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It’s a particularly hot day for a September in Northern England when Jude finally snaps.
Maybe it’s the sweat running down his neck, or the annoying headache clouding his senses, or the exhaustion after running around for over an hour and a half in the heat. Yes, all of those have surely contributed to his irritation building up. But he has never been one to lie to himself, and he knows, deep down, that it all comes down to the fact that Erling Haaland has not even stopped to acknowledge his two (two!) brilliant assists.
For Christ 's sake. He's aware that it's only a practice match within their own team, an absolutely meaningless thing. Jude's not petty or childish enough to demand high praise for that. Would a fucking high-five hurt, though?
And so, by the end of it all, when half his teammates are splattered over the pitch’s grass and his headache spikes up to the point he can feel his temples throbbing, it’s inevitable to ask:
“D’you think I’m nice?”
He doesn't ask Erling, obviously. Because Jude might not be petty or childish, but he is too prideful to start a conversation with the guy when every attempt has earned him little more than a dry response or a blank stare.
“What, you fishing for compliments now?” Spence replies, and the hand that had been shielding his eyes from the sun now goes around Jude’s shoulders as they make their way to the dugout.
“I’m serious,” Jude says, mustering as much firmness as he can while squinting against the brightness.
“The hell kinda question is that?”
“It ain’t that hard to understand, mate,” he retorts. “Am I nice? Like, friendly?”
“Friendly?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you asking me that?”
“Can you just answer the question?”
Spence abruptly stops walking, making Jude halt as well. They stare at each other for a good five seconds, Spence sizing him up with a genuinely thoughtful expression as he scratches his goatee, which kind of makes him look like a mage.
“You’re a good lad,” he says eventually. “Gets along well with people.”
“Right?!”
“I mean, sure, you’ve got a bit of a temper—“
“Hm, I don’t—“
“—And you can get real hotheaded sometimes—“
“What?”
“—but you’re a nice fella overall, y’know?” Spence shrugs. “'S why we're tight.”
“I don’t have a temper.”
“Sure you don’t, bro,” Spence claps his back twice before letting go and grabbing a bottle of water by the bench, where some of the other guys are.
Jude scoffs, even as he follows right behind. Erling is there, manspreading shamelessly in his seat while engaged in what seems to be a serious discussion about penalty techniques with Bukayo and Vini. Jude almost scoffs again. The guy really will be talking to anyone but the person who gave him two (hello, two) assists.
He averts his eyes.
“Hotheaded?” For some reason, the word sticks. “You think I’m hotheaded? Do I give off that impression?”
“What are you even going on about?” Jack, who has apparently been listening to their conversation, steals the bottle from Spence’s hands, then proceeds to make a show of splashing it all over his face. “That's got to be the sweetest guy I know. Mama raised him right."
"Thank you!" Jude says in an exasperated tone while Spence attempts (and fails) to kick the back of Jack's knee.
"Fucking Grealish."
"Did I lie?" Jack raises an eyebrow at Spence. "He's, like, Snow White or something."
"Snow White?" Jude asks while Spence simply says ‘White?'
“Ain't she the one who can talk to animals?” He frowns. “Dunno. But if you were a Disney character, you’d definitely be able to talk to animals, or have a magic wand. I’m telling you.”
Jude blinks, mouth slightly agape. "… Thanks?"
"Anytime, mate." He gets another clap on the back, and Jack has apparently decided he’s contributed enough to this conversation, because he’s already running off to butt into another one. The penalty techniques discussion, that is. With Erling.
Not that Jude's prying. He's not. It's just… upsetting, really, the way in which Erling immediately opens up to Jack, an easy smile tugging at his lips at the sight of him, while nothing — not assists, not goals, not jokes, not compliments, nothing — Jude does seems to get a reaction out of him.
And it bothers him. It bothers him way more than he would like to admit. It bothers him to the point it has him questioning his—what, personality? Jude likes to think he knows himself. Self-awareness is important, and he is anything but perfect. Stubbornness, pride, defiance; he is made up of various little pieces that come together to make him whole, just as he is, be it good or bad. Some pieces may need mending, yet they are his all the same.
He has been told he talks too much, moves too much, is too much, but Jude has never, not once in his entire life, been called unfriendly. He's extroverted and engaging and effusive and hey, Jack is right, his mom did raise him well.
So what terrible sin could he possibly have committed to deserve Erling Haaland’s coldness?
It’s a question that has been plastering itself across mind for what feels like forever. At first, he thought it was mostly just cultural shock. There are plenty of international students at university, but he mostly sticks to the football squad guys, and Erling's the only Scandinavian around. Their reputation to be more closed-off and private is widely known.
Except no, that’s not it. He has witnessed, time and time again, how easily Erling fits with the guys, how he joins their banter, cracks jokes, goes out drinking and engages with them in general, even if he is, admittedly, more on the quiet side. There is never any hesitation, nor the dreadful awkwardness that comes with forced proximity. If anything, Erling seems perfectly comfortable around them.
He suspected it had something to do with hierarchy, then. For as long as Jude's been a part of the squad, Erling has been the captain. Maybe he was the type to demand respect from newcomers or whatever, especially those as… headstrong (not hotheaded, fuck you, Spence) as Jude.
But that couldn't be it, either. Jude’s not a fresher anymore, he’s been around for two whole semesters now, same as Gio and Bukayo, and Erling treats them perfectly well. The cold stares and monosyllabic responses seem to be reserved for Jude, specifically.
He is the problem.
As if to add to the absolute self-pity of his pathetic train of thought, Spence chooses that moment to empty the rest of the water bottle into his hair.
"That's it, you're done." Jude immediately grabs at his locks, and they start a pre-school-level wrestling match.
Spence laughs as he sputters, "I was trying to get your attention, man! You weren't listening!"
"So you threw Grealish's sewer shit water at me?!"
"Hey!" Jack yells from where he's sitting.
"See what I said about hotheaded?" Spence yells back.
"I am not—" he's being tickled now, and fuck if that's isn't his weak spot.
In between breaths and cackling, Spence's hands skittering over his sides, Jude catches Erling's eye beside Jack.
He had already been watching him.
Jude can't pinpoint exactly what it is about the stare that makes him shy. It's—intense, and Erling's eyes shine black despite being blue, and he just keeps staring for some reason, serious as he always is with Jude, and suddenly nothing is funny anymore.
God, he thinks, this guy fucking hates me.
/
As it turns out, his annoying headache had been the first symptom of an even more annoying cold.
He rarely gets sick, but when he does, it's always an ordeal. The cold manages to knock him out completely in the span of a single day. He feels like a Victorian child with the plague, lying in his dorm room completely helpless, wishing his mum could be there to nurse him back to health — or at least make him something warm.
Grow up, his brother would say, and he would be, well… right. But who cares? Being sick alone and away from home gives him poetic license to be dramatic.
At this moment, Jude regrets neglecting his nonexistent cooking skills, because his fridge is completely empty and he doesn’t have the energy to go grocery shopping in this state. He wants something warm, not delivery junk food. He even dreams of it.
An image, worn soft with age, is conjured by his hazy, feverish mind: his mum knocking on the door, once, twice, before entering with her amazing chicken broth, the smell made out of his entire childhood.
