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It’s the second time Jude called out for his dad on the pitch during the World Cup.
The first time, during the England vs Argentina match, Jude had looked absolutely devastated after their loss, his whole demeanour changing from carefree to sluggish and depressed.
The players from the other team instantly began to tear them to pieces off the field and online, after Lionel had been asked about what had happened during the match.
He’d gotten Jude in a headlock in the second half close to the goal area, and after they separated, the older man’s face had visibly scrunched up in confusion. The players noticed, the fans noticed, the var noticed.
The Spanish speaking reporters had crowded the winning team after the match to ask him what that was about. He shrugged, telling them that Bellingham was struggling against his hold and whispered ‘dad’ at the last second before they rolled on the grass. Even with his limited grasp on English, he understood that.
The media was in uproar, the fan edits becoming less and less merciful, but the English team was outwardly unfazed by them. Images appeared of crude croppings, which were less obnoxious than those AI images—eugh, Jude had rolled his eyes at a reporter that had shown him a picture like that showing him in a baby onesie with a blue pacifier in his mouth.
“If I wanted a picture of me like that, I’d pick out a better outfit at the poundshop than this slop,” he’d deadpanned, and that spurred even more content to be produced, this time of his face over a certain song disc by Macklemore.
It certainly beat the baby babbling, but he never brought that up to anyone.
Well, almost anyone.
“Look at this one!” Jude covered his mouth to hide his laughter as he shoved his phone in the blond’s face.
Erling squinted at the vibrant colours dancing across it like he was going on a psychedelic trip. And an expensive one, no less. “Does your screen have to be brighter than the sun?” He asked.
Jude scoffed, shifting his legs to rest over Haaland’s on the bed. “Naw, you don’t get it. It’s to see all of the shades in the video. Otherwise you can’t see the right shade of the bright red on this shirt,” he explained, tapping the screen to pause on a tiny Jude persona in the video that had on a red-and-white costume in a tomodachi life game. “See, this person made three versions of me, one’s a baby, one’s my current look, this one, and one’s my Dortmund era with you.”
“Hmm.” Erling unpaused the video, laughing at the robotic voices picked out for all the different Judes. “And this is…Oh, it’s a love confession.”
“Yes!” Jude beamed, “Apparently you can make characters in the game and let them loose and they can fall in love randomly. And sometimes they have multiple confessions happening at the same time. But this person had three me’s falling in love with someone. And look at this, lookie here—that’s you!”
In true blockbuster movie fashion, the camera switched from the three Judes to the one getting confessed, which was a crudely done Erling sitting at a table. The two friends watched with rapt attention as the Haaland mii was picking out which confession to accept.
“I would love to go out with you,” the mii told the original Jude, who pumped his fist in the air.
“Hah! I knew it,” Jude leaned back on the pillows, touching his arm to Erling’s, “The real me is always the best me, that’s the Jude guarantee.”
Erling snorted, pushing him away as he giggled. “You’ve seen the video already. Of course you know.”
“Doesn’t mean I couldn’t have forgotten,” Jude raised a point.
“Yeah, clearly,” his friend rolled his eyes, looking back at the video, at the mii with a baby cap looking distraught. “But were you really…Uhm, did you really call for your dad?”
The younger man’s smile dimmed, and Erling was suddenly very sad seeing it gone. He would do anything to get it back, but he realized that it was too late, and his question was getting an answer. He’d bring it back after.
“It was…It was a thing of the moment. I felt like I was getting crushed, and I thought…” he sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you the full story eventually. Now’s not the time.”
“Okay,” Erling nodded, and that was the end of that.
The second time he cried out for his father, Erling had been on the pitch. It was weird, really, to be sitting in on a match that he had no relation to apart a friend, in a different country, after his elimination, but he had nothing better to do, not really, so he tried not to dwell on the feelings arising in his chest and how he felt like an outsider.
It was the third place match, and England had been decimating France in the first half, and then France got a second wind during the second half, almost poetically.
Erling and Jude were almost drawing blood at how hard they were clawing at each other’s shirts from the excitement the goals were making, and their example was followed by the crowd.
And then, Jude got this look on his face while witnessing the third goal from France, watching Mbappé like a hawk. Erling thought that maybe his friend was having a bout of jealousy, wanting to be on that pitch, but he saw something like…unshed tears in his eyes. He found it strange, but didn’t comment. Jude would tell him after. Maybe it was some dust. Maybe he wanted to prove something to the ‘dictator’ as the memes would have it. Those were fun.
“I’m gonna head out onto the pitch,” he told Haaland as he got up and made his way to the changing position. Erling had barely blinked and suddenly Jude was running like a bat out of hell onto the field, straight towards Mbappé.
From his vantage point in the seats, Erling saw his friend clap the French player on the shoulder, making him turn around. Upon seeing the Englishman, Kylian’s face lit up and they exchanged a few words before starting to run at a leisurely pace towards the ball, each preventing the other from getting it.
They kept smiling at each other when they would snatch the ball away from each other, pushing and pulling lightly like acquaintances after a long day, expertly moving between other players like they were alone on the pitch. When another player would steal it away from them they’d get mad at the player no matter which team he belonged to, and would take it back to send it away from the new player. Still, they let the game progress but would make a point to stay in the same lane.
Erling was not jealous. He wasn’t! He just felt like shit looking at them being so friendly with each other. They barely knew each other, he was sure of that. And they were acting like he’d been their third-wheel in Dortmund. Friendship third-wheel.
