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There is something wrong with Jude.
He’s been in a sort of… funk. There’s something about himself that makes him want to crawl out of his skin, want to be rid of his personhood entirely. He thinks he’s having some sort of coming-of-age crisis.
Like, all his life, all his experiences have mounted to him being a particular kind of person. He is moulded to be a footballing starboy, one who is loved and revered and fawned over. And at first it was indescribable, being so deeply wanted by so many people - women and girls tripping over themselves to talk to him, English people everywhere wanting him to succeed. But, lately, it’s like Jude is just crumbling.
He’s about to represent England on an international stage, but he’s too stuck in the fog in his head.
Despite it being the end of the year, the Qatari heat is persistent. They’ve just finished one of their last training sessions before they start group stage games, Jude stands off to the side, wiping sweat from his brow with the bottom of his top.
He raises his face to look for Trent, who is off to the side, stretching and flexing his arms lightly as he talks to Raheem. Trent catches his eye and finishes up whatever he’s saying to Sterling, then makes his way to Jude with a little smile at the corner of his mouth.
“You good?” Trent bats his eyelashes a little from the sunlight in his eyes.
There’s an arm swung around Jude’s shoulders as they take off walking to the main building. “Mm. Yeah.”
“Yeah?” Jude’s being looked at a little funny by Trent.
“Honest! Honest. ‘M fine, bro.” He chuckles as he says it, smiles at Trent showing teeth and all. The words ring empty to himself.
With a dubious look, Trent drops the issue and they play paddle. Crisis successfully averted.
-
Maybe Jude understands why people say they’re glued at the hip, because it’s evening and they are still by the other’s side.
They’re chilling in Trent’s room, talking about what they can do in the little time off they have the next few weeks. They’re sat next to each other on Trent’s bad, side by side against the headboard.
“Maybe, we could try, like, golf?” Jude suggests.
“Pffft bro, you might actually be a 19 year old grandpa, y’know. Jesus, we’re not at golfin’ age yet, are we?” There’s kindness shining in Trent’s eyes as he says it, so he just chuckles in response.
“Maybeeee… erm…”
“Qatar’s gotta have, like, night clubs, right?”
Jude huffs, “You’re askin’ the wrong person, lad. Haven’t got a clue.”
“Right, right, you bein’ the world’s youngest senior citizen ‘n’ tha’.”
“Piss off.”
“They do! Have night clubs. Jus’ looked it up.” Jude peers at Trent’s phone as if he’ll see anything interesting, despite the fact that nothing about clubbing interests him right now.
It’s weird. He used to enjoy it, somewhat. Being in a big mass of people, letting the music vibrate through your body, having girls come up to him and flirt with him. They’d touch his arm, lean in real close to ‘hear him better’, look up at him with exaggerated doe eyes rimmed with makeup. And he’d enjoy it. His mates would jeer and clap him on the shoulder as they passed. They’d joke about girls tripping over themselves to be near him and-
“Juuuude-“
“Hm?”
“I just lost you for like, a solid two minutes, I swear. Don’t tell me you’re bored of me already because World Cup’s just started, lad.” He nudges Jude gently and Jude nudges him back.
“Jus’ got caught in me own head, daydreaming.”
Trent’s attention is wholly on him as he’s being scrutinised. His mate’s large, searching eyes stay on him, as if wanting to dig deeper and deeper into his psyche. “Okay, yeah.” They sit like that for a moment, before Trent says, in a quieter voice, “We don’t have to. Go to the nightclub, I mean.”
“What? No! We can go. I want to go.” Jude furrows his brow a little at where this is coming from.
“Yeah? Gonna lay some of that Jude Bellingham charm on the ladies?” He says it teasingly, sweetly. Jude can only smile at his friend.
“Ahhhh- well. We’ll have to see, innit?” It’s a bit of a nothing-answer, so Trent presses in the way that all friends try and pry into their mates personal lives.
“You haven’t had a, like a proper girlfriend in a while, no?”
“Mmm, no. Been too focussed on footie, ‘n’ that.” Jude feels a little sheepish as he says it, like he’s saying the wrong thing. Like he should be someone else entirely right now.
