Chapter Text
Jude wasn’t a stalker, at least not by the concrete textbook definition of what categorized one as such.
He was, if anything, an established artist, occasional YouTuber, and part-time streamer who just so happened to constantly be on social media.
Because that was part of his job.
Media.
And it just so happened that one on social media would, at any chance, be in the hands of what revolved around the sphere of online spaces. He was no different than the bloke minutes away nutting off to some AI porn. Could barely spot a difference between him and a tablet-brained child who couldn’t spell their name properly at age nine.
A mere ant in the colony of social media apps, catalogues, websites, blogs, streaming services.
Right, it all made proper sense.
In fact, one could even go a step further and say, if anything were to be of blame, it would then be Jobe’s fault for the interest he’d acquired.
This same interest plagued him with a strangled, wrought tendency he couldn’t seem to shake off. This must be, he assumed, what a smoker going through withdrawals felt, or the junky who spotted a dirty needle knee-deep in rubbish contemplated.
Every time Jude decided to close certain tabs and break this godforsaken habit, it crawled at the tendrils of his mind, whispering for one more.
Just one more.
One more video and you’ll quit it, really.
That favorite one, yeah, you just need it one more time, and today is the day, mate! Come on, give it one last hurrah!
And two days later, if that, he would be back to square one, mumbling “One last time….”
Again, this was all Jobes' fault.
See, his little brother, beautiful thing, worth half of Jude’s heart, and both lungs if push came to shove, though he were a spawn of Satan on most days, they talked, played football. Very well at that. Played as a midfielder for Germany’s Borussia Dortmund.
While on the field, Jobe transformed from a prudent brat into a proper leader. He was even captain for the England national under twenty-one team, and he led with a bite, perpetually angry he was.
At the start, when they were just boys in single digits, Jude and Jobe had played football together. Given they were a mere two years apart, they were bound to end up in the same activities for time’s sake.
What became abundantly clear, no matter the age it seemed, was that for all their parents tried their damnedest to get the football shtick to resonate with them both, it simply fell flat with Jude.
He tried, willingly or complicitly, to enjoy it for so long, but eventually that became unyielding to the budding teenager. It wasn’t so simple as distaste for the sport. In fact, Jude prospered out there on that wide open field. How beautiful was it to stand there, sweat dripping, hands of teammates gripping, bleachers full of roaring fans shouting out who knows what, for the roar of adrenaline sat heavy in his earlobes.
At most, that is what Jude missed about football.
Even the grueling workouts, laborious drills, and pain-inducing massages during recovery were not reason for his disinterest.
In actuality, all of that came nice and easy for Jude.
To put it briefly, his heart just wasn’t in it.
He liked the sport on pen and paper. Enjoyed watching it, documenting the ins and outs. Studying the way bodies moved, or the grass whistled under cleats. Saw how the sunlight during particularly early practices made halos upon the wet grass.
But that was as far as it went.
When Jobe was born, and old enough to stumble across a baby field in a jersey half his size, Jude, not much older at six, he’d given it eight more years before calling it quits.
At age sixteen, just when things would’ve gotten serious. He’d even got an invitation from the same Dortmund league Jobe went and signed with three years after.
Jude broke the news of his leave from the sport.
To say their parents weren’t shocked, mildly pissed, a bit disheartened, would be an understatement. Even now Jude could see the pinched crease of his mom’s brow; her sweeping eyes looking up, down, and up once more. She’d said something in a low voice, eyes cutting in a way only a mother could possess. Harsh enough that it made Jude stand up straight, cheeky smile sliding clean off.
Dad hadn’t been much better, perhaps even a little more shut in, void of real emotion. While their mom expressed things outwardly, as expressive as Jude grew to be, their father, when anything but happy, became a pillar of stone. The anger came as silence, cutting into the room, and through Jude, who, as much as he wanted to be a cocky little shit, felt like the ground should open right up and swallow him whole.
He hadn’t meant to in that moment, attempting to do the whole “I give up” act with a brave face and determined scowl. Something practiced in the mirror with a stern brow that looked out of place for the puberty-stricken child. But one deep look from both parents and his head knocked down, shoulders up, fresh tears flying out.
Embarrassing.
Still, it’d done the trick.
Surprisingly fast.
Perhaps it was their little Judey, eldest and unnaturally sensitive, that made their hearts melt. Or for the fact that he’d obviously been distressed over this for a while. Could see it in the way he sagged in place before curling over right down to the ground, making himself small again. Their little baby, apologizing.
No matter what farce he put up in the moment, Jude understood just how much they’d poured into this.
All the money, time, belief.
God, they believed in him so much.
But Jude hadn’t liked it.
Yes, he loved being around teammates, some of the best mates really, many of whom he remained in contact with now. Also loved the travelling aspect. All these beautiful wonders did him well, made him grow as a person, experiencing different cultures and customs even if brief.
Again, it all just boiled down to Jude loving all of these things outside of the sport. Winning, scoring, it felt neat in the moment, but it never seemed to strike where other players and even fans made it out to be. It was simply a sport Jude was put into as a child without any real choice. And to him, stubborn as all their family, doing something without real heart was grueling.
He wanted to travel with family, for Jobe. Take pictures, film videos, show the world what can be captured and memorialized onto film with a single lens. Run around under the skies just cause, and contain all these memories on the sidelines, not on the line.
It sounded silly even back then as he bubbled out the reasons through a snotty nose and quivered lip. Wanting to pursue a field so close yet worlds away from what he was currently doing, a whole different realm.
Cinematography, from a young age, fascinated Jude. He loved having his picture taken, being in front of a screen, performing, but more than that, he enjoyed capturing it all. When Jobe was born, and Jude himself was old enough to move sticky baby kid fingers around a Polaroid camera, he went mad. Burning through integral film, much to their mom’s dismay.
