Chapter Text
Erling rushed to the hotel door as fast as he could. He started banging on it, then remembered that the other rooms were probably occupied as well, and adjusted his knock to be softer.
The door opened without much resistance, and the tall Norwegian let himself in the dark room. He looked around for any sign of his friend, and his eyes landed on his hunched over figure sitting on the side of the bed, staring out of the window.
He walked over to Bellingham, sitting down beside him. The England player was silently crying, shiny tear tracks glinting in evident rivulets across his face and down his cheeks. Erling reached a hand to dry them, and Jude broke again, sobbing soundlessly as he refused to look at the blond.
“Messi messed you up pretty bad,” he whispered, an open invitation to talk without coming across as rude. Jude nodded silently, turning towards him with red-rimmed eyes. “Couldn’t believe it when you called.”
Haaland spread his arms wide, and Jude pressed himself to the taller man’s chest, letting out all of his negative emotions as his anchor absorbed them.
“It’s just…” he sniffled, then cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice from cracking, to get any semblance of dignity back after it was stripped from him. “I could’ve…But I didn’t. We all didn’t. Except Gordon. Great player. He did his job. I didn’t. I was supposed to…I don’t know. That second wind from them…Came outta nowhere! What even was that? I’m sorry Erling, we thought that after beating you we could’ve…But we didn’t. We sold.”
“Sold?” Erling pulled back, confusion evident on his face. “The match?”
“Yeah…” He mumbled, tracing the cuff of his friend’s shirt, trying to keep from sobbing again. “We had it in the bag, I mean, it was right there! And then they suddenly came alive, like there was this fire lapping at their soles and then,” he mimed smacking a ball. “In the net. No handball this time around, thank god, but that means we’re just clapped, I’m not gonna lie.”
Haaland’s hand stopped mid-air from where he’d gone to card it through his hair, looking at his Dortmund colleague like he’d started speaking gibberish. Evidently, the frown was visible.
“Too much?” Jude asked, a smile tentatively forming.
Erling shrugged, nodding in a so-so gesture. “Didn’t understand a lick of it.”
“Oi!” Jude was laughing outright now, and hit him with the back of his palm in his chest. “You’re taking the piss right now! You know exactly what I said.”
Haaland was smiling too, trying to keep the giggles at bay, but it was all too fun to ragebait one of his best friends like this. “Not all. You Manchester city boys and your lingo, haaah, you drive me crazy.”
“We? Manchester? You little-” Jude’s mouth fell open in shock, and he rammed playfully into the giant, who normally wouldn’t have even moved, but made a big show of being pushed back onto the bed, almost flopping down with the grace of a footballer grazing the ball a little too hard.
“Woahhhh, watch it! I could’ve lost my precious hair tie!” He protested, holding up the offending red string from where it had fallen off in their tumble.
Jude clicked his tongue. “You’re seriously colour-coding your accessories again?? Isn’t bloody red so last match?”
“Do you want a rematch?” Erling taunted, egging him on.
Jude made to pounce on his friend, his smile making him positively glow in the semi-darkness, and Erling was almost sure that the sky behind them was beginning to fill with stars that made the younger man their centerpiece, but he was probably just jet lagged from the flight and imagining things.
Speaking of imagining things, Jude’s face suddenly fell and their easily crafted banter broke, and he was crying again, dissolving into the mattress, and Erling took his head into his lap to press his fingers through his scalp, offering reassurances and muttering words of encouragement as he stared at the window until sleep overtook them both.
The morning after, nothing happened. They both woke up sore from the fucked up position they’d slept in, and Haaland helped Bellingham pack his stuff while the cadet swore vengeance on any South American white man wearing blue, to which Erling was trying really hard not to laugh at.
Three hours later, they were at the airport with the rest of England’s team, waiting for their plane to arrive without any delays (there would be delays).
Erling definitely felt like he was an outsider among them usually, and this time was no different. He scrolled through Snapchat on his phone while he waited for them to depart so that he could get on his own plane as well. He hadn’t bought tickets yet, since he was still sightseeing a bit, and might find a partner collectible for his raccoon. He can’t leave that guy without a buddy.
But today things seemed…tense. More tense than usual around his friend’s team, which he had chalked up to losing the game. Losing so close to the goal tended to bring out the worst in people. He was lucky he was being treated civilly right now.
But something felt off. The waiting area was colder all of a sudden, and he looked up from his phone at the players sitting on the opposite seats. Gordon, Jordan, and O’Reilly were sitting across. The other players were crowded around the terminal looking for their flight or any modifications to make it less late, and Jude was filling up water bottles at the free water dispenser for everyone on the flight. Cheapskate.
Out of the corner of his eye, Erling noticed Gordon slap Pickford’s arm with an unwavering intensity, eyes glued to his phone and bulging wide. The goalkeeper rolled his eyes but entertained the younger player’s antics as he looked over at the screen and his eyes widened as well after a few seconds. He blinked a few times, taking the phone in his hands to see better, his mouth falling open. After a few seconds, he bumped his shoulder into O’Reilly’s, who was doomscrolling in peace. The midfielder sighed as he looked over as well and his hand flew to his mouth almost instantly.