He kept watching the clock and Jude. He knew that Kane was trying to get his attention by clearing his throat next to him, but Erling also knew he couldn’t entertain the British hairline defector without losing Jude from sight. Yes, he knew it was strange that he was still there even after Jude had gone to play. He knew he was looking way too intently at his best friend. But he needed to. What if—
“Papa!” Someone yelled on the pitch, and a ball was kicked straight in front of Jude, who started running with it towards the empty goal on the other side of the field. The final minute of added time, the last play, he could get a goal in this final touch, just had to make sure he wasn’t offside.
“GOALLLLLLLLL!” The crowd yelled, screaming as the final whistle blew right after it. It was almost so cathartic, so cinematic, that Erling thought that no one had heard Jude scream right before the pass. He didn’t know his friend spoke French that well. Nor why he did. To taunt the Blues?
The other players went out onto the pitch to congratulate everyone for the match, smiles all around as they shook hands with each other.
Erling followed them, dazed, until Jude literally ran into him to let his head fall on his chest. He was breathing heavily, sweat pearling on his forehead that he was trying to shake off. “I scored!” He beamed up at him, pulling on his shirtsleeve for stability.
“Yeah, you did…” Erling trailed off, replaying the moment in his head, the sound of the kick from the pass suddenly registering in his mind. He blanched, peeling Jude off of him and placing his hands on the younger man’s shoulders.
“Now we’re equal!” Jude seemed unfazed by the loss of proximity, raising his own arms to link them with Erling’s. “Lucky number 7!”
Number 7…Why did that sound so familiar to him all of a sudden?
In deep thought, brow furrowed, Erling didn’t notice another player coming to join them. He was brought back to reality by the newcomer tapping two fingers on his shoulder, which made him turn around.
Kylian Mbappé stared straight at him, all traces of mirth gone from his face. He went in for a handshake, which had Erling floundering as he had to switch to his right in order to shake the correct hand. Mbappé seemed to notice this, biting the inside of his cheek, but said nothing as he stared up at him, prolonging their awkward eye contact.
The Norwegian player was suddenly filled with an urge to find out what had happened on the pitch, and during their extra long handshake, he leaned in to whisper in the other man’s ear. The question sounded bizarre even to his own brain, but it was what happened, and it made no sense.
“Why did Jude call you ‘papa’?” He asked, his heart thumping in his throat. If he’d misread the situation…
Kylian laughed. He broke their contact and raised his chin towards Jude, beckoning him to come closer to their little circle. He patted the young man on the back, his smile back. “You have a great friend you know? Firm handshake. I was expecting it to be a little more…not good, but it’s good. You’re becoming better at the game, I thought you’d need more time. But you know…Things are changing, I need you to be prepared. Don’t roll your eyes at me, you know it’s for your own safety. Eh, you’re always safe with me.”
He looked at them and nodded, folding his arms behind his back. “Well, he’s all yours, I’m going to go see the others. Ah, before I forget: Jude, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He saluted him before blowing a kiss with the two fingers.
When he started walking to the other side of the pitch, Erling couldn’t see anything but the back of his figure putting more distance between them. His hands were sweaty, and his breathing laboured. His face felt hot, from anger or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell.
“Hey,” a hand placed itself on his chest, and he looked down, seeing Jude blink up at him. “It’s okay. I think. He has a certain effect on people. I think that went rather well for a first meeting. He doesn’t usually have a favorable opinion towards my friends.”
Erling’s breathing had slowed, feeling the tension in his shoulders leave a bit, but he still wasn’t calming down. He knew that he couldn’t make a scene, not with so many people present, who were now starting to leave the stadium.
Jude’s hand felt like an iron to his skin, branding him for all to see. He was sure that when the shorter man would remove it, he’d have a palm-shaped stain on his shirt that would never leave no matter how much he’d wash it. And it was one of his favourite shirts. Maybe he didn’t want to wash away the mark. Woah, what?
Was it bad that that thought wasn’t scaring him? That he wished to have physical reminders of their friendship strewn across his clothing? That if he could, he would mark himself with Jude’s face if it meant that he would be the only one to have that honor, to avoid seeing anyone do what that little rooster had done today-
His consciousness was pushed back into the moment. Jude had taken his hand away, moving it to his bicep, and had asked him something. Erling just stared at him, mouth opening like a fish out of water.
“Uh…” he replied, hoping the question had been something along the lines of ‘what sound does a pufferfish make?’
Jude laughed, settling into a smile afterwards as he pulled him by the arm towards the middle of the pitch again. “You weren’t listening at all, boy. Sometimes I wonder if anything goes on in that head of yours. I might start to believe the ‘robot-Haaland’ accusations, you know?”
“What?? I just…” he scratched his nose, removing an invisible spec of dust. “I wasn’t listening. I’m sorry.”
“I’m just messing with ya, you know that,” Jude rolled his eyes fondly, then tapped his collarbone with the back of his hand. “I was asking if you had any allergies. I’m inviting you to dinner tomorrow.”
Huh? Dinner? After…But…
Something wasn’t computing in Erling’s brain. For a few minutes, he’d thought that he’d intruded on a private conversation between two of the best players of top countries, that while he was a bit out of his depth, he’d recognized the budding stages of something romantic, and now instead of asking the French man to dinner, he was asking…him?
He resolutely ignored what that did to his heart, and was really glad he hadn’t been wearing his smartwatch, as the numbers he was hitting right now could not be healthy. He also was not going to examine any of the prior feelings and rage that had befallen him previously.
