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18.07
There are a few things that need doing, immediately after winning bronze at the World Cup.
The first, most important, for Jude, is to hug his mum. The second is celebration, and although Thomas declines, this time, to join, he doesn’t mind them letting loose ‘out and about,’ so long as no one makes a twat of themselves in public. That last bit might be easier said than done; most of the guys with young families bow out, but Dec’s up for it, along with Stonsey, and Harry, of course— so between them, plus Morgs, Bukayo, and the rest of the ‘young blood,’ Jude’s glass is rarely ever less than half-full. It’s a conspiracy, he realises at some point four gins-deep: a conspiracy wrapped up in ‘sick goal,’ and ‘proper sportsman,’ and even ‘future captain,’ that one coming from Harry, as he slides yet another G&T Jude’s way along the bar.
“Y’know there were two records set tonight, yeah?” Jude says in token protest, even as Harry smirks at him, full-teeth.
“Yeah. But Saks doesn’t drink, and only one of you broke my record.”
“Fair.” The thought had occurred to Jude, pretty much as soon as the adrenaline started waning. There’s no easy way to be a ‘standout’ in an altogether amazing team, and though Jude is, occasionally, guilty of believing his own hype, he’s got a long road ahead of him, and viewing himself as the next Zlatan is unlikely to do him any favours, or win him many friends. He ends up leaning over the bar himself, orders a 0.0% beer, and offers it to Harry. “Sorry, mate.”
“No you’re not,” Harry says, but he accepts the offering for what it is, and taps the neck of the bottle against Jude’s glass. “Shouldn’t be, either. Nature of the game, nature of your thirties; there’s always some fast fucking kid waiting in the wings.” He takes a swig of beer, and his smile, once lowering the bottle, is one Jude rarely sees outside of the changing rooms, when everything has gone perfectly to plan. “Nature of captaining, too. Mostly I’m just proud of you boys.”
“Cheers, Skip.”
“Welcome.” Harry claps his shoulder. “Now. Want to order some shots, and see if we can get Rogers on the table?”
They do, in fact, get Morgan on the table, alongside Nico— but despite it being his idea, and largely his doing, Harry calls time shortly thereafter, and everyone starts sloping their way back through the VIP ropes, towards the fleet of cars waiting outside.
Two-to-a-vehicle would feel unnecessary under normal circumstances, but Jude has learnt the Americans like their conveniences as much as they like their athletes - even visiting ones - pampered, and he’s not about to pass up twenty minutes in air conditioned comfort, as they make their way through Miami’s streets, and its oppressive heat, back to the hotel. It’s Declan sat beside him for the ride, which strikes Jude as a deliberate choice the second their vice-cap slides into the car and winks, even if he’s chattering with the driver a full five minute before he actually speaks to Jude directly.
“So where next then, mate?” Legs kicked into the footwell, hands braced behind his head, Declan smirks. “Other than the toilet?”
“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you,” Jude says (says, not slurs), then giggles when Dec tries to kick him. “Dunno, really. Home first, then maybe a holiday?”
In all honesty, it’s not really occurred to Jude, what ‘next’ might look like, at least not immediately. It probably should’ve; he’s not due back in Madrid ‘til the tenth, which gives him a good three weeks of heel-kicking around the West Mids, seeing his dad and Jobe, catching up with old mates and old haunts.
He only realises he’s walked right into a trap when Declan grins, and really, Jude should’ve seen that coming too: Declan’s a world-class midfielder, and an even better shit-stirrer. He’s also way more devious than Harry, and completely sober, which can only mean bad things for Jude, given how he himself is fairly merrily shitfaced.
“Holiday, eh?” Dec ribs him - literally ribs him, a pointy elbow jabbing over the invisible line between their seats. “Anywhere special? Anyone?”
“Fuck off,” Jude says, he thinks, jovially enough that it’ll throw Declan off the scent of whatever it is he thinks he’s picked up on. Jude’s publicly ‘single’ status, perhaps? The frankly terrifying stack of DMs from (not exclusively) women offering ‘favours’ so varied and graphic that one or two actually made him blush? “What are your fucking plans?”
