Work Text:
The celebrations had started the exact second the final whistle blew.
Five-two against Frankfurt.
No VAR controversy, no late-minute heart attacks, just ninety glorious minutes of Borussia Dortmund playing pure, unfiltered champagne football.
By midnight, the squad had migrated across three restaurants before landing in a private rooftop bar. Marco Reus was actively failing to drag Mats Hummels onto a makeshift karaoke stage, while Jude still swore on his life that it was Emre Can who had dared Erling to see how many bratwursts he could eat in ten minutes.
The official tally was seven.
“…I’m telling you, I had nine in me,” Erling muttered, aggressively chewing half a pretzel.
“You were visibly seeing God after six,” Jude wheezed, clinking his third beer despite claiming he was “basically sober.”
“I was fine.”
“You asked the bartender if mustard counts as a smoothie, dumbass!”
“…well… It’s high in moisture.”
By 2:00 AM, the party had fragmented. Some took taxis; others vanished into clubs. Jude and Erling simply walked into the cool October night.
Neither had a plan. Jude had an arm slung heavily over Erling’s shoulders, while Erling clutched a sealed bottle of sparkling water like a sacred artifact, constantly promising he’d “hydrate in a minute.”
He never did.
“You know what?” Jude slurred thoughtfully. “Germany’s proper weird.”
“You literally live here.”
“Yeah.”
“So do I.”
“…Point stands.”
They stumbled through the quiet city, at one point pausing to apologize to a pigeon for scaring it. Erling then spent seven full minutes insisting the bird had accepted the apology with a subtle nod.
Eventually, the pavement gave way to pristine, hyper-exclusive suburban streets.
Enormous mansions. Winding driveways. Hedges trimmed with mathematical precision.
“Reckon rich people live ’ere,” Jude surmised.
“What was the clue?”
Erling deadpanned. “The gold-plated mailboxes?”
“Just saying. Good intuition.”
Then Jude stopped dead in his tracks.
A massive, wrought-iron gate stood slightly ajar. Beyond it lay an absurdly grand estate bathed in warm fairy lights, featuring marble fountains, winding stone paths, and a structure Jude immediately declared was “definitely a medieval castle.”
“It’s a house, Jude.”
“It’s got a tower, mate. That’s a castle. Posh one, too.”
Erling nudged the gate. It swung open with a theatrical creak.
“Think anyone’s home?” Erling asked.
“Rude if they aren’t. Let’s inspect the perimeter.”
Zero hesitation. Zero critical thinking. Just two elite athletes casually committing breaking and entering.
For forty-five minutes, they treated the multimillion-euro private estate like a free public park.
Jude became convinced a 17th-century marble statue was making direct eye contact with him and spent ten minutes attempting to “catch it blinking.” Meanwhile, Erling located a massive decorative pond stocking absurdly expensive imported koi.
“Look at these absolute units,” Erling whispered in awe.
“They’re literally just fish, Erling.”
“They’re tactical fish, Jude.”
A koi surfaced. Erling stood straight, gave it a crisp military salute, and murmured, “Good evening, sir.”
Jude collapsed onto the grass, laughing so hard he nearly suffocated.
Next came the hedge maze.
“I’ve seen this in Harry Potter,” Jude announced proudly as they waltzed straight in.
Twenty-five minutes later, they were thoroughly, hopelessly trapped.
“We’re gonna die in here,” Jude whimpered.
“The media’s gonna find our skeletons.”
“Just climb through the wall!”
They forcibly bulldozed their way through a decorative hedge, leaving a trail of broken branches, a crushed pretzel, and a half-squeezed mustard packet in a 300-year-old stone fountain.
Neither noticed the ultra-HD night-vision security cameras following their every move. Nor did they see the groundskeeper upstairs, calmly placing a call to local law enforcement.
By the time security rolled up, the boys had already stumbled back out onto the main road, locked in a heated debate over whether fish have regional accents.
Three Days Later.
Media Day at the training ground was in full swing when Dortmund’s press officer abruptly cut off Jude’s interview mid-sentence.
“Jude. Meeting room. Now.”
Across the facility, Erling was being physically escorted away from a German TV crew.