Unfortunately, the dream dies with a single phone ring. The excruciating headache has only gotten worse, and he longs for a time (read: yesterday) when he was still able to breathe properly through his nose. He scrubs his eyes, reading through a few texts, promptly ignoring the squad group chat to open Gio’s private messages.
gio [18:07]
feeling better?
jude [18:09]
worse
pls send help i'm about to die
gio [18:09]
oh god
jude [18:09]
its the plague
i'm in my death bed
i don't have much time gio left pls hurry with ibuprofen pls pls pls pls
gio [18:10]
you're such a baby
jude [18:10]
hey this is judes mum my son has just died and the last thing he read was your rude text :/
hope you're happy
gio [18:11]
i am
jude [18:11]
CUNT
gio [18:11]
lmao
will drop by later with an emergency survival kit
jude [18:12]
i love you so much
bring food
gio [18:12]
behave and i will
jude [18:13]
yessir
Gio, the absolute angel, does, in fact, drop by, a bag full of medicine and enough food to feed an army. Jude swears he could kiss him. He does, on the cheek, and Gio immediately plants a hand on his face to shove him away, claiming he's not taking any chances. Jude's pout lasts for about zero point four seconds before he smiles widely at the smell of soup. His prayers have been answered. He swears the reason his eyes are tearing up is due to the cold.
"This is heavenly," he repeats for the third time, not even caring that his jumper is stained with orange spots from how quickly he's wolfing down the whole bowl. He already looks like shit with his runny nose anyway, why not embrace it fully?
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Gio laughs, face lit up by the TV screen in the dorms' shared living room. It's cute that he's pretending to pick a movie when they both know they'll end up rewatching Sean Connery's Bond films for the millionth time.
"No, seriously, I can't believe you cook like this," Jude insists. "You're a lifesaver, mate. I feel healed already. Should I go to training tomorrow?"
"Are you crazy? You need rest," Gio looks up from where he's lying on the sofa. "And I didn't cook anything, this is all groceries."
Jude raises a brow. "The soup, though?"
"What about it?"
"I mean, it's clearly homemade."
"It's delivery."
"Really?" Jude blinks. He unlocks his phone and tosses it to him. "Type in the restaurant, I want it saved."
For some reason, Gio looks at him like he's grown two heads. "Dude, how am I supposed to know? You're the one who ordered it."
"What? I didn't."
Gio frowns. "Yes, you did. It was outside your door."
The spoon that had been making its way to Jude's mouth stops midair.
"I didn't order anything."
They both stare down at the soup like it will magically give them answers. Jude can’t look at it for too long, caught between suspicion and the very inconvenient urge to keep eating it. Against his better judgment, he takes another sip. It’s just too good.
"What the hell, don't do that!" Gio tries to take the bowl from his hands, but he resists. "What if it's—poisoned or something?"
"Why would it be poisoned? And I've already had half of it anyway. It won't make a difference."
"Still. You don't even know who this is from."
"One of the guys must've left it there for me," Jude quickly reasons, shrugging. There can't be any other explanation. "I mean, you did tell them I'm sick, right? At practice?"
Gio pauses. "Yeah." He frowns. "But I don't remember anyone saying they were bringing you stuff."
"I'll just ask them when I'm back," Jude decides, words coming out muffled around the spoon in his mouth.
Gio shoots him a disapproving look, shaking his head like Jobe would. The scolding feels strangely nice, though. It means he's worried, and it makes Jude smile. He may be sick and away from home, but there's family here, too.
"Erling asked about you, you know," Gio adds out of the blue, as though it's only just crossed his mind.
Jude's smile disappears.
"Yeah?" He scoffs, suddenly restless. He snatches the control out of Gio's hands just because, setting the now-empty bowl aside. "Probably to give me hell for missing practice."
"No, I think he was just worried."
"Like he gives a shit. He's probably the one who cursed me."
"He's a nice guy, Jude."
Nice. Nice. His fingers tap through the buttons aimlessly, patience running thin.
"To you, maybe."
"To everyone."
"Except for me."
Gio sighs. "Again with this, man, c'mon. When has he ever done something to you?"
"Never!" Jude squeaks, even as his throat screams for help. "That's the whole point! He doesn't fucking bother talking to me. He avoids me."
"He's shy."
"Oh," Jude actually laughs. "Oh, please. That's your excuse?"
"It's not an excuse! So what if he's not that talkative? It doesn't mean he hates you."
"But he talks to you! And I'm not even acknowledged. It's like I'm a ghost."
Gio stares him dead in the eye and announces, "You have a victim complex."
Jude gapes. "You're telling a sick person they have a victim complex. Wow."
He can see Gio holding back his laughter as he throws a pillow at his side of the couch. "Shut up—"
"You've just attacked a sick person! Just admit you're on his side."
"I hate you."
"That's low even for you, Giovanni Reyna."
There are twin grins on both their faces. "Quit it. I'll let you pick the movie, you big baby, just drop the act."
He does.
There's a saying in England: where there's smoke, there's fire. Jude and Gio have watched James Bond recite that quote so many times, they’ve got it memorized down to the frame, landing every word in perfect sync. Gio even nails the British accent.
Jude laughs, takes his medicine, sleeps plenty, and thinks about Erling Haaland.
It's much worse than outright hate. Indifference, that is. At least in his perspective.
But where there's smoke, there's fire, isn't there?
/
The three days Jude spends locked inside his room are enough for the weather to shift completely. Classic England. His favourite season is gone for good, Autumn showing its face in the shape of falling leaves and dropping temperatures and, as expected, the official beginning of game season.
He'd hoped to make up to the practice he'd lost during those two missed training sessions, which is why he shows up earlier than usual at the training grounds on Thursday.
However, someone's managed to get there before him.
Just his luck. Of course, he recognizes the navy-blue Nike bag near the entrance. How could he not, when it's the one that usually sits by the locker next to his. The one that belongs to—
He takes a deep breath and opens the door to the dressing room, where he abruptly comes face to face with the very owner of his thoughts. Erling had been just about to open the door from the inside, judging by how close their faces are and the big hand hanging by the doorknob, only a breath away from Jude’s hip.
Both of them are quiet for a second. Erling looks like he’s been out of the shower just now, hair wet, loose and brushed back, so very different from the usual loop ponytail. And he’s shirtless. A towel hangs around his neck, water still dripping from the ends of his hair onto his wide shoulders. His training shorts sit low on his hips, and there’s a faint flush across his face, probably from the heat of the water.
Jude gulps.
"Hey." He looks up to offer what he hopes is a friendly smile. Also to quit staring at his exposed, well-defined, delicious pecs. Wow, where did that come from?
The greeting seems to be all Erling needs to put some distance between them. He retrieves his hand quickly, taking one big step back.
Jude lets out a sharp breath. Right. So much for friendly.
"You're here," Erling says, voice deep and stern, if not a bit surprised.
Much to your disappointment, Jude wants to say, but bites it back. "Good as new," he replies instead, holding up his red sports bag as proof.
"You will join us today?" Erling points at the bag. His accent comes out strong in that particular sentence, and it sounds very nice, annoyingly enough. "Are you sure? Gio told us you were in really bad shape."
Is… is he trying to kick him out of practice? What the fuck.
"Yeah, well," he crosses his arms, "I'm all better now, so."
Erling nods. "Good. That's… good."
The silence stretches on once more. Jude is desperate to fill it, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
"Not like I have a choice, right? If the cold didn't kill me, coach definitely would have if I'd missed three days," he says, forcing out an awkward grin in hopes of getting at least a little laugh out of the other.
A frown follows instead. "You shouldn't joke about that," Erling says, which automatically translates to fuck you, I hope you choke on your own saliva in his head.
Honestly, why even bother anymore? He should just shut up forever in the guy's presence.
"Haha, yeah, okay. Great talk, mate." Desperate to get out of this situation, Jude rearranges his bag over his shoulder, taps Erling's chest —which is completely uncalled for and will definitely make it onto the top-ten list his mind creates of the most embarrassing moments of his life whenever sleep won't come — and goes inside the dressing room as quickly as possible, leaving the other standing by the door.
