Chapter Text
Talk To Me
It's late when Jude finally gets back to his hotel room. Dragging his feet, he walks to the floor-length window, depositing his bag and key on the way. He stares blankly out at the twinkling lights over Atlanta as he sits heavily on his bed, unmoving. He doesn't have any energy left, not even to make himself undress for bed.
PING.
Viking🤠: I'm so sorry bro. That was tough…
Jude sighs deeply as he looks over at his phone with tired, heavy eyes and sees the notification from Erling, now miles away.
He thought he'd spent all his tears on the pitch and in the dressing room, but his face contorts as he sees the text. He almost starts sobbing there and then, but he manages to sniff it back and hold it in.
His head hurts from crying, and there's a constant dull ache in his chest. His limbs feel weighed down by bitter disappointment and frustration. Even his face feels set in a mask of misery. Still, he reaches over and slowly taps out a reply.
BALLERham🩰: it is what it is. Better luck next time huh 🤷🏾♂️ Hope you're doing OK. Italy looks nice. My love to the missus.
Hitting send, he sighs again. Closing his eyes, he rubs the heel of his hand against them. He had tried not to cry in front of the whole world, but the pain of England's loss struck him, and struck him hard.
Muttered racial slurs from the Argentinian players had aggravated his temper and he'd retaliated, unable to restrain his rioting emotions. Remembering the taunt slung from the lips of the Argentine redhead, he grinds his teeth and squeezes his weary eyes tighter, trying not to allow further tears to flood out.
I won't cry because of him. I tried so hard. We all did. And it still wasn't enough.
He kicks his shoes off and curls up on his bed, hugging his knees to his chest. His shoulders are bunched and tight as he continues to stare blankly out of the glass at the view, clenching and unclenching his jaw. It feels like he's slowly imploding under the tension and grief he feels.
I gave my all, and it wasn't enough. I couldn't help us win. We failed, I failed–
The ping of the phone clutched tightly in his clenched hand attracts his attention, pulling him out of spiralling thoughts.
Viking🤠: miss you so much already
Viking🤠: wish you were here
This time, undeniable tears trickle out from under Jude’s lids. He's half-smiling, half-crying, as the ache in his chest intensifies. With shaky fingers he texts back, taking deep breaths.
BALLERham🩰: I miss you too. A lot. Wish you were here! 🩷
Jude hides his face in his shirt, which is soon soaking up his tears. His shoulders are shaking with his silent sobs.
I should be stronger than this. I should be able to cope–
The sudden ringtone of his phone makes him jump. Tugging his shirt down, he peeks at the caller ID from over the neckband.
Erling.
He blinks rapidly as he tries to get his breath and pull himself together. Hesitating, his finger hovers over the decline call button. But after the 5th ring, his thumb impulsively touches answer.
The broad, reliable face of the Norwegian fills his screen. Unconsciously, Jude settles ever so slightly.
“This isn't the best time,” Bellingham mumbles through his shirt. All Erling can see of him are his red, damp eyes and creased forehead– and instantly, it feels like a knife twisting itself into his heart.
“Seems like it is,” Haaland replies, his voice calmly firm, but gentle. Concern and compassion mingle in his eyes.
He knows just how much winning means to Jude. Just how much losing hurts. Erling is competitive, but his happy-go-lucky temperament keeps him lighter of heart in times of loss than Jude. Haaland can see he was right to call.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, tilting his head to one side, trying to analyse Jude through the phone.
“Like shit,” Jude half-laughs drily. Pulling his face abruptly out of his shirt, he sits up with a huff. Swiftly, he rubs his arm over his eyes and tries to stop them leaking, then sets his face in a grim mask and shrugs. “It is what it is, like I said.” He clamps up again, his mouth pressed into a line, swiping at his eyes every now and again.
“Jude…” Erling's eyebrows are furrowed, his deep gaze fixed on Jude’s tense face. “Talk to me.”
It's a line that always works, and it doesn't fail Haaland now, because Jude tosses his head with a huff and throws himself back onto his pillows, inhaling and exhaling deeply.
“It doesn't matter does it?” he gestures expressively. “Same tricks, and fouls, and all kinds of shit and nothing, no reaction from the flipping ref.” Erling nods and settles himself into his armchair on the other side of the Atlantic.
He listens patiently as Jude pours out his grievances in a steady stream over the next half an hour. He listens until Jude has lost some of his rough edges and begins to look softer, and more accepting of his situation. He listens until Jude starts to slow down and feel the tiredness that sweeps in after grief.
Finally Jude looks at him, pauses, and says contritely, “Sorry. Didn't mean to wring your ear off with all that.”
“Don't be silly,” Haaland replies with a slight shake of the head. “That's what mates are for. Besides, it'll be alright. I'll kiss it better for you when you come to Norway,” he continues with a mischievous smile.
This draws a laugh, small but genuine, from Jude.
“Yeah that'd be great, appreciate that,” Jude returns, closing his tired eyes for a long moment and stretching. “Ugh, two weeks! I actually can't wait.”
“Me tooooo,” Erling grins, perking up. “I've lots to show you. Plus mini me is dying for time with his favourite godfather...” Skillfully, Erling steers the conversation to more cheerful topics. He smiles when he sees Jude completely relax and start to doze off during a lull in conversation.
After half a minute's silence spent studying the tired cinnamon face with closed eyes on his screen, Haaland starts to sing softly. His song gets a twitch of a smile from Jude, quickly followed by another eye swipe and swallow.
“Hey, Jude, you're not half bad,
You take a sad song and make it better.
Remember you're in my heart,
And that has made life just so much better.
Hey, Jude, don't be afraid…
You were made to go out and get her.
One day that cup has your name, it'll be yours for the taking,
I just hope in the meantime you feel a little bit better…”
Jude nods along, smiling tightly but appreciatively, his eyes barely opening to slits to peek at Erling's face on the screen.
“It does mate. Thank you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. With a heavy sigh, Jude rolls onto his side, pulling the sheets over himself like a burrito. Propping the phone against another pillow then tucking himself in, his eyes slide closed as Erling continues to sing softly. The ache in his chest is less intense than it was. Now he's mostly just tired, numb, and a little empty. He focuses on Erling's singing as he drifts into unconsciousness.
“And anytime you feel the pain…
Hey, Jude, refrain,
Don't carry the world upon your shoulders.
For well you know that it's a fool
Who plays it cool
By keeping his burdens from his brothers.
Hey, Jude, you're not half bad…
You took a sad song and made it better.
Remember you're in my heart
And that has made my life just so much better.”
Jude’s breathing has slowed to gentle breaths, and Erling can see now that he's fast asleep. He studies Jude’s slumbering face with fond eyes for another full minute, noting lines where there used to be none, and the marks of strain on that once so youthful face. The full lips are half hidden in the covers, but he can see the recent tension puckering them even in sleep.
“It's wearing you down,” Haaland breathes quietly, his smiles slipping as sadness steals over his features for a brief moment. He wishes he could reach through the screen and smooth out the knotted brow and stroke the cinnamon cheek. His arms twitch as he thinks longingly about hugging that tired head to his chest.
Instead, he settles for kissing the screen, and smiles again at the sleeping face. There'll be plenty of time for those hugs in a fortnight.
“See you in two weeks, Jude.”