In trying to appear normal, he’d forgotten to reply for a startling amount of time, just standing there frozen. His eyes widened as he hastily replied. “Yes!” A little too fast. He cleared his throat. “I would…like to have dinner with you. You’re probably a great cook.”
“Nah, I’m pretty bad,” Jude corrected, “But thanks for believing in me. My dad’s gonna cook the food. He’s in here for the weekend, so it’s just gonna be us two. I’ll just season and use the oven settings, since I know the model better.”
“Oh…” The taller man couldn’t help but smile. The dinner plans were feeling more real by the second, and were exciting his heart way more than they should be. He opted to put them aside. He could evaluate them later (see never).
“I’ll text you the address tonight, it’s here in Miami,” Jude told him, “Dad’s bought it earlier this month to ‘keep an eye on things’.” He smiled fondly like that made sense. “Alright, talk to you later, yeah?”
He waved at him as he joined the England team celebrating in the middle of some confetti while Erling waved back to him on autopilot, his smile crooked. He blinked, suddenly alone on his side of the field.
What the hell was that?
Haaland knew there were constants of the universe. Water freezes if it’s too cold, an object in motion stays in motion, and Jude Bellingham is his best friend.
However, Jude was becoming full of inconsistencies since the World Cup started. He’s been weirder than weird. So weird that Erling’s compiled a list of things that make no sense about his best friend:
- Jude puts milk in before cereal. And he’s proud of it.
- His favourite Batman character is the joker, but specially the Lego Batman movie joker.
- He looks good even when he hasn’t slept all night, and isn’t any less energetic because of it.
- He was being way too friendly with Mbappé on the pitch despite him never seeing them interact before.
- He called Kylian Mbappé his father in front of millions of people present, and the French player hadn’t even flinched.
And Erling has to be a little weird too, since he’s standing on the front porch of the mansion Jude invited him to have dinner inside of, with flowers in his hand. A large bouquet picked from the best floral establishment in Miami, a bunch of white tinged with a few red tulips in the middle of them. The red was for England, he decided, and the white was for how bright Jude’s smile was (it was also for England) but he kept seeing Jude’s pearly whites reflected in those petals.
The florist had given him a knowing look as they packaged the flowers, raising their eyebrows. “England ey? Got yourself a mighty fine chick to shower with affection. Just don’t forget the chocolates from down the street, they pair well with the flowers. My uh…cousin owns that shop, actually, and the cocoa imported is made organically with no added sweetener without having that bitter tang of dark chocolate many don’t like. Tell ya what, I’ll tell him you’re coming and he’ll discount for family…”
Erling had tuned him out after the second word. He saw red and white, the English won, but the British weren’t coming, so he paid in cash and left without entertaining the shopkeeper with a nicked eyebrow. He saw a few people waiting outside that noticed him, and while they hadn’t swarmed him for pictures, his flowers were definitely going on instagram.
The tabloids were gonna have a blast with that too, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Flowers were flowers, and everyone deserved to have something pretty sometimes.
He’d knocked twice on the door, then noticed the doorbell on the side. His face scrunched up. “Shit,” he realized, pressing the doorbell as gently as possible.
The door opened almost immediately. Jude positively beamed upon seeing his friend there, and quickly ushered him in as he took the large bouquet inside. He was wearing a navy blue apron over his white sleeved dress shirt, making Erling stutter over his greeting. What the fuck was happening to him? Couldn’t he have a normal conversation with his friend anymore without tripping over his own tongue?
The house was absolutely massive, and while Erling was no stranger to wealth, this one looked to have cost a fortune, and for a vacation home he was becoming more impressed by the second.
His head felt like it was on a swivel, taking in the paintings and portraits lining the wall that were great replicas of fine art from museums, including some that he recognized the style but not the subject, and thought it could be an imitation. Jude’s father must have more relations than his friend had let on.
The shorter man led him through the rooms, and Erling was doing his best to follow him through as he expertly weaved through the layout. The bouquet of flowers was absolutely massive in his hands, and it made him seem even smaller than usual. Not that he wasn’t tall, but compared to Erling, he was tiny. He might’ve picked too many flowers, no regular vase could hold that many.
They passed by a lavish living room with a chandelier in the middle, a dining room where somebody was already sitting at the head of the table, and finally went into the kitchen beside it. Erling stopped, frowning. He knows Jude’s dad. And the man sitting at the table was not white. He took a step back, squinting at the unmoving figure. His eyes widened.
Kylian Mbappé held his stare without any problem. He got up from his seat and walked over to the blond man, looking at his hands intently. He was wearing a strange dark green suit.
“No chocolates?” Mbappé asked, then nodded to himself. “It’s ok. There’s always next time.”
The world kind of froze for a few seconds, the constants broken, as something that made no sense was happening like it made perfect sense.
“How do you know there was chocolate…?” Erling buffered, and that was the only cohesive thing that came out of his mouth.
Kylian smirked. “I know lots of people, lots of things. It’s in the family. There’s nothing you know that I don’t know.”
Jude tsked from the kitchen, coming to talk to him from the partition separating it from the dining room. “You’re making him nervous, if you keep playing with him he’s going to run away before I come back with the food.”
The older man raised his eyebrows, but nodded. He sat back down at the table, taking off his matching dark green cap to hang it on the back of the chair. He motioned for Erling to take a seat on the opposite side.
The room was silent, the only sound filling the space being the soft motor of the oven as the food was finishing cooking.
Kylian steepled his fingers together and laid his hands on the tablecloth, staring at the blond man without blinking.
Erling, to his credit, sustained the stare without flinching, silently moving his cutlery and napkin from the right side of the plate over to the left. The French man’s eyes went over the movement, then flicked back up at him. “Hungry?” He asked.