He pretends to organize his stuff for several minutes, until he's sure he's by himself.
Only then does his head drop against the locker with a groan.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid."
/
They win the first game of the season.
Jude scores two of the five goals that secure their victory, can almost taste the hat trick coming if it weren't for that fucker from Loughborough who tackled him. Well, at least it got them a penalty. Also, as a small consolation, the same guy later takes a ball to the head, which Jude finds pretty fucking funny.
Dopamine travels through his veins, and he feels absolutely ecstatic by the end of it all. He's got Vini under his arm as they make their way through the pitch, giggling and taking the piss out of each other, when they pass by the coach, who's congratulating Erling on his two goals.
The same as Jude. And isn't that funny?
"It was the tie," Erling grins as he says it, pointing at the purple tie securing his slick bun at the back of his head, the exact same colour as their team's kit. "My good luck charm."
Erling Haaland is a strange individual, he decides later in bed, tossing and turning. He's quiet, yet loud. Reserved, yet confident. Serious, yet humorous. He matches his ties to the colour of his outfit one moment, then pretends Jude is invisible the next.
How he wishes they would joke like that with each other.
Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? All of this pent-up frustration, this restlessness. He wants Erling’s laughter, his words and, most of all, his undivided attention. And Erling won’t give it to him.
Still, despite everything, it’s his eyes Jude searches for whenever he scores, drawn to that deep, hypnotizing gaze. He'd beg for his approval if his pride would let him; pretending otherwise would be a lie.
But there's only so much of that he can keep rattling around his own head before it gets too loud.
Note to self: when everything starts piling up, call Jobe.
Jude rings him sometime well past midnight. The call is answered, just as he knew it would be, lasting for almost two hours. Jude gives him the full match recap and his goals, particularly, a heroic retelling, while Jobe vibrates on the other side of the line like he'd been there in the stands.
However, funnily enough, Jobe ends up doing the most talking.
He isn't like this with most people, his little brother, shy by nature. Jude has learned, with time, not to pry. Just listen.
And listen he does.
"School's fucking useless, I swear," Jobe rants, speaking so fast the line cuts out some parts. "They're making us do these stupid extracurricular classes to fill up our resume for college applications, and it's all made up shite like 'Introduction to Creative Leadership'. What even is that?"
Jude can only laugh. His eyes are closed, mind starting to float. "Which one are you taking?"
“Contemporary Art and Visual Expression."
"Hey, that actually sounds kind of interesting," he mumbles. "Not exactly your vibe, but."
"Yeah, it was the least terrible out of them," Jobe's puffing can be heard through the speaker. "But it's ass, too, it's like a toddler's class. We're learning the color wheel, man. Red plus blue equals purple, stuff like that."
The line between consciousness and dreaming is a thin one, and Jude often finds himself stranded somewhere in between — not only on the edge of sleep, but in the middle of the day, too. Now, he’s awake, yet everything looks strangely clear and blurry at once, like a familiar face he’s never seen before in a dream. There’s a thread of purple tying his wrists to Erling’s, the most nonsensical thing imaginable.
They have matching bags, one blue and one red. They even have matching goals. And that frail, purple line is what connects them on the pitch, guiding Jude’s killer assists straight to Erling’s crushing finishes, keeping them perfectly in sync despite the distance between them.
It feels like going insane. It has to stop.
/
"Easy, tiger. You've gotta slow down."
If Bukayo was an animal, he'd be a duck. It's the only thing that crosses Jude's mind as he watches his friend confiscate the beer he'd been drinking: a mother duck fussing over her ducklings, making sure none of them wander off somewhere stupid (or, in this case, drink themselves stupid). Jude, Jack, Vini and half the other lads are the stupid ducklings, obviously.
Jude squints and, wait, Bukayo does actually look pretty similar to a duck. He can definitely see it.
"Oi," he calls from across the table, quacking at him when Bukayo looks over. He laughs, which makes Jude smile stretch even wider.
A big wave of affection hits him full force, as it usually does on nights like this, when everyone is far too drunk and happy to worry about anything else. Jude makes a point of getting up from his chair and shuffling over to the other side of the table, against the wall with the padded bench, where it’s more comfortable and darker and closer to Bukayo. He squeezes through the tight space between the table and the bench, laughing all the way while the others complain.
"I'll miss you during winter break," Jude says, head resting on Bukayo's shoulder now that he's beside him.
"It's October, mate."
"I know." A sight. "Time goes by so fast," he clings to him like a koala.
"Okay, okay, you're alright, Judy," Bukayo chuckles as he pets his head. "Yeah, this one's gone," he tells whoever's sitting to the left. Jude can't really see from this angle. His field of vision is pretty much fixed on the beer Bukayo confiscated, the one he's already planning on stealing back.
Jack’s within sight, too, looking like he could just as well be a Backstreet Boy from the way he’s singing I Want It That Way. Gordon, hyping him up. Vini, dancing. Gio, flirting with some girl.
Then, naturally, intuitively, Jude's eyes search for Erling.
They find him on the other side of the pub, lining up a dart. The warm lighting makes his white hat look orange. He's wearing it backwards, showing off his shaved undercut like a typical university player, though Erling is anything but typical — he is strikingly unique, and it's much easier now that Jude's drunk to admit how attractive he is.
No drink in sight. Of course not, he's above that. Erling's not a stupid duckling like Jude.
This simple realization pisses him off to an unimaginable extent, and before he even properly thinks about it, there he goes again, squeezing his way out from the table as the chorus of complaints start up.
The… annoyance, the uncontrollable frustration he feels, leads him straight to the other side of the pub. Or maybe it's the pulling of the purple thread, a figment of Jude's delusional mind. Either way, after some stumbling, he soon finds himself by the darts.
"I wanna play, too."
Erling's hand pauses in the air with the dart.
Beside him, Phil raises a slitted brow.
"Yeah, right," he mocks.
"'Yeah, right' what?" Jude asks.
"Only the fact that you're completely pissed, bro. I don't reckon it's a good idea to be holding anything sharp in this state."
"Huh? I'm not—" Jude's mouth falls open. "Fuck you, I can totally still beat your ass."
"Like you did earlier at practice?" Phil shoots back, raising both his eyebrows repeatedly in an exaggerated little dance, referring to the rather pathetic attempt Jude had made at dribbling past him this morning.
"Hey, not fair," Jude laughs, an accusing finger pointed at him.
Phil taps it away, grabs Jude by the hand and hooks his arm over his shoulder, helping support his wobbling body. In response, Jude reaches for the dart in Phil's other hand, giddy when he manages to grab it.
Erling watches the scene unfold, both hands in his jacket's pocket now. Jude kind of feels like quacking at him, too. Surely it would get a reaction out of that mysterious expression.
Phil sighs.
"Let's get you to sit down before you stab me with that thing."
"I'm not sitting down."
"Then stand there and watch."
"You're a duck."
"What?"
"Dick."
"Okay," Phil nods, laughing, dragging Jude back to the table.
They make it about two steps before Jack appears, blocking the path.
"Jack!" Jude exclaims.
“Jude!” Jack yells back, except it comes through the karaoke microphone still clutched in his hands. His voice echoes around the whole pub, and he gives a sheepish smile before adding a quick, “My bad,” into the microphone too.
"Hey," Jude snaps his fingers, "sing 'Love Me' next."
Jack seems confused there for a second. "Elvis?"
"Duh."
"Sure, why not," Jack shrugs. "I'm in search of a duet, though. C'mon, Folden."
