Work Text:
The Stream. Madrid. 23:15.
The gaming room in Jude’s house resembled the cockpit of a spaceship.
The walls were lined with dark grey soundproofing panels that swallowed any echo. A soft, neon purple strip light—his channel’s signature color—ran along the ceiling perimeter and baseboards. In the center of the desk, mounted on brackets, hung two massive monitors. One displayed the game - EA FC 25, the Ultimate Team menu. The other showed the OBS interface, the chat, donations, and his own face.
Jude sat in an expensive gaming chair, leaned back. He wore massive headphones, one ear cup pushed back so he could hear his own voice. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt that perfectly contrasted with his skin tone under the ring light.
He was "in character."
That same smile the brands loved. That same relaxed, charismatic vibe.
"No, lads, seriously," Jude spoke into the expensive pantograph microphone. "I’m not buying Mbappé for the squad. That’s cheating. We’re playing fair. Road to Glory, remember?"
The chat was flying at breakneck speed. Thousands of messages per second. Emojis, questions, love declarations, requests to say hello to Brazil, Turkey, Indonesia.
User123: Buy Haaland!
RealMadridFan: Jude, how is ankle?
Bellingham_Lover: I LOVE YOU JUDE!!!
Jude smiled at the camera, adjusting the mic.
"Ankle’s fine, thanks. Ready for Saturday."
The room was cool. The AC was blasting, humming somewhere near the ceiling.
But Jude felt a bead of sweat start to crawl down his back, under his shirt.
Because he wasn’t alone in the room.
Outside the frame, in the camera’s "dead zone" to the right of the desk, stood a deep, soft sofa.
And there, sprawled out like a Roman patrician, lay Trent.
Trent was barefoot. Wearing only grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt. He held a can of Coke in one hand and his phone in the other.
But he wasn’t looking at his phone.
He was staring at the back of Jude’s head.
Jude could feel that gaze burning into his neck.
He knew Trent was bored. Trent had lost a bet (doing the dishes after dinner), but instead claimed that "observing the master at work" absolved him of responsibility.
And now he was lying there. Quiet. Dangerous.
"Right, okay," Jude rubbed his palms together, trying to focus on the monitor. "Let’s play a Draft. See who we get."
He clicked the mouse.
At that moment, something small and white flew across the room in an arc.
It was a shop receipt, crumpled into a tight ball.
It hit Jude square in the shoulder.
Jude flinched. Barely noticeable.
His eyes darted right, into the dark corner of the room, but he immediately snapped his gaze back to the camera.
The chat noticed nothing.
Jude stretched his smile wider.
"Oh, Zidane! Perfect. Taking Zizou. No brainer."
Thwack.
A second paper ball. This one hit his headphones. The sound of the impact-a dull thud-echoed right in Jude’s ear.
Jude clenched his jaw. He hit the mute button on his Stream Deck. The key lit up red.
He didn’t turn around. He just hissed into the void:
"Pack it in."
From the darkness came Trent’s quiet, lazy voice:
"Boring, Jude. You’ve been picking players for ten minutes. Where’s the action?"
"The action will be when I turn off this camera and shove this controller up your..." Jude cut himself off, seeing the chat react to his silent mouthing.
He quickly unmuted the mic.
"...anyway, yeah. Zidane is a legend. Madrid blood."
Trent snorted. Loudly.
Jude started typing on his keyboard louder, trying to mask the sound.
"Right, let’s go. First match."
The game started. Jude tried to immerse himself in it. He was good at FIFA. His fingers flew across the gamepad.
But in his peripheral vision, he saw movement.
Trent sat up on the sofa. He placed the Coke can on the floor.
He began to slowly, theatrically peel the sock off his right foot. A white, athletic Nike sock.
He rolled it into a tight, dense ball.
He weighed it in his hand like a baseball.
Jude felt his palms go cold.
"Pass to the wing... cross..." he commented on the game, but his voice wavered. "Vini, run! Fucking hell, where are you running?!"
Trent wound up.
Jude couldn’t dodge. He was live. 80,000 people were watching his face.
Trent threw it.
His coordination was excellent. The England right-back didn’t miss.
The sock flew across the room and hit Jude right in the cheekbone. Soft, but humiliating.
Reflexes worked faster than his brain.
Jude caught the sock with his hand as it bounced off his face, before it could land on the keyboard.
He froze.
In his hand, in the frame, was a white sock.
The chat exploded. The text flew so fast it was unreadable, but individual phrases jumped out:
"WTF WAS THAT?"
