Chapter Text
The noise inside the Bernabéu lingers long after the final whistle, stretched thin through the stadium in uneven, hollow waves of applause and chanting. The emotions no longer belong to the match alone, but to the sharp edges of a season coming to an end.
The overhead lights are painfully bright now that the distraction of the game is gone, washing the grass in pale green and clinical white that makes every expression feel too visible, too exposed. Around him, teammates smile through wet eyes and wave toward the stands where supporters remain packed shoulder to shoulder, unwilling to let the season die quietly despite how angry they have every right to be about the performances, about the results, about the way everything had slowly unraveled toward the end.
Franco feels all of it too sharply. It settles inside him like pressure, rattling against his ribs until his lungs feel too small for the air around them. If he’s being honest, he feels like he’s standing in the middle of something breaking apart.
Maybe it’s because too many pillars are falling at once. Carvajal and Alaba. Faces that had quietly become part of the shape of his everyday life, the ones who had made this polished, measured place feel less intimidating simply by having lived through it already. Some of the few people capable of giving him a sense of stability inside the constant chaos the dressing room could become.
But he’s used to teammates leaving. Football teaches you that quickly and he has long accepted it as part of the job. So he realizes almost immediately that that can’t be the only reason today hurts so badly.
The uncertainty of his own future hangs over him like a low, heavy cloud. The noise of the loan rumors. The unfinished World Cup list. The constant flickering doubt of whether he belongs here yet or if he’s being pushed forward too fast. The heavy weight of a question that seems to follow him everywhere lately — whether he’s made the wrong decision somehow, whether everything is happening too quickly, too soon.
And beneath all of it, quieter and far more private but heavy all the same, there’s the hiding. The constant vigilance of it. Monitoring himself endlessly, calculating touches and glances and distance until even affection starts feeling dangerous. Sometimes Franco thinks secrecy has slowly made his world smaller instead.
He manages to hold himself together through most of the night by reaching for the version of himself he’s spent the year building carefully — the composed one, the mature one, the version that absorbs pressure without letting it show. Until he can’t anymore.
The tears come so suddenly he almost feels betrayed by them.
He presses the heel of his hand hard against his face, trying to stop the spill before it becomes a spectacle, but it’s useless. His chest tightens painfully, breathing collapsing into shallow, uneven stutters that make him feel every bit as young as he actually is.
He’s only eighteen, and he’s terrified of losing things he’s barely even had time to love properly yet.
Someone pulls him into a hug — a blur of white fabric and the smell of grass and sweat, probably Brahim, though his face disappears into the blur of everything else around Franco — and still, it’s the kindness of it that finally undoes him. And maybe there’s relief tangled somewhere inside that too. Relief that nobody laughs. Nobody mocks him for the tears or tells him to pull himself together. His teammates simply let him grieve openly, let him feel everything too intensely the way he always does, without making him ashamed of it.
He wipes furiously at his face, shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to catch his breath, and somewhere across the pitch his eyes catch briefly on Jude.
The distance between them isn’t large. But the choreography they’ve built around each other over the past month — the mutual agreement to stay separate in public and protect the version of themselves the world isn’t allowed to see — feels unbearable tonight.
Jude stands with his jaw locked tight, expression carefully neutral for the cameras despite the redness around his eyes that gives him away anyway. But his attention remains fixed on Franco. Steady. Unmoving. And Franco feels the ache of it – the need for the grounding pressure of Jude’s hand against the back of his neck, for the quiet certainty Jude has somehow become in a life that never stops shifting underneath him.
Jude is standing beside Trent near the sideline, his expression a masterpiece of that careful choreography they’ve spent months building together — the practiced distance designed to keep their world from splintering under the weight of the public eye.
Even with cameras swiveling around them like vultures, Jude’s face is softer than usual, his eyes still rimmed faintly red from the earlier goodbyes. He isn’t crying anymore, but Franco has learned the architecture of Jude’s composure by now; he recognizes the tension sitting just beneath the surface, the deliberate stillness Jude wears whenever he’s trying to keep the noise of his own emotions under control.
And he’s looking at him.
