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The hum of Miami Stadium was still vibrating right through the concrete floor of the lower corridors. Out on the pitch, the rest of the England team was probably still sliding across the turf, celebrating a brutal, exhausting 2-1 win that had pushed them into the World Cup semi-finals. But Jude Bellingham had slipped away the second he could reasonably clear his post-match media duties.
Bellingham leaned heavily against the tiled wall just inside the door, his heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. His white kit was mapped with grass stains and caked in dark, damp patches of sweat from the exhausting 110 minutes he'd put in under the suffocating Florida heat. His shinguards were tossed onto a nearby chair, and his shoes were loosely unlaced.
He had done it. Two goals. The crucial equalizer in first-half stoppage time to rescue them from Schjelderup’s stinging opener, and then the instinctive, desperate tap-in three minutes into extra time when Nyland had spilled Rogers’ initial strike. The semi-finals in Atlanta were booked. The cameras, the pundits, the fans — they were all screaming his name.
But all Bellingham could feel was the hollow ache of absolute physical depletion. And a sharp, quiet desperation to just be still.
At the far end of the dim room, sitting on the edge of a padded training table with his long legs dangling off the side, was Haaland. He was still wearing his red and white Norway match kit. He hadn't changed…He hadn't even washed the pitch grime from his face. His shoulders were hunched forward, his hands loose between his knees as he stared blankly at the floor. He had played every single grueling minute of the 120, fighting through a disallowed Heggem goal, a VAR heartbreak, and a wall of English defenders, only to see Norway's historic World Cup run end right at the threshold of the final four.
Bellingham didn't speak. The silence between them was heavy, layered with the crushing contrast of the evening — one man moving forward into footballing immortality, the other bearing the silent, crushing weight of an exit.
Bellingham let out a long, shuddering exhale and took a slow step forward. The soft scuff of his unlaced shoes on the floor made Haaland’s head snap up.
For a fraction of a second, the fierce, unyielding competitor remained in Haaland’s sharp blue eyes. But as his gaze locked onto Bellingham’s face — seeing the sheer exhaustion hidden beneath the glare of the triumph — the hard line of his jaw softened. The mask dropped completely, leaving only a quiet, vulnerable exhaustion that he never let the world see.
"Jude," Haaland murmured. His voice was raw, a low, gravelly rasp scraping against the quiet of the room, completely stripped of the post-match intensity he’d been wearing on the pitch.
Hearing his first name after an hour of hearing commentators yell his surname through stadium speakers made Bellingham stall out. He took another step closer, his usual confident swagger entirely missing, replaced by the heavy, leaden exhaustion of a 120-minute battle. He stopped just a couple of feet away from the training table, looking down at the giant Norwegian who was currently looking right back at him with an unreadable expression.
"You look like you've been hit by a truck," Haaland said softly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward into a faint, exhausted smirk.
Bellingham let out a breathy, dry laugh, crossing his arms over the damp 'Bellingham 10' on his chest. "Says you? Stones did a number on you."
"Stones is annoying," Haaland grunted, though there was no real heat in it. He leaned back slightly on his hands, tilting his head up to examine the English midfielder. His blue eyes traced the grass stains on Bellingham’s white jersey before landing squarely on the heavy player-of-the-match trophy resting on the floor by Bellingham's unlaced boots. "Two goals. A tap-in off a spill. Very elegant, Jude. Very world-class."
"Hey, a goal's a goal," Bellingham countered, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his fatigue. He took the final step forward, closing the distance until his knees were almost brushing against Haaland’s dangling legs. "And it got us to Atlanta. Don't be bitter."
"I am not bitter," Haaland said, though he let out a dramatic, heavy sigh, rolling his shoulders back. "Okay, maybe a little. We had you guys. If the VAR didn't pull back Heggem's goal..." He trailed off, shaking his head, but the competitive fire in his eyes quickly gave way to something much softer, much more intense, as he looked up into Bellingham's face. "But you were the only one sharp enough to follow the ball. You were annoying today, too."
"Good. That was the plan." Bellingham looked down at Haaland's hands, which were now resting on the edge of the table right beside his own thighs. The urge to lean in, to bridge the remaining distance after weeks of professional distance and media speculation, was suddenly overwhelming. The room felt incredibly small, the distant sound of the English celebrations outside completely fading away.
Haaland noticed the shift in tension. The lazy, teasing smirk faded from his lips, replaced by a quiet, questioning look. He reached out, his massive hand hovering for a fraction of a second before his fingers gently hooked into the collar of Bellingham's damp jersey, right near the badge, tugging him just an inch closer.
"You played almost two hours and you still came looking for me," Haaland murmured, his voice dropping an octave, a playful but dangerous edge returning to his tone. "Why is that? Shouldn't you be drinking champagne right now?"
Bellingham’s heart did a completely different kind of flutter than it had on the pitch. He didn't pull away from the tension; instead, he leaned into it, his hands finding the edge of the training table on either side of Haaland's thighs, effectively trapping the striker in place.
"Maybe I got tired of the noise," Bellingham whispered, looking directly into Haaland's eyes, his voice steady despite the rapid pulse in his throat. "Or maybe I just wanted to see if you were going to cry about the loss."
Haaland let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated right through Bellingham's chest. "I do not cry," he said, his thumb brushing against the fabric of the jersey, just barely grazing the skin of Bellingham's collarbone. The touch sent a sharp spike of warmth straight down Bellingham's spine. "But if you stay here any longer smelling like a Miami swamp, I might start."
