Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Mandate in the Alps
The Swiss Alps in late June were supposed to represent tranquility, crisp glacier air, and picturesque serenity. To Jude Bellingham, however, staring out the tinted window of a matte-black Mercedes van as it snaked up the winding mountain roads toward Verbier, it felt more like a beautifully gilded trap.
Jude adjusted his sunglasses and looked down at his phone. The official PDF from his agency was open, displaying a sleek cover page co-branded with the logos of Real Madrid, Manchester City, and their shared global luxury sportswear sponsor.
PRIVATE RETREAT & HIGH-PERFORMANCE RECOVERY CAMPAIGN
Location: Verbier Chalet Estate, Switzerland
Mandatory Attendance: Jude Bellingham & Erling Haaland
"Two whole weeks?!," Jude muttered under his breath, leaning his head back against the leather headrest.
"Two entire weeks in an isolated cabin."
Beside him, his brother Jobe didn't even look up from his phone screen, where he was tapping through social media.
"It’s a luxury chalet, Jude. Not a penal colony. You’re getting paid a fortune to sit in a hot tub and pose in oversized hoodies."
"It’s not the chalet, Jobe. It’s the dynamic," Jude sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"It’s awkward."
"Why is it awkward? You guys played together at Dortmund for two years. You used to set him up for tap-ins every weekend."
"Yeah, used to," Jude stressed.
"At Dortmund, we were kids. Now he’s winning matches in England, shattering records, and whenever I see him at award galas, he acts like he barely knows me. He gives me a head nod, a two-word answer, and walks away. I text him a paragraph after he scores a hat-trick, and he replies with a thumbs-up emoji. A single thumbs-up! Who does that?"
Jobe finally looked over, a sharp, teasing grin spreading across his face. "Maybe he’s just intimidated by your high-fashion outfits, mate. Or maybe he just doesn't want to be your best friend anymore. People move on."
"He doesn't have to be my best friend," Jude insisted, his pride flaring up slightly. "It’s just... weird. He acts completely cold."
The van rounded a final steep curve, the tires crunching over finely crushed gravel before coming to a smooth stop in front of a massive, modern alpine estate. The structure was a stunning blend of dark timber, floor-to-ceiling glass, and local slate, jutting dramatically out from the hillside overlooking the snow-dusted valley below.
The van door slid open, letting in a rush of cool, pine-scented mountain air that immediately chilled the back of Jude’s neck.
"We're here, Mr. Bellingham," the driver announced softly.
Jude stepped out, pulling his duffel bag over his shoulder. The air was thin and sharp. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his mind. It’s just professional obligations, he told himself. Do the photoshoots, do the recovery workouts, keep it cordial, go back to Madrid.
As he walked up the wide stone steps toward the grand entrance, the heavy oak doors swung open from the inside. A tall figure stepped out onto the porch.
Erling Haaland stood framed against the warm interior light of the chalet. He was wearing an unzipped gray tracksuit, broad shoulders virtually filling the doorway. His long blonde hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and his ice-blue eyes fixed immediately onto Jude the second he cleared the top step.
For a long, suspended second, neither of them said a word. The silence was heavy, filled only with the distant whistle of the alpine wind.
Jude broke the silence first, putting on his signature, smooth PR charm. He cracked a wide, bright smile and held out a hand as he reached the top step. "Erling! Long time no see, man. How was the drive up?"
Erling looked down at Jude’s extended hand, then up at Jude’s face. His expression didn't change—impassive, calm, almost stern. He reached out and took Jude’s hand, his grip massive and firm, giving it a single, sharp shake.
"Good," Erling said. His voice was deep, gravelly, and flat. "Flight was fine. Road was winding."
"Yeah, brutal curves on the way up, right?" Jude offered, keeping his smile pinned in place, though his inner analytical mind was already spiraling. Look at him. Cold as ice. Barely a greeting. "Great venue, though. Unbelievable views."
Erling looked past Jude toward the mountains, his eyes squinting slightly. "Yes. Good air for lungs." He stepped aside, holding the door open. "Your bag looks heavy. Room is upstairs on the left. The one with the balcony."
"Oh. Thanks," Jude said, stepping past him into the grand foyer. As he passed, he caught the faint scent of eucalyptus and expensive Scandinavian body wash. "Did you take the room on the right?"
"Yes," Erling said simply, standing near the door with his hands tucked deep into his tracksuit pockets. "It faces north. Darker for sleeping."
"Right. Makes sense. Recovery optimization," Jude chuckled lightly, trying to lighten the thick air between them.
Erling didn't laugh. He just gave a small nod. "Dinner is at seven. Chef is making salmon."