Juke blinks, and Phil is already being pulled away.
"But—what, me? Jude—"
"Relax, Erling'll take care of him," Jack winks. Why? Jude has no clue. He tries to wink back, but, sadly, he's never quite mastered the art. "Ain't that right, Erl?"
All three of them turn to Erling, who hasn't uttered a single word until now.
He takes a few seconds before answering, very eloquently:
"Uh… yeah."
"Perfect!"
A thumbs up, a nod. Just like that, they're off to the karaoke platform, leaving Jude with a dart in hand, an accelerated heartbeat and a very unreadable Erling staring right back at him.
Well. This is awkward.
Clearing his throat, he quickly says, "Let's play," already marching over to the red line on the floor that marks the distance to the dartboard before Erling can say anything.
A blurry circle hangs on the wall. Squinting is useless with his head spinning, but still, stubbornly, he tries to raise the dart.
"Jude, stop." God, his name sounds so nice in Erling's tongue. Very few times has he had the opportunity to hear it. "Let me help."
And then Erling's behind him.
Jude's engulfed by a tsunami of warmth, both physically and emotionally. Erling's front covers the entire expanse of his back, glued to it. The jumper and the T-shirt underneath are suddenly way too many layers of clothing.
Everything feels hot. It's a heatwave; it's summer. It's that practice day from September all over again.
"Your hand is shaking," Erling observes, and it is. Fuck, it is.
What a greedy guy, Erling is. Without doing so much as moving a finger, he's taken control of Jude's mind for some time now, creeping into his dreams and delusions and fantasies. Now he's taken over his body as well.
"That's 'cause I'm pissed," Jude lies.
"Yes," Erling agrees easily. Jude can feel the nod against his shoulder. "But you have to be steady for this."
"Then steady me," Jude says.
He immediately wants to clap a hand over his mouth, because why does he have to talk this much, for fuck's sake? But he can't, because his hand is being engulfed by the warmth, too. By Erling. He holds it in a way that has them both lining up the dart, unusually gentle.
"Aim it at where you want it to land," Erling guides his hand towards the centre of the board, speaking close to his ear. His face is practically settled at Jude's shoulder blades.
This is madness. Pure, blinding madness. It cannot be happening.
"You're not supposed to help me," Jude crooks out.
"Why not?"
Confused, he tilts his head up and to the side to look at Erling. There's barely any space between them. His stomach flips at the proximity, then does a full double twist when their eyes meet.
"Aren't we playing against each other?" He points out.
A whole eternity passes before an answer comes.
"And if I want you to win?"
Erling says it with such effortless certainty, like there isn't anything strange about the words at all. It sounds silly, and it makes Jude want to laugh, so he does.
"That would make you a very bad captain." The laughter fades into a smile. "Wishing for your opponent to win."
They're so close Jude can hear Erling's breath hitching. He wonders if he's feeling warm, too.
"I must be a terrible captain, then," Erling says, blue eyes trailing down, down, down across Jude's face. They pause for a second before returning to his eyes.
"Jude."
"What?"
With his free hand, Erling catches Jude's chin between his thumb and index finger, turning his face towards the dartboard.
"Shoot," he commands, like a good captain would.
Jude does.
Bullseye.
For half a second, Jude simply stares at the dart buried in the board, waiting for the satisfaction to hit, but it never comes. Instead, he's overwhelmed by his senses, the music too loud, the space too hot, and not the good kind.
He’s known this was coming, honestly, ever since the third beer, a lightweight through and through. He just hadn’t expected it to hit quite so hard, least of all now, at the worst time possible, when Erling was finally— finally—
“I’m gonna puke,” he voices out.
For a moment, there's only black.
Jude doesn’t properly pass out, not really. At least he doesn’t think so. But he does puke, and he does black out there for a second.
When he comes back, it’s all fragments. Hands all over him, someone holding his shoulders steady. A voice asking if he can hear them. Cold water pressed to his lips, some of it spilling down his chin. The scrape of a chair against the floor. A hand rubbing firmly between his shoulder blades. The jingle of keys.
A car. No. Erling's car.
All curled up in the front passenger seat, Jude watches him drive. He looks so focused as he flicks the indicator on to the right, eyes sharp as a… shark. Yes. Jude's a stupid duckling and Erling's a white shark, sitting right there at the top of the food pyramid.
Okay, so he's definitely still drunk.
Jude blinks lazily out of the window, where it's completely dark, and wonders where they're going. Maybe Erling's finally had enough of his shit and is planning to dump him on the side of the road. He turns to ask him just that, but, oh, Erling's just so nice to look at like this, painfully unaware. He's still got the backwards hat on, but his jacket is missing. It takes an embarrassingly long amount of time for Jude to realize that the jacket is actually draped over him, tucked around his body as some sort of blanket.
Erling's shoes are also missing, though. He's driving barefoot.
Jude stares at his feet like a creep for a moment. Maybe it's better for driving? He wouldn't know, since he's an adult loser without a license.
Wait.
That's right. Erling's driving barefoot because Jude fucking puked on his shoes.
"I'm sorry for puking on your shoes," he says in the middle of a yawn, blinking lazily.
Erling flinches. It's cute. "Woah," he says, which is also very cute. "You scared me."
"Sorry."
"No worries. How are you feeling?"
"I'm feeling very sorry for having puked on your shoes," Jude says, scooting the jacket closer around himself as if it could somehow protect him from how embarrassed he feels.
Erling gives him a once over. "Don't worry about that."
"No, seriously, I'll buy you new ones. What's your size?"
"You don't have to, Jude."
"I want to," he insists. "Size?"
"Uh, 11 or 12 in the UK, I think?"
Damn.
"Damn," he voices his thoughts.
"Yes, it's much easier to buy shoes in Norway," Erling says, putting one hand behind the passenger seat and steering with the other, head slightly turned back. It's probably the most attracted Jude's ever been to anyone, ever.
"Well," he starts, drunk and filterless, a combination that can never end well. "At least y'know what they say about men with big feet."
Erling blinks. "What?"
"What?"
"What do they say?"
Oh, God. Please, no, Jude thinks. Please don't make me have to explain this.
"Y'know, that…"
Erling looks absolutely clueless. Jude rubs his face with both hands, mortified.
"That they also have a big…" he trails off. "You know!"
"I don't."
In a very awkward manner, Jude gestures vaguely towards the lower half of his body.
Erling tilts his head, frowning a little before the punchline hits him. And then something magical happens, right there in the car, at God knows what hour of the night, right in front of Jude's eyes.
For the first time, Erling laughs at him. At him? For him.
Because of him.
He laughs openly, bemused, in a way that makes the corners of his eyes squint. All because of Jude’s shitty drunk joke. It’s so unbelievable, the whole situation; for so long, Jude’s been craving any sort of response from him, and suddenly he gets to have this unguarded glimpse of a man who has kept nothing but walls between them this past year.
"I didn't know this was a saying," Erling comments, laughter dying down. A small smile remains, keeping all of Jude's hopes alive with it.
"Now you do," Jude jokes. "You're welcome. I'm full of wisdom."
"Are you now?"
"Yeah, mate. You'd know if you actually talked to me for more than two seconds."
He doesn't mean for it to come out as an attack, but it sure does sound like it. Erling goes quiet, turning his head towards the other side of the street. The walls emerge from the ground so quickly, snapping back into place before Jude can even begin to figure out how to stop them.
"No hard feelings, though," he desperately tries to lighten the mood. "I know I can be a proper bitch sometimes. Spence says I come off as hotheaded."
He can see Erling's knuckles turning white from how tightly he’s gripping the wheel.
