Chapter Text
He’s not a good loser.
It was back in Dortmund Erling noticed it.
Jude is very expressive. He wears his heart on his sleeve, declaring every emotion he feels across that pretty face. Erling always thought it was beautiful, as sappy as that is. How raw and real Jude’s face was. How he could always read him like an open book.
When Jude does win, he glows. His eyes have this sparkle that gleams in the light, like he’s about to burst into tears at any second. He smiles, ear to ear, and god does Erling loves that fucking smile. He still remembers, vividly, when Jude was 17 and a week into Dortmund. It was a friendly, and they had won, and it must’ve been Jude’s first professional win because he ran over to the older male, the metal bars of his braces glistening in the sunlight. Erling remembers being completely taken aback. Sure, Jude had laughed and smirked but he had never seen him smile like that - with his under eyes creasing, dimples showing. He remembers the way he had just stood there, staring despite the sun burning his eyes, waiting for the adrenaline filled embrace.
Jude is very expressive, maybe even worse when he loses. Erling can pinpoint the first time they had lost with Jude on his team because of the way he had reacted. Jude had put his all into it, scored two consecutive goals and they had just almost won. Erling could confidently say he was the best player on the pitch that day, considering he himself was benched due to injuries.
The minute the match ended, and the other team were declared winners, Jude had collapsed onto the floor, panting heavily. He stayed there for a while, clutching at the grass, breathing settling, face to the floor like he was trying to stay hidden. After their other teammates failed to get him up, Erling hopped onto the field and approached him. He kneeled to his level, placed a comforting hand on his back.
“C’mon,” he mumbled, as gently as he could, “You’re okay.”
He felt his breath hitch as Jude raised his head and faced him slowly. Tears welled in his large, honeyed eyes and a frown was sunk deep on his pink lips. The hurt was obvious in his face - so much that Erling felt it too.
Sometimes, Erling feels like he absorbs all the pain and disappointment of the loss by simply looking at the other male’s face. It makes him weak; seeing that pretty face, all scrunched up, tears rolling down. Maybe they’re connected in some weird way. All he knows is that when Jude’s heart hurts, his does too.
A few years have passed. Erling hasn’t had to play on the same field as Jude for four years now. England’s win on Monday makes him think.
It’s hot in Miami and the women are beautiful. His team goes out and drinks, celebrating their win against Brazil. Erling, the weirdo he is, stays cooped up in his hotel room. He’s sprawled shirtless on his king sized mattress, the setting sun beating down on his face as he squints at his phone, finger hovering over Jude’s contact. It hasn’t been pressed on for a while and he hesitates. He doesn’t even remember the last message he had sent Jude, only remembers the knot in his gut when he had finally pressed send.
Somewhere and sometime in Dortmund, something had shifted between the two. It happened naturally but Erling thinks it may have always been there. From the moment he had laid his eyes on Jude, he knew he was beautiful, a force not to be reckoned with which made him only want to rock him even more. Initially, it came out through friendship; competitiveness, manhandling each other on the field, (it was mostly Erling doing the handling), unnecessary intimacy and touches. And then, as time passed, it became deeper. Everything did. The celebrations, the hugs, the petty jokes. Suddenly, everything lingered, had a certain edge and tone to it like it carried deeper meaning. They spent more time alone, away from the team and got to know everything about each other. At one point, Erling couldn’t tell where he started and Jude ended.
Somehow, it got even better when Erling left for Manchester. They say distance makes the heart fonder, and god, did they grow fond of each other. At least twice a month they would fly out and visit each other and get drunk and talk about everything from football to annoying teammates to where they wanted to be in 10 years.
And then, one night, they got drunk and skipped the talking.
Erling always thought winning was the highest high he could ever chase. He was wrong. Sex with Jude Bellingham was.
The memories of his naked, gorgeous body laid out on Erling’s sheets, eyes half-lidded and drool dripping down his chin are still so fucking vivid, still drive Erling crazy. It's the image he has burned behind his eyes when he’s stroking himself. He thinks of all the sounds that escaped his lips, the pretty faces he made, the way he felt around Erling.
They fooled around for nine months until Erling had accidentally uttered the words “I love you” as he came.
Then, shortly after: "No I don”t.”
“The fuck does that mean?” Jude yelled, shoving him off.
“Of course I love you, you’re my best friend-”
“Best friend? We’ve been fucking for what, months? And I’m your best fuckin’ friend?!”
“What? You are-”
“Am I a joke to you or somethin'?!"
They must’ve argued all night until the sun rose. Eventually, it turned from fixing things to another competition they both needed to win. That was when Erling realised this couldn’t work out. Maybe he did love Jude, but he wasn’t one to say it out loud on purpose or even get into relationships.
At 5:30 in the morning, Erling officially broke it off. Or he tried to. He wasn’t even sure what they were.
And Jude didn’t react the way Erling expected him to. He expected tears, he expected to feel his own heart clench, regret and take back his decision automatically.
Instead, Jude didn’t react at all. His face went still, and he mumbled a small, quiet “Okay.” Then, he turned around and left, without even slamming the door.
Now that he’s older and a bit wiser, Erling regrets it. No one better than Jude has ever come around, but it’s not like he ever expected anyone to. He should’ve fought for the other male - fought for his best friend, for the man he loved. His eyes burn into his phone screen. Somewhere, in the middle of his train of thought, he pressed Jude’s contact.
im sorry
That’s it. And after three years, he’s still left on delivered by the petty bastard. Erling smirks a little. His fingers move around and type out a light hearted ready to get beat on Saturday?
Does he even have the same number anymore?
He shuts his phone instead and never sends it. It doesn’t hurt much now. Sure, the regret lingers, but it is what it is. Erling considers himself lucky to have experienced that much of a guy like Jude. Maybe he’ll spew a remark out when they meet each other out on the field but other than that, Erling isn’t going to think about Jude Bellingham until he beats England.
It’s 9PM and the night before the match against England and half the team are in his hotel room, crowded against the couch, watching old England performances on the TV.
“Wait-” Antonio grabs his shoulder, “Go back 15 seconds.”
Erling does, only to be met with a close up of Jude Bellingham. He goes back further, 10 seconds before Jude scores.
“Look at that pass.” Martin mumbles, entranced. Erling is too, but for different reasons.
“That’s ridiculous.” Antonio whistles. He slaps Erling's shoulders. “Bellingham has to be stopped. Can you break his legs or something?”
“No, no, Erling has to worry about Burn.”
Martin quirks a brow. “Are they even bringing him out?”
“I heard they are on Tiktok.”
Erling snorts. “Tiktok?”
“Speaking of Tiktok, I searched us because I was bored and it was just a bunch of videos of you and Bellingham.” Alex shrugs, like it’s nothing.
He’s never turned his head quicker. “What?”
Martin slaps the younger male gently on the back of his head. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t act like you guys haven’t seen it-” He mumbles, pulling his phone out.
There’s a moment where he’s typing, and Erling’s holding his breath and he realises he can’t see whatever Alex is about to show him so he gets up, a bit too abruptly and quickly and announces he is going to sleep right there and then.
In reality, he stays up hours after everyone’s dozed off, staring at his ceiling, thinking about Jude more than the match ahead of them.