“St. Tropez, baby,” Declan says, still grinning as he leans back into his seat. “Two weeks; just me, Loz, and the kiddo, not a single one of your ugly mugs for miles ‘til almost-September.”
“The dream,” Jude deadpans, to which Declan sniggers, then calls out to his ‘mate’ upfront, Diego, to pull the car over for drop-off.
Jude’s still reflecting later, after Declan’s done what was presumably his assigned duty, and seen Jude back into his hotel room without incident. What is he supposed to do with all this free time? Why hasn’t it occurred to him, up until now, to actually book something?
There’s one very obvious answer to both those questions— but then, Jude’s last unaffected braincell thankfully reminds him, he’s not currently sober enough to approach it sensibly. No - that’s best left alone for now, for Future Jude, or maybe even a different one, one that doesn’t have secrets to keep, a reputation and (sadly) a career to maintain.
It doesn’t stop him thumbing idly through his phone as he collapses into bed, doesn’t keep him from hovering his thumb over the ‘call’ button above an unanswered, congratulatory text, from finding himself seconds-whilst-pissed away from making a decision he knows he’d regret, come morning.
He can’t do it, he knows. Erling could be anywhere, with anyone. He’s every right to be.
Jude knows where he’d like him to be, instead. The problem, in life, and in their line of work, is that you don’t always get what you want.
**
12.07
It’s early when Jude wakes; early early, not ‘05:30 for training’ early, but the kind that still feels like the night before, some liminal space between one and three-AM, where the best course of action is simply to roll over and return to whatever dream you were recently enjoying.
It was a nice dream, far as Jude can recall: two goals in the quarters, an unspoken ‘understanding’ fully realised, one hell of an orgasm, then the equally blissful release of sleep. Still-swaddled as he is, he doesn’t realise right away what must’ve woken him— until, that is, he blinks blearily across the room, through the gentle but sudden light, and realises Erling has switched on the desk lamp.
“Wh—“
“Sorry,” Erling says, and to his credit, stood four metres from the bed, he does look sheepish. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
There are several things wrong with this picture, far as Jude can see. Firstly, Erling is out of bed, not in it, no longer curled around Jude, where he’d fit just right, if Jude’s any sort of judge. Secondly, he’s fully dressed and holding a hotel key— and third is what he’s just said, words which crash over Jude with a whole new implication as he raises up onto his elbows to ask:
“Were you about to leave without saying bye?”
“No,” Erling says immediately, and although the pricklier part of Jude wants to call bullshit, he has to relent when Erling crosses straight to the bed, goes down on both knees beside it, cups his cheeks in his enormous hands. “I promise, no. I dropped my wallet, I couldn’t find it in the dark.”
“Then—“ Jude shakes his head, as best he can with it ‘held.’ “Why d’you need your wallet?”
Jude knows, of course, knows even before Erling twists his lips in an unspoken apology, and long before he leans in to press a lingering kiss to Jude’s forehead. It’s impossible for him not to know, when he’s the one who helped make it so. Even so—
“We fly home at seven,” Erling says, and then the big goof actually sits down, cross-legged, on the floor next to the bed. Even lowered as he is, his face is still somehow level with Jude’s. “I wanted to be ready, before I woke you. I thought maybe it would be..”
Easier? Jude’s none too sure about that. But he doesn’t have to approve the methods to understand the game, and it’s clear this isn’t easy for Erling, either— so instead of objecting, he leans over the edge of the bed, swallows his disappointment, and steals a short kiss.
“I—“ It’s there Jude’s self-possession fails; words feel like a foreign concept right now, and he knows it’s not just the fact he’s just woken up, but the newness of this, of Erling, the change in their relationship, the fact he suddenly cares, much less cares enough to act the part of a jilted girlfriend.
“I get it,” he settles on, then for good measure, and because he suddenly wants to, he lifts a hand to stroke through Erling’s hair. “It would’ve gone like this one way or other, right?”
“Right.” Erling smiles, and for a moment it’s so easy to picture what could, so easily have happened: the shoe (or boot) on the other foot, Jude getting up early-doors to head home, Erling heading into the semis against Argentina.
He wants to think nothing else would’ve changed, that Erling would’ve still knocked on his door, or maybe that Jude would’ve been brave enough to do it himself in reverse.
