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At 2am, Jude found himself at the door of Erling’s hotel room.
The corridor was dead silent. It was strange, especially having just come from their team’s celebration party. Declan had insisted on putting on his god awful playlist, which had blasted through the shitty Bluetooth speaker they had on hand. It was safe to say Jude had had enough of partying for one night.
That, and… he figured he needed to clear his mind. Needed to talk to the person he hadn't been able to stop thinking of since the moment he woke up that morning.
It was a miracle he'd managed to score even a single goal, with the way Erling was like static; the hair on Jude's skin rose whenever Erling was in close proximity, his nerves buzzing with the urge to abandon the game and cling to him.
But the fact remained that he did score — twice. England were through to the semis. Jude was happy. Erling said he was happy too.
And yet Jude didn't expect the way his stomach would sink at the thought of leaving Erling behind. The feeling was exacerbated by the fact that it was him that had scored the goals. Him that had knocked Erling out of the tournament.
The least he could do was see him before he had to go. Perhaps there was a better time than 2am to do so, but teams tended to return home quickly; Jude wasn't sure when he'd get another chance.
With a deep breath, and a prayer that Erling was either awake or wouldn't be pissed off that someone had awoken him, Jude knocked on the door.
He strained his ears, and sure enough, there was shuffling behind the door. Not even ten seconds passed before the door swung open, Erling appearing behind it. The room was dark, and Erling had to squint to adjust to the sudden brightness. His long hair was let down and slightly mussed, and Jude had to resist the urge to run his fingers through it.
Erling’s eyes widened, his lips twitching upwards, and it made Jude’s stomach flip to know his presence alone was enough to make him happy. “Jude,” Erling said, his voice low and gentle and as smooth as honey. Crowds chanted his name that day, and yet only when his name fell from Erling's mouth did Jude's heart truly sing.
Jude stared past Erling into the pitch black room. “Hey Erling,” he whispered. “Did I wake you?”
“No, no,” Erling replied quickly. “I was just lying there. Staring at the ceiling.” He stepped aside, but hesitated. “Did you… want to come in?”
“Yeah. I mean, if you don't mind.”
As Jude entered the room, Erling flipped a light switch, and the room’s bedside lamp flickered on, bathing everything in golden light.
“I thought you'd be celebrating with your team,” Erling said, perching on the corner of his bed.
“I was,” Jude replied, “but I'd had enough of Declan’s playlist—” Haaland smiled at that “—and… I dunno. I just wanted to clear my head to be honest.”
Erling cocked his head. Jude swore there was a twinkle in the man’s eye. “So you came straight to me?”
Part of Jude knew he should've been flustered. Coming to Erling to clear his head? There were clear implications there, ones that would make his teammates, his coach, and the whole world raise their brows. But Jude was beyond that now; he would not be ashamed of seeking out Erling, one of the few people he could trust with his life.
“Of course I did,” Jude said, like he'd just been asked whether the sky was blue. “What, did you think I wouldn't come say hi after a match?”
Erling huffed. “Is that all you're here for? To say hi?”
Jude parted his lips, but shut them when he realized there was no point in retaliating. “Well, no,” he said quietly, hyper-conscious of the space between them and the silence pressing in around them, worried that perhaps the people in the rooms beside them were somehow listening in.
Erling smiled, that same toothy smile that Jude had always found adorable. “Then come sit,” he said, patting the duvet beside him. “We're not strangers. And it's been a long day; you should rest your feet.”
Jude sat beside Erling, pointedly ignoring the way his heart did somersaults. He could rest his feet, but he could not rest his heart — at least, not when Erling was so close to him.
“So,” Erling said.
“So,” Jude replied with a laugh. “It was a good game, wasn't it?”
“For you,” said Erling. There was something bitter in his tone. Sharp, in a way that Erling never was. It frustrated Jude, the way the world saw Erling as this untouchable viking, this brute. But Jude knew the truth: that Erling was the sweetest, softest man on the planet. With that being said, Jude grew concerned.
