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Jude turns away before the whistle gets a chance to fade.
The sound still lingers, echoing somewhere above him, caught in the structure of the stands and the roar of voices that screaming in a mix of celebration or disbelief, but he’s already moving, already putting distance between himself and the pitch like staying even a second longer would force him to actually make peace with it. The grass is still marked up under his boots, torn in places where the game had gotten messy, the air still thick with sharp tension. None of it feels finished in the way it’s supposed to.
Someone reaches for him as he passes — an opposing player, or a teammate, he doesn’t even register which — and he goes through the motions automatically, a brief clasp of hands, a nod that’s meant to look composed but doesn’t quite land that way because his focus is already somewhere else, already looping back through moments he can’t undo. There’s something unsettled in the way he’s breathing, too fast and too shallow for something that’s already technically over, like his body hasn’t caught up yet, like it’s still expecting the next run, the next chance, the next thing that might fix it.
There had been chances — he knows there had been — but none of them had been enough, none of them had tipped things in the direction they were supposed to go, and now there’s nowhere left to place that effort except in his own hindsight, where it feels useless.
By the time he reaches the sideline, the frustration has already built into something heavier. It shows up first in small ways — a sharp exhale, the press of his tongue against the inside of his cheek, his hand dragging back through his curls. His eyes catch on the VAR monitor as he passes it.
His foot connects with it in passing, harder than it needs to, a quick, frustrated kick that sends a dull, echoing sound through the space around him, sharp enough to turn a few heads. The impact travels up his leg, grounding in a way nothing else has managed to so far, and for a second it feels like relief. It doesn’t really last.
“Fucking—” the word slips out under his breath, cut short before it can turn into something louder, something that draws more attention than he already has. He exhales again, harsher this time, dragging his hand over his face as he turns back toward the pitch like there’s still something left there to argue with.
Jude shakes his head immediately, the motion tight, disbelieving, already turning away before it can go any further. His body moves on autopilot as he makes his way from the locker room to the bus.
The air inside the bus feels thick when he steps onto it.
It always does after losses like this,the energy pulling inward, dense and heavy, like it has nowhere else to go, the usual noise dulled into low conversations and the occasional murmur that doesn’t quite catch your ear. The overhead lights are soft, the space pressing in, making everything feel uncomfortably close, almost personal.
A few players already have headphones in, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, others are talking quietly, their voices blending into a low hum. He moves down the aisle without thinking too much about it.
Franco is by the window, sitting on the last row as they usually do, forehead resting lightly against the glass. The city lights outside reflecting faintly across his face in blurred streaks that shift every time the bus moves. There’s something quieter about him too, something less outward than usual, like he’s holding his thoughts closer instead of letting them show.
He looks up when Jude stops beside him, a small, soft and relieved smile forming as he shifts aside to make space for him.
Jude sits beside him without a word, the movement just as instinctive, like his body knows where to go even when the rest of him feels out of place. The seat dips slightly under his weight, their legs brushing as he settles in, the contact brief but grounding in a way. He leans back, head tipping against the rest behind him, eyes closing for a moment, like he’s trying to shut everything out before it has the chance to catch up to him properly.
The bus starts moving a minute later, slow at first, the stadium lights still visible through the window in fractured reflections that slide across Franco’s face as they pull away. Inside, the quiet stretches. Someone a few rows ahead tries to start a conversation that doesn’t last more than a few sentences. Another player pulls his hood up and leans his head against the glass. The low hum of the engine settles into the background, constant enough to blur everything else around it.
Franco lets his hand shift slightly where it rests between them, fingers brushing against Jude’s in a way that could pass as accidental if it needed to—for their own safety, for the version of themselves everyone else expects to see. It’s small enough to be nothing. Easy to miss. Easy to explain away if anyone looks too closely.
Most of the team wouldn’t even think to look. They don’t know—wouldn’t guess. To them, this is just another quiet bus ride, another long day, bodies too tired to pay attention to anything that doesn’t concern them. And the few who do know, the ones they trust, know better than to question it.
Still, the risk is present under Franco’s skin.
