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Contrary to popular belief, Jude Bellingham was awful with time.
Which in reality, doesn’t make much sense. Footballers were supposed to be skilfully trained to have perfect timing, whether it was to save a flying ball, to snag control back from the opponent or make that perfectly timed shot.
And Jude did have good timing on the field. It was everything else he sucked at.
A task he assumed was ten minutes to do wounded up taking twenty. Thinking he had 30 minutes until he needed to head out when it was actually 15. Taking an hour to explain something that should’ve only been five minutes.
His parents never let him forget it, describing the way he’d play hide and seek with his brother Jobe and lose count, leaving his brother hiding for ages. Emails sent home from teachers in secondary school, complaining of his countless tardies showing up minutes past the bell. His grandfather had even gifted him a watch on his birthday, citing he needed a way to see how often he couldn’t keep to time.
But this issue never presented itself when he began to play football. Even for a sport all about speed and moving fast, if you weren’t able to focus, hone in and do what you must in the allotted period, you’d miss the best opportunities right in front of you. It was football that taught him that no matter the pace of the game, every second counted. It was up to you what you did with them.
Whether Jude learnt this the easy way or the hard way was still under review.
Gruelling workouts, perfecting technique and a strict regimen: the key ingredients meticulously practiced to get him to this point, signed with Borussia Dortmund at just 17 years old.
These things, however, were not enough to cure his chronic tardiness.
Which is how he finds himself here, standing at the doors of the Hohenbuschei locker rooms, late to the beginning of his first training, having yet to enter. Him delaying himself even more probably isn’t helping his case, but his stupid young teenage mind cannot handle the concept of being perceived as the new recruit who couldn’t even show up on time. He knows it’s dumb, for a person already in newspapers to be nervous about people seeing him. But he still cringes at the mere thought of everyone turning their heads to watch him walk inside. How embarrassing would that be?
He’s half worked himself up to telling his agent that he’s sick and cannot make it, or that he’s changed his mind completely and he’d try again next year, when a voice behind him startles him out his train of thought.
“Excuse me, are you going inside?”
He spins around, and immediately sucks in a breath. Just his luck that he’s late, and that the person who catches him wasting time is none other that Erling Haaland, the rising star striker of the club. Jude cannot help but have his eyes wander from the ground up. The cameras truly did not do justice portraying his stature, his large 6’5” managing to loom over his already tall six foot frame. It almost feels as if he’s taking up the whole hallway by simply standing.
“You must be the new Englishman. Bellingham, correct?”
It’s then he realises he hasn’t answered either of Haaland’s questions, mouth weirdly glued shut under the intensity of deep blue eyes. Christ almighty, what was his issue? He was Jude Bellingham, known for his mouthy jabs on and off the field. Speak, damn it!
“Yep, that’s- that’s me.”
Haaland has the grace to ignore his awkwardness and nod politely.
“I thought so. What are you doing out here? I came to fill my water bottle before we went out, should you not be inside by now?”
That he should. He wishes he could lie and say the same thing, but the large training duffel bag slung over his shoulder does not support his case. All he can do is look down and he can feel Haaland’s eyes fall on the bag too, the obvious now clear.
“Ahh. You are late.”
Jude only has the ability to nod, the heat of shame and embarrassment creeping up his neck, hoping it doesn’t paint across his cheeks too. If he tries, he could probably try to melt into the floor. He’s fully ready to be met with some kind of reprimand, when he feels a large hand on his shoulder.
“Come. We will go in together.”
He takes his shoulder and gears him towards the handle of the door. Before Jude can even process what’s happening to him, Haaland looks at him expectantly, almost reassuringly, before turning ahead and opening the door.
In the end, whatever dramatic scenario his brain stewed up did not occur. The coach asks where they had been and what the hold up was, and Haaland explains that he asked Jude to walk with him to the water fountain and that they lost track of time. The coach looks at him, one eyebrow raised, and all Jude can do is nod to try help corroborate the story. Coach’s eyes bounce back from Jude to Haaland, but he just sighs and sends them to their lockers, stating that it shouldn’t become a “habit”.
He doesn’t catch the small smiles they both share as they tie their cleats.
As luck would have it, Jude being late to practice would not become a habit due to Erling making it his personal mission to make sure Jude was on time to anything and everything.
