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Jude leans back on the plane seat and exhales deeply, last notes of Joe Cocker's "Unchain My Heart" playing through his headphones. The sound isolation is perfect enough that it blocks out the annoying hum of the airplane engine but still allows him to hear the joyful chatter of his teammates. He hears Rice laugh in that politely reserved way of his at something James said, his football family united in glee after yesterday's victory. The stakes were nill, and the disappointment of not being in the final still sits heavily deep inside, but he is happy anyway. He made history, became the top-scoring English player in a single cup and the top-scoring midfielder in history. Despite only being on the field for 11 minutes, Jude Bellingham felt as if his last goal was his own way to have the final word, save the last laugh for himself.
The game was good to say the least. No tension, no drama, no dirty fouls. Just respect and beautiful football that he loves with his whole heart. Maybe a friendly bronze final match is not the pinnacle of his dreams, but the comradery between the two teams satisfied him enough. Every time a player fell, his opponent would help him get up. At the end of the game there was virtually no difference between hugging his teammates or hugging one of the Frenchmen, especially since some of them would be playing at Madrid the next season. All in all, it felt good, barely soured by the fact that Kylian refused his handshake at the end.
Whatever happened last year will probably pour over into the next season at Real. In his opinion, whatever problem Mbappé had with him was not related to football and had no business rearing its nasty head at the world cup, but perhaps that was just another point on which they disagreed. He tried to stay away from the drama, but the drama had a face and a name, and Kylian just couldn't stop himself sometimes. Actually, more often than not, he couldn't, and Jude liked that side of him a lot, their many locker room incidents still lingering in his mind. He will handle it when time comes. For now, he deserves a vacation and something good to look forward to.
The jet touches down in Birmingham. As soon as he gets cellular service, he texts his family who should be flying out of the States on a commercial plane in a few hours. He tells them he landed safely and checks his backpack front pocket to make sure he didn't forget the flat keys his mother haded him. It feels strange to be able to spend a night at his family home for the first time in years, and even stranger to have the entire house to himself. He loves his mother to death and will forever be grateful that she gave up her entire life to live with him first in Germany and then in Spain, but sometimes he wishes he had more privacy. No wonder his love life has been virtually dead for so long.
His thoughts wander to Erling as he wonders if the Norwegian man kept his promise to greet him at the airport. Jude doesn't dare message him to ask, shy all of a sudden. He feels seventeen again, awkward and anxious, needing to rely on his older teammate for guidance while hiding the most embarrassing crush of his life. He is hopeful, excited, and absolutely scared shitless. He wants to text Jobe for reassurance, but stops to consider if revealing his feelings might backfire if nothing works out.
The private terminal of Birmingham airport is tiny, and they go through the customs at record speed. Here the team splits up, most players leaving to get a shuttle to their next flight home, while Jude heads to the exit. They have a month until the Premier league starts, so some of his teammates have a good few weeks before training starts. As for Jude, he will have to be back in Madrid in just a few days, and is determined to make the best of his very short break.
Before Jude can get lost in planning his upcoming weekend, he notices a tall figure near the exit gates. He stops like a deer in headlights, taking in the man's appearance. Haaland is indeed standing there in plain shorts and a tank, holding a small portable fan to cope with the British heatwave. His long hair is pressed down by a cap, he has a pair of absolutely ridiculous orange-tinted sunglasses on and he looks breathtaking. Erling notices him in return and just one smile is enough for Jude's brain to go haywire. With no regard to some of his teammates and staff still being around, he quickens his pace (he would have run, if not for the suitcase in his hand) and throws himself in Erling's arms in greeting.
He feels strong warm hands grip his back, one still awkwardly trying to hold the portable fan with a few fingers. Hot breath ghosts over the exposed skin of Jude's neck, tickling him. The feeling of being back home finally settles inside of him. He cannot believe he ever doubted that Erling would hold his word.
Jude remembers they are, in fact, in public, and takes a step back, just enough to maintain propriety between friends but allowing his hands to rest on Erling's biceps. That, unfortunately, provokes his mind to focus on Erling's muscular arms, and makes him unable to recover his eloquence in time. All he can muster to say is a soft but incredibly happy:
‘Hi.’
‘Hey, Jude,’ comes the response, as corny as the smile Haaland shows him right after it.
‘Aye, look who's here!’ a loud cheer startles them as Marcus Rashford walks up to the pair, ‘If it isn't the media hero of the cup!’
Jude likes Rashi, he genuinely does. Rashford is kind, funny, determined and just a joy to be around. But right now he wants nothing more than to strangle him for stealing their moment.
‘Yeah, I thought I'd greet you guys on your return.’ Erling responds in the most nonchalant way possible.
‘Mate you live in Manchester,’ Rashi deadpans.
‘It's barely a two hour drive.’
‘What are you even doing in the UK now? The season ain't starting until late next month!’
‘Well, you know, Man City and all, they like to run us dry. Training started for me already.’
It's astonishing how quickly Erling comes up with a response to practically any suspicion thrown his way. Jude knows damn well Man City has not started any intensive training yet, testified by his own teammates who play for Man City being in this same room. The only reason Erling is there is to see Jude. But Rashford only laughs at them without malice:
‘Just proves once again that Man United is the better club, innit? Hey, maybe you can give me a lift home then!’
