Chapter Text
Help, I need somebody
Help, not just anybody
Help, you know I need someone, help!
— The Beatles, Help! (1965)
The crisp morning air bites against Jude's face as he rhythmically strides up the damp pavement. In the hazy early light, the scent of morning dew in the air is still fresh as he turns on the park trail, settling into a comfortable pace. Cardio to clear his head. While he was grateful to have spent a night with the boys, he can't shake his thoughts from his time on the balcony.
In fairness, when was the last time Jude rested long enough to consider having a proper crush?
Months? A year maybe? There was that fling he had with Kylian but that was when he was still a model. His work consumes him now— well, it used to. With the current suspension things have grown quiet, leaving him to dive back into the constantly changing tides of freelancing. The time off was nearly a heavensend in the beginning: sleeping in, catching up on his social life, watching footy on weekends. But as the days grew on, he became restless. Itching to be busy.
He tosses his keys in the ceramic dish in the entryway, toeing his shoes off and making a beeline for the kitchen. He's digging through a box of protein bars when his phone vibrates against his armband. Opting to tear the wrapper with his teeth, hands occupied by unzipping his arm pocket.
"Yo, Saka."
"Morning Jude."
He props the phone to lean against the dishsoap bottle as he washes his hands, protein bar dangling from his mouth. From the small screen, Saka is seated, he fiddles with the clicker of a pen as he sways side to side in his black desk chair. He cherishes these mundane moment, where things still felt normal in his routine. Zoom calls and morning runs.
Bukayo Saka was in the PR department at Three Lions. Occasionally joining Jude and Vini in lunch gossip, Saka was quite reserved. So boyish in his mannerisms, however when it came time to put in the work Saka was razor sharp. He valued that in him. Despite being in different departments, they formed an easy friendship, which incidentally developed further in the wake of Jude's scandal.
Maybe was easier to manage crisis communications when the client was your lunch mate.
In the end, Jude was still suspended. That hurt. Saka's presence in the Zoom crisis call meetings was a cushion of support though. In the aftermath, he remained a good friend, and a soundboard on regular office updates. They catch up, Saka reminding Jude that the PR drama has nearly blown over. This was the nature of the industry, and the masses would soon find another public figure to bully.
"Nothing to worry about, you'll be back in no time." Saka says, mixing an iced coffee.
His email inbox begged to differ. Not a single company correspondence in weeks. Patience had it's limits, and Jude was losing faith that he would return at all.
"Listen, I was thinking…" Saka stares into the barrel of his coffee tumbler. "For rebrands sake, it wouldn't hurt if you took on some musicians for work."
"Saka, be serious."
“I am! Seriously, no one has to know it's you. Think of it as personal development. It doesn't have to be a campaign, so there's no licensing of your work. No studio time. No drama."
"What are you saying?" Jude laughs bitterly.
"I'm saying now is the time to broaden your horizons. I get it, we all have our preferences when it comes to work. But I think you've been dealt a bad batch of artists. Not all of them are egotistical and difficult. Musicians don't thrive in front of the camera the way models do, that's where your bias lies."
"Ok." Jude ponders while on the final bite of his protein bar. Moving the phone to his home workspace.
"But you're a brilliant photographer," Saka continues. "I've seen your personal projects, you know how to capture a crowd, people in motion."
Jude pauses for a beat. "And what are you getting at?"
Saka sighs, steeling himself for rejection.
"There's this prospective client, not on the Three Lions roster yet so this isn't on record. They're climbing the charts like lightning. Headed to America for their first US tour. Turns out they don't have a stage photographer…yet."
While listening, Jude open his emails. Flicking through his Sent tab scrolling ignored pitch decks. He grinds his teeth having forgetten so quickly the instability of freelancing. He worries at his lip.
"Send me some of their work. I'll think about it."
It isn't entirely a no, Saka breaks into a smile, eagerly typing on his keyboard.
Jude ends the call to take a shower, still sticky from the morning run. Warm water running over his body, he thinks momentarily of the balcony again. Erling's hand firmly on his back. His gaze lingering at the fire. Steam fogs up his mirror. He wonders if Erling has thought of him since. He shakes the thought from his head. It's stupid. Turning the memory in his mind. He had ran from the Gala in those final moments, as if he were Cinderella leaving the ball before midnight. Though Erling wasn’t a prince.
No musicians. He stuck to that rule.
It was a fun chance encounter. That was all. He would never see Erling again.
Throwing on a cotton t-shirt and shorts, Jude returns to the desk rejuvenated to see that Saka has diligently sent him the media kit in his inbox. He doesn't read the artist name, distracted by the text notification on his phone.