He catches himself wishing, more often than he should, that this was his normal instead of the fame, the money, the cars, the fans. That he could just be someone allowed to love. Someone who gets to come home to their person without thinking twice. He thinks about that more than he should—what a life that simple would feel like.
What it would be like to not hesitate. To reach for Franco without checking who’s watching, to sit beside him like this and not have to pretend it’s nothing. To let his hand linger, to lace their fingers together and keep them there. To look at him the way he wants to and not look away when someone else notices. To have it be obvious.
To call him his, out loud, without it turning into headlines or questions or something they have to explain away. To exist next to him without shrinking it down, without keeping it small.
He thinks about loving him like that — open, easy, real — way more than he should.
The bus moves through the city, lights passing in long streaks outside the window, reflections catching and disappearing just as quickly. Time stretches in that strange way it always does after matches like this, where everything feels slower but heavier at the same time.
Jude shifts after a while, his shoulder pressing more firmly into Franco’s, his head tilting slightly toward him, not fully resting there just yet but close enough that it feels like it might if he let it.
Franco doesn’t move away. If anything, he adjusts just enough to make it easier, his body angling slightly, creating space without pulling back. Another inch closer, a quiet exhale he doesn’t realize he’s been holding, and then he lets his head tip fully, resting it against Franco’s shoulder.
He half expects Franco to tense, to shift, to pull away just enough to remind him where they are. But he doesn’t. He settles into it like he’s been waiting for Jude to close that last bit of distance. A soft kiss, pressed to the top of his head, so light it almost isn’t there.
He thinks that this might be enough to carry him through the rest of the night.
The hotel comes into view gradually, glass and soft lighting, too calm for the way Jude still feels inside. The bus pulls to a stop and the shift in movement brings everything back too quickly as the lights are turned on.
Jude’s hand tightens briefly around Franco’s before letting go, the contact breaking in a way that feels more deliberate than accidental this time. Franco notices that too and lets his hand fall back to his lap, fingers curling slightly.
Around them, people start moving again, standing up, reaching for bags, voices picking up just enough to signal the end of the quiet stretch they’d been sitting in.
Jude turns to him eventually.
Their eyes meet for a second — long enough to say something neither of them puts into words, long enough for Franco to see that the frustration hasn’t gone anywhere, that it’s just been pushed down into something quieter.
“Come on,” Jude says, his voice low.
They don’t walk side by side at first.
There’s too many people, too much movement, cameras somewhere in the distance even if they’re not directly in front of them, waiting to catch the wrong expression, the wrong moment, something as simple as the weight of a loss written across their faces and turn it into something profitable. Jude keeps a slight distance, something practiced, but he slows just enough when they reach the entrance of the hotel, just enough for Franco to catch up properly. Franco falls into step beside him without hesitation.
They reach the elevator with the rest of the team, the wait brief but quiet. When the doors close behind them, the space tightens again, smaller, more contained. Jude shifts slightly, just enough that their arms brush. It’s almost nothing, but gets the message across just fine.
The doors open with a soft chime that feels louder than it is.
Jude walks slightly ahead at first, not enough to create distance but enough that Franco has to match his pace to stay beside him, and Franco does, easily, instinctively, keeping himself just within reach without crossing into something that would draw attention if anyone happened to look too closely. He can feel his own thoughts catching up to him now that everything has slowed down, the match replaying in fragments he can’t quite organize, the frustration of being thrown in too late sitting heavy in his chest, unresolved in a completely different way than Jude’s but no less present.
He had stepped onto the pitch already knowing it was slipping away, already knowing there wasn’t enough time to change anything in a meaningful way, and still — he had wanted to, had tried to, had felt that same urgency in his chest with nowhere to put it when the final whistle came. It lingers now, tangled with something else, something that has nothing to do with the match and everything to do with what comes after.
The door opens.
Jude steps inside without turning on the lights, the room left in a dim half-darkness broken only by the faint glow from the hallway behind them, enough to make out shapes without fully illuminating anything, enough to keep everything less defined.