“Not really,” he responded, taking his white wine glass in his hand.
Kylian’s eyes locked onto the glass, his face darkening, following every swish of the liquid inside as Erling placed it closer to the top left part of his seating arrangement. The younger man then placed his hands in his lap to avoid touching anything else on the table.
Mbappé deflated at the action, but never truly lost his unnerving disposition. Instead, he brushed an invisible speck of dust with the back of his hand from his suit. And suddenly, Erling felt like he finally recognized it. Something had clicked.
Oh.
That was the dictator suit.
Mbappé was wearing an original, vintage dictator suit in excellent condition, without a wrinkle in sight. It was also adorned with medals that caught the light from the sun as they clinked with his every move.
“Family heirloom?” He asked, since it felt like the older man was waiting for a comment on his appearance.
“No, just an old souvenir,” he said, like he was reminiscing. “It was a gift from a friend.”
“Famous friend?”
“It’s possible.” He took the butter knife from his napkin and began using it as a nail buffer.
Erling had to school his expression into something neutral before he made it seem like he was disgusted with his host. Co-host?
“Erling…Can you tell me what your intentions are with Jude?”
Huh?
The Norwegian cleared his throat. Kylian was staring at him from the corner of his eye, his buffering becoming faster as he waited for an answer.
“Well uh, he’s my friend,” Erling blinked, “And I like spending time with him. I just don’t know why you’re interested. Who are you to him?”
At this, the wannabe dictator chuckled, setting the knife back on the table. Erling peeked at it, and his eyes nearly bulged out of his head.
It was scratched and bent.
He stared at Mbappé, who was admiring his newly-done manicure without a care in the world. He simply sighed, looking back at Erling. “Sometimes in the life, I think I’m too strict. Other times…Not enough. I think you would be better than others. You’re lucky Jude spoke so highly of you. I’m not normally this friendly.”
What? Who does this guy think he is to speak like that?
Also, this was friendly?
Haaland kept his comment to himself, occupying his hands by pulling on the tablecloth to even it out a bit more on his side.
Jude appeared behind them with three platters in his arms. “Dinner is served,” he said mockingly with a makeshift bow, without spilling any of the food, setting it down in front of the two guests. He then took off his apron, throwing it on the cupboards behind him, and sat down on the side in between the other men.
The table felt way too long and not long enough. Erling knew that if he wanted to, Mbappé would be on him in seconds after jumping on the table, but he also knew that if things went wrong, he wouldn’t be able to reach Jude in time before the other player got there.
They had purée de pomme de terre and some viande hachée that smelled vaguely earthy. Erling hadn’t known that Jude’s family were hunters.
“Alors, Erling,” Mbappé had already started cutting his meat with another knife he’d procured from somewhere, then stabbed a piece of it with the utensil, bringing it to his mouth like he was eating from a kebab. He chewed his piece, surprised at the taste. “How does it feel to be in third place for the golden boot?”
“4th place, actually,” Haaland corrected, beginning to cut his meat as well. “Jude gave an assist. He’s third. Regardless…It feels good.”
Kylian stopped chewing to stare at him. Jude was minding his own business at his seat. “Just ‘good’?”
“Yeah,” Erling nodded, “Feels really good. It’s been very nice in the World Cup this year, and I’ve had so much fun. Even when I was benched and watched you score on us that time.”
The older man snorted. “Yes, yes, that was fun…But you know you’re here for more than just ‘sportsmanship’, right?”
“Uh, yes? Jude invited me. I accepted.” Erling furrowed his brow. This conversation was getting stranger by the second. Was Mbappé here for a reason or was this all a taunt? “But I thought it was gonna be him and his dad…Jude told me he was the one who bought this house.”
Jude looked up from his mashed potatoes with an air of…fear? Regret? etched across his face, but continued eating like nothing had happened.
“Jude?” Kylian asked, shifting his body to face the youngest at the table.
The English player sighed, placing his fork down on the edge of the plate. “It kind of slipped, alright? I’m still getting used to the whole…thing, and it’s not exactly helping to be so open with you and my parents but so closed off with others. I never know who’s in the know. How was I supposed to know Ronaldinho knows??”
Erling side eyed Jude since none of that made any sense. Kylian, however, was treating it with the utmost seriousness. He stood up without warning, and Jude followed, almost like his actions were dictated by the older man. They saluted perfectly, and sat back down. Jude seemed unhappy about it though, and had taken back his fork to pick at his food.
“Ronaldinho is like us, you know,” Mbappé broke the silence again. “He was my second in command. He’s the one that brought me to football.”
“Really?” Jude had perked up again, all sulking gone. “Is he-”
“No, he’s not your other mother,” Kylian shot him down immediately. Jude snapped his finger in disappointment.
What?
Erling had been used to a certain brand of weirdness. Thrived on it, actually. He liked being weird. He had personality. He was visible from all angles because of his attributes, and he took pride in that. Was proud to be pitch perfect.
But this was somehow too weird for him. Even he had a limit. And this was way beyond that limit.
“Oh, Erling, we should clear some things up…” Jude trailed off, looking a bit sheepish after catching his friend staring at him with utter confusion.
“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea,” Haaland agreed, wondering what kind of explanation he was going to get. Other mother? Wasn’t that a movie? Kylian in the house, acting like he owns it? Jude in his apron making him unable to think straight for a minute?
Wait, was this a roleplay game?