“Awwhh, c’mon Jude! We’ll find you someone proper nice. Maybe you’ll stop actin’ like you’re 80 if you got a girlfriend.” Trent’s looking at his phone as he says it, scrolling through options for where they could have a night out.
“Hah. Maybe.”
They both laugh at the empty response. They end up just scrolling on their phones, sat next to each other. Words are unneeded when they’re together, anyway, Jude thinks.
-
They celebrate doing well and rightfully claiming 3 points in their first match by clubbing. Trent says something about most nightclubs only allowing groups of people to enter at a time-
’I mean, like, couples are allowed to go together but we ain’t exactly dating.’
Right.
Anyway, the boys are letting loose under the shifting purple-blue lights, basking in the high of victory. It’s just a small step in the right direction, but right now, it feels like everything.
Jude pats himself on the back in his mind for not monumentally screwing up like he had feared. Maybe he actually is fine after all.
“No dancin’ for you tonight, then?” Rashford says as he slides into the booth.
“Ahhh, jus’ not feelin’ it, bro.” That’s a lie. There’s something inside him that wants to be out there, carelessly moving to the rhythm of the music, wants to feel free for some spare moments.
“Yeah? ‘S alright. ‘Least you won’t be taking all the girls.”
Why does it feel like everywhere he turns, this is what people inevitably speak to him about? If Jude weren’t so genuinely fond of Rashy, he would roll his eyes.
Something wretched in Jude is deeply fed up, he needs to move, do something so he doesn’t sit here with a frown all night. He moves to get up.
“Actually, changed me mind. I’m dancing.” Jude barely catches Rashford’s incredulous face as he turns to the dance floor.
Jude wants to feel blissfully lost. He wants to become an insignificant part of the mosaic of moving bodies under the glowing lights. With trepidation, he starts to move and shift to the music. Right now, he doesn’t want to dance to look attractive, or to please some unknown voyeur. Like flower petals thawing after a long winter, Jude lets himself unfurl. The seconds slip away as the tension melts from where it festered in his jaw and shoulders.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed. “Um, hi? Hello?” He opens his eyes and there’s a petite brunette before him.
“Oh! Hi, you ‘kay?” Jude hates himself for how he immediately feels tense again.
She leans in with a hand on his bicep, as every girl does, “My name’s Ayla.” She has an American accent.
A beat passes between them, Jude keenly observes the fine glitter over her eyelids and cheekbones, her beautiful hazel eyes, the small pout of her glossy, pink lips. “Jude.” She would be his ideal type.
“Yeah,” she says with a smile, “I know.”
She tells him how she watched him tonight on her T.V., and how he’s more handsome in person. He stands a little taller with the knowledge of this, proud in some indescribable way.
Jude learns that she is indeed from America, and they converse about the culture shock of Qatar, how it’s nothing like how they expected it to be but in an unexplainably good way. With unmasked fondness, Jude says he wishes he could have his parents and brother here with him everyday, and Ayla laments that she misses her older sister, too.
But at the back of Jude’s mind, there’s a ticking timer. He knows how this goes: he’s supposed to want to kiss her desperately. The outside world will stop existing once they lock lips, and he’ll feel the sweet relief of emotion he’s been craving.
Ayla interrupts whatever she’s been saying and blurts, “You keep staring at my lips, Jude. Why’s that?” With girlish innocence she bats her eyelashes as she speaks the words between them. It’s not exactly intimate or romantic, she has to borderline shout for her words to even be heard, but it’s enough.
On autopilot, Jude’s lips meet hers, and it’s nice. Tension bleeds just a little from his frame as they keep kissing. They end up against a wall in a darkened area of the club, Jude’s frame towering over hers. They part for a moment and Ayla looks up at him curiously.
“You okay?”
“Yeah it’s jus’-“ he catches his breath after making out so thoroughly for so long, “had a long day, y’know? ‘M a bit knackered.”
She giggles softly, “Knackered, huh? That’s a funny word.”
Gazing into her eyes, with hands on the curve of her hips, Jude is sort of struck dumb for a moment. She’s a pretty girl. “Knackered. Yeah.” Great job, Jude. Great job.
By some grace of God, someone tugs at his shoulder, and it’s Grealish. “Most of the lads are leaving together now, jus’ lettin’ you know.” He walks away with a wink, as if Jude was being some kind of casanova.
