Archive of Our Own

No one bought the rumors at first.
They were dismissed as the usual post-tournament theater—just another name thrown to the lions of the 2026 World Cup press cycle to feed a ravenous 24-hour news loop. Football had always possessed that predictable, frantic rhythm: a missed flight, a tense contract meeting, a blurry silhouette captured through a telephoto lens at an airport terminal, and suddenly the internet had written a script for the next decade.

Erling Haaland to Real Madrid.

It read like total fiction. Manchester City had constructed an entire empire around his gravity. He had broken the Premier League, lifted every trophy available, and cemented himself as the immovable center of Manchester. To walk away at the absolute zenith of his powers felt unnatural. Sacrilegious, even.

Then the digital breadcrumbs began to glow.
A flight path tracking a private jet cutting through the gray skies over the English Channel. A towering, unmistakable figure navigating a sea of flashbulbs at a private terminal. A closed-door meeting in the heart of Spain that no official would confirm, but every insider swore on their life had happened.

The impossible was suddenly gathering mass, pulling reality toward it.

When the defining words finally flashed across millions of glowing screens, the speculation died, leaving something far heavier in its wake.

Here we go.

The announcement didn't just trend, it fractured the digital landscape. Madrid fans celebrated as if they’d clinched another European crown, flooding social media with hyper-realistic edits of Haaland draped in the iconic white shirt. Tactical boards were drawn, goal tallies projected, and rival defenses pitied.

Everyone was dissecting the future. They talked about the tactical shift, the commercial explosion, the impending trophies.

But no one was ever talking about the past. No one mentioned the teenager who used to share a dressing room with him under the heavy, industrial skies of Dortmund. No one talked about the years that had quietly drifted by, turning a fierce, daily brotherhood into a graveyard of unreplied messages, drifting birthdays, and unfulfilled promises.

Football has a ruthless, beautiful way of forcing old ghosts back into the room.

Jude Bellingham sat in the quiet of his Madrid mansion , the blinding Spanish sun cutting sharp, golden lines through the blinds. On the marble coffee table, his phone vibrated itself to the very edge, alive with frantic energy.
He’d ignored the group chats all morning. His teammates were already sending memes, fans were tagging him in conceptual lineups. The football world was losing its mind over the prospect of a new empire.

Jude should have been thinking about the press conferences, the tactical adjustments, the sheer, suffocating pressure of what lay ahead. Instead, the noise faded entirely, and he was pulled back into the echo chamber of a memory from four years ago.

Dortmund. A different lifetime.
He remembered a version of himself that felt entirely distant-a kid surviving the pressure of the Bundesliga by leaning on a towering Norwegian striker who played like he feared nothing, who’d protect him every time his teenage dumbass got into another fight with an opponent. They had spent hours running drills until the stadium lights hummed against the dark, sharing inside jokes that belonged only to them. And then, just like that, the striker had moved on, leaving before Jude had ever really learned how to say goodbye.

Jude looked down at the official graphic on his screen.

OFFICIAL: HAALAND HERE WE GO

A heavy, complicated weight settled behind his ribs. It wasn't dread, and it wasn't joy. It was the jarring realization that the distance they had built-the comfortable barrier of playing in different countries, of pretending the silence didn't matter-was gone.

Erling wasn’t a headline anymore. He was a flight away. He was coming to Madrid.
Jude locked his phone, the screen going black, leaving him staring at his own reflection in the dark glass. He had no idea if this was the universe offering a second chance to fix what had faded... or the prologue to a disaster.

The air in the Valdebebas briefing room always smelled vaguely of industrial laundry detergent and expensive cologne, but today, Jude could only track the sharp, distinct scent of rain and adrenaline that seemed to follow Erling everywhere.

Outside, the Madrid sun was doing its best to turn the pitch into a kiln. Inside, everyone was treating Erling like an incoming natural disaster-something to be managed, analyzed, and pointed at the enemy. The media wanted the cyborg. The board wanted the brand.
But Jude just watched the way Erling’s left shoulder hitched slightly when he was annoyed, a tell unchanged since their nights in North Rhine-Westphalia.

When the suit came off and the training kit went on, the heavy, performative gravity of the Bernabéu seemed to crack. Erling lingered by the doorway of the inner gym, his massive frame blocking out the light, eyes immediately
scanning the room until they locked onto Jude.

"You're late," Jude said, his voice dropping into that familiar, easy rhythm they used to share when the rest of the world was locked out of the dressing room. He didn't look up from double-knotting his boots, though his pulse gave a small, traitorous leap against his ribs.

"The presentation went over," Erling said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that felt far too loud in the quiet facility. He took three long strides into the room, stopping just close enough for Jude to feel the sudden shift in temperature.

"They make you talk too much here."

"Welcome to Madrid. Get used to the sound of your own voice." Jude finally looked up, offering a dry, challenging smile. "Though usually, you have to earn your spot on the pitch before you start dictating the schedule."

Erling stared down at him, his expression unreadable for a beat, the intense, terrifying focus that panicked European defenses now trained entirely on Jude. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. A sharp, booming laugh broke the tension, echoing off the tiled walls.

It was the exact sound Jude had spent the last four years trying to forget. The laugh from the back of the team bus, the laugh from hotel rooms where they stayed up too late talking about everything except football.

"You haven't changed at all, sir," Erling muttered, the old nickname slipping out like it had never left his vocabulary.

"One of us had to stay grounded," Jude countered, standing up. He reached out, his hand catching Erling’s shoulder in a brief, firm greeting that lingered just a fraction of a second too long. The fabric of the training shirt was cool, but the heat beneath it was entirely real. "Come on. Let's see if you can still hit the target." Jude kicked Haalands behind before walking out of the room which received a chuckle from his former teammate.

Out on the grass, the transition was terrifyingly seamless.

It wasn't something the coaching staff had drawn up on the whiteboards. It was pure muscle memory, a shared language resurrected from the dead. Jude didn't even need to look-he knew the exact cadence of Erling’s stride, knew the precise micro-second the big man would break into a sprint behind the center-backs.

During a water break, Vinícius leaned against the cooler, watching the two of them with an analytical, slightly amused squint. "Hey, Jude. Did you two have some kind of secret clause in your contracts? You operate like you share a nervous system."

Jude took a slow drink, his eyes tracking Erling, who was currently across the pitch, head thrown back as he listened to a coach.
“We just spent a lot of time in the trenches together in Germany. You don't forget how someone moves."

"It looks like more than that," Rodrygo chimed in, wiping sweat from his forehead. "It looks like you never stopped playing together."

Jude didn't answer. He just tightened the strap on his shin guard, feeling the weight of the afternoon sun pressing down on his neck.
They all saw the tactical masterclass. They saw the seamless integration of a multi-million-euro asset into a world-class system. But as Erling turned, catching Jude’s eye from across the half-way line and offering a small, private nod that belonged only to the two of them, Jude knew the truth.

The distance hadn't fixed anything. It had just kept the ghost at bay. And now, the ghost was wearing white, standing right in front of him, and Jude had absolutely nowhere left to hide.

——-

Carlo Ancelotti wasn’t a man given to impulse, but the 3–1 victory over Valencia had felt like a bleed-out finally stopped.

The preceding months had been ugly. Cracks had begun to show in the dressing room - sharp arguments after dropped points, passive-aggressive silence in the tunnel, a squad of world-class egos slowly splintering under the suffocating weight of Madrid’s expectations.

The football had lacked joy. So, taking advantage of an rare eight-day gap before their next fixture, Ancelotti booked out the back floor of an understated, hyper-exclusive restaurant near the Prado and made attendance non-negotiable.

The dinner had started as something respectable. Good food. A few careful speeches. The manager raising a glass to congratulate them on a gritty performance and reminding them, with a heavy flick of his eyebrow, of the standards required to wear the badge.

By the second round of drinks, all of that carefully manufactured decorum had dissolved.
Vinícius had somehow convinced half the table to sing along to Brazilian funk songs none of them knew the words to, Camavinga and Eduardo were locked in a fiery, hand-waving debate over who possessed the better wardrobe, and Rodrygo looked exactly one bad idea away from standing on his chair to lead a chant.

Jude was leaning back in his leather chair, laughing so hard his chest burned.

“I swear,” he said, pointing his glass across the white tablecloth at Vinícius, “you are, without a doubt, the single worst influence in this country.”

Vinícius gasped, clutching his chest with dramatic outrage. "Me? Look at the big guy! Erling’s had twice as much as me!”

Every head around the center table turned toward Haaland.
Erling paused with a piece of artisan bread halfway to his mouth. “…What?”

“You’ve been suspiciously quiet over there,” Rodrygo noted, squinting suspiciously.

“I’ve been eating,” Erling countered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

“You’ve also finished…” Jude leaned across the back of his seat, trying to count the small cluster of empty, heavy-bottomed glasses settled beside Erling’s plate, before giving up with a snort. “Actually, never mind. That’s impressive.”

Ordinarily, Erling guarded his body like a temple. His routine was legendary - strict hydration protocols, zero alcohol, calculated sleep cycles. But tonight, surrounded by the warm noise of a team finally breathing again, and with a full week before he had to put his boots back on, he’d quietly allowed himself a couple of drinks to blend into the noise and maybe get more comfortable with his new team.

He looked down at the array of glass in front of him, blinking slowly. “Huh.”

“That is not the reaction of a sober man,” Jude laughed, nudging his knee against Erling’s under the table.

“I am entirely, perfectly sober,” Erling stated, adjusting his jacket with exaggerated, stoic dignity.

He wasn’t. Not even close.
Around midnight, Ancelotti finally stood, smoothing down his vest, looking around the delightfully chaotic room with a quiet, paternal satisfaction.

“I am officially choosing to believe I saw none of this,” he announced, the room falling briefly quiet. “Training is at eleven tomorrow. Do not make me regret this.”

A chorus of respectful groans followed him as he made his exit. The second the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind the manager, Vinícius clapped his hands together with a sharp, wicked grin.

“Right,” he declared, slamming his palms on the table. “Now the real night begins.”

They hit the cool midnight air of Madrid on foot, a high-profile entourage wandering through streets that had mostly quieted down. They stopped at an ancient, narrow churrería tucked away down an alley, eating hot dough dipped in dark chocolate while standing on the cobblestones. At one point, Vinícius whipped out his phone, filming as he dared Jude and Erling to a sprint down an empty, lamplit boulevard - Erling running in expensive designer loafers with a heavy, terrifying gait, Jude dying of laughter halfway through and giving up.

By two in the morning, the manic energy had mellowed into a lazy, comfortable calm.
They ended up on the sweeping stone steps outside the quiet grandeur of the Santiago Bernabéu. The stadium towered above them like a sleeping giant, silver moonlight washing over the plaza. Vinícius, Rodrygo, and Camavinga were sitting a few steps down, huddled over a phone screen, whispering and wheezing with laughter over the footage recorded earlier.
A few steps higher, Jude and Erling sat side-by-side, their legs stretched out over the cold stone.
They hadn't deliberately split off. It wasn't a calculated move, nor was it romantic - it was just the quiet, magnetic draw of habit. A instinct forged over years of shared bus rides, long flights, and quiet moments behind closed doors.

