Chapter Text
It should be impossible, Gavi thinks; to feel so choked out by a suit that had fit perfectly when he’d first tried it on. Yet, here he was. Either his neck had managed to become double its size in the span of a couple of months or there was a big knot in the back of his throat that wouldn’t go away no matter how much water he drank. He was sure if he took another sip, he’d damn near need to burst into the bathroom, if he could manage to find it in this massive place.
He’d received awards before, but nothing of this calibre though. If he had to make a comparison, the tomatoes he’d received in his hometown and the medals here and there throughout his childhood were probably nothing compared to the Golden Boy award.
At the risk of sounding arrogant, he’d honestly expected that he’d need to attend if all the buzz that had started a few months ago was anything to go by. That paired with his coaches and teammates insistence that he was going to win had at least pushed him to prepare a speech. Still, he’d been grateful when Pedri had agreed to come along with him—he didn’t know if he could manage his anxiety the way he had if it weren’t for the older boy. He remembered the day the nominations had actually rolled out, after all the chatter around the award and how his parents had instantly rushed to hug him only to go and call all his relatives afterwards. They’d had a little family party the next day before he had to go back to Barcelona again.
He hadn’t expected then that he’d win, and he still didn’t believe it now that he was actually standing on the stage and receiving the award. He’d thought he’d managed to hold his composure pretty well, had even managed to get through the speech without stuttering and ending it with the Visca Barca that he’d been advised to leave out. Until, he saw his parents sitting in the audience with the tattoos on their hands glowing because of how happy they were; their soulmate tattoos. He’d managed to make his parents so happy that it radiated on their bodies, through the other’s feelings. He didn’t know what he could say to express how that made him feel so he just hugged them when he went down instead.
Once the part he’d dreaded the most had been over with, it didn’t take long for the event to start blurring for Gavi, five minutes feeling like forever and yet at the same time an hour passing by like nothing. The knot in his throat had gone away too, practically nonexistent as Pedri whispered in his ear about what they could do to celebrate after this.
Until, it was time for dinner.
Gavi didn’t know what had gone wrong in the span of a couple hours but he didn’t like it at all. He’d done everything that he needed to do the entire day, his whole family was staring at him like he’d hung the moon in the sky and he was starving . Their busy schedule meant that he hadn’t gotten the time to eat anything after a quick lunch, which only served to make the grilled chicken with mashed potatoes in front of him look even more appetising. Hell, he’d even won the fucking award. So, why the hell was he so anxious?.
For a moment, he thought he’d actually managed to get sick when the anxiety in his chest seemed to travel up his throat, alongside every single corner of his body. It didn’t just feel like a normal anxiety attack either, Gavi had had too many of those to know the difference. It felt like his guts were lodged in his throat, about to come up at any moment. He finally mustered up some strength in his legs to finally get up when he felt like he was going to throw up all over the table, excusing himself to go to the bathroom instead.
Somehow, once he actually got to the bathroom his legs felt even more like jelly, as if his knees were about to give out at any moment. He managed to reach the sink and hold on tightly to it, trying to ignore the ache in his gums—as if they’d been worn down from too much force—as he bent over on the sink. However in the span of seconds, two things happened simultaneously.
The handles of one of the bathroom doors loudly clicked, revealing a tall guy who was wearing a suit with a bow tie and cufflinks, pretty standard on par with where they were. Except for the fact that the boy was one of the people who’d been nominated with Gavi for the award he’d won. Gavi squinted his eyes trying to remember his name, even though he definitely remembered his face. It was hard to forget once he’d caught it on TV the first time. He wasn’t particularly updated with the Bundesliga, if he was being honest. Though he loved football it didn’t mean he got the time to watch every single game that was going on. Except he’d seen this guy and definitely remembered him.
The Dortmund boy. Jude Bellingham.
The second thing that had happened was that the choked up feeling across Gavi’s throat was completely gone now, and he was left standing there bent over the sink in an awkward position as Jude Bellingham stared down at him with his deep brown eyes. He’d been so lost in his head that he hadn’t even noticed that someone was doing anything inside let alone hear them. They made awkward eye contact for what felt like forever until Jude finally decided to break the ice and come over by the sink to wash his hands as Gavi stood up straight.
“You okay there, man?” Jude asked in an apprehensive tone, probably wondering how much of that Gavi would understand anyway. If anything, Gavi should have been the one to ask him that considering how wrecked his voice sounded. That paired with the fact that his gaze seemed to be completely empty though he was staring directly into Gavi’s eyes made something in his guts recoil.
“Oh, yes. M’alright, just feel a little sick.” Gavi tried in his limited English, not missing the way Jude’s lips slightly quirked up at his accent. It didn’t particularly feel judgemental though so Gavi let it slide. What he’d said however seemed to have given Jude some newfound energy though because he stood up straighter with his hand gripping the sink tightly. Gavi couldn’t stop focusing on how his bow tie was slightly off centre.