Jude grips Erling's shoulder nervously, afraid of even entertaining the prospect of Erling ditching him for Rashi. Thankfully, Haaland's composure is perfect, as always.
‘Sorry pal, I have some business to attend to here in Birmingham. Maybe another time.’
Marcus snickers again and walks out of the airport. The rest of the team follow suit, throwing relaxed greetings and fist-bumps to Haaland. The staff rushes after them, impatient to finally be home and far away from footballers. Jude looks back at Erling and realises he is still holding onto his arms. He pats his shoulder awkwardly.
‘Come on, go grab your stuff. I'll unlock the car.’
‘Maybe I wanna drive this time?’
‘We both, as well as your mother, know damn well you can't drive.’
‘Maybe my mum is just a better driver!’
It's easy to fall back into playful banter when it's just the two of them again. Jude grabs his suitcase and joins Erling in the car parked nearby.
The drive is promising to be fun. Jude will never not be surprised by how calm Erling can be amidst the chaos that is English traffic. As they pull onto the highway, they catch a comfortable pace and conversation flows as easy as ever, despite the nerves inside. After a while, they reach the topic of yesterday's match:
‘Congrats on the win yesterday by the way. Six goals in a match against France is insane.’
‘Eh, nobody was taking the match seriously to be honest with ya. I think Kylian honest to God laughed the first time we scored.’
‘Still, your last goal was beautiful. And nice to give up that penalty for Saka, he deserves it.’
‘Yeah, I wasn't planning on actually hitting it, just held the ball for him. Told him to go score his hat trick.’
‘I guess just shows the bond you lot have. The English team is what we all aspire to be.’
‘At the end of the day, we're just a bunch of lads playing footie and having fun. Not that we don't wanna win of course, but I wouldn't enjoy the game nearly as much if it wasn't for the team chemistry. I've always been about that.’
‘Yes, I know.’
Jude senses the underlying message. Their days at Dortmund are still unmatched in terms of comradery that he has ever reached in a team. Maybe it was his tender age, or maybe he tends to romanticise Dortmund because of his obsession with Erling at the time, but to this day nothing has ever come close to how he felt there – cherished, appreciated, supported and loved.
Loved. That's the feeling he associates with Borussia the most, and it's scary how similar he feels now, sharing a car with his friend on the way to his home city. He steals a glance to his right, seeing Erling's strong hands on the wheel and his determined ice blue eyes on the road ahead. In the golden light of the setting sun he looks ethereal. Jude wants to take a picture and capture this moment forever, to keep this image of Erling with him if he cannot keep the man himself. Jude notices they have reached the suburbs of Birmingham when Erling clears his throat.
‘So, um. You mentioned the whole team structure and comradery thing.’
‘I did, yes?’ Jude has no idea where this is going, and it scares him.
‘I just can't wrap my head around why you're still playing at Real Madrid then.’
‘Are you serious? They're the best club out there, where else I'd be playing?’
‘I'm not saying you're not good enough for it, of course you are. But the morale of the team…’
‘You've never played there, what do you know about our morale?’
‘Enough to know how toxic it is. Your teammates are putting each other in hospitals and everyone just lets it slide like its normal or acceptable. In Man City you'd be booted of the team for ten percent of the bullshit you people get away with.’
‘It's worth it.’ Jude doesn't know if he's defending himself with his club, or if it's a force of habit at this point.
‘Maybe. Or maybe you don't want to admit it's tiring you out and that's why you want me there so you don't go mad.’
Jude's heart clenches in pain. Is it really so bad to want a friendly face on the team when you're playing for the best club in the world? Is it really unacceptable for him to want to achieve the top of the world with Erling by his side, like they always wanted to?
‘You said you would transfer there at some point.’
‘I said I was considering it. I don't see why its this much of an issue for you.’
‘You said you'd do it for me!’ his voice raises in volume.
‘I can't uproot my whole life just because you want me to!’
Jude stares at him in shock. This might be the first time Erling has snapped or raised his voice at him, ever. He feels his throat scratch traitorously. You cannot seriously start crying over this. He just might.
‘Genuine question, Jude. Why the hell are you so adamant about this?’
Jude has an answer, but no way in hell is he saying it out loud after this. He turns away and watches the buildings pass by. He hears Erling sigh.
‘Don't wanna talk to me? Fine.’ Fucking splendid, Jude hears him mutter under his breath. Truth is, if Jude was to speak now, he would regret it instantly. He would either say too much or just break down in sobs, and he doesn't know which is more humiliating.
They reach their destination in tense silence. Jude puts his hand tentatively, knowing that surely, Erling won't want to stay with him after their argument. Surprisingly, Erling parks the car, exits, takes Jude's luggage from the boot and goes straight to the apartment complex. Perplexed, Jude leaves the car, allowing Erling to lock it, and follows inside.