"My feet are killing me," Erling muttered, leaning back on his elbows, staring up at the curved facade of the stadium. "These shoes were not made for racing."

"You lost to a man in leather boots, mate," Jude said softly, a tired, fond smile catching his lips. "Don't blame the footwear."

Erling let out a soft huff of air, a puff of white condensation floating up into the chilly night. The silence settled between them, easy and unhurried.

"It's weird, innit?" Jude asked after a moment, resting his forearms on his knees. "Being here. Together. After everything."

"A bit," Erling agreed quietly. The slurred edge in his voice had softened into a gentle, sleepy clarity. "Dortmund feels like a hundred years ago."

"Innit." Jude looked sideways at his friend. "Ya know... when I first moved here, before ya showed up, I was terrified. The pressure in this city - it's different. It suffocates ya if ya let it." He paused, tapping his fingers against his knee. "Did ya feel that? Coming from Manchester?"

Erling didn't answer right away. He turned his head, his blue eyes catching the dim glow of the streetlamps, searching Jude's face with that blunt, uncomplicated honesty he’d always had.
"No," Erling said simply. "I knew you’d be fine."
Jude blinked, caught slightly off guard by the absolute lack of hesitation in his voice. "How?"
Erling shrugged, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth - the one he never gave to the cameras, the one reserved only for late nights and private jokes.

"Because you're you, Ju. You don't break."
Jude held his gaze for a second, the noisy chatter of the rest of the team fading into ambient background sound. There was no grand revelation in it, no unspoken confession - just the solid, unshakeable truth of a brotherhood that had survived distance, rumors, and time itself.

Jude looked back out toward the quiet city, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle. "Fair enough, Big Man. Fair enough."

The migration away from the Bernabéu steps began with a chaotic wave of ordered Ubers, taxicabs, and Vinícius attempting to organize a convoy that nobody asked for.

With the team scattering into the Madrid night, Erling took one look at Jude-who was currently trying to high-five a lamppost because he thought it was Camavinga- and made an immediate executive decision.

Erling’s penthouse was literally a two-minute walk down the boulevard. Letting Jude get into an Uber in his current state felt like releasing a bewildered golden retriever into the wild.

“You’re coming with me,” Erling said, grabbing Jude by the hood of his jacket. “You’re far too out of it.”

Jude pulled back, offended, his eyes widening with dramatic indignation. “I am at the absolute peak of my physical performance, mate. Proper sharp. I’m a master of geography, me.”

“You tried to unlock an ATM with your house key three minutes ago.”

“It had potential, innit.”

“You’re staying at mine.”

“Unbelievable. Proper kidnapping, this. I’m reporting this straight to Carlo, man.”

Despite his passionate protest, Jude fell into step right beside him, swaying slightly as they tackled the empty sidewalk.

A funny thing Erling never knew about his British friend was that whenever he gets drunk his Brummie accent becomes even thicker which made the drunken state Jude was in even funnier.

By the time they reached Erling’s house, Jude had decided the pavement was moving.
“It keeps… shifting.”

“The pavement?” Erling asked, adjusting his grip on Jude’s shoulder.

“Yeah, innit. It’s sliding. Proper got an agenda, this ground.”

“The pavement is not shifting, Jude.”

“It is, bro. It’s doing it on purpose.”

“It’s concrete.”

“…Bit rude of it, if you ask me. Proper unprovoked.”

Erling snorted, fumbling with his keys at the entrance. “The road doesn’t have feelings.”

“You don’t know that, mate. You don’t know its story, do ya?”

The front door finally clicked open.

“Right,” Erling said, stepping aside and gesturing into the dimly lit hallway. “Try not to break anything expensive.”

“I’ve got elite motor control, me,” Jude stated with absolute, unearned authority.

He immediately walked shoulder-first into the brass coat rack.

“…That attacked me, bro.”

“The coat rack?”

“Proper coordinated ambush, that.”

“It’s been standing in that exact corner since I’ve moved here.”

“Lying in wait,” Jude whispered darkly, rubbing his arm. “Calculated, innit.”

“Jesus…” Erling rubbed his face, his shoulders shaking as he kicked off his shoes and disappeared toward the kitchen. “Want water?”

“Nah, man. I’m hydrated on victory and churros.”

“You’re hydrated on terrible choices. You need water.” Haaland said as he gave Jude a glass of water

“I need…” Jude wandered off toward the living room, staring intently at a decorative houseplant before completely losing his train of thought. “…I forgot, bro.”

A minute later, Erling heard the fridge door swing open.

Then-

“…Mate?”

Silence.

“…Erling?”

Another pause, louder this time.

“…ERLING!”

Erling wandered back into the kitchen to find Jude frozen solid in front of the open fridge, staring into the bright light with the horrified expression of someone who’d just uncovered a criminal conspiracy.

“What?” Erling asked, leaning against the doorway.

Jude slowly lifted a trembling finger, pointing directly at the top shelf.

“…What the fuck is that head doing in your fridge, mate?”

Erling followed his gaze, his face completely blank.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Jude repeated, his Brummie accent spiking into an octave usually reserved for missed penalties. “OH?”

Nestled between two tubs of organic Greek yogurt and wrapped carefully in brown butcher’s paper, was an entire sheep’s head.

Jude looked between the head and Erling several times, wide-eyed.

“…Why’s it still got a face, bro? Why's it lookin' at me?”

“I was planning on making smalahove,” Erling said calmly, as if mentioning a bowl of cereal.

Jude scrunched up his nose so dramatically it looked painful. “The fuck is THAT, mate?! You’re proper joking, innit.”

“I’m not.”

“You eat… the whole thing?”

“Yes.”

“The eyes an’ all?”

“…Sometimes.”

Jude slowly, deliberately pushed the fridge door closed until it clicked shut, severing eye contact with the sheep.

“Right. I suddenly don’t fancy a midnight snack anymore, man.”

“It’s actually very good,” Erling offered, a slight grin twitching at his lips.

“Bro, it looks like it’s judging my life choices.”

“It probably is.”

“Oh, shut up, man!” Jude groaned, rubbing his face with both hands.

Erling laughed so hard he had to lean against the kitchen counter, his massive shoulders shaking as Jude backed slowly out of the kitchen, pointing a warning finger at the fridge door.

“I cannot believe you’re laughing, man!”

“You should’ve seen your face,” Erling said, his voice flat, neutral, and distinctly Scandinavian as he leaned against the doorway.

“My face?”

“You looked terrified. Like it was going to jump up and bite you.”

“I am terrified, mate! That thing’s got eyes! It’s got an aura!”

“I will hide it next time.”

“There better not be a next time, or I’m sleeping in a hotel, innit!”

Still muttering obscenities under his breath, Jude stomped after Erling into the living room and practically collapsed onto the sofa like a sack of potatoes, dramatically clutching his chest.

The giant Smart TV mounted on the wall was already buzzing with soft background noise before either of them even looked for the remote - some random nature documentary filling the room with a calm, whispery narration about penguins in Antarctica.

Neither of them paid the penguins an ounce of attention.

“…Hold on. I’ve got a proper elite idea, me.”

Erling looked over from the armchair, immediately suspicious. “That is dangerous.”

“Nah, hear me out, man.”

“It usually ends badly when you say that.”

Jude ignored him completely, snatching the remote off the table and opening YouTube on the big screen with the intense, furrowed-brow concentration of a man trying to solve global economics while three-quarters sloshed. He aggressively typed into the search bar, his eyes lit up with pure, unadulterated mischief.

A second later, he hit play, and a high-definition music video blasted across the giant TV screen in full 4K glory.

A very distinct, chaotic pop beat started pumping through the high-end soundbar, and there-filling the entire 85-inch display-was a teenage Erling Haaland, performing under the stage name Lygo alongside Flow Kingz.

Erling’s eyes widened in sheer, sudden horror.
“…No. Jude, no. Turn it off.”

Jude was already wheezing, his head thrown back against the cushions. “No way, bro-“

“Shit…”

“You actually-”

“Turn it off right now.”

“You actually went out, bought a hoodie covered in 💯 emojis, got on a trampoline, and dropped a track called Kygo Jo?!”

“Jude, I swear to God—”

“‘Flow Kingz feat. Lygo - Kygo Jo’!” Jude read the massive video title floating on the TV screen aloud between breathless, tear-filled wheezes, pointing a shaky finger at the giant monitor.

“Mate! Look at you on the tele! What is this fit, bro?! Why are you bouncing?! You look like a Scandinavian toaster on a trampoline!”

“Turn it off!” Erling lunged forward, reaching for the remote, but Jude scrambled to the other side of the couch like an agile cat, holding the remote high in the air while pointing at the screen.

“Nah, man! We’re watching the whole thing! Look at the view count!” Jude mashed the volume-up button until the entire living room vibrated. “TWENTY-SIX MILLION VIEWS, BRO! TWENTY-SIX MILLION PEOPLE HAVE WATCHED YOU BOUNCE AROUND IN THAT HOODIE!”

The towering Norwegian tried to maintain his icy, imposing stare, but the massive, ridiculous grin breaking across his face betrayed him almost instantly.

“Oh, don’t you start smiling, man!” Jude cackled, clutching his stomach as Erling’s teenage rap verse echoed through the penthouse. “You’re enjoying it! Look at you doing the little hand gestures on the trampoline! You thought you were the biggest artist in Norway!”

“I am smiling because you are an idiot, bro!” Erling shouted over the pounding beat, grabbing a heavy couch cushion and hurling it straight at Jude’s head.

Jude ducked, pointing dramatically at the giant screen as Lygo hit another flow. “You’re a striker! You score goals for a living, mate!”
“I know!”

“You’re not a rapper named Lygo!”

“I know!”

“Opposing center-backs are playing Kygo Jo in the tunnel before Champions League games to feel less scared of you! They see the 💯 hoodie and they lose all respect, bro! Maybe even laughing at you dumbass, innit!”

“I KN—SHUT UP!” Erling yelled, burying his face in his hands as he collapsed back into his chair, helpless laughter finally cracking through his composure.

Jude doubled over completely, sliding off the cushions and landing in a heap on the carpet right in front of the TV screen. “I can’t breathe, man… I actually can’t breathe… somebody call an ambulance, innit!”

“Oh my days…” Jude wheezed, wiping actual tears from the corners of his eyes while Lygo bounced in 4K on the screen. “You actually stood in a studio an’ recorded this, man.”

“I regret telling you about it,” Erling muttered, staring at the floor.

“You should!”

“I knew this would happen.”

“‘Cause it’s proper elite comedy, mate! Listen to yourself!”

“I am listening to myself.”

“Exactly!”

Erling groaned loudly, dropping his head back against the cushion of his armchair.

“Herregud…”

“What was that?” Jude asked, squinting over from the carpet.

“I said you are insufferable, bro.”

