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“Piss off, yeah?” Jude groans the very second he sees Noni come up to him, snickering in the way he only does when he’s going to say something that will irk Jude in all the wrong ways. And there are good ways to be irked; read Bukayo who always seems to know how to do it. “I mean it, mate, don’t—”
“The whole world chooses now to fancy you. I know what you’re like, Jude,” Noni humours. He has his headband on — the thing doesn’t leave his head, ever, maybe. And about what he just said: does Noni know him? All Jude knows is that he’s closer with the Arsenal guys, obviously. Does Bukayo run his mouth about him, or something? “You’ll see it when you Google your name after dinner, might as well let me give you a sneak peak.”
And then Noni is shoving his phone into Jude’s face, and Jude is forced to look at the nth variation of the same things he’s been seeing for the past two days.
“I don’t even like Katy Perry like that,” Jude deadpans. Her one song, which has been floating around in the back of his mind since the night they won against Mexico, plays from Noni’s phone’s speakers. “Couldn’t even choose good pictures of me,” he scoffs under his breath.
It’s the wrong thing to do. Noni bursts out laughing.
“Yeah, yeah, alright, man,” Jude groans, pushing the phone away. “You’re being proper annoying.”
It doesn’t grate on Noni’s nerves in any kind of way. He leaves Jude alone — thank God — but he snickers all the way away until he’s out of Jude’s earshot. Whatever. Good riddance.
At least Jude is alone now. Well, as alone as he can be when every single door littering the hallway he’s standing in houses one of his teammates.
Jude’s been to Miami before, but the heat this year is like nothing before. He used to think Birmingham was unbearable in the summer, until Madrid taught him otherwise. But even after all of that, Miami is sweltering this year. And Tuchel isn’t going easy on them either, insisting on hours of practice and training under the sun each day.
Jude gets it. He well and truly does. Playing the match in the Azteca had been hell, but at least it will be similar to what Saturday’s game will feel like. Jude gets it — but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.
He sighs, and then happily lets himself into his quiet, peaceful hotel room, far away from menaces like Noni and the general noise of all the guys dicking around.
He likes the squad perfectly fine. He just also happens to like his quiet alone time just the same, too.
Quiet time is nice. Quiet time means indulging in a warm shower and using his hotel room’s amenities and products to his heart’s content. He’s going to work up a nasty sweat tomorrow, but that’s the least of his worries as the clean and pleasant smell of body soap permeates all around his bathroom.
After turning the water off, Jude wraps himself in the provided bathroom, slathering lotion on his body and slapping a thin layer of moisturizer on his face before unceremoniously flopping back onto his bed. The air conditioning is cranked up high in the hotel room, and it’s a welcome, much needed escape from the boiling temperatures outside.
Jude plugs his phone in, thankful that he invested in the long charging cords, since it allows him to comfortably hold his phone in front of him as he prepares himself for his nightly scroll.
And, alright, Noni wasn’t completely wrong earlier: perhaps a lot of people know what he’s like. He has sort of developed a reputation after making his first football headline. So what if he likes knowing that he’s on peoples’ minds? That there are people outside of his team, his coaches, his managers, his parents that think he’s doing a good job? A great job, even.
Jude is sure that if everyone could and had a reason to, they too would look themselves up online. Maybe not as frequently as Jude does, but that’s neither here nor there.
His mother has always told him to be wary about going through what people say about him. When they lived in Germany together, she wouldn’t let him go on his phone some evenings, insisting that he help with cooking dinner instead, or insisting that they spend time watching movies together.
It had worked. But Jude isn’t a bumbling seventeen year old anymore, his mother isn’t with him in Miami, and he’s riding off an all-time high after their match against Mexico.
Sue Jude for being on his second day of seeing what people have been saying. He’s sure some other footballers are worse.
Anyways. He starts with TikTok, because that app is full of people who either do not know what they’re talking about, people who refuse to look beyond the surface, and people who do sometimes make some compelling points that he agrees with.
Today he sees more than a few edits praising how he looked during the match. Jude doesn’t particularly find that he looks all that good when he’s huffing and puffing across the pitch, limbs and lungs on fire, but whatever keeps his name circulating…
Numerous clips of his plays during the match against Mexico. A lot of clips from his plays in the rest of this year’s World Cup matches.
Numerous clips from years ago — when he lived in Germany. Playing for Borussia Dortmund. With his mum.
With Erling.
Jude doesn’t usually watch any video the full way through, unless something has caught his attention. Usually it’s a witty sound bit used — he is not immune to being baited — and sometimes it’s the poster’s editing style.
But clips of Erling? Jude has lived this. He knows Erling a lot better than most teammates tend to get to know each other, he likes to think. There isn’t really anything new to learn about watching clips of him and Erling edited together.
It’s why these kinds of videos don’t capture Jude’s attention for long. He scrolls past the one he watched a whopping eight seconds of, and then the next one after only three seconds, and then the next one when he sees the opening clip being from their special Valentine’s Day video that Dortmund had them film.
Jude didn’t think anything of it at the time. He didn’t know it would come back to him like this five years later.
Whatever. He isn’t very interested in them.
Next, he opens Twitter. There is a lot of stuff Jude doesn’t think twice about on Twitter, but there are always a lot of nice, professional photos that get posted. He sends those to his mum. Sends them to Jobe sometimes too, claiming that he looks much better than him when captured mid-motion. And at least on Twitter, compared to TikTok, there are a lot more conversations happening.
During club season, Jude likes to read about how the team is being perceived, and when playing on the national team, he likes seeing what the rest of the world thinks. Football’s biggest stage, and all.
There’s the usual. The think pieces, the people criticizing their plays, the people having numerous words to say about their lineups, their substitutions…
Sometimes, Jude agrees with what he sees. Not that he can do anything about anything beyond agreeing, but it is vindicating to see that he isn’t the only one who has the thoughts that he does.
They’re saying DJed should’ve started the match against Mexico. They’re saying Bukoya hasn’t given much to the team this World Cup. They’re also saying that Harry should’ve left professional football a long time ago, so Jude isn’t putting much weight behind what he’s reading, if any.
He joined his first club when he was young. He played for the national team much younger than most people, too. He’s had a long time to learn how to navigate the internet in a way that doesn’t sour his mood and ruin his mentality, especially when they’re in between important matches.
It’s what he didn’t do all too well during the Euros a couple years ago. It’s what he had to become good at, knowing that he wanted to continue playing for the national team.
It’s all noise. There’s always noise. There will always be noise.
But then there’s also incessant buzzing in the back of his head. And it’s not like that isn’t noise — but it’s a much nicer, familiar kind of noise which doesn’t prepare him for the worst by filling his entire system with an impending sense of dread.
And it’s what Jude hears when Erling’s face pops up on his Twitter timeline.