“Right, me too!. I think something’s wrong with the food here. I had a little bit of it but apparently it fucked up my stomach enough for me to throw up immediately afterwards. Or, maybe I just ate something weird before but either way. Not fun, wouldn’t recommend.” Jude rambled on for way too long with his hands neatly tucked in his pockets now, like he was looking for something to do with them. That explains why his voice sounds like that.
“Ah, that explains why your seat was empty then.” They’d been seated in the same humongous table, almost directly opposite to each other and Gavi couldn’t help but notice on the way to the bathroom that it was the only empty seat there. If he hadn’t been in pain back then, he’d be able to tell too that Jude’s plate had been completely untouched.
“Hmm, yeah. Congratulations on the award, by the way! You must be buzzing!.” Gavi found it a little weird for someone to sound so genuine when congratulating someone for an award they’d lost but Jude had seemed genuine enough that he almost wanted to reach over and fix his bowtie himself before saying thank you. Jude didn’t seem to be noticing it anyway.
“I am, thank you.” He didn’t know what to say after that, so he didn’t say anything at all. Right when it seemed like Jude was going to give him the easy way out and leave though, he reached over and picked at his bowtie until it was straight and he was satisfied with it. If Jude minded he didn’t say anything, and it didn’t seem like he minded at all if the smile on his face was anything to go by. Gavi took one look at his face and it almost made him want to smooth out the lines of worry on his forehead and the bags under his eyes just like he’d done to his bowtie.
“Oh, thank you for that. Can’t do anything without my mum it seems.” Jude muttered, mostly to himself as he kept smiling in Gavi’s direction. Before Gavi knew it, he was gone though. Maybe his stomach had been bothering him enough that he’d left the event after all, because Gavi hadn’t seen him again after that. Neither at the dinner table, nor anywhere else afterwards.
The rest of the night had been a blur after that. They’d gone to get desserts afterwards, Pedri insisting that it was his treat, a way to celebrate since they couldn’t drink yet. He didn’t think he’d ever forget sitting in a park bench with his best friend as they’d snuck out to stare at the stars while eating macaroons, which Pedri had insisted they get to immerse themselves into the French culture before they returned. He’d already said goodbye to his parents, their flight was in the evening whereas Gavi had to go back to Barcelona first thing in the morning.
When he’d slipped into bed that night however, the overwhelming yet familiar feeling of cold invaded his body. Even though he’d experienced it enough times by now, it still never stopped feeling as foreign as the first time it had happened—right before a Nation's League match— when his entire body had gone cold. The feeling had almost invaded him in a way that he knew instantly it didn’t belong to him. It had been bearable back then, but right now it felt like his body had become completely devoid of any warmth at all, a bone chilling cold that didn’t seem to go away no matter how much he tried to wish it away.
The scariest part was that he didn’t know what it meant. Was his soulmate nearby? Or were the emotions they were feeling so intense that they’d managed to reach Gavi all the way over there. Either way, he hugged himself tightly under the comforting solace of the huge blanket on top of him, hoping that some of his warmth would manage to transmit itself over to his soulmate. I hope you’re okay.
The last thing Jude had expected when he’d arrived at the England camp was to be stuck in his hotel room with a fever, with only a week to go until the World Cup.
At first, he’d thought it was the same thing as it always was. Well, always was pushing it. But, sometimes he’d get this warm feeling inside his chest, out of the blue that made him feel like his body wasn’t his for a second. The worst of it had happened during the Ballon D’or ceremony. He’d been tossing and turning in his bed all night, trying—and failing—to make himself comfortable as his body shivered. He hadn’t even been able to fall asleep despite his early flight the next day, until it’d stopped and his body had gone completely still. He didn’t remember much after that, just the overwhelming feeling of warmth invading his body as he fell asleep.
The first time it had happened was the day before one of their Champions League matches. He’d been watching Barcelona play against Bayern, or rather getting brutally defeated by Bayern despite the fact that they’d been the better team when he’d felt his heart squeeze and ache. He’d been feeling a lot more aware of his body the moment he’d landed anyway. But it had been so distinct and sudden that he couldn’t just forget about it and move on. Luckily, it hadn’t happened much again, until now .
Or, maybe he just had a fever. That’s what he’d tried to explain to his mom anyway when she insinuated that maybe it had something to do with his soulmate. He had half a mind to exit the call then and there, despite the fact that he himself had explained it as something foreign invading his body. But, she didn’t get it. If his body never felt like his in the first place, then why would this be indicative of anything else but the norm?. That’s what he’d told himself anyway, so that he wouldn’t have to think about the idea of someone else out there, that was destined to be with him and the fact that whoever this person was, was going through emotions so intense that they’d managed to affect Jude.
