Work Text:
Jude feels every bone in his body respond in protest as he falls on the bed. Everything hurts, and his brain is too fuzzy to comprehend whether it's from overexertion or all the tackles aimed at him at the game.
Tuchel warned him that he would be targeted the most. Frankly, it felt almost flattering at the time. To be recognised, to be seen as a threat, to be a dangerous opponent to the reigning champions of the world. As soon as the game started, the feeling shifted. He knew they would be playing dirty, he knew they would not be penalised for it. He did not, however, expect to be choked, pushed and thrown around like a ragdoll the entire match.
They attack you because they fear you, Tuchel said to him in the hydration break. This is football, it's a contact sport, and they're in the semi-finals of the most important game of the season, what else did he expect?
Jude understood that well enough, thank you very much. Didn't change that fact that it fucking hurt. Emotionally, he had cried out everything he could on the field. Once again, Jude is thankful for his ever-watchful parents, who wasted no time hugging and comforting him after the devastating loss. But physically? Every muscle screams at him, bruises already forming on his legs, arms, chest and neck.
Not many players would be able to handle these tackles and stand their ground. In fact, he can only think of one.
A smile tugs on his mouth, and Jude cannot help but touch his fingers to it. A memory of another pair of warm lips on his flashes through his mind. They haven't had the time to talk about it, and it didn't feel right at the time either way — he was too focused on getting them to the hotel safely and providing a strong comforting shoulder to a friend in need.
Tomorrow, he will go out on the training field with his teammates and plan to do his best to win third place from France. Tonight, he is allowed a little time for himself, to lick his wounds and face the conflicting feelings inside.
Ever since the Norway team flew home, he has been trying to keep himself from texting Erling. He was one game away from becoming a world cup finalist and bringing his team to glory, but his mind could only focus on the kiss they shared in the locker room showers. The feelings he has been keeping at bay since he was seventeen were unleashed in full force. Until last week he was happy believing they would never be reciprocated and played the role of a devoted friend with grace. Now he knew had a chance, and it was making everything so much more complicated.
Jude feels tears prick his eyes and does not try to stop them. They trickle down his face. He feels raw, cut open and bleeding out. He is angry at his manager, angry at the referees, angry at his opponents, angry at the little red-haired punk that gloated in his face. Most of all, he is angry at himself for not being enough, for losing his cool and the control he is usually so good at maintaining. His foot twitches, the last spasms of his tired muscles convulsing his body. He wishes so bad he wasn't alone, wants a warm body to tuck himself into. Jude has always been physical with his emotions, which his teammates know and appreciate. A bear hug after a goal, a friendly tackle after a win, friendly kisses in passionate moments have always been his way of showing appreciation. His hands itch for contact.
In the loneliness of his hotel room, Jude Bellingham hugs himself around the shoulders as tears trickle down his face onto the bedsheets. He grips his shirt tight, chasing the comfort of physical pressure on his muscles. His battered body responds with pain.
He winces, his body shaking with sobs, but cannot stop and cries his heart out. His chest tightens at how unfair it all is, and how cheated he feels after the game. He contemplates texting Harry or Declan, who are both probably asleep by now, determined to keep training and pushing forward. The match against France looms over him, the prospect of facing his Real Madrid teammates on the pitch not exciting in the slightest. The past two seasons in Spain were some of the best in his career, but the inner tensions of the club made things ugly. As much as he tried to stay away from drama, it seemed to chase him with determination.
Jude would not admit it, but part of why he wanted Erling so badly to play with him again was a desperate need for comradery amidst the chaos that has been plaguing the Real Madrid locker room. From Kylian picking fights with managers to Tchouaméni and Valverde having multiple fist fights that put the latter into a hospital, the club has been feeling less like a team and more like a soap opera. Things were so much simpler in the English national team, and he was happy to be playing with them for now, but as soon as the Saturday match was over, he would have to come back to Madrid. Alone.