Ayla looks up at him knowingly, and Jude feels - so bad. She’s a good girl. She’s pretty and somehow managed to get conversation out of Jude, which, lately has been like drawing blood from a stone. She had the confidence to approach him when he was dancing weirdly and on his own and made him turn into his old self for a few moments where they were sharing kisses.
“I’m gonna- get going now. It was nice to meet you, Ayla.”
With a final kiss pressed to his lips, she says, “It was nice to meet you too, Jude.”
Maybe he isn’t as royally fucked as he thought he was.
When Jude steps outside to meet the boys, his eyes find Trent’s in a heartbeat. The other man grins slyly and opens his mouth to speak-
“Not a word, T.”
And that’s that.
-
Jude is naive to think that Trent would actually keep his mouth shut.
The older man is clearly still feeling the alcohol. They’re about to go their separate ways to their rooms when Jude is grabbed by the elbow. Trent’s smiling at him so brilliantly, starlight glinting in his eyes, Jude feels weirdly elated - he likes seeing his best mate happy.
“So. Who was she?”
Jude huffs before he indulges Trent, “Her name’s Ayla.” He tugs his arm out of Trent’s grip and moves towards his room.
“‘M happy for you, Jude.” The words are spoken behind him, and Jude just presses his lips together in a slightly grim expression.
It takes all of Jude’s willpower not to just flop onto his bed and call it a night. Instead he stays true to his skincare routine and brushes his teeth. He stares at himself in the mirror and loses track of time entirely. There’s no thought or feeling of recognition, he looks into his own eyes numbly. Soon, his face doesn’t even look real, but instead like a random composition of shapes and hues. He feels like he could stand here all night, in the white light of his en-suite bathroom, observing himself as one would a caged zoo animal.
When he joins the team for breakfast the next morning, he keeps his head down as he greets each person. Part of his wishes he could move through life without a trace, with no noise or recognition from others.
He settles in the chair between Declan and Trent. Someone nudges at his ribs.
“Shouldn’t ‘ave left early last night. She was proper into you- then again, so is every girl, I guess.” Dec’s smiling good-naturedly as he says it.
“Pfff, was too tired, I was. Even told her, said ‘’m knackered’ but she’s American so I don’t even know if she understood or not.” He laughs to himself as he remembers last night. It’s a nebulous memory lost in the expanse of his thoughts - Jude thinks back and sees it from a 3rd person point of view, like a weird, drunken, out-of-body experience.
Trent, observing from the side, throws an arm around his shoulder and jostles him as he laughs, too.
In this moment, Jude feels a little more complete.
There really is something different about Trent. Jude, compared to most guys, is on the more tactile side. But when it comes to his mate, it’s like-
He has to have his hands on him, always. During training it’s a compulsive loop in his mind. He has to be near Trent, grab his arm, lean his hip against him, ruffle his locs. He’s greedy for it.
Jude’s no stranger to the nature of football. People come, people go, you make new friends and some fade into history. But, there’s a strange permanence of Trent. They’re only national teammates, separated by multiple other variables in their lives, but it doesn’t feel like that to Jude.
There’s an uncanny security that comes with being in proximity to Trent. Jude can rest an arm around his neck, lean his head on his shoulder, and his mind is at ease - his thoughts become rounded at the edges, no longer sharp intrusions in his mind.
Obviously, this is not lost on the rest of his teammates.
“You care when they take the mick?” Trent asks, as they idly pass the ball back and forth between tasks in training.
“Doesn’t bother me none. You?”
Trent kicks the ball up into his arms. “Nah. ‘M not worried.” Jude sees a flash of pearly teeth under the unforgiving sunlight, like a secret treasure revealed to him.
He can only grin back. “Good.”
With twin smiles, they train into the afternoon by each other’s side.
-
He was having a good day, a brilliant one, even.
The night before he had hooked up with a beautiful American girl, breakfast didn’t immediately make him feel nauseous, then training was good and he was partnered with Trent the whole time. Maybe he was getting too optimistic.
Unlike regular camps, they all have the luxury of their own rooms. So, Jude tries to unwind a little. He’s a healthy 19 year old with needs, okay, and it’s been a little while since he’s wanted to get off, but today there’s been that distinct buzzing underneath his skin.