He’d call him in the early morning to ensure Jude was awake and ready to come to practice, or just show up himself and made sure they arrived together. Evening film reviews, recovery drills, even hangouts with the team. Erling would always be there to keep Jude on track. Jude had tried to ensure the blonde that it was unnecessary and that he need not worry about him, but it fell on deaf ears, as time and time again, Erling would be there.
In hindsight, it was inevitable that they became attached to the hip. There really was no transition from them being simple teammates to close friends, it just happened. On and off the pitch, the two blended so seamlessly together, as if they had always been woven into each other’s lives.
As a midfielder, Jude’s mind was constantly on the move, always needing to think quick to make that important play to change the game. But with Erling, he felt as if he could slow down.
“You must enjoy the moment, Jude.”, Erling would always chide, a soft grin playing across his lips. “For someone never on time, you always seem to be in a rush.”
Jude would argue that if he was always late, then maybe it would be a good thing to be rushing. But Erling would lay a hand on his shoulder, look at him with such joy or laugh brightly, and he’d completely forget why he was moving so fast.
Because with Erling, he didn’t want to rush. And why would he, when every moment with him was so carefree, so fun, so easy. Jude would want time to rewind just so he could simply relive a moment with him.
Despite Jude’s tendency to be late, he was weirdly early to catch onto the fact that he had feelings for the Norwegian.
But the problem with a good thing was that it always seemed to make time fly by quickly. And before Jude could even figure out how to deep his feelings went, or how to put it into words, it was announced to the world that Erling Haaland would be signing to Manchester City for the next season, leaving Jude behind in Germany for the English stadiums.
Jude wishes he could say with his full chest that he was truly happy for his friend. That he wanted to see him to go on to do bigger and better things, to reach as far as he could for the stars ahead. Realistically, he knew that this time would come. Football was all about building your momentum, and for rising stars like Erling and him, they were never going to stay in one place.
But he couldn’t help the want to be selfish just this once. Why did their time together had to be cut so short? Why couldn’t Erling just stay a little longer? Why could no one see how unfair this was?
He still recalls how he felt this as he and Erling spent one last night together before his move to England. They stood on the balcony, shoulder to shoulder leaning over the barrier. Outside, the town of Dortmund had come to a standstill, hardly a car to be seen on the street. The moon hung above them, fully round and tinted a milky white. Beside him, Erling peered above to the stars, simply content to bask in the silence.
Jude tried to do the same, to look up to the sky and be happy with the quiet, but was failing at both. Every other second he’d find himself glancing to the side, marvelling at how Erling’s blonde tendrils of hair always seemed to gleam, even in the dark of night. The way his pale skin seemed to glow the way moon did in the sky. Was it possible to possess eyes with such a pure blue?
“The sky is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?”
Jude hardly gave a damn about the sky at the moment, but agreed nonetheless.
“One thing I will miss about Dortmund is their nice skies. I’ve heard England is covered in smog and rainclouds.”
Jude huffed. “If that’s the case, I’ll be sure to send you pictures of the sky when I can. Be your personal weatherman, and all that.”
Erling turned to him and grinned. “Oh really? Is this finally repayment for being your personal rooster for two years?”
“Oi! I have repaid you plenty! You don’t remember the pack of bobbles I bought for that mess you call a mane you’re trying to grow out? Never say that I don’t treat my employees well.”
They both laugh. Erling sighs. “I will miss that though.”
“Miss what?”
“Waking you up before your alarm does. Making sure you’re on time. Going anywhere and everywhere with you.”
His eyes crinkled with mirth and something that looks strangely sentimental.
“I really am going to miss you, Jude.”
And maybe if he was a smarter, braver man, he’d say something. Say that he’d miss him too, even too much. That his heart ached even thinking about not being able to be with him everyday, to not be able to catch his gaze from across the room to convey a joke with just their eyes. Find some eloquent way to say that the way he’d miss Erling was so profound, was so much more than a simple close friend, that he couldn’t let him go without letting him know that he cared for him so deeply it was nauseating.
But Jude’s never been good with timing. And he already feels like it’s too late to act on how he’s probably felt since he’s met the man.
So he ignores the tightness in this throat, opting to nudge him with his elbow and call him “the biggest sap he’s never known.”
Stupid, stupid, timing.