It’s a video, and Jude clicks on it before he can think much better of it. He typically ends up watching videos of Erling anyways: it has been ashamedly long since he’s heard Erling’s voice for himself.
It’s a video from this World Cup, evidently. The length of Erling’s hair gives it away. It’s also from a week or so ago, based on the question Jude hears the interviewer ask Erling.
Something about making it to the knockout stages. Something about France? Erling says that France looks good, that it’s great that Norway gets to compete in the knockouts. He’s smiling as he speaks, and his accent is familiar yet heavy as it filters through Jude’s ears.
God, he just knows that Erling’s voice would sound different in person. Because it does.
Erling laughs, and a part of Jude wants to laugh with him, but then he hears what Erling says.
Something about how France will go on to win the entire tournament.
Jude has heard a lot of people say that this year. He’s also read a lot about it. He isn’t unaware of how the French lineup this year is extremely commendable — but so is the English one, and no one really wants to make a headline out of that, now do they…
But that’s neither here nor there. The point is that Erling is reciting what Jude knows many others are thinking about the 2026 tournament.
It shouldn’t mean anything. It’s not like he’s hearing something he hadn’t heard before. It’s just that—
Someone’s knocking on his door.
Jude doesn’t know who it could be. It’s after dinner and it’s late and they have to be up early tomorrow.
Nonetheless, Jude gets up, tightens the belt of his robe, and opens the door.
It’s Harry.
“Hello,” his captain greets, a crooked smile on his face. “You mind?”
And Jude… guesses he doesn’t mind, no. He steps aside and lets Harry into his room, only mildly self conscious about the way he is dressed solely in a bathrobe while Harry is dressed in loungewear.
Whatever. The older man — unfortunately — has seen him in worse states.
“Hey, lad,” Harry smiles. It’s tight around the corners of his mouth. The last time Harry had bombarded him like this, it was to tell Jude that as per Southgate, he would not be starting their next match.
Jude sincerely doubts that it’s something similar right now, but his heart begins beating erratically nonetheless.
“Everything alright?” Jude asks, hoping to sound more casual than he feels.
“Of course,” Harry assures. Jude must make a face, since Harry has the gall to look sheepish. Right — is Harry not the one who came into Jude’s room? He’s a bit confused. “Don’t let your head go thinking, now. Relax a bit, Judey."
Judey. Yeah, right. Jude is supposed to relax right now? Harry’s being all cryptic and shit in his room, and Jude is supposed to relax?
“Match day coming up,” Harry continues. Jude nods his head once. “Big one, yeah?”
“Sorry,” Jude shakes his head, as if to clear it a bit and gather his thoughts. “You doing wellness checks on us, Kane? What’s this about?”
“And if I am?” Harry counters, looking only a bit offended that Jude sees this as something outlandish. It is outlandish — Jude isn’t pulling this out of his ass.
Harry does his job as a captain, he’s a good one. But a lot of this check-in shit is done as a squad, together. This is Harry going out of his way right now, so sue Jude for thinking that there is some being bigger here that involves him. Something that Harry doesn’t want to say out loud tomorrow morning at training.
There’s a look on Harry’s face that’s hard to decipher. And Jude has spent a few years in Harry’s circle, he’s not unfamiliar with the older man. The fact that he doesn’t know what’s going on right now is stressing him out a bit, throwing him for a bit of a loop.
“C’mon, Harry,” Jude urges. Maybe there’s a tinge of desperation in his tone, he doesn’t know. He isn’t trying to hide anything anymore. If this is serious, Harry should just come out with it. “Tuchel wants to take me out at the half? Is that it? Won’t let me play the full match with Norway? Or what, you want me benched—”
“Jude,” Harry cuts him off, exasperated with the assumptions Jude is making. The pinched look on his face remains, and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here as he blurts out, “the internet’s saying bullshit about you again, lad, alright?”
“Alright,” Jude concedes, probably quicker than he should have. He knows the internet is saying bullshit about him. The internet is saying bullshit about everyone — it always is. What’s so different now? “Been there, done that. That all?”
Harry sighs.
“You can’t talk about it.”
“Like I was gonna talk about it?”
“You answer every question they ask you,” Harry deadpans. Jude is about to say that he doesn’t, but if anyone has the grounds to say this, Jude does suppose that it is Harry… “You aren’t daft, I know you know what to say, but remember to do the usual. No, we’re just friends. Yes, we were close teammates. Yeah, I miss him like a brother, we live in different countries now so it’s hard to—”
“Wait,” Jude interrupts. He even has his hands out in front of him as he tries to understand what he’s wearing. “You talking about Erling, mate?”
“I’ve known you a long time, Jude. Six years, I reckon?”
That’s not a long time in the grand scheme of things, but perhaps in the world of football it is notable.
“Been seeing what they say about you for years. The nonsense and the good stuff…” Harry continues. Jude sincerely doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. And, he feels properly stupid to still be in his bathrobe. Then Harry takes a deep breath, as if gearing up for the worst of it, and finds Jude’s eyes. “… what’s true and what’s not.”
“What’s true and what’s not,” Jude repeats mechanically. “Cut it with the riddles. What’re you trying to say?"
“You know what I’m trying to say, don’t make me actually say it, Jude,” Harry bemoans. Ah, so the odd dynamic of Harry being ten years his senior trying to have what seems to be an uncomfortable conversation is finally catching up to him, is it?
When Jude doesn’t take mercy on him, Harry looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here right now. But Harry is the one who sought him out, so he can deal with his own consequences, for all Jude cares.
“I don’t know anything, man. This just sounds like when you had to sit me and… Trent down… during the Euros…”
There’s a look on Harry’s face, one that gives away that Jude had finally connected all the pieces of the puzzle together. Not that Harry’s puzzle pieces were any good — and not that he was any better at conveying them, either.
The thing is, though, that Harry had made a fool out of himself when he spoke to Trent and Jude. Trent had been alright about it, not making Harry feel too embarrassed. But Jude was younger, even a couple years ago, and he laughed in Harry’s face and then laughed in Trent’s face, and sometimes when he looks back on the memory, he laughs again.
Not now, though. Right now as he thinks back to when Harry had to ask Jude and Trent privately if their relationship was anything beyond being best friends, Jude doesn’t even have it in himself to crack a smile.
“Just wanted to keep you out of the fire back then, yeah?” Harry says softly. “It’s the same now, lad. Can’t have much of a say about what Haaland’s up to, but you’re my responsibility right now. On and off the pitch.”
Jude is still dressed in only his bathrobe. This is horrible.
Absolutely fucking horrible. Because at least when Harry had talked to him with Trent, Jude was able to laugh it off, because there wasn’t anything between him and Trent.
Jude can’t necessarily do the same thing here. There isn’t exactly nothing between him and Erling, as it were…
Down the block, Erling gets off the phone with his mother. Erling had insisted that she not mess up her sleep schedule while he was in America, but she was also insistent on watching all his matches.