That would make the most sense, actually. They’re taking the larping thing too seriously and have a strange lore that they’re following and to an outsider it seems like gibberish. Does this mean they’re taking him into this game? Maybe he can start posting on Snapchat and instagram in character and get some funny comments and memes! With the fanbase he’s accumulated, they’d probably accept it as a weird quirk of his.
“Erling, the reason I invited you over to dinner is because…” Jude sighed deeply, massaging the right side of his face, as if expecting a scene. He cringed as his lips moved again. “Kylian Mbappé is kinda my father. Biologically.”
Haaland dropped his fork on the ground. The world seemed to stutter. He swallowed his bite of food quickly, before he could choke on it. Fumbling with his foot under the table for his utensil, he gave up as he opted to just stare at the other two men present with complete attention. He was expecting a chuckle, or a break, because they’d gotten what they wanted: a reaction. Okay, he was surprised. Cue the prank reveal.
But they looked dead serious. Jude was almost making himself smaller, like he was expecting an altercation after what he’d confessed. For some reason, that…made him mad. Unexpectedly so. He was so, so confused, but underneath it all, something was boiling under his skin at the thought that Jude…could be scared…of him?
Blue eyes met dark ones that sharpened across the table. “Well?” The dictator asked. “Would you like to know more?”
Erling’s eyes widened. They were still going. “Are you serious?” Somehow, his British accent had returned, a sign that he was truly bewildered.
“Yes, we are,” Kylian replied, then pointed the knife towards him as if it were a pointer. “Tell me, when you look at us, do you see a domestic household?”
“Uh, no?” Erling replied, “You’re 28. He’s 23. You’re not his dad.”
Jude’s head suddenly snapped to his friend, his pupils blown wide. His mouth was pressed in a thin line, and he kept motioning for him to stop talking.
Oh.
Oh.
He’d misunderstood. Jude was scared for him.
Mbappé got up from the table, the chair screeching loudly. “You think I don’t know math? Numbers are my speciality. I am the golden boot winner, after all.”
Erling swallowed a lump in his throat. “Even with…the final?”
“You think that rat can score 3 goals in one match?” In the blink of an eye, the man was on his right, leaning into his space, one hand on the back of his chair.
Erling felt like prey. He wasn’t used to the feeling. Usually it was the other way around, especially in football. This…this was different. He wasn’t sure it was a joke anymore. But his tongue was always faster than what was good for him, and he wet his lips to speak. “Even with the var helping him out?”
Kylian slowly straightened back up, his expression impassive. He inhaled a long breath, and a smile broke through the facade. He tapped the chair twice, then took his hands off of it, letting it steady itself in its normal position. He returned to his seat with a far better disposition. “Good answer fiston. You’ll fit right in.”
Erling was tempted to ask if he was sure he was talking to him, but refrained from it. The stupid prize in this case would be, maybe, death. Better not risk it. He can run fast, but not as fast as a dictator, apparently.
He relaxed in his seat again. Or as much as he could. He looked over to Jude, who had been relieved as well. “So, he’s your dad?”
“Pretty much,” Jude confirmed, taking his first bite of the food since the altercation. “I wanted to tell you first after…after what happened yesterday.”
The match. The goal. The cry.
“I didn’t know you had a Parisian accent,” Erling shrugged.
Jude choked on his food, his laughter a crystalline melody to his ears, and he smiled too, almost forgetting the elephant in the room. He made himself known instantly.
“Jude, would you like to explain more or do you want me to continue?” He asked.
“I’d like to tell my side of it first,” Jude spoke a little too fast, and that was heard by both of the older men. They shared a look they were surprised to be having, but didn’t say anything.
“Oh, well, where do I begin?” Jude starts, his perfect forehead getting scrunched up as he remembered all that he wanted to say. “It had to have been…right before the cup began, I feel like, because all of a sudden Kylian was at my doorstep, with an arrow in his left arm, bleeding right in front of me and my parents, slurring his words as he literally barged in and crashed on our couch.”
“A little exaggerated of an entrance,” Mbappé apologized. “But I had to. You were the only one I was close to.”
Erling frowned. Again, they were speaking in half-conversations. Like crucial information was being left out.
Jude noticed too, if his pronounced eye roll was anything to note. “Barely. I didn’t even know you, and my parents were looking at me for answers while you were bleeding, and let me reiterate, gold all over the carpet. D’you have any idea how long it took me to scrub it out of the fabric? ‘Cause mum and father made me wash it. The whole bloody thing, all 6 meters of it! It had been white originally, never quite had the same colour after.”
“Not my fault,” Mbappé shrugged, his épaulettes shining in the light filtering in. Before Jude could protest, he held up a hand to keep his speaking role. “I regenerate. Usually it was the preferable option, but this case was special. I’m famous now, I couldn’t let myself change forms yet. So I went to the safest place.”
“Yeah, my house,” Jude nodded angrily, as if remembering the first time he’d had this explanation. “If I was ‘the focal point of energy’ or whatever you keep yapping about, you’d think you’d have heard me Wednesday.”
Kylian’s eyes darkened. “I did hear you.”
At those words, the fight died in Jude’s throat as he slumped in his chair. He was about to puff back up to say something, but Mbappé cut him off again.
“I wanted to get to you, but…We’ll talk about this later. The company’s still present.”
At the mention of company, Erling wished he could burrow himself into the floorboards. He was deeply encroaching on family business that was much more complicated than he could sustain with injury. Or insult, for that matter.
“So,” Kylian began again, “I was in their living room. What happens is people like myself, we are…old. Very old. Jude, don’t call me ancient.”