They exchanged terrified looks before being pushed into a conference room. Sitting at the table were head coach Marco Rose, Sebastian Kehl, two stern-faced club lawyers, and a police officer holding a thick manila folder.
Nobody was smiling.
Marco Rose didn't say a word. He just opened the folder and dropped a stack of crystal-clear security printouts onto the table.
Frame 1 with Erling, postured stiffly, saluting a koi fish. Frame 2 with Jude, nose-to-nose with a marble statue, pointing at it aggressively. Frame 3 with Both of them sitting inside an empty, historic fountain eating baked goods.
“…Ah,” Jude said.
Erling leaned in for a closer look. “…The lighting’s actually pretty good.”
The senior lawyer pinched the bridge of his nose so hard his knuckles turned white.
“The property owner is a high-ranking local magistrate,” the lawyer explained coldly. “He was not amused by the mustard left in his fountain, nor the hedge you destroyed.”
“I thought the fountain was a rubbish bin!” Jude blurted out.
“It had water in it, Jude!” Erling hissed.
“Quiet, both of you!” Kehl snapped.
The police officer stepped forward and slid two official, stamped documents across the polished table.
OFFICIAL COURT SUMMONS
Charge: Trespassing, Criminal Mischief, and Property Damage.
Jude stared at the legal jargon. “Wait… an actual court summons? Like… court court?”
“Yes, Mr. Bellingham,” the lawyer said flatly.
“You are officially being summoned to respond to civil and criminal trespassing charges. And to make matters worse…”
The press officer turned a tablet toward them.
The front page of Germany's biggest tabloid featured the high-res photo of Erling saluting the fish, alongside the headline:
$100M DORTMUND DUO FACES COURT AFTER DRUNKEN NIGHTTIME RAID ON LOCAL MAGISTRATE’S CASTLE
The room fell into a heavy, agonizing silence.
Jude slowly turned his head toward Erling.
“…Mate.”
“…Yeah?”
“We’re proper idiots.”
Erling stared at his official summons, then back at the photo of him saluting the fish.
“…I still think the koi was greeting me back.”
The courtroom was already thick with tension before the doors even opened.
Their legal team had spent the last ninety minutes in the hallway aggressively drilling four basic rules into their heads:
1. Do not speak unless directly addressed.
2. Do not make jokes.
3. Address the judge as "Your Honour.", MR. HAALAND
4. For the love of all that is holy, do NOT improvise.
Jude had nodded with intense, terrifying focus.
Erling had also nodded, looking about as serious as a golden retriever trying to understand calculus.
Herr Schneider, their lead attorney, leaned in one final time, looking like a man who hadn't slept since 2017.
“Erling. Look at me. Your Honour. Not 'Judge'. Not 'Boss'. Your Honour."
Erling gave a confident thumb-up. "Understood. Very straightforward."
Jude muttered under his breath, "We're going to prison."
The judge, a formidable man with half-moon spectacles and a face carved from German granite, adjusted his robes and glared down at the defense table.
"Mr. Haaland."
Erling stood up with military promptness, towering over the podium. "Yes?"
"Can you explain to this court why you and Mr. Bellingham breached a locked perimeter at two o'clock in the morning?"
Erling cleared his throat, channeling every ounce of Nordic formality he possessed.
"Well... Your Majesty-"
The courtroom went dead, terrifyingly silent.
The court reporter’s fingers froze above her keyboard.
Herr Schneider slowly pinched the bridge of his nose, resting his forehead directly onto the mahogany table.
The judge blinked once. Twice. "...Excuse me?"
Erling’s brow furrowed in genuine, innocent confusion.
Jude’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He leaned sideways, whispering furiously out of the corner of his mouth, "It's Your Honour, you absolute brainlet! Stupid wanker"
"I thought Majesty was higher!" Erling whispered back, panicked.
"HE'S NOT THE KING OF GERMANY, ERLING!"
The judge brought his gavel down with the force of a thunderclap.
BANG!
"Mr. Bellingham! Keep your commentary to yourself!"
"Sorry, Your Honour!" Jude squeaked, bolting upright and looking straight ahead.