Jude’s none-too-sure about that last part. He takes a leap now, instead, hauls Erling upwards by the shirt until he’s sat on the bed, and Jude can lean in properly to kiss him, to deliver a decent ‘goodbye.’ It’s a fucking good kiss too, if it’s anything; Erling catches his whole jaw in a palm, coaxing it open, his thumb catching on Jude’s bottom lip when they eventually pull back— and they do have to pull back, because this is just reality, but that doesn’t mean Jude’s happy about it.
Neither, it seems, is Erling. He’s all ‘eyes’ as he goes back for Jude’s cheeks, as he says, so very fucking earnestly:
“I will call you. Or you’ll call me?”
“Yeah,” Jude says immediately. It’s just such an obvious answer, new though this is - like Erling has asked for his middle name, or his opinions on Kill Bill. “Yeah, mate. Absolutely.”
“Okay.”
One more kiss, and then he’s gone— and as Jude lingers in the aftermath, as he closes his eyes and wishes he could hit ‘refresh’ on the dream he’d fallen asleep to, he has to reflect that Erling was right on one thing: it would’ve hurt far more, had Jude gotten up to hold him, before having to watch him walk away.
**
28.07
Jude spends a week-and-a-half in Stourbridge, hangs out with Jobe for the three days he has before fucking back off to Dortmund to see his girlfriend— and then does what he should’ve weeks ago, and books an open-ended flight to Milan.
Lake Como is perfect for Jude, or at least, who Jude is right know, what he needs, where, and when. He picks a resort hotel that makes the drowning ‘normie ’ in him scream— but it’s packed with people who don’t give a shit about him, and the rest is just obvious: beach clubs, white pebbles, and miles of cool, tideless water, just perfect to dive beneath, and forget for a moment that there’s a whole world screaming his name at the surface.
He’s not heard from Erling, bar the occasional text, since the France game, not seen him since the bloke walked out of his hotel room after they— hooked up? That feels too American. Shagged? That feels inaccurate; not that Jude’s any kind of ‘traditionalist,’ but he’s spent his whole adult life up ‘til now getting with girls, and a ‘shag’ in that case tends only to mean one thing. The point is not the semantics; the point is, he’s shifted enough parts around in his brain by now that ‘World Cup,’ ‘beat the French,’ ‘win the bronze’ has vacated, and what he’s come back to feels like everything he shouldn’t ever have set aside.
Jude has to wonder if Erling feels similarly; he’s in Italy too right now, Jude knows— but though they may be many miles from one another, the mutually-imposed gap speaks for way more than physical distance, at the end of the day.
I will call. Or you’ll call me.
Jude can’t help but wish they’d set down an actual protocol for that, before parting ways.
Three days into his self-sanctioned holiday, Jude gets bored of the (admittedly class) resort restaurant food, and ventures into Centro Storico to find something for dinner.
The locals are a treat; some time free from constant attention leaves Jude not just willing, but enthusiastic, to pose for selfies with a few fans who catch him skulking— and especially for a little lad, maybe eight years old, who asks in fluent Spanish for an autograph, then looks at him like the world’s just come into colour, when Jude offers him a high-five right after. These are the amazing parts of being famous; it’s nicer still when they all let him go on his way, to a seat in a little trattoria, where he gets to indulge in some seriously rich cannelloni, and then tip his waitress on top of the service, just because he can.
Jude’s surfing Cloud Nine in many ways, by the time he makes it back into his room, and of course, as has become the ‘norm,’ his first thought is of Erling, what he might be doing, and where.
The difference is subtle, but profound; Jude’s still riding a high, but further removed from it, with fewer stakes, and maybe just lonely, and just content, enough to finally bridge that gap himself, and hit ‘call.’
Erling answers almost immediately, and Jude’s fucking traitor of a heart takes a leap when he takes it all in properly, realises Erling looks ready for bed, soft and slightly rumpled, a headboard right behind his ridiculous pile of hair.
“Hey,” Erling says. He grins, and Jude— well, Jude’s only human. He grins right back, and for a good moment, it’s like Erling’s right here in the room, nothing between them but carpet, and the gaping, temporary distance before a kiss. “How are you, Record Breaker?”