The thing is, whether you wanted it to or not, time moves on. It keeps going, hurdling you further and further into a future you cannot predict.
Years go by. Jude signs to Real Madrid. Erling and him break record after record, cementing their names in football history. They face off, once or twice, on the field.
And you’d think, with the busy schedules and the constant pressure from the world, that the feelings he harboured would disappear, or at the very least wane. But unfortunately, for whatever reason, Jude’s heart is not on the same track with his brain.
It’s not like he doesn’t try to get over him. Believe me, he tries. He practically attempts to speedrun the process, as his anchor to slow down has now been forced thousands of kilometres away. But with every new face that attempts to flirt, every hot breath against his ear, he always finds himself closing his eyes and imagining hands that are bigger and broader shoulders, and opening them to expect pure blues looking back at him. No matter how fast Jude wants to rid his mind of it, he can’t. Even if he wanted to leave it all out in the open, which sounds disastrous in itself, he logically knows it won’t work. They’re too far apart, too busy on their own teams growing their careers. So try as he might, he cannot get over Erling Haaland.
He worries he never will.
Two goals. Two whole winning goals by he himself alone.
This is the kind of thing some people dream about, to be able to gloat and say you managed to bring your country further than they’ve gone in over 50 years in the biggest sporting event of all time. This World Cup had arrived, along with its highs and lows and unexpected twists. But he’s done it. They’ve done it. England is off to the semifinals.
All he wants to do is scream and shout. To let world know he’s got the talent the critics doubted, that he’s proved whatever haters wrong. To celebrate with those that love him, with those he loves. He feels like he can do anything, unabashed and unafraid.
In the sea of people that swarm him, he looks through the masses to see a tall man decked in red, hands on his hips and looking right at him with a sated smile.
Jude heart clenches, as it often does when it comes to Erling. It’s a depressing fact that the first time he’s seen him in ages is the time that he’s sending him away again by knocking Norway out the tournament. Win aside, his chest can’t help but ache for his friend.
Later, as the celebration dies down and he’s left alone to finally breathe, he manages to find the Viking in an empty hallway in the stadium. Closer up, he can see the sag in his shoulders and the tenseness in his jaw. He yearns to reach out and take his face in his hands and soothe that line between his brows.
“Congratulations, my friend.”
He huffs.
“You don’t have to be formal around me, Erl. I promise you I won’t be that mad if you wanna punch me or something.”
Erling shakes his head in fond exasperation.
“I could never want to punch you, you goose.”
He takes a step forward and envelopes Jude in his arms, and weak, tender-hearted Jude finds himself melting as he often does when Erling touches him. As Erling talks, he can feel the movement of his lips against his neck, sending tingles down his spine.
“I am so, so proud. There is no one else I would hope to lose to.”
They pull away from the embrace, but both hands linger on the other’s arms.
“You should go celebrate. I’m sure they’re looking for you by now.“
“But… what about you?”
How can I celebrate without you?
“Me? I’ll be cheering for you sipping champagne under the Italian sun. I really should thank you for the early holiday.”
Jude must look stupid with the way his smile is stretched across his face. The way Erling found humour in every situation is one of his best qualities.
Erling moves his hands to the nape of his neck.
“Savour every minute of it, Jude. You have made my first World Cup a one of a kind experience. Go and bring it home.”
Jude’s skin is still singing from the warmth of Erling’s hands. Again, like most times they are alone, his urge to spill his guts and confess come bubbling to the surface. But he knows it’s not the right time, or the right place. And besides, confessing with no trophy in hand would be a little embarrassing. So he’ll do it. He’ll fight with everything’s he’s got and bring it home.
For England, and for Erling.
It’s pure pandemonium.
For a third place match, it’s gone off the rails. What was supposed to be an easy cruising to soothe both teams wounds of losing a chance at the finals has become an intense battle of goal, after goal, after goal. Their supposed cushiony four goal lead was quickly slipping away, France just two points behind. At this stage, Jude has no clue what’s going on.
“It’s chaos out there, innit?” Harry Kane comments to his left, both of them sat on the bench, forced to helplessly watch it unfold. Jude tersely nods.
“Anyone come for you today?”
“… you mean half of England?”
“Wha- no you big ego twat, I meant family, friends, that sort.”
“It was a vague question! But yeah, my mum and da are here.”
“Oh… so no Viking?”
