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Jude wasn’t a violent person. He swore on it, but something in the way Michael put his arm around Kylian’s waist made him want to rethink that.
His parents raised him to be a better person - a calm and reasonable man - and if they could hear his thoughts now, he would be in a great deal of trouble.
Fortunately, they couldn’t, so Jude was free to continue his imaginary assault on the French #11.
Tucked away in the VIP area of Lincoln Financial Field - hidden from the numerous cameras - Jude currently watched the Paraguayan players start their umpteenth attack on Kylian, which ended, predictably, with the Frenchman on the ground.
He jumped up, throwing his arms in the air, when the referee let the match continue. Not even a free kick. This wasn’t football anymore.
Especially the nr.23 from Paraguay won’t let Kylian breathe, running him over every few minutes, giving Michael fucking Olise countless chances to put his wandering hands around Kylian’s shoulder, waist, neck – everywhere they had no fucking business being.
-
He would never admit to the squeal he let out in the 70th minute, as he leapt up in celebration. Not even when he was held at gunpoint, if Kylian was on the receiving end - well, that would be another story.
-
Jude was no petty man, but the yellow card given to Olise brought him a great deal of satisfaction.
Could the referee give him another one for inappropriate touching of a teammate? Was that a thing?
If not, they should consider it. Jude would certainly have to bring it up the next time FIFA remembered its obligations and held one of its superficial meetings for 'the sake of the beautiful game' and shit.
If he was going to betray his country by supporting France, he ought to gain something out of it, after all. Mind you.
-
They had just finished dinner - which Jude had odered from Kylian's favorite Italian restaurant because he was a shit cook (he was very self-aware. That was also one of the perks of Jude Bellingham.) and the Frenchman needed all the rest he could get after the match - and were now lying in bed: Jude with his head propped against the headboard, legs stretched out, playing absently with Kylian's hair, while the latter scrolled through Instagram.
“I hate them.”
Jude didn’t want to mention it, hoping his boyfriend would get the message through his monosyllabic answers and lack of enthusiasm, but he forgot that the French were deaf and blind when it came to social clues - meaning Jude had to take things into his own hands, once again.
Uhhh. The things he did in the name of love.
Kylian turned towards him, eyebrows raised. “Whom?”
“Your teammates. All of them, but especially Olise.” Jude sat up straighter, running a hand through his hair, avoiding Kylian's piercing gaze.
Fuck it.
He might as well go through with the whole thing - the inch and mile saga.
“Michael?” Kylian asked incredulously.
"Do you know any other Olise?"
"What did Michael do to you?" Kylian asked with a surprised look, putting away his phone.
What had he not done to Jude?
“Don’t say his name like that.”
At the look Kylian gave him, he just added, “You should call him Olise – be professional and all.”
“Bellingham, you’ve lost all your marbles.” Kylian sat up, and Jude was already missing the warmth.
What was so wrong with his proposal?
Football was suffering a veritable "touch epidemic", and in Jude's eyes this development was anything but healthy - players were growing up with the attitude that they could simply touch anyone and all. Michael Olise was the case in point.
“What? Don’t Bellingham me. Olise glorifies you in a weird way - everyone thinks so.”
“Oh for God’s sake, he's just a teammate. He's like a brother to me.”
“Yep, a brother who wants to be balls-deep in your guts"
"Judeeeee!" Kylian squawked
“What? You know it’s true."
“Do I? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you projecting your insecurities onto one of my teammates,” Kylian said, probing his finger into Jude's chest.
And there must be something deeply wrong with the wiring of his brain because Jude wanted to bite off that finger, but more than that, he wanted to put a ring on it.
He shook off those nonsensical thoughts.
“Yep, it’s because you’re so fucking small that you need at least three angles to even notice it," Jude finally muttered under his breath.
“Ok. I’m not doing it now."
"So that means you won't talk to him anymore?"
"Jude-"
"Because if it's between him and me-"
"Jude Victor William Bellingham!"
The last time he had heard his full name, he was nineteen, a lot younger and dumber, and had just played a whole match with a shoulder injury - so it's safe to say that he didn’t have any nice memories attached to it.
"Fine," he grumbled, flopping back down against the pillows. "Fine, have it your way. I won't say anything about the precious Michael Olise."
A small part of him knew he was being childish, but if Kylian Mbappé - a man revered by a whole nation, a man who had too many people lining up to pick him - was your boyfriend, you'd get it.
The heavy silence in the room was broken by Kylian's giggling.
Giggling?
Jude snapped his head towards him, and sure enough: that fucker was laughing at him, clutching his stomach, as if he had just witnessed the most hilarious thing ever.
And Jude wanted to stay angry; he really did, but Kylian looked so soft in his too-big hoodie, and damn, Jude's brain short-circuited.
Kylian was so beautiful that it made Jude's gums itch with the need to reach out, and he just-
Shit, it was so embarrassing.
- did that, put his hand around Kylian’s waist, pulling him closer.
He was really far gone.
"So, that's what this is about? You're jealous," Kylian’s finger curled gently under his chin, exerting the slightest of pressure to make Jude look at him.
And perhaps, the Englishman should have put an end to it the first time Kylian was on his knees for Jude, begging so sweetly for him to leave his mark on Kylian, or when he first stole one of Jude's hoodies, because apparently they were more comfortable than his, and Jude felt a thrill at seeing him in his clothes or when Kylian's belongings started to occupy his wardrobe, his bathroom, his kitchen, his heart - his everything -until there was no way to tell where Kylian ended and Jude began.
Because there was no way Jude could stop this now. Not when Kylian was giving him his 1000-megawatt smile, the one that caused little dimples to appear in his cheeks.
Now Jude's mouth felt dry enough to qualify as a desert.
He cleared his throat twice.
"I'm not. Olise is just creepy, okay."
"He ain't."
"He is. You-"
And then there were soft lips on his, and Jude's mind went blank. Because this was apparently becoming a thing now. Let it be known, Jude Bellingham - Madrid's golden boy and England's newfound hope - was a mess when it came to Kylian Mbappé. He was merely putty in Kylian's hands - for the Frenchman to decide whether to strike or spare him.
"You can't just do that every time we've an argument," Jude pointed out breathlessly, forehead pressed against Kylian's.
His voice sounded weak, unbelievable even to himself.
But there was this itch to always have the last word - something about wanting to have the upper hand again, nevermind the fact that the ship had already sailed a long time ago, with no intention of ever returning back to shore.
Kylian just looked at him unimpressed, eyes already half-lidded, and murmured only: "Didn’t know it was one," before sinking against his chest.
Jude put his arms around the striker's waist, pulling him impossibly closer and pushing his face into Kylian's hair - nothing could fit between them. Nothing. He would make sure of that.