Jude raised his hands in mock protest, but it was clearly in vain, since he was clearly gearing up to call him a variation of an ‘old geezer’ judging by the silent movement of his lips.
“We don't really know what we are,” the ancient older man continued, taking another bite of his food. “We just know who we are. Maradona is a stoner. Ronaldinho is Brazilian. I’m a dictator.”
Erling almost choked on his mashed potatoes. He tried steeling himself, but his eyes strayed to Jude, who had his lips pressed together and his eyes watering. They almost broke right then and there, but the blond managed to swallow his bite and clear his throat. He gestured to Mbappé. “The outfit is…a clear indication.”
“When I first arrived in 1786, it was the first outfit I was wearing. I was a big part of the French Revolution, but ehhh it wasn’t that important, I mostly did it because Napoleon was a bitch to me.”
Jude’s eyes narrowed as he bit his lip to avoid laughing, and Erling was getting exasperated. He would never be able to finish listening to the story if his friend would keep making those faces.
“You understand, I took over as the embodiment of war after the game changed,” he spread his hands, “After fights shifted, and war was no longer a game of orders but long distance lying. I was just there to see it all. In 2003…the United States invaded Iraq. There was so much war and strategizing, that during the search for Saddam Hussein, there was this surge of power inside me that went outside. Jude, your dad and mother were on a trip, and they were coming back when the power left me, and it hit them directly. It’s kind of like…you know when a goalkeeper kicks a ball, he can hit a bird with it and it comes down? It’s similar.”
“You hit Jude’s dad with a magic football ball,” Erling summarized, wondering if he was actually saying that.
“More or less,” Kylian confirmed. “A few months later, Jude was born from my essence. I felt him since the second he was born. I didn’t really understand what the connection meant, and I had no reason to find out since we weren’t in the same circles. I became good at football. Changed some memories of people so that they wouldn’t start digging through the past. And then I was attacked by Benjamin Nethanyahou.”
Erling spat out his wine, and held up a hand in front of his mouth to try to clean up the liquid spilling everywhere.
Mbappé arched an eyebrow.
The tall man took a millisecond to tear his gaze off of the dictator and look towards Jude, who had already been looking at him trying to keep a neutral face.
Mbappé’s own glass thunked as he put it back on the table with a little more force than necessary. “The war he has pushed for fuels my power, letting me lead the resistance harder and faster. I wasn’t fast enough. He also has one of us working for him. I tried to fight but the arrow was magic. I had to retreat. That’s why the asshole is still alive. Both of them.”
“And that’s when you decided to meet me in person for the first time,” Jude brought them back to the main subject. “You told my parents I’m your son. I thought I was going to witness the worst divorce ever until you teleported a katana into our living room to show your samuraï skills?? That was fucking weird, by the way.”
Kylian acquiesced. “That is fair.”
“Wait, so…” Erling tried to make sense of all the information given. “If Jude is made from…energy that was then made into a child, from you, then…he has two fathers?”
“And two mothers,” the dictator added, “His aura is…It’s way too strong for it to have been just from me. Someone must have had a burst of power at the same time that went into Mrs. Bellingham. Shame we don’t know who.”
Erling dragged both hands across his face while Jude scratched his head awkwardly.
“Anything else?” He asked, hoping not to be blindsided by something even crazier.
The others both shook their heads.
The rest of the dinner was spent in silence, and while the food was quite good, Erling couldn’t help feeling like everything had been a lie. Of course, he knew that it couldn’t have. As they told him, Jude only found out a month before. So he couldn’t have known. To imagine his best friend keeping such a secret from him…It made him angry. Irrationally so. Logically, Jude had every right to keep family matters private. But then, why couldn’t Haaland look at him without feeling a knot in his stomach?
He tried to swallow it but just felt worse.
Erling had gone to the upstairs bathroom at some point, and when he returned, he could hear the duo speak in hushed tones in the living room. He stopped on the third stair, hoping to glean something from it. He should’ve gone to speak with them directly, but something told him to eavesdrop. Maybe he wanted to make sure he wasn’t missing some important context. Or maybe he was jealous of the dynamic the two of them had, the easygoing nature that he didn’t possess, even though he’d known Jude for years longer.
“Tu penses peut-être que j’ai été trop rude avec,” a fast voice spoke.
“Non, papa, je pense que tu lui as fait peur,” someone replied, and raising Erling’s eyebrows in surprise. Jude spoke really good French. Through his own fairly limited knowledge of the language, he got the sentiment that Jude thought Mbappé had scared him. The tall man was inclined to agree with his friend. The dictator was terrifying.
“Oh, et puis? C’est toi qui l’a invité, tu aurais dû y penser et le prévenir.”
“Comment? ‘Ah oui, j’avais oublié de te le dire mais mon père c’est un mec de 28 ans qui t’a massacré 4-1 au foot il y a quelques semaines et aussi il est immortel mais il te fera pas de mal’.” Jude rolled his eyes. “Ouais, il aurait pris ça extrêmement bien.”
It really wouldn’t have gone well, if Erling’s being completely honest, if Jude had tried to tell him beforehand that one of his fathers (and wasn’t that an insane statement by itself) was actually an immortal football player that annihilated his team during the group stages. Erling probably would’ve not come to the dinner and signed him up for a psychological evaluation.
“Tu me parles pas sur ce ton-là, hein,” Kylian’s voice deepened, the tone suggesting that he was close to sending Bellingham to his room.
“Quoi, tu te penses mon père?” Jude spoke in a soft voice through gritted teeth, “Alors pourquoi tu m’as pas répondu lors de mon appel de secours quand Messi voulait m’étrangler?”