But he just- can’t. It’s a shit show and he’s frustrated and annoyed and wants to cry with anger. He stares at the ceiling as if it told the answer he’s waiting for, or a reasonable explanation for why he’s felt so alien recently.
He just wants to feel that relief, he was chasing and chasing it but to no avail. He thinks of Ayla, of sneaking her back to the suites. He thinks of laying her down and looming over her whilst she looks up at him with big, needy eyes. She’ll pitch her voice higher and egg Jude on to ravish her. But it’s all so lacklustre. His thoughts feel stale and exhausting.
Coming down from his almost-high, Jude idly runs his hands over his naked form. It’s weird how many people have seen his unclothed body, how there are hundreds of pictures of him topless on a pitch scattered across the Internet. So many eyes on him and his body, memorising everything.
He allows himself the small kindness of running his fingers over and in between his thighs, across his chest and down his navel - just mapping himself out as his skin responds minutely with small zings of pleasure. Time unwinds leisurely like honey dripping from a stirrer, he loses himself in the little sparks of ecstasy that burst through his nerves. In the back of his mind he imagines it’s someone else’s hand tracing over the contours of his body; what would it feel like to be so deeply wanted and paid attention to? One day, will someone know that Jude likes to be toyed with, likes the feeling of a teasing hand just at the bottom of his naval, or lingering touches where his thigh ends and his pelvis begins?
He looks at and feels himself for what he is. How strange it is to be known.
-
They draw against the USA team. Jude beats himself up in his mind relentlessly. All those eyes on him, watching him amount to nothing on the pitch. It makes his fucking skin crawl, that same restlessness he’s been feeling is amped up tenfold; he’s not a human anymore, more like an abstract idea of a person.
Someone sighs next to him, “Oi, stop that. You’re frownin’ so hard I’m gettin’ a headache.”
Suddenly self-conscious, Jude relaxes his face muscles and childishly hates that Trent was right and it does actually make him feel a little better. “Sorry.”
Trent sighs again, “No need to apologise, jus’… It’s okay, yeah? Got points the first game, dropped a few today, it’s okay.”
All he can do is nod resolutely and tip his head back into his seat to get some rest. Even with his eyes closed, Jude can feel Trent’s curious gaze on him. Jude wishes he had any answers for him.
When they get back to their rooms, before they split off, Trent says, out of nowhere, “You want to come to mine?”
Jude’s hand is on his door handle, he thinks about what he will do on his own in his room - probably wallow pathetically until he falls asleep.
“Yeah, okay. Lemme drop my bag off ‘n’ I’ll come.”
A few moments later, Jude lets himself in through the door that was left slightly ajar for him. His heart squeezes in his chest a little at the sight. Past the door is Trent, waiting for him.
He sits next to him as Trent puts on the right channel so they can watch the next match.
Conversationally, Jude asks, “You good, mate?”
Exasperatedly, Trent blows a raspberry through his lips. “Hate bein’ a bench player. Just gotta believe that my time will come, y’know.”
Jude is suddenly set aflame with righteous fury. Trent should be with him on that pitch, he can’t imagine how frustrating it must be to watch your team lose from the sidelines. “People up ‘n’ down the country’ll tell you the manager’s naff, you deserve to play.”
“Yeah, I know.”
They look to the T.V. where commentators unpick everything that went wrong in their game against the USA. Jude can’t even find it in himself to be angry anymore. He’s so bone-deep tired.
He loses himself in his phone and Trent’s silent presence until the next match starts. Thoughtlessly, he scrolls until his brain is well and truly melted.
They watch the match with rapt attention, happy to scrutinise something other than their own shortfalls. When a player shoots and scores in a way that seems impossible, Trent’s face glows with the excitement of it all.
“Oh my god, did you fuckin’ see that?! How’d he even- like, what?!” Trent grabs him by the shoulder and shakes him like a child would their rattle.
Jude can’t even bring himself to tell him to shove off, he’s ecstatic too. He barely caught a glimpse of the goal because he got a notification at the exact moment it happened. But - the radiance of Trent beside him, the way football invigorates him, Jude’s fondness of his mate makes him buzz with happiness, too.