Franco lingers a second longer, glancing back over his shoulder, checking the hallway and only when he’s sure no one’s paying attention — no one close enough to notice — does he follow him in, quiet and quick, the door falling shut behind him before it can draw any attention.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Jude stands a few steps into the room, his back still turned, shoulders tense in a way that hasn’t eased since the final whistle, his hands hanging at his sides like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them now that there’s nowhere left to direct the energy he’s been holding onto.
Franco watches him, taking in the details he’s already started to recognize without needing to think about them — the way Jude holds tension in his shoulders, the way his head dips slightly when he exhales, the way silence sits around him differently when he’s like this.
He doesn’t say anything. Just steps around him, closing the distance, and pulls him into a hug — firm, certain, like he knows exactly what Jude needs before he has to ask. The second Jude hugs him back — tight, immediate, no hesitation — something in Franco gives way. It’s subtle at first, just a shift in the way he holds onto him, like he’s anchoring himself there.
And then he breaks.
The frustration of not being able to change anything, the helplessness of being stuck on the edge of it instead of fully in it — it all crashes into him at once. The way things are decided around him, the way he has to wait, to prove, to hope it’s enough. And beneath that, quieter but heavier, the fear. That maybe it won’t be enough. That he won’t be enough. To stay here. To earn his place.
To stay with Jude.
Because this, them, already feels like more than it should. More than he planned for, more than he knows how to protect. And he can feel himself wanting it anyway, wanting Jude in a way that stretches past the present, past the next game, the next trip, into something that actually lasts.
That’s the part that scares him the most right now; wanting something steady in a life that never stays still, wanting something that lasts in a place where nothing is meant to.
Players come and go — that’s just how it is. One day someone’s there every day, part of everything, and the next they’re gone, moved on, replaced without it ever really stopping for anyone else. He’s seen it happen enough already to know better than to think he’s any different.
He’s still young. Younger than most of them. Still trying to find his place in something that doesn’t wait for him to catch up. And that means he doesn’t get to choose—not really. If they decide he needs minutes somewhere else, if they send him away on loan to the other side of the world, he goes. That’s it. No argument, no negotiation. Just a plane ticket and a new badge on his chest.
And he knows he should want that.
He does want that. He needs to play, needs the minutes, needs to prove he belongs here in this world. He can feel it every time he’s on the pitch, how much he needs more of it, how much he’s still on the outside of something he’s desperate to be fully part of.
But the thought of leaving — of distance, of time zones, of something like this stretched across continents — it doesn’t feel real. He doesn’t think this, quiet and fragile and built in stolen moments, would hold up when there’s nothing left to anchor it. No bus rides, no shared spaces, no accidental touches disguised as nothing.
And worse than that—
Someone else would be here.
Someone new. Someone who didn’t require Jude to hide parts of himself. Someone who could sit close without thinking about it, laugh too loud, reach for him without second-guessing every movement. Franco tries not to picture it, but he does anyway.
And it must show — even if just for a second.
Something small, a shift in the way his jaw tightens, in the way his grip changes, like he’s holding on a little too hard without meaning to. Of couse, Jude notices.
He pulls back just enough to look at him, not fully breaking the embrace, just enough to catch his expression. It’s quick — Franco tries to smooth it over, tries to tuck it away before it can be seen — but it’s already too late, jude’s gaze is already softening. He doesn’t ask and he doesn’t push, just lifts a hand to Franco’s face, thumb brushing lightly along his cheek like he’s grounding him back into the moment, and leans in. It’s careful, instinctive, like everything else between them — just a small tilt forward, a quiet decision made in the space between one breath and the next.
Franco steps in close, his hand coming up to the back of Jude’s neck, fingers settling there with a firm, grounding pressure, something he’s done before and knows works. His other hand rests lightly at Jude’s side.
Jude exhales. It’s heavier this time, less controlled, his head dipping forward just slightly under Franco’s touch, like his body gives in before his mind does, like this is the first moment all night where he doesn’t have to hold everything in quite so tightly.
Franco feels his own chest loosen a fraction at that, something in him settling just by being able to do this, by being able to reach him in a way he couldn’t reach anything on the pitch.