"Shut up," Bellingham laughed softly, but he didn't move away. He actually leaned a fraction closer, his eyes dropping to Haaland's lips before snapping back up. The teasing was hitting a definitive ceiling, the unspoken weight of what had been building between them all summer suddenly hanging in the humid air of the recovery room.
Haaland’s hand shifted from the jersey, his large fingers moving up to rest against the side of Bellingham's neck, his thumb settling right over the frantic, racing beat of his pulse. He tilted his head up slightly, his blue eyes searching Bellingham's face with a sudden, heavy gravity.
"You're shaking, Jude," Haaland said quietly, the teasing completely gone now.
Bellingham didn’t answer right away. He couldn't. The sudden, grounding weight of Haaland’s palm against his neck felt like the only thing keeping him tethered to the floor. The frantic thudding of his pulse beneath Haaland’s thumb was loud enough that he was certain the older man could feel every single erratic beat.
"I'm not shaking," Bellingham lied softly, though his voice lacked any real conviction. He let out a slow, trembling breath, his shoulders dropping as the final defensive walls he’d kept up all evening completely disintegrated. "Just... tired. I told you, it’s too loud out there."
"Yeah," Haaland murmured, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle against the warm skin just beneath Bellingham’s jawline. His gaze softened, the fierce, unyielding competitor vanishing entirely, replaced by a quiet, consuming warmth. "You are a terrible liar, Jude."
"And you're too observant for a striker," Bellingham countered, but the tease was whispered, stripped of any real bite.
He didn't back away. Instead, Bellingham allowed his weight to shift forward, his hands sliding further along the smooth vinyl of the training table until his forearms were resting flat on the surface, bracketing Haaland’s thighs. The proximity was dizzying. He could smell the faint, sharp tang of the pitch on Haaland—sweat, cut grass, and the lingering heat of the Florida night—mixed with something deeply familiar and uniquely *him*.
Haaland didn't pull back either. His large hand remained anchored on the side of Bellingham's neck, his fingers sliding slightly up into the short, damp curls at the nape of his neck, holding him there with a gentle, non-negotiable pressure. With his other hand, Haaland reached out and gripped the edge of Bellingham’s waist, his broad palm resting over the damp fabric of the England kit, pulling him just that final, excruciating half-inch closer until the space between them vanished entirely.
"You played a perfect match," Haaland said, his voice dropping to a low, rough rumble that vibrated straight through Bellingham’s chest. His blue eyes searched Bellingham’s face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the dark, exhausted smudges under his eyes, before finally settling on his lips. "But you look like you’re about to fall over."
"Then catch me," Bellingham whispered.
The invitation hung in the quiet air for a split second, heavy and undeniable.
Haaland didn't wait. He leaned forward, tilting his head just enough to bridge the remaining distance, and pressed his lips against Bellingham’s.
It wasn't the frantic, explosive rush of scoring a winner in extra time. It was slow, deliberate, and incredibly soft — a quiet collision that felt less like a beginning and more like an inevitable return. Haaland’s lips were warm, parting slightly as he deepened the pressure, his touch careful, as if he were acutely aware of how completely exhausted Bellingham actually was.
Bellingham let out a soft, ragged sigh against Haaland’s mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as a wave of absolute relief washed over him. The tight, coiled tension that had been building in his muscles since the opening whistle finally dissolved. He leaned heavily into the kiss, his hands moving from the table to grip the damp shoulders of Haaland’s Norway jersey, his fingers bunching the red fabric tightly in his fists.
The kiss stretched out, lazy and unhurried, a private sanctuary carved out in the middle of a chaotic tournament. Haaland’s hand at the back of Bellingham’s neck tightened slightly, his fingers tangling deeper into his hair, angling his head to drink him in. His other hand stayed firmly anchored at Bellingham’s waist, the heavy, secure pressure holding the midfielder steady against him.
When Haaland finally pulled back, it was only by a fraction of an inch. His forehead rested against Bellingham’s, both of them breathing in the shared, warm air between them. Bellingham’s eyes blinked open, dark and slightly dazed, a small, breathless smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Took you long enough," Bellingham murmured, his voice thick.
Haaland let out a low, rumbling chuckle, the sound vibrating against Bellingham’s lips. "You were the one talking about swamp smells. I was being polite."
"Shut up," Bellingham laughed softly, burying his face directly into the crook of Haaland’s neck. He wrapped his arms fully around the striker’s broad shoulders, letting his entire body go lax, completely relying on Haaland to hold him up.
Haaland accommodated him without a second thought. He shifted back slightly on the training table, pulling Bellingham with him until Bellingham’s unlaced boots left the floor entirely. He gathered the younger man into his lap, his long arms wrapping securely around Bellingham’s back, effectively swallowing him up in a massive, crushing hug.
It was ridiculous and entirely ungraceful — two professional athletes, still clad in their dirty, mismatched international kits, tangled together on a padded physical therapy table in a dimly lit auxiliary room. But neither of them cared.
Bellingham let his cheek rest against the damp fabric of Haaland’s shoulder, his eyes closing as a deep, comfortable warmth settled deep into his bones. The distant roar of the stadium felt miles away now, entirely irrelevant.
"We are going to smell so bad on the flights," Haaland commented after a long, peaceful silence, his hand idly rubbing soothing paths up and down Bellingham’s spine.
"Don't care," Bellingham mumbled, his voice already heavy with impending sleep. He tightened his arms around Haaland’s neck, pulling himself even closer into the big striker’s warmth. "Just stay like this for five minutes. Then you can go back to being a sore loser."
Haaland pressed another soft, lingering kiss into Bellingham’s damp curls, his arms tightening around him like a shield. "I can stay like this longer than five minutes," he murmured into the quiet room. "The media can wait."