Chapter Text
1. Magic
Behind the pile of rusted scrap in the Olises’ backyard, Jude sat crumpled on the uneven grass, both hands clamped around his scraped knee. Tears streamed down his face; his mouth hung open in a wide, hiccupping wail that revealed the empty gaps where his front teeth should have been.
Michael dropped to his knees in front of him at once.
“Shh. Judy. It’s okay.”
His voice was low and urgent as he pressed a damp cotton ball against the raw scrape, his fingers clumsy and a little too firm. Jude’s crying shot up another octave.
“Don’t be so loud! Mom’s gonna hear you.”
“It hurts!”
Michael huffed softly but didn’t argue. His free hand settled on Jude’s leg just above the scrape, rubbing small, awkward circles against it.
Gradually the wailing softened into shaky sniffles. Jude’s chest continued to hitch as he scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand, smearing tears and snot together. But he was quiet enough now for Michael to peel open a bandage and carefully press it over the scrape.
Once he was satisfied, Michael looked up. Jude’s eyes were still glassy and enormous. He leaned forward and planted a quick, feather-light kiss just above the bandage.
Jude went completely still.
“Micha…”
“What?” Michael sat back on his heels, shrugging casually. “That’s what my mom does when I get a boo-boo. Makes it heal faster.”
Heat crept up the back of Jude’s neck, all the way to his ears. His fingers curled into the grass.
Michael, completely oblivious, only noticed that the crying had stopped. He grinned.
“See? Already working.”
He reached out and wiped the remaining tears from Jude’s cheeks with the back of his hand, none too gently. Jude’s eyes squeezed shut at the rough touch, but he was still too startled to complain.
“Come on.” Michael pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand. “We clean up, then I’ll walk you home before your mom finds out we were still playing.”
Jude slipped his hand into Michael’s and let himself be hauled upright. His heart was beating strangely fast, the same way it did after a long run, except he hadn’t been running at all.
Still, he managed a wide, gap-toothed smile that answered the smaller one Michael gave him.
Michael was right—he always was—the kiss must have been magic, because somehow, the scrape didn’t hurt anymore.
2. Don’t leave
The Birmingham City academy locker room had been empty for a while now. The usual racket of teammates shouting across the room and boots clattering against the floor had long since faded, leaving only the faint hum of fluorescent lights, the quiet rustle of fabric, and the occasional metallic click of a locker.
Michael sat on the bench in front of his open locker, packing with automatic, mechanical motions. Boots. Training top. Socks.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway, fast and growing louder by the second, before someone came barreling into the room.
He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
His boots were snatched from his hands and hurled back into the locker.
“Hey!”
Jude ignored him. He grabbed the bag at Michael’s feet, upended it, and shook every carefully folded item onto the metal shelf.
“What the hell, Jude!”
Michael shot to his feet, catching the strap as Jude tried to yank the bag away.
“No. You stop with this nonsense.” Jude’s voice was sharp as he wrenched the bag against his own chest. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do.” Michael shoved him in the chest.
Jude answered with a growl. He tossed the bag aside and planted both hands on Michael’s shoulders, driving him backward until he landed on the bench with a sharp exhale.
“But biology can?” Jude stood over him, breathing hard.
Michael stared up at him, stunned into silence for half a second.
“You don’t know anything.”
“I know you’re the best player in this academy.” Jude fisted the front of Michael’s shirt and hauled him forward. “I know that didn’t disappear overnight just because you presented. And I know what you look like when you’re terrified.”
Something in Michael’s expression cracked. The fight drained out of him in one long, exhausted breath.
“It’s not that simple, Judy.”
His hand closed around Jude’s wrist without deciding whether he meant to push him off or pull him closer.
“Messi. Zidane. Neymar. What do they all have in common?”
“They’re all alphas. So what? Big fucking deal.”
“It’s not that simple.” Michael’s voice tightened. “Don’t they teach you anything at school—”
“I know all about hormones and anatomy, Micha.” Jude cut him off, frustration overtaking his anger.
