Chapter Text
No. Fucking. Way.
The sound of silverware clattering against the floor echoed through Jude’s kitchen.
Jude froze in his seat, not even looking down at the fork that had apparently slipped from his grasp and hit the floor. His other arm remained flat beside his phone, where he had just opened Instagram, eyes widened at the image on the screen.
Hair.
Erling's hair.
His luscious, prized blonde Viking hair.
Gone.
A freshly buzzed Erling stared back at him. His gaze intense, almost as if he knew exactly how Jude would react and was mocking him for it.
Averting his eyes from that perfectly smug expression Erling wore, Jude looked down to read the caption.
“Short hair, don't care.”
His thumb hovered over the screen as a million thoughts raced through his head. He quickly started to swipe through the carousel of selfies, deeply analyzing each picture as if he were a detective attempting to solve a crime.
At first, he figured he was dreaming—he had stayed up way too late going down a rabbit hole of edits his teammates had sent him of the header he scored yesterday. He remembered how the transitions blurred together in a way that made him look completely unreal. His fingers had kept swiping as a blooming sense of gratitufde that the fan-made edits (quality and quantity) hadn't died down after the World Cup, though he felt as though an ingredient—something (or maybe someone)—was missing from this new batch of delicious edits.
He blinked hard, waiting for the image in front of him to dissolve. But the buzz cut stubbornly stayed right there on his feed.
Then his mind conjured that perhaps it wasn’t Erling's account that had posted this. Maybe this wasn't even Erling at all, but one of his many look-alikes, patiently awaiting a ‘nice’ from the chronically online Norwegian. God knows the number of videos and pictures Erling relentlessly commented on in a day. If he had to pick it would probably be in the hundreds.
It really was a nice comforting thought, except Jude knew better.
No doppleganger possessed that familiar, slightly unhinged wide-eyed gaze. None of them had that distinct forehead Jude could probably recognize anywhere.
And of course, one quick glance upward would have shown that bright blue checkmark (not that he needed to, obviously.)
It was Erling Haaland's official account.
And so, finally, Jude settled on the only remaining logical conclusion. Erling had in fact,
been hacked.
Yes. His instagram account had been hacked, and the raving lunatic of a hacker had posted this AI picture of him with short hair.
Yeah.
He was proper losing it.
Fucking hell.
Why was it so fucking hard for him to believe that Erling had cut his hair?
Today was supposed to be normal. A nice stress-free recovery day and Erling the enternal rage-baiter he was just had to spoil it all with his new cut!
Jude quickly rose from his seat, scooped the lost fork off the ground, and tossed it into the sink. When he sat back down with a replacement in hand, he took some deep breaths, composing himself, trying his best to look like a man who had not just spent the last few minutes spiraling over another man’s hair.
It was just hair
People cut their hair all the time.
There was absolutely no reason for his heart to be beating this fast.
He stabbed at the remaining eggs on his plate, chewing as he opened the comment section and typed two words.
no way.
He pressed send immediately. Then stared at the comment.
He knew.
Of course he knew why seeing Erling like this had thrown him so far off balance. It wasn't just the shock of seeing him without the hair Jude had grown so accustomed to. The shorter cut brought back memories of Germany, of the boyish version of Erling he'd first gotten to know.
But there was something else, too.
Something Jude had been trying very hard not to think about for the past month. A very specific conversation after their World Cup match. A blurry bar and too much delirious drinking.
And Erling.
Jude swallowed hard. Yeah. That was... probably it.
It was impossible, though!
It had to be.
It was all in his head.
He was just going a bit mental, yeah, no thanks to that header
He should really get that checked out.
He was reading way too much into things. There was no way that night and Erling's decision to cut his hair had anything to do with each other.
Right?
Desperate to drag his thoughts away from this dangerous territory, Jude clicked on the comment section and scrolled downward. He needed a distraction. He needed to see people treating this like the casual funny- haha- joke it was supposed to be.