“Nah, sounded ruder than that, man.”

“It was.”

Jude laughed even harder, pulling himself up onto his knees.

“Oh, go on then. Swear at me properly. Give us some proper Norwegian obscenities.”

“You want me to?”

“Yeah, man! I reckon it’ll sound proper funny in that accent.”

Erling looked down at him for a quiet moment, his face deadpan before he sighed dramatically.
“Faen.”

Jude blinked, waiting.

“…Was that it, bro?”

“There are worse ones.”

“Hit me then, man.”

“No.”

“Coward.”

“You wouldn’t understand them anyway,” Erling said, turning his attention back to the screen with a slight smirk.

“I’d appreciate the effort, innit!”

Erling shook his head, running a hand over his face.

“Din jævla idiot.”

Jude frowned, tilting his head.

“…You’re makin’ them up now, bro.”

“I’m not.”

“You definitely are. What’s a jævla?”

“I am calling you a bloody idiot.”

“…Fair enough, man. Accurate.”

“Jeg elsker deg” Haaland said that with a small evil smile.

“AHHH, MATE! That sounds the worst of them all! It sounds evilllll, innit!”

“Oh, yes it’s the worst one yet, trust me.” Haaland smirked

Jude snorted before turning the volume up another notch.

“Oh, piss off!” Erling groaned, lunging for the remote.

Jude yelped, twisting away as they wrestled over it like two overgrown toddlers for all of three seconds before Erling gave up and collapsed back against the sofa, totally defeated.

“Lykke til…” he muttered under his breath.

“Bless you, mate.”

“I didn’t sneeze.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you say bless you?”

“’Cause it sounded like a proper sneeze, innit.”

Erling stared at him, completely deadpan. “…You’re impossible. That’s stupid I’m giving up-“

“You’ve got a mouth like a cow’s tail, mate,”
Jude shot back, smirking.

Erling frowned, his brow furrowing into a massive V. “…A what?”

“A mouth like a cow’s tail.”

Silence filled the living room as Erling’s brain aggressively tried to process the phrase.

“…I don’t.”

“You do!”

“I don’t.”

“You literally do, bro.”

“I really do not, I swear!”

Jude snorted. “It’s an expression, man!”

“But…” Erling gestured vaguely toward the kitchen, looking genuinely distressed. “There’s no cow in my fridge.”

Jude blinked, pausing mid-laugh. “…What?”

“The sheep’s head is in there.”

“…Yeah?”

“You’ve seen it.”

“I wish I hadn’t, bro!”

“So why are you talking about a cow now?! I don’t have a cow... only the sheep’s head...”
Erling scratched his head, looking like a man trapped in a fever dream.

Jude stared at him for a solid five seconds before doubling over, wheezing so hard no sound came out.
“No, mate-“

“You said I have a cow’s tail, but I have no cows in my fridge.”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAID, BRO!”

“So where is it? Did you bring one? I can cook it for you if you want”

“What? NOO- There isn’t one!”

“But you said-“

“It’s a bloody saying, man!”

Erling looked genuinely puzzled. “So… you don’t mean an actual cow.”

“No!”

“…Or a tail.”

“NO!”

“…Or a mouth.”
Jude buried his face deep into a sofa cushion, his shoulders shaking hysterically. “Oh my days…”

Erling was still aggressively trying to solve the mystery. “So the cow doesn’t exist.”

“There is no cow, bro!”

“The tail doesn’t exist.”

“No!”

“But the sheep does.”

“…YES, BLOODY HELL!”

Erling nodded slowly, as though he’d just cracked a top-secret military code. “Right…”

Jude let out a long, wheezing sigh from inside the cushion, wiping his eyes.

“I understand now,” Erling said proudly.

“Thank fuck for that.”

“I’m not a fan of cow’s heads anyway,” Erling added casually.

Jude snapped his head up, horrified. “For Christ’s sake, you’ve tried that too?!”

“Yeah, haven’t you?”

“No, man!”

They stayed in complete silence for a whole minute while the high-definition Lygo video softly played on the TV.

“…English people just say random things,” Erling interrupted the quiet, flat and matter-of-fact.

Jude opened his mouth to argue, ready to defend his entire heritage. Nothing came out.
“…Actually,” Jude admitted, rubbing his neck. “…Fair enough, innit. But bro, if you actually want to know what it meanS-“

“I don't.”

“No, listen!” Jude grinned, leaning in. “Saying someone’s got a mouth like a cow’s tail means you’re always going on! Like a cow’s tail, constantly flicking back and forth, never keeping still! It means you talk too much, mate!”

Erling stared at him for three agonizing seconds, his face totally blank, before pointing a long finger at Jude.

“My mouth is closed,” Erling said. “Your mouth is open. You are the one talking about imaginary cows. You have the cow tail mouth, bro.”

Jude opened his mouth to roast him, paused, and collapsed back into the cushions. “…Fair enough, man. You got me.”

Erling smirked triumphantly. “I win.”

“You don’t win!”

“I understood British culture before you did.”

“You absolutely did not, bro! You thought I hid livestock in your kitchen!”

“I know there is no cow.”

“THERE WAS NEVER A COW!”

Erling leaned back against the sofa with the most smug, satisfied grin Jude had seen all night. “I am adapting to British culture.”

Jude pointed at him dramatically, eyes wide. “You are never allowed to say that sentence again, mate.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause you’ve got an entire sheep’s head in your fridge, bro!”

“And no cow.”

“And NO COW!”
Erling nodded once, completely serious. “I’m glad we cleared that up.”

Jude laughed so hard he actually slid off the sofa and landed on the floor with a dull, heavy thud, his body limp with exhaustion.
Erling looked over the armrest, peering down at him with an unblinking, stoic gaze.

“…You alright?”

Jude lay there flat on his back, staring up at the high, modern ceiling of the living room, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

“…Ta-ra.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I’ve no clue anymore, mate. Proper broken, me.”

Slowly, the breathlessness subsided, and the quiet crept back into the room.

That was the strange, fragile thing about nights like this. They started so loudly-with shouting, stolen remotes, and absurd arguments about imaginary cows-that it felt impossible for them to ever soften. But eventually, the music faded.

The jokes ran out. The lingering buzz of the alcohol settled into something warmer, heavier, and far more exposed, leaving behind the precise words neither of them had ever intended to speak.

The television flickered quietly on the wall, muting down to an old Champions League replay that neither of them was actually watching.

Jude pulled himself up into a sitting position, leaning his back against the base of the sofa and slowly turning his half-empty bottle of water between his hands. The plastic crinkled softly in the silence.

“You know what I proper hated, man?”

Erling shifted in his armchair, turning his head to look down at him.

“What?”

Jude didn't look up. He kept his eyes locked on the label peeling off his water bottle.

“When you left Dortmund.”

The words were barely louder than a whisper. But in the quiet of the empty house, they landed with a heavy, crushing weight.

Erling’s expression shifted, the defensive lightness draining completely from his face.

“I knew you were going to say that eventually.”
Jude paused, finally raising his eyes. “You knew?”

“I knew you were upset,” Erling said quietly.

“Then why didn’t you say anything, bro?”
Erling looked away, staring toward the dark floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lights of Madrid. “Because I thought you understood.”

Jude gave a small, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. Well. I didn’t, mate.”

A heavy, suffocating silence fell between them. The stadium replay on the TV flashed light across their faces, but neither moved.

“I thought…” Jude swallowed hard, his throat tight, his Brummie accent softening into something raw and small. “I thought we were gonna have more time, man. I thought we were building something.”

Erling didn’t answer. His hands gripped the edge of the chair, knuckles white.

“You were the first one of us to go,” Jude continued, his voice cracking slightly before he cleared his throat. “And I get it, innit? I know that’s football. I know how the game works. You had to go to City, you had to do what was right for your career.” His fingers tightened around the plastic bottle until it crumpled. “But everyone around us acted like it was just another Tuesday. Like it was just another transfer on Sky Sports.”

“It wasn’t just another transfer for me either,” Erling said, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a rare, exposed emotion.

Jude looked up at him, searching his face.
Erling met his gaze, his blue eyes painfully serious. “You think leaving was easy?”

“Didn’t look that hard from where I was standing, mate.”

“Because I was scared, Jude.”
The admission hit the room like a physical impact. Jude went entirely still.
“You were?”

Erling nodded slowly, looking older, tired. “I left Germany. New country. New league. New system. Millions of people waiting for me to fail just so they could say I wasn’t worth the hype.” He paused, taking a slow, shaky breath. “And the one person who actually understood how I worked… the one person who made all the noise quiet… wasn’t there anymore.”

Jude’s chest tightened, the anger melting away, replaced by an aching, familiar grief. “I was still there, man. I was right on the end of the phone.”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly, sharp and final.
Jude flinched slightly.

Erling immediately caught himself, rubbing a hand hard over his face, looking genuinely pained. “I mean… not like before, bro. You know it wasn’t.”

That hurt, mostly because it was the absolute, unvarnished truth.

Jude looked back down at his hands, his throat burning. “I tried, you know. I proper tried.”

“I know.”

“I messaged you after every match.”

“I know.”

“I watched every single game you played for City, man.”

“I know, Jude.”

“Then why did it feel like I was losing you, bro?”

Jude’s voice broke on the last word, the quiet confession hanging in the air between them.

“Why did it feel like you just closed the door?”

Erling stared at him, unable to look away now. The wall he kept up for the media, for the fans, for the rest of the world, was completely gone.

“Because I thought you were moving on without me,” Erling admitted softly.

Jude frowned, genuinely baffled. “What?”

“You came to Madrid,” Erling said, gesturing vaguely at the room, at the city outside. “You took the shirt. You scored every week. You had the whole world singing your name. You became the biggest player on the planet.” Erling swallowed, his chest rising and falling heavily. “I thought… maybe you realized you didn’t need me around anymore.”

The words were so painfully, absurdly honest that Jude just sat there, stunned into absolute silence.

It was tragic, really. The sheer, stupid absurdity of it. Two of the most formidable athletes in the world, sitting on opposite sides of Europe for years, both privately convinced that the other had outgrown them.

“You absolute, total idiot,” Jude breathed out, though there was no bite in it at all.

Erling looked down at him, a weary, fragile light returning to his eyes.

Jude shook his head, a small, sad, incredibly gentle smile touching his lips. “I reckon we’re both proper idiots, actually.”

A soft, exhaled laugh escaped Erling, a sound thick with relief. “Probably, yes.”

They sat there in the quiet for a long time.
They didn't fix the lost years in a single conversation. They couldn't magically erase the missed calls, the unreplied messages, or the awkward distance that had stretched between Manchester and Madrid. But the cold, heavy barrier that had lived between them for four long years had finally been torn down.

“I missed you, man,” Jude said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner. “Proper missed you.”

Erling looked down at his best friend, his expression softer than the world would ever be allowed to see.
“I missed you too, Ju.”

And that was somehow infinitely worse.
Because Jude had spent years erecting walls around his own heart, convincing himself that he was the only one holding onto the wreckage.