It would be even more ridiculous to insinuate that they were nearby. If it only seemed to happen during any major footballing competitions then maybe it just was a physical manifestation of his anxiety.
Either way, Jude had no interest in paying any attention to his mom’s words. He’d come here with a single purpose only, which was to represent his country and not let everybody down, not let himself down.
Jude couldn’t for the life of himself figure out whether it was a simple fever or not because it’d stopped. It’d stopped and hadn’t come back again the entire tournament, until it finally had .
He could still vividly remember the date it had happened. December 6th. The weather in Qatar had been really good that day, good enough for him to be up to go on a shopping spree with Trent. It made him laugh whenever they hung out, because of all the ruckus it caused online, on top of everything else. They’d spent the whole day together only to end up huddled in the gym watching the Spain vs Morocco match together with the rest of the boys. He’d been fine throughout the whole thing, except for the fact that his face had felt like it was on fire. It’d probably be fine if he actually stuck to the skincare routine his mom told him to follow. Except the match had gone to penalties, and with every goal scored against Spain it felt like his heart was hammering in his chest. He’d had to excuse himself before the final whistle.
The next day, he’d woken up with his insides feeling like they’d been turned upside down, probably courtesy of the tossing and turning he’d done the entire night. His fever was gone but he’d gone through the entire day with a sense of doom hanging above his head, like a child in a playground who couldn’t find his place no matter what.
Maybe it’d just been a setup for what was about to come, because their match against France hadn’t gone any better either, knocking them out of the tournament. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do it, had tried sticking to Trent and Harry and his teammates the entire time afterwards so he wouldn’t feel the urge. But, every moment that he’d spent with someone else had just been a way to try and suppress the feeling in his chest that knew he was going to do it. He’d marched down to his room once everyone else had gone back to theirs, grateful that they wouldn’t be sharing like they did in u17s ( the only other experience he’d ever had ) and locked his bathroom for double measure.
It had been almost muscle memory after that to put a towel down on the floor so that his knees wouldn’t feel sore and bruise, and will himself to throw up everything in his system, whether there was anything to throw up in the first place or not. It didn’t matter if only acid and bile came out as long as the familiar motions of his fingers hitting the back of his throat kept repeating over and over again. You want to do this. You have to do this.
And he had, until his brain felt like mush and his hand was shaking. Until it felt like something was pushing him back and telling him to stop. Don’t hurt yourself. The knot in his throat didn’t feel like it was going to go away anytime soon but looking down and seeing the mess he’d made had made him want to take a step back. He’d gotten up almost robotically after that, to wash his hands before he could curl into a ball and hug himself. That was one of his rules, to always wash his hands instead of being stuck in the trance-like state. If he could move afterwards it meant that it wasn’t bad enough, that he could still fix it.
When he’d gone to sleep that night, for some reason for the first time in a long time after making himself throw up his body didn’t seem to be shivering, instead being invaded by an urgent sense of warmth. Like it’d been trying to keep him alive. He didn’t know why but he did try to stop after that, until the next time and the next , till the cycle started again and continued. But, he didn’t like thinking about that. It was much easier to focus on the little voice in the back of his head that had felt like a warm hug from somewhere far away— Stop — whether that voice was his own or not.
BREAKING NEWS : Real Madrid confirm Jude Bellingham’s €103m transfer fee from Borussia Dortmund on a six-season deal.
Gavi had been scrolling through his phone in the locker room once he’d seen the headline, immediately grabbing his attention. It didn’t take long after he’d first seen it for the rest of his teammates to start talking about it too, a passing comment here and there until they moved on to the next hot gossip of the day which included stuff that ranged from Lamine, an academy kid getting the call up to train with the first team and Lewandowski ranting about how his daughters insisted on wearing Messi jerseys around the house instead of his own.
Naturally, Gavi had tucked the little headline into the back of his mind, forgetting all about it. Until he started getting asked about it in interviews that is.
I don’t care who Madrid sign, Barca will always compete.
He’d said that and he’d meant it. It didn’t matter how strong of a squad Madrid built up, Barca would always have their competitive spirit with them. Whether that won them the trophies in the end, only time would tell.
It would be a blatant lie if Gavi said he hadn’t been keeping up with this whole transfer saga. He’d noticed Bellingham at the World Cup too, it was hard not to notice an England player after all, especially with the similar ways in which their countries both went out. He’d been intrigued—just like the rest of the world—where Jude would end up. Except, in his defence he’d also had that weird bathroom encounter he thought back on every time he thought about Jude Bellingham. Weird but endearing.
