Work Text:
Even though Lamine didn’t want to admit it, he was already annoyed long before the World Cup even started.
When the bracket was announced, Lamine’s eyes immediately went to Spain first, then England. Their potential match could only happen in the final. Lamine was sure he could lead La Roja there.
England, though? He was less sure about them. Actually, he was pretty sure they wouldn’t make it.
“Ha. Not funny at all,” Jude said, when Lamine expressed his half-concern, half-mockery.
They were facetiming from their own national team camps. Jude was lying on his bed, eyes half-closed, looking tired and unfairly pretty. Lamine stared at his face for a second too long.
“I’m not joking.”
“England will go further than Spain.”
“You guys can’t do shit.”
“Yeah? You don’t want to see me in the final?”
“Well—”
Of course Lamine wanted to. He wanted to dribble past England’s trashy defense and score the most beautiful goal ever in front of Jude. He wanted Jude to watch it. He wanted Jude to be annoyed by it. Be impressed, too.
“I’d make you chase me for ninety minutes first,” Jude said.
Lamine laughed. This time, the mockery was replaced by something softer. Something now-familiar. Jude noticed it, too. Of course he did. Jude noticed everything when it came to him, which was annoying.
“Just imagine us in the final. If we do meet…”
“Then you lose beautifully.” Lamine answered without hesitation.
“That’s not how this works,” Jude countered, but his face was also soft. Suddenly, Jude’s screen lit up. He squinted at someone outside the frame who had turned on the light.
“Gotta hang up.”
“See you in the final, then,” Lamine said, too quickly.
Jude looked back at the screen. “See you there.”
Then the screen went dark. Lamine couldn’t put his phone down for a while. He kept staring at the ended call, as if Jude might somehow call back. At some point, he fell asleep without switching off the light. When he woke up, the room was dark. He couldn’t figure out who had turned it off for him.
Spain’s start to the group stage was lukewarm. Actually, lukewarm was a polite word.
Lamine and the other Barça players had a long season. Everyone knew that. Their legs were heavy, their bodies needed time to recover. Tournament football was cruel because nobody cared about your tiredness. You either performed or became a talking point.
Lamine hated becoming a talking point.
At the final game of the group stage, Lamine finally felt fit. Not perfect, but close enough.
His first touch was cleaner, and decisions came faster. His legs remembered they were supposed to be special. By the end of the match, he was man of the match. That was better.
After the game, a bunch of interviewers asked him the same lame questions. Most of them asked in Spanish, but one of the reporters was English and didn’t even try to ask in another language.
“Lamine, some people said your start of the group stage was slow. This performance could be perfect comeback for those people. Are you motivated by people’s critism?”
A year ago, Lamine would have avoided this. He would have smiled, mumbled something short, or pretended he hadn’t understood properly. Today was different. Lamine answered right back.
“People can talk. They are not a motivation, I just do my job. Luckily I’m good at playing football, no?”
The reporter looked a little surprised. Lamine liked that.
“Your English seems to be improving.”
“I can speak when I have to,” Lamine said, and smirked. The interviewer thanked him for his time. Lamine walked away feeling very pleased with himself.
When he got to the team bus, Lamine opened twitter on his anonymous account. He mostly used it to watch football clips and laugh at people who thought they knew tactics because they had watched three YouTube videos.
This time, he saw himself. Not the goal. Not even the assist before the goal, which was annoying because it was brilliant. The viral video was his interview clip.
“Since when Lamine’s this comfortable in English? Is he preparing a shocking transfer to the Premier League?” Lamine snorted at comments and quotes. Then he saw another stupid comment, saying, “Maybe he’s got a British girlfriend.” Nobody was paying attention to to it. It had barely any likes, like two. Still, Lamine’s smile quickly faded away.
“Saw your interview,” Jude’s message chimed in.
“It seems like I’m a good teacher,” another message came in before Lamine could say something witty. Lamine stared at the screen. He could hear Jude’s voice in his head. Smug. Too pleased with himself. Probably smiling like he had done something.