They enter the flat in silence — he forgot Erling knew the full address, and didn't expect the man to still remember it, despite not having visited in years. When they're in, Jude makes a beeline to the open kitchen to start the kettle, his brain on autopilot. Making some tea sounds like a relaxing enough routine activity to take his mind off things. As the water boils, his hands are trembling, and he almost drops the tea box twice.
Jude looks at the ceiling. This was not how he envisioned their “talk” going. His face grows hot and before he knows it, tears start pouring from his eyes. The kettle clicks, signalling that the water has boiled. Jude fails to keep in a sob that rocks his entire body.
Immediately there is a warm hand on his back. He hangs his head low, letting a few teardrops fall on the counter. Jude turns around and buries his face in Erling's chest as strong arms envelop him, feeling the tank top underneath soak up the wetness. His body shakes with every sob, embarrassment making him break down harder. He feels so stupid for hoping, for being so desperately in love and for still seeking out comfort from the man actively breaking his heart. Because nothing feels like home more than Erling. Because Erling would never hurt him, and it's only Jude's fault when he inevitably does.
‘You asked why I was so adamant?’
‘Shh, don't talk,’ Erling pats his back in reassurance, ‘It's not important right now. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.’
I'm sorry too. Sorry for needing you. Sorry for not being able to live without you. Sorry for loving you.
‘Because I need proof that I won't lose you.’
The hand on his back stills. Erling pulls away, puts both hands on Jude's face, so much like Jude did a week ago in the locker room showers. He looks at him with all the tenderness in the world, his blue eyes gentle and… hurt?
‘Why do you think you're gonna lose me?’
‘Because I've lost you once.’ And I can't guarantee I will survive if it happens again.
‘Jude, we don't have to play for the same club to be in each other's lives.’ His thumbs wipe the tears from Jude's cheeks, his touch almost weightless. Jude is far from fragile, but Erling holds him like he is made of porcelain.
‘That's what you said when you left Dortmund. And you lied. You disappeared,’ Jude responds, almost childishly stubborn.
‘And I've never regretted anything more,’ Erling's voice is almost a whisper, ‘Will you let me make it up to you?’
Half-delirious, Jude nods. Erling leans in and kisses him. This kiss is different from their last — gentle, caring, meant to convey everything they feel for each other. Erling pours every drop of affection he can into the touch of his lips, the caresses of his hands, the soft gasps he lets out. Jude closes his eyes, angles his head to kiss him more firmly, his hands roaming Erling's back freely.
The kiss deepens, and he feels air leave his lungs as he is pressed into the kitchen counter, their bodies close as ever. His head is spinning as Erling's tongue slips past his lips, all air gone from his lungs. Erling puts a hand on his neck and he whines, unable to contain his feelings. As they pull away at last, his vision is blurry, his heart rate is through the roof as if he just finished playing a match, and Erling looks absolutely wrecked.
‘I–’
‘I know,’ Erling smiles at him, his eyes glinting with glee, ‘You're not gonna lose me, Jude.’
‘Yeah, I…’ he struggles to find his words, ‘I think I gathered that.’
Erling chuckles and plants another kiss on Jude's wet lips. The Englishman feels close to passing out.
‘So, is this… are we official now?’
‘We are whatever you want us to be.’
‘No but seriously, what are we looking at here?’
Erling sighs, used to Jude being a bit of a worry wart by now, and draws him into another hug.
‘I want us to be together. If you're ready for it, I am. If you want it, I do too. Whatever makes you happy, I want the same.’
‘I don't think I've ever been this ready for anything in my life man. I've wanted a relationship with you since I was seventeen.’
‘I kinda suspected.’
‘You did?’
‘You were not hiding it well in Germany. But it didn't feel right for me to pursue you at the time. Also, as you so cleverly mentioned, you were seventeen.’
‘Hold on a minute,’ Jude leans back with a raised eyebrow, ‘You wanted to pursue me?’
Erling mimics his expression.
‘In case this is news to you, you are kinda sorta drop-dead gorgeous.’
Jude smirks in response, his confidence returning along with the relief that settles his anxiety for now.
‘So, you gonna stop pestering me about Real Madrid now?’
Before Jude can gawk in indignation, Erling kisses his cheek and walks out of the kitchen laughing. Jude follows him out and finds his boyfriend (boyfriend!) on the living room couch reaching for the TV remote.
‘Wanna watch Spain destroy Argentina together?’
Jude absolutely does not quicken his pace to jump on the couch and tuck himself into Erling's side. As a heavy muscular arm wraps around his shoulders and a strand of long blond hair tickles his ear, he realises they are mere hours away from the end of the world cup — his second, Erling's very first.
‘Erling?’
‘Hm?’ comes a muffled response as Erling forces himself to stop nuzzling Jude's hair for a second.
‘How would you rate your first world cup?’
Erling takes no time to answer:
‘A solid ten out of ten.’
Jude feels a kiss in his hairline and prepares to get used to Erling being extremely physically affectionate.
‘Yeah? You satisfied?’
‘Not a hundred percent, of course, I wish some things played out differently. But overall, I think I got everything I needed from it. You?’
As the FIFA logo flashes on the screen, Jude thinks it over for a second and puts a hand over Erling's heart.
‘You know what? I think me too.’