Why did Mbappé not help Jude when the Argentinian had had him in a chokehold on the field? Erling had been wondering the same thing since it had been touched upon during dinner, since Mbappé clearly said that he had heard his pleas.
“Jude…Je voulais t’aider. Vraiment. J’entendais tes supplications en boucle dans ma tête. Mais je pouvais pas.”
“Pourquoi? Tu m’avais dit que la famille des surnaturels peut toujours venir en aide aux autres membres. Tu l’as fait. Pourquoi pas cette fois?”
“Parce que seule la personne qui t’aime le plus peux t’aider.”
Silence fell upon them. Erling froze, thinking that maybe they’d heard him and had stopped their conversation. But then, Kylian sighed, and began pacing.
“De quoi tu parles?” Jude piped up again, seeming a bit more exasperated.
“Tu sais exactement de qui je parle,” Mbappé snapped at him. “Il y a quelqu’un qui t’aime plus que moi dans ce monde. C’est qui qui t’a appelé après ta défaite, hein? Moi je sais. Je le voyais sur sa face. Je pensais que tu faisais ça par exprès, ce dîner de cons athlétiques. J’avais tort, apparemment. Je te croyais plus intelligent, mon fils.”
The silence relapsed again, continuing on for a tense moment until Erling made out a soft gasp. Something like a sound of realisation from Jude.
The staircase creaked under his foot. Erling cursed his luck, and finished walking down the stairs while trying to make it seem like he hadn’t heard anything, since he probably misunderstood that last part either way. And also he would have gotten a cramp if he had stayed in that position too long.
Jude looked up at him with the biggest eyes he’d ever seen him make, his chest heaving. Erling’s eyes flitted to Mbappé, who raised his hands and shrugged, as if to say that it was something normal. The Norwegian wasn’t at all appeased by the action, since Jude’s face was turning more red by the second, and he was really concerned he had burst a blood vessel in his head.
Jude’s breathing turned more laboured, and Erling was getting even more concerned. He walked over, placing his hand on the shorter man’s neck to try to soothe him, but Jude’s skin just got hotter by the second as he refused to make eye contact. The blond was outright panicking, since he really wasn’t sure what to do, so he guided his friend towards the door.
“We’ll just get some fresh air, alright? If Jude doesn’t get…better, I’ll call an ambulance,” he told Jude’s magical father.
“That won’t be necessary, but it’s a good idea,” Mbappé replied, giving him a salute before moving back to the dining table.
Erling frowned. That was strange.
He opened the door and the cool sunset air was a surprise to him. There had been a heatwave these past few days, and it seemed to be cooling down. That was a welcome change of temperature.
Jude was still red.
Erling took his hand off his shoulder, the contact of the outside air like a frozen balm on his skin. “Hey,” he leaned down to look Jude in the eye. “Are you okay?”
The younger man’s breathing hitched as he raised his head to lock eyes with the blond. He inhaled deeply, his blood flow slowing. “Do you like me?” He asked.
The Norwegian blinked a few times. What kind of question was that? Clearly, he was his friend! What sort of friend comes to dinner on a whim, dropping everything just to spend time with another person? If he didn’t like Jude, everyone would know.
“Yeah, duh,” he said, trying to figure out if it was a joke. “Of course I like you. You’re my friend. My best friend…”
Jude shook his head, his skin now back to its correct complexion. He draped his hands on Erling’s shoulders to force him to stay at eye level. “That’s not what I’m asking. I…” He sighed, looking away at the yellow-and-purple sky.
He wet his lips, blinking back to lock eyes again. “Remember the Argentina match? When I was almost KO’d?”
“How could I forget, you were about to be thrown at the wall.”
“Why did you call me immediately afterwards?” Jude’s voice dropped. “You were the first person to do that, before my mum, my dad, or my father.”
Erling had overheard something about a phone call when his friend had been speaking to his dad, so he knew that his answer here was important for some reason. He didn’t really get the words around that subject, but hopefully there wasn’t a misunderstanding happening. To be honest, he had felt something weird, like an instinct urging him to call Jude ever since Messi had gotten him under his arm. “I felt this sort of pull. Like I had to call you, that you needed to hear me. I wasn’t even watching the match right then, I had gone out because my head was hurting, felt as if something was yelling in my head. I didn’t tell you since I didn’t want to worry you. You were already worried enough.”
“Oh my god,” Jude blanched, and something inside Erling’s stomach moved uncomfortably. He did not like seeing his friend go through so many colours in so little time. Was that even healthy?
“Uh, are you good?” His hand involuntarily flew to the darker man’s forehead to check for a fever, a pulsing, anything to explain his strange mood swings and ever changing disposition. Something had to have happened that had him so out of sorts.
“Erling, I got to ask you a question,” Jude’s voice rang clear.
Erling closed his mouth with an audible click, grinding his teeth so hard they might break.
“You think…You think we could, uh, be together?”
Crickets chirped.
“We’re together right now,” Haaland scratched his head.
“Yeah well…I meant, ah, nevermind,” the younger man sighed, looking away.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, the movement catching Erling’s eyes. There was something he was missing, he was sure of it, a detail that was supposed to make this whole picture make sense, and yet he couldn’t for the life of him figure it out.
He tilted his head as he stared at Jude. For some reason, even though he’d gone back to normal, his own heart was still hammering away like he was about to drop dead. Someone should tell his adrenaline that he’s fine now and doesn’t need to be on the lookout for some life shattering event. He’s not Spider-Man, so why does it feel like his senses are cranked up to the highest setting?