He swung a leg over the bench so he was straddling it, facing Michael fully.
“And yeah, I know about discrimination too—I’m a black kid, same as you. What I know better than any of that is how stubborn you are.”
He reached for Michael’s hands and clasped both of them firmly between his own.
“When your family moved onto our street and the other kids made fun of your French accent and wouldn’t let you play, you challenged Marcus—that little tyrant—and embarrassed the hell out of him. Suddenly everyone wanted you on their team.”
Michael opened his mouth. Jude shook his head.
“Or that coach who couldn’t stand your ‘attitude’ just because you prefer keeping to yourself—” Jude scoffed. “You didn’t give a fuck about his opinion either. You just let your football speak until it stopped mattering what he thought.”
Jude leaned in until their noses were almost touching.
“You’ve never once bent for anyone. Not once. And you’re telling me this is the thing that finally breaks you?”
Michael’s mouth worked soundlessly. Then his face crumpled.
The first tear slipped free before he could stop it, followed by another, and then Jude’s arms were around him. Michael folded against his shoulder, shaking silently.
“I’m scared,” he admitted at last, voice muffled against Jude’s collarbone.
Jude’s eyes squeezed shut. His palms stroked slow lines up and down Michael’s back.
“I know…”
“No one ever thinks they’ll present omega. You just… assume you’ll be an alpha. Like that’s the only way this is supposed to go, you know?” His voice cracked. “And if it’s not—”
Jude shushed him softly, nuzzling into his hair.
“If there’s anyone built to prove that assumption wrong, I know it’s you.” He pulled Michael closer. “Okay?”
Michael didn’t answer. He only pressed closer, fists tightening in the back of Jude’s shirt.
Jude held on and spoke into the quiet.
“So please don’t leave.” His voice wavered now. “You’re too good to walk away from your dream. And…” He drew in a shaky breath. “I can’t do this without you, Micha.”
Michael’s breath hitched. Silence stretched between them for a few heartbeats.
“…That’s stupid.”
A shaky laugh escaped Jude, mostly relief. He eased Michael back just enough to see his face.
“Promise me you won’t quit. Promise you won’t leave me.”
Michael caught his lower lip between his teeth. He studied Jude for a long moment before finally sighing.
“I promise.”
Jude didn’t miss the smallest curve at the corner of Michael’s mouth. Stray tears still tracked down his cheeks. Jude hated the sight of them more than anything.
So before he could overthink it, he leaned forward and pressed his lips softly against Michael’s.
The older boy froze but didn’t pull away. That was enough.
Jude lingered for one heartbeat longer before retreating.
Michael’s fingers instinctively rose to his lips.
“Wh—what was that for?”
Jude shrugged, wearing the same easy, matter-of-fact expression Michael had used years ago behind that heap of rusty junk.
“Heals faster, remember?”
“It doesn’t work like that, idiot!”
“Well I can’t climb inside your chest and fix it from the inside, can I?”
Michael stared at him. Then he scoffed, a proper smile finally tugging at his mouth. “Dumbass.”
“See? Already working.”
“Shut up and help me put my stuff back, you animal.”
Jude’s grin was bright and unmistakably smitten.
“Neatly.”
“Fine. God.”
3. Mine
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Michael’s voice was lazy, almost bored, even as a familiar pair of arms slid around his waist from behind.
Jude only pressed closer, burying his nose against the side of Michael’s neck as his arms tightened, making it very clear he had no intention of letting go.
Michael sighed.
“I’m not made of glass, Bells.” A faint edge of irritation had crept into his tone.
Jude merely scoffed.
“I know, Olise. I’m holding you because you’re mine.”
Michael snorted. “I’m not an object.”
“No.”
Jude tilted his head just enough to press a quick kiss against Michael’s scent gland—a spot he’d developed a frankly ridiculous fixation on lately, despite Michael having given him absolutely no permission to do so.
“You’re my best friend. And I’m your best friend. So you’re mine, and I’m yours.”