God. Jude must really be pushing it. How did he manage to ruin it so quickly?
"I don't think that about you, Jude," Erling says, his voice strained.
"Really?" Jude asks. "What do you think about me, then?" He pauses. "No, seriously, because I've genuinely got no idea."
Just as he says it, the car comes to a stop.
Erling takes the opportunity to avoid answering. Jude feels like a kid as Erling unbuckles his seatbelt, opens the door for him, and helps him out of the car so he doesn’t stumble.
Beyond the confines of the car stands Jude's dorm building.
"Oh," he murmurs. Of course. Where the hell did he think they were going? Erling’s?
They make their way up the stairs in silence, Jude leaning more heavily against the railing than he’d like to admit. His legs still feel a little unsteady beneath him, and every few steps Erling’s hand finds his arm again. He doesn't let go, not when they make it out of the stairs and not even when they're in front of Jude's door — Erling stays close to him, steadying him, holding him, never letting him stumble too far, despite keeping him at arm's length.
A constant push and pull, a walking contradiction.
It's not so different from how they are on the pitch.
"This is me," Jude gestures to his door, voice coming out quiet.
Erling nods.
Silence.
Jude stares down ar the floor. Erling is standing there barefoot on the cold laminate of the dormitory corridor, and he's walked all the way here, yet his skin still somehow feels warm. Jude wonders if he's simply become immune to the cold after so many winters in Norway.
He wonders if Erling misses his home. He wonders if he'll choose to stay in England after he graduates. That's less than a year from now. Jude has the sudden urge to sit down with a notepad and ask Erling everything he's ever been curious about, like some sort of therapy session where he would have no choice but to answer honestly.
Or, or, it doesn't even have to be like that. Ultimately, Jude yearns for them to be close enough that he'd have the privilege of asking him stupid questions, like: what's your favorite colour? Do you prefer sunrises or sunsets? When was the last time you cried?
"Erling?" Jude says, looking up.
"Yeah?"
"I really wish we could be friends."
Erling's hand stills in Jude's arm, eyes widening a little. Jude has never seen he look so young before. But the intensity is still there, as it always is, and his eyes are doing that thing again where they look darker than blue.
His hands slip down Jude’s arm until his fingers find his. He lifts their joined hands, enclosing Jude’s cold ones between his palms.
"I wish we could be friends, too."
What a strange man.
Surely this must be one of Jude's crazy illusions again. He's caught on that familiar line between universes repeatedly. There is the reality: Erling's strong body, his warm hands holding Jude's. And there is the illusion: Jude's dreams, his secret wishes of being seen, noticed, given attention to. The blur linking the two make it impossible to tell which is which — it is what makes the look in Erling's eyes seem so soft, so tender.
"Sleep well, Jude," he says, retrieving his hands, his body, his presence altogether.
The warmth is gone.
Jude walks into his room, closes the door behind him and lies down on his bed. Sleep takes him quickly, deep and dreamless.
/
Ducks. Dart. Puke. Drive.
This is what he remembers.
jude [11:57]
what the fuck did i do
gio [12:03]
good morning to you too my dear friend
jude [12:03]
BROTHER I AM NOT JOKING AROUND
how bad was i last night
on a scale from 1 to 22
gio [12:04]
you're asking the wrong person tbh i was just as drunk as you
but i would say like 16?
idk i just remember you quacking at random people
jude [12:05]
oh my god
He splashes water down his face and moves on to the next responsible adult.
jude [12:08]
hi
bukayo [12:21]
hey mate
need some medicine?
jude [12:22]
already had some
thank you love you 🥲
now saks pls be honest
you know what i'm gonna ask
bukayo [12:23]
i mean
jude [12:23]
honest
bukayo [12:24]
it was pretty bad
jude [12:24]
how bad
bukayo [12:24]
you puked on erlings shoes
Jude puts his phone down, presses his face into a pillow and screams as loud as he can.
jude [12:26]
he's the one who drove me home
isnt that right
bukayo [12:26]
yeah
When he doesn't answer, Bukayo sends another message.
bukayo [12:29]
maybe you should text him…?
Jude needs to breathe.
He decides to go on a jog to clear his head, but it starts raining the moment he puts sneakers on. Then he calls Jobe and gets turned down, something that has never happened before. 'On a date', Jobe texts, and, what the hell, Jude will definitely investigate that thoroughly later.
Showering's next in line. Except each time he closes his eyes beneath the hot spray, little snippets from the night before come back to him. Some are of the guys, laughing and singing, others are blurry flashes of the pub. But mostly, he just sees Erling — playing darts, touching him, driving, lifting Jude off his feet, leaving him at the door.
He doesn’t know what’s worse: not remembering what he said to Erling and being tormented by the uncertainty forever, or finding out what he said and being haunted by it instead. But Jude does know one thing, and that's that he needs to apologize for his behavior, however terrible it had gotten. It’s what his mum would have him do.
Four hours and seventeen minutes later, he's back to square one, laying in bed while staring daggers at his phone screen.
He opens his chat with Erling.
They’ve exchanged texts a total of three (3) times: once when Jude was a wide-eyed fresher who’d wanted to properly introduce himself to what would be his captain for the foreseeable future; then when Jude was still trying to get in Erling’s good books and invited him out for a drink (he’d just received a very definitive 'Can't.' as an answer); and, finally, when Erling had texted him first. Just once. A simple 'You left your bag at the training ground'. Jude had replied 'shit thanks', to which he’d gotten no response. And that was it.
It takes him another six minutes and a breathing exercise to decide what to start the conversation with.
jude [16:52]
hey
i'm really sorry about last night
Jude immediately locks his phone and throws it onto the other side of the bed. It takes a good while of staring at the white ceiling above him before it finally beeps.
erling haaland [17:03]
👍
A thumbs up emoji. That's his answer. Which could mean… nothing.
Jude's gonna have to force the words out of him.
jude [17:06]
seriously i feel really bad
i promise i'll buy you new shoes
what's your size?
erling haaland [17:09]
You don't remember?
"What," Jude says aloud.
jude [17:10]
what?
Sent. Received. After twenty torturous minutes and no answer, he caves in and tries again.
jude [17:30]
what don't i remember?
He tries to stay away from his phone after that, distracting himself with a film, but not even From Russia With Love is enough to grip his attention, and that's saying something.
The next time he allows himself to check the phone, something's changed. His heart starts beating stupidly fast at the tiny seen beneath the last message.
Jude tells himself Erling’s just taking the weekend off. They’ve got a ton of important games coming up against other big universities, training’s been brutal, and most of the lads take the weekend to recover. It’s perfectly reasonable. Except the longer Jude waits, the harder it becomes to swallow the explanation he knows, deep down, isn’t true.
Then Erling sends a message in the squad group chat, reminding everyone not to be late for practice tomorrow morning.
It's the confirmation he needs. The last straw.
jude [20:02]
got it.
The thing is, Jude can’t even get angry at him. Because, just like Gio’s told him, and just like the truth Jude’s been fighting so hard to believe, Erling’s a nice guy. Nice enough to drive Jude back to his dorm after he’d puked on his shoes.
It’s Jude who isn’t nice enough. Not after all the effort, deliberate or otherwise, to turn himself into someone Erling might actually want around. He just…doesn’t.
And perhaps that’s all there is to it: wanting to be wanted has never been enough to make it happen.
Maybe it’s time he stopped trying, for good.
/
The rain keeps falling.
Ever since he was a kid, Jude's favorite thing about autumn had always been the crunch of leaves beneath his feet. He and Jobe would turn it into a competition, each trying to make the loudest sound, while Dad would be the judge, happily playing along and encouraging their silly little game.