The fact that out of all the places in the world, he’d ended up in Madrid felt a little….exciting. For some reason, playing against him felt like something to look forward to even if Gavi didn’t know whether he’d even acknowledge their interaction that night or give it any importance. Not that he himself gave it any importance. All the media chatter surely helped too. In all honesty, Gavi had fully assumed the other boy would have chosen Liverpool or some other Premier League club, but he hadn’t. He’d chosen Real Madrid, and for some reason the thought of that made butterflies erupt in Gavi’s stomach. He didn’t know whether that was the excitement of the inevitable passion fueled fixture they’d have to play against each other or something else entirely.
Unlike what Jude had initially thought, getting used to being in Madrid hadn’t been hard at all. The thing was, he was never particularly anxious about moving to a new environment anyway, rather welcoming the challenge always. It was more worrying how his brain and by proxy his body would react to the changes, whether he’d manage to get a break after all. He didn’t think so when he realised that even house hunting was stressing him out, in the quest to find the most comfortable one, where he could have the most privacy.
Surprisingly, the easiest part had been moving on from the place he called home before to make a new one for himself here. He’d grown so used to boxing up his things in boxes to travel halfway across the world that he’d gotten really good at doing the same with his life and by extension himself, neatly tucked away and put to work even though his heart never settled in. The first week had honestly been fun, with him getting introduced at the Bernabeu and all the exploring that he’d done.
If settling into the city had been easy, blending into the team had proved far easier. He’d scored his first goal for the club even before he’d made his debut at the Bernabeu. And even then, he’d been one of the only players to score in his first home game. His teammates were nice, really nice and understanding of the fact that he couldn’t speak a lick of Spanish. In his defence, he was working on it and they weren’t any better either. It helped in a way, that they were all so disconnected from the city itself, each of them having their own roots and only being there because they all had the same passion. It made Jude feel a lot less alone when they all made plans to go out and he had to pretend like drinking liquid calories didn’t scare him more than getting harshly tackled almost on the daily. Either way, the last thing he was about to do was say no to them and blow his cover up.
So he pretended and pretended until pretending didn’t even feel difficult at all, much more akin to something more instinctual. Until acting didn’t feel like something he had to force himself to do but something he could do all the time anyway.
One of the first goals he’d set for himself after landing in Madrid was to win the Champions League. He’d grown up seeing his dad and grandpa talk about football and everyone knew how it went. You’re not truly a Real Madrid player unless you’ve won a Champions League trophy with them. The last thing Jude wanted to do was stick out like a sore thumb and something told him from the way things were going that he wouldn’t need to.
The second goal had been to manage a win on his debut Clasico. It didn’t matter how but he had to play that particular fixture well. Every Madrid player knew how important the Clasico was. Jude wished he could say he didn’t get the fuss but it was an ego thing and if the rest of his teammates cared so much about it then so did he. However, he’d only realised that it wasn’t going to be easy at all once the game had actually started. That one person in particular wasn’t going to make it easy at all for him.
Of course he’d known about Gavi before this. It was hard not to, with how often their names were mentioned alongside each other and how it’d probably be that way for years to come if they continued playing the way they were now. They’d even met once. The shorter boy had reached out and fixed his bowtie when Jude had been blabbing about whatever he could think of so he wouldn’t give away how he was losing his mind. What he didn’t know, or understand was why his body seemed to have a mind of its own everytime Gavi came in close proximity with him.
Barcelona had set the game up so that Gavi would be man marking Jude and god was he making it fucking hard. It wasn’t a matter of brute strength or intelligence, both things Jude could find a way around. What he couldn’t find a way around was how there seemed to be electrical sparks flowing through his body everytime Gavi’s hand brushed against his, which was really annoying considering just how much of a physical player Gavi seemed to be. They’d even managed to get into an altercation of sorts, in a mixture of broken Spanish, English and shrugging. Lots of shrugging.
Jude had been able to finally breathe when, for some reason, Xavi had switched Gavi’s position and made one of the other midfielders mark him instead. It had been easy after that to score, even if it took him five additional minutes of extra time. It didn’t matter because they’d won. He’d managed to get the win in his first ever El Clasico. When he’d looked to the side, finally after they’d exhausted themselves just a little bit from celebrating, he couldn’t find Gavi anywhere on the field, only managing to catch him slipping out towards the locker room.
Unless seeing him on the big screen with teary eyes while he was biting his lips counted. Jude didn’t know whether he hated seeing that or loved it. All he knew was that he wanted to talk to this boy one more time before they went back.
“Hey, got a minute?.” Jude tapped him on the back, not expecting the way Gavi would absolutely flinch. He didn’t know what the protocol for this was, Would they have to exchange shirts afterwards?. He’d taken his off and wrapped it around his torso anyway, just in case.
Gavi however, seemed to have other plans if the way he was rubbing at his shoulder, where Jude had tapped him was anything to go by. “Your hands are fucking freezing. What the fuck? Why are you so cold?.”