He just laughs along to Trent’s antics. When the emotion fades, Trent still has a hand on his shoulder, and the elder pauses and looks at him, still smiling. It feels like Trent’s suddenly looking at him for the first time. His mate’s mouth opens and then closes on an unspoken word. The moment is shaken off, like you would dust the gravel off your knees after scraping them, and they watch the rest of the game.
Later that night, in his own room, Jude doesn’t feel so thoroughly laden with burden. When his body sinks into the mattress, he can feel the softness beneath him instead of the weight on top of him.
With no intention to actually do anything, he lets his hand wanted again, over his chest, his thighs, the slope leading to his cock. Quietly, he yearns for someone else’s hands to mould him into something beautiful - he wants to be something loved and pretty and lax. The question is if any girl would ever let him be that. How does he choose who he wants to be? He’s already on the trajectory to be a fuckboy baller that goes through girls like he goes through football boots. Is it too late to do a total brand rehaul? No. He doesn’t even - want to do that. He likes who he is. This is his authentic self. But there’s something more, something just out of reach, a hairs breadth from his fingertips. He just needs to keep reaching.
-
They have a few days before their next game. Jude predictably tags along with Trent like a lost puppy throughout the entire time.
It’s not even that he’s not liked by his teammates - they’re always fussing over him and teasing him, he feels like a proper little brother sometimes. But sometimes it is well and truly too much. Too many bodies and too many voices.
Jude suddenly becomes acutely aware of how he’s acting and presenting himself to his teammates. His words feel clunky, his knee incessantly bounces.
He’ll always retreat to Trent like a spooked cat would retreat under the bed.
Sometimes, with Trent, he feels every bit his age. He feels so out of his depth, treading water in a vast, lawless ocean; like he’s missing every cue and saying things just a bit wrong. Trent will give him this look, like he’s mentally turning Jude inside out, searching for all the unspoken words that Jude doesn’t even know how to form.
When it’s just them two, that look from Trent feels like basking in sunlight. Jude feels awash with disbelief that Trent looks at him with so much warmness. He wants to tell his mum to stop fussing over him, because he knows now that Trent is his home away from home. He then erases that thought as soon as it materialises in his mind.
The day before their match against Wales, Jude goes to breakfast a little later due to his annoying lack of sleep lately. Most of the lads have cleared off, but Trent is at a table with Hendo off to the side of the caff.
Jude catches a glimpse of them and sees Trent with his hands in his hair, grasping uselessly at his freeforms. Hendo has his arms crossed over the table, looking every bit like Trent’s personal coach.
He’s hidden by a wall as he silently plates up his food, when he hears Hendo say in a hushed but stern voice-
“Or you could, like, stop bein’ a wuss and say something. Just saying.”
“Say what?!” Trent’s voice is so undeniably frustrated but Jude internally laughs at how high-pitched his voice goes when he’s indignant. He’s quite sweet in that way.
Jude has all his food plated and is now just loitering behind the wall separating them. He’ll have a moral panic about eavesdropping later.
“You go an’ say: Hey, I like you, romantically. I also wanna snog your face off, if you’d be so obliged-“
“Fat fucking chance.” His voice has lost all passion, now just sounding pitifully tired.
Jude swallows the lump in his throat and counts to ten, tuning out his surroundings. Then he rounds the corner and has breakfast with Trent, like the good friend that he is.
Hendo’s face positively lights up at the sight of Jude, probably elated to hand Trent off to someone else for the morning.
They talk about the same things they always do: family, plans for later, food, matches, training. Trent laments about rotting away on the bench, and Jude tells him that he would drag him onto the pitch himself if he could.
In the back of Jude’s mind, there’s an incessant screaming. Trent is into someone. Trent really likes someone.
It nags him all day. It’s parasitic, it’s feeding on all his other thoughts until the only thing left in his mind is Trent and his lover. He looks at his mate and all he can see is him with a girl, one that he has heart-eyes for, one that has him positively wrapped around her finger. He thinks about Trent being gentlemanly, how he would go about charming his girl, how delicate he would be with her. She would call his name and he’d respond with stars in his eyes and his heart in his throat.