His fingers brushed against Jude’s neck, and his friend’s head snapped to face him again, his brown eyes wide. He froze, not daring to blink.
His eyes were so deep, and with them being so close, he could see for the first time a bright shine in them, something…inhuman. Though, he couldn’t tell if that was because he was The Jude Bellingham, or if it came with having a magic dictator for a father. Would Mbappé be classified as a sort of vampire then? If he’s feeding off of energy from bloodshed? The original Dracula didn’t die in the sun, he just had power problems, so the idea was still on the table.
“Erling?” Jude’s voice was a whisper on his skin, the vibrations from his vocal cords vibrating across his pale skin.
“Um, yeah?” It took everything in him to reply, because for some reason he was feeling lightheaded, his vision going white as his line of sight was entirely composed of his friend. Best friend in the entire world, actually, and yet he felt like that description wasn’t adequate enough.
“You think we’re ever…missing something?” He asked, looking up at the few stars beginning to appear in the sky. “Like there’s this thing in front of us that we should be able to see, but for some reason we’re ignoring it. I thought, for a few moments, that Mbappé coming into my life like a missile was that missing piece, but I still feel…You know, when I’m with you, my skin feels like it’s on fire? Like that bloke Ghost rider. Just inside.”
“Ah,” Erling answered, smartly, trying not to let his heartbeat rhythm bleed into his voice. That was exactly how he felt, and over the last few weeks, the feeling had exacerbated. “I think…I think I feel the same. Why is that…?”
It was confusing him to no end. Friends weren’t supposed to make you nervous, unless you were in the early stages and you didn’t want to mess the relationship up. So unless his body had temporary amnesia and wasn’t recognizing his friend, the only other option was that-
“Oh shit,” he realized, his mind finally feeling clear for the first time in days. He suddenly took control of his body again, and his hand snaked around Jude’s shoulders, keeping him in place. “Oh, I think I get it.”
“You do?” Jude was practically glowing now, his crooked smile brightening the darkening sky as he leaned up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips.
Haaland reciprocated easily, feeling the warmth of Jude disperse like wildfire from his lips through his entire body, coating it in energy he could never feel while on the field, like pure electricity through his veins.
A thought struck out through his screaming mind, something that was strange.
Jude had perfectly straight teeth.
He pushed that thought aside, since it was interfering with his passionate kissing session, his hands wrapping around Jude’s lower back to help him up to a better position. They were pulled apart by their own excitement, looking up at each other with twinkles in their eyes.
“So I guess this means you don’t want to never see me again?” Erling laughed. “Even after I embarrassed myself in front of your dad?”
“Why did you think I invited you to dinner?? Even if I didn’t know why myself…” He trailed off, before starting again. “Être heureux de ton absence serait infâme,” Jude whispered, leaning up to place a kiss against his cheek.
Erling touched the skin gingerly, feeling it become scorching.
It would be blasphemous to be happy about your absence.
Their lips met again in a crash of teeth and gasps for air, their arms finding purchase on each other as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Erling pulled away first after a short time, his hand flying to his lip.
“Ow,” he let out, and looked at his palm in confusion, seeing the blood smeared on it. He touched his lip again with a finger, staining it red as well. “Did…Did you do that?”
He looked up at Jude, who had gone considerably white. There was also a little swatch of red on the corner of his half-open mouth. Something glinted in the porch light, making Erling squint to make it out.
“Jude,” he let out a little laugh, more of surprise than anything else, “You have fangs.”
“What?” Jude’s eyes widened, his forehead crinkling with worry as he shoved both hands into his own mouth to feel around for confirmation. His jaw stayed dropped even after he removed his fingers from it, the sharp canines on full display. “Oh god, I’ve got…I’ve got fucking fangs mate!”
And for some reason, Erling laughed. The face Jude was pulling was etched into his head, and he’d wished he’d had the forethought of snapping a picture, because he would’ve abused that as a reaction image.
“It’s not funny!” Jude cried. “I could’ve…Could’ve hurt you, y’know? What if I had bit an artery, huh? You’d be dead!”
Erling arched an eyebrow, pointing to his thick neck. “Don’t think you could find it even with a machine gun.”
Jude closed his mouth, but the new teeth stubbornly stuck out, two diamonds in a sea of ruby. “You think this is…‘cause of my dad?”
Haaland did a so-so gesture. “Could be from your mom. I like them. They give you character.”
They embraced again, and Erling shifted his head so that Jude could lean into him with minimal discomfort.
Mbappé closed the curtains from the living room, smiling to himself.
Lionel Messi had arrived early in the locker room before the final. He liked being first. Had done so every match ever since his debut, to get a look at everything before anyone else.
He took off his shirt and began putting on his signature light blue jersey when he felt an oppressive presence behind him. He ignored it, since he would've heard someone walk in.
He turned around, and found himself face to face with Kylian Mbappé dressed in full military gear.
A little exclamation escaped him before he could process what he was seeing.
The French player’s eyes glowed red.
His eyes widened.
“Who…What are you?” He asked as tunnel vision suddenly overtook him.
“I’m the hand of God,” Kylian takes a step closer, wrapping his arms around the Argentinian player’s neck. “And you’re about to get a personal appointment with the big man if you don’t stop pushing yourself on others.”
He squeezed, letting Messi’s face turn a shade closer to suffocation, then let go, the shorter man dropping to the ground gasping for air. For real this time.
“Don’t mess with my son again,” Kylian warned, “Or I’ll let my regime finish you.”