"Did someone throw a sock?"
"WHO IS IN THE ROOM?"
"JUDE???"
Jude slowly lowered his hand with the sock under the desk. His heart was hammering in his throat. His face was flushing-he hoped the ring light and color correction would hide it.
"Haha..." his laugh sounded nervous, an octave higher than usual. "Guys... did you see that?"
He had to lie. Fast.
"It’s... it’s my dog. Yeah. She’s... playful today. Brought me a toy."
Chat:
Dog? Since when do you have a dog?
Show us the dog!
Dog reveal!
"She’s shy," Jude said quickly, returning his hands to the gamepad (and stuffing the sock into his jeans pocket). "And she’s not mine. A friend’s. I’m dogsitting."
He shot a murderous look toward the sofa.
Trent was shaking with silent laughter, face buried in a cushion to stifle the sound. He gave a thumbs up.
Jude went back to the game. He conceded a goal.
"Fuck!" he let slip. "Alright. 0-1. Let’s focus."
Jude’s phone, sitting on a stand under the monitor (visible to him but not the camera), flashed.
Notification.
Trent (iMessage): Dog? Seriously? Am I a bitch now?
Jude read it without taking his eyes off the monitor. His eye twitched.
He couldn’t reply. He had to play.
New message.
Trent: If I'm a dog, I should bark.
Trent: Woof woof, Jude.
Jude felt a cold sweat run down his spine.
Trent wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t dare. It would ruin everything. Rumors, press, scandal.
He risked it. Taking advantage of a pause in the game (goal replay), he quickly typed with one hand, looking at the camera and smiling:
Jude: Don't you dare. I'll kill you.
The reply came instantly.
Trent: I'm bored. Entertain me. Or the dog starts howling.
Jude conceded a second goal.
"What is this bullshit!" he slammed the desk. The chat assumed it was rage at the game.
Chat: Rage quit incoming
Chat: Focus Jude!
Jude started talking louder.
"Right, lads, this script is unreal. My defenders are just standing there! Look at this! Rüdiger is just watching the ball!"
He was trying to create a wall of sound. If he shouted, the noise-canceling mic would cut out background sounds.
Trent, tired of watching this panic from afar, slowly slid off the sofa.
He army-crawled, just like in that trench, closer. He stayed out of the camera’s field of view, but now he was a meter away from Jude’s chair.
Jude saw the top of his head out of the corner of his eye.
Trent sat on the floor, legs crossed. He held the second sock. And... the remote for the air conditioner.
Jude scored. 1-2.
"YES! GET IN! VAMOS!" he shouted, jumping up from his chair and waving his arms.
That was a mistake.
When he jumped up, Trent lunged. Without standing up, he reached out and yanked the cord of Jude’s headphones.
Jude, who was just sitting back down, felt the jerk. The headphones slid sideways.
He flailed his arms ridiculously, trying to regain his balance, and collapsed back into the chair, nearly tipping over.
Chat:
LMAO
Are you drunk?
The dog again?
Jude adjusted his headphones. His hands were shaking.
"Wire got caught," he managed to say. "Lads, this stream is cursed today. Technical difficulties."
He looked down.
Trent was sitting at his feet, under the desk. Out of frame.
Trent was smiling. That same devilish smile.
He slowly reached up and placed his hand on Jude’s knee.
Jude froze.
Trent started to squeeze the knee. Hard. To the point of pain.
Jude looked at the camera. His face was a mask of horror and tension.
"We... we’ll pull this back," Jude’s voice cracked into falsetto. "Still 30 minutes left in the match."
Trent’s hand crept higher. Up the thigh. Over the denim.
Jude tried to move his legs, but the chair arms restricted him.
Trent found the zipper.
The metal button.
Trent flicked it with his fingernail.
Jude slammed the pause button in the game.
"Chat, one sec! I need... water!"
He grabbed his water bottle, took a sip, spilled it on his shirt.
"Shit!"
Under the desk, Trent was laughing soundlessly. He removed his hand from the zipper, only to grab Jude’s ankle and pinch it hard.
Jude kicked him with his free foot. Trent dodged.
It was a war.
Jude returned to the game, trying to play with one hand while the other held Trent’s hand under the desk, trying to break his fingers.
Trent bit him. He actually fucking bit Jude’s hand.
Jude hissed.
Chat:
Why are you making noises?
Sus...
"Cramp!" Jude shouted. "Leg cramp! From training!"