He’d told himself that Erling had moved on, that the bond they shared had been a temporary chapter in a massive, cold industry. Realizing that Erling had been hurting too-that they had both been suffocating in the exact same silence-didn't bring relief. It brought a sharp, devastating ache.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was agonizingly fragile. It hung between them like thin glass, as if a single wrong breath could shatter the delicate peace they’d barely managed to rebuild.

Jude sat on the floor, looking up at him.
He stared at the boy who had grown into a giant, the person who had been his confidant, his anchor, the only person in a sea of millions who had ever truly understood him without requiring a single word of explanation. All the years of distance, the unsaid words, and the sheer, overwhelming weight of having him back in his life crashed over Jude all at once.
And before he could think.

Before his rational mind could put up a defense or scream at him to stop.

Jude reached out, his hand trembling slightly as his palm cupped the side of Erling’s face, his thumb brushing against his cheekbone.
He leaned forward, closing his eyes.

A brief, soft kiss.

Nothing performative. No grand cinematic gesture. Just a quiet, desperate offering-a second where time completely ceased to exist.

Just a second.

But it was enough to change the air in the room forever.

The moment Jude pulled back, his entire body went completely, painfully numb.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Erling hadn’t moved an inch.

His blue eyes were wide, his breath hitched in his chest, his expression entirely unreadable-a mask of frozen, stunned silence.

And suddenly, Jude was painfully, brutally aware of every single sensor in his body. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The quiet hum of the apartment sounded deafening. The skin on his palm felt like it was on fire.

“Mate…”

Jude’s voice came out tiny, cracking into a breathy whisper.

“Erling, I-“

Nothing.

No movement. No sudden realization. No kiss back.

Just absolute, paralyzing shock.

Jude’s face burned with a sudden, humiliating heat. A cold pit opened in his stomach and swallowed everything whole.

Right.

Of course.

He had misread it all. He had crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed, taken a fragile second chance and completely destroyed it with his own hands.

“I should go,” Jude choked out, scrubbing a hand over his face as he scrambled up from the carpet.

“Jude-“

“Nah, it’s alright, man. Proper fine,” Jude stammered, his Brummie accent completely fracturing under the panic.

It wasn’t fine. They both knew it was a total disaster.

Jude was already on his feet, his balance unsteady as he stumbled toward the entrance.

“I’ll see you at Valdebebas tomorrow,” Jude muttered, not daring to look back, his eyes burning as he grabbed his jacket off the chair.

“Jude, wait, man-“ Erling called out, finally starting to rise, his voice heavy and panicked.
But the front door was already opening. Jude stepped out into the cold corridor, and the heavy door clicked shut before Erling could find his footing or his words.

Inside the quiet penthouse, Erling stood alone in the center of the living room, staring at the empty doorway.

For the first time all night, his mind wasn't clouded by alcohol, jokes, or confusing English sayings. He wasn't confused at all. He knew with absolute, terrifying clarity what had just happened.

He just didn't know why his own body had paralyzed him, leaving him standing there in the quiet while the only person he cared about walked out into the dark.

Jude didn’t remember much of the walk home.
Not because he was still drunk. Not really. The biting night air had done a better job of cutting through the alcohol than anything else could have, leaving him painfully, brutally aware of every single thought racing through his head.
The streets of Madrid were muted at this hour, the usual roar of the city softened into distant tires on asphalt and the occasional echo of footsteps on stone.

Normally, Jude loved nights like this. Nights where the world slowed down, where he could just walk without cameras flashing or strangers asking questions about tactics and pressure.

Tonight, every step felt like dragging lead.
Because every few seconds, his mind replayed it in devastating high-definition.

The conversation.

The quiet confession.

The look in Erling's eyes.

And then...

the kiss.

Jude pressed his lips together, instantly flinching as the phantom pressure of the memory returned.

“Brilliant,” he muttered under his breath, his Brummie accent flat and miserable in the empty street. “Proper brilliant, Jude, mate.”

He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets and kept walking, his head down.
Because what else was he supposed to do?
He had spent four long years missing Erling. Four years pretending that the distance didn’t eat at him as much as it did. He had told himself it was just the sport, that football moved fast, that people changed clubs, drifted apart, and built new lives.

But then Erling had walked into Valdebebas like no time had passed at all, and every single emotion
Jude had buried under trophies and pressure came rushing right back to the surface.
And Jude had ruined it in a single second.
That was the part that was currently suffocating him. Not even the kiss itself-it was the silence after.

If Erling had pushed him away, maybe Jude’s brain could make sense of it. If he had looked disgusted, or uncomfortable, or just told him straight out that he didn't feel the same, Jude could have accepted it. It would have ripped him apart, but at least the lines would be clear.
Instead, Erling had just frozen.

Dead quiet.

And Jude, in a total panic, had filled in the silence himself. Because that’s what he always did. He assumed. He overthought. He convinced himself of the absolute worst-case scenario before anyone else had the chance to break his heart.
A sharp, humorless laugh escaped him, turning into a plume of white breath in the cold air. “Well done, bro. Great job.”

A sudden sting hit the back of his eyes.
He blinked rapidly, staring up at the grand, towering balconies of the apartment buildings above him, as if looking at the sky would magically stop the heavy ache in his chest.
It didn't.

The first tear caught him completely off guard, slipping warm down his cheek.
Jude stopped dead in his tracks on the pavement.
For a moment, he just stood there, more angry at himself than anything else.
He wasn’t someone who cried. Not over football. Not over media pressure. Not over losing matches or dropping points.
He was built to handle pressure.
But this wasn’t football.

This was Erling.

The guy who had known him before the world started watching his every move. The guy who had made the chaotic, suffocating noise of their lives feel completely simple back in Germany.
And now Jude had finally let the wall down, only to run away before he could even hear what Erling had to say.

He wiped his face aggressively with the back of his sleeve, scanning the empty street even though there wasn’t a soul around to see him.

“Get a grip, man,” he whispered into the dark.

His voice cracked right down the middle.
He hated it.
He hated feeling this utterly exposed, this small, this defenseless.
By the time he finally reached his building and made it up to his apartment, the skin around his eyes felt hot and raw.
He unlocked the heavy front door, stepped inside, and was instantly hit by how massive and empty the space felt.
It was suffocatingly quiet.
No booming Norwegian laugh echoing from the living room.
No absurd arguments about nature documentaries or music videos.
No Erling lingering by the kitchen counter, teasing him about imaginary cows.
Just total, hollow silence.

Jude dropped his keys onto the marble console table with a sharp clack. He stood there in the dark entryway for a long, agonizing moment, staring at his own boots.
Then, he covered his face with both hands, leaned back against the closed door, and finally let the quiet break him.

Across the city, Erling hadn’t moved.
The television was still playing. The lights were still on. Jude’s glass of water was still sitting on the marble table where he’d left it, condensation slowly pooling around its base.

Everything looked exactly the same.

Except Jude wasn’t there.

Erling stared at the closed front door for what felt like hours, his tall frame frozen in the quiet living room.

His mind kept replaying the exact same three seconds on a continuous, relentless loop.
Jude looking at him.

Jude hesitating.

Jude leaning in to kiss him.

And then the look of total, agonizing heartbreak on Jude's face when Erling hadn’t immediately reacted.

That was the part that cut the deepest.
Because Erling had reacted. He just hadn’t known how.

His brain had simply short-circuited.
He had spent four long years missing him, imagining what it would be like to have Jude close again. And when it finally happened-when Jude had looked at him like he was the only person that mattered in the whole world-Erling had completely forgotten how to breathe.

He hadn't been rejecting him.

He had just been stunned. Terrified, almost.
Because there were some feelings you could pretend didn't exist when someone was on the other side of Europe. Some feelings you could keep buried under the weight of match results and distance when they were just old memories.
But Jude had been standing right in front of him.
Jude, who knew him better than almost anyone on the planet.

Jude, who had just shown him, without a single spoken word, that the feelings had never been one-sided.

Erling slowly lifted a hand, his large fingers brushing lightly against his own lips.

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before disappearing just as fast.

Because it wasn’t funny. Not really.

Jude had kissed him, and then he had walked out into the cold Madrid night believing Erling didn’t want him.

“Idiot,” Erling whispered into the quiet room.
He wasn’t even sure who he meant.

Maybe Jude.

Maybe himself.

He leaned his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes. For the first time in years, he stopped fighting it and let himself finally admit what he’d been running from.

He hadn’t just missed his teammate.
He hadn’t just missed his best friend.
He had missed Jude. Entirely, hopelessly.
And now he had no idea how to fix it.

•••••

The next morning felt wrong from the very second Erling opened his eyes.
Not because of the physical toll. He had played through worse. He had trained after sleepless nights, after brutal losses, after days where every newspaper headline in Europe was picking his performance apart.

This was entirely different.

Usually, whenever something weighed on him, football was his escape. The pitch was simple. The ball was simple. There were clear rules, spatial patterns, tactical movements-things that made sense, things he could master.

Jude didn’t fit into a tactical board.

Erling had barely slept two hours. Every time he drifted off, he saw the exact same image - Jude standing in his living room, cheeks flushed, looking more raw and vulnerable than Erling had ever seen him. The tiny hesitation before he leaned in.
The devastating flash in his eyes the second he thought Erling was freezing him out.
The way he had muttered “I should go” like he was desperately trying to protect his own heart from a blow that was never meant to land.

Erling had wanted to stop him. He knew that now. The instinct had been there, roaring through his veins-his body had just been too slow to translate it into action.

And now Jude was sitting somewhere across the city, assuming the absolute worst.
Erling picked up his phone before leaving his apartment.
Nothing.
No notifications from him. No group chat tags. Not even the usual, familiar text Jude sent after a late night:
You alive, bro?
It was stupid how much the absence of those four words hurt.

Erling grabbed his keys, trying to pull his usual stoic focus back into place. He told himself not to overthink it. He told himself he would find Jude at Valdebebas before training started, drag him into a quiet room, and fix this.
They had always been good at talking once they were face-to-face.

Except, as the heavy gates of the training ground pulled open, a cold feeling settled in Erling's chest-a quiet, nagging fear that this time, talking wasn't going to be so simple.

•••

The heavy iron gates of Valdebebas swung open to a morning that felt far louder than usual.
At first, Erling didn’t catch why.

Players were arriving, coaches were pacing the sidelines, and media lenses were already glinting behind the fences. It had all the trappings of a standard Tuesday session.
Until he pushed through the heavy doors into the dressing room.

And the entire room went dead quiet.

Not a sudden drop in conversation.
Not a dramatic scene.
Just a subtle, unnatural silence. The kind that told him, instantly, that he was the last person to know.

Vinícius was perched on the edge of a bench, staring down at his phone, the usual chaotic grin entirely gone from his face.
Erling felt a sudden, icy drop in his stomach.
“What?”
Nobody answered.
“What’s happened?” Erling pressed, his voice cutting through the locker room.
Rodrygo flicked a brief, uncomfortable look toward Camavinga.