Jude does it alone, now, but it doesn't have quite the same effect. The heavy rain pounding against the pavement drowns out the satisfying crunch anyway.
He watches the orange leaves’ path, sodden and limp as they drift along with the current, following the water’s course until they’re dragged down the drain. Jude can’t help but feel like his mood is right there merged them, being swept away beyond control.
It would be so much easier to be a dog, Jude thinks, watching a gigantic bulldog being wheeled around by an old lady in a fucking pram. He swears he can see a big, stupid smile on its face, its mouth hanging open and full of drool.
“Hey, pal.” Jude makes a few kissy noises.
The dog barks at him. Jude smiles sheepishly at the old lady.
"I'm sorry for Alfred," she says, and it's the first time this week that he genuinely wants to laugh. Who the fuck names their dog Alfred? He holds it back respectfully and waves at her with the hand not holding his umbrella.
Alfred doesn't know how fucking good he has it, honestly. It's probably just food, sleep, play and repeat for him. Being male, young and university athlete, you'd think it would be the same for Jude, right? He doesn’t have all the pressure of professional sports, yet still gets plenty of the privileges that come with being a footballer: the popularity, the attention, the status, the network.
Except, you see, Jude has all these feelings. Complex ones, that Alfred sure as hell doesn't have.
He has always felt so much, his entire life. So much so that it feels like his heart might burst from the sheer intensity of it all. The only way Jude knows how to live with these feelings is to externalize them, to find somewhere for all of it to go. More often than not, that means physical touch. Sometimes it means football — there are few things more cathartic than being able to run freely across the grass, his body moving fast enough that there’s no room left in his head for anything else.
Now, he has all these emotions messing with his insides, messing with his performance, which Jude will not tolerate, and he can’t find a way to externalize them, so they’re all building up inside him, piling on top of itself until he feels suffocated.
For two weeks now, he hasn't passed a single ball to Erling during practice.
The way Jude sees it, that had always been their weird, singular way of communicating, their own strange little dance on the pitch. But if Erling wants to be left alone, shouldn't Jude give him that?
Completely?
So Jude doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even approach him. The magnetic pull of the imaginary purple string in his head protests, and he stubbornly swallows it down. The string is right there with all of Jude’s feelings, huddled together and knotted tight around his throat, cutting off his breath.
He’ll just compensate another way. His performance is shite right now, but he’ll get better. He’ll score goals single-handedly. He’ll become his own fucking striker if that’s what it takes.
Jude doesn’t need Erling to make him better, he doesn’t need anyone.
For all the things he feels so deeply, pride has always been at the center of it all.
/
And look where that gets him.
Jude knows it's his fault, he doesn't need the guys reproving looks thrown his way to confirm it, but they still do it anyway, each one making him feel worse.
The dressing room has never been this heavy. Everyone has their head down, staring at the floor in disbelief. It was supposed to be an easy game, especially with the advantage of playing at their university's grounds, and now they’re one step away from being eliminated.
Jude presses his eyelids shut as tightly as he can, as if that might somehow erase the image of Erling pointing at his feet. It was something he’d never had to do before, signalling that he was free, basically begging Jude to notice him. Jude was always watching. Pass, shoot, score. He’d find Erling without fail; it was only a matter of getting the timing right.
Today, Erling had gone so far as to call his name for the ball, and Jude had dug his heels in, resisting the pull of the string.
Shot and failed.
Angry at himself more than anyone else, Jude abruptly stands up. To do what, exactly, he’s got no idea. Apologise, maybe. Go back to training right this second. Anything to make the silence go away, sitting here dwelling on it won't undo the mistake.
Most of the heads shoot up at the sudden movement — including Erling's, who'd been sitting opposite from him in a hushed discussion with Jack.
There’s a little furrow between his brows as he watches Jude, though his expression is otherwise remarkably calm. He looks focused, more curious than irritated, like he’s assessing Jude, or trying to understand him.
Jude’s heard plenty of scoldings from coach by now, from teammates, the crowd. But not a single word from his captain.
This bullshit ends now.
“What?” He snaps, walking towards him. “What are you staring at, huh, big man?”
Erling doesn’t so much as blink. It's almost as if he's been expecting Jude to explode.
“You," he simply says.
Jude scoffs. "Yeah, no shit. You're just gonna stand there and watch? I fucked up the whole game and you're not gonna say a word?"
The fact that Erling’s steady gaze won't falter, even with him sitting down while Jude stands over him, makes him feel strangely exposed, like he’s the one being cornered. It pisses him off to no end.
"Come on, captain," he provokes. "Yell at me. Fight me. We all know it's my fucking fault."
The words drip with an ugliness he barely recognises. Jude hates the way his own voice sounds so poisonous.
Erling gets to his feet slowly, and fuck, he seems so much taller like this. Jude holds his stare, looking up at him now, something about it making his stomach twist.
"Say something!" Jude screams at his face.
Unhurriedly, Erling complies.
"You should have passed me the ball," he says. "You know that, yeah? No need for me to say it."
"I'm asking you to."
"I don't think you want that, Jude."
The certainty in Erling's voice only makes the whole situation worse. He's got no right to say that.
"And how the fuck would you even know that?" There's a lump in Jude's throat, growing with each passing second. "Who are you to tell me what I want?"
"I'm your captain."
"Then act like it!" Jude shoves him lightly in the chest, barely enough to count as a push.
Erling doesn’t budge; he catches Jude’s wrists in both hands, stopping him without putting up a fight.
"Shit,” Jude mutters, shaking his head as he looks down in disbelief before looking up again. “You've got some nerve, pretending to know what's best for me when…"
The awareness of the entire dressing room watching them burns at the back of his sweaty neck. He trails off, jaw tightening as he searches for something to say that doesn’t sound as pathetic as the words threatening to come out.
When you've barely given me the time of the day. When you've made it pretty clear you don't want me around.
It sounds so petty when he puts it into words. Jude doesn't think he could make Erling understand, anyway. But he—he does, because he says, "You're right."
The words are so quiet they almost disappear into the air, barely above a murmur, meant only for Jude. “I think maybe we should talk somewhere else,” Erling adds.
Jude’s eyes sting with shame. God, not right now.
Somehow, he’s managed to do it again: embarrass himself so profoundly that Erling’s actually taken pity on him.
"So now you wanna talk, huh," Jude's voice quiets down as well. "Don't worry, captain, I won't make you go through the torturous process that is having a conversation with me."
He snatches his wrists out of Erling's hold.
"I know how much you hate it."
At that, Jude leaves, letting the door slam harder than necessary behind him.
/
It’s Jack of all people who finds him.
Jude hadn’t known any of the guys were aware of his ‘spot’, as he’d nicknamed it — an old stone bench tucked behind the university’s chapel, secluded enough that the noise from campus barely reaches it. It was where Jude went when he wanted to disappear for a bit, or simply stick his headphones on and watch the sunrise after a jog (that is, when there weren't any students smoking there. Or doing drugs. Among other things.)
The sun's long gone, though. He’d run there after a quick shower, padded jacket pulled tight around him, hoping the cold would be enough to keep freaky students away.
Well. Seems like he'll have to go somewhere else.
"Don't," he says as Jack approaches, already pushing himself up from the bench. "Seriously, I'm not in the mood—"
“Mate, can you chill for a second?” Jack presses Jude’s shoulder, firmly steering him back down. “I didn’t even know you were here. This is, like, my spot.”
Jude frowns. "This is my spot."
"Since when?" Jack sits beside him, leaving a few inches between them.
"Since, I don't know, my first semester."