Suddenly, his phone rang from the nightstand. He crawled up on the bed and reached for the device. The screen lit up with the name of Erling Haaland.
He rushed to press the “accept” button so quickly he missed it twice before finally pressing it.
“Hey Jude,” echoes a slightly drowsy voice from the speakers, and Bellingham's heart skips a beat.
“Why aren't you asleep, it's like 2 am in Norway,” he replies, forgetting the basic pleasantries of a ‘hi how are you’. They're long past them, and frankly, right now he couldn't care less.
“Jetlagged as hell still. And I would've stayed up anyway to watch you play.”
Something about the phrasing makes Jude feel warm inside. Not ‘to watch the game’, not ‘to see the results’. Erling wanted to see him on the pitch.
“Sorry for what you had to see.” The self-deprecating talk feels like a cheap fish for compliments and reassurance, because he needs to hear Erling say he did well. He knows he did well. Too bad it wasn't enough.
“You're kidding, right? You were outstanding, man. I'm still fuming over how it ended and how they treated you the whole game.”
“Too bad the referees saw nothing wrong with it,” Jude says with bitterness in his voice. Of course, the Argentinians got a few cards, and they got penalties, and his ego has no business thinking he got cheated, but he cannot stop himself, “I should be able to handle these tackles better and I should have done more. The referees think so too, the crowd as well.”
“Well I don't.”
Simple as that, Jude's tirade stops. Erling's voice leaves no room for argument, an unshakable force as always. No matter how deep Jude may try to dig himself in self-hatred, Erling's absolute belief in him will not let him drown. This is what Erling is to him, has always been to him — an immovable mountain in the face of adversity.
“I don't, Jude. I think you were magnificent out there. Quick, strong, vigilant. Just beautiful.”
Jude finds himself at a loss for words. He is just talking about football, something inside him whispers traitorously, and just a week ago, he would agree without a doubt. But the images of that night in the showers flash in his mind, a picture of Erling looking at him with such tenderness, holding him with such fervour. This Erling looks at Jude like he is a lifeline on the brink of death. This Erling looks at him like he is beautiful. This Erling kisses him like it's the only thing that's worth anything in this world.
So he doesn't keep on bashing himself. Instead, his voice turns hopeful.
“Do you think we can win on Saturday?”
“I do. Hopefully the French will lose with more dignity than the Argentinians had today.” There is an edge to his voice, his accent becoming stronger as he tenses up.
“Funny you should say that, cause if you listen to the press, I'm the one they call a sore loser. I don't know what I was thinking.”
“What did he say?”
“Who?”
“Barco, the ginger kid. He said something to you.”
Jude feels a wave of nausea hit him as Erling reminds him of the mortifying accident earlier in the day. He never lost control this badly, and now he might be facing a ban from FIFA for misconduct. Still, the young Argentinian's words ring in his head. His inner voice adds See? You are still not good enough. This is why it keeps happening. You are not worthy of respect. Not yet.
“Why are you so sure he said something? He was gloating, I got pissed and smacked him up the head. Nothing else.”
“Jude, I know you. You wouldn't.”
He doesn't need to say more for Jude's facade to crumble. Of course, Erling knows him better than this. Erling won't believe anything but the truth, because he has known Jude Bellingham since he was seventeen. He helped build the man he is now.
“He…” Jude's breath hitches, “He spoke in Spanish, thought I wouldn't understand. Probably forgot I speak it. Or hoped I wouldn't hear.”
“What did he say, Jude?”
Erling's voice sounds placating, as if trying to compromise, bargaining for an honest answer.
“He… called me a dog.”
The other end of the line goes silent, but Jude can make out the heavy breathing. That's what Erling sounds like when he is angry and trying his best to hide it, he knows.
“He did not.”
“He did. Thought I wouldn't understand him and said it out loud to his entire team. I couldn't stop myself and slapped him. I was just… so angry.”