Saka: spotify link to their music, if you're busy. x
He opens the link, and stops breathing.
A pop rock band grace the cover of his screen.
The Striking Vikings. Profile image of Erling front and centre.
Jude tosses his phone on to the sofa, and screams head-first into a pillow.
Jobe is the one who drives him to the airport.
"Remind me again why you've decided to tour?"
He's parked outside the gate entrance. Drumming his fingers anxiously along the steering wheel.
"Quit stalling, we discussed this on the entire ride here." Jude twists his arm back to grab his carry on from the back seat.
"I just want to make sure that you're sure."
Jude knocks the brim of the cap Jobe is wearing down his nose with his passport.
"I'm sure, there."
“C'mon man." Jobe fixes his cap back in place. "It's not like you Jude. Just say the word and I'll drive us back home."
Jobe looks small in his seat all of a sudden, reminding Jude of when they were boys. His younger brother pleading with him to not leave him behind, always chasing after him, hating to be left alone for too long. Where ever Jude went, it never took much time for Jobe to catch up. It strikes Jude right in the heart. He clears his throat, the thought of it making his eyes misty.
"Hey, who's the elder one here? Leave the worrying to me." He engulfs Jobe in a hug, his brother's hulking mass softening in Jude's embrace.
Jobe hugs back tight and warm. A sense of guilt creeps in, recalling that he had told his family he was going on a work trip, keeping the details to a minimum. He had travelled for work before, this wasn't anything major. He had flown countless times.
But to America?
"There's a first for everything Jobe." He offers, as he opens the car door.
Maybe the trip would do him some good. He's psyching himself up, knows he's merely convincing himself to take the gig. Hey, concert photography could be good for learning new techniques.
More importantly, he would get a break from the English media hounding him. He'd already signed the contract papers Saka had forwarded. There was no going back.
An impatient car honks behind them. They'd hogged this spot long enough, it was an airport after all. People had places to be — including Jude. He kisses Jobe on the cheek and dives out of the passenger seat.
"Message Mum when you land you donut!" Jobe calls out.
And just like that, he's off to the US.
NEW YORK
In line to check-in to his hotel, a tired Jude delivers as he's asked, sending a view of Lady Liberty from his seat in the clouds. His legs feel like jelly and he's hungry enough to eat a horse. Airport food isn't all that satisfying and he sorely missed dinner while napping. He figured a red-eye flight might allow him to arrive early enough to get accustomed to his surroundings before everyone else.
At least before everyone with far more stakes involved in this tour showed up.
He throws his bags down, showers, puts on his signature cozy micro shorts and oversized tee and heads downstairs for a bite. Too tired to give an arse about dressing for breakfast, he was going straight back up to get proper sleep anyways. The tour was scheduled to start in a few days, it would give him time to research the band, connect with staff, and set up his gear. Jude's about partway done sending Jobe a text update, stifling a long yawn behind his keycard when the elevator chimes open.
"Woah, no more shining armour?"
No way.
Erling stands before him, his own keycard in hand, dressed all the part of a man who was ready for the day. Relaxed and in no hurry to stop drinking in the sight of Jude, in micro shorts, in the middle of the elevator.
Jude means to say hello in his own rebuttal but what comes out instead in half-yawn garble is:
"Viking!"
"Erling, actually. You know…when I said I would see you again I didn't imagine it to be this way."
So Erling did think of him.
Why did that idea make Jude feel so hopeful?
"What brings you to NYC?"
"Believe it or not I'm shooting your tour."
"So we'll be on stage together? Crazy how life turns out." Erling looks down with a toothy grin. Fidgeting with the keycard.
Jude scratches against the grain of his stubble. He'd forgotten that part. Thought he might be able to get away with shooting from backstage. Or inconspicuously in the crowd. He wasn't a fan of too many cameras.
Picking up on his silence, Erling reassures him that people wouldn't really have eyes on him, that they would be too busy recording the show.
"S'not the fans I'm worried about." Jude sniffs.
He weighs how much he's willing to share with Erling. Sooner or later the truth will come out. Jude Bellingham — English photographer, former-model, the media's favourite punching bag, sworn enemy against all musicians.
They fall into a comfortable silence. Jude scratches the back of his calf with his foot, in Nike socks and slides. He ducks his head, the one time he didn't care for his outfit he's alone with Erling in the elevator.
Erling, with his hands behind his back, leans his body against the wall of the elevator facing Jude. His gaze doing a complete once over. He couldn't help himself, not when Jude looked so cute. One side of his oversized tee is tucked into the hem of his shorts, exposing all his curvature. He couldn't resist a look.