Slowly, Vinícius turned the screen of his phone around.

At first, Erling’s brain couldn't process the array of photos spread across the screen. There were nearly ten of them, taken in rapid succession by a ruthless telephoto lens.

It was a dimly lit street in Madrid. A tall figure walking alone under the harsh orange glare of a streetlight.

Jude.

The early photos caught him unaware—hand raised, furiously wiping tears from his cheeks with the back of his sleeve, his face raw and flushed. But in the final few shots, Jude had clearly spotted the paparazzi hiding in the shadows.

There was one devastating, perfectly captured shot where Jude was looking almost directly at the camera.
His eyes were puffy, tears glistening on his reddened cheeks, his lips set in a tense line. Even broken, exposed, and vulnerable like that, Erling thought, he was stunning.

The very last photo showed Jude raising his hood in a desperate attempt to hide his face, ducking his head as he unlocked the gate to his home and vanished inside.

Erling’s eyes dropped to the headline blaring across the article:

REAL MADRID STAR JUDE BELLINGHAM SEEN EMOTIONAL AFTER LATE NIGHT OUT,

Erling felt a suffocating weight settle right behind his ribs.

“He was crying?” Erling asked quietly, the Scandinavian lilt in his voice sounding hollow and thin.

Silence was his only answer. They all knew. They had all read the tabloids already spreading like wildfire across social media.

And suddenly, the memory of Jude standing in his living room hours ago returned with an agonizing, sharp clarity.

The sudden panic in his eyes. The desperate scramble for his coat. The way his voice had fractured when he muttered, “I’m proper fine, mate.”

Erling had assumed Jude was just embarrassed. He thought he was overwhelmed by the sudden shift between them. He hadn’t realized he had shattered him.

“Erling…” Vinícius’ voice was subdued, stripped of its usual bravado. “You alright, bro?”

He wasn’t. He felt like the air had been kicked straight out of his chest.
Before he could answer, the door opened and Ancelotti walked in. The manager looked around the quiet room, his sharp eyes settling directly on Erling.

“Jude won’t be joining us today,” Carlo said calmly, crossing his arms. “He called in sick this morning.”

A quiet murmur rippled through the room.
Carlo sighed, gesturing faintly toward Vinícius’ phone. “You’ve probably all seen the news articles about him by now. I’m letting him take a day break this time to sort things out.”
His gaze lingered on Erling for a beat longer than necessary, heavy with unspoken understanding, before he turned back to the rest of the squad. “Out to the pitch. We still have work to do.”

The training session kicked off without him.
That alone made the pitch feel immense and strangely empty.

The squad had been finding its rhythm, but everyone noticed when the heart of the team was missing. Jude’s energy usually filled the entire facility.

Without it, the passes lacked crispness. The rondos felt forced. Even the bright Spanish sun felt dull.

Erling tried to stay locked in. He really did. He made his runs, executed his presses, worked through the drills.

But every time the ball touched his boots, his mind drifted backward.

To Dortmund.

To the years before media circuses and massive expectations had tangled everything up.

To Jude wheezing with laughter beside him on the team bus.

To Jude stealing food off his plate during meals and casually claiming a ghost did it.

To Jude texting him after every single match, making sure he kept his feet on the ground.

To Jude looking at him last night with his heart in his hands, utterly terrified of being turned
away.

“Erling.”

A sharp whistle cut through the noise. Erling stopped in his tracks, blinking back to the present.

Carlo was standing a few yards off, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. “You are not here today.”

It wasn't an accusation. Just a fact.

Erling looked down at the turf, digging his studs into the grass. “Sorry, Boss.”

Carlo observed the tall forward for a long, heavy moment. “Go inside,” he said softly. “Get your recovery done early.”

The second he reached the dressing room, Erling grabbed his phone.
He swiped the screen awake, his heart hammering against his chest.

No new messages.

Still nothing. No texts, no missed calls, no sarcastic Brummie comments.

Erling stared at the blank screen, the quiet room closing in around him. He gripped the phone tightly, his jaw setting.

The last message Jude had sent him was weeks ago.

A stupid video. A short, absurd joke they had shared without context. Something entirely meaningless-until now, when it suddenly felt like the most important thing on Erling's phone.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

He typed.

I'm sorry. Deleted it.

Typed again.

It wasn't what you think. Deleted it.

Because what could he even say? How could he translate four years of quiet longing and a second of stunned paralysis into a text message?

Sorry I didn’t kiss you back?
Sorry I froze because I wanted it so badly it terrified me?
Sorry you walked out into the dark believing I didn’t want you, when the truth is I’ve never stopped wanting you close?

None of it sounded simple enough. None of it sounded like Erling.

Frustrated, he locked the screen. But before he could shove the phone into his bag, another notification flashed across the display.

Another article.
Another invasive photo.
Another grim reminder that while Erling had been sitting in silence, the whole world had watched Jude break.

Erling hated it.
Not because of the tabloids, or the media, or the noise. But because Jude had been completely alone. He had walked home through the streets of Madrid believing he’d destroyed their friendship, believing he had lost something vital-and Erling had just let him walk.

For the first time in his life, Erling Haaland didn’t care about tactical meetings, headlines, expectations, or the club.

He only cared about Jude.

Because amid all the confusion, one truth stood out with brutal, absolute certainty: he could handle losing a match. He could handle dropping points or missing out on trophies.

But losing Jude again?

He knew, deep down, he wouldn't survive that a second time.

The following morning, everyone at Valdebebas noticed before Jude even uttered a word.
It was the way the entire room shifted the moment he crossed the threshold.

Usually, Jude Bellingham walked into training like the sun rising. Not with arrogance, not that-but with an effortless, magnetic warmth. He was loud, he was constantly smiling, he was always causing mild chaos before the boots were even laced. He’d swipe someone’s espresso, complain bitterly about the locker room playlist, or start a pointless, heated debate with Vinícius about footwear.
He filled every room he entered without ever trying. Just with his million dollar smile and his broken Spanish.

Today, he didn’t fill the room. He seemed to shrink inside it.

He stepped through the heavy doors quietly, his leather duffel slung over one shoulder. For three solid seconds, the dressing room fell into a heavy, unnatural stillness.

This was not the Jude they knew.

His dark hair was uncharacteristically undone. Shadowy, bruised-looking circles sat under his eyes, his skin looked pale, and the natural, effortless confidence he wore like armor had been left somewhere in the dark between yesterday and today. He looked like a man who hadn't slept a single minute.
Maybe because he hadn't. Maybe because he’d cried all night.

“Morning, lads,” he said quietly. He even offered a small, polite smile-a ghost of a gesture that didn't come anywhere near his eyes, that would’ve fooled anyone who didn’t know Jude.

But everyone in that locker room knew Jude.
And they knew that forced smile was completely hollow.

“Jude.”
Vinícius’ voice was gentler than usual, stripped of all its typical playfulness.
Jude flicked his eyes over, his hands gripping the metal door of his locker. “What, mate?”
“You alright, man?”
A second stretched. A tiny, agonizing beat that hung heavy in the room—almost invisible, but felt by every single person sitting on those benches.
Then Jude offered another quick smile, adjusting his shirt collar. “Yeah, bro. Proper fine. Why wouldn't I be?”
you look like you haven’t slept a single second.
your eyes are swollen, red, and tired.
yesterday you were laughing with us, and today you look like you’re desperately trying to hold yourself together.

Nobody said a word.

They didn't push him. They knew Jude well enough to recognize the quiet armor he was pulling over himself, and they knew better than to shatter it in front of everyone.

“I’m good, honestly,” Jude repeated, reaching down for his boots.

And everyone in that room knew it was a lie.
Across the locker room, Erling didn’t utter a sound.

He had been tracking Jude from the very second he had crossed the threshold, a knot tightening in his chest with every muted, careful movement Jude made.

And somehow, this hollow, detached version of Jude was infinitely worse than if he had walked in furious.

Anger would have been easy. Anger meant Jude still cared. Anger meant there was a fire to fight, something raw to reach out and grab onto. But..
This wasn't anger. This was total, deliberate distance.

This was Jude quietly building an impenetrable wall between them, stepping back into the dark where he thought he was safe.

Training started normally.

Or at least, it attempted to.

Carlo Ancelotti picked up on it instantly from the touchline. Everyone did.

The opening drill was simple- a basic passing pattern meant to sharpen timing, movement, and chemistry. The exact kind of routine Jude and Erling had always been annoyingly, effortlessly brilliant at executing.

In the past, they never needed instructions. They barely needed eye contact.

Jude would glance up, and Erling was already accelerating into space.

Erling would shift his weight, and Jude already knew the exact speed and trajectory the ball needed to take.

It wasn't just tactical, it was pure instinct, forged over years of shared pitch time and absolute trust.

What about now?

There was nothing. Just empty, icy space.
“Again!!” Carlo called out, his whistle swinging lazily from his wrist.

The ball rolled cleanly to Jude’s feet near the center circle.

Normally, he would have whipped it around the corner on the half-turn without looking. He would have anticipated Erling’s sweeping run behind the defensive line before anyone else on the pitch even picked up the gap.

Though today, Jude hesitated.

Just for a fraction of a second. A single, agonizing beat of hesitation.

That was all it took.

When Jude finally struck the ball, the pass dragged behind.

Erling had to check his run awkwardly, twisting his hips to reach for a ball that should have dropped right into his stride. The contact was clumsy, and the ball bobbled tamely off his boot and over the touchline.

It was a tiny, meaningless mistake in a warm-up drill1the sort of minor error that happens a dozen times a morning and gets forgotten instantly.

Except today, the entire pitch went quiet, and everyone stopped to watch.

Erling looked back at him.

Their eyes locked across the manicured green.
For a heartbeat-just a single, fragile beat-Jude almost looked like he was about to speak. The breath caught in his chest, his lips parting on the precipice of something raw and unsaid.

Almost.

Then the shadow fell over his face again, and he looked away toward the horizon.

“Sorry,” Jude called out.

One word.

Polite. Crisp. Professionally distant.

And somehow, that single word cut deeper than any harsh insult ever could. Because Jude had never spoken to him like just another teammate on the payroll. He talked to him like Jude-loud, unvarnished, and completely open. Now, the space between them felt clinical. It hurt.

The small-sided match that followed was agonizing.

Carlo had paired them in the same bibs, a silent managerial gamble that their natural chemistry would override whatever ghost was haunting them.

It didn't.

Erling burst into the channel, peeling off the center-back with a sharp, fluid movement.
Jude saw it instantly. His muscle memory screamed at him to play the ball into the stride of the giant forward, to drop it right onto the penny. His body moved on pure instinct.
Almost.

Then the memory flooded back-the suffocating silence in the penthouse, the stunned horror in Erling’s blue eyes, the burning humiliation of walking home in the dark.

His foot hitched for a fraction of a second. The window closed. The intercepting boot slid in, clearing the ball away.

“Jude.”

Carlo’s voice floated across the turf. It wasn't sharp; it was quiet, heavy with disappointment. That made it ten times worse.