It’s nice talking to her, so Erling isn’t actually complaining all that much.
He doesn’t even get to touch his phone screen before it’s taken over by an incoming call.
Jude’s contact photo is an old one, taken in Erling’s last season playing for Borussia Dortmund. Jude looks visibly younger in it.
Jude also hasn’t called him in over a year. But it’s still instinct and autopilot which leads Erling to click the accept button without hesitating.
“You picked up,” Jude says over the line. Instead of a greeting. Instead of his name. Instead of literally anything else.
“Had to make sure it was actually you,” Erling hums. “I did not know you remembered how to use a phone.”
To be fair, he also could’ve said something better. But when he’s thought about Jude over the past year, all he can think about is how… they haven’t spoken in a long time.
All Erling can think about is how they were really good about keeping in touch when he joined Manchester City. And even when Jude did not join him — rejected practically every advance of Erling urging him to come back to England — they made living in different countries work.
Erling would say he doesn’t know when it all changed, but that would be a lie. He can trace it to the Euros, which seems to have been the end of what most of Jude used to consider normal.
Not that Erling would know for certain, since, well, Jude doesn’t really speak to him anymore.
“Right,” Jude says. And then doesn’t say much else. Erling is a man of patience — it’s what his meditation habit helped him achieve. Mentality is no joke when it comes to professional football. But when it comes to Jude? Everything is always a bit off kilter: everything follows its own rules when Jude is involved.
“That is all you wanted?” Erling tries.
“No,” Jude immediately answers. “‘Course not.”
Of course not. Then what, exactly?
For a moment, Erling thinks it’s better to stay quiet on the line. To wait for Jude to continue speaking. But then he remembers that this is Jude Bellingham, and that waiting for him to make the first move meant that Erling hasn’t directly spoken to him in over a year.
“Sometimes,” Erling begins, sighing as he releases the weight of the words which have been following him around for an unprecedented amount of time, really. It feels good to say them out loud, even if he knows it won’t make Jude feel so good. “Sometimes I think that you take my patience for granted, Jude.”
“No,” Jude immediately denies. He is very quick with the short responses, but Erling doesn’t think those one-word answers are what either of them want to be talking about right now. That’s just a hunch, though. “No, I don’t—”
“Like maybe you do not appreciate it as much as you should,” Erling continues, only feeling a little bad that he cut Jude off. But it’s like once he starts speaking, he can’t stop. “It has been over a year, Jude, and I—you act like what you do doesn’t matter to me.” Erling does his best not to get worked up, but he can feel his ears getting warmer, and he can hear his voice getting thinner. “You act like you do not matter to me.”
All he can do to regulate himself is take a breath: it is of no use to get upset with Jude over the phone like this. There is nothing they can do about anything now, anyways.
Not when their bodies are demanded to perform and their minds need to be crystal clear.
Erling was the one who insisted first. He is not an idiot, he has seen Jude play football. He has played football with Jude. He understands that Jude is world-class, that everyone wants someone like Jude on their team. He is an asset. He is important. He is special.
Erling likes to think he recognized it before anyone else. When Jude was seventeen, and then reminded again when Jude was nineteen and urged him time and time again to just come with him.
What’s so bad about Manchester City? A respected football club, a successful one too, closer to his family, closer to what he’s always known, closer to him.
It wasn’t enough. And it showed Erling, for the first time, that he won’t always be enough.
Not for someone like Jude. Someone who deserves the world on a silver platter, and someone who actually has the means to acquire the silver platter.
But that doesn’t mean he didn’t try. For as long as he could without Jude getting angry about it. He knows there were other people in Jude’s ear — Trent, of course, for one — but Erling had hopes that his voice would’ve been different.
It wasn’t. Maybe Erling was foolish for thinking that it would be.
“Captain came to speak to me tonight,” Jude blurts out. It catches Erling off guard because they weren’t talking about anything remotely close to England’s captain. “He actually—he just left. Five minutes ago, I reckon.”
A peek at his phone screen shows Erling that they’ve been on the phone for four minutes. Jude didn’t waste any time, it seems.
“And?”
“Sat me down. Got all serious. ‘Pose it was like when he sat down me and Trent.”
Right. Erling remembers all about that. Of course he does, because Jude had called him about it. When they would tell each other most things that happened in their lives. When Erling could look forward to a call from Jude at the end of the night. Because those always came.
Until they stopped. Until his own calls didn’t get answered. Messages unread. Instagram posts left unliked.
Not that their relationship was ever that trivial and juvenile, but it wasn’t nothing.
Until Jude treated it like nothing, and so Erling had come to understand for the second time that sometimes, he isn’t enough.
“And?” Erling prompts again. Feels a bit like all he does is prompt Jude until he gets what he wants. He doesn’t know if he’s the loser for consistently doing so, or if Jude is the loser for only needing a little push from Erling before doing what he’s asked to.
“Told me to tell the media that I miss you like a brother,” Jude says. There’s something in his tone that Erling identifies as cheeky, but it’s been a while since he’s heard Jude’s voice like this, so he can’t be too sure.
“Had to have big man Kane tell you that?” Erling bites out before he can help it.
It’s not his fault — Jude always warrants these kinds of reactions from him. Half the time, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do with himself when he’s around Jude. With Jude. It’s not something he’s had to worry about this past year, though.
“Come off it. I wouldn’t say that I missed you like a brother, Erling. Don’t think that’s what you’d want me to say, either,” Jude says quietly. It’s the most words he’s spoken at a time. Not that Erling is counting (except that he is, and he will take a win when he sees it).
“Can’t really say anything else though, can you?”
“‘Pose not. Only with you.”
“Only with me.” Now it’s Erling’s turn to repeat Jude’s words.
Only with him. Yeah, right.
“And you?” Jude asks once the line is quiet for a good ten seconds.
“What?”
“If I told the media that I missed you like a brother, what would you say?”
“These are some next level mind games ahead of the match, Jude,” Erling snorts. Not that there’s anything remotely funny about what they’re talking about.
“Erling,” Jude tries, and it works, not because Erling is pathetic, but because this is the first time he’s heard Jude call his name in over a year.
So actually, maybe that does make him a bit pathetic. Whatever.
“You want to hear that I missed you, Jude?” Erling mumbles. He hears Jude’s breath hitch over the phone, likely something the younger didn’t even realize happened. And like always, Jude opens the floodgates: and once they’re open, Erling doesn’t know how to close them. “Do you want to hear me say that I waited? That it was unfair to me, what you did, and that I knew better than to hold onto something you didn’t want anything to do with? You want to hear me say that I thought you were worth the wait? That I—”
Erling pauses, catching the breath he didn’t know had escaped his lungs. He feels his ears warm up again. His heart is practically pounding in his chest. As per usual, it is only Jude who makes him this way.