Erling was thoroughly confused now. He didn’t know those three to be so friendly with each other, and wondered what they could’ve seen that had them so up in arms. A new movie? That trailer for the Odyssey was looking pretty good, he’d seen it this morning in the hotel room before they left. That Tom Holland had a similar name to his, so he was good in his book.
All three England players looked up from the phone in the goalie’s hand to stare at him with stricken looks on their faces. Then back at the phone. At him again. O’Reilly whispered something to Pickford, who thought about it, then shook his head. The midfielder paled further.
Gordon was just staring at him with this expression of shock like he wasn’t sure what to do about him. What to believe. He’d seen that look before, when he would score a goal that should have been impossible. But now…This was getting weird.
“Hey, I got our water,” Jude ended the silent stand off as he tried not to let all of the…nine?? Thermo bottles fall to the ground and sat them neatly on the ground next to their luggage.
“Are you sure you don’t want to become a rugby player with that strength?” Erling joked, and Jude came towards him to flick his ear. They both laughed it off, but the joke died quick once they noticed the other players just watching them silently, like they were processing something.
“Uh, care to tell us something, boys?” Jude asked, suddenly a bit nervous. Animosity inside the team wasn’t something talked about a lot, but it definitely happened. Was something happening?
Pickford looked to his left and right, and seeing the two younger players not meeting their eyes, took matters into his own hands. He stood up, taking the unlocked phone in his hands and walked over to them, placing it in Jude’s outstretched fingers. “You might want to see for yourself. This was apparently taken last night by someone. O’Reilly asked me if it was AI, but no one had access to our room numbers except the team and whoever they brought back. And it seems like…you brought someone more than that.”
Now very confused, the Norwegian looked over at his friend to find him sporting the same puzzled look.
He took the phone and placed it between them, pressing play on the video they had been watching. It was of them, last night, shot through the hotel door with shaky hands as the person filming was trying to not get caught.
They had been talking and laughing in the video, and then Erling had flopped on the bed, which made it clear which part of the night this was. And then Jude had broken down and fell into his arms, sobs wracking his frame. At first, Erling was confused as to how this could provoke the kind of reaction he’d witnessed the other players sporting. And then outraged. How could a fan, or whoever they were, just barge in on an intimate moment and show Jude being this vulnerable to everyone on the internet? Have they no shame?
He looked over at Jude, who had taken on a deathly pallor. That scared him. Jude didn’t get pale. A bit gray, sure, but pale? Never. Was he sick? From seeing his grief broadcasted like this, it was clearly a travesty to his self-esteem, and he was so angry at seeing their lives turn into this spectacle just for…what, some likes?
“Jude, it’s okay, it’s fine, we’ll just…uh, we’ll find a way to take it down, they can’t even see you crying that much, we can make up a story for when the paparazzi come-”
“Erling,” Jude cut him off, the phone dropping from his hand, then looked at him fully. “It looks like we’re fucking.”
What.
Something clicked in Erling’s head, but in the wrong way. Like a puzzle piece from a different puzzle altogether.
“That’s not possible. We’re hugging.”
Jude leaned forward, his hands coming to cup his own face as he dragged them over it in exasperation. “Erl, it—it’s—God, I can’t even speak anymore. The angle of the video…It makes it seems like we’re going at it. Doing the deed. Making love.”
Frowning, Erling picked up the phone. Looked over the video, analyzing the semi-grainy footage. The sound quality wasn’t great, and through the screen Jude’s sobs did sound like moans of a different kind of emotion…And the bed was blocking most of what their hands and feet were doing, and with the absence of harsh lighting…Oh shit, it did look like they were fucking. It also didn’t help that he had been wearing shorts the night before, and they were hidden by his massive torso, so it was, evidently, clear that no one would believe what they had to say to explain themselves.
“How are you going to explain this?” Pickford asked, his arms crossed. “But I have to ask…Is it real? You don’t have to answer if it’s not but…I’d rather not have been fooled by AI, you know. The kids are already calling me unc.”
Erling’s mouth opened to try to rectify the whole deal, but was stopped by Jude speaking first. “We were talking. We got a little carried away. The angle makes it look like we were making out, or getting somewhere…deeper, but I can tell you I was crying here. There. I said it. We weren’t having sex.”
Erling crossed his arms. “I wouldn’t have sex with you.”
Jude rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, we get it. Obviously.”
The blond grinned widely.
Pickford seemed to visibly deflate at the news, letting out a long sigh. “Whew. That helps. A lot. I got really scared you guys were going to make this a weekly occurrence and I did not want to be subjected to that…The walls are thin.”
The two friends shared a look. Erling gave him a shaky thumbs up, to signal ‘not gonna do that.’
“I’ll tell the team,” Jude got up on shaky legs, and Erling was immediately by his side to steady him, a hand on his bicep and waist. “We have to let them know so that there’s no other misunderstandings.”
“Uh, what are you gonna tell them, then?” Jordan pointed behind them, and they turned to see a herd of people gawking at them from the next terminal gate over. And they were pointing back at them as they started to walk over.
Their eyes widened.
Oh no.
Fans.