“And you speak like a Catalan now,” Lamine barely managed to retort. Jude didn’t answer. Lamine wanted to call him. Like immediately, which was stupid. His teammates were around him, the bus was too loud, and he could not exactly FaceTime Jude Bellingham in the middle of the Spain team bus because his boyfriend-not-boyfriend had made him feel proud for speaking English.
“Any problem? You seem worried.” Nico glanced at him.
Lamine locked his phone. “Nothing.”
“Girlfriend?”
“What? NO!” Lamine said it too fast. Nico grinned. Lamine looked away.
What could Nico know? Nothing. He knew nothing.
Probably.
They watched England’s quarterfinal together.
There was a huge screen near the wall of a conference room. Players were on sofas or chairs. Someone was eating. Someone else was half-watching and half-texting. Some staff members took notes whenever England or Norway did something impressive.
Lamine pretended to be calm. There was no reason he’d not be. It was just a match. It was team analysis.
He checked his phone, ripped the label off a water bottle, joked with Peri. He looked extremely normal.
Then the commentator mentioned Jude’s name, and Lamine’s eyes immediately went back to the screen. His eyes were all over Jude. His face, his form, his feet. The way he kept feeding Harry Kane only for Harry Kane to miss like he was doing charity for Norway.
Then, finally it came. Jude scored the first goal for England.
“Nice goal,” Nico said.
“Nah. Norway’s defense is shit.”
“Whatever.”
Lamine crushed the water bottle a little. It was subtle. A small sound. A tiny flinch of his shoulder. A sharp blink.
The problem was, everyone near Lamine was a professional footballer. They were experts at reading bodies. They noticed when someone changed direction before touching the ball. Of course they noticed when someone reacted to Jude Bellingham scoring like he had been personally attacked.
Nico saw. Pedri saw. Maybe Gavi saw it too. But nobody said anything. Nico stared at Lamine for a moment, then looked back at the screen. Lamine didn’t realize what had just happened. He was too head over heels to notice that everyone else noticed.
The match continued. England won 3-2. It was a good run for Norway, because nobody expected them to reach the quarterfinal anyway.
Cameras followed the players after the final whistle. Jude and Erling hugged. Jude smiled, whispered something to Erling, and squeezed his arm.
Lamine stared at them blankly. He knew it was nothing. It was obviously nothing. Footballers hugged each other after matches. He hugged people all the time. It was normal. It meant respect, friendship, shared history, whatever. It did not mean anything.
But Erling could do it in front of everyone. That was the part Lamine hated.
Erling could put his arms around Jude in the middle of a stadium, and nobody would care. Nobody would pause the video. Nobody would make theories. Nobody would say maybe. Nobody would look at it like it was a threat.
Lamine could barely look at Jude for three seconds without feeling like the whole world had turned toward him.
He stood up. Some teammates stared at him. Lamine didn’t say anything. He just walked out of the room.
The corridor was empty. He found an empty meeting room and closed the door. Thn he took a deep breath. He was angry with himself. For Jude, and Jude’s goal, he was happy. Of course he was. Jude had played well. Jude had won. Some soft, stupid part of Lamine wanted Jude to be happy, which was already embarrassing enough.
The only thing Lamine was mad about was that Erling could do something he’d never be able to do, in front of all the people.
He couldn’t hold himself back. He facetimed Jude, even though he knew Jude wouldn’t pick it up right after the match.
Surprisingly, Jude’s face filled the screen. His hair was damp, background was loud, somebody was calling his name from behind.
“Hey,” Jude said. That stupid hey immediately made Lamine feel better. He hated that too.
“You played well,” Lamine mumbled.
“You watched?”
“Team analysis.”
“Of course. Very professional,” Jude laughed.
“Shut up.”
Then they were silent for a while.
Lamine stared at the screen. Jude was still breathing a little hard. He looked flushed and tired and happy. Too happy. Lamine had to break the silence, because he couldn’t hide his own feelings for more than ten seconds, apparently.