"Yeah? It's been my spot since my first semester." Jack flashes him a smug little grin, though there's no real bite behind it. "So you do the maths."
Jude squints at him. "How come I've never seen you here, then?"
"Dunno," Jack shrugs. "I'm usually over there," he points at the chapel with his thumb.
For a few seconds, Jude can't tell whether he's being serious or not. When no laughter follows, he asks:
"Wait, really?"
Jack nods. "Grew up in a catholic household. It's more out of habit than anything else, d'you know what I mean?"
Jude slowly nods, even though he does not, in fact, know what he means. The idea of devoting yourself to something out of habit, without entirely believing in it, doesn’t come naturally to him. For Jude, it’s always been all or nothing. But he didn’t grow up with that kind of tradition, so to each their own, he guesses.
"What, you were gonna pray I remember how to play football next game?” He teases.
It makes Jack smile. "“Nah, mate. Was gonna pray for my good friend Erl. Poor bloke’s going through it on that pitch, I’m telling you."
Despite everything, Jude's loser heart races at that. He really needs to get a grip.
“…he’s still there?” He hesitates before asking, trying to sound as casual as possible.
“Yeah, said he was blowing off some steam. I was scared he’d smack the ball straight into my face with all the force he was putting into it.”
The game had ended more than two hours ago, and it's cold. Jude's aware that Norwegians have superpowers or whatever, but surely even Erling has his limits.
"Look," Jack starts, clapping his hands, and Jude already knows what's coming. "I've already told you, haven't I? You're like a Disney princess."
So, apparently, Jude has no idea what's coming. Caught of guard, he laughs.
"I'm flattered."
"I mean it," Jack says, looking dead serious. "You've always been a good one, ever since you've first arrived. You actually care about people. Sounds stupid, but that’s not exactly common these days.”
Jude doesn’t quite know what to say. It feels… nice, hearing something like that from Jack, someone he looks up to both on and off the pitch. Especially after all the self-doubt he’s been wrestling with lately. Something warm settles in his chest, and suddenly he wants to tell Jack he thinks he’s brilliant, too, or maybe just throw his arms around him and squeeze him tight.
Before he gets the chance to do anything, Jack speaks again.
"But you were in the wrong there."
Ah, there it is.
"I know I should've passed the ball—"
"I mean with the way you spoke to Erling. It's not exactly easy for him, with how he feels about you."
And, wow. Jack must have said all those nice things just to soften the blow. The way he says it so outright, too, like Erling's hatred for him is some obvious truth that the whole team knows. Jude could almost laugh if it weren’t so depressing.
"Yeah, I bet," he scoffs.
“I’m not here to say he's perfect,” Jack continues normally, as if he hasn’t just taken a massive blow to Jude’s pride. “He’s my best mate. I know it's hard, but you’ve gotta understand, man, he’s not good at expressing himself. With… words. It’s more like…”
Jude cannot believe this is genuinely his life. Is Jack taking pity on him, too? Is this really what it’s come to, having his friend explain the intricacies of Erling’s hatred for him? Jude presses his face into his palm and sighs, a little puff of cold escaping his lips.
“I was talking to my girlfriend the other day,” Jack continues, apparently oblivious to his suffering. “She’s real romantic, y’know? I explained the whole situation to her. She was reading this book called The Five Love Lang—look, the point is, she said Erl’s love language is… what is it called? Acts of service.”
What the hell. He starts wondering if Jack was actually doing drugs with the freaky students.
“At first I was like, ‘What the fuck is what?’ But then I was like, ‘Ooooh, yeah, baby.’ 'Cause it makes perfect sense! It’s just how he expresses his feelings. Like with the soup and whatnot.”
“Mate, what're you going on about," Jude pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut.
"I'm just saying, take it easy on him, yeah?" Jack says, which makes absolutely no sense. "This whole thing he's been doing. Even if he's not aware of it."
"Aware of what."
They must not be speaking the same language.
"That he's expressing his feelings. For you," Jack gives his shoulder a little squeeze. "It's all in the acts of service, not words of affirmation."
Words of what? Jude blinks, mind going completely blank. The expression on his face must give away just how fucking confused he is, because Jack grips his shoulders tighter and gives him a shake.
"Are you listening to me?"
"I'm trying to figure out why you're talking about soup," he says.
Jack grimaces. "When you were sick? Don't you remember? He left it at your door."
That had been more than two months ago, Jude recalls. He remembers one of his teammates leaving it there, actually. Someone who was definitely not Erling.
"What?"
It comes out so weak that Jack doesn’t even seem to hear it. He just keeps rambling, each new word somehow making less sense and driving Jude further towards insanity.
"He always puts a water bottle aside for you at training. He defends you whenever, like, remember that guy from Loughborough? The ball to the head? Man, that was insane. Then there was the whole scene at the pub, y’know, he carried you all the way to the car. Also—”
"Erling's made me soup?" Jude's voice cracks.
Jack raises an eyebrow. "… yeah? You didn't know?"
"He's never told me."
He's never told Jude any of it. Anything at all, really. It was Jude, with his presumptions, who had filled in the blanks that Erling’s silence left behind.
How? What? When? And, and, no. Rewind.
I wish we could be friends, too.
When was this? The night at the pub, when Erling had carried Jude—
It's hard to talk. It's hard to think, with all this new, sudden information coming at him at once, too many little moments, filled with a reality Jude has never been introduced to, being dragged out from the past and rearranged into a huge puzzle that's been right in front of him all along.
He almost asks if Jack's taking the piss, but he can't be, right? He couldn't possibly know all of this if it wasn't for…
Oh.
Oh.
“Ah, that geezer," Jack shakes his head, a fond sort of exasperation creeping into his voice. “You know he’s shy.”
It’s not the first time Jude has heard someone say that about Erling, but it's the first time he believes it.
"Why?" Jude says, not entirely sure what he's asking for.
Jack looks at him, really looks at him, for what seems like the first time since he started rambling. Then he smiles, just a little, amused.
"'Cause he's crazy about you, man."
Jude exhales sharply. His eyes are glassy as he blinks rapidly, trying to steady himself even though he's sitting down. It feels like someone has pulled the ground out from beneath everything he thought he knew, leaving him suspended in a whole new world of endless possibilities, each and every one of them painted purple.
He has to test them out for himself, until he's certain which is closer to the truth.
Is this another fragment of his wild mind?
As if to personally answer his questions, the wind harshly picks up, cold against his face, a physical reminder that he is here, that this is happening.
"Fuck, it's freezing," Jack shivers very exaggeratedly. "I better go take a shower."
Jude can only nod. It must be a very funny sight, judging by Jack's cackling.
"Cheers, Judey."
For about ten seconds, Jude can do nothing but stand there, completely stunned.
Then he runs.
/
Bad habits: talking too much.
Jude had written this about himself in a school questionnaire back in Year Six. He wonders where all those words have gone now, mouth slightly open as he watches Erling kick a sequence of shots into the goal from the other end of the pitch.
The stands are completely empty, and the two floodlights still illuminating the pitch make the droplets of water glimmer faintly against the darkened sky. Erling somehow completes the scenery, still dressed in their kit, out in the cold, alone.
No, not anymore. Jude's there, too.
The moment he spots Erling, his steps falter — never mind that he’s crossed the entire campus running, in spite of the rain that’s started to fall. All that distance seems meaningless compared to the grass expanding in front of him, keeping the two of them apart. By the time he reaches the middle of the pitch, his nerves have settled somewhere high in his throat, making even the thought of calling out feel impossible.
Only when Erling turns to catch a ball that’s rolled away does he notice Jude.
“What… Jude?”