It sounds so much better from Erling’s mouth, Jude couldn’t deny that at gunpoint. Rather than simpering, however, he settles into the smile.
“Good, thanks. I’m—“
Strike one, but Jude’s hindbrain, rotted from scrolling any news or sight of Erling on social media, leaps to his defence.
“Saw your ‘homecoming.’ Was that a real raccoon?”
“Yes, of course.” Jude has to hand it to Erling, he’s never showed up ‘awkward’ a day in his life. On the contrary, he seems to thrive on it, proven as he smirks, as he adds, with no fucking preamble: “I named him ‘Jude.”’
There’s only one valid response to that; it comes to Jude like a message from God, or similar.
“You fucking what, mate?”
“What?” Erling’s grin, showing every one of his teeth, would be best described as ‘shit-eating.’ “You don’t think it suits him?”
“I mean—“ The last thing Jude wants to do is laugh. He does anyway; it emerges as a snort, which is better than a giggle, but still feels fair, feels genuine. “If you were gonna do that, you couldn’t have picked a different animal?”
“Like?”
“I dunno.” Jude shrugs. “A shark?”
“Sharks have no hands,” Erling says, as Jude thinks Christ, you’re not just something, you’re something else. “He wouldn’t be able to hold the whiskey, Jude. Keep up, please.”
“Yeah,” Jude says, in-place of what he might. “‘Cause that’s what’s wrong here.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with it,” Erling says, and Jude’s prepared a lot of justifications, a whole bunch of how ‘European’ is different to ‘English,’ and ‘Scandinavian
even more-so.
He winds up needing none of them, for what Erling actually says, for when he seems to curl closer to the camera, then drops, pure casually:
“This way, I always have a ‘Jude’ with me.”
Jude can’t help it: his stomach plummets into his balls, in the best way.
“Uh—“
“Sure, the furry guy’s a little more handsome,” Erling says, but before Jude can lose his actual shit, laughing or otherwise, it’s like Erling casts it all aside, at least mentally. He looks at Jude, and he says, without restraint, “I’ve missed you,” and well.
Jude, for all his hangups, for all his learned ‘British’ sensibilities, is still a footballer, and there’s still only so much he can say to an open fucking goal.
“I missed you,” he says, feels it under his skin, it’s just so fucking good to say. He’s close to trembling suddenly, with no certain outlet for what he’s feeling, what he should say, what he wants this to be. He wonders if Erling knows, whether they might figure it out together— and in the end, it’s the thought of that that tips him off the edge into genuine, joyful laughter.
“What?” Erling asks, impossibly fond, as Jude wipes his eyes.
“Nothing.” Jude shakes his head, still feeling like his grin could dislocate his jaw. “Nah, just—“ It bubbles up in him again, the delight of it all, the need to confess. “I can’t fucking believe you’re here. Well. ‘Here.’ You know?”
“Yeah,” Erling says, and Jude’s nervous system reacts in a whole new way again when the other man leans back against the bed, exposing more of himself to the camera, broad chest, the very edge of a waistband. “Honestly, I wanted to call you the day after the game.”
“Why didn’t you?” Jude asks, and for all he’s surprised by his own honesty, it doesn’t seem like Erling is. It’s a fair question, seems fairer still the longer Jude thinks about it, provided he leaves the fact he didn’t call, either, out of the overall equation.
What Erling says, though— that, Jude wasn’t expecting.
“I guess I felt a little sore,” he admits, and Jude’s never noticed before, Erling’s habit of playing with his hair when he’s nervous. “It hit me on the way to the airport: not only am I leaving without the Cup, I’m leaving without you.” Before Jude can even begin processing that one, he’s pressing on. “It hurt. In a different way to losing the game, it felt— unfair.”
“Unfair?”
“Yeah,” Erling says. “It is unfair, to be as lucky as we are, and still want other things to be simple. Like trying to be with someone. Like trying to be—“
“Yourself?” Jude guesses, a great wave of affection breaking over him when Erling nods.
“Exactly.” He shrugs. “I dunno. Do you ever feel like that?”
Does he? It would be so easy to say yes— but would it be kinder? Is that really how he wants to start this thing out?