"Sounds great," Jude said, holding his smile until he turned the corner and began heading up the floating wooden staircase.
The moment he reached his room and shut the heavy timber door behind him, Jude dropped his duffel bag onto the king-sized bed and let out a long, exhausted groan. He pulled out his phone and tapped his mother’s contact.
"Denise," Jude said the moment she picked up. "I’ve been here for five minutes, and I already feel like I’m trapped in a freezer."
"Jude?" Denise Bellingham’s warm, calm voice came through the speaker, accompanied by the background noise of her bustling around her kitchen in Madrid. "What are you talking about? Did the heating in the chalet break?"
"No, Mum. Erling. He’s like a wall. I tried to make friendly conversation, and he gave me seven words total. 'Good. Flight was fine. Road was winding.' That was it! He looked at me like I was a referee about to hand him a yellow card."
On the other end of the line, Denise sighed, though Jude could hear the gentle amusement in her tone.
"Jude, darling, you know how Erling is. He’s quiet.Pretty reserved person. Not everyone expresses themselves with ten-minute speeches and media smiles like you do."
"It’s not just being quiet, Mum. It’s intentional detachment," Jude asserted, pacing the length of the plush rug in his bedroom. "At Dortmund, we joked around constantly. Now he looks at me like we’re strangers. If he didn't want to be here with me, he could have had his agency negotiate out of it."
"Did it ever occur to you that maybe he’s just focused? Or nervous?"
"Erling Haaland? Nervous?" Jude laughed bitterly.
"The guy scores fifty goals a season and walks around like he owns the planet. He doesn't get nervous. He’s just being distant. It’s fine. I’ll keep it strictly business."
"Be nice, Jude," Denise instructed gently, her tone turning firm. "You are representing yourself and the club. Give him time to settle in. And eat your dinner."
"I will, Mum. Love you."
"Love you too, sweetie."
Jude hung up, tossing his phone onto the nightstand. He walked over to the expansive French doors leading to his balcony and pushed them open. The cold mountain air rushed over him, cooling his flushed skin.
Looking out over the lawn, he spotted Erling down below. The Norwegian was standing barefoot in the grass despite the chill, holding a metallic water bottle, staring intently at the setting sun over the Alps. He looked completely still, almost like a statue carved out of the mountain itself.
Jude leaned against the railing, watching him. What goes on in that massive head of yours? Jude wondered, frustration mixing with a strange, dull ache in his chest that he refused to acknowledge. Why build a wall against me?
Down on the frozen lawn, Erling took a slow, deep breath through his nose, expanding his diaphragm just as his performance coaches had taught him. He exhaled slowly, watching the faint plume of white condensation vanish into the darkening sky.
His heart was hammering against his ribs at an absolute sprint.
He clutched the cold metal of his water bottle tightly. He’s upstairs, Erling thought, his mind racing in a chaotic loop that completely shattered his quiet, deadpan exterior. He spoke to me. He smiled at me. He looked... perfect.
Erling closed his eyes, remembering the way Jude had walked up the steps. Jude had been wearing a casual designer sweater, his dark eyes bright, his posture effortless and confident. When Jude had smiled and reached out a hand, Erling had almost forgotten how to breathe.
I sounded like an idiot, Erling berated himself internally, groaning inwardly as he recalled his own words. 'Good. Flight was fine. Road was winding.' What is wrong with me? Why can't I just talk normally to him?
Ever since their days in Germany, Erling had carried a heavy, quiet, overwhelming feelings on Jude. Back then, it had been easier to mask—they were young, playing together every few days, connected by the shared chaos of Bundesliga matches. But as Jude’s star had risen, exploding into global icon status at Real Madrid, Erling’s private feelings had morphed into a paralyzing insecurity.
To Erling, Jude was a force of nature—charismatic, gorgeous, brilliant with words, comfortable in high-fashion magazines and royal galas. Erling saw himself as simple, blunt, and awkward. A goal-scoring machine who liked quiet rooms, raw milk, and grounding his feet in the dirt.
He belongs to the world, Erling thought, looking up toward the balcony, quickly turning his head away when he realized Jude might be standing there. He thinks I’m cold. I know he does. But if I start talking too much, if I look at him too long, he’ll see right through me. He’ll know.
Erling turned and walked back inside the chalet, his heavy footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway. He had two weeks in this house. Two weeks of shared meals, joint workouts, and photoshoots where they would be forced to stand shoulder-to-shoulder.
He had to survive it without giving himself away. He had to keep the wall up, no matter how much it hurt to watch Jude walk away from him.
A/n
Hi guys 😊 im back with the best happy ending . Told you ill make it up to you
Xoxo
Aylo_ara (Quintessential 💋)