He can only wave helplessly.
Erling leaves the ball aside and jogs over, meeting him in the middle of the pitch.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, clumsily reaching for the hood of Jude’s padded jacket and pulling it over his head, as if the light rain poses some great danger.
It's devastating in its tenderness. Jude's been so blind.
He wants to chuckle, but what comes out is a strangled little sound instead. Stubbornly, he pushes the hood back off, wanting to be soaked in the rain alongside Erling, letting the droplets fall freely over his face. Whatever is meant to happen, they have to face it together.
"Jack told me you'd be here," he says, searching for words that just won't come. "I wanted—we need to talk. And I'm sorry I refused to, earlier."
Erling's pink lips part, then close, then part. "It's okay. I understand."
"You shouldn't," Jude says hurriedly. "I was a dick, I've been a dick for weeks, and it's just not acceptable to let my, hum, personal stuff affect my performance."
"No, it's not acceptable." Erling agrees. "But I've been a dick for a whole year now, so I think I win."
Jude's brows knit, a confused grin growing despite the quick pacing of his heartbeat. Is Erling… cracking a joke?
"I can't get anything over you, can I?”
Erling shakes his head, a tiny sideways smile forming on his mouth. It’s such a crazy sight that Jude has to blink, once, twice, rubbing his fingers over his eyes to make sure it isn’t just the rain making everything blurry.
The smile slowly fades. Erling's eyes linger on Jude’s face, searching, assessing, just like earlier, before dropping briefly to the ground. When they return to Jude, there’s something different in them — something that makes Jude’s insides twist. He can see it so clearly now that the curtain of his own judgment's finally pulled aside: Erling's hesitation. His shyness.
“Jack’s told you.”
He says it quietly, and whatever face Jude makes confirms it. Erling nods repeatedly, head bowed slightly, seemingly coming to terms with the fact.
“I knew, after today, that he would. He insisted that you already knew. It was really annoying."
“I didn’t,” Jude says hurriedly. “I still don’t. Not… entirely.”
Erling’s brow furrows. His gaze drops again, as though the words are easier to find somewhere other than Jude’s eyes. Then he takes a quiet breath.
“I like you, Jude.”
There’s no air, no pitch, nothing. Only the impossible pull of the string.
"I've tried really hard to hide it," Erling admits. "But I… slipped a few times."
"Slipped," Jude echoes like a broken record.
Erling nods.
"Slipped like—" Jude stutters, something so unusual of him. He tries to remember what Jack said. "Like when you made me soup, or, or drove me home, or—"
"Yes," Erling says.
"Because all this time, you've been—"
"Yes."
Yes. Yes. How can such a simple word reveal so much? The endless possibilities settle in front of Jude like a mirage, and now he can clearly see which one reflects closest to the truth. All those moments he’d turned over and over in his head, searching for meaning in anything else when it had been right there all along.
Jude stares at Erling, for once, without his red-tinted lenses, and everything shifts into focus — a huge man, a huge heart, kind and gentle and shy. But really, Jude’s the one who’s changed.
“You could’ve just…” he swallows. “Told me.”
Erling shakes his head. “No. I didn’t want to treat you any differently, being your captain and you as a first year. I didn’t want to pressure you,” he says, then gives a sad little laugh. “But I ended up treating you like shit.”
“Erling, it’s—”
“I did. Don’t deny it,” he says firmly. “But you must know that—” He stops, frowning. “I think you don’t remember, but what I told you is true. I wish we could be friends. It's just, the way I feel for you, it's." He pauses again, visibly frustrated. “Fuck, I don’t know how to say it right.”
Jude’s heart gives a painful little thump. He thinks about what it must be like from Erling’s side, to have something as messy as feelings that are difficult enough to make sense of, let alone put into words. And then to have to explain it all in a language that isn’t his own.
“I thought I made you uncomfortable," he whispers. "I thought that you…"
Hated me.
“Uncomfortable?” Erling says the word like he’s testing a strange flavour in his mouth, his accent more pronounced. “Never. What you make me is… nervous.”
The thought of Erling, all six-foot-five of him, larger than life and tougher than anyone Jude knows, getting nervous because of him is enough to make his brain short-circuit.
He can only manage a mumble. "That's insane."
“It’s true. Do you not believe me?” Erling wipes the droplets of water from his forehead, smoothing them back into his slicked-back hair as he steps closer. “Jude, this—” He grabs Jude’s hand and guides it to his chest, straight over his heart, beating wildly beneath his palm. “This is what you do to me.”
He doesn’t seem to notice how close the action has brought them, too intent on proving his point. Jude’s breath catches, his fingers going still against Erling's strong chest, palm spread wide. His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t look away. He can feel the frantic beat beneath his hand, impossibly fast, not knowing what to do with the silence that follows.
It takes another beat for Erling to realize what he'd done. He steps back abruptly and blushes. Profoundly.
“Sorry.”
"No,” Jude says, already moving closer again. “I won’t let you do this anymore.”
“What?” Erling asks.
“This. Distance yourself,” He gestures to the space between them.
Erling says nothing. Encouraged, Jude takes another step.
“Do whatever you wish. I’ve…” he bites his lips. “I want it.”
Erling goes completely still, his expression shifting from surprise to disbelief, as though he’s trying to make sure he hasn’t misunderstood. Then his gaze flickers over Jude’s face, searching for something.
Honesty.
“Jude,” Erling breathes, and it sounds like a warning.
“It’s why it pissed me off so much when you wouldn’t talk to me,” Jude explains before he can second-guess himself. “All I’ve ever wanted was your attention.”
It's both overwhelming and frightening to admit it so openly, although the biggest part of him is mostly just warm. Warm, here in the cold.
Erling breathes again, softer this time. “You already have it.”
It's too much. Jude has to do something, or his heart will explode. For once, there’s nothing left to wonder about, nothing left to chase. He has Erling’s attention, and it feels—it feels—
Jude throws both his arms around his neck and kisses him.
It’s a tight-lipped, hurried peck, clumsy and entirely one-sided. It takes less than three seconds for him to realize Erling's not reciprocating.
Jude pulls back, fingers brushing Erling's shaved undercut as he looks up at him. Jude hopes all his raw desperation is showing, reflected in the brown, reflected in the rain. His mouth part to speak, but the words die in his throat, choked off before they can form, because Erling's swiftly claiming his lips for himself.
There is nothing hesitant left in it. Erling's grip is bruising, pulling Jude so tight by the waist it feels like an attempt to weld them together against the chill. Jude gasps against his mouth, opening up to let Erling's tongue in, basking in the warmness, exactly as he knew it would be.
A big hand leaves Jude's waist to tangle hard into the damp hair at the back of his neck, tilting him up to deepen it further. It tastes like salt and frantic relief, leaving Jude dizzy with the friction of it.
He could not have imagined, even in his wildest dreams, that the chemistry they share on the pitch could ever be replicated anywhere else. But then again, his judgement is proven wrong. There is something about the way they fit together that makes him sure that all the time spent trying to understand each other has paid off.
They pull apart only when they're both left gasping for air, foreheads touching.
"Is this your way of making friends?" Erling asks.
"Oh, fuck off," Jude says, burying his face against Erling's shoulder. The laugh he gets in return is loud and magnificent, as is the hug that follows, arms wrapping securely around his sides.
Erling presses a kiss to the top of his head. "I think this is a nice way to start over, no?"
Jude looks up at him.
"How about a date?" He says. "I have a lot of questions."
Erling blushes a lot at that. The red in his cheeks compliments the blue in his eyes so well.
"Whatever you want, Jude," he says, gently.
He might just take his word for it.