He couldn’t take it anymore. It was impossible. He was losing the match, he was losing face, he was losing his mind.
Trent, bored of the scuffle under the desk, crawled back.
He stood up.
Jude followed him with eyes full of pleading. Don’t.
Trent walked to the wall where the main light switch was.
He took out his phone and showed Jude the screen.
On the screen, in big letters, it read:
"SAY GOODNIGHT"
Jude shook his head. No. Too early. The stream has to go for an hour.
Trent put his hand on the switch.
And began to slowly, slowly lower his finger. The main room light flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The chat noticed the flickering.
Poltergeist?
Light glitch.
Jude realized it was over.
"Guys..." he started quickly. "Listen, I’ve got... lights flickering. Think the fuse is blowing. Storm. Yeah, big storm outside."
(It was clear outside).
Trent flipped the switch.
The room plunged into darkness. Only the light from the monitors and the ring light remained, which now made Jude’s face look sinister.
Trent, invisible in the dark, took a step toward the desk.
He leaned in so he wouldn’t be seen on camera, but his lips were centimeters from Jude’s microphone.
Jude stopped breathing.
Trent could have said anything. Could have barked. Could have moaned. Could have said his name.
Instead, Trent simply blew into the mic.
A dull, rushing wind sound. Whoooosh.
Jude hit the "Stop Streaming" key in OBS so hard he nearly broke the spacebar.
The screen went black.
OFFLINE.
Silence.
Only the hum of the computer.
Jude slowly took off his headphones. Placed them on the desk.
He sat in the dark, staring straight ahead.
"You’re dead," he whispered.
To the side, the light switch clicked. The light flared up, blinding.
Trent stood by the wall, shoulder leaning against the doorframe. He looked incredibly pleased with himself.
"You lost the match, Bellingham. 1-3. Embarrassing."
Jude stood up slowly. He walked around the desk.
"You almost blew our cover. You threw socks. You bit me."
"It was fun," Trent shrugged. "Chat loved the 'dog'."
Jude stepped toward him.
"The dog, huh?"
Trent stopped smiling, noticing the look on Jude’s face.
"Hey, stream’s off. Calm down."
"I am calm," Jude’s voice was frighteningly even. "I am very calm."
He lunged.
Trent tried to dodge, but in the enclosed space, there was nowhere to run.
Jude tackled him onto the very sofa the bombardment had come from.
They crashed into a pile of cushions.
"Bark," Jude ordered, looming over him and pinning Trent’s hands to the sofa.
"Fuck off," Trent laughed, trying to kick out.
"Bark, or I’ll post your photo in that stupid bucket hat to my story right now," Jude threatened.
"You wouldn’t dare."
"I would. Phone’s in my pocket."
Jude reached for his pocket. Trent flinched, trying to stop him, and accidentally (or not) brushed his groin against Jude’s thigh.
The struggle stopped instantly. The laughter died.
Jude froze, looking down at Trent. Hair messy, cheeks flushed from laughter and the fight, t-shirt ridden up.
"You know," Jude rasped, "the punishment for ruining the stream is going to be severe."
Trent smirked, looking him in the eye.
"Does it involve a gag? So I don't 'bark'?"
Jude looked at him with a long, heavy gaze. Tension hung in the room. It seemed like he might actually do something reckless.
But then, Jude slowly, lazily smirked.
"Don't tempt me," he said quietly.
And instead of kissing him or continuing the game, with lightning speed, he snatched his phone from his pocket, pointed the camera at Trent’s face, and pressed the button.
Click.
Flash.
The bright flash in the dim room blinded Trent. He squeezed his eyes shut and instinctively covered his face with his hand.
"Fuck! What are you doing?! My eyes!"
Jude was already on his feet, safe, admiring the screen with satisfaction.
"Bucket hats are old news," he declared, turning the phone screen toward Trent. "This-this is real leverage. 'Trent Alexander-Arnold, defeated and disheveled.' The facial expression is priceless."
He quickly tapped a few buttons.
"Sent to 'Close Friends'. Vini will appreciate it."
Trent bolted up from the sofa, rubbing his eyes.
"Bellingham, you're dead! Delete it!"
Jude, laughing, sprinted toward the kitchen.
"You can't catch me! I'm faster!"
"I'll throw the controller at you!" Trent yelled, giving chase down the hallway.
"Not the controller, it costs more than your hat!" came the voice from the kitchen.
Trent snorted, but couldn't suppress a smile. The war continued.