“Is this about your team?” Jude asked. “I saw it, you know. The way they wouldn't pass to you. That must've been the most frustrating feeling.” If Erling's teammates had passed to him more often instead of trying to score their own goals, perhaps England wouldn't have won.
“...Well, I suppose that was part of it,” said Erling. “Our performance was not the best.”
“Neither was ours,” Jude replied. “If we want to get past the semis, we'll need to do better.”
But Jude could tell Erling wasn't fully listening. His gaze was fixated on his hands in his lap, his brows drawn tightly together.
Jude leaned fractionally closer. Erling wasn't one to let things burden him, and yet here he was, looking like the world's most burdensome weight was on his shoulders. You couldn't blame Jude for wanting to get a closer look.
“You alright?” Jude asked.
“I'm good,” replied Erling, but that look on his face didn't subside.
“No,” said Jude, grabbing Erling’s wrist, which made Erling's gaze snap to his. “You're not doing that. You don't get to do that.” There was no way Erling was leaving this place feeling like shit — not on Jude's watch. “Tell me what's going on, yeah?”
“Jude, please.” Erling's eyes slipped shut for a moment, like he was praying to some god that he didn't have to have this conversation. “Not now.”
“Then when?”
The question rang out in the silence. Jude became hyper aware of the heat of Erling's wrist against his palm. He wanted to bring his hand further down, to clasp their fingers together. Erling's hand would swallow his. Jude would never want to let go. But he'd have to, wouldn't he? Erling was going home. Jude had done that.
Erling parted his lips, wet them with his tongue, as he contemplated. At last, he spoke. “I played like shite out there.”
The words struck Jude, but it didn't sting — it just… confused him.
…That was it? Didn't all players overthink and convince themselves they played terribly, even though they really didn't?
“Don't sell yourself short, mate,” Jude said, his free hand coming to rest on Erling’s shoulder. “You made some pretty good shots.”
“None of them went in,” Erling retorted. “And I got a goal disallowed. I technically scored negative one goal.”
Jude squeezed Erling's shoulder. “Everyone has bad games.”
Erling raised his brows. “Didn't you just imply I played well?”
“Don't be a smartass.”
Erling laughed, which made Jude laugh. As the laughter died down, Jude leaned forward and rested his forehead against Erling’s shoulder, where his hand still lay. “I hate that we had to face you.”
Erling laughed again, softer this time, the vibration of it travelling through Jude's fingers. “Would you have rather faced France?”
“Oh, we'd destroy them,” Jude said without hesitation.
Erling hummed. “True. I would've loved to see Kylian cry.”
A reply was on Jude’s tongue — something about how he actually began to wish they'd faced France instead, so he could see Kylian’s tears firsthand. But his mind just about short-circuited as Erling’s large, warm hand came to rest on the small of Jude’s back.
“If Norway faced any team other than yours, I bet we'd have made it to the semis,” Erling said.
Confused, Jude lifted his head off Erling's shoulder and stared up at him. “What do you mean?”
Erling smiled. It was a soft, fond thing, one that Jude swore Erling had never directed towards anyone else. His heart was an acrobat at this point, doing all kinds of somersaults and twists in his ribcage. Perhaps he'd chosen the wrong sport. Perhaps he should've let his heart dictate things from then on — maybe he'd get into gymnastics instead.
…Jude stomped down the thought. If he truly let his heart take control, he'd have kissed Erling the moment he opened his door.
“I'm saying,” Erling began, “if we played anyone else, I wouldn't have been so distracted by you.”
Jude’s mouth dropped open. His gaze flickered between Erling's eyes, and down to his still-smiling mouth, searching for any hint of insincerity. Or maybe he was joking — yeah, that was probably right. Back when they played for Dortmund, they jokingly flirted a lot. That's what this was: a joke.
But Erling’s gaze held firm, as did his smile, like he was watching him, waiting for his reaction. Jude didn't dare wonder what reaction Erling was hoping for.
Jude laughed, but it was clipped. Testing the waters. Maybe if he laughed, then Erling would too, and the facade would be up. “Good one, mate,” Jude said.
