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Beat.
His heart is rushing, and his head pulses with every beat, sending waves of pain through his body.
Beat.
Every step on the pitch turf echoes with a dull ache in his temples. He feels like his head is about to explode, and plastering a forced smile on his face makes it worse. The crowd's screams around him buzz in an unintelligible hum, thousands of voices chanting the last notes of Beatles' "Hey Jude" in an out of tune chorus.
Beat.
He feels sweat trickling down his face, tastes the salt on his lips. It stinges his eyes, adding to the frustration bubbling inside. He is not angry, he tells himself, trying his best to stay composed, too little too late. The Miami heat is a quiet but steady foe, making his jersey stick to his skin and his breath laboured, his lungs stinging from overexertion.
Beat.
Images of the game they just lost flash through his mind on repeat. At least two defenders chase him at every moment, blocking him off from any chance to attack. Beat. Sørloth does not pass him the ball, choosing his pride over their team and costing them a guaranteed goal. Beat. His hands collide with the chest of Elliot Anderson, his own Man City teammate, the power rippling through his muscles, the dull thud of the English player hitting the ground. Beat. The referee's voice, amplified through the headset, announcing Norway's goal being revoked. Beat. The bright LEDs on the substitution board, painting the number 9 red and calling him to the bench when his team needs him most. Beat. Beat. Beat.
Erling Haaland loosens his bun absentmindedly, hoping to lighten the brain-numbing headache that is making his fingers tremble and his jaw clench. It barely helps. He casts his eyes down, the sea of green flooding his vision. Green like the goalie jersey of Nyland, who is not trying to hide his sobs. Nyland, who has the privilege of crying openly that Haaland does not allow himself. He must handle the loss with grace and humility. So much for an icon of healthy masculinity, so much for the talks of mental health and open feelings.
He fights through the press talks, the journalists' cameras in his face, the sympathetic looks from everyone around. He talks about his team, his country. He talks about Jude, and for the first time this night, smiling does not threaten to split his head open. It comes naturally, as does the praise spilling uncontrollably out of him.
Everybody would be lucky to have a Jude on their team, he says, not a hint of a lie in his voice. He knows what it's like to have Jude play for him, and knows what it's like to have Jude on his team. If he were to be completely honest, today it felt like nobody else was on his team but Jude.
The cheeky greeting. The playful tickle, distracting him during a tense free kick. The warm arm slung around his waist, keeping him grounded during the tense penalty check. Hot breath on his neck as he cradled Jude's head in his hands, trying as best as he could to keep himself from threading his fingers through the coarse curls.
He is one of the best in the world, he says, not quite meaning football. Erling would never say it out loud, but to him, Jude was once the center of the world. Leaving Norway for Germany as a teenager was difficult, but leaving Jude behind at Borussia two years later was on a whole other level. Every celebratory hug felt like coming home, a feeling he could never recreate with either of his other teams for reasons he was not ready to admit to himself.
Erling stays at the Miami Stadium until late evening, speaking to as many fans as he could. That was the only reason, he kept telling himself. Not to avoid seeing his teammates, and definitely not to avoid watching England celebrate advancing to the semi-finals.
Beat.
Haaland's head falls against the locker room wall with a dull thud, instantly making him regret it. He takes off his kit, the smell of dried sweat hitting his nose in a nauseating wave. The pain is getting weaker, dissipating enough to make him acknowledge the sharp sensation in his toes, as if a hundred knives were slashing at his feet at once. He does not bother to check his phone before he enters the showers. Cold water sends chills through his body, washing off the shame of defeat off his skin.
Erling Haaland slides down the tiled wall, his knees finally giving out in exhaustion. Alone at last, he lets himself go, tears flowing from his eyes uncontrollably. With every teardrop, the pressure drains from his temples, leaving a feeling of emptiness behind. He does not know how long he sits there, eyes closed, hugging his knees, head hung low in resignation, until the water suddenly stops flowing, startling him.
“I thought I'd find you here.”
A voice he knows all too well hits his ears in the deafening silence of the shower room. Erling raises his red swollen eyes at the man leaning against the wall mere inches away, hand still on the water switch.
Jude tries for a cheeky smirk and fails, his face marked with genuine concern.
“What are you doing here?” Erling draws out, his accented English devoid of emotion.
“You hadn't returned to the hotel in hours and everyone's been looking for you.”
“Everyone, huh.” He lets out a derisive huff.
Jude has the audacity to roll his eyes.
“Yes, Erling, everyone. Your team, manager, your mum phoned me for fucks's sake.”
“Why would she call you?”
“I'll ignore that. Erling, you're doing this again.” Jude sounds irritatingly patronizing, looming over him like a disappointed parent.
“Doing what?” His voice is distant, trying to prop up the wall Erling spent so long constructing between them. Kinda hard to do when you're butt naked as the day you were born on a cold shower floor after the most widely publicized loss of your career.
Jude sighs, his usual cheerful demeanor gone without a trace.
“Blaming yourself and wallowing in self-pity all alone instead of talking to somebody like a normal human being.”
“Very smooth, Bellingham.”
“I'm serious! This ain't the end of the world, and you played well today. I was there, I’d know.”
“Easy for you to say. We lost.”
“It was not because of you.”
“Was it not?”
Jude sighs again and plops down on the floor right next to him. Erling notes absentmindedly that he is getting cold as the water starts drying on his skin, a stark contrast to the blazing heat of Jude's body nearby.
“Erling, what is happening with you today? No, it was not because of you. Your teammates were unfair to you, your manager made a wrong call to bench you.”
“You forgot the push.”
“Yeah, you're not the guy to go around pushing people, but if I'm honest, Anderson might as well have played into it. Whatever happened there is not on you.”
He fell silent, seemingly out of comments to make, and then spoke again.
