words in fast French, laughter loud and layered with memory.
It’s the kind of laugh that excludes. It’s the sound of knowing each other too well.
Jude’s chest tightens, a silent ache behind the ribs.
“So, when Kylian says party, he means… get-together?” he mutters, cutting Aurelien off mid-sentence.
Aurelien shrugs, unfazed like he’s noticed Jude’s boredom all night, “Kylian’s grown now. He doesn’t need the noise anymore. He just wants connection. To really get to know people.”
Aurelien always seems too philosophical for Jude and sometimes it comes off as cringe, a bunch of nonsense from a man who actively listens to Drake.
Jude scoffs before he can stop himself. “Yeah right.”
Aurelien pauses, one brow rising in quiet surprise. “What do you mean?”
And that’s all it takes, a crack in the dam. Jude opens his mouth and lets it spill, tongue going rouge with honesty.
“It’s just funny,” he says, voice sharp with something sour, “because he’s spent more time with his old teammates than his new ones.”There’s a hiss of sarcasm in the words. His eyes roll before he can tame them. It’s a jab, not fatal, but bruising.
Aurelien chuckles, trying to soften the edge. “He’s just catching up, that’s all.”
“Yeah right.” Jude echoes it louder this time, as if to stamp it down, like a final verdict. His chest is hot, jaw clenched. He sets the drink down harder than he means to, the glass thunk echoing in the kitchen like punctuation. “But I’m gonna head off anyway.”
Aurelien watches him, eyes dim with concern, but doesn’t argue. He doesn’t say stay. And maybe that’s what Jude needed. Someone to stop him but instead, he’s left with a sorry smile and silence.
He turns, shoulders stiff, heat crawling up his neck. As he walks through the candlelit hallway again, past the art that once felt whimsical but now feels cold and pretentious, he catches a glimpse of Kylian from the corner of his eye.
Still laughing.
Still not looking.
Jude walks faster.
And in his gut, a slow ache sets in. Not just disappointment, something worse.
Unseen. Like all this hope he built up around a single message — Hey Jude — had been foolish from the start.
The night sky is softer than Kylian’s stare.
It stretches wide above Jude like velvet stitched with cold stars, whispering quiet reassurances the way Kylian no longer does. Wind curls around his neck, nudging him gently, telling him to go, to cool the burning inside his chest. But he doesn’t move. Just stands there at the edge of the marble steps, watching the minute hand on his watch twitch in stubborn increments. Waiting for his driver. Waiting for an escape.
He sighs, ragged, as if breathing hurts now.
The flask is still warm in his back pocket. A stupid, flirty silver thing he took from Vini, and now it presses against his skin like guilt. He’s never felt more juvenile. Like a kid caught sneaking out of a classroom. His eyes flicker to the door, to the inside. To the light that spills out into the dark. He wants to rip his shirt off and throw it into the bushes. He wants to disappear into the driveway. Into a version of himself that wasn’t so obvious. So painfully transparent.
“Fuck.” He exhales, voice thin and cracked. “Why am I even angry?”
It sounds like a laugh. But it’s closer to a cry. A soft, broken thing that hits the night air like glass hitting pavement. He clutches his face, cold palms cupping hot cheeks, dragging his skin down like maybe he can reset everything.
He wanted to impress Kylian. That was it. That was all. But the night was a haze of half-smiles and missed glances. He tried to laugh when he should’ve spoken, flirted when he should’ve listened. And now he was here, by the edge of a party, bracing for a ride home like a ghost who never got invited in.
“Leaving without saying goodbye?”
The voice cuts through the night like silk. Jude spins, heart slamming into his ribs, the sound of Kylian’s boots tapping over marble finally sinking into his consciousness.
He’s standing a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, face unreadable but open. There’s no bite in his tone. No fury. Just something quieter. Like knowing.
Kylian’s cologne arrives before he does, it’s not musky like typical male cologne, it’s more soft, floral, a scent that lives in memory rather than skin.
“I—I’m just—” The words trip out of him like broken teeth.
Kylian tilts his head, unreadable still. “Aurelien told me,” he says softly.
The implication stings. Jude’s mouth runs before his brain catches up.
“I don’t hate you!”
The shout slaps the air. Loud and unfiltered. It hangs there, awkward and exposed, and Jude wishes he could shove it back into his mouth. He sees the faint crease between Kylian’s brows deepen.
“You think I think you hate me?” Kylian repeats, slower.
Jude wants to scream. Yes. Because that would be easier. Simpler than admitting the truth: I wanted to impress you so badly, I got weird about it.
Instead, he stammers. “No… yes—well—” His eyes flit away. To the gravel, to the bushes, to anywhere but those eyes. They see too much. They make him feel unclothed in a way that isn’t sexy, just raw.
Kylian doesn’t say anything. And that silence, it stretches. It blooms. The wind moves again, brushing through them like a ghost, swaying Jude’s baggy tee at the hem. Everything feels still and impossibly loud.
A car engine purrs in the distance, climbing closer, saving Jude from more embarrassment. Jude’s breath catches when he sees the white gleam of his BMW roll to a stop. A final exit.
He turns back. Kylian hasn’t moved and his stare is still there, fixed and waiting. Jude doesn’t know how to say ‘ sorry’. Doesn’t know if sorry is even the word. So he does what boys always do when they’re too proud to beg and too hurt to speak.
“Bye.” It’s meek, fragile. A whisper trying to be a sentence.
He walks to the car, every step heavy with regret, and sinks into the leather seat like it's the closest thing to absolution.
Then—
Tap.
Knuckles against the window.
One, two.
He flinches, turns and there he is. Kylian again, crouching slightly to see him through the tinted glass. Jude hesitates, eyes wide, before rolling it down, halfway. Enough to let the cold in. Enough to let the breathlessness settle between them again.
“Hey,” Jude croaks. His voice is scratchy like overused vinyl.
Kylian’s smile is slow. Too slow. It starts like a flicker, something mischievous and soft, and then it blooms into a full expression. Dimples, teeth, moonlight caught in a grin.
“Hey, Jude.” He says it like the song. But then, softer, low enough to graze nerves:
“Maybe if you stopped staring at me, you’d actually get the chance to know me.”
And with that, Kylian turns. Walks back inside like nothing happened, like everything did.
Jude simmers in the moment that just slapped between them. He sits there, watching the shape of him disappear into candlelight and art, and wonders if he’s ever known him at all—
Or if this is the beginning of finally trying.