“You looked happy.”
“Yeah, we won.”
“With him.”
Jude looked confused. After few seconds, he asked back. “Erling?”
Lamine was silent, and silence was an answer by itself. Jude went silent too. Then he walkd away from the locker room, to somewhere a little bit quieter. The background noise became duller.
“You know there’s no one else, right?” Jude’s voice was soft.
Lamine didn’t answer right away. His eyes moved away from the screen.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I just—” Lamine swallowed. “I hate that I care.”
Jude could make fun of him. Say something playful like usual. He could have made it easier.
But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “I care too.”
Lamine felt immense relief. It was almost embarrassing. No, it was embarrassing. Now he could be himself agian.
“Get to the final.”
“So you can beat me?”
“So I can look at you properly.”
“Aw. That’s almost romantic.” Jude laughed.
“Don’t get used to it.” Lamine said. Jude tried to say something, but someone called his name again. Facetime ended abruptly.
Lamine stared at the dark screen. Then he went back to the conference room like nothing had happened.
Nico looked at him once.
Lamine ignored him.
Their messages became shorter day by day. They were both tired, both responsible. Responsible for whatever the badge meant. Responsible for countries that acted like footballers were not people but national property with hamstrings.
After each other’s semifinal, press was after them.
Someone asked Jude about Spain and Lamine Yamal.
Jude answered, “He’s a great player. Spain are a great team. We’ll focus on ourselves.”
Very boring. Very professional. Very Jude when cameras were on him.
Lamine watched the clip three times and hated that he understood the tiny smile Jude almost didn’t make.
Then someone asked Lamine about Jude. He should have answered normally. He knew the normal answer.
“He’s a great player. England are a great team. We’ll focus on ourselves.”
Easy. Boring. Safe.
Instead, he said, “He’s difficult to play against. But I like difficult things.”
His media officer looked at him like he had committed a felony.
“Sounds like someone likes me so much?” Jude texted him that night. Lamine smiled at his phone despite himself.
“Nah.”
“See you there.”
Lamine read those three words over and over. He called Jude, but Jude immediately declined. For one second, Lamine’s stomach dropped.
Then Jude texted, “Teammates.”
“Who?”
“Are you being jealous? Be serious. The final’s only 4 days away.”
“I don’t care about the damn final.”
“Oh, you fucking do.”
Lamine stared at the screen. He did. Obviously he did. The final was huge. It was everything people told him he was supposed to want since he was a kid.
But Jude was there too, which made everything worse.
After a short pause, Jude texted again.
“I’ll call you in an hour.”
“I’ll be sleeping then,” Lamine joked.
“You’d better not.” Was Jude also joking? Lamine wasn’t sure.
Then he disappeared. Lamine stood up off his bed. He took a proper shower, not sure of what he was getting ready for. It was stupid, because Jude wouldn’t even be in the room. But he still fixed his hair a little and changed his shirt.
Very stupid.
Jude facetimed him exactly an hour later. Lamine picked up his phone as soon as it rang. “Look who’s awake,” Jude said.
“It’s because of caffeine.”
“Had some cortado?”
Lamine chuckled at Jude’s words. At the same time, he couldn’t take his eyes off of him. Jude looked tired. After carrying England again, he had every right to look tired. But the tiredness cast some soft shadow on his face, making him look more— Lamine couldn’t find words for it.
“You look tired.”
“Yeah? Don’t like what you see?”
“I don’t mean it that way. It’s just…” Lamine hesitated. Speaking it out would be weird. Well, he was (freshly) nineteen. What was the point of being young if he wasn’t going to be brave and stupid at least once a day?
“You’re so pretty that it makes me stupid,” Lamine spit it out. Jude cackled.
“I know I’m handsome.”
“Pretty.”
“If you insist.” Jude’s smile changed a little. “You miss me?”
Lamine looked away. “Don’t sound so pleased.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You already know the answer.”
“I want to hear it.”
Lamine hated him. “Yes,” he said eventually. “I miss you.”