Michael rolled his eyes, deciding it wasn’t worth arguing with a thirteen-year-old’s circular reasoning.
“Why do you always act like you’re not a full head shorter than me?”
That got the reaction he expected.
“Am not!” Jude immediately let go and rounded on him, indignant. “I’m barely three inches shorter. Three!”
—
When Jude kissed him on the mouth later that week—casual, no excuse attached this time—Michael didn’t bother asking why.
He simply let him. Then he let him do it again the next day. And the day after that.
Eventually, it slipped into something almost ordinary—something that happened as naturally as sharing kit, stealing each other’s food, or walking home together.
—
Mrs Bellingham had thrown them out of the living room the second the movie apparently crossed some invisible line into lewd—as if the two of them hadn’t already seen worse.
Now they were sprawled across the grass, letting the sprinklers sweep over them in lazy arcs. The heat clung to their skin, their clothes gradually growing damp as they lay there, far too comfortable to bother moving into the shade.
Michael had his eyes closed, one arm thrown loosely above his head. He was almost drifting off when the grass shifted beside him.
Jude crawled over until he was hovering above him, blocking half the spray.
“You’re blocking the water, dumbass,” Michael muttered without opening his eyes.
“Let’s try kissing like them.”
Michael cracked one eye open. Jude was looking down at him with the brightest, most enthusiastic expression he’d seen all day.
“You mean making out?”
Jude nodded eagerly. “Yeah. That.”
Michael studied him for a moment.
“Even best friends don’t do that.”
Jude’s mouth immediately pulled into a pout.
“Do you see me the same way you see Jamal?”
Jamal. The new kid from Germany who had somehow managed to become incredibly close to Michael in record time.
Jude had hated it at first. Michael had shut down the possessive nonsense, and eventually Jude had sulked his way into tolerating the other boy.
Michael considered teasing him. He could point out that yes, technically, they were both his best friends.
But that would be a lie.
And, more importantly, Michael wasn’t about to deal with a recently presented alpha’s wounded-pride tantrum while lying half-soaked beneath the brutal afternoon sun.
“No,” he said simply.
Jude’s smirk returned, satisfied. “Thought so.”
He leaned down. Michael pushed himself up onto his elbows to meet him.
The kiss was awful.
Far too much tongue, noses bumping at an awkward angle, and spit everywhere.
Michael pulled back first, nose wrinkling.
“I don’t like it.” He wiped at his lips with the back of his hand.
Jude’s eyes lit up as though Michael had just issued him a personal challenge.
“That means we have to practice more!”
4. Double promise
A sharp hiss echoed through the small bathroom the moment the alcohol-soaked cotton touched the cut above Jude’s eyebrow.
Michael didn’t ease up.
“Don’t start. You did this to yourself.”
“Christ—Micha, come on!” Jude flinched away from the next press, eyes watering. “I’m pretty sure you just reopened it.”
Michael gave him a withering look.
“You want to do it yourself?” He held out the cotton and tweezers pointedly.
Jude bit the inside of his cheek and lowered his head, blinking hard against the frustrated tears.
He knew Michael had every right to be angry.
Corey had made his interest in Michael obvious from the day he joined the academy. The lingering looks. The unnecessary touches. The way he always seemed to find an excuse to stand too close.
Everyone had noticed.
And, as far as Jude was concerned, everyone also knew Michael was his.
He’d let it slide at first. Michael could handle himself, and he hated it when Jude picked fights on his behalf.
So Jude had swallowed his irritation.
Until after a training session, when their group was still riding the high of a win and Corey had pulled Michael flush against him.
Then he’d scented him.
Jude had seen red.
He hadn’t even heard his friends shouting his name before he’d launched himself at Corey. The fight had erupted so quickly that a crowd had gathered within seconds, teammates shouting and scrambling to pull them apart.
It had taken the coaches to finally separate them.
Both boys had come dangerously close to suspension. Their parents had managed to talk the academy head down to four-match bans instead.
Four fucking games.