“We don’t have to think right now,” Franco says quietly, his voice softer than usual, steadier than he feels.
Jude lets out something that almost sounds like a laugh, but it doesn’t quite land, caught somewhere between frustration and exhaustion.
“I don’t think I can stop,” he admits, his voice low, roughened at the edges.
Franco understands that too.
He lets his thumb move slightly against the back of Jude’s neck, slow, repetitive, grounding in a way that gives his hands something to do when words don’t feel like enough, or don’t feel like the right thing at all.
“Then don’t,” he murmurs, quieter now. “Just stay here.”
Franco doesn’t pull away when the kiss deepens.
If anything, he leans into it more, like he’s been waiting for it to turn into something heavier, something that lets him stop thinking for a second and just feel instead. His hand stays at the back of Jude’s neck, steady, grounding, fingers pressing just a little firmer now, like he needs to keep him there, like he needs to make sure he doesn’t slip back into whatever space he’d been stuck in before.
Jude responds immediately, like he was already on the edge of it, like it doesn’t take much to tip him over into something less controlled. His hands find Franco without hesitation, one at his waist, the other sliding up his back under his t-shirt, pulling him closer in a way that feels almost desperate, like proximity alone might be enough to quiet everything else.
The kiss turns messy, slower but deeper, something that lingers instead of rushes, something that builds instead of burns out. It’s not clean, not careful, but it’s not reckless either — it’s intentional in a different way, in the way Jude keeps him close, in the way Franco doesn’t let him pull away even when his breathing starts to break unevenly between them.
“You were so good,” Franco murmurs against his mouth, the words slipping out between kisses, quieter than usual but more certain. “You did everything right.”
Jude exhales against him, something shaky in it, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that, like part of him wants to argue and part of him is too tired to.
Franco doesn’t give him the chance.
He kisses him again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s trying to make him feel it instead of just hearing it, like if he repeats it enough it might finally settle somewhere.
“I saw you,” he adds, softer, his voice catching slightly in a way that surprises even him. “I always do. You looked so good. You worked so hard.”
Jude’s grip tightens at that, his hand pressing more firmly into Franco’s back, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between them at all, like he’s holding onto the words as much as the contact.
Franco breathes in sharply, his forehead pressing briefly against Jude’s before he leans back in, unable to stop himself, unable to hold that distance even for a second.
“You’re the best one out there,” he says, the words coming out more uneven now, less controlled than before, like something in him has started to crack without warning. “And I’m not just saying that because you’re my boyfriend”.
Jude shakes his head slightly, but it’s weak, unfocused, more reflex than conviction.
“Hey, Jude” he murmurs, softer now, but no less certain, his hand coming up to hold Jude’s face in place. “I mean it.”
And then he kisses him again. Slower this time. Deeper, but not rushed — like he’s trying to make Jude feel it, let it settle somewhere beneath the noise, beneath the doubt. Like if he keeps going, keeps showing him, it might finally stick.
Jude’s hands find the hem of Franco’s shirt first, hesitating for half a second before pushing it up, slow but certain. Franco helps him, lifting his arms just enough, the fabric dragged off and left behind without a second thought. Jude follows, his own shirt half-tugged, half-pulled free, clumsy in the way urgency always is when it’s been held back too long. They don’t stop moving, even as layers disappear between them, even as the space closes again, smaller now, warmer.
Jude steps back without really meaning to, guided more by the way Franco keeps close than by anything else, until the edge of the hotel bed catches behind his knees. He barely has time to register it before he’s falling back onto it, a soft breath leaving him as he lands.
Franco moves with him, settling over him like it’s the most natural place in the world to be, like he was always meant to end up there. His hands don’t rush, don’t grab—they move with intention, steady where they rest against Jude’s sides, like he’s grounding himself as much as he is holding him there. He gives himself a minute to just look at him, just in case. Like he’s trying to memorize it — this version of Jude, stripped of the weight of everything else, someone ordinary for once. Just him.