“You don't need to explain yourself to me, I'm just as angry right now. You're gonna report it, right?”
Jude thinks for a moment. Was risking his career and reputation worth getting back at Barco? Would it even achieve anything? Would he just draw more controversy to himself, get called a sore loser again and get banned by FIFA to play in the bronze final?
“If they try to press me for slapping him, I'll tell them what happened. Otherwise I don't see a point.”
“Jude, you have to fight for yourself–”
“Erling, you don't get it. There isn't much I can achieve here, not with how FIFA has been behaving lately. This is just gonna draw unnecessary attention to me. This is how it always goes.”
“FIFA has anti-racism protocols for these situations, and–”
“When have they actually acted upon any of them?! It's pointless, all big words without any action! Just drop it, alright?”
The anger simmering inside boils over, and Jude notices his voice rise in volume. The line goes quiet, and he immediately feels ashamed of his outburst. Please don't hang up, he pleads in his mind. Erling's voice comes back softer than before.
“I just hate seeing you treated like this. You deserve so much more.”
The confession punches the air out of Jude's lungs. His nerves are still raw and open, and he feels another wave of tears approach. It all feels too much, the longing in his heart, the itch for comfort, the need to be held by strong, reliable arms. The sole affection in Erling's voice makes every hair on his body stand up. He exhales slowly and gathers all the restraint he can muster.
“Thank you. I miss having someone standing up for me like you used to.”
“The boys at Real not doing that for you?”
“Are you kidding? They’d sooner kill each other than defend their teammates against an outsider.”
“Is that why you want me there so much?”
Yes, for the love of god, yes, a nagging voice inside him screams.
“...maybe.” Nailed it.
“I will be honest, I don't want to transfer to Real. I'm comfortable in Man City, we're strong and I get to play more than I would in any other club.”
Before Jude has the time to offer some form of compromise like ‘no worries, I wasn't actually hoping you'd accept’, Erling continues.
“The only reason I'm actually considering it is you.”
Jude's heart seems to have stopped beating entirely.
“You would do that… for me?”
On the other end of the line, he hears a pained chuckle.
“Do you really need to ask? Jude, there are few things I wouldn't do for you. I thought I'd made it clear by now.”
Jude's gut boils up with adrenaline at the memory of Erling's lips on his. He feels too exposed, despite being alone, and a wave of heat washes over his body. He thinks of warm hands, of wet hair, of the Norwegian man completely naked and open in front of him. His fingertips tingle with a phantom sensation of sweaty skin and strong cheekbones as he held Erling's face in his hands. He has no courage left in his body, but self-control loses its battle against desperation inside him, and he speaks at last.
“I wish you were here with me.”
“Me too, angel. Me too.”
Angel. The pet name is what finally breaks him, and Jude cannot contain a loud sob as tears stream down his face once again. Erling seems to immediately make the wrong conclusion.
“Sorry, did I overstep–”
“You bastard,” Jude grits out through clenched teeth, “You can't just say that when you're so far away from me. I miss you so much, and I'm sad, and angry, and I want to be with you more than anything, and you're not here!” His voice gains notes of hysteria.
Erling waits for his tirade to end before responding as calmly as he can.
“You want me to greet you in the UK when you come back?”
No arguing, no blaming Jude for being overly emotional — as always, Erling immediately jumps to offer a solution. And suddenly, the distance feels smaller. They're coming back on Sunday regardless of how the bronze final match ends. Three days. He can wait three days.
“You're willing to do that?”
“No. I want to do it.”
“Thank you.” Jude rasps out, overwhelmed with gratitude.
“And then we'll talk. About everything.”
Jude wishes he could kiss him through the phone. The promise of resolution settles his aching heart. Once again Erling offers him stability and certainty when he needs it most, and suddenly nothing that happened today matters. They might have lost the cup, they might even lose against France, but he will not lose Erling. Not again. Because for him, he will always be good enough.