Jude gave a tight nod, staring down at his studs. “Sorry.”

Again.

Always sorry.

Erling stood frozen in the final third, watching him with an aching chest. This shell of a person wasn't Jude. The Jude he knew didn't offer meek apologies every time a pass went astray. Jude argued with referees, Jude roared at the sky, Jude cracked jokes to defuse the tension.
This version was retreating inward, shrinking himself down as if trying to erase his own footprint from the pitch.

By the time the final whistle blew, an exhaustion hung over the complex that had nothing to do with physical exertion.

The squad had spent two agonizing hours watching two people who used to read each other's minds navigate the grass like total, cautious strangers.

Vinícius leaned back against the bench in the shade, watching Jude’s retreating figure. "This is painful to watch, man."

Rodrygo let out a long, heavy exhale, unscrewing his water bottle. "They’re complete idiots."

"The biggest idiots in Europe."

"They care about each other."

Vinícius flicked his gaze toward Rodrygo, his expression unusually serious. "Obviously."

"And they don't even realize it."

"What could’ve happened between them….” Vinícius murmured, watching Erling standing entirely alone near the center circle, his tall frame etched against the empty field as his eyes tracked Jude.

“I’m not sure, Jude doesn’t want to talk.”

Erling lingered long after the rest of the team had trotted inside.

The complex fell deathly quiet, the afternoon breeze rustling the nylon nets. He had spent his entire life using football as his sanctuary- the one domain where every problem had a mechanical, logical solution.

But there were no tactical boards for whatever was breaking inside Jude’s heart.

And that realization terrified Erling far more than any high-stakes final ever could. You could always play another match next week. Trophies could be re-won.

But the cold, hollow ache of losing Jude felt hauntingly familiar. He had survived the quiet distance once when he left for Manchester. He knew, with absolute, terrifying clarity, that he wouldn't survive it a second time.

When he finally stepped into the main building, the dressing room had cleared out with unusual speed.

A collective impulse for air had swept the squad; someone had mentioned lunch, and Vinícius had practically herded the rest of the team toward the dining hall.

Within minutes, the air grew still, heavy with the scent of damp turf, leather, and lingering humidity.

Only two lockers remained open at the far end of the long bench.

Jude was sitting with his head bowed, meticulously folding his jersey into perfect, precise squares before sliding it into his duffel bag, his eyes deliberately avoiding the floor-to-ceiling mirror opposite him.

Avoiding the reflection of the towering Norwegian standing just a few paces away.
Erling stood motionless, a damp towel draped over his broad shoulders, his gaze fixed on the space between their boots. The air felt thick, humming with everything they had spent twelve hours running from.

There were no more tactics. No more drills. No more distractions.

"Jude."

The name tore through the quiet room, echoing off the locker doors far louder and more raw than Erling had intended.

Jude’s fingers froze on the metal teeth of his bag’s zipper.

He didn’t turn around immediately. He couldn't. For three agonizing beats, he just stood there, shoulders squared, facing the row of pristine lockers as if gathering the pieces of himself before exposing the cracks.

“…Yeah?”

The word was quiet. It wasn’t cold or bitter, but it wasn’t warm either. It was carefully guarded-a tone held together by sheer, fragile self-preservation.

Erling swallowed, his throat dry, his pulse hammering against his collarbone like a trapped bird.

“I… can we talk, Jude…”

Jude let out a slow, quiet breath through his nose, his shoulders dropping a fraction before he finally turned to face him. He didn't lean back against the bench. He just stood there, holding his duffel bag between them like a shield.

“We’re talking, mate.”

“No… I mean…” Erling gestured helplessly between them, the words catching somewhere in the tight space between his chest and his throat. “I need to explain.”

Jude looked at him for a long, heavy moment. His dark eyes were tired, etched with the exhaustion of a man who had spent forty-eight hours dissecting every second of his own worst mistake.

“I don’t reckon there’s much to explain, bro.”

“There is.”

The words snapped out of Erling, far harder than he intended.

Silence stretched thick and suffocating between them. In the quiet of the empty room, Erling could hear the frantic rhythm of his own heartbeat.

“I wasn’t…” He stopped, closing his eyes in sheer frustration.

Shit. Why was this suddenly so agonizingly difficult? He had faced seventy thousand roaring fans without his hands shaking, yet standing in front of Jude Bellingham made his voice completely abandon him.

Jude waited. He didn't offer a lifeline, didn't scoff, didn't interrupt. He just watched, his expression painfully still.

Erling ran a frustrated, heavy hand down his face and over the back of his neck. “The other night…”

Jude’s entire posture visibly stiffened, a flicker of raw, defensive panic crossing his features. “You don’t have to do this, man.”

“I do.”

“You really don’t, Erling.”

“I wasn’t trying to reject y-“

The heavy metal changing-room door swung wide open with a sharp, echoing clatter.

“Oh.”

Both of them snapped their heads up at the exact same time.

Kylian Mbappé stood frozen in the doorway, one hand resting on the stainless-steel handle, blinking between the two of them.
“…I forgot my-“ Kylian started, his voice trailing off mid-sentence.

The air in the room was thick enough to suffocate in.

Kylian’s sharp eyes flicked from Jude-pale, tight-lipped, holding his bag like a life preserver-to Erling, who looked flushed, frantic, and dangerously close to a breakdown. Then back to Jude again.

“Oh…” Kylian muttered softly.

Another beat of total, agonizing silence passed.
Jude let out a long, slow exhale, slinging the leather strap of his bag over his shoulder with practiced ease. “…What did you forget, mate?”

Kylian stared at them for one more second.

Then, with the precise, deliberate movement of a man who had just realized he’d walked headfirst into an emotional minefield, he slowly pointed a single finger behind his own shoulder toward the corridor.

“…For example… nothing.”

Without another word, Kylian turned on his heel and vanished back out the doorway. A fraction of a second later, the frantic, squeaking sound of his rubber soles breaking into an immediate sprint echoed down the hallway.

“I think he’s faster than the cars..” Jude whispered to himself with a confused stare.

Silence returned to the locker room.

But the fragile momentum had shattered. Whatever tiny ember of courage Erling had spent the last ten minutes coaxing into a flame had died the moment the door swung open.
Erling looked back at Jude, his chest aching.
Jude offered him a tiny, terrible smile. It was polite, gentle, and utterly hollow-it didn't come anywhere near his eyes.

“It’s alright, bro, really.”

“No, it isn’t, Jude.”

“You don’t have to force yourself, man.”
“I’m not forcing-“

“It’s okay. It was a drunken mistake, I shouldn’t have crossed your boundaries with my stupidness. I didn’t know what I was thinking..”

The words were soft. Far, far too gentle. It was the tone you used on someone you were trying to let down easy, and hearing it come from Jude broke something vital inside Erling's chest.
Jude adjusted the strap on his shoulder, his eyes searching Erling's face with quiet, devastating understanding.

“I get it, innit.”

“No,” Erling breathed out, taking a sudden, desperate step forward, closing the distance between their boots. “You don’t. You really don’t.”
“I wasn’t rejecting you,” Erling finally managed to choke out.

The sentence finally escaped his throat. But as soon as it hung in the air, Erling realized how terribly incomplete it was.

Jude didn't move away. He just searched Erling's face, wide-eyed, waiting.

Waiting for the rest.

Waiting for the crucial, life-altering words that were currently burning Erling's mouth, trapped behind years of fear and quiet repression.

Because I wanted to kiss you back.
Because I was so terrified of losing you again that my body stopped working.
Because I’ve missed you every single day since I left Dortmund.

Nothing came.

Erling opened his mouth. The air caught in his throat. He closed it again.

HOW WERE PEOPLE IN THOSE CRINGE ROMANTIC COMEDIES HE HATED DOING IT?

Maybe he should’ve watched a romcom before trying to confess his love?!

He’d had quite a few exes and flings, but none of them were men, was that what was stopping him?

Was he scared of what his family, their teammates, or the media would think of the two being together?

He couldn’t do it. Not with Jude looking at him with that raw, heartbreaking vulnerability. Not when a single wrong phrasing could push him over the edge and ruin whatever was left of them forever.

Jude’s expression softened further, morphing into a quiet, resigned acceptance that cut deeper than any blade.

“You don’t have to explain how you feel, mate.” Jude gave a small, sad nod, looking down at his own shoes. “I’ve made things awkward enough between us already.”

“No, Jude, that’s not-!”

“Ta-ra, Erling.”

Jude offered one last smile. Small. Apologetic. As if he were the one who owed the world an apology for feeling too much.

He turned away, his long stride carrying him toward the exit before Erling could even reach out a hand. The heavy changing-room door swung shut behind him with a dull, final click.

“Jude, wait!”

Erling moved on pure instinct, surging forward and shoving the heavy door open so hard it hit the wall.

“Jude!”

The long, polished corridor was completely empty.

Only the faint, fading rhythm of distant footsteps echoed around the far corner toward the complex exit.

Erling stood alone in the hallway, his chest heaving, fingers gripping the doorframe so tightly his knuckles turned white. He stared down the empty stretch of tile as if he could magically pull Jude back out of the shadows by sheer force of will.

He didn't come back.

Slowly, the breath left Erling in a long, ragged exhale. He leaned his forehead against the cold metal doorframe and closed his eyes.

“…Faen.”

The single Norwegian curse sounded small and broken in the hollow hallway.
For the second time in forty-eight hours, he had stood completely still and watched Jude Bellingham walk away-leaving him in the dark, believing the exact, terrible opposite of everything Erling was suffocating to say.
And somehow, watching him walk away in broad daylight hurt infinitely more than the night before. Why was he so stupid?

Why couldnt he have just said these 3 words?!

‘I LOVE YOU’

‘No. I’VE BEEN LOVING YOU, Jude. Ever since we were teenagers in dortmund, ever since we’ve gotten close back there. Ever since I became the person that had your back always. I’m just scared’

He thought of what he could’ve said and done and cursed himself for not doing so…

Well.. now that he thought about it.

He’s already told Jude that he loves him..

In Norwegian…

And Jude doesn’t speak Norwegian..

And he was also drunk.. and thought that Haaland was cursing the shit out of him.

•••••

A few days after the failed confession, Friday’s pre-match session was supposed to be quiet.
That was the lie everyone kept repeating. The day before an important El Clásico was never about proving who was stronger or who wanted it more-every man on that grass had already bled to earn his place. It was meant to be about the fine details. The rhythm. The quiet, focused calm before the storm.

And for the first hour, the pitch held its breath.
The intensity was sharp, but familiar. It was the natural friction of twenty-two men who utterly loathed losing, even in a warm up. There were sharp calls, sliding challenges, quick complaints, bursts of breathless laughter.

Except for one glaring, hollow void at the center of it all.

Jude and Erling were wearing opposite bibs.
Normally, even when separated by team colors, they existed in their own private orbit. A split-second glance before a ghosting run. A quick, knowing smirk across thirty meters of grass. A wordless language built over years that nobody else could decipher.