“I was worried about you today though.”
Erling's head falls back against the tiled wall. This closeness was the last thing he needed right now, and at the same time it was the thing he wanted most. He was desperate for privacy to allow himself to feel. Jude offering the safety to do that exact thing should feel like a blessing, but instead feels like a curse, a risk he cannot afford to take. With some remnants of resolve, he pushes out a neutral reaction.
“What's there to worry about?”
“Like I said. You ain't the bloke to go around pushing people. Miami heat got to your head? Heard you lot had some stomach bug around.”
The stomach bug had nothing to do with Haaland himself, but it sure did not help the team's nerves before the quarter-finals.
“Heat. Headache. Teammates getting on my nerves.” You being there. “It's my first world cup too, I suppose the stress caught up to me at last. You know I get nervous before every game. The whole fake it till you make it confidence you've got? I can't do that.” I can't be you. I can't have you.
Huh. Wonder where that thought came from.
For a moment, Erling is afraid Jude will try to deny it. Go for the appeasement tactic, swear he is just as nervous, claim they have the same mentality when it comes to this sport. Pretend the confidence is not there. Ignore the locker room rivalries at Real Madrid, ignore the self-aggrandising celebration ritual.
Thankfully, Jude respects him enough not to lie.
“Well, it's a good thing you're not me then, innit? I'm the overconfident rookie, you're the steady humble mountain, that's our thing. Too bad you got stuck with a bunch of dickheads.”
“Watch your mouth when you talk about my team.” The indignation is always intuitive, the need to protect and defend an integral part of him by now. Jude smiles at him in earnest, his deep brown eyes glinting with mischief. Erling Haaland, even at his lowest, is still Erling Haaland, and his team comes first. The realization knocks him out of the self-pity cycle faster than the cold shower ever could.
“But if I'm honest,” he continues, “I miss having a team that did not envy me. Miss not being the driving force that gets left behind when everyone else gets into the game. I miss not being called the next Messi every time I sneeze at a ball right.”
I miss being equal, he doesn't say. I miss you, he barely dares to think.
“I miss playing with you too, man.” Jude says, and Erling wonders if his mouth was braver than even his brain, but no, Jude just knows him that well. A warm arm rests on his wet naked shoulders, and Erling feels a formidable force draw him in — a force that he would never resist.
The hug feels more real and raw than any of their brief touches during the match. Here, in the complete privacy of an empty locker room shower, Erling allows himself to grasp Jude's shoulder with the full force of his hand, fingers clutching the other's soft sweatshirt. Jude's face finds it's way to the crook of Erling's neck like it always does, their height difference just right for Jude's breath to ghost over Erling's skin and send a ripple of goosebumps across his back.
Erling feels an arm around his waist, a hand on the small of his back, and wonders if this is what death feels like — a blissful release from the vices of the cruel world into heaven's embrace. He stops questioning why his heart is accelerating again, why his cold palms are suddenly sweating, and accepts the rush of adrenaline pooling in his gut. His wet hair sticks uncomfortably to his face and neck, but it does not irritate him nearly as much as it would earlier in the day. Finally, he feels at peace with himself.
He gives into his impulse from earlier and runs his fingers through the curly hair, its texture familiar and so distinctly Jude. It calms him down, throwing his mind into a limbo somewhere between his happy days in Dortmund and the beginning of today, when he still thought they had a chance to win against England, and his brain was filled with nothing but excitement at sharing a pitch with his friend again.
Friends do not have their guts tied in knots at the thought of seeing each other, he thinks with a mix of shame and resigned acceptance.
“I missed you, not just the games.” he mumbles into Jude's shoulder, finding it shockingly easy to admit.
“I know, Erling. I know.”
I know how you're feeling. I know how that feels too.
Jude leans away from Erling's shoulder and moves up to press their foreheads together, in a way that feels most natural to them. His chocolate eyes bear into Erling's very soul, barely blinking, as he takes Erling's face in his hands. The Norwegian feels his breath hitch, equally afraid of moving away and moving too close.
“I heard they might take you into Madrid next season. We might be in the same club again. We can play together, be a team. Be a dynamic duo again, and I'll get you every ball you need, every ball you deserve, and—”
“Jude.”
“Huh?” his voice cracks a little, eyes looking desperate.
“Stop talking about fucking football.”
Jude barely has the time to inhale as their lips collide.
Erling has imagined it many times, mostly against his will, but nothing could prepare him for how warm and soft Jude's lips would be. Before he can come back to his senses and pull away in horror, Jude kisses back, and everything falls into place for Erling. He is exactly where he belongs, his face cradled in gentle loving hands, hot breaths mingling, a tangy taste of sweat and musk on his lips. Jude's movements are swift and confident as he deepens the kiss, swiping his tongue over Erling's lower lip. Erling welcomes it with enthusiasm and so, so much devotion. His heart flutters in his chest, not painfully, like it does during tense games, but with a long forgotten tenderness.
Right here and now, Erling would agree to anything — losing the World cup, transferring to Madrid, cutting off his leg if it meant he could keep kissing the man in front of him, if he could be allowed to keep Jude Bellingham to himself.
With a last peck, Jude pulls away first and looks at him with a tender smile. He is visibly tired, the tournament and late hour showing as puffy bags under his deep eyes, his skin golden in the electric warm light of the shower room. Haaland wonders if he has ever seen anyone so beautiful. He feels his own lips tingling with a smile, all anguish of the day forgotten. Here and now, with Jude by his side, he is happy.
“Let's get you to bed, big guy.” Jude whispers with a soft chuckle.
Erling doesn't have the strength to protest or make cheeky comments. His head falls on Jude's chest in acceptance. Whatever happens next, he knows Jude will take care of him. They are a team after all.