Jude had nearly lost his temper all over again when the coaches discussed the incident without so much as acknowledging what Corey had done to Michael.
The only thing that stopped him was Michael’s eyes, silently begging him to drop it. So Jude had swallowed the rest of his rage.
That had been three days ago.
Jude had flat-out refused to let anyone treat his injuries except Michael—even knowing perfectly well that Michael was still furious with him. It was the only excuse he had to keep him close.
Michael had called him reckless and stupid and a danger to his own future—and he’d still shown up the next morning with the first-aid kit.
Jude had taken the cold silence without complaint.
But god—his whole face still hurt like a bitch, and he’d really fucking missed Michael.
Suddenly the familiar scent of lavender and rain drifted around him in gentle waves, soothing and familiar. Jude’s shoulders sagged at once.
He nearly sobbed with relief.
A small hand came up to cradle his jaw.
“Up.”
Jude obediently lifted his head.
Michael tipped his face toward the light and examined the bruising around his eye before returning to the cut above his eyebrow.
“I’ll be gentler,” he murmured.
Jude stayed perfectly still.
His gaze lingered on the concentrated line of Michael’s mouth, the dark eyes that no longer held disappointment, only focus. Long lashes dipped every time he blinked.
Jude couldn’t look away.
“Promise me you won’t do anything that reckless again. Not if it puts your dream on the line.” His gaze lifted to meet Jude’s. “And I don’t care if you think you’re protecting me.”
Something twisted painfully in Jude’s chest. “Micha—”
“No.”
Jude frowned.
How could Michael not understand?
How could he possibly expect Jude to stand there and watch someone violate his boundaries and do nothing? Being scented without consent wasn’t something that could simply be brushed aside.
It wasn’t nothing.
His jaw set. “Let me mark you.”
Michael blinked.
“What.”
“Let me mark you.” Jude’s tone was resolute. “So no other alpha would ever dare touch you again. And if anyone ever did, then it’d be legitimate for me to kill—”
Michael’s hand immediately clapped over his mouth.
His eyes squeezed shut like he genuinely couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Jude’s next words came out muffled against his palm. “You don’t want to?”
“Oh my god, Jude.Tais-toi,” Michael whined. (Shut up)
Before Jude could say anything else, the palm covering his mouth disappeared—
Only to be replaced by soft lips.
The kiss was gentle, their lips parting just enough for their tongues to meet in a slow, lingering brush before they melted back into it.
A quiet hum escaped Jude as his hand instinctively found Michael’s waist, drawing him closer.
He’d missed this. Missed him.
Michael pulled away slowly, leaving their foreheads pressed together.
Jude kept his eyes closed for a moment, simply savoring the warmth between them.
“In ten years,” Michael whispered.
Jude opened his eyes. “What?”
“You can mark me in ten years.”
Jude stared at him. “Why so long?”
Michael immediately pinched his ear.
“Ow!”
“Because in ten years,” Michael hissed, cheeks burning, “we might actually be able to live on something more than pocket money from our parents, maybe?”
Jude bit down on his lip, fighting back a stupid grin.
“And we’ll both be successful internationals, so no one can start shit over—”
He waved his hand vaguely between them.
“Us being mates?” Jude finished, his grin spreading.
Michael’s face went nuclear.
He stepped fully out of reach and cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in putting away the antiseptic, the tweezers, and the discarded cotton pads.
Anything to avoid looking at Jude.
“I have to go. I still have class.”
Jude watched him, chest tight and warm.
Ten years felt endless.
But the other half of the deal—both of them at the top of the world—made it almost bearable.
“Wait. It’s a promise, right?”
Michael glanced over. His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Only if you keep the promise I asked of you first.”
Jude considered it for a second before letting out a dramatic sigh.
“Fine.” He lifted his pinky. “I promise.”
Michael stared at the offered finger. Then his expression softened.
“It’s a double promise then.”
He hooked his own pinky around Jude’s.
