Work Text:
The idea, when it first came up in Erling's head, was innocuous at birth.
He's done that before—swapped jerseys with a few players, but never with Jude. Call it a childish stubborness, but he wouldn't don a Madrid jersey, wouldn't want to hold it as a keepsake, even if it belonged to Jude. He doesn't want to see Jude in Mancity's kit either, he's scared of the weight that the mental image alone puts on his heart and mind.
National jersys are a whole nother story. It's Erling's first World Cup, and if the stars put him against Jude, he must get that England jersey, no matter who goes packing and who stays. Bellingham's jersey specifically. His bright red 10 on pristine white to Erling's white 9 on Norwegian red.
He wants that jersey as a concept before he actually sees the way it sits on Jude firsthand.
And when he does see it up close, he's stunned.
It must be tailored to fit Jude precisely with the way it drapes around his body, highlighting his wide shoulders and tapered waist. The fabric sticks to his biceps, his chest. When they're in formation for a free kick and Jude is right behind him, Erling turns for a quick glance. His eyes fall on the outline of Jude's abs, visible with the way the sweat-drenched shirt clings to his skin.
It's not so much of a distraction really, not when the whole presence of Jude on the pitch is a distraction in and of itself. Erling curses himself for getting nearly weak in the knees when Jude as much as troddles past. The way his frame catches the eye in that jersey is just sort of a stacked damage.
It also makes all the changes about Jude's body so much more obvious. He's grown over the past years that they've seen each other sporadically—his shoulders have filled out, his arms are thicker now. Even his posture changed; his spine is kept straight, shoulders pulled back in a way that Erling could never quite manage himself with his height. There's more poise, grace and confidence about Jude now that Erling knows is mistaken for arrogance by fools, he's seen enough rubbish on the social media.
Jude who has been once a lanky teenager with limbs that seemed too long and noodly is that Jude no more. By the time Erling gets benched, the exhaustion has Jude looking gaunt and older than he is. Seeing that, Erling walks without thinking, as if comforting Jude is an instinct that doesn't take into account that the score reads 2-1 to England and that Jude had been the one to send him home.
The air in the tunnel after is a bit awkward. The club seasons wins and losses come in a flurry—there's always some next game so acknowledging defeat comes easier. This one here, however… He'd even admitted publically he was mentally prepared to go home, minding they were to play against England, and still the real thing dampened his spirits like nothing else. For a moment he even forgets his idea with swapping jerseys. His eyes are still too moist for upkeeping dignified air when he sees Jude again.
'You've done well,' Jude says, his voice hoarse. He clearly aimed for a casual clap on the shoulder first but his fingers linger so he ends up somewhat clasping it instead. His eyes roam over Erling's face, hunting for cues on how to handle him better in this moment. For somebody who's just got into semi-finals, he still looks dazed and worried sick, and Erling fails to understand.
'You've done better,' he answers. 'You've done brilliantly, I have to say.'
'Yeah?'
Jude beams. It appears slowly, dawning on his face, making his features young again, and Erling finds himself returning that smile.
'Absolutely.'
'Coach thinks I could've done better.'
'Eh, fuck him anyway.'
Jude laughs in a way that Erling missed terribly—it's a crowish, hoarse cackle he does while throwing his head back. For a moment, Erling lets himself admire the long lines of his bared throat. Even in his weakest moments he can find something beautiful to appreciate.
'Hey, Jude.'
The eyes looking back at him are soft, expecting, and for some reason Erling has trouble articulating his request.
'What is it, mate?'
'Do you think I could have that England jersey?' The heat in the back of his neck is nothing more than merciless Miami sun. He's too old to blush like a teenager asking for a parting gift from his crush.
'Sure.' Jude shrugs. 'Tho, you sure you don't want to ask Harry? He's more your size, big man.'
Erling fires his response before he gets to bite his tongue.
'I want yours.'
There's that crooked smirk on Jude's face, a little bit too knowing for Erling's comfort.
'Okay.'
The tunnel starts to feel a little suffocating; Erling has a passing thought that if rules had been different he'd really prefer this to happen out on the pitch where they're not enclosed together and where there are plenty of distractions for Erling to not do this.
Which is to oggle Jude undressing. The fine dusting of hair up his stomach is back now that he doesn't have the time to keep his torso waxed smooth for modeling gigs. And Erling is chronically online, he's seen Jude in his underwear on his feed one too many times to miss on the difference.
He gets to have his fill staying unnoticed just barely with Jude's jersey over his head in a blink. Jude now has it stretched between his forearms as Erling's breath catches in his throat at the sight of a small raised scar on Jude's shoulder.
'T'is fine, doesn't bother me much,' Jude says and then nods at his Norway jersey. 'Yours?'
'You want mine?'
'Obviously.' Jude's lip curls. 'You'd let me walk out naked or what?' He then eyes him once again, less annoyance about it. 'Are you alright?'
Erling rushes to tug his own shirt off, hoping the fabric will hide the crimson in his face for a bit.
'Yeah yeah, I'm good. All things considered', he mumbles, muffled.
They exchange jerseys but Erling stalls holding onto the shirt still warm with the other's body heat. He watches Jude don the Norway colors.
'What? Is it a bad look?' Jude asks with a frown.
'No. Can you turn around?'
Erling regrets asking as soon as he sees 'Braut Haaland' spelled across Jude's shoulder blades. His stomach flips and his fingers gripping the cloth grow clammy. He's not going to unpack it, not in front of Jude at least, he's not trusting himself to keep facades. The blood vessels in his face dismantle half the work as it is already.
'I think white suits you better.' It's honest enough of an answer at least.
Erling busies himself with Jude's jersey and as he stretches it around his forearms he realises belatedly that yeah, it's been tight on Jude, there's no way it'd fit him.
'You either do it or you don't,' Jude supplies with mirth in his voice. 'Told you, you should've gone for something bigger.'
'But I want—' Erling can hear the humiliating pout in his own voice.
Fuck it. Erling raises his arms and tries to pull the jersey over his head. The whining of stitches drowns in Jude's guffaw, only spurring Erling further. He huffs into the clothing, breathing in a full chest of body spray, vapor rub and some other underlying scent that may be just Jude.
A hand on his ribs makes him stop dead in his tracks.
'Easy. You'll just fucking rip it in half if you go on.'
Erling lets out one last defeated groan and lowers his arms with the tortured jersey, facing a very elated Jude.
'You wanted mine? You have it. Now, for the love of God, stop mangling it. Unless it was your plan all along. You know, a revenge for beating you.'
'I don't vent on inanimate objects,' Erling protests, indignant. He peels the jersey off his arms and swings it over his shoulder like he would a sports towel.
Then he catches it. Jude's gaze fleeting over his body, sneaky, taking him in bit by bit. The heat in Jude's eyes remains when they meet Erling's, and the revelation makes the tiniest hairs on Erling's arms rise despite the hot air.
One of Jude's teammates calls for him from further up the tunnel. Their time's run out.
'Talk to you later?' Again with that searching gaze, looking for confirmation before Erling voices it.
'Of course.'
Erling watches Jude's back recede, 'Braut Haaland' in stylised lettering staring back at him until it gets swallowed by the arms of Jude's teammates across his shoulders and the white jerseys similar to one hanging off Erling's shoulder, still slightly damp with sweat.