From a logistical standpoint, Jude is confused how he’s snuck time in to even talk to a girl properly throughout all of this. They end each day bone-tired, worn thin from training. Maybe Trent stays up to talk to her. Maybe he calls her from his bed late at night and she listens to his listless voice ramble about everything and nothing.
This seemingly insignificant information has thrown him entirely off-kilter. It’s only been a day of knowing this about Trent, but Jude already wants to throttle himself.
After tossing and turning for three hours, Jude violently thrashes in his bed before screaming into a pillow that he clamps over his face.
It’s only when the starting whistle blows the next day, and Jude catches his gaze from the bench. Trent smiles at him then, with round, brown eyes, under the stadium lights which cast white stardust across his pupils. Jude feels like he’s had the wind soundly knocked out of him. He’s just taken a fucking sucker punch to his sternum. Oh, he thinks distantly. So this is what it feels like.
-
With the weight of the country on his shoulders, Jude tries to side-line his emotional turmoil.
He pours every ounce of willpower he has into not fucking thinking about Trent. At half-time, when they're still nil-nil and Jude wants to tear his hair out, he stands with his back to the bench for a moment before following his teammates down the tunnel. He wants to run to Trent, take him by his fucking outrageous, broad shoulders - he wants to rattle him and tell him 'I've figured it out!'
The empty space next to Trent in the changing rooms glares at him as he walks in. His mate peers up at him, large eyes searching under sun-kissed locs. The bastard has the audacity to bat his lashes at Jude a little when he takes the space next to him. Jude needs to be put in an isolated cubicle like he's got detention in secondary school.
"No need to look so fuckin' put out, like." Trent smiles a little disbelievingly at him.
"Hm?"
"Only halftime. You've done good so far, yeah? Jus' finish the job in second half."
"Wish it was that easy, bro." Jude scrubs his hands up and down his face and then nods gratefully at the assistant coach, who hands him an energy gel pack.
Trent shrugs and leans back where he's sat, spreading his legs a little further into Jude's space.
He childishly shoves back with his knee. Trent doesn't look up from his phone, but the corner of his mouth ticks up in the beginning of a smile.
As Jude tries to roll out the incessant, aching pain in his shoulder, he tries not to go quietly insane at the thought that Trent could be texting his unrequited lover.
The match ends with a win, and Jude considers the state of their team. They're inching closer and closer to the summit, and Jude doggedly wonders if they've actually got it in them to bring it home. In interviews, the players always reiterate "one game at a time" like a sutra but Jude is overeager and practically set alight with the intensity of it all. Maybe they can actually get somewhere this tournament.
When the bus takes off, Jude considers Trent's predicament, being under a manager that offers you such meagre minutes in one of the biggest tournaments of your life.
"T?"
"Hm?"
"I know it's shit right now, but you'll get your moment." Jude turns his head to look at him, but Trent's gaze stays trained on his lap.
"Team's doin' good, anyway-"
"It's so shit not havin' you there. You should be there."
Trent can only nod and lean a little heavier into Jude beside him.
On the rest of the journey back, Jude tries to really inspect whatever he feels for him.
For some reason, his mind reaches for one specific memory on instinct. Before their first game in Qatar, when Jude did his cursory lap of the pitch and Trent joined him. At the end, before they went back into the changing rooms to start getting ready for the game, Trent stood in front of Jude in a way that felt somewhat suffocating, or confronting. Jude remembers looking down at him and Trent craned his neck just slightly to match his gaze. Even under the glare of the white lights, Trent was so warm and covered in sunspots, his hair cinnamon-brown and black. The man in front of him played with his gum, making Jude's eyes watch his spit-slick lips as if he's magnetised by the sight. They looked so unbelievably pink and plush to the touch.
In the nebulous memory, Jude doesn't even know what Trent says to him before he turned to go to the changing rooms. Jude watched him leave, and remembers feeling that thick, unnameable emotion in his chest. It's akin to the feeling of being left out of an inside joke, when you look around, bewildered, unsure how to feel, unaware of what's happening.
Jude looks down, then, at Trent dozed off on his shoulder, face tilted up towards him like a flower in brilliant sunlight. He thinks, 'Of course, of course this is how it was always going to go' - He zeros in on his lips, moving gently with his exhales, a perfect rosebud, and thinks, 'Obviously'.