"Are you heading down for breakfast?"
Jude, acutely aware that he was being checked out and growing stupidly shy in a way he'd never experienced before, lies.
"No, I actually erm, left something in the hotel basement." Jude is a piss-poor liar.
The basement button isn't even pushed.
Erling doesn't let this phase him. "I see. I'm headed to check out the stadium grounds after. Would you like to join me?"
Well, there goes Jude's breakfast and napping plans.
He doesn't care to lose sleep. Not really. Not when it comes to Erling.
"Sure, yeah. Let's do that."
They reach the lobby.
"Nice," Erling pushes the blank basement button for him on his way out of the door. He turns on his heel before it closes. "Room 2099. See you soon."
In silence, the glowing letter B taunts Jude.
"See you." He whispers to himself.
The first show in New York is absolute madness. Chills run down Jude's spine as the intro to the Striking Viking's hit single plays over the speakers. It loops on as the members walk on stage one by one. Jude's camera strapped to his shoulders at the ready, as mid-range fireworks go up for the band's arrival.
Martin Ødegaard on drums, with an exhilarating solo. Alexander Sørloth on bass, shredding his own steady groove. The smoke on stage clear in the centre. Their frontman sauntering towards his microphone. The arena screams even louder as the shadow of Erling Haaland is made visible. Jude jolts at the sound of the screams in surprise. He had gone to a few concerts himself, but nothing like this. Admittedly, his tastes were more old fashioned, but he was open-minded. In a way one had to be, if he was going to make this show translate well on camera.
Their stage outfits are a mix of modern fashion and Nordic Viking motifs. Jude captures their entrance on stage. Erling wears leather pants with pelt boots, his waist accentuated with a layering of various belts. His distressed vintage shirt embroided with traditional Norwegian patterns ends right at his midriff, so anytime he raises his arms, the shirt moves to reveal a delicious expanse of skin, his defined abs on display. Not that Jude was looking.
Erling, with two strokes of face paint, reaches is arm behind his back to grab his prized instrument: a massive red guitar designed with the body of a war axe. Faux blood stains on the scratched blade. He begins strumming, a melody that blends in seamlessly with his other band mates as they continue to play.
"New Yooooork!" Erling bellows, "Make some nooooise!"
The whole arena rumbles with fans excitement. Jude has to cover his ears this time.
"Keep up that energy! It is our first time here in America, but we wouldn't be here without…The. Best. Fucking. Fans. In the World!" Sørloth and Ødegaard chime in with agreement.
"So thank you, all the way from Norway. You have my heart." Erling makes a heart sign with his hands with a shit-eating grin. He turns to corner of the stage where Jude is standing and winks.
Gross. Jude rolls his eyes. He takes the picture anyway.
A sea of signs go up with the rising sound of cheers. Bristol and cardboard reading "We love you Lyng!" "PLAY KYGO JO" and "I waited 6 years for this!" The energy is amazing. Erling is cheesy, but his crowd work is well received by a sea of adoring fans. The glow of the stage lights mix with the stage smoke creating a dreamy twilight haze.
The lights go down after the fourth song and the band files out for an outfit change. Jude watches the first two members come in and change as if it were a racing pit stop. The members refuel, sip water, have their sweat wiped down, and a change of clothes that move so fast with the staff Jude thinks its almost magic.
Perfect time for backstage action pictures, Jude thinks, readying his camera. Pulling it up to his eye and—the lens is black. No, he's totally covered in the dark. When he registers what's happened, the light has returned to his eyes again. His hands restricted by a shirt thrown over his torso.
He turns to see a sweaty, out-of breath, shirtless Haaland in front of him. Ever the distraction.
"Keep it." Erling's voice is raw and hoarse from an hour of singing, squeezing Jude’s shoulder before dashing off for his own water break.
Jude obediently loops his arms through the shirt. Once a crop top on Haaland, it remains oversized on Jude's frame. Smelling strong of cedar wood, and citrus. A mix of slight smoke from the pyro flames. Jude holds himself back from pressing the shirt to his face and inhaling.
The gang of bandmates chatter in Norwegian about how to arrange the second set. The lights, the sound of fans singing overhead, the flow of the community. Jude feels himself being swallowed into the belly of a beast unknown.
This was new. This was different. He feels totally electric. And hell, if he didn't see himself beginning to love it.
I never needed anybody's help in any way
(Now) but now these days are gone (these days are gone)
I'm not so self assured
(And now I find) now I find I've changed my mind
And opened up the doors
Maybe he could bend on his own rules. Just this once.