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Jude arrived at his hotel room at 7pm.
There was no point in lingering back with the team, at least not for him. Sure, some got together and decided to eat out, to take their mind off things, but Jude — and most of the team, honestly — went straight back to their hotel. After all, it would've been more than likely for them to encounter Argentinian fans parading the streets, celebrating their win. Jude wasn't sure he was in the right mental state to handle that. Their loss had been a devastating one, so avoidable had the right decisions been made. But as with all things, there was no point in dwelling on the past.
And yet Jude still couldn't shake off the heaviness in his chest, like his lungs were weighed down and he couldn't suck in a proper breath. And even though the match had long since ended, electricity still buzzed through his veins, leaving him jittery and tense. He paced his hotel room, shaking his limbs, trying to rid himself of the excess energy, but it just wouldn't leave. He wanted to do something. Wanted to punch a wall. If he had the chance to turn back time and replay the match, he'd have taken it in a heartbeat.
There may have been no point in dwelling on the past, but Jude couldn't help himself.
…Was his resolve really that weak?
With a deep, relenting sigh, Jude collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. He was still sticky with sweat, and he hadn't bothered to remove his jacket. His shoes were still on, too; he wasn't bothered to kick them off at the entrance like he usually did. It puzzled even himself how he could have so much energy and still not bother with even the most trivial of things. He was a walking contradiction, it seemed. How had the past games gone so well for him, and in this one he’d hardly got any chances?
He folded his arms atop his eyes, trying to clear his mind, but in the darkness all he could see was the ball zipping past Pickford’s outstretched arms and hitting the back of the Argentine net. There was no point in trying to rest — not if this was going to haunt him.
He retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket, scrolling through his messages. People had already begun cussing him out on Instagram, but most — the ones from his friends and family — were encouraging.
And yet, like with most things that evening, Jude didn't bother replying.
“You played well!” He still lost.
“Good luck for the 3rd place match!” Like he gave a shit about that one.
Each message he skimmed over only made his chest tighten, made the pit in his stomach deepen.
Each message reminded him of his failure.
But his thumb hovered over a certain name.
Erling: Call me when you can. (2 hours ago).
It was around 1am in Italy, where Erling was on holiday. Jude knew because Italy was six hours ahead of Atlanta, and he knew that because he calculated what time Erling would be watching the match.
Just a few days ago, Jude told Erling to watch him, and that he'd lift up the trophy for him. Now look where that'd gotten him. If Jude were to call Erling now, he'd probably be met with disappointment. Of course, everyone he was close with would be disappointed — but he certainly didn't want to see Erling’s disappointment, or god forbid his pity.
Just as Jude was about to toss his phone onto the bed, it began to buzz.
Erling was calling him.
For a split second, Jude considered ignoring the call, letting Erling go through to voice mail — but dammit, Jude was never capable of ignoring Erling, and he wasn't about to start now.
He accepted the call.
“Hi,” Jude said.
“Hey,” replied Erling. It was hard to discern how he felt based on voice alone. Jude wished he could see him. And as if Erling could read his mind, he continued, “Mind if we turn on video?”
“Sure,” said Jude, lifting his phone and angling it in such a way that he'd look somewhat presentable on camera.
Jude accepted the video request, and Erling appeared onscreen. It was dark in his room, and he was in bed, hair down just like when Jude sought him out on the night of their match. He wished he could return to that night; his heart burned with hope then. Now it was a miserable, shrivelled thing.
And he perhaps also wanted to be back in Erling's arms, but he was never going to admit that.
Erling's expression softened ever so slightly the moment he saw Jude. “Hey, Jude.”
Though it was probably unintentional, the words still struck Jude straight in the gut. Those were the words the crowds would've sung had they won. Instead he was met with a sea of disappointed faces, a sight that was sure to haunt him alongside Argentina’s two goals.
Something must've shifted on Jude's face, because Erling's expression softened even more, if it were possible. “You alright?”
Jude tried to speak, but his voice came out hoarse. After clearing his throat, he tried again. “Yeah.” Then, “You should be sleeping. ‘s late.”