5. Goodbye
A single set of footsteps tore through the quiet corridors of Wast Hills Training Ground. Jude was half-running, half-skipping, his brand-new kit already on his back and a grin stretched so wide his cheeks hurt. He covered the final stretch at a full sprint, bursting onto the empty pitch like he owned the place.
He had two very good reasons. First, the ink was barely dry on his contract. Second, Michael was finally home.
“JUDE BELLINGHAM, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”
He made two enthusiastic laps around Michael with his arms thrown wide before stopping with his back to him, proudly displaying the name printed across his shoulders.
“Hoo!” Michael clapped, delighted. “Beautiful.”
Jude spun around, his face aching from smiling, and launched himself at him. He scooped Michael clean off the ground in a crushing hug.
“Congratulations,” Michael murmured against his neck, arms winding around his waist.
“Thank you, baby.”
Jude planted a loud kiss against his forehead.
It was a habit he’d picked up ever since he’d finally grown taller than Michael and discovered the newfound privilege of reaching his forehead without having to stand on his toes.
Michael rolled his eyes fondly as Jude finally lowered him back to the ground.
“Now,” Jude began, his tone shifting into something teasing. “Why are you racking up the miles when you've got your own contract to sort out? Or was that just a rumor?”
Michael’s expression changed immediately, his back stiffening.
“What’s wrong?” Jude’s grin faded at once. “Did something happen? Did those bastards mess with your offer? Did someone—”
“No. Nothing happened.” Michael cut him off before he could spiral. “It’s—it’s nothing bad.”
He trailed off, chewing on his bottom lip.
Jude’s gaze dropped to Michael’s hands.
One was worrying anxiously at the cuff of his sleeve, an old habit Jude knew by heart. The other held a rolled-up sheet of paper.
Jude plucked it from his hand before Michael could stop him.
“Wait—”
Jude held it above his head, scanning the page. His eyebrows climbed.
A formal offer from Reading.
He let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Their first team’s been stuck in the Championship for three seasons straight. Birmingham’s in the Premier League. And they actually think you’d—”
“I accepted it.”
Silence.
“Come again?”
Michael sighed and reached for the letter.
“The clubs already agreed on the fee. I went up there with my parents. We visited the training ground.”
Jude shook his head, a strained little laugh escaping him.
“You’re shitting me, right? You have to be.”
Michael only looked at him with eyes full of grief.
Jude dragged a hand down his face, breath coming out uneven.
“I don’t believe you.” He bent forward, bracing both hands against his knees as though he’d been winded. “Okay. You got me. Hilarious. Cut it out now, Micha. This isn’t funny.”
“Jude…”
Something inside Jude snapped.
“Are you actually serious right now?” His voice rose, sharp with disbelief. “Why the hell would you sign with them when you’re already sorted here? Make it make sense.”
His hands flew outward in frustration.
“And what about me? What about us? Did you even think about us for one second?” His eyes burned. “What about our fucking promise, Micha?”
Michael looked so devastated that somehow it only made Jude angrier.
What right did he have to look heartbroken? He was the one leaving.
“Don’t be so dramatic.” Michael attempted a smile, but it came out crooked. “What are phones for? It’s not the moon. It’s a two-hour drive. We’ll see each other during breaks—”
Jude’s glare made him falter.
“And the promise still stands,” he added quickly, one hand hovering between them as though he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure he was allowed. “You know we were always going to end up in different places eventually. That’s just how careers work—”
“Yeah. By fate. By circumstance. Not because you decided to rip us apart yourself!”
Michael flinched like the words physically hurt.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Only because you fucking complicate it!” Jude snapped. “We promised we’d play together as long as we can. That we’d choose the same club while we still have the choice—”
“Talked.”
Jude stopped.
“What?”
Michael swallowed, his gaze dropping to the ground.
“We talked about how nice it would be to play together for as long as possible.” His voice was barely audible. “We never promised anything.”
One could’ve heard Jude’s heart break in the silence that followed. The first tear slipped down his cheek.
“Fuck you.”
Michael’s head snapped up, eyes wide.