“Not really,” Jude admits, and knows he’s made the right call when the words, the depth of his own, self-sheltered vulnerability, just sort of offer themselves up. “It felt right, what happened— and it felt good, so I leaned in. Didn’t really think about it.” He leans deeper, further into Erling’s face onscreen, ahead of asking a question he suspects he already knows the answer to. “Have you..? Thought about it?”
“Yes,” Erling says, simply, and for a moment, Jude dares to dream that it could be exactly that, for them: simple. “Since Dortmund, I think. And then, more recently, because..”
Because of you, Jude knows he wants to say, but doesn’t need to. Erling’s not a quiet bloke at the best of times, but right now he might as well be on stereo, and Jude— well, Jude’s fucking transfixed, like he’s a kid again, and a lifetime of Christmases all landed in his lap at once.
“Wow..”
“I don’t say this to win points,” Erling clarifies. Big hand back in his hair, blond strands keep slipping through his fingers, and for the first time, Jude has to wonder what’s showing on his face vs. what he’s actually feeling. “It’s only words, Jude, I—“ He swallows, and it looks painful, in a way that makes Jude want to caress him, to take the agony away. “I don’t want to freak you out.”
“I’m not freaked out,” Jude says, and it’s as if the pieces all settle into place as he says it. “I’m not freaked out, Erl. Honest, I’m just—“
Dazzled? Dreaming? In denial, when I’ve probably got all that yet to come?
“Glad,” Jude settles for, then settles himself, straight into the surprised, grateful curve of Erling’s lips. “Glad you picked up, and that.”
“I’m glad you called.”
“Yeah, well.” Jude snorts a little, chest blooming again as he realises this is simple, just him and Erling, how it’s always been, but better. “Can’t have you making all the ‘first moves,’ can I?”
“I guess not,” Erling says, and it’s like there’s a weight off him Jude had no way of perceiving before, replaced now by something different, something honest, and all curled up into a truly diabolical grin. “Though technically, technically, you kissed me first.”
Jude snorts. “Who taught you that word?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Erling says, still grinning— and then, presumably just because he can, he throws in a wink for good measure. “What matters is I’m right.”
“Fair,” Jude concedes, and much like with Declan a week earlier, he completely fails to spot the trap before he’s caught in it. It’s different this time, though, and definitely better; this time, rather than being forced to reflect on his solitude, he gets to remember that night after the quarters, the way he grabbed Erling, the way Erling fucking let him. “Don’t lie, though, it was a good kiss.”
“I never said it wasn’t,” Erling says. He leans back again, adjusts the camera— and this time, Jude really takes notice, can’t possibly miss the flex of Erling’s pectorals, the smidge of waistband hinting at something far better below, something Jude should really feel bad about wanting more of— and then forgets to, right when Erling sticks a leg up on the bed, knee bent, and it becomes fully clear his impressive vulnerability has room to coexist with something else.
That suits Jude just fine, as it turns out. He’s all for open honesty, but he’s also twenty-three years old, and there’s only so much he’s got in the tank for self-restraint.
“See, now I’m curious,” Jude says, even as he leans back on his own bed, inching his legs apart ‘til he fucking sees Erling’s pupils start to stretch. “When you said you missed me..?”
“Yeah,” Erling confirms, and when Jude hears how fucking deep his voice has dropped, that’s when another thrill runs through him, because he knows, oh boy he knows, it’s fucking on. “I did miss you, Jude. Been missing you ever since Miami.”
For a moment, outside his window, it’s as if Miami itself materialises a hand, specifically to give Jude a high-five.
“Yeah?” Jude says, then moves to lie on his side, the phone at arm’s length, a whole lot of him on display. He hiccups, breathes in, and chooses, once again, to be brave. “Tell me about it?”
“Shit,” Erling says, then huffs a laugh as he too, apparently, realises a gamble has paid off. “Shit, okay—“
If they were on anything other than the same page, it would hit like a rejection. As-is, Jude has only but to lock in, to tie to an instinct quite outside himself, and watch as Erling does the same, shrugging his boxers off as Jude does his own.
“I guess, if you were here..”