Erling shrugged. “Don't feel like it.”
“Why not?”
A smile tugged at Erling's lips. “Just got done watching some good football.”
Jude’s eyes slid shut. “Erling, don't.” He expected a retaliation, but it didn't come. When he opened his eyes again, Erling had shifted onto his side, his cheek pressed against the pillow.
“How do you feel?” Erling asked.
Jude hesitated, then figured there was no point in lying. Even though it'd been a while since they played on the same team, Erling still knew him just as intimately. “Like shit,” Jude admitted.
Erling hummed. “That's reasonable.”
Despite himself, Jude cracked a small smile. “Not even gonna try and comfort me?”
“What difference would that make? A loss is a loss, and it'll always feel like shit, no matter what anyone says or does. I've been there. So have you.”
That made sense to Jude. No amount of food or alcohol or words of consolation have ever been enough to distract him from the excruciating pain of a loss. The best he could do was let himself wallow in it for a little. There was no one better to do it with than Erling, even from thousands of miles away.
“Have you eaten?” Erling asked.
“No,” replied Jude.
“You should.”
He really should've. He'd expended so much energy running up and down the pitch, and his muscles were sore — he probably could've really used some sustenance. But with the gaping pit in his stomach, he figured there was no point.
“I’m not very hungry,” said Jude.
After a pause, Erling replied, “That's reasonable too.”
Jude was so used to people trying to console him when he felt down; this was refreshing. One of the many things Jude loved about Erling was his straightforwardness.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. There wasn't much to say as long as it didn't relate to England's loss, and that was quite frankly the last thing Jude wanted to talk about. He much preferred the silence. It was the same silence as before Erling called, yet Jude found it infinitely more comforting. His mind was quiet, as if Erling's presence was enough to repel Jude's horrible thoughts. How much more effective would it have been had Erling physically been beside him? Jude didn't want to know; if he ruminated on it long enough, he would've probably booked a flight to Italy.
“What're you thinking?” Erling asked.
Jude, too, rolled onto his side. “Just wishing you were here. Or I were there. Whichever.”
Erling smirked. “You wish we were together.”
The double meaning hit Jude. He laughed anyway. “Yeah.”
After a moment of staring at Jude with an expression Jude couldn't quite place, Erling murmured, “I wish we were together too.”
Jude said nothing, because he didn't know how to respond. As much as he wanted to, he wasn't in the right headspace to have this kind of conversation. In fact, he doubted he was in the right headspace for anything. He hadn't even gotten changed yet.
It seemed the only thing he really had the energy for was to talk to Erling, to listen to him.
Erling seemed to pick up on that. “You should get some rest,” he said.
“Says you,” Jude replied. “It's 1am over there.”
“I'm not tired,” defended Erling.
“Okay, well, neither am I,” Jude shot back.
Erling grinned. “Liar. Your eyelids have been drooping this whole time.”
Jude opened his mouth to reply before his eyes slid shut, practically of their own accord. He wrenched them open to find Erling grinning even wider. “It's kinda cute,” Erling mused.
Even from across the world, Erling was just as capable of making Jude's cheeks hot. “Shut up,” Jude groaned, though there wasn't much bite in it; he didn't have the energy to pretend he was mad.
“Seriously, though. You should go to bed,” Erling said, propping himself up on an elbow. “You've had a long day.”
There was no saying no to Erling when his gaze was that soft. Jude was so weak to everything about him.
Sighing, Jude pushed himself upright, his legs dangling off the bed. “Fine. I'll go brush my teeth first.”
Erling nodded, clearly satisfied. “Okay. Shall I end the call?”
“Don't,” said Jude as he made his way to the bathroom.
He propped the phone up on the counter, though he figured there was nothing interesting about him brushing his teeth for Erling to want to see. It was more for himself, really — the thought of letting Erling out of his sight unnerved him.
Jude went through the motions. He picked up his toothbrush, uncapped the toothpaste, and squeezed it onto the bristles. He ran it under the tap, and began to brush his teeth.