Not constantly — Jude is too smart for that — but often enough that Franco keeps catching the tether of his gaze between flashes of stadium light. Quick, serious glances that last barely a second before Jude forces his attention somewhere else again. Small check-ins from afar.
It makes Franco want to cry harder.
He wants Jude’s hands on his face, large and steady and grounding. Wants to bury himself against Jude’s shoulder and stay there until the noise inside his chest finally quiets down. Wants Jude murmuring soft, fractured things into his hair in that terrible, beautiful Spanish that belongs only to them.
Instead, Jude stays where he is. Only his eyes betraying him, worried in that restrained way he gets when he’s fighting the instinct to place himself between Franco and the rest of the world.
“Boludo,” Fede snorts softly beside him, grinning as he reaches over to wipe a stray tear from Franco’s cheek. “Vas a deshidratarte.”
The joke is a small mercy. Franco laughs despite himself, embarrassed and raw, his face hot and swollen and his nose probably red enough to be visible from the upper stands. Around them, the celebrations continue in loud, fractured pieces, but Franco feels strangely detached from all of it, like he’s watching the night unfold through glass.
For the past month, people have spoken about him more like a project than a person — something to optimize carefully, to develop, to send away temporarily for progression before bringing back more polished and complete. Loan. Development. Minutes. Growth. The words have circled endlessly around him in meetings and interviews and headlines until they’ve stopped sounding like football terminology and started sounding personal instead.
Because all Franco can really translate them into is: you’re not enough.
And maybe the worst part is that nobody is being cruel when they say it. They’re speaking the language of football, the practical, detached logic of a career built around potential and timing and investment. This is the life he chose. Players leave. Players develop elsewhere. Clubs make plans for the future before you’ve even settled into the present.
But knowing that doesn’t stop it from hurting.
He wants to stay here.
And if Franco leaves — even if it’s for a little while and they promise him he’ll be back — what happens to them?
The thought opens something deep and panicked inside him — an abyss made of time zones and airports and entire countries suddenly separating him from the only thing lately that has made any of this feel stable at all.
He tries to tell himself it would only be temporary, that they’d survive it, that distance doesn’t have to mean loss. But his mind keeps spiraling anyway, filling in the blanks with empty apartments and missed calls and waking up in unfamiliar cities where nobody knows him beyond what he can do with a ball at his feet. Another club badge. Another dressing room. Another version of himself built around proving he deserves to stay somewhere.
Even nearly an hour after the final whistle, the Bernabéu still hums with leftover noise — staff dragging equipment across the pitch, distant music filtering weakly through the speakers, supporters lingering outside the stadium chanting player names into the warm Madrid night like refusing to leave might somehow delay the ending of things.
Most of the squad drifts naturally toward celebration after that. Someone mentions dinner, someone else a club, loud voices bouncing through the dressing room while music starts up from a speaker balanced carelessly on a bench. Laughter comes easy for them tonight.
Franco slips out before anyone notices he’s gone.
He changes quickly, stuffs his things into his bag without really looking at them, keeps his head down as he walks through the quieter service corridors beneath the stadium. A few staff members nod at him on the way out. He nods back automatically. By the time he gets home, the celebrations are probably only beginning for everyone else. By the time he gets home, the celebrations are probably only beginning for everyone else.
Jude, on the other hand, barely registers most of it.
Around him, the stadium is still buzzing with celebration — staff laughing too loudly, music bleeding faintly through the corridors upstairs, people already talking about afterparties and dinners and one last night before everyone disappears for the summer. Normally Jude would at least make an appearance somewhere, shake hands, maybe have a few drinks.
Tonight he has no interest in any of it.
Franco had gone home hours ago, while Jude stayed behind with his own. It’s not common all four of them get time together. His mum walks a few steps ahead beside his dad now, both of them still caught in conversations with club staff, and Jobe lingers nearby in comfortable silence.
The emotional exhaustion has settled heavily into Jude’s body now that the adrenaline is wearing off, muting everything around the edges. His legs ache, but it’s the structural weight of the evening that feels most intrusive. Somewhere nearby, his mum is speaking softly to a staff member, but Jude’s attention keeps drifting elsewhere involuntarily. Back to Franco.