Today, there was only sterile professionalism.
They moved past each other like ghosts who had forgotten they used to share a home. They spoke in cold, efficient instructions, treating each other with the precise, agonizing politeness of total strangers.

And everyone on the pitch felt the temperature drop.

Erling had been drowned in silence from the moment he laced his boots. It wasn't his usual pre-match focus, the quiet conservation of energy before he tore a defensive line apart. It was a heavy, suffocating fog. His body was on the pitch, but his mind was somewhere back in his dark living room, trapped in the echo of a door clicking shut.

Jude noticed.

Of course he noticed. Jude’s eyes had tracked Erling’s every movement for years-he knew the exact posture of Erling’s shoulders when he was carrying the weight of the world.

But Jude said nothing. Not after the humiliating walk home in the cold. Not after the lingering burn of tears on his cheeks. He kept his head down, gripping his chest tight against the ache, and played his football.

The practice game moved fast, the ball zipping over the turf as the rest of the squad tried desperately to fill the silence and pretend the air wasn't thick with unsaid words.

Then Marc Cucurella launched into a tackle.
It happened in a fraction of a second.

Erling made his signature explosive burst into the box, calling for the cross, and Cucurella came flying in from the blind side. The challenge wasn't just physical-it was late, cynical, and far too reckless for a light Friday session before the biggest match on the planet.

The metallic screech of the whistle instantly sliced through the air.

Everything froze.

Erling slammed into the grass, staying down a second longer than usual before pushing himself up onto his knees.

When he stood, the transformation was terrifying.

The annoyance on his face wasn't the standard irritation of a striker taking a heavy hit. It was something wild and deadly-the explosive release of three days of silent, internal agonizing.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Erling roared, his voice tearing raw through the quiet facility. "That was on purpose, you fucking poodle!"

The entire pitch went dead silent.

Cucurella pushed himself up, blinking at the sheer volume coming from the Norwegian. “What?”

“That tackle!” Erling slammed his foot into the turf, his massive frame towering over the fullback.

“I got the ball, man!”

Erling let out a harsh, rasping laugh, completely devoid of warmth. “You came in late! You could’ve broken my fucking leg! I know you don’t like me but that doesn’t mean you can act like that”

Cucurella shrugged, brushing grass off his kit. “It’s football, bro.”

It’s football.

Something in that simple, casual phrase snapped the final thread holding Erling together. His jaw set so hard his teeth clicked, his blue eyes flashing with a blind, desperate rage.
“Football? You think that’s—!”

“You got a problem?”

The deep, heavy voice cut straight through the argument.

Antonio Rüdiger stepped out from the backline. It was always Antonio-ever the enforcer, unable to watch a teammate get backed into a corner without throwing himself into the fire.
Erling whipped his head around, his chest heaving under his bib. “Do you?”

The challenge hung in the air, toxic and heavy.
The atmosphere instantly turned sour. Rüdiger closed the distance between them, his eyes dark, his stance wide and unyielding. “You need to calm your mouth down.”

“And you need to stay the fuck out of it? What are you? Noodle hair’s guardian angel?” Erling spat back, stepping directly into his space.
Rüdiger raised two hands and shoved Erling square in the chest. Not enough to knock the giant down, but just enough to demand a reaction.

And Erling lost it completely.

He lunged forward, shoving Rüdiger back with twice the force, sending the defender stumbling over the turf.

“What the hell!”

The pitch erupted into chaos. Rüdiger scrambled back up, his eyes wide and bloodshot with adrenaline. Completely furious, Rüdiger charged straight back toward Erling like a freight train, blind to everything in his path.

Jude saw it first.

Sensing the collision coming, Jude threw himself directly into the middle, stepping in front of Erling to block Rüdiger and keep them apart.
Erling saw Rüdiger barreling forward at full speed, and he saw Jude standing right in the kill zone, completely exposed.

“Jude, move!”

Panic overridden by pure, reckless instinct, Erling reacted without thinking. He reached out, grabbed Jude by the chest of his bib, and violently shoved him sideways to clear him out of Rüdiger's path.

Erling meant to protect him. He meant to clear him out of harm's way.

But Erling was built like an iron wall, acting on split-second adrenaline. The force of the shove sent Jude flying sideways across the turf.
Jude tumbled backward awkwardly, slamming full force onto the grass. His left shoulder-the bad one, the one he got a surgery for just a few months ago that had barely recovered-took the entire impact against the hard ground.

A sharp, sickening gasp echoed off the grass as Jude’s face instantly drained of color. He curled inward on his side, his left arm pinned uselessly against his chest, a harsh wince twisting his features as a spike of white-hot pain shot straight up his neck.

The entire training ground went dead, suffocatingly silent.

The shouting stopped. Rüdiger pulled up sharply, his fury instantly evaporating into shock as he looked down at Jude on the grass.
Erling’s eyes went wide, the red haze instantly evaporating into sheer, suffocating horror. "Jude-!”

Jude didn't realize why Erling had shoved him.
He hadn't seen Rüdiger charging. All he knew was that he had stepped up to try and de-escalate the situation, and Erling had brutally thrown him to the dirt.

The blinding spike of pain, combined with the sheer humiliation of being tossed aside in front of the entire squad, turned instantly into pure, unadulterated venom.

Ignoring Camavinga’s hand reaching down to help him, Jude scrambled up to his feet, clutching his left shoulder tightly with his right hand. His chest was heaving, his face pale and flushed red all at once as he marched right back into Erling's space.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Jude screamed, his Brummie accent completely lethal as he used his good shoulder to violently barge Erling back. "Are you fucking stupid?!"

Erling stumbled back half a pace, his hands raised, his face completely drained of color. "Jude, wait-your shoulder! I was trying to get you out of the way, I swear I didn't-“

"Shut the fuck up!" Jude barked, stepping directly into his face, teeth bared in pure rage. "Don't pretend you give a shit! You come out here acting like a brainless prick, throwing fits, tackling people, and now you're shoving me into the ground?! Are you fucking out of your mind? Have you gone crazy?!”

"Rüdiger was charging at you, I swear to God-“

"I don't give a fuck!" Jude yelled, his voice

tearing raw, slicing straight through the silent facility. "You're acting like a fucking embarrassment! We've got an important game tomorrow and you're losing your mind like a child over a fucking practice tackle!"

"Listen to me, man, please-“

"NO!" Jude slammed his right palm against Erling's chest, shoving him again despite the sharp wince that shot through his left side. "Get your fucking hands off me and get out of my face! You want to throw a tantrum?! Do it somewhere else! Don't you ever fucking touch me again!"

Erling stood frozen, his mouth open, paralyzed by the raw, venomous fury radiating off Jude. The tragic absurdity of the situation crushed him-he had tried to protect Jude, and had only managed to hurt him worse.

"Jude..." Erling choked out, his voice tiny and completely broken.

"Fuck off, Erling!" Jude snapped, giving him one last look of absolute disgust before turning on his heel. Clutching his bad shoulder tightly against his ribs, he stormed straight toward the tunnel, his posture rigid and deadly.

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

Erling stood entirely alone in the middle of the pitch, his hands shaking at his sides, watching Jude disappear into the dark complex.

The session was called off immediately. Nobody argued. Nobody tossed a ball around or stayed behind to practice free kicks. The quiet that descended over the complex was heavy enough to crush bones.

Later, in the dressing room, Carlo Ancelotti stood in the center of the room.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't throw water bottles or slam tactics boards. His quiet, calm disappointment bled into every corner of the space, far worse than any screaming match could ever be.

“You are professionals,” Carlo said softly, his ancient eyes scanning the silent rows of lockers. “You wear a shirt that carries the weight of history. Tomorrow is El Clásico. And today… today you forgot who you are.”
Nobody dared to make eye contact with him.
“Passion is what makes you great,” Carlo continued, his gaze drifting over Rüdiger’s bowed head, before settling heavily on Erling, who sat on the bench staring blindly at his own trembling hands. “But losing control destroys everything you build. I expect better. From all of you. What you did today was stupid, childish! And on top of that, It was filmed.”

He turned and walked out, the heavy door closing with a dull, final thud.

Erling didn't move. He sat completely motionless on the wooden bench long after the rest of the room began to slowly, quietly clear out.

He didn't think about the tactical instructions for tomorrow. He didn't think about Barcelona. He didn't think about the millions of people who would be watching them play in twenty-four hours.

All he could hear, echoing over and over in his head until it bled, was the sound of Jude's voice barking at him on the grass.

The rage. The utter disgust. The sight of Jude clutching his shoulder on the ground.
And for the third time in these days, Erling had stood by and watched Jude walk away-injured, furious, and completely done with him.

•••

The video leaked online by two in the afternoon.
It was grainy, shot through the mesh fencing by someone standing near the media center, but the audio was brutally clear. Within minutes, X and TikTok erupted. The clip of Erling shoving Jude-followed by the sickening thud of Jude hitting the turf, clutching his previously injured shoulder, and the blistering argument that followed-was replayed millions of times.

Tags like #HaalandAbuser #JudeShoulder, #Haaland, and #ValdebebasChaos spiked to number one worldwide. Fans were spiraling, flooded with panic over Jude’s recurring injury and completely baffled by the sudden, violent fracture between Madrid's two biggest stars less than twenty-four hours before El Clásico. Haaland was facing BAD backlash.

•••

Inside the facility, the atmosphere was suffocating.

In the quiet sanctuary of the medical room, the team doctor smoothed a thick, black compression wrap tightly over Jude’s shoulder.

“It’s not dislocated, Jude. You got lucky,” the doctor said softly, sliding a small cup with two painkillers across the stainless-steel table. “Take these. The swelling is minor. It’s fine for tonight, and it’ll be completely healed in two or three days. But you need to be careful out there.”

Jude swallowed the pills without a word, staring numbly at the floor.

When he finally pushed open the heavy wooden door, he froze.

Erling was standing right outside, leaning against the cold wall, his giant frame hunched as if trying to shrink into the shadows. What an emo. He looked pale, hollowed out by guilt.

Jude’s face instantly hardened into stone. He made to walk straight past him, refusing to offer even a glance.

"Jude, wait, I need to explain-“ Erling pleaded, stepping into his path with his hands raised, his voice cracking with sheer desperation. "Please. I was trying to move you away from Rüdiger! I didn't mean to throw you down, it was an accident-“

Jude stopped dead in his tracks. A bitter, venomous laugh escaped his throat, a sound so sharp it made Erling flinch.

"An accident?" Jude snapped, stepping directly into Erling's space, his Brummie accent razor-sharp and dripping with venom. "You shoved me full force onto my bad shoulder in front of every camera in Madrid, and now you want to call it an accident?!"

"I panicked, Jude!" Erling begged, blue eyes wide and wild with panic. "He was charging right at you, I swear to God! I just reached out to clear you out of the way, I didn't realize how hard-“

"I don't give a fuck what you were trying to do, Erling!" Jude hissed, his chest heaving as tears of sheer frustration burned at the edges of his vision. "You don't get to shove me into the dirt, put me in a compression wrap, and then act like you were doing me a favor! Carlo had to step in so the board wouldn't suspend you! So stop trying to explain it. Save it for the pitch."

