Chapter Text
Jude Bellingham was staring at Haaland. Erling Haaland, who was a monster in his own right on the pitch, was absolutely demolishing their enemy team, at a rate that Jude hadn’t previously thought possible. Bellingham probably could have helped, but he felt he probably wasn’t needed with all of the attacking Haaland was doing, and besides, his knees might crumble beneath him if he tried to move at any faster than a walk.
Jude. A voice was whispering at the back of his head, but he couldn’t bother to pay attention to it. Jude, this is wrong. What? What was-
A sinking feeling was drawn back into his chest, like a hook pulling him into water instead of out of it. He was always so careful not to think about what he was doing. If he thought for too long about it, then- then he was aware again of the fact that he was not a good person. He was what soccer players teased each other around, knowing that none of them could stoop to that level. He wasn’t homophobic, of course, but he knew he couldn’t- it wasn’t right for him, at least.
But that didn’t stop his horrible, betraying eyes. It didn’t stop his gaze from following the golden locks flowing behind a wonder of a man, leg muscles tensing and releasing as he moved across the grass. It didn’t stop the flittering of his eyes towards the way his jaw was set and untrembling, the way it curved around his face, hard and square but capable of love and joy and-
god, he needed to stop this. He pushed his legs to move, catching the ball as it was passed to him, then sending it the way of another teammate, leaving himself open again. He kept his eyes on the ball so they would be unable to choose to lock on a specific player with a cute, messy bun on the back of his head that he had re-put up during the second half of the game as if without a second thought.
His plan to not look at anything but the ball failed miserably when it was passed to none other than the person he was trying desperately not to look at. Fuck. But, then again- if Erling had the ball, that meant they were very likely to score. He tried to move towards the Norwegian man, of course just in case Haaland needed someone to pass to and definitely not simply to watch him play. His deft feet were maneuvering the ball as if he wanted to do nothing else for the rest of his life. He passed one player, then another, and- GOAL!
It was beautiful. It was magnificent and insane. Haaland was beautiful, and magnificent and probably a little insane.
Without giving himself a chance to think, Jude was running for Haaland. He twisted to see his face and tripped forwards, almost into him- another of their teammates grabbed the two of them, probably because Jude was too close not to hug along with Haaland. They were in a weird position now, Jude realized, because he hadn’t reached out his hands to hug his friend, but instead was moving towards him, face up towards his, adoringly.
Haaland was backing away, keeping them barely an inch apart, but he was looking at him. Looking. Into his eyes. God, Jude was so fucked, but he didn’t feel fucked right now, eyes meeting swimming blue irises, faces inches apart, Erling above him with an unreadable look in his eyes. He felt like he was moving in slow motion, and the crazy thought of kissing him burst into his mind like lightning.
In moments, it was over, and Erling was smiling far enough away from him that Jude smacked himself mentally. What was he thinking? Imagining kissing his teammate? On the pitch? He was crazy. Fully, clinically crazy. He watched as Haaland and the rest of his teammates turned to begin the next round, and followed in a daze before slapping his head and trying to snap out of it. He could do whatever this was once he was off the pitch. He couldn’t let a game pass without helping at all.
For the remainder of the game, he managed to keep his glances to a minimum and focus on the ball, assisting another goal that was, of course, scored by Haaland. By the end of the game, he was entirely ready to tear his jersey off in the changing rooms, shower, put on clean clothes, and stumble into his room to sleep, and so he did all of that... except for sleep.
How could he sleep, when he was now unable to hide from the fact that had chased him since he saw a boy at 13 and stared a little too long at the way his arms were shaped, arm hair flowing along slight muscles? And to face the fact because of Erling, one of his closest friends?
This would ruin him. He was entirely, fully sure that it would be the end of him, and his friendships, and his soccer career. He did not get any sleep that night, and not because he was partying with his soccer team- though the rest of the team seemed perfectly happy to- but because his mind would not allow anything to fill it but reruns of the moment that he had secured his fate.