If Jude wasn’t confused before, he definitely was now. He felt like his whole body was on fire, and here this guy was talking like it was the other way around. He didn’t know what to say. Had he managed to fuck up his senses too now that he didn’t know what he was feeling?. Either way, if his face didn’t feel like it was on fire before, it definitely did now that Gavi was boring holes into his eyes with his gaze.
“Ah, I don't know. Good game, that’s all I wanted to say.” Jude gripped tightly at the jersey wrapped around his torso, almost grateful for the sense of protection it provided him. Much better than looking like he was begging Gavi for his jersey, which was how he felt at the moment considering the scoff that Gavi had let out at his words.
“Right. What’s the point of playing well if you don’t win?.”, was the last thing that Gavi said before he turned around to join his teammates. Maybe he was just too much of a sore loser—like Jude— to be nice now considering he’d been nothing but the last time they’d talked to each other. Either way, Gavi didn’t offer his jersey so Jude didn’t bring it up either, finding a fan in the stands to give it to instead so he wouldn’t look like an idiot.
Probably the most bizarre thing had been that when he thought back to that day now all he could remember was a sense of dissatisfaction hanging over his head. That in itself wasn’t uncommon, with how he never felt satisfied whenever he’d had a good game or won something, instead mostly being relieved that it was over. What was uncommon was how his body seemed to think it was back to struggling, with how much his bones ached and the bone chilling feeling of cold that came with it. He didn’t get it. He’d tried his best to make sure to stick to his meal plan so that this wouldn’t happen, the one that he’d been given by the nutritionists at Madrid when he’d first gotten there. But yet, here he was shivering under the covers, unable to get warm, as if he was 17 and back in Germany.
The next day, it was gone.
Almost a month after that, Jude was in the worst pain he’d experienced in his life and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. He’d woken up 5 minutes before his alarm had gone off, to his annoyance. He hadn’t been called up for the Euro qualifiers, mostly due to the problems he had with his shoulder, which he was sure by now had turned into a chronic problem. Atleast it felt that way with how he woke up in the middle of the night sometimes feeling like it’d frozen into place as he’d slept.
He’d been mindlessly brushing his teeth, calculating in his head the things he’d eat that day when it had started. It felt like in the span of seconds, his knee had been fully immobilised, making him unable to even stand, let alone move. The toothbrush he was holding scattered across the sink as he gripped his knee tightly, feeling like his ligaments were on fire. The rest of the day had been a blur after that but throughout the whole thing, from his mom finding him on the bathroom floor to driving him to the sports centre to his physio finally checking him out, the agonising burn in his knee persisted.
“I don’t know what’s wrong. Is it a relapse?.” As if he needed any more of those. The doctor however, looked just as perplexed as Jude. Apparently the X-ray didn’t show anything visibly wrong with his knee. Yet, it felt like he couldn’t even take a step without faltering and needing his mom to support him up.
“Doesn’t look like it. Your knee hasn’t been bothering you for a while now, has it? Maybe it’s just burnout.” The doctor stated, looking more so at Pintus, their fitness coach, than at him.
“I don’t get it either. Are the workouts too hard for you? You’ve been sticking to your diet right?.” This again. Apparently Jude zoning out during training and alternating between a medium and large jersey was enough grounds for concern. Sue him for preferring to wear looser fits. He didn’t know how he’d managed to get away for so long under the fitness team’s hawk eyes.
“Yes, Pintus. My mum starts throwing a fuss if I don’t. Don't worry. ” That had managed to placate him somehow as the older man reached out to pat his head. He was strict with them during training but a complete softie afterward. Maybe having a daughter helped in that regard.
All Jude knew was that he was glad to have been excused for the entirety of the international break so he could work on his fitness and give his body rest until it figured out what was wrong with it and sorted it out. He’d been excused from training for that day, the medical team agreeing that it was better to take a breather but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to greet his teammates before he went. They were huddled in a circle—Cama, Tchou and Rudi on one side while Arda and Kroos stuck to each other with Lucas in the middle—when he walked into the gym. It was odd, when he walked in and none of them paid him any attention, seemingly a lot more engaged with whatever the hell they were seeing on Lucas’s phone.
Jude walked up to the group and snaked his arm around Camavinga, the only one that paid any mind to him before he managed to trudge himself between Cama and Tchou—who put his arm around Jude’s waist once he noticed him— so he could get a better look at what they were watching. It was a video of a boy in a red jersey, Gavi. It was Gavi in the Spain No.9 jersey, trying to control the ball when in the span of the next couple seconds his face twisted in pain before he started hyperventilating off the field. Jude couldn’t bear to look at it.