The judge turned a lethal gaze back to Erling. "And Mr. Haaland... I assure you, I am not a monarch."
"...Understood. My mistake." Erling nodded, deeply respectful. "Thank you, Your Grace."
Herr Schneider let out a soft, wheezing sound that sounded suspiciously like a man accepting his own career demise.
The trial pressed on through sheer, agonizing willpower.
The prosecution presented Exhibit A: crystal-clear, high-definition security footage played across three massive 65-inch monitors.
The entire court watched in silence as Jude spent five full minutes pointing an accusing finger at a 17th-century marble nymph, whispering aggressive tactical advice to it. Then Erling carefully placed a folded paper napkin under a koi fish's head "so it could sleep comfortably.” AND THEN Both of them attempted to scale a decorative hedge, getting completely stuck halfway through like two oversized turned-over turtles.
Finally, the judge turned his focus back to the Norwegian striker.
"Mr. Haaland. The footage clearly shows you tossing baked goods into a protected aquatic ecosystem."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Erling shrugged helplessly. "They swam up to me. They looked stressed."
"The fish."
"Yes. They had… ehhh.. how do you say it English…- heavy eyes."
"...From the pretzel."
"They liked the salt, I think."
The judge stared at him for five excruciating seconds, rubbing his temples. "And did it not occur to you, at any point during this midnight culinary exchange, that you were committing criminal trespass?"
Erling shook his head earnestly, desperate to get the title right this time. He took a confident breath, tapping into his best formal English.
"No, Your Worship."
Beat.
Jude’s head whipped around so fast you could hear his spine snap.
Herr Schneider’s head hit the wooden desk with a dull, hollow thud.
The judge froze, mid-pen-stroke.
Jude held it in for precisely 1.5 seconds.
His face turned bright crimson. A muffled, desperate snort burst through his nose. He slammed both hands over his mouth, his entire frame shaking violently as he tried to swallow a wave of uncontrollable hysteria.
"I'm-pfft- im.. sorry-“ Jude wheezed into his knuckles, tears instantly streaming down his face.
Erling looked at Jude, completely baffled. "What? Is 'Worship' wrong too?!"
That was it. Jude broke down completely, slumping forward onto the desk, shoulder-shaking, breathless, silent-laughing so hard he was practically suffocating.
"YOUR WORSHIP?!" Jude squeaked out, gasping for air. "WHAT ARE YOU, A MEDIEVAL PEASANT?!"
"I read it in a book!" Erling hissed defensively. "I thought it was polite!"
"Mr. Bellingham!" the judge bellowed, knocking his gavel three times. "If you cannot control your outburst, I will hold you in contempt!"
"I'm so sorry, Your Honour-“ Jude sobbed, wiping tears from his eyes, his voice cracking. "It's just- he called you Your Worship- I can't-"
Herr Schneider slowly raised his head from the table, his eyes completely lifeless.
"If either of you opens your mouth again," Schneider whispered in a cold, deadly monotone, "I am walking out those doors, changing my name, and starting a new life as a goat farmer in the Alps."
Erling swallowed hard, realizing the gravity of the situation. He looked at the judge, determined to fix this once and for all.
"I apologize deeply," Erling said with absolute, solemn sincerity. "Please forgive me..."
He paused, searching his brain for the safest possible word.
"...Chief."
Jude had to be physically restrained by a bailiff.
The courtroom session ended with Herr Schneider practically begging the judge for mercy, citing "extreme linguistic confusion and temporary brain failure" as the primary defense.
In the end, the judge handed down the verdict:
A €50,000 fine split between them (which they paid in roughly four minutes of match-day earnings), 100 hours of community service, specifically assigned to maintaining the local botanical gardens under strict supervision. And a permanent ban from within 500 meters of any ornamental koi ponds in the state of North Rhine-Westphalia.
As they finally walked out of the courthouse through a wall of flashing news cameras, Jude turned up his jacket collar, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
"So..." Jude smirked, bumping Erling's shoulder. "What's the plan for tonight? Fancy another castle tour, Your Worship?"
Erling pulled his hoodie down over his face, sighing deeply into his hands.
"...I'm ordering pizza and locking the front door."