Chapter Text
The silence of the locker room was broken only by the distant murmur of the staff. Erling was sitting beside him, elbows resting on his knees, turning the athletic tape over in his fingers without daring to look at him.
"Jude..." the older one began, his voice a little lower than usual, as if he were uncertain about what he was going to say.
He turned, immediately noticing the tension in the Norwegian's shoulders.
"What's wrong, Erlingo? You've been acting so weird since training ended," he frowned before continuing. "Actually, even during the drills you seemed a bit distracted."
Erling let out a deep sigh, running a hand through his blond hair before fixing his gaze on the floor.
"Manchester City wants me with them for next season," he confessed, with a sorrowful expression. "You know it's... always been my dream: to play there and follow in my father's footsteps. This would be a huge step in my career."
Jude froze for a split second, but as soon as he processed the news, a genuine, proud smile lit up his face. He leaned toward him and gave him an affectionate shove on the shoulder.
"Hey, mate, that's amazing," he congratulated cheerfully. "It's an incredible opportunity, and you deserve it more than anyone."
But Erling didn't smile. He looked up and met Jude's eyes; the vulnerability on his face was something rarely witnessed before.
"Yeah, but it's not that simple," the older one admitted, the lump in his throat becoming evident. "Honestly, it's going to hurt so much to be apart from you, Jude. After all these years sharing everything together... I can't imagine what it'll be like to walk into a locker room and not have you beside me."
The sincerity of his words made Jude's chest tighten, but he stifled the nostalgia before it could take root. He placed a firm hand on the back of Erling's neck, forcing him to hold his gaze as he tried to convey all the reassurance in the world.
"Listen to me carefully," he said gently. "You're going to go to England and you're going to crush it, because you're the best. But you should know that even if you leave, even if there are hundreds of kilometers between us... nothing is going to change between us. I promise you, Erling."
That was one of the last conversations Jude had with the Norwegian in person.
Four years have passed since then; since the last time he stood before the other man, trying to memorize the exact tone of his pale eyes and his sharp features, as if trying to recreate him from memory alone because he knew he wouldn't see him again.
In fact, Jude suspects he could do it if asked to draw Erling from memory. He knows that if he were asked to feel for him blindly, he would recognize him among a sea of people in seconds. He can recognize his laugh from a kilometer away, his messy handwriting from a single letter, his scent among a mix of cheap perfumes, and the texture of his hair from a single strand.
But, in reality, he no longer needs to imagine it; because now, Erling is at the bar of some random hotel in Florida, as incredibly handsome as he was at twenty-two. Jude's heart races, because seeing him after so long makes him want to cry over how much he has missed him. Erling sees him too, and they both look at each other from across the room, understanding at the same time that: they are best friends and strangers all at once.
Jude does the only thing he can do to keep from falling apart right there: he turns around and flees.
To his horror, Erling does the only thing that terrifies him most: he runs after him.
Because four years have passed since he told Erling he loved him, with a letter whose contents remain fresh in his memory:
"Dear Erling:
I didn't quite know how to start this letter. In fact, I've been thinking for days about whether I should even write it. I confess I've written this same opening a ridiculous number of times and always ended up erasing everything.
It must seem strange to you, right? Because I could have sent you a message. It would have been much simpler to craft a few words on a screen, maybe a call afterward, and done. I could have also written you an email, something more elaborate, something I could reread before hitting 'send.' But both options felt too cold for what I need to tell you.
I didn't want my feelings to reach you turned into letters on a screen, accompanied by a notification you can open, read, and close in a matter of seconds. No, I needed this to be different.
That's why I'm writing by hand. It might seem old-fashioned to you, maybe you'll think it's a little ridiculous, but there's something about sitting in front of a blank page, picking up a pen, and letting my own hands write each word that I don't dare say out loud that makes me feel like, somehow, I'm being more honest with you.
I wanted you to see that I took the time to do this. That every word was thought through, and that if the ink trembles anywhere, it's because my hand probably did too while writing it.
And above all, I wanted you to know that this isn't an impulse. It's not something I'm writing because I feel particularly sentimental today. I've been keeping these words inside me for far too long to pretend they're something fleeting.
I don't know what you'll do when you finish reading this. And honestly, I'm scared to find out; but I need you to know:
I love you. I have loved and admired you even before joining Borussia Dortmund. You are my best friend and my favorite person in the whole world, and I will probably never love anyone the way I love you..."
And four years have passed since Erling told him he had a girlfriend.