Chapter Text
Is the video real?
Erling stares at Rafaela’s text, trying to squint past the exhaustion that blurs his eyes. He thinks to ask what video? but clarification comes soon enough in the form of a link.
He clicks it, and is redirected to a video posted - sans caption - by an anonymous Twitter user.
Erling hits play. The first thing he registers is Jude’s face, staring into the camera with his big, brown eyes; his lips caught between his teeth; his cheeks ruddy and full. Then comes the unmistakable sound of moaning - some of it belonging to Jude, most of it belonging to Erling, whose hips are flush against Jude’s ass.
He locks his phone immediately, staring into the dark of his hotel room, hot from head to toe despite the AC running at full strength. Erling thinks back to the night the video was filmed - just a few weeks shy of Jude’s 19th birthday, when Erling’s hair was short, and he was still green at Dortmund.
He knew it was a bad idea, but Jude had a way of whittling him down. It’ll be fine, mate, Jude had waved his concerns off casually, like a scandal of this magnitude wouldn’t be disastrous. 21-year-old him should have nipped the idea in the bud the second Jude suggested it, but Erling had been stupid and irresponsible, swept up in Jude’s excitement, and aroused by the idea of filming a sex-tape with the coveted Prince of Wales.
Erling - through shaking hands - opens up his phone again, wincing as the video autoplays. 1000 retweets, 6000 likes, 400 comments, 50000 views.
He tries to breathe through it, closes Twitter, and texts Rafaela.
It’s real
Unsurprisingly, The Daily Mail is the first to report on the video.
PRINCE OF WALES JUDE BELLINGHAM OPENS THE GOAL FOR STAR PLAYER ERLING HAALAND
The title is crude, and obnoxiously capitalized, as if to say: look here! look here! It weighs on him, almost as much as the night he spent awake, watching the hours lurch on, glued to the phone with Rafaela, Crisis Management, and, finally, Solbakken, who offered nothing more than an exasperated: “tomorrow.”
He trudges towards Solbakken’s office, lamenting the lack of sleep, the North Carolina sun, and the persistent buzzing of his phone. Erling doesn’t bother knocking - just walks in, catching Solbakken mid-conversation with Bergersen, their assistant coach. Bergersen averts his eyes, and his face pinches, uncomfortable at the sight of Erling; Solbakken, on the other hand, glares openly. Bergersen gestures for him to sit half-heartedly.
“28 years,” Solbakken starts through gritted teeth. Erling slouches into the torn leather of his seat, staring down at nothing in particular, feeling like a child on the receiving end of a lecture.
“28 years since our last World Cup classification, and all anyone wants to talk about is the fact that our striker is fucking the Prince of Wales.” The room is quiet, save for the whirring of the room’s air conditioner, and the anxious clicking of Bergersen’s pen.
“How long?” Solbakken asks, and Erling stares at him dumbly.
“What, sir?” He asks, unhelpfully. Solbakken’s face reddens, having taken Erling’s confusion for facetiousness. He looks murderous under the office’s fluorescent lighting.
“Don’t act daft, Haaland. How long have you been dating Jude Bellingham?”
Erling laughs at the question; Bergersen startles at the suddenness of it, and Solbakken throws a wad of crumpled sticky notes at him. He brings his hands up reflexively, and smiles as apologetically as he can.
Who knew Solbakken was such a romantic? There was no dating history to point to, Erling wanted to say - just nights, and days, and weeks in which Erling would hold Jude desperately, aching for something Jude was reluctant to give.
“Jude Bellingham and I aren’t dating, sir,” Erling says, serious this time, “The video is… it’s old.”
Solbakken looks at him unconvinced, but seems to believe him anyway, sighing exhaustedly. Maybe the lack of sleep is weighing on him too.
“Just don’t let it distract you from tomorrow’s game. PR and legal will take care of the rest.”
Erling nods, and takes it as a sign of dismissal.
He waits for his teammates on the pitch; practice is supposed to be short and sweet today, more of a routine than a necessity, before they leave for their flight to Boston later in the evening.
The sun is overbearing, worsening his headache, and irritating him further. He scrolls through his phone - pointedly ignoring Twitter, Instagram, and just about any other social media anyone can contact him through. He texts his parents All’s fine in lieu of returning their missed calls, and thumbs-ups Rafaela’s texts instead of responding with anything of substance.
He pulls up Jude’s contact, toys with it, hesitates over the call button, and ultimately presses the text button like the coward he is. Their chat log is empty, washed anew by Erling months ago in a fit of anger. No more good morning your majesty’s or piss off’s, except for a few screenshots he didn’t have the heart to delete. He figures he should delete them now, lest they be leaked too.
He hesitates, trying to articulate his thoughts as best he can, but he doesn’t know what to say, how to reach out or lend support. Jude always hated platitudes - hated the coddling, liked that Erling was straightforward, and honest, and incapable of pitying him. He breathes deep, and decides on a simple:
Okay, mate?
The text bubble turns green immediately, despite both he and Jude having iPhones. He stares at it, so long his eyes grow dry, blinking only when sweat drips into them. Jude blocked his number. Erling nods to himself. Okay. That’s okay. They’ve been no-contact for over two years, it would be weirder if Jude hadn’t blocked him, right? The realization makes his chest hurt regardless.
A wolf-whistle disrupts Erling’s thoughts, and he turns, dazed, to find Antonio staring at him with a shit-eating grin.
“God save our gracious queen,
Long live our noble queen,
God save the queen.”
He sings off-pitch in a mishmash of British accents. Martin elbows him - somewhat harshly, if Antonio’s winded ‘oof’ is anything to go by - before making his way to Erling. He looks at him stern, but warm, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t let it get to you, alright? It’s none of our business what you do in your personal life.”
The words fall a bit flat when Sorloth joins in on the ribbing, making a lude comment on the ‘shapeliness’ of Jude’s ‘arse’. Erling jolts at that, fist clenching, and eyebrows furrowing. He’s stopped in his tracks by Martin who looks at him expectantly.
“Piss off,” He mutters instead, wincing at the choice of words - hating the way it makes Sorloth laugh further.
In the end, practice is anything but short and sweet - it’s brutal, not because of the drills, or jogging, or keep-aways, but because he can’t stop thinking about Jude, wondering if he’s holding up okay, what the British media is saying, and if he resents ever getting involved with Erling. He falls more than once before Solbakken pulls him off the field altogether.
He takes a cold shower in the locker room - blinking away images of Jude, flushed and sweaty - scrubbing until his skin is pink and raw, but, despite his best efforts, the thought of Jude still clings to him.