The image of him out on the pitch keeps looping endlessly in Jude’s head — the violent shake of his shoulders, the frustrated way he kept wiping at his face like he was angry at himself for crying at all. Jude had spent the entire farewell forcing himself into that familiar choreography, maintaining the careful distance they’d agreed on while every instinct in him screamed to go over there anyway.
To pull Franco out of the cameras and noise and grief. To stand between him and the world for five fucking minutes.
“You’re still doing it,” Jobe says, falling into step beside him.
His voice is casual, but his eyes track immediately to the tight line of Jude’s jaw.
“The ‘everything’s fine’ face.”
“I’m just tired,” Jude murmurs, voice rough around the edges. “Long night.”
Jobe snorts softly.
“You’ve checked your phone like thirty times in the last ten minutes.”
The hallway around them glows beneath harsh white stadium lighting, quieter than the chaos upstairs. Staff members move past carrying equipment cases while distant laughter echoes somewhere further down the corridor, sharp bursts of Spanish bouncing off concrete walls. Their parents walk several steps ahead.
“He’s not like us,” Jude says before he can stop himself.
Jobe glances sideways at him.
Jude exhales slowly through his nose.
“He doesn’t know how to turn it off yet,” he says quietly. “He feels everything properly. And tonight…” His jaw tightens again. “Fuck.”
Jobe stays quiet for a moment.
He knows Jude well enough to understand what sits underneath that tone — the self-appointed responsibility Jude carries toward the people he loves, the instinct to steady everything before it can fall apart.
“He alright?” Jobe asks finally, softer this time.
“Yeah,” he says.
Then, after a second:
“No. Think he’s overwhelmed. I’d be too”
Jobe hums softly like that confirms something he already suspected.
“He cried a lot.”
Despite everything, Jude lets out a startled laugh through his nose.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I noticed.”
“No, like properly cried.”
“I know.”
Jobe glances sideways at him again, expression gentler now beneath the teasing.
For a few moments, the only sound between them is the uneven rhythm of their footsteps against the floor.
Then Jude hears himself speak before he can reconsider it.
“I think I’m gonna go with him.”
Jobe slows slightly. “To Argentina?”
Jude nods once.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“The fuck, Jude?”
There’s no real judgment in it, mostly disbelief.
“I’ve got a week before England camp.”
“And you’re flying across the world with like twelve hours notice?” Jobe stares at him now, searching for the version of Jude that usually plans everything three steps ahead. “No security prep? No plan?”
“Basically.”
“Does mum know?”
“Not yet.”
Jobe laughs softly under his breath.
“She’s gonna think you’ve lost your head.”
“Probably.”
That finally earns a proper look from Jobe then, something quieter settling into his expression as he studies Jude more carefully.
Because Jude doesn’t do reckless. Not really. Everything about him is usually measured, calculated, controlled down to the smallest detail. But standing here now, Jude realizes none of that feels more important than getting on a plane tomorrow.
Jude shakes his head, his gaze dropping toward the floor where the harsh stadium lights smear into long white streaks across the tiles. “It’s just…” He exhales slowly, exhaustion roughening the edges of his voice. “I don’t want him there alone right now.” The words come easier once they start, like something inside him has already made the decision before the rest of him managed to catch up. “The press is already tearing him apart. If the call ups go badly for him..” His jaw tightens briefly. “I can’t be his anchor from an ocean away.”
The honesty of it hangs there between them, raw and strangely unguarded. Jude doesn’t really know how to explain the helplessness of watching Franco cry on the pitch while pretending not to know him too well. Doesn’t know how to explain the panic of seeing somebody feel everything so openly in a world that punishes softness whenever it gets the chance. Franco still experiences football with his entire heart, still throws himself into love and grief and attachment without the protective numbness most people in this sport eventually develop, and Jude thinks maybe that’s exactly what terrifies him most.
Jobe bumps his shoulder lightly against his. “You should go then.”
Jude glances over, visibly surprised by how easily the permission is granted. “Yeah?”
“Obviously.” Jobe shrugs, making the whole thing sound simple for the first time all night. “That’s your boyfriend, Jude. You don’t let your person face an abyss alone.”