“—that I still think you are worth the wait?”
“Erling,” Jude says over the phone, his voice thick with something Erling can’t place. He wishes he could. God, he wishes he could. He wishes he still knew Jude Bellingham like the back of his hand, and less like a distant memory that decays over time. “Erling, I—”
But Erling never wanted to do this over the phone. In all the months he’d had to think about his relationship with Jude, never once did he think things would be resolved with a phone call. Erling deserves better than that. They both do.
“But I can’t wait forever, Jude,” Erling interrupts. His throat tightens, and his next words have a hard time coming out of his mouth. But he powers through it, because he has to say this now. Erling doesn’t want to entertain the thought, but it’s not like he knows when the next time he’ll have a conversation like this with Jude will be… If time has taught him anything, it’s that if Jude doesn’t want to talk, he will find a way to make sure that doesn’t happen. “One of us will go home on Saturday. Then club season will start.” Media duties, rigorous training, strict diets, everything Erling doesn’t need to actually say to have Jude understand. “And you will not pick up the phone for me again.”
Jude doesn’t correct him, and Erling doesn’t feel as vindicated at being right as he maybe should have.
“I am patient, but I’m also human,” Erling reminds him. “And if it changes anything…” Erling takes a deep breath, gearing himself up to do what he always inevitably does around Jude, and give him what he wants. “I, of course, missed you a lot, Jude.”
»«
It is inappropriate to have violent thoughts about your teammates. But Tuchel sees what’s on the field, not what’s in Jude’s head, so there isn’t anything he can do about the way he’s stapling Noni’s mouth shut in his head.
Jude likes Noni just fine. Well, likes what little he knows of Noni just fine. He hasn’t really had much time to get to know him properly, and he’s closer with other guys on the squad.
Noni’s been particularly interested in Jude’s reunion with Erling tomorrow. As if he doesn’t have other things to worry about, like how many minutes he’ll be playing, and if he’ll even play in a potential semi-final.
Not that Jude would ever point that out, but his point still stands.
“Hey, Jude,” Declan comes up to him grinning. Nevermind the fact that the sun hasn’t even risen over the Miami horizon, and they’ve already completed a jog. Jude is still catching his breath, but it seems like Declan hasn’t even broken a sweat. Right, whatever… “Erm… having some troubles with someone?”
It’s like Declan ignited a fuse.
“Right, is Noni always like this?” Jude scowls. “You ever wanna strangle him with his headband, mate?”
Declan laughs at him. Of course he does.
“Nah, wouldn’t say I’ve never had the thought,” he chuckles. “What’s it about? He’s done you wrong?”
“Been up my arse these past few days,” Jude says. It’s not the complete truth, but it’s not like Jude is in any position to lay down everything in front of Declan right now. Just like the other Arsenal guys, Jude isn’t that close with Declan yet.
“Noni’s a funny guy,” Declan assures. “Loud as hell when he wants to be. He likes having fun,” Declan shrugs.
Yeah, Jude thinks grimly, he sure likes having fun.
Declan leaves him alone after that, but so does Noni. Jude knows when to count his blessings when he sees them.
At least Harry hasn’t come over to him to say anything more about the matter. And Jude also acknowledges that Tuchel not coming up to him is a big feat in itself. The only communication from the head coach is a reminder of standard media etiquette.
Don’t say this, don’t do that, don’t explain this, and don’t linger on that.
Right.
Jude takes his phone out of his pocket while they wait for the other half of the team to get back.
His head knows what he wants to do, but there’s a rock in his stomach telling him it’s not a good idea.
Since when was texting Erling not a good idea? Jude used to tell him everything and anything: the mundanities of day to day life and the peril he experienced when their training in Dortmund was separated, and then when their training really was separated because they didn’t live in the same country anymore.
It’s just Erling.
Erling, who missed Jude, because he said so just a couple nights ago. Erling, who picked up Jude’s call even though Jude hasn’t called him in close to eighteen months. Erling, who already seems to have forgiven Jude, even if Jude didn’t do anything to deserve it just yet.
A message is the least of his worries.
Erling Haaland
your squad training now? [05:23]
Jude doesn’t expect an answer. It’s so fucking early. So when his phone buzzes, he doesn’t quite think it’s Erling’s response.
Except he looks down, and it’s exactly that.
Erling Haaland
Since 5 [05:26]
You also remember how to text Jude? [05:26]
Right. Jude supposes that he deserves that. His thumbs fly across his phone’s keyboard before he can psych himself out of replying to Erling. The same thing he has been doing for the past handful of months.
Erling Haaland
funny [05:27]
did you sleep alright [05:27]
Jude squeezes his eyes shut, already regretting asking such a stupid question. It’s been so long since he’s had to make small talk with Erling that asking something as mundane as this — which is usually something he would ask Erling — sounds ridiculous right now.
Erling Haaland
I did sleep fine [05:29]
Neighbour is Martin [05:29]
So he is very quiet and polite [05:29]
Again, what’s it with these Arsenal guys? Is it a sign from the universe telling him to switch clubs? Surely not…
Erling Haaland
that’s good [05:30]
i’m glad [05:30]
gotta get ready to get sent home 💪🏾[05:30]
Or you get sent home? [05:30]
Always so confident Jude [05:31]
you’ve always liked that [05:31]
Again, it’s probably the wrong thing to say. Actually, it’s a very stupid thing to say, Jude knows that much. He hasn’t earned the right to go back to how they were, just yet.
Erling Haaland
Of course [05:32]
One of the many things actually [05:32]
Jude inhales a sharp breath. What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? It’s barely six in the morning and all he’s had today is a piece of toast and a shake and he cannot fathom responding to this in a way that makes sense right now.
(Nevermind the fact that Erling’s message is tame in comparison to what a few scrolls in their chat box will show Jude.)
Erling Haaland
training starting again now [05:35]
see you tomorrow [05:35]
Jude doesn’t linger in his room after his shower tonight. Tuchel says he has a pep talk for them tonight, and Jude knows there will be at least another three tomorrow before the actual game. Nevermind the one Harry is gonna squeeze in before they head out onto the pitch, too.
Tuchel just likes to hear himself talk. Unsure what Harry’s motive is, though…
Jude tucks himself up next to DJed, and listens to Tuchel spew what he’s already renditioned about a hundred times before.
It’s not useless, but it’s also not anything new. DJed soaks everything up like it’s his fire time hearing it, though, which prompts Jude into trying to listen better by proxy.
And anyways, tomorrow is a big deal. The quarter finals are where they stuffed it last time. But the team’s stronger, and everyone is stronger, too. Jude really believes in this squad, and he knows how much performance improves when everyone also believes in each other.
Playing for the national team creates a kind of brotherhood that can never be replicated. It’s why he loathed so much what the English national team had become to him after the Euros.