The last thing he remembered seeing was Joselu hugging Gavi as he walked off the pitch before his knee felt like it was on fire again. He didn’t say a word as the rest of his teammates muttered about the video they’d just seen, something about how even Perez had sent a letter wishing Gavi a safe recovery. Jude felt like there was smoke coming out of his ear and every second that Tchou’s hand rested on his waist made his body tingle in a way he despised.
Why did he walk off the field like that? Why didn’t they sub him off before? Why why why. Why him?.
It felt like it had happened to him instead with how many thoughts were rushing through his head. He couldn’t go to sleep after that, barely even remembered coming back home. He’d picked at the tomato pasta his mom had made him, not daring to make himself throw up with how badly his knee kept flaring with pain every second. Even when he’d finally gone to bed, the images of Gavi getting injured kept flashing in his head so many times until he finally decided to just look up Gavi’s name instead, for any latest update. The only thing he could find was a video of Gavi getting escorted out of the airport with his head down, eyes glued to the ground. He’s not even using his crutches correctly.
When Jude woke up the next day, his knee didn’t feel like it was on fire anymore, but rather a muted pain, like a wisdom tooth awkwardly growing in from the side or a shoulder locked in place. He didn’t think he could remember a time when that pain didn’t exist, barely noticeable yet always there.
Gavi didn’t think he’d felt more helpless in his life. It didn’t matter how much time had passed since his injury, it still felt like the days seemed to stretch on and on the more patient he tried to be. Patience is the key in injuries like this. The phrase had practically been etched into his head with how many times he’d heard it. And he’d been patient, but he didn’t think losing his head after seeing his team lose a Clasico 3-2 while he sat around and did nothing was particularly unreasonable.
To rub salt in his wound, Jude Bellingham had managed to hunt him down somehow after the match, seemingly having something to say to him. What he could possibly have to say to Gavi in a moment like this he had no idea. He tried to get comfortable as his shoulder itched at any movement he made. It tended to do that sometimes, Gavi had gotten used to it, so much so that he missed the way Jude kept touching his knee every two minutes.
“Here to gloat now?.” Gavi questioned once it looked like he was finally going to say something. Bellingham merely flashed a smile in his direction at that.
“You think I’m Dani or what? It’s nothing….I just. I just wanted to say, good luck on your recovery. Hope to see you back on the pitch soon.” Jude replied in broken Spanish that sounded way too ragged at the edges. It still seemed to have somewhat improved from the last time Gavi had heard him speak. But, it was still rusty enough that Gavi couldn’t hold back his laughter, even though seeing Jude’s face right now was pissing him off. He wasn’t an immature asshole.
“No but you sound so fucking formal. There’s no need to talk like that.” Jude looked to his left and right like he didn’t know how to respond before he started scratching his neck. It was almost adorable.
“No, obviously. I’m just saying El Clasico didn’t feel as fun without you giving me a hard time.” He scratched his neck again and looked straight into Gavi’s eyes. “You know, last time I wanted to exchange shirts but you seemed proper pissed so I didn’t bother.”
Okay, now that had actually managed to get a little smile out of Gavi. Thank goodness they were out of the camera’s range. Now that he was really focusing, his stomach had started twisting and turning weirdly the moment Jude had walked up to him. Either Jude was unpleasant enough that Gavi wanted to throw up or there were butterflies in his stomach. He really needed to go out and get laid.
“Yeah? Next time I’m on the field, you can ask for it after I beat you.” Gavi replied, revelling in the way Jude’s gaze didn’t move at all.
“Can’t wait.” Jude said before Gavi turned the other way to join the team while Jude went back to his. If Gavi felt eyes on his back as he walked, he didn’t turn. He wasn’t particularly interested in the lewd ways in which the Madrid team celebrated after a win, especially one as big as this. As if they’d needed more ammo to gloat after already being on top of the league.
If Jude had to rank the top ten most humiliating moments in his life, puking his guts out at a nightclub while the rest of his teammates sat around and had fun would probably be one of them. The fact that they had truly no idea, considering they’d been laughing and making jokes when he’d come back did little to make him feel any better. If they noticed his bad mood, they probably attributed it to the Euros loss.
Jude didn’t even think he’d been too torn up over that until he’d managed to break his streak of being clean and fully spiralled on vacation, of all places. He couldn’t tell whether hiding his rituals were harder when it came to the Madrid fitness team or a bunch of his friends who were hell bent on making his mood better. He’d definitely pick the latter. In hindsight, he should have seen the loss coming, should have been prepared to deal with it better. His year had been going so well that something was bound to fuck it up. But really, the loss was just a trigger for everything else he’d been feeling.
There were some things that he’d realised were just set in stone. The sun rises in the East and sets in the West, Real Madrid are always without doubt the favourites to win the Champions League and the most important of all : Jude always comes back to his habits no matter what. It didn’t matter how many times he’d tried to get better, how many times he’d sat in bed heaving at the chest pains he got in the middle of the night, promising himself he’d stop. He always ended up back in the same place; feeling so out of control that he ended up on the bathroom floor of a dingy nightclub with his fingers tingling and gums aching.