The word boyfriend lands with a strange warmth in Jude’s chest, solid and certain in a way so few things in their lives are allowed to be. Not hidden behind implication or careful wording for once. Just true. Jude looks away quickly before the emotion can settle too visibly across his face, but unfortunately Jobe notices everything.
“Oh my god,” he says immediately, grinning now. “You’re actually getting emotional”.
“Shut up, Jobe.”
“You look like you’re about to start crying too.”
“I’m literally not.”
“You are.”
“I’m exhausted.”
Jobe laughs softly while Jude drags a tired hand down his face. “I’m not having this conversation with you,” he mutters, though the tightness inside his chest has already started loosening slightly, replaced by something quieter and steadier. A decision.
As they reach the end of the corridor, Jobe nudges his shoulder again, his voice turning sincere in a way that anchors Jude immediately. “I’ve got your back, by the way.”
Jude looks over.
“With the cover story and all that,” Jobe continues casually. “Whatever you need. I’ll post some weird holiday shit. Cocktails, beaches, blurry photos. Make it believable.”
That catches Jude off guard more than anything else tonight. He doesn’t really know how to say thank you properly without making it bigger than Jobe is allowing it to become, so instead he just leans briefly into his brother’s shoulder before murmuring quietly, “You’re a good brother, you know that?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jobe says immediately. “You definitely owe me now.”
By the time Jude finally leaves the stadium with his family, Madrid has gone quiet in that strange hollow way it always does after big matches. The energy is draining slowly from the streets now, leftover noise spilling out from bars and taxis while people continue talking about football loudly enough for their voices to echo through the warm night air.
His phone buzzes twice before he even reaches the car.
Jude stares at the message for a long second, the pale blue light from the screen washing over his face. He barely reads Franco’s half attempt at making a joke before he types:
you alright?
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
yeah
Beside him, Jobe scrolls quietly through his own phone, pretending not to pay attention while very obviously paying attention. Their parents sit in the front not really speaking much to each other.
“You’re smiling at your screen,” Jobe says casually.
“I literally am not.”
“You literally are.”
Jude ignores him completely, his focus narrowing down to the only thing that suddenly feels obvious inside all this uncertainty.
can i come over?
The reply arrives so fast it feels almost desperate.
please
Something inside Jude gives way instantly.
“Can you drop me somewhere first?” he asks suddenly, his voice rougher than intended.
His mum glances back at him immediately. “Now? At this hour?”
Beside him, Jobe snorts quietly, elbow nudging against Jude’s side because he already knows exactly where this is heading. Jude kicks lightly at his brother’s shoe beneath the seat without looking away from his phone.
Twenty-five minutes later, the car pulls away from the curb, leaving Jude standing outside Franco’s building with his bag slung over one shoulder. The street is silent now, the city’s energy finally exhausted, and as Jude looks up toward the lit windows above him, something inside his chest settles for the first time all evening. Not the heavy exhaustion of the stadium. Something quieter than that. The simple certainty of knowing exactly where he’s supposed to be.
The city feels softer this late, the edges of the day finally blurring into the restless summer hum of a Madrid night that refuses to sleep. Warm air curls through the streets carrying distant traffic, scattered music and leftover echoes. Above him, apartment windows glow gold against the dark sky, and somewhere across the street laughter bursts suddenly from a balcony before dissolving back into the noise of the city.
He moves through it automatically, exhausted enough that the world feels muted around the edges, his focus narrowed entirely to the thin line of light visible beneath Franco’s door.
For a second, he just stands there in the quiet hallway. The elevator’s soft chime still vibrates faintly behind him, too loud in the silence. Nervousness hits him suddenly then, sharp and stupid and almost adolescent despite the months of shared hotel beds and whispered te amos in the dark. But tonight feels fragile in a way those nights never did. Unsteady. Like they’re standing at the edge of something unfinished where one wrong word could crack open everything both of them have spent months trying so carefully to hold together.
The door opens before he even properly knocks.
Franco must have been waiting right behind it, listening for the sound of Jude arriving.