Somehow, most things in Jude’s life can be traced back to the last Euros. It’s not like he did it on purpose, but everything started changing after that.
The biggest thing being his relationship with Erling.
He doesn’t want to think about it now. Maybe the problem is that Jude never wants to think about it. Out of sight, out of mind type of thing, and now it’s been a year and a half and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing with Erling anymore, when their relationship used to be easier than breathing.
When Tuchel’s done his nighttime spiel, Jude beelines it towards his hotel room. He doesn’t want to give Noni an opportunity to irk him, like he did a couple nights ago. Or anyone else, for the matter.
Mentality going into match day, and whatnot.
Despite that though, in the privacy of his own room, Jude finds himself calling Erling with a lot more ease than he’s allowed himself to feel towards the man for the past year.
It’s not too late, but it is after curfew now. Jude had been selfish to call without considering whether Erling would be awake or not. But he doesn’t even have to wait longer than two rings for the other to pick up, the static sound of the line connecting allowing for Jude to release a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.
“Captain Kane put you onto this one too, Jude?” Erling says, without so much as a greeting. It’s fine, and warranted, Jude supposes.
“This one was all me,” Jude replies. His voice comes out much softer than he had anticipated it to, but that’s just what ends up happening around Erling. Jude takes comfort in the fact that time hasn’t changed that. “Didn’t disrupt your beauty sleep now, did I?”
“No,” Erling hums. “Don’t you need yours, though?”
“Can give you a few moments first.” Jude swallows down what feels like a boulder. The moment of silence on Erling’s side of the line is telling.
“So generous, Jude,” Erling says quietly. “Have you always been big on charity?”
Jude squeezes his eyes shut. He should’ve expected to fuck this up so soon, what with trying to act like the last eighteen months didn’t happen, and like they could just go back to how things were before the Euros.
Fuck the stupid fucking Euros.
“That’s not what I mean,” Jude reminds Erling. “Just… wanted to hear about your day?” The only reason he sounds uncertain is because he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to know about Erling’s day anymore. No — he knows he isn’t allowed to saunter back into Erling’s life like nothing happened.
But if Jude wants to have an actual talk tomorrow, then he’s going to have to get a bit comfortable with the smaller things first.
When Jude gives an inch, Erling always gives a mile. He doesn’t expect an answer, but he should know Erling better by now.
“It was fine,” Erling says eventually. His voice doesn’t give anything away: Jude doesn’t mind. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all… “Nice words from Martin before we went to bed.”
“Yeah. Yeah, same with Tuchel,” Jude hums. His free hand — the one not holding his phone up — starts picking at the duvet thrown over his lap. His hotel room is empty and dark. He wonders if Erling’s is too. “Captain’s speech is gonna come tomorrow.”
“You should get some rest,” Erling says after clearing his throat.
His words make the boulder return to Jude’s throat.
“You don’t… Want me to leave you alone, do you?”
He thinks he hears Erling scoff over the line. The sound makes Jude tighten his grip on his phone.
“One day, you will tell me where you get these ideas in your head from. Important match tomorrow, Jude. We both need to sleep.”
“Yeah,” Jude agrees softly, his grip relaxing and his face warming up just slightly. “‘Course. Alright.”
“Alright,” Erling hums. Jude thinks he sounds a bit amused. “Goodnight, Jude.”
Jude’s breath hitches. Not for any reason beyond how this is the first time he’s heard this from Erling in so long. In far too long.
To nobody’s fault but his own.
“Night… Goodnight, Erling.”
»«
Cautious optimism is what Jude approaches Erling with at the end of the match. Everyone is still on the pitch, minimal fans line the stands still, and a bunch of Norway’s squad is doing one final walk around the stadium before going back to the hotel and packing their things.
Jude learned from Declan who learned from Martin that the hotel team Norway is staying in has been just a block away from team England’s hotel this entire time. He’s unsure if that makes his pathetic attempt at a phone call last night better or worse.
Most of England’s squad is still celebrating in the locker room, so Jude tries his best to not feel out of place as he sees Erling out on the grass.
But he’s not an asshole, which is why he makes sure to congratulate every player he sees until he’s made it to Erling. He hopes they go home knowing that making it this far was no easy feat.
It’s Erling who spots him first. Selfishly, Jude is glad, because it means that he doesn’t have to make the first move now.
“Jude,” Erling smiles tinily at him. He extends a hand out, and Jude clutches it before being brought in for a hug, like he’s done with so many other players throughout the duration of this tournament. What makes this different is how his heart pounds in his chest from being this close to Erling; between his arms, against his chest, warm. As if Miami isn’t warm enough. “Good game. Great game.”
They’re both changed clothes, and Jude is glad he had the foresight to do so so that he isn’t completely sweaty now that he’s touching Erling.
“You guys, too. Great game,” Jude says. They break the hug, but Jude very purposefully takes this moment to keep his arm around Erling’s shoulders, even if it is a bit of a stretch and strain because of the difference in their physiques. “How are you feeling?” he asks, thinking about how team Norway has to speak to the press after this.
It’s never easy facing the media when a match doesn’t go the way you want it to.
“Feeling stupid,” Erling snorts.
Jude whips his head around in time to catch the slight smirk that’s always on his face when he smiles with his mouth closed, and his eyes soften immediately at the sight. He might not have seen a lot of Erling in the past year, but that doesn’t make him any less familiar to Jude — he doesn’t think he can unlearn Erling even if he wanted to.
“Hey,” Jude’s voice comes out soft. “Stop that—”
“Come on, Jude,” Erling scoffs. Jude doesn’t think he’s imagining the way Erling subtly leans more into his touch. He does his best to make his arm as sturdy as it can be. “I do feel stupid. There’s no room for mistakes here,” he frowns.
Jude doesn’t want to see it.
He steers them both away from the sidelines, going towards one of the dugouts and hoping to find some semblance of privacy there, away from the cameras he knows are pointed towards them, even if he cannot see them.
As he does so, the arm Erling had around Jude’s shoulders fall down towards his waist. Jude tells himself it’s for balance, even if Erling seems to indulge himself and give the dip of it a little squeeze.
He just needs to keep it together until they’re tucked away, out of prying eyesight. That’s fine. He can do that. All without thinking about how large Erling’s familiar hand feels on his waist, of course.
“Erling, you guys made it this far. That is not something you can ignore,” Jude tells them once they’re alone. The echoes of the Miami stadium and the overlapping sounds of many voices are still present above them. But here, tucked away in a corner of a dugout away from everything and everyone else, feels as private as they can get.
“It’s just so shit—"
“Of course it’s shit,” Jude agrees. Because, well, it is. “You lot deserved to make it far, and further. If only we didn’t have to play each other, yeah?” Jude’s smile is wry, but when he sees the lines of Erling’s shoulders relax a little, he tries to make himself look a bit more understanding. “You were a superstar here, Erly. And you still are. I don’t want you to forget that.”