Then he looked in the mirror, and Jude Bellingham stared right back.
Jude Bellingham, England's number 10, superstar midfielder. The man who had carried England to the semis.
He didn't recognise the man in the mirror. Surely that wasn't the same man as the one that played today — the man that couldn't get past Argentina's defenders. The man that couldn't score a single goal. The man that let his emotions get the better of him, for all the world to see.
The man that was knocked out of the World Cup.
Surely that wasn't him. It can't have been.
He can't have fallen so far from grace.
And yet.
Jude broke eye contact with his reflection just as his eyes began to sting. Jude Bellingham was strong, and brave, and most importantly, he did not cry.
And yet.
He turned away from his phone as the first tears fell. Here he was, crying with a toothbrush shoved in his mouth. He was absolutely not going to look this miserable in front of Erling. All he needed to do was focus on staying silent, or at the very least sounding normal. By this point, Erling had probably gotten bored of watching Jude do something so inconsequential and minimised the call to go scroll or something. This was fine.
… And yet.
“Jude?”
Erling's voice was so, so soft — barely even a whisper — and it was this pure, uncomplicated concern that sent Jude tumbling over the edge.
A ragged gasp tore through him, his shoulders shuddering as the sobs he'd been suppressing finally broke free. He removed the toothbrush from his mouth and gripped the edge of the sink with trembling fingers. “Fuck,” Jude rasped, swiping angrily at his eyes. “Fuck.”
“Shh… I know,” murmured Erling. “Let it out. That's okay.”
For what must've been twenty whole minutes, Jude cried and cried in his hotel bathroom, and Erling was there all the while, offering his reassurances. If it were anyone else, Jude would've gotten pissed. Reassurances were useless, because… fuck! He'd just gotten knocked out of the World Cup!
But so had Erling. Erling understood.
And it went beyond that. There was something about Erling that soothed Jude in a way no one else could.
When Jude was the uncertain 17 year old that had somehow landed a place in Dortmund, Erling was there for him. Jude confided in him. Relied on him. They shared the pitch. They shared beds. They stayed up late into the night and told each other their biggest dreams and their greatest fears.
And though they ended up on opposing sides — club and country — their love for one another was something no one could strip away.
There was nothing more comforting than knowing Jude Bellingham had, and would always have, Erling Haaland in his corner.
At last, Jude's sobs died down. He splashed water onto his face and dried it with a spare towel. He felt like his soul had just been rubbed raw. His reflection — with puffy, red-rimmed eyes and swollen lips — looked so too. But at least he recognised it this time.
“Alright?” Erling asked, his tone no less gentle than when he'd first uttered Jude’s name.
After a deep breath, Jude replied, “Yeah.” He glanced at Erling through the phone, then away. “Sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologise for.”
Jude didn't reply. He picked up his abandoned toothbrush, reapplied toothpaste, and continued where he left off.
Later, by the time Jude got dressed, dimmed the lights, and lay in his bed, his eyelids must've been as heavy as steel. He tried, stubbornly, to stay awake, to keep Erling in his sights.
“Jude,” Erling said. “Sleep.”
Jude made a noise of protest. “Don't hang up,” he slurred.
Erling chuckled. “I won't.”
At that, Jude let his eyes slip shut. “Just… keep talking.”
So Erling did. He talked about how he'd watched Jude, just like he promised. He talked about how beautiful Jude looked on the pitch, making brilliant plays, and how Erling wished he could've been there to witness it all in person. He talked about how proud he was of Jude for making it to the semi-final, and that no loss could have ever detracted from how wonderful of a player he was.
It was too bad Jude fell asleep within the first few seconds, and didn't get to hear it all.
Erling smiled as the screen went dark, with Jude having gone limp and the phone falling face down on the duvet. He stayed quiet for a moment longer to hear him breathe, deep and even.
Then, when he figured his heart couldn't be any more full, he let the words he'd been holding back for years fall from his lips.
“...I love you, Jude.”
With that, he set his phone aside and let himself succumb to the sleep he'd been fighting for the past hour.