Jude stopped smiling like he was teasing him. For a moment, he just looked at Lamine through the screen.
Then he said, “I miss you too.”
They were quiet after that. Not awkward. Just quiet. Jude’s room was dim. Lamine could hear distant voices somewhere outside his own door, teammates laughing in the hallway, someone knocking on someone else’s room.
The whole world was still moving around them. That was annoying too.
“Four days,” Jude said.
“Too long.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Barely.”
Jude laughed softly. “Dramatic.”
“You like it.”
“I do.”
Lamine should have made a joke. He didn’t. The call turned softer after that. Slower. They talked about training, bad hotel food, their legs, the final without really talking about the final. Sometimes Jude’s voice dropped, and Lamine forgot what he was going to say.
At some point, Lamine said, “Wish you were here.”
He regretted it immediately. It sounded too sincere. Too needy. But Jude didn’t laugh. He looked stunned for a second, like he didn’t know where to put that sentence.
Then he said, quietly, “Yeah. Me too.”
Lamine looked at him. Jude looked back. For once, neither of them tried to win the conversation.
“We…” Jude started, then stopped. “We should talk later. After the final.”
Lamine didn’t like that answer. He understood it anyway.
“Okay.”
“Good night.”
The call ended. Lamine stared at his phone. Then he dropped back onto the bed and covered his face with his arm. He did not sleep for a long time.
Neither of them sent a message the next day. Or the day after that. The pressure of the final was different from the previous matches. Lamine had been in the Euros, but the World Cup was different. It was heavier. Everyone said the same things. Dream. History. Country. Pride. Opportunity. Legacy. Lamine hated big words when he was nervous.
Spain tried to keep routine. Breakfast, recovery, training, media, tactical meetings, dinner, sleep. Or pretending to sleep.
Lamine did everything properly. He trained well. He laughed when he was supposed to. He answered questions without making any suspicious comments about liking difficult things. He listened when the coaches talked about England’s midfield.
Jude was everywhere. On screens. On tactical boards. In clips. Turning with the ball. Pressing. Carrying. Arriving in the box. Shouting at teammates. Smiling after goals.
It was extremely unhelpful.
Lamine folded his arms and stared at the screen like Jude was just another opponent.
The night before the final, Lamine opened their chat.
He typed:
Good luck.
Then deleted it.
I’m gonna beat you.
Deleted it.
I’m scared.
Absolutely deleted it.
He threw his phone onto the bed. Then it buzzed. Lamine grabbed it too fast. It was Jude. Of course it was.
“You awake?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t sleep?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.
“Whatever happens tomorrow,” Jude wrote, “it doesn’t change anything.”
Lamine stared at the message. ‘It changes everything,’ he wanted to say. Because one of them would win the World Cup. One of them would lose it. One of them would have the best night of his career. The other would have to stand there and watch.
But Jude wasn’t talking about football. He added, “Win, lose, draw. It doesn’t matter. It’s you and me.”
Lamine pressed his phone to his chest and closed his eyes. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he typed:
“There is no draw in a final.”
“You ruin everything,” Jude replied. Lamine smiled into the dark.
“Sleep.”
“You first.”
“Impossible.”
“Same.”
They didn’t say good night. Instead, they just stopped typing. Lamine left the chat open until the screen dimmed.
On the morning of the final, Lamine woke before his alarm. For a few seconds, he didn’t know where he was. The hotel room looked like every other hotel room. Pale walls. Closed curtains. Clothes on a chair. Boots near the door.
Then he remembered.
World Cup final.
Spain versus England.
Jude.
His stomach turned. He sat up and breathed through it. The nerves were not fear. Not exactly. More like energy with nowhere to go. A storm under his skin.
At breakfast, everyone was quieter than usual. Even the loud ones. Plates clinked. Staff moved around carefully. Nobody said final too much, like saying it would make it heavier.
Nico sat beside him with cereal. He looked at Lamine for a while.
“What?”
“You slept?”
“A little.”