A laugh slipped out of him, a sort of snort, as he scrolled through the replies. The entire world was losing its fucking mind. Teammates were already cracking jokes, and fans were treating the loss of Erling's hair like a national crisis. Jude couldn't help cracking a smile at the comparisons to Kevin McCallister.
One particularly dramatic fan went so far as to declare that football would never be the same.
Bit much.
As he scrolled further down, he felt his smile slowly fade.
“WTF ARE U SERIOUS??”
“Stop trolling man what the hell is this now.”
“If you start losing because of this I swear—”
He frowned.
There it was.
It didn't take long for people to turn something as harmless as a haircut into a reason to start acting like Erling had murdered their entire family. Jude scrolled past another comment predicting the downfall of City's entire season, apparently placing the blame directly on Erling’s decision to cut his hair. Three people were already arguing underneath it about whether the haircut would affect his “aerodynamics” and whether it “even suited him.”
A tight frown pulled at Jude’s mouth as he kept scrolling, an anger starting to bubble in his chest. The comments irked him, which surprised him. He was used to the media and their constant scrutiny, especially when it was directed at him, but when it came to Erling's appearance... it felt different. Maybe because it wasn’t entirely about football this time that it felt different.
His jaw tightened as he scrolled past another comment. He forced a sharp breath through his nose, suddenly hyper-aware of how tense he was. It was too early in the morning—and this was far too stupid—for him to be getting this worked up.
Jude let out a breath, relaxing his face. Besides, countless fans had already begun defending Erling in the comments. Passionate as ever, you'd have thought it was some sort of international dispute.
He could at least rest easy knowing that Erling wouldn’t get his feelings hurt. If anything, he imagined he would find the whole thing quite funny.
Erling had always seemed strangely unfazed by attention.
He had always admired that about him.
Erling could have thousands of people watching his every move, cameras shoved in his face after matches, strangers picking apart his physical presence and his online personality, and somehow, he always remained exactly the same. Jude had never been entirely sure if it was because Erling genuinely didn't care or because he was simply good at hiding it.
Either way, Jude had never seen much get under his skin.
Unlike…
Well, unlike himself.
Jude wasn't particularly proud of it, but he'd always been a bit of a worrier. Not that he'd ever call it that. He preferred observant. Sometimes careful. Sensitive on a particularly bad day.
Which was to say, (a wee bit) dramatic.
He thought back to Dortmund, to one particular afternoon after training when he'd spent a good fifteen minutes complaining to Erling about his younger brother’s height.
It had been one of those practices that left everyone looking as though they’d been through some kind of military exercise by the end of it. He was really feeling it and his mind was just as spent as his muscles. His brain was still stubbornly replaying the two seconds where he’d missed a crucial pass during the final scrimmage. He knew he was being ridiculous because it was just training, and everyone made mistakes, but the growing irritation kept ticking away in the back of his head, a time bomb demanding zero mistakes. His shirt was still drenched with sweat and he had barely made it into the changing room before dropping his bag beside his locker and collapsing onto the bench. Most of the team had already disappeared by then, presumably to shower or go home and enjoy the rest of their Friday afternoon.
Jude was halfway through pulling a clean shirt over his head when he heard his phone buzz.
Jobe had made it a habit of messaging him after training. He knew roughly when Jude finished and seemed to take it upon himself to provide whatever updates he deemed important enough to share with his older brother. In theory, it was quite nice. Brotherly, even.
In practice, it usually meant Jude opening his phone to find a meme at his expense, a conspiracy theory Jobe just had to share, or a message pointing out something embarrassing Jude had said or done on camera.
So, naturally, Jude had prepared himself when he clicked on the notification.
Though nothing could have prepared him for this.
Jobe: yoo jude guess what
Jude stared at the screen for a second before typing back.
Jude: What?
The response came immediately.
Jobe: Just got back from my checkup.
Jobe: They told me I’m on track to hit 187.
Jobe: Maybe even 190 📈
Jude’s eyes narrowed.
Jude: Why are you telling me this?? 🙄
He knew exactly why.
Jobe: Wow
Jobe: Just thought you should know that I’m healthy and all.