“Yeah.” It’s on the tip of Jude’s tongue, and then spills over. A fucking thunderbolt goes through him as Erling moves his own camera, and he’s looking at Erling’s dick again, at Erling naked, at least partially. He follows the instinct, the reach of his arm as it leads him to the full, throbbing length of his cock. “Yeah, tell me, Erl. What if you were here?”
“Fuck,” Erling says, with feeling, and if Jude’s has to give him anything, it’s his ability to match pace. He slots in immediately, cock in his hand, and his gaze fixed, oh-so-fixed on Jude. “Fuck, I’d be right— right fucking between your legs.”
“Yeah?” Jude encourages, coaxes, even. He strokes himself once, bites back a gasp at the feeling. “Returning the favour, are you? Your mouth on my cock?”
“I never said that,” Erling breathes, his head going back— and it’s then Jude has to run his numbers, to actually think, much less imagine.
His eyes are on Erling’s hands when the penny drops, and the realisation sends said eyes rolling back in Jude’s head.
“Fuck,” he breathes, gripping himself, cock twitching. He never thought of that before, never even wondered— but it’s here now, and it’s dancing right through his psyche, a rhythm of how, and okay, and what would that feel like—? “Fuck, Erl, yeah— what would you do?”
“I’d get you wet,” Erling says, with no hesitation, even as Jude’s eyes threaten to bulge right out of his skull. His own eyes are closed, lost in what Jude faintly realises is a long-loved fantasy, one Jude instantly knows he wants to hear more of when Erling seems to pinch and squeeze his own cock, and the rest comes out of him in a rush. “Fuck, Jude, I’d— I’d spread you open, fucking put my tongue in you, then my fingers—“
“Oh my God,” Jude moans, his hips bucking; he can feel the pressure already, Erling’s pseudo-presence, as much as his words. “Oh my God, Erl, keep talking. Keep— fuck—“
“I will,” Erling promises, and then he does get an eye open, locked on Jude’s gaze, holding it. “God— I’ve wanted to fuck you almost since I knew what that meant.”
“Erl—“
“I mean it,” Erling says, and when he picks up pace, Jude already knows how this will end: together, most likely, their names on each other’s lips. “That ass— are you kidding me? And you, you, just— fuck.” His eyes slam shut again, lost in it, but still twisting, always, always searching. “Wo— would you let me?”
“Yeah,” Jude gasps, fist flying over his own cock, because it’s just too easy to picture: his thighs apart, Erling between them, licking, sucking, fucking into. "Yeah, I'd let you. Fuck, I'd--"
It comes up on him like a tsunami; Jude scrabbles desperately with his spare hand, reaching for a tissue, a lifeline— he’s not sure, he might never be. His fingers close around the phone anyway, anything to pull Erling closer, as, as—
“Fuck, I’m—“
“Me too,” Erling gasps back. His eyes screw up; beyond a stray ball hitting the back of the net, Jude’s not sure he’s ever seen anything so brilliant. “Me too, f—“
It happens to Erling in stages, his thighs first, then his face; finally his cock, which pulses inside his fist, throwing full ropes up onto his chest— and Jude’s fucking done from that point on, wants to hold out, and doesn’t, has no idea how to try.
It’s not that he can’t come without Erling, it’s that he doesn’t want to. He misses throwing a fist into his own mouth to muffle the shout, figures he’ll apologise to his neighbours later— or not, as the high fades, as Jude collapses flat on the mattress and just reaches, reaches for his phone, like Erling actually lives in it.
He pulls the camera back over his face, feels the leap in his gut Jude assumes might become habitual, when Erling swims into view - more rumpled, less ‘kempt;’ swimming with something Jude only knows how to call out in weeks, or months, or ‘what if’s.’
There’s all of that, then the rest; as Jude catches his own jaw, scrapes the gasping back into a smile, he can’t help but wonder how much better it can possibly get, from here.
“So,” he says, practically drooling on his own arm as he grins, down the barrel of it, at Erling. “Tell me again why you didn’t call sooner?”
“Dra til Helvete.”
Jude has absolutely no idea what that means. He reckons he’ll find out later; for now, at least, Erling’s laughing, and that’s good enough for him. That, Jude thinks, might be ‘good enough’ for a good fucking while.