“You look calm.”
“I am calm.”
Nico raised his eyebrows. Lamine ignored him and drank water.
After a while, Nico said, “England are good.”
“I know.”
“Jude is good.”
“I know.”
Nico’s expression changed just a little. Lamine tightened his grip on the glass.
Then Nico only said, “Be careful with him.”
Lamine looked at him. “On the pitch?”
Nico held his gaze. “Yes,” he said. “On the pitch.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Lamine looked down at his plate.
Nico smacked his shoulder. “Eat. You’re useless when you’re hungry.”
“I’m never useless.”
“That’s debatable.”
Lamine rolled his eyes, but he picked up his fork.
Across the room, someone laughed. The sound made everything feel slightly normal again.
Only slightly.
Lamine knew stadiums. He knew noise. He knew cameras and pressure and people screaming his name.
However, today was different. The stadium felt too big. Almost impossibly.
Spain lined up in the tunnel. England stood beside them. Lamine didn’t look immediately. He stared forward. Boots on the ground. Hands loose. Face calm.
Then he turned his head like it meant nothing. Jude was already looking at him. For a second, everything else disappeared. The officials, the cameras, the players shifting around them, the noise outside the tunnel.
Jude looked focused. Then, when their eyes met, his face softened a little. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for Lamine. Lamine looked away before his face did something stupid.
Then they walked out.
The roar hit them all at once.
The national anthems passed in a blur. Lamine sang because he was supposed to. His mouth moved. His chest felt tight. He could feel Jude somewhere to his right without looking.
When the camera moved down the line, Lamine kept his face blank. Professional. Calm. Not thinking about Jude.
The whistle blew.
And the final began.
The first few minutes were not football.
They were noise, heat, grass under boots, lungs opening too fast. The ball moved, but Lamine barely remembered where it went. He remembered the sound of studs scraping. The referee’s whistle. Someone shouting his name. Someone else shouting Jude’s.
He remembered looking up and finding Jude already there.
Lamine got the ball on the right side. The touchline was close. The defender in front of him was backing away, and for one nice second, there was space.
Then Jude came across to cover. Lamine saw him from the corner of his eye. Tall, fast, annoying. His body angled perfectly, trying to close the lane inside. Lamine pushed the ball forward. Jude moved with him.
Their shoulders brushed first. Then Jude got closer, body against body, close enough that Lamine could feel the heat of him through two national shirts.
“Too slow,” Lamine muttered.
Jude’s breath was right beside his ear. “Still here.”
Lamine almost smiled. He knocked the ball past him anyway. Jude recovered. Of course he did. He always did. Lamine hated that. He loved that.
The crowd rose, then dropped again when the attack broke apart. Lamine jogged back into position and tried to breathe like Jude’s voice was not still sitting under his skin.
The match did not settle. Spain kept the ball for a while. England broke through once, then twice. Jude carried the ball through midfield like he was personally offended by every Spanish shirt in front of him. Lamine tracked back more than he wanted to. His lungs burned early.
Then it happened again.
Lamine received the ball near the halfway line this time, turned, and saw Jude coming.
“Again?” Lamine said.
“You keep choosing my side.”
“You keep following me.”
“Maybe you’re easy to find.”
Lamine took a touch past him. Jude stepped in. There was contact. Not dirty. Not gentle either. Their legs tangled for half a second, and then both of them went down. The grass hit Lamine’s shoulder first. His hip next. The stadium made that sound crowds made when nobody knew if it was a foul or not.
The referee waved play on. For a second, Lamine stayed on the ground, blinking up at the lights.
Then Jude appeared over him. He was already standing. Sweat on his temple. Chest moving fast. Hand out.
Lamine looked at the hand. It was normal. Completely normal. Players did this all the time. Sportsmanship. Respect. Nothing strange. Nothing anyone could use.
Still, Lamine stared at it for a second too long. Then he took it. Jude pulled him up. Their hands held for one beat more than necessary.
Lamine got to his feet, close enough to see Jude’s eyelashes wet with sweat.