Harry shuffles aside quickly to avoid Jude’s swat to his knee. As much as Jude has grown, he juniors Kane by about a a decade, so his infatuation did not slip by unnoticed their captain, who’s relentlessly teased him for it.
“Oh come off it Kane. You know we’re just friends.”
“Doesn’t mean he can’t be here.”
“He’s in Italy.”
“Is he watching?”
Jude stops and thinks. Would Erling be watching? Last time he had tuned in, their devastating loss graced his screen. He can only dread to think he might have to witness it again.
“Dunno, to be honest.”
“Do you want him to be watching?”
“I’m not on the pitch, Harry.”
“Oh, so he can only watch you play now?”
Jude knows the red on his face can’t be blamed on the heat. He pouts in response.
“Not what I meant and you know that.”
Harry shakes his head in bemusement.
“You know, I do understand it.”
“Understand what?”
“Not saying anything. Not confessing. I remember when I first got with my wife, being so scared to do anything because I was worried it wouldn’t work out. Marriage, kids, settling down, the whole lot. I didn’t think I’d have time with the kind of career we have. I was so afraid that there was never a right time, and if I tried, I’d end up hurting somebody in the process.
But I realised that by waiting, I was wasting. I spent all this time thinking about ‘what if’ that I lost the time finding out what could happen. And once I stopped thinking, and just doing, I didn’t want to waste a second longer.”
Goal!
They look out onto the pitch. France has scored yet again, now only a point behind. Jude can’t help but roll his eyes. Leave it to Kylian to be this dramatic to raise the stakes for third place. Lead or not, this game could really go either way, and they cannot afford to waste a single second by letting the lead slip through their grasp like it did in Argentina. He looks at the time clock and blanches. There’s just about 10 minutes left.
“Not much left on the clock.”
“Aye, there isn’t.”
Jude and Harry lock eyes.
“The time we have is all we’ve got.”
He has a strange feeling he’s not just talking about the match.
“Bellingham, suit up, you’re heading on!”
Harry pats him on the back as he rises out his seat.
“Make every second count, Bellingham.”
As Jude stands on the sideline, waiting for Eze to come back, he watches as the clock ticks, second by second, mind running a mile a minute.
He thinks back on the countless amount of times he wished to tell Erling how he felt. Harry didn’t know what he was talking about. There was no way that there was a right time for him to say something, there simply wasn’t space to.
But then he really thinks about it. He thinks of every moment, every touch, every look he and Erling have shared. How Erling would gaze upon him with such kindness, so earnestly and almost… patiently. Like he was just waiting for Jude to simply say something. Something… something like-
It clicks.
There really wasn’t a right moment. There might never be a right moment.
There was only now.
The eightieth minute rolls on, and he runs onto the pitch.
Every second counts.
Later, as he scores the sixth and final goal of the game, 30 seconds before the final whistle, he’ll dawn on the fact he had this sort of revelation while literally on the clock at his job.
For now, he focuses on two things: grabbing his bronze medal, and googling the next flight directly from Miami to Italy.
Italy is just as hot as America is, but that’s the last of Jude’s concerns, as he lowers his hand after knocking on a white door.
The one thing about being bad with time means that he doesn’t give much time to think things through, which leads to quick, ill-thought out decisions that leave him with only a backpack, a bouquet of white roses and a silenced phone so he could pretend to ignore the extensive amount of texts asking where on earth he disappeared to.
This is crazy. He is, quite possibly, crazy,
But as the door creaks open, revealing Erling’s face of complete bafflement, he can’t quite bring himself to care.
“Jude?! What- how- what are you-”
“I love you.”
“… I’m sorry, come again?”
“I. Love you. I am completely and utterly in love with you. And I think I have been since I was 17. And I know that I could’ve chosen any other time to say this, but I’ve waited so long for the right time, and there was no right time, and you know how shit I am with time and there’s only now, so I love you. I don’t want to wait anymore. I don’t know if I’m saying this too early, or too late, I honestly couldn’t give much of a fuck but I needed you to know that I want you, I need you, I love you, and holy fuck I think I’m rambling but-”
Jude Bellingham has never been the best with time.
But when Erling grabs his wrist, pulls him in and plants a kiss so firmly on his lips air leaves his lungs, he can’t help but think he’s gotten it just right.