Erling exhales. A loud thing which Jude thinks he must have learned from meditation practices.
When their eyes meet again, Jude realizes just how close they’re standing next to each other. If the Miami heat and the long sleeve Jude dressed himself in wasn’t already making him sweat, then the prolonged, intense eye contact Erling is holding with him would be enough to drench him.
“It is nice, you know,” the older man begins, his eyes roaming all over Jude’s face as he speaks. “To have someone be kind to you after a tough match. A tough tournament, really.”
Jude nods his head.
“I want to be here for you,” Jude insists. It’s a selfish thing to say, if he’s being honest, given the track record of his behaviour in the past year. But it’s the truth, nonetheless, and if Jude owes Erling anything right now, it’s the truth.
“I do just think it’s a little hypocritical,” Erling tells him. They’re still standing a bit too close to each other. Harry wouldn’t be able to tell him to like-a-brother his way out of this one. “That is all I wanted to do for you too, Jude. But you didn’t let anyone. You didn’t let me.”
Jude swallows. There isn’t anything he can say to that, because it’s not like Erling is making things up.
After the Euros, Jude had tucked himself away from everything and everyone. His mother had been inevitable, and while Jude didn’t enjoy shutting his brothers, his friends, or his teammates out, it had been easier.
Of course it was easier. It’s always easier to be a coward and to run away.
But right now, right here, with Erling being brave right in front of him, Jude wants to do the same. He wants to be able to do the same, if Erling will let him.
“I’m sorry,” Jude apologizes. He’s apologized to people before — his mother of course, his father sometimes, his brothers a lot, Trent obviously, his teammates after a match — but he doesn’t think any of them have been as loaded as this apology feels.
“You’re sorry,” Erling repeats, the corners of his lips pulling up.
“I am sorry,” Jude nods his head. “It was fucked, Erling, I know. I’m fucked, I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have shut you out like that. It was a lot, everyone was a lot, but you…” Jude closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, it’s because Erling had pressed his forehead against his. His eyes are blue and right in front of him. “Never you. I should’ve never done that to you.”
“What makes me different, Jude?” Erling asks. He doesn’t pull away, not even when it’s so hot here. Not even when Jude has to look over his shoulder to escape the overwhelming eye contact for a second. Not even when his warm breath hits Jude’s full lips, and the phantom touch of air is nearly enough to toss him over the edge. “Am I not everyone?"
“‘Course not,” Jude answers weakly. Erling knows this. “You know that.”
“Don’t know much of anything that’s been going on with you as of late,” Erling whispers. “You made sure of that.”
“Erling—”
“What makes me different?” Erling asks again. This time, he must feel braver — always brave enough for the both of them — since he brings one hand up to hold Jude’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. The touch is electrifying. “Answer the question, Jude.”
“Because I—” Jude cuts himself off, fighting his own mind and body when it comes to saying these words. When it comes to being vulnerable — he’s always hated it. The past year is just proof of that. “You know, Erling, please.”
“Tell me,” Erling urges. His grip tightens just a smidge, and Jude can feel it, inside him, the battle that he’s losing.
“Because—” Jude’s breath hitches, everything coming to the surface, and when it all explodes, it feels like catharsis. “—I love you. You know I do, you know—"
It’s not Erling’s words that cut him off this time, but his mouth. Erling kisses Jude, the grip on his chin steadying Jude’s head. And Jude doesn’t mean to be dramatic, or anything, but this kiss feels a lot like salvation.
A lot like he’s right back where he’s supposed to be. Like he’s right back where he should’ve never left.
When it’s been too long and they both need air, they break the kiss, the air between them filled with the sounds of their panting.
“Do you love me again?” he asks pathetically. But he can’t help it — not after feeling Erling’s hands on his body again, on his face again, his mouth on his again.
“Where did you get the idea that I ever stopped?” Erling asks between breaths. “Seriously, you must tell me where your head gets these ideas from.” He kisses Jude once more, soft and slow. “I am patient. And I love you. And the only way I knew how to show you that was to let you come to me.”
“I’m sorry,” Jude’s face crumbles. He can feel the telltale sting behind his eyes, because Erling—
He didn’t deserve what Jude did to him. What Jude did to them. And to be here right now, telling Jude he loves him after everything — despite everything — is a kindness that Jude doesn’t know if he can repay.
“I know you are,” Erling says quietly. He brings Jude’s head to his shoulder, tucks him away from the world for just a little bit. And Jude, despite all his efforts over the past year, lets himself be safe between the pair of arms he trusts the most in this world. “It’s okay, Jude. Shh, I know…”
It’s safer to go back to team England’s hotel, since a bunch of them are out celebrating making it to the semi-finals. Norway’s floor at their hotel is probably quiet, which would make sneaking Jude in a nightmare.
And anyways, it’s Jude’s last night with Erling before he goes back to Manchester. Jude doesn’t know when he’ll see him next, between tomorrow’s recovery session, flying back to Madrid when this is all over, and club season starting in a month.
“Any day now, Jude,” Erling drawls from behind him. He’s carrying both their bags, because it’s something Erling has always done and something Jude has learned will not change. Meanwhile, even with his hands free, Jude’s hands are shaking as they fish his hotel room’s keycard out of his pocket, and then continue to do as he attempts to swipe the card in and misses twice.
Third time’s the charm, though.
“Keep it in your pants,” Jude mutters. Erling unceremoniously drops their stuff on the floor by the door, which Jude might have minded any other day. Tonight though, the bigger deal is the fact that Erling is even in his room.
He’ll take his victories one at a time, as small as they come. Though, he wouldn’t say that having Erling in his room again for the first time in over a year is a small thing.
“Been in my pants for over a year,” Erling reminds him. His voice is low and right against Jude’s ear from behind. He tries to turn around, but Erling doesn’t let him with the way he wraps both his arms around Jude.
“… You serious?” Jude asks quietly. His own hands come up to hold Erling’s arms where they lay, looking for any excuse just to touch him. “You didn’t ever—with anyone?”
“Jude,” Erling says very seriously. His arms loosen slightly, but it’s not enough for Jude to escape. Just enough for Erling to turn him around until they’re facing each other. “You know we didn’t break up, right? We weren’t talking, I guess, but we also did not break up.”
Jude swallows. He supposes that much is very true. He had shut Erling out alongside everyone else, and they haven’t spoken for a long, long time. And because of that, it’s true that they didn’t break up, either.
“Jude, you weren’t…” Erling begins, looking at Jude very carefully. If he looks closely, it’s almost like Erling’s eyes are asking him to not break his heart. Again. “You weren’t seeing other people, were you? You’ve never—you were still mine, through all this. And I’m still yours.”