He starts at his mouth again, soft, lingering, but it doesn’t stay there. Franco takes his time, like there’s no rush, like he wants to feel every second of it — his lips trailing from Jude’s jaw to his neck, slow and deliberate, pressing kisses that feel more like quiet reassurances than anything else. Lower, unhurried, mapping him out in a way that feels careful, almost reverent. Every touch is intentional, every pause just long enough to make it mean something. Like he’s trying to show him, piece by piece, what he can’t quite put into words.
“You’re so—” he starts, but the sentence falters, dissolving into another soft press of his lips against Jude’s skin instead.
Jude shifts under him, a quiet breath leaving him, and Franco feels it — feels the way he responds, the way he gives in to it without holding back.
Franco’s mouth drifts lower, unhurried, his kisses trailing down in the same careful way, like he’s taking his time with every inch, like none of this is something he wants to rush through. His hands follow, steady, grounding, keeping Jude close even as he moves.
“Fran—” Jude exhales, softer now, less controlled.
Jude’s hand finds his hair, fingers threading through it, not pushing yet — just holding on, like he needs something solid to ground himself in the middle of it. Franco hums softly against him in response, the sound low, almost absentminded, like he’s too focused on this — on him — to do anything about it.
Eventually, Franco slows, not pulling away completely, just enough to come back up to him, drawn there like he can’t stay away for long. His hands slide back to Jude’s sides, steady again, familiar, grounding. He leans over him, breath still uneven, forehead brushing lightly against Jude’s before he presses another soft kiss to his mouth — gentler now, but just as certain.
And Jude isn’t able to think.
For the first time all day, his mind goes quiet. Like everything that’s been pressing in on him — the noise, the expectations, the constant awareness of being watched — has finally loosened its grip and all that’s left is Franco’s hands, steady and warm against him. It pulls Jude under in a way nothing else can. Everything else is replaced by something simpler.
By Franco. By the way his name feels caught somewhere in Jude’s throat, the way it comes out softer every time he says it. By the way his body responds without hesitation. He lets himself sink into it, into the closeness, into the feeling of being wanted like this, of being seen like this.
Jude grabs him by the waist and moves. Franco follows him easily, like he trusts him completely, like there’s no hesitation in letting himself be guided. Franco is on the mattress now, looking up at him, slightly breathless, hair a little undone, chest rising and falling unevenly and his lips a bright pink. So fucking beautiful.
“I love you,” Jude says.
It comes out broken at the edges, quieter than he meant it to be. And then it catches in his throat — because there’s a tear there too, slipping before he can stop it, sliding down without permission.
Franco’s expression shifts immediately, something softer breaking through the intensity, his hand lifting instinctively as if to reach for him, to anchor him, to keep him close in the same way Jude is already doing.
“I love you too.”
His eyes are glassy now too, his breathing uneven in a different way than before, like everything he hadn’t said on the bus, in the locker room, on the pitch, is catching up all at once in the worst possible moment.
“I didn’t do anything,” he admits quietly, the words slipping out before he can stop them, his voice softer now, stripped of the steadiness he’d been holding onto. “I couldn’t help you. I’m so sorry”.
Jude’s expression softens instantly.
“Hey—” he starts, but Franco shakes his head slightly, like he’s not done, like if he stops now he won’t get it out at all.
“And if they send me away—” his voice falters again, the words catching this time, harder to push through. “If I’m not here—”
His hands shift, one coming up to Franco’s face, holding him there more gently now, thumb brushing just under his eye where the tears are starting to gather, not quite falling yet but close enough that it feels inevitable.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” Jude says softly.
Franco does.
“You think that would change anything?” Jude murmurs against his lips, quieter now, more certain than he’s been all night. “You think I’m letting you go that easily?”
Franco lets out a small, broken laugh at that, his forehead dropping briefly against Jude’s, his hands tightening where they’re holding onto him like he needs the contact just as much now.
“I’ve got you, alright?” Jude adds, softer now. “Whatever happens, we deal with it together, yeah?”
Franco nods, just once.
It’s small.
But it’s enough.
And when Jude kisses him again, it’s not to distract him, not to silence anything, but to hold him there, to keep him anchored.