He’s changed into grey sweatpants and one of Jude’s oversized hoodies, the soft fabric swallowing him slightly like armor against the weight of the evening. His short hair is still damp from a rushed shower, cheeks flushed faintly pink from the heat, but his eyes are swollen and raw from crying earlier, the skin beneath them irritated enough that Jude’s chest aches immediately at the sight.
The silence stretches softly between them, fragile and exhausted.
Then Franco exhales shakily.
“You came.”
The words are so quiet they nearly disappear into the dim light of the entryway, and something twists painfully inside Jude at the unconscious disbelief buried beneath them, like part of Franco had still been preparing himself for disappointment anyway.
“Course I did, sweetheart,” Jude says gently, voice dropping into that low certainty he only ever uses in private.
Franco steps aside to let him in, but the second the door closes behind them — sealing out the noise of Madrid and the cameras and the endless uncertainty hanging over both of their futures — he breaks first.
He folds into Jude immediately.
There’s nothing graceful about it. No hesitation either. Just the exhausted collapse of somebody who has been holding himself together through sheer force of will since the final whistle. Jude catches him automatically, arms wrapping tight around his waist while Franco presses his face hard into the side of Jude’s neck, breathing uneven and shallow against his skin.
“Hey,” Jude murmurs softly, one hand sliding instinctively into his hair before settling firm and grounding against the back of Franco’s neck. “Hey. I’ve got you. I’m here love”.
Franco nods once against him, small and desperate enough that Jude feels it somewhere deep beneath his ribs.
The apartment around them reflects the aftermath of a life about to shift shape. A half-open suitcase lies abandoned beside the couch with clothes spilling messily over the edge. Trainers kicked carelessly near the kitchen island. A hoodie draped over the arm of a chair. The television still glows faintly in the background, volume low enough to barely register, some late-night sports program replaying highlight moments from the match.
And then suddenly the screen flashes with footage of Franco crying out on the pitch beneath the Bernabéu lights, face open and devastated for the entire world to consume.
Jude reaches for the remote blindly without loosening his grip around him and switches the television off immediately.
“Thank you,” Franco mumbles weakly into his shoulder.
They stay like that for a long time afterward.
Now that they’re finally alone, Jude can feel the exhaustion pouring out of him in waves, all the adrenaline from the night burned away completely. Franco’s body feels heavy where it leans against his, emotionally wrung out in a way Jude recognizes because he’s felt versions of it too after losses and endings and nights where football suddenly becomes too human to carry lightly.
The difference is that Jude learned years ago how to hide it.
Franco still feels everything openly.
Jude presses a slow kiss into the top of his head while Franco hides his face against the front of his hoodie, breathing him in deeply. There’s something quietly domestic about the scent by now — laundry detergent, lingering sweat from the long night at the Bernabéu, traces of Jude’s cologne underneath it all. A constant. Something solid to hold onto when the rest of his life keeps shifting underneath him too quickly.
“You alright?” Jude asks again, voice dropping into that low, steady register that always seems to cut straight through the noise in Franco’s head.
Franco thinks briefly about lying. About reaching automatically for the composed version of himself he’s spent the year building carefully for cameras and interviews and dressing rooms full of older players. But tonight he feels too emotionally stripped raw for performance.
Instead he just shrugs weakly against Jude’s chest.
“Everything feels weird.”
Jude hums softly, the sound vibrating low beneath Franco’s cheek in a way that immediately steadies something inside him. He understands without needing the explanation. He knows what the end of a season feels like, how abruptly football abandons you after months of constant movement and structure and noise. He remembers how badly he’d wanted this too at eighteen, only four years ago himself, and how quickly football had taught him that wanting something didn’t always make it feel secure once you finally had it.
Eventually Franco pulls back just enough to look at him. The apartment lights wash softly across Jude’s face, catching the tension still sitting faintly along his jaw.
“I’m excited to go home,” Franco says quietly, like he needs Jude to know that part is real too. “I am.” He swallows hard. “It’s just…”
Jude waits patiently, hand sliding higher against the back of his neck, thumb brushing slow grounding circles against warm skin.