It had worked, his first year at Madrid, when he felt like he needed the control before every matchday so he could be at his best. And he had been at his best, had been the best. Until the confidence had worn down to resemble something close to a bone deep exhaustion, something that had probably always been there and he’d just been ignoring. Either way, he was tired .
The squad had gotten a complete turnover since last season. He’d been the new guy back then but now it felt like there wasn’t a lack of new guys, every one of the young players desperate to prove they deserved their spot, just like he had. Competition was fun on the field, he wasn’t going to deny that. What wasn’t fun was sitting in the middle of the group and laughing at their jokes while his head felt like it was somewhere else entirely. He didn’t know why he couldn’t just be normal and let himself get close to them. God knows it’d make his life easier.
“Where’d you go, bro?.” Cama asked when he came back, scooting over to make space for Jude and linking his arm around his shoulder. The rest of the boys were sitting around in a circle playing card games while they passed around the blunt. They’d decided they deserved this night out after preseason, before they had to go back into the belly of the beast and start playing games week in and week out. Not that Jude had been there for that.
It was almost adorable how quickly Kylian had managed to integrate himself into the squad, granted it made sense with how long he’d been linked to the club. Watching them sit there and play cards was almost like watching the ego battle everyone raved on about play out in real time. Nobody wanted to be the first to cause problems and admit they were competing, even though everybody wanted to be better than the rest. Jude just wanted to fucking win, if it ended up making him look better than everyone else, that was just a massive plus point and he was willing to swallow his ego for it. Not that they weren’t all having a shit time right now, everyone just had different ways of dealing with it and for most of them that meant channelling it into the upcoming season, including Jude. Though he was sure he was falling behind, by a lot.
Fuck , did he even have the lowest body fat percentage in the squad anymore?. He’d almost crashed out when they’d made the whole squad weigh themselves and Brahim had been a measly 130 lbs. As if being made to weigh yourself before and after every training session wasn’t torture enough. Jude couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been 130 lbs let alone below 150. But, nobody else seemed to struggle with the daily weigh-ins so he pretended like he didn’t either.
“Oh, I think the pizza fucked my stomach up. I went in there to pee but I felt nauseous the whole time, like I’m talking I couldn’t even stand up straight nauseous. Then, when I went to the bathroom my body just went on autopilot and I threw up. That’s probably why my voice sounds like shit right now. Don’t worry though, I’ll take some meds when I go back home and eat a proper meal so hopefully I’ll feel better and it’s nothing.” Great. Not only had he taken too long to answer but he’d also rambled. He hoped Camavinga was too drunk to see through his bullshit.
“You didn’t even eat anything though.” Apparently not.
“Ah, the drinks then? I don’t know, either way it was something spicy coming up. It was gross honestly so I’ll spare you the details.” Jude said before burying his face in Cama’s shoulder, hoping that’d give him some leeway and this conversation would be over already. The only thing Cama did was give him a long hard look before he started chuckling along with Jude. Jude only managed to settle when Cama started massaging his shoulder in the way he knew Jude liked, because he’d spent too many nights doing it when Jude had been writhing around in pain when they shared rooms together during away games. Even though his shoulder didn’t hurt that much right now, he embraced the warm touch.
He couldn’t wait to start playing and winning again and leave behind the stupid doom and gloom that seemed to follow him.
If Gavi thought back on it, he’d been waiting for this moment for weeks—months even. But, the thought of playing the Clasico had only fully settled in his mind a few weeks before they were actually supposed to do it, because that was when his return date had felt like something more tangible instead of a far away moment he couldn’t let himself envision without getting frustrated.
The coaches had decided that the best course of action would be for him to return against Sevilla, a week before the Clasico. It warmed his heart a little bit that the match he’d come back in was against a team that was so special for him to play against. The stadium had erupted into applause the moment he’d entered, the home fans just as—if not more— excited to see him than he was to play. He’d done well, if the way Flick had hugged him afterwards and during training the following days meant anything. The coach had even gone out of his way to praise Gavi during the press conference and make him feel truly comfortable. And the best part of it all was that he felt good.
Maybe, it was too early to tell and start celebrating but he felt good and that was all that mattered to him, for now, especially after he’d spent an entire year feeling like he was on the edge of something, stuck in the same place instead of going further along while the world around him continued to spin. It had felt like a slap in the face when he’d first gotten injured even more because of this, because of the thought on everyone’s mind that he was on his way to having a really good season. If it weren’t for the injury.