“Of course I haven’t,” Jude rushes to assure, because it’s true and he hasn’t. He couldn’t stomach it — couldn’t even fathom it, not when things between him and Erling were unresolved. Jude acted like an asshole and he did a fucked up thing, but even he knew he couldn’t move on like that from Erling.
Especially without speaking to him about it. Not that he could move on from Erling, anyways. Sometimes, Jude thinks it’s the inherently selfish part of him that makes him like this.
“I haven’t,” Jude reassures, bringing a hand up to cup Erling’s face. He’s missed touching Erling like this. Presses their foreheads together too, as if that will help Erling understand the magnitude of what he means. “I couldn’t. It’s always just you, Erly. It always will be.”
Erling kisses him again. One arm around his waist while his other hand trails up between his shoulder blades. So Jude takes the hint and lets himself be pressed closer to Erling. Completely together: chest to chest, heartbeat against heartbeat.
What started slow and gentle turns heavy and messy in a matter of seconds. Jude isn’t sure who opens their mouth first, but now Erling’s tongue is licking across the back of Jude’s teeth and he can feel his knees begin to weaken.
Erling recognizes this — always knew how to read Jude’s body, always knew what to do with it — so he begins walking them backwards. Until Jude’s knees knock on the edge of his bed, and he has no choice but to go down.
Erling sets him down gently, though, the hand still between his shoulder blades leading him to lay down slowly. Their mouths stay connected through it all, and Jude’s hands find the hem of Erling’s shirt without looking.
“Take this off,” Jude says against his mouth, fingers already tugging the fabric up.
“You are telling me what to do?” Erling asks. After all this time, is the unsaid half of the question, but Jude hears it anyway.
His grip on Erling’s shirt falters, but he doesn’t move them away. Conflicted, his eyes flit between Erling’s face and his chest, the view which is obstructed by just a flimsy piece of fabric.
“No…” he says weakly, flexing his grip on the hem. He feels kind of stupid, but he doesn’t want to do or say the wrong thing right now. “I just—want this off. Need this off,” he clarifies.
Erling laughs at him. Like, full in-his-face laughs at him, and it isn’t a small chuckle or a smirk turned scoff kind of laugh. Erling’s mouth is open and his eyes are crinkled and he is laughing at him. Whilst on top of him. With one hand up Jude’s shirt and the other running through his cropped hair.
“Jude,” he begins, making no move to take his shirt off or kiss him. Jude makes a miserable sound in the back of his throat, but Erling doesn’t pay it any mind. “If we did not have a match together, would you still call me?”
And this is, like, not something Erling should be asking when he’s on top of Jude. When there’s nowhere for Jude to hide or go, but maybe that was Erling’s intention in the first place. He didn’t want to give Jude the option to hide, lest he do so for another year.
“I was going to when I got home,” Jude answers quietly after a while. “Whenever we got sent home, I was going to call you.”
“When you wouldn’t have to see me,” Erling pieces together. The hand under his shirt doesn’t leave, nor does the hand in his hair. But they do both stop moving. “And you changed your mind because…?”
“I was going to have to see you anyways,” Jude smiles weakly. He’s getting a little lightheaded from how rapidly they went from making out and veering towards partial nudity, to now talking about a topic that fills Jude’s stomach with ice. “Wanted you to at least like me a little when you had to see me, yeah?”
“A little,” Erling repeats. The hand in his hair finally moves again, his thumb tracing the slope of Jude’s face and landing by the corner of his full mouth. “And if I didn’t like you a little when I saw you? If I didn’t pick up your phone call?”
Erling’s thumb presses down, dimpling the skin by Jude’s mouth. Then he presses down harder, and Jude’s mouth parts automatically. Erling uses the moment to slip his thumb inside — like Jude knew he would. Like Erling always does.
“I would beg,” Jude says, the words a bit awkward since there’s something in his mouth. The wording he chose makes Erling’s eyes darken, and so Jude takes it as a sign to continue despite the obstruction. “I’d follow you around in the stadium, I would beg you to hear me out, to talk to me. I’d tell you I’m sorry, that I missed you, that I love you—”
Erling kisses him. Half his mouth, really, since he’s so impatient that he doesn’t take his thumb out of Jude’s mouth.
“I love you,” Erling says. He kisses down Jude’s jaw, finds a place to bite on his neck. Marks might very well be the least of his worries right now. “I missed you,” he reassures. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Jude shakes his head. Well, as best he can when Erling is sucking a mark into the skin behind his ear. “Didn’t do anything. I stuffed it, I fucked it—"
“I know you,” Erling reminds him. Once his face is back in Jude’s view, the younger sees how red and swollen Erling’s lips are. They’re perfect. “You like a push. You always need a little push. It’s how you play football. It’s how you are.”
Erling wouldn’t be wrong, per se. It’s just something Jude has been trying to get over. Clearly, it hasn’t been working.
“If you didn’t call me,” Erling continues, “and I had to see you on match day, I would give you a push. When I shared the pitch with you, I would remind you what you still have with me.”
It’s the greatest generosity Jude has ever seen, to be able to still have what is between him and Erling.
“You’re a bit too good to me, I reckon,” Jude whispers. His hands are still toying with the hem of Erling’s shirt, and this time when he tries to lift it up and out of the way, Erling is quick to comply and take it completely off. Finally, the naked expanse of his torso and muscle is at the mercy of Jude’s eyes, in a way that it hasn’t been for a long, long time. A far too long time, really. “Maybe a bit too good to be true, too,” Jude mumbles, marvelling at the sight that he can admit that he’s missed.
“You are good,” Erling tells him. He takes Jude’s shirt off, and then cuts to the chase and strips them both of their pants and underwear too. Not that Jude is complaining — of course he isn’t. He dreams of this exact scenario, like, every other night. “And you deserve good things. Of course, I will give you what you deserve.”
Jude doesn’t think he agrees all too much with what Erling says, but he’d also be lying if he said that he doesn’t love how Erling spoils him. Give and take, or something similar to that.
The next blur of events consists of Jude handing Erling a bottle of lube, Erling laughing at how it’s half-empty and then Jude telling him to shut up. Erling has Jude on his back, his body between his spread legs as he works three of his thick, long fingers into where Jude has perhaps missed him the most.
For a guy in his early twenties, maybe condemning himself to a year-long spell of celibacy was his own form of torture. But it was worth it, because nothing feels as good as Erling, and he’s been ruined for anyone else anyways.
“You can take whatever you want,” Jude tells Erling through a breathless gasp. It’s a struggle to urge his limbs — which are close to turning to jelly — to cooperate with him as he manages to roll over onto his front. He peers over his shoulder to look at Erling, to see that his eyes are tracked somewhere which definitely isn’t Jude’s face. “If you—however you want it, you can have it. Even if it’s rough.”
If you’re frustrated, goes without saying. If you’re upset with me, if you’re upset with the match.