“It feels bad going back like this,” Franco admits eventually. Like a maybe. Like everybody around him is waiting to decide what he’s worth before he’s allowed to belong anywhere permanently. And maybe older players learn how to separate themselves from it eventually, but Franco is still eighteen, still living every part of football personally whether he means to or not. Madrid had felt mythical to him for so long that even now part of him still thinks about how reachable everything had seemed not that long ago — the World Cup, a permanent place here, the version of his future that had once felt so close he could almost touch it.
Jude’s expression tightens immediately, that instinctive protectiveness rising to the surface so fast Franco almost wants to apologize for causing it.
“Hey,” Jude says softly, fingers tightening slightly at the back of his neck until Franco finally looks at him again. “None of this defines who you are. You know that, right? We’ve talked about this.”
Logically, Franco does know. But football builds people out of perception almost as much as talent. Everybody decides what you are before you’ve even figured it out yourself. Wonderkid. Golden boy. Overhyped. Generational. The labels change overnight depending on who’s talking loudest, and suddenly you’re left trying not to drown beneath versions of yourself created by strangers.
Jude studies him quietly for another moment, thumb still moving slowly against his skin before he exhales through his nose, tiredness settling visibly into his face now.
“The world’s always gonna try to edit you, sweetheart,” he murmurs softly. “That’s just part of this now.” His eyes flick briefly across Franco’s face. “But they don’t get this part. They don’t see who you are when all of that disappears.”
Then, very casually, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of quietly rearranging both of their lives, Jude says:
“I’m coming with you, by the way.”
Franco blinks at him, the words not fully landing at first through the exhaustion and emotional noise still clouding his head.
“What?”
“To Argentina.”
“What?”
Now Jude’s mouth twitches slightly at the corners, amusement breaking briefly through the exhaustion written across his face.
“You heard me.”
Franco stares at him like he’s genuinely lost his mind.
“Jude.”
“I’ve got the week before England camp,” Jude says simply, voice settling into that calm, certain rhythm that usually leaves very little room for argument.
“That’s not enough time to fly to another continent.”
“It literally is.”
“You hate long flights.”
“I hate Ryanair,” Jude corrects immediately, eyes brightening faintly. “Different thing.”
Despite everything sitting heavy inside his chest, a laugh escapes Franco before he can stop it — sudden and messy and honest enough that it briefly cuts through the heaviness hanging over the apartment.
Jude’s expression softens the second he hears it.
The tension eases visibly from Franco’s face for the first time all night, and Jude looks at him with something so open and quietly fond that Franco almost has to look away from it.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says more quietly now.
Jude holds his gaze for a long moment.
“I know.”
And Franco knows
Jude isn’t saying this out of obligation. There’s no pressure forcing him here, no expectation beyond the one he’s created entirely for himself. He just wants to go. Wants to stand beside Franco while everything else in his life feels unstable.
“You’ll be bored,” Franco mumbles weakly, fingers curling tighter into the fabric of Jude’s hoodie.
Jude snorts softly. “I’ll survive.”
“It’s not gonna be fun, you know.” Franco glances down briefly. “I’m gonna be training most of the time.”
“I know.”
“There’s gonna be media everywhere.”
“I know all of that, Fran.”
Franco swallows hard.
All week he’s felt like he’s standing in the middle of something slowly splitting apart beneath his feet, every conversation about his future making him feel less like a person and more like a problem people are trying to solve carefully. And through all of it, Jude has stayed maddeningly steady. The only thing that hasn’t shifted once.
“This week isn’t about me,” Jude says quietly. “I’m not coming for a holiday.” He hesitates briefly, searching for the words before continuing in soft, fractured Spanish. “I just wanna be there with you while you wait for all this.”
Something inside Franco goes painfully tender at the word wait. He’s waiting to find out his place in this world. He’s waiting to know if he’s going to the World Cup. He’s waiting to know where he’ll be playing in a few months. He’s waiting to see whether everything he loves can survive the distance constantly threatening to pull at it. He’s waiting to see if he will ever be the player people thought he would be.
And Jude wants to sit beside him through the waiting part too.
Not just the celebrations that might come afterward, if everything works out in his favor. Not just the easy moments. But this part, too.