“Don’t be nice now,” Lamine said.
Jude’s mouth twitched. “I’m never nice.”
Lamine let go first. Or Jude did. Later, neither of them would remember.
The game kept moving. The ball went wide. Someone crossed. Someone missed. Someone screamed at the assistant referee. The benches stood up, sat down, stood up again.
Lamine’s legs got heavier. Like someone was filling his boots with wet sand. His first step was still sharp, but the second took more effort. His thighs burned when he sprinted. His calves tightened when he stopped.
Across the pitch, Jude looked the same and not the same. Still running. Still shouting. Still covering space he had no right to cover.
But his breathing was harsher now. Lamine could see it when they passed near each other. Jude’s chest rising too fast. His mouth open.
At some point, the ball came loose in the box. There were too many bodies. Too many legs. A white shirt. A red shirt. Somebody rushed.
The net moved, and the stadium forgot how to breathe. For half a second, there was no sound. Then everything exploded.
Lamine stood still. Jude stood somewhere far away and too close at the same time.
The scoreboard changed. The world changed with it. Or maybe it didn’t. Lamine could not look. He looked at Jude instead. Jude was looking back. The game was still happening. They both knew it.
They ran.
After that, the match became pieces. A tackle near the touchline. Grass stuck to Lamine’s knee. Jude bending forward with his hands on his thighs, then forcing himself upright again. A corner that took forever. A clearance that went nowhere. Someone screaming, “Second ball!”
Injury time came up on the board. Too many minutes.
Lamine saw the number and wanted to laugh. Not because it was funny. Because if he didn’t laugh, he might do something worse. Jude saw it too. For a second, their eyes met across the pitch. No words this time, as there was no space for words.
The final minutes stretched until it felt impossible. The ball went long. Came back. Went wide. Came inside. Someone fell. Someone shouted.
The last few seconds were not seconds.
Then the whistle went, and the world split in two.
For one second, nobody moved. Then everyone moved at once.
The benches exploded. Staff ran onto the pitch. Some players dropped to the grass. Others covered their faces. Cameras rushed forward. The stands were not a crowd anymore. They were a storm.
Lamine could not tell who touched him first. A teammate, maybe. Or a staff member. Someone grabbed his shoulders. Someone screamed into his ear. Someone pulled him one way, then another.
Jude was somewhere else. He had people around him too. Teammates. Staff. Opponents. Cameras. Hands on his back. Hands on his arms.
Later, neither of them would remember who started looking first.
Maybe Jude did. Maybe Lamine did. Maybe they both did at the same time. All they knew was that, in the middle of the split world, they found each other.
There were dozens of people between them. Teammates. Staff. Cameramen. FIFA officials. Opposing players. Men with headsets. Men with cameras. Men carrying flags. People crying. People shouting.
They slipped through the chaos. By the time they reached each other, both of them were breathing hard.
Jude held out his hand. A safe gesture, something cameras understood. Something commentators could explain. Good sportsmanship. Mutual respect. Two players after a final. Nothing more.
Lamine looked at it. Then he took it. Their hands met.
Jude’s face changed first. Only a little. A crack in the professional mask. The kind of thing no one would notice unless they had spent months learning the smallest movements of his face.
Lamine felt his own expression shift and hated that he could not stop it. Jude’s fingers tightened. Lamine did not let go.
Around them, the world kept screaming. No one was really watching. Not properly. Everyone had their own joy, or their own grief.
Jude stepped closer. Or Lamine did. Their shoulders touched. The handshake broke, but the distance did not return. Jude’s hand moved to Lamine’s arm. Lamine’s fingers caught briefly at Jude’s sleeve.
Then someone shouted Lamine’s name. Someone else called Jude. The world wanted them back. It always did.
But for one more second, they stayed there. Between everything that had happened and everything they still could not say. Somewhere, there was a result. A winner and a loser. But not here. Not in the small space between Jude’s hand and Lamine’s sleeve. Here, there was no score.
Only my world.