Erling’s smile faltered, though his gaze remained no less intense. “You think I'm joking?”
Jude didn't answer. Couldn't answer. So Erling continued. “I wasn't half as aggressive as I normally am during that match. I tried, believe me, but the moment you appeared in my peripheral, I couldn't help but watch you instead of the ball.”
Jude swallowed hard. Unable to meet Erling’s gaze anymore, he stared down at where he still gripped Erling's wrist. “...Why?”
Erling huffed out a laugh. “Have you seen yourself, Jude?” Before he could react, Erling's hand cupped his cheek, guiding his face back upwards. He didn't know what was worse: the fact that he had to witness Erling's reverent gaze, or that Erling could feel just how hot Jude's skin had become. “You're a beauty. Not just here,” Erling said, pausing to stroke Jude's cheek, “but on the pitch — especially on the pitch.”
He planted his other hand on Jude's shoulder. “The whole world has been watching you. You can't blame me for wanting to also.”
As they stared at one another, Jude's heart swelled with an emotion he couldn't quite name — perhaps one he didn't want to, or wasn't ready to, name. He just knew that he was dizzy with the thought that this whole time, Erling had been struggling to pay attention just as Jude had. It was cathartic. It gave him hope.
…Hope for what? That was another thing Jude didn't want to acknowledge.
His heart pounded against his chest. It probably wanted to break free and finally start its career as a gymnast. It would have made things a lot easier if Jude dropped out of football and went into gymnastics; he'd never have had to see Erling again. He'd never have had to feel so conflicted.
The moment the thought sprung up, Jude immediately stomped all over it. There was no way in hell he'd have been able to live with himself. No way he'd have been able to live, period.
Jude snapped back into himself and laughed. “Dumbass,” he said. “No wonder you lost. Save the ogling for when you're watching me on the telly, not during a game.”
Erling laughed too, his own cheeks glowing red. He retracted his hands and dropped them into his lap. Two seconds passed, and Jude decided it had been two seconds too many since Erling's skin was on his. He grabbed Erling's wrist and brought his hand back to Jude's cheek.
“...Promise me you'll keep watching though, yeah?” Jude asked. “Watch us get through the semis, and watch us win the finals. Watch me hold up that trophy during the ceremony. Know I'm holding it up for you.”
If Erling stayed quiet for long, Jude's confidence would've wavered. It went without saying that the road to the trophy would've been tough. England's victory was beyond uncertain. Jude was talking out of his ass, and in a few days there was a chance that by declaring this, Jude would've totally embarrassed himself.
But Erling didn't wait.
He lurched forward, wrapping his arms around Jude's shoulders and pulling him close. Erling was huge, and it couldn't have been more evident than now, with his body engulfing him. Erling's scent, too — the aroma of expensive hotel soap — enveloped Jude. His eyes slid shut, and he wrapped his own arms around Erling. He'd never felt more safe in his life.
It was unmistakable, the way Erling turned his head ever so slightly and pressed his plump and slightly rough lips against Jude's neck. The sensation sent a shiver down his spine.
After what felt like an eternity — which was somehow still not enough for Jude — Erling pulled back, his hands still on Jude's shoulders. Their faces were mere inches apart. “I will. Of course I will, Jude.” He dropped his forehead to Jude's. “Win this for me, yeah?”
Jude swallowed hard and nodded. He didn't trust his voice — not when there was a lump the size of his fist in his throat.
Erling grinned and slapped Jude's shoulders. “Anyway. Wanna sleep over?”
Jude laughed. His heart had never been so full. “Thought you'd never ask, Erling.”
And so the two of them got into position beneath the duvet. They initially lay facing each other, but they couldn't go two seconds without laughing, with the way they were forced to stare right at each other. So Jude rolled over and Erling pulled Jude's back against his chest. Jude let out a long, deep sigh, relaxing for the first time since the final whistle blew.
The last thought that crossed his mind before he drifted off was that he couldn't care less whether it came home; right here, in Erling's arms, Jude already had.