Jobe: Thought my older brother would care about my health.
Jobe: Don't you 🥺 ?
Jude scoffed.
Jude: Piss off. U know what ur doing.
He paused, then typed.
Jude: What did they say ur height was rn? Don’t lie.
Jobe: I'm going to ignore that last part.
Jobe: 179
Jobe: For now ;)
Jude stared at that wink for a long second.
He turned his phone off.
That was going to be a problem.
His younger brother getting closer to his height was bad enough, but Jobe was already slightly taller than he had been at his age. Jude didn’t want to even entertain what that could mean in a few years. As if his mood wasn’t sour enough, he knew his brother was never going to let this go.
“Y’alright?”
Jude looked up, slightly startled.
Erling was standing a few lockers away, half bent over his bag as he searched through it. He pulled out his water bottle and took a swig.
Wow. Jude had zero recollection of the striker entering the changing room, which was a little concerning considering the giant was hardly the sort of person who could go unnoticed.
“Oh. Yeah, mate. Fine. Just my brother being a little prick.”
Erling’s eyebrows lifted with interest.
“Ah. Of course. What's Jobe said that has you pouting?”
Jude couldn’t recall ever actually telling Erling his brother’s name. But right now, that was the least of his concerns.
“Pouting!?” Jude echoed.
He was not pouting. He was simply—
“Whenever you pout your shoulders slouch and your mouth goes like this.”
Before Jude could argue, Erling attempted to mimic his expression.
It was a terrible imitation.
Probably not entirely inaccurate though.
Jude’s eyes narrowed.
“I think you're seeing things mate.”
“Maybe.” Erling looked entirely unconvinced. “But you’re still in a bad mood.”
Why the hell had Erling been paying enough attention to notice that?
Jude had only been at Dortmund for a little over a month. He and the Norwegian shared a solid, easy chemistry on the pitch, but their connection was still mostly pretty formal. Clean passes and professional nods here and there. They hadn't reached the point where Jude expected Erling to read his face from across the changing room.
“Tell me what he said,” Erling added, taking a few steps forward to stand next to Jude. “Maybe I can help.”
Jude almost laughed.
Help him with what, exactly? Jobe's future growth?
But there was an unexpected sincerity in Erling’s voice that caught Jude off guard. His expression was open and expectant, as though whatever had Jude sitting there sulking was genuinely something he wanted to know about.
It was silly, really. Jude knew that. Embarrassing, even, how much he'd let something as minuscule as a couple of centimetres get under his skin.
Still, Erling was asking so genuinely.
So Jude told him.
He showed him the messages and explained, in great detail, why this was clearly unacceptable. The entire time, Erling listened intently, a mild expression of amusement painted on his face.
“He's still younger than you,” the Norwegian pointed out.
“That's not the point.”
“What is the point?”
Jude fidgeted.
“I don't know,” he admitted, lowering his voice. His eyes dropped to his phone. “I don't even know why I'm telling you.”
“No, I appreciate it.”
Jude looked up.
Erling shrugged. “If it’s bothering you, I want to hear it so don't worry. I just wish I could say something helpful, but I don’t—”
Jude let out an exaggerated sigh, already wishing he'd kept his stupid brother's stupid messages to himself.
“—Actually, wait.”
He paused.
Jude looked at him skeptically.
“Sometimes doctors are wrong. It's only an estimate.”
Jude stared.
Erling's mouth twitched as he continued.
“My doctor told me I would be 190 centimeters." He gestured down from the top of his head, looking well past that mark. “He was wrong.”
“Well,” Jude said slowly. “I suppose that's—”
“Besides,” Erling added, patting Jude on the shoulder. “I’m the tallest out of my siblings and...”
He trailed off, his hand lingering on Jude's shoulder. Jude frowned slightly, his attention momentarily pulled to the giant hand emitting warmth through the fabric of his shirt. It lasted just long enough for him to realize the sudden silence.
“...Youngest,” Erling finished with a cheeky smile, waiting for Jude to realize what he had just admitted.
Wait.