“Is this you being charitable again, sweetheart?” Erling asks. Jude is unsure whether it’s the pet name or the warm breath hitting his ear that makes his breath hitch. Nonetheless, his body is pliant and goes down easily when Erling’s hand finds the dip of his waist and pushes him down while keeping his hips propped up. “You’ll take what I give you?”
“Yes,” Jude agrees, words muffling into the pillow he tries to find solace in. His face is on fire, that much is for sure, and he feels anticipation course through his veins when he feels the tip of Erling’s cock — drenched wet and slick with lube — prodding at where Jude is so desperate to have him enter. “Of course, yes, I can—I will take it. Erling, please?”
“So fucking polite,” Erling laughs. But it’s a strained sounding thing, because he also chooses this moment to move his hips and push himself into Jude slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until the younger is squirming and making many indecent noises into his pillow. “Your body doesn’t seem to remember me anymore, Jude.”
“No,” Jude groans, shaking his head and dragging himself out of his pillow enough to lay on his cheek. He can’t see Erling, but that’s fine since his eyes are shut anyways. “It—I remember. Think about you all the time.”
“Do you?” Erling asks shakily. If Jude is overwhelmed, then Erling must be too. It’s a familiar sensation, having Erling inside him, but it is overwhelming enough for the tears from earlier to prick at Jude’s eyes. “What do you think about?” He punctuates his question with a roll of his hips, hurrying the last of himself deep inside of Jude. It punches out a guttural sound from Jude’s chest.
“You,” Jude says, already breathless. His hips move on their own accord, and Erling takes it for what it is: a silent ask to move and get on with it.
“Be a bit more specific for me, baby,” Erling grunts.
His thrusts begin slowly, like he’s either testing out the water or familiarizing himself with the contours of Jude’s body; trying to understand where he fits in and around it.
What he doesn’t seem to understand is that Jude would find a way to make him fit in every lifetime: even if it meant he had to bend and break and be moulded and shaped.
“Think about this,” Jude moans quietly. It feels good already, which just means it’ll feel really good when Erling also loses himself in the pleasure. “Think about you, and being with you, and being—being close to you.” The end of his words gets swallowed by a moan as he feels the tip of Erling’s cock graze against his prostate.
It’s a telltale sound, one which Erling seems to remember without any prompting, since his next round of thrusts are mindnumbingly accurate.
“Close like this?”
“Closer.”
“How much closer can I—”
“Closer, Erly,” Jude bites. Erling laughs.
And yet like always, he finds a way to oblige and do exactly as Jude said.
Erling is practically draped over Jude’s back, his one hand holding Jude’s hips up where he wants them and the other used to balance himself. His mouth is right by Jude’s ear, his tongue maddening as it traces the shell, blows cool air on the spit, and kisses the sensitive spot just below.
But he does get closer. Presses their bodies completely together, until Erling’s chest is glued to Jude’s back. And when he speaks, his voice is gravelly and heavy with arousal. And when he moves, Jude can feel the tickles of his long hair where it hits his shoulders.
“Can’t stop loving you.” Jude makes a wounded sound that kind of gets lost in the deep, lazy grind of Erling’s hips. “Even if I wanted to, I won’t ever be able to stop loving you.” Erling kisses his cheek, a tender thing that’s a far cry from the dirty push of his cock inside of him. “And I don’t want to, by the way.”
“Don’t stop,” Jude pleads. His cock is nestled between his stomach and the sheets, and it’s like with every one of Erling’s words that accompanies every movement of Erling’s cock, Jude can feel himself come closer and closer to the place where, truly, only Erling takes him.
“Don’t stop loving you,” Erling begins cheekily, “or don’t stop fucking you?”
“Don’t stop,” is all Jude has in him.
Which is fine. Erling laughs breathlessly again, he fucks Jude harder, and then he litters the side of his face with kisses, with the final one being on his mouth, and that’s all it takes for Jude.
His orgasm hits him like a truck: powerful and all at once, making him sob into the pillow beneath his head and clench around Erling in a way that must almost be painful.
“D-Don’t stop,” Jude begs. The last thing he wants is for Erling to pull out; for Erling to leave him empty. His breath his shaky and his tongue kind of feels numb in his mouth, but he has to get the words out. “Don’t—don’t stop l-loving me, Erly.”
“Never,” Erling practically growls. His hips move sporadically, a mess of thrusting that doesn’t have any real rhythm as he focuses solely on chasing his own high.
It doesn’t take long for Erling to still and moan deeply, spilling into Jude in a way that makes the younger gasp all the way through the minute movements of Erling’s hips as he rides the waves out.
Silent now, the only sound in the room is their panting. Sweat shines on both the expanse of both their bodies. It should be gross — neither of them have properly showered after getting off the pitch — but the last thing Jude wants to do right now is complain.
“I told them they’re lucky to have you,” Erling blurts out once they’re settled on their backs. Erling’s arm is pillowing Jude’s head, allowing for Jude to have free reign when it comes to tracing the muscles on the older man’s body.
“Who’s them? Who’s lucky to have me?”
“The media after the match. I said England and Real are lucky to have you,” Erling clarifies. Jude doesn’t know why he’s talking about this now of all times — especially because Jude will see the clips anyways when he does his daily scroll — but then Erling keeps talking. “But you know, I do also think that I am lucky to have you.”
It’s such an Erling to say, amplified by how he smiles happily at what he’s said.
Jude turns himself onto his side properly, bringing his hand up to cup Erling’s face. He runs his thumb over his cheekbone, and then thinks about it for a moment.
Erling has waited patiently and tirelessly for Jude to make the first move. There was no one on his mind for that entire time, the same way that there was no one else on Jude’s mind either. Then when Jude had impulsively called him, he answered without hesitation, a few days before the biggest match of his life. And he listened. And he replied to texts. And he took Jude’s apology for what it was and didn’t even want another explanation. And he’s here with Jude right now, so really, if one of them is the lucky one, then—
“I’m lucky,” Jude whispers. He looks into Erling’s eyes — blue and bright — and kisses the corner of his mouth. “I want to do better this time, yeah? I need to explain myself to you. You have every right to be proper mad with me, Erly, and I—”
“We can talk about this after,” Erling cuts off. He brings his hand up to envelop Jude’s where it’s still on his cheek. Squeezes it once. Moves his hand so that he can kiss the center of his palm. Jude’s heart tightens painfully.
“After what?” Jude knows Erling said it himself, that he is patient, but he also said that he is just a human being.
“Jude,” Erling begins through a smile, “you just knocked my team out of the World Cup, sweetheart. Don’t you think you should focus on making it worth my misery?”
And Jude… supposes that Erling is right. This is a rather tight time, right now…
Erling never asks for much. All he asks for, really, is Jude himself. So if this is his one request — to make England edging Norway out worth it — then that is what Jude will do.