"Jude, please, just listen to me for one second-“

"Get out of my way," Jude cold-shouldered him, his right arm shoving hard against Erling’s chest as he pushed past, leaving the Norwegian standing alone in the suffocating hallway.
Saturday night at the Santiago Bernabéu was an absolute pressure cooker.

Eighty thousand fans roared under the roof, but on the grass, the air between Real Madrid's number nine and number five was sub-zero. They didn't exchange high-fives during the lineup. They didn't make eye contact in the tunnel.

For eighty-eight excruciating minutes against Barcelona, the silence choked them. The score was deadlocked at 1-1, the pitch slick from evening rain, every player on the field gasping for air.

Then came the 89th minute.

A corner from Barcelona was headed clear by Rüdiger. The ball dropped straight to Jude at the edge of his own penalty box.

Instinct took over before thought ever could.
Jude turned on a dime, taking two explosive touches out of defense. Across forty meters of slick green turf, Erling was already moving. He didn't look back, he didn't call for it. His body just knew where the space was, and Jude’s right boot delivered a sweeping, forty-meter pass that carved straight through Barcelona's backline like a scalpel.

Erling met the ball in stride, driving into the box. The keeper rushed out.

Instead of shooting, Erling saw the shadow flashing down the center channel. He dragged the ball back across the face of the goal.
Jude arrived on pure muscle memory, throwing his body forward to slide-tackle the ball straight into the roof of the net.

The Bernabéu erupted into total, deafening thunder.

In the sheer, unfiltered explosion of an 89th-minute Clásico winner, all the anger, the tabloids, the heartbreak, and the ruined days vanished in a single beat.

Jude scrambled up from the turf, screaming at the top of his lungs, blinded by sheer joy. He sprinted straight toward Erling and leaped into the air.

Erling caught him effortlessly, wrapping his massive arms tightly around Jude’s waist, hauling him completely off his feet and roaring into the night sky. Jude threw his arms around Erling’s neck, pulling him close, and in the overwhelming madness of the stadium, pressed a fierce, lingering kiss straight against the side of Erling’s head, burying his face into his hair.
Erling squeezed him tighter, holding Jude as if his life depended on it, spinning him around while eighty thousand people screamed their names.

For two glorious minutes, the world was whole.
It wasn't until the final whistle blew, and the high-octane rush of victory began to fade into the cool night air, that the illusion shattered.
As the team paraded around the pitch waving to the stands, the adrenaline wore off. The physical high crashed, leaving behind the cold reality of everything that had been said.

Jude slowly slid his hands off Erling’s shoulders. He stepped back onto the grass.

Erling reached out automatically to grab his wrist, desperate to explain one last time. "Jude, listen-about yesterday, it really was an accident. Please, hear me out!”

Jude quietly pulled his hand away, dropping his eyes to the grass. The bright, explosive joy that had lit up his face minutes ago withered into a heavy, tragic exhaustion. He didn't want to hear the excuses anymore.

A goal couldn't erase the hurt.

The final whistle brought glory, not peace.

A win couldn't fix a broken heart.

Jude gave him one quiet, empty nod, turned around, and began walking toward the tunnel entirely alone-leaving Erling standing on the victorious pitch, realizing that winning the biggest game in the world meant absolutely nothing if he had still lost Jude.

•••

The drive from Erling’s house to Jude’s was a blur of dark, quiet highways and suffocating silence.

It was nearly two in the morning by the time Erling pulled his car onto the quiet, gated street. The adrenaline of the Clásico winner had long since burned out, leaving behind a cold, crushing exhaustion that settled deep into his chest.

He didn't park in the driveway. He just pulled up to the curb, killed the engine, and sat in the dark.

His phone sat on the passenger seat, screen glowing faintly with endless notification badges, highlights of Jude leaping into his arms, endless edits of the celebration, articles analyzing the rift that had suddenly vanished on the pitch. All those interviews after the match where journalists asked both of them what had happened on the pitch in training.
Jude answering with “we’ve had minor disagreements a for a few days so we were a bit mad at each other. My shoulder is perfectly fine.” he tried to joke about it

But Erling couldn't look at it. None of it was real. The only real thing was the way Jude’s hand had slipped away from his wrist on the grass, cold and distant, before he walked into the tunnel alone.

Erling rested his forehead against the steering wheel, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
He had driven all the way across Madrid because he couldn't spend another night drowning in his own silence. He couldn't just sit in his empty house and let this stay broken.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, Erling got out of the car. The night air was crisp, biting through his oversized hoodie as he walked up the stone path to Jude’s front door. He hesitated for a long, painful beat, his hand hovering over the bell, before finally pressing it.

A minute passed in dead silence. Then two.
Just as Erling was about to give up, he heard the faint click of a lock turning.

The heavy door swung open.

Jude stood in the entryway, framed by the dim, warm light of the hallway. He had traded his kit for a grey t-shirt and loose sweatpants. His hair was damp from the post-match shower, and without the stadium lights, he looked completely spent. His eyes were heavy, shadowed with exhaustion, and his left arm hung stiffly against his side, the tape on his shoulder still tight beneath his shirt.

The moment Jude saw Erling, his face instantly hardened back into a wall of pure ice.

"No," Jude said flatly, his voice raspy and devoid of warmth. He immediately backed up to pull the door shut. "Get out of here, Erling. Immediately."

"Jude, wait- please!" Erling panicked, throwing his broad palm flat against the wood before the door could latch. "Please, just five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

"I told you at the facility, I don't want to hear it!" Jude snapped, pushing back against the door, his Brummie accent sharp and jagged with renewed fury. "I am tired, my shoulder aches, and I am not doing this with you at two in the morning!"

"I couldn't stay at home, Jude!" Erling begged, his voice cracking, his giant frame practically trembling on the porch. "I couldn't just sit there and pretend everything is fine! Send me away in five minutes, scream at me, hate me- I don't care! Just let me speak to you!"

Jude stared at him through the gap in the door, his chest heaving. The sheer, desperate raw agony in Erling's face pierced right through Jude's anger, making his throat tight.

Slowly, bitterly, Jude let go of the handle and stepped back, leaving the door standing open.
"Five minutes," Jude spat coldly, turning his back on him and walking slowly into the living room, favoring his left side. "Say whatever script you prepared so you can leave me alone finally."

Erling stepped inside, pulling off his shoes in a blur before following him into the quiet living room, bathed in the soft glow of a single floor lamp. Jude didn't sit down. He stood near the sofa, arms crossed tightly over his chest, refusing to make eye contact.

"I'm not following a script," Erling whispered, taking a cautious step closer. "I just... I need you to know the truth."

"I don't care about your excuses anymore, Erling!" Jude barked, turning on him, his eyes flashing with raw, unshed tears. "You shoved me into the grass! You made me feel like an absolute idiot for a whole week! You acted like I was a disease after the other night, like you couldn't even stand to look at me, and then you threw me to the ground like a dirty cat!"

"I was trying to protect you!" Erling roared out, the confession tearing out of his throat so loud and desperate that it made Jude freeze.
Erling dropped to his knees right there on the rug in front of Jude, completely stripping away any remaining pride. He looked up at Jude, tears finally spilling over his eyelashes and running freely down his cheeks.
"I saw Rüdiger charging at you," Erling sobbed, his voice breaking into pieces. "He was sprinting full speed, Jude. You were standing right in front of me, and he muttered something about taking you down with me. I panicked. My brain shut off, and I just tried to throw you out of his way. I didn't realize how hard I pushed. I swear to God, I would cut my own arm off before I ever intentionally hurt you."

Jude stood frozen above him, his lips parted, his breath catching painfully in his throat.
"I watched the footage," Jude said quietly, his voice suddenly dropping into a fragile, trembling whisper. "After the match... in the changing room…. I watched the video back…."

Erling blinked through his tears, looking up.

"What?"

"I saw Rüdiger," Jude confessed, a single hot tear slipping down his cheek as the cold armor around his heart completely shattered. "I saw him sprinting. I saw what you were trying to do. Vini made me watch it..”

Thank God for Vini then.

"Then why are you still so mad at me?" Erling choked out, taking a desperate, trembling step forward on his knees, reaching up toward Jude. "Why do you hate me?"

"Because it wasn't just about the push, you idiot!" Jude cried out, his voice cracking violently as he buried his face in his good hand, his shoulders shaking with a sudden, overwhelming sob. "I didn't care about the tackle! I cared that you stopped talking to me! After the confession... after I kissed you... you walked away and treated me like a stranger! I thought you regretted it! I thought you hated me! I thought you didn’t want to be my friend anymore! I thought I ruined everything!”

Erling stood up instantly, closing the distance between them and wrapping his massive arms gently around Jude. Jude didn't push him away this time-he collapsed forward, burying his face into the crook of Erling's neck, clutching tightly at the fabric of Erling's hoodie with his good hand.

"I could never regret it," Erling breathed into Jude's hair, holding him as if the world was ending, tears soaking into Jude's shoulder. "I ran away because I was terrified, Jude. I've been in love with you since Dortmund. I've wanted you for years. And when it finally happened, I panicked because I was so scared I’d mess it up and lose you forever. I wanted our first kiss to be special."

"The other kiss doesn't count!" Jude sobbed quietly into his chest, though a tiny, fragile laugh bubbled through his tears.

Erling pulled back just enough to look down at him, his hands cupping Jude's face gently. He leaned down and pressed his lips against Jude's.

It started as a soft, cautious touch- fragile, sweet, and heavy with relief. But as Jude sighed into it, wrapping his good arm tightly around Erling's neck to pull him closer, the kiss deepened into something slow, intense, and desperate. Every ounce of hurt, fear, and lingering pain from the past three days melted away completely. Erling cradled the back of Jude's head, deepening the embrace, anchoring himself to Jude as if he'd never let go again.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Jude looked up into Erling's blue eyes with a soft, watery smile.

"Was it that scary, Erling?" Jude whispered, his thumb lightly stroking Erling's cheek.

"Not at all," Erling admitted with a rough, tearful chuckle, leaning his forehead softly against Jude's.

"Good," Jude murmured, resting his cheek against Erling's chest as Erling wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight in the quiet warmth of the living room. "Don't ever run away again."

“I promise I never will.”

“Erling…”

“What is it?”

“When were you planning on telling me you confessed to me in Norwegian?” Jude laughed at the dumb-found expression Erling had as he looked at the brunette.

“What- how did you know-“

“Mate, my school was hosting a charity raise concert back when I was in second grade and me and a few classmates had to learn how to say “I love you” in different languages. Guess who was assigned to say “I love you” in Norwegian” Jude wheezed.

“No way…”

“Yeah, I guess that’s faith.”

“It really is…”

“I’m adapting to Norwegian culture.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Jude flashed his beautiful smile, it was real this time. He laughed genuinely again.

“You look so beautiful when you smile.”

“That’s really gay, mate.”