What?
HE was the youngest!?
Wasn’t he supposed to be comforting him!?
“Oh, fuck off,” Jude said, a grin tugging at his lips.
He playfully shoved Erling's shoulder. The Norwegian didn’t move an inch.
Jude's hand dropped back to his side as Erling started laughing, and before Jude could realize it, he too was laughing, the irritation that had followed him into the changing room disintegrating completely.
The memory brought a smile to Jude's face.
After that day, they just started talking to each other more. Then they started sitting together more often. Jude would complain about something and Erling would listen. Erling would tell him something completely random, and Jude would find himself continuing the conversation.
He could complain about Jobe, training, press conferences, or even food. Erling would listen, occasionally offering genuinely good advice or saying something so ridiculous it distracted Jude from the problem entirely, and somehow Jude would walk away feeling lighter than he had before.
They soon realized that they had this ridiculous chemistry on the pitch too. The pair were completely in sync, working together like two pieces of a puzzle. Half the time, Jude didn't even have to look—he just knew exactly where Erling was going to pop up and could lay the ball right into his path. Thinking about it now, he wasn’t even sure what came first. Did their natural connection on the pitch make them such close friends, or was it their actual friendship that made them such a dangerous duo?
The thought left an uncomfortable feeling in his chest, one that reminded him of that night, and Jude definitely didn’t want to deal with that right now.
Jude clicked out of the comment section and checked the time at the top of his screen.
Christ.
He'd been awake for less than an hour and had already managed to spend an embarrassing amount of it thinking about his former teammate.
This had to stop.
Jude put his phone down on the table and stood, gathering his plate, glass, and fork before carrying them to the sink. He placed everything inside, turned on the tap, and squeezed the dish soap onto the sponge.
He started with the glass.
There were plenty of other things he could think about.
His day, for one.
He still needed to stretch, and he'd probably spend some time in the gym later. The house was unusually quiet with his mum away in England for a friend's wedding, leaving Jude to entertain himself until she came back. He could go out for lunch—there was that new steak restaurant he'd been meaning to try—or he could save himself the effort, heat up the leftover pasta in the fridge, and spend the afternoon playing video games.
That was probably what would happen.
Maybe he'd put something on YouTube while he ate. He'd been watching more cooking challenges recently, which he felt would make both Jobe and his mum quite proud. He could watch a FIFA or Call of Duty gaming video, too. He'd been watching the Sidemen more lately as well, mostly because YouTube had apparently decided that once he'd watched one video featuring Erling, it would now be showing him every video of theirs.
Speaking of Erling—
Jude stopped.
His lips pressed together as he looked down at the glass in his hands.
Erling.
How had he gotten back to Erling?
He had been thinking about lunch.
Jude scrubbed harder.
This really had to stop.
And yet…
Now that the initial shock had worn off, Jude found himself able to actually picture the haircut properly.
Despite what the negative comments had said, he thought the buzz suited him quite nicely.
Not in the same way the long hair had. That had become so completely attached to Erling's image that it was difficult to forget the course blonde platinum ponytail that seemed to look somehow… angelic. Was that the right word?
The buzz cut was different. It made him look younger. Rougher. Tougher, like a soldier and a pirate had a baby. He wondered what it would feel like. Would it be smooth? Spiky like a hedgehog?
Jude dried the glass slowly, turning it over in his hands.
Without the long hair, there was nothing to distract from the shape of his face. His eyes looked even bluer somehow. Brighter. The sharp line of his jaw stood out more, and—
Jude stopped drying the glass.
That was enough!
He walked over to where he'd left his phone on the counter and picked it up, ready to properly restart his day and send his mum a quick good morning text when his eyes spotted it.
His stomach dropped at the little notification sitting innocently at the top of his screen.
From Erling Haaland.
Oh
lovely.
Jude immediately opened the message.
Erling: You don't like it?
Jude stared at the screen.
He suddenly felt like shit
Because that wasn't the problem at all.
No.
He did like it.
Truly.
He liked it a little too much.
That was the fucking problem.