“Fuck you and your semantics.” Jude stepped closer until their chests nearly collided, forcing Michael back a step. “It’s so fucking easy for you to wipe out the whole plan and leave me behind, isn’t it?”
Tears were running freely now, but fury burned through every line of his face.
Michael had never looked so small, stumbling back a step for every one Jude took.
“Judy, please—”
“Don’t call me that.” Jude’s voice dropped into a growl.
He turned away sharply, one hand fisting in his hair.
“Don’t ever call me that again. Fuck you, Michael. I hate you. I fucking hate you so much.”
By then, Jude was sobbing.
Michael shook his head, one hand pressed over his mouth as tears silently spilled down his cheeks.
“I don’t even want to see your face.” Jude waved his hand sharply between them. “Just—fuck off.”
Then he spun around and stormed off the pitch without another word.
Michael remained frozen in the middle of the field, watching Jude’s furious silhouette disappear through the doors.
His knees gave out. He dropped into a crouch, burying his face against his arms.
And broke.
—
The rest of the season was miserable.
Jude cut Michael off completely.
He swapped lockers to get away from him, requested different training partners, left rooms the second Michael entered them, stopped waiting for him after training, stopped sending him stupid memes.
He made it painfully clear that he wanted nothing to do with Michael anymore.
Michael had tried three times to close the distance—a text, a hallway ambush, a knock on a door that never opened—and after the third silence he stopped trying altogether.
Everyone noticed.
They’d been practically inseparable since childhood, so watching them walk past each other like strangers was impossible to miss.
Teammates, staff, coaches—but as long as both boys continued performing on the pitch, no one intervened.
—
The doorbell rang before four on a morning in the middle of June. The sky was still that flat, colourless dark that came just before dawn.
Michael stood on the doorstep with his hands tucked into his sleeves, breath fogging in the cold air. He’d talked himself into leaving four separate times on the walk over.
Mrs Bellingham opened the door wearing a thick bathrobe, looking like she’d been awake long before any reasonable person would consider getting out of bed.
“Michael?” Her brow creased. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m sorry for the early hour, Mrs Bellingham. I came to say goodbye.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Her expression softened with quiet sadness. She opened her arms. “Come here.”
Michael stepped forward and allowed himself to be pulled into a warm embrace.
She held him for a long moment, rubbing slow circles over his back as though he were still eight years old and scraped up from the garden.
“It’s such a shame you two are parting on these terms,” she murmured. “But I believe Jude will understand when he’s older. A bond like yours finds its way back eventually.”
She pulled back to look at him properly, hands framing his face, warm despite the cold outside.
Michael couldn’t manage words. He only nodded.
“Work hard, wherever you end up. Go be brilliant. That’s all I ask of you.”
She kissed his forehead, just as she had countless times while he was growing up.
“Yes, ma’am.” Michael’s cheeks warmed.
He hesitated, then glanced toward the stairs. “Can I…?”
Mrs Bellingham’s mouth curved, half-amused, half-sad. She stepped aside.
“Quickly. Everyone’s still asleep.”
He mumbled his thanks and climbed the stairs he’d be able to navigate blind, heading toward the room that had felt almost as much his as his own for years.
Jude was asleep on his side, facing the door, mouth slightly parted on slow, even breaths. The permanent crease that had lived between his eyebrows since that day on the pitch was gone, his face finally relaxed.
Michael’s eyes lingered on him. There was no anger there. No guarded expression. Just Jude.
His Jude.
Michael slowly lowered himself to his knees beside the bed. Delicately, he lifted one finger and traced the smooth skin between Jude’s eyebrows, feather-light, brushing over it as though he could somehow erase every argument. Every harsh word. Every tear. Every moment he’d hurt him.
Slowly, Michael withdrew his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into the darkness.
Jude didn’t stir.
One final tear slipped down Michael’s cheek.
He leaned forward and pressed a careful kiss to Jude’s forehead, eyes closing as he lingered for one heartbeat.
“Goodbye, Judy.”