He hadn’t known what to do then, he wasn’t supposed to get injured. Not really. Especially when he’d had such a good track record, especially when he’d practically never missed a game in his life except for when he’d been carded. It didn’t matter how many games he’d played, his body was supposed to be able to take it. So, when he’d finally managed to get himself injured—and the worst injury a player could get at that— he hadn’t known what to do with himself. And he didn’t know what to do with himself now, how to move his body; a body that at the moment didnt even feel like his own.
Most people would probably think it was batshit insane to play a fixture as hectic and challenging as the Clasico as his second match coming back, especially from an injury as severe as his, and it was. It was, but he’d felt perfectly alright leading up to it, and throughout the first half too. Neither team had managed to score yet but he wouldn’t particularly say they were playing badly, they just needed to be better and Madrid just needed to not pull a penalty out of their ass. Then, the second half had started.
And he’d been fine, of course he’d been fine. There was no reason to feel a hair out of place considering Gavi hadn’t been touched at all. The tingling in his knee was there, but it was always there. The problem had started when one of the Madrid players had tried to get the ball away from Cubarsi and had managed to fall to his side instead. Gavi could vaguely make out the loud, boisterous number 5 shirt covered with dirt and grime falling to the ground before his shoulder felt like it had popped out of place. Jude.
For some reason, beyond his understanding , Jude had fallen on his shoulder and Gavi was feeling all the effects of it.
There was no way.
It would have been a little more believable if Gavi had been in close enough range with anyone, literally anyone to be body checked by them in order to feel any pain. But he hadn’t collided with anyone yet, not in a way that would cause him the pain that he was feeling right now. And if there was one thing he’d become acutely aware of in these past few months, it was his body. He had never hurt his shoulder or anything even close to it. But Jude had.
Gavi could vaguely remember seeing a video of Jude writhing on the ground in pain during one of Madrid’s matches last season, after a particularly harsh knock to his shoulder. He didn’t particularly pay attention after that, apart from the time he’d seen Jude with his shirt off and an alarmingly elaborate strap attached to his shoulder as he walked around the stadium sulking. That was when Spain had won the Euros.
It had been months since that day, but Gavi could vividly remember the helplessness he’d felt then. He’d attributed it to the fact that he had to sit there and watch his teammates play and bring a trophy home as he did nothing. Despite how comfortable they’d made him feel, it still stung. Or, maybe he was just feeling waves of Jude’s own helplessness. Maybe his own feelings were making Jude’s own worse too.
Either way, he hadn’t been able to stay on the pitch for long, considering the scream of pain he’d let out as Jude had fallen down. On sheer instinct, he’d touched his ankle and pretended it had something to do with that, so that nobody could question why the fuck he was suddenly moaning about his shoulder when he hadn’t been hurt at all. When Jude had been the one who was hurt instead.
If Gavi was known for his stubborn attitude, Jude was another thing entirely apparently. Once he’d sat down on the Barca bench, he’d stared at him the whole time, not bothering to be subtle about it considering it’d be the last thing anyone would suspect right now. The Madrid doctors had put on some sort of numbing cream on him, if the cold feeling that had washed over Gavi and the marks on Jude’s shoulder were anything to go by. It felt so painful that Gavi himself wanted to lay down and put at least a 100 ice packs on it. But, Jude was on the opposite side at the Madrid bench complaining and moaning about how it wasn’t that bad. The guy was expressive enough for Gavi to be able to tell from a mile away what he had been saying.
He had half a mind to walk over there and slap Jude’s damn shoulder himself. He waited until the match was over to finally try and track Jude down.
1-0 win . Great. It made him feel a little bit better knowing he’d have the upper hand over Jude, even if it meant the other boy would most definitely be pissed off right now. The least he could do after ruining Gavi’s game was knowing that he’d done it. Knowing and confirming his suspicions. Gavi tried not to think back on every time they’d been around each other and all the times his soulmate’s feelings had been deep enough for even him to feel it. For Jude’s feelings to be deep enough. Jude. His soulmate. Right.
It hadn’t been much of a problem to find his way around the Bernabeu, he’d been coming here since he was 17 after all. The problem was, how he was supposed to get Jude alone, preferably without any of his teammates around. He’d shot Pedri a quick text about how he needed to use the bathroom so that no one would worry. It seemed like Jude had actually needed to go though because after a while he was walking towards the bathroom, almost frantically , by himself. Finally, all alone. Gavi didn’t waste any time sneakily grabbing his lower arm, making sure to grab the side with the good shoulder as he dragged Jude inside a supply closet. God bless Madrid and their overhoarding, in all aspects.
“Huh?.” Was the only thing that came out of Jude’s mouth as Gavi put his hand above it, already knowing from the times they’d met on the pitch that the other boy had a penchant for being a fucking drama queen. Not that Gavi could blame him for being confused right now though.
“I think you might be my soulmate.”