Most of it came out shitty, lopsided, unfocused, or exposed to light too quickly, causing it to never develop properly. Despite it, and the scoldings for all the wasted (never wasted; they were all in the family photo-book) film, he continued. Filmed get-ready videos before practice, more videos on the way to practice. Screen caps of trees zooming by during the car ride. Catching a crescent moon or waning sunrise.
During practice, he’d whip out the little camera given on his tenth birthday and prance around the lot, ignoring the burn in his legs in favor of capturing these memories. Filmed teammates who either shone bright in front of the lens or curled away, tossing a sweaty towel at him.
During Jobes's first few games at the academy, aged seven, Jude had filmed the whole thing from start to finish. A full forty minutes.
Chewed up all his film, but it was so worth it.
Even Mom had said so, praising him with a warm hand on the back of his scruffy curls.
Maybe then, really, is when it solidified for Jude. How the awe of watching bodies run across a field, or cars zoom between traffic, trees blow against a zephyr breeze did more to his heart than any pass, score, or ball ever could.
So, mini breakdown in his parents’ arms over, and a much needed deep and realistic talk about expectations and career goals later, Jude had been freed from the dreaded football.
Sorta.
Free in the sense that, pulled from sports, he was shoved right into a private arts-focused school. On the side, or perhaps in adjacent would-be a better term, he was tasked with filming all of Jobe’s games, and those of his current league. He grew in tandem with Jobe. As time went on, Jude went from playing the sport to watching Jobe on the sidelines during practices, away games, at home ones, any reason really. Kicking a ball, making passes, all the full stuff; now one of them watching and filming the field, the other getting tossed around on it.
It was comical how different their lives ended up the older they became.
At the same time, how beautiful was it seeing how expanding in their respective fields shaped them into the young men they were now.
This carried Jude into said adulthood, where he continued filming for the league that his younger brother played on. That being Dortmund.
But in his own pursuit, Jude grew to be a well-established contemporary artist working in photography and moving imagery. Opened galleries, his first being at nineteen. Which snowballed into so much more. In tandem, for the fun of it, and maybe a bit of self-centeredness, Jude opened a YouTube channel, Twitch, and various other media. His name spread like wildfire, almost, if not exactly, the same as Jobe’s did in sports.
Now, Jude cannot say it was a complete start up, given his small popularity as an once football player, plus the fact that he ran a Jobe fan page (as the fans called it), and the fact his family was well off enough to even fund him to a private school.
Hell, from before Jude could even count properly, his whole family was plastered on the big screens, or in the news, somewhere circling the globe. To this day, that had not changed. Be in Jobe, now twenty-one, walking onto the field full of smartphones and industrial cameras. Or Jude shaking hands with Annie Leibovitz while cameras flickered blindingly. They were always in the limelight.
Granted, even if Jude wanted to drag out the humble route, he could not.
Right as his media channels were made, people flocked to them with a desperation only a starved man could possess.
Overnight he was once more sensationalized. Talked about in review pages, podcasts, snobby little shits who wanted to debate his credentials as an artist and entertainer. The full package that brought him more stress than necessary, but a welcome one. On days where he didn’t want to professionally work, hang up the coat of visual media just for a second, he’d fall back on the good ole’ socials. Prance around, show a goofier side not seen in his professional work. Exposed sides of Jobe that said little brother, nonchalant in all, would loathe to see scrolling randomly through socials.
Jude pushed out videos with secret parts of their family. Denise, their mom, baking cookies and setting up a Christmas tree. Their dad, jolly ole’ Mark, caught downing a beer, watching with an eye of adoration at his once wife.
Despite them being divorced, the family never felt more together.
It’d been hard on both Jude and Jobe, especially with how fresh the divorce was. But as one got older, realizing that family didn’t mean labels helped smooth out the awkwardness of parted parents.
There was love there, probably always would be, but platonic, homely. Something that would never sour during holidays. Neither for Jobes' games, nor for Jude's art exhibitions. They showed up, always, smiles in place, shoulders brushing up like old friends.
Part of the reason Jude loved media, the glory felt whilst holding the metal, was to remember this. That it didn’t matter what happened to the family, be it Jobe in a different country with dad, or Jude in America for a showing with mom. No matter the miles, they were a family through and through, and nothing, not any rumor or hushed gossip said behind closed doors, could say otherwise.
Memory may fail, but videos and photos were proof solidified.
Thus, Jude often posted during off-seasons. When Jobe was in a piss mood, flicking off cameras, or Jude was free for once, not having to set up for a gallery, to post bullshit on socials.
JuduDeer.
That was his name on damn near every platform. Taken from the name given by fans during his football days. The pudu animal mixed with his own name. Back then he’d found it cheesy, got teased for it by mates for being girly.
Now he embraced it, whatever deerlike fantasies people projected on him. He could play the doe-eyed character well enough. Dressed up as one for Halloween two years ago and that’d really done it in for the internet. Still gets sent videos from mates of his, white-spotted with antlers, a small tufted tail, fluff and lace mixed.
It’d be a lie to say he wasn’t chuffed.
The thing about all of this, where it led to with its over-zealous background dumping, and why Jude had to swallow down the label of stalker, started five months ago.
Nine if he were real.
Five years if he wanted to rip the band-aid and get to the bottom of it.
But realistically, it had been Jobe’s fault two years ago.
Two years ago, 2024, Borussia Dortmund played against Manchester City.
The sky-stained jersey with navy blue and white accents distracted Jude the moment his eyes landed there. He was down with the other photographers, tucked behind the goal lines. While often given the privilege of being more up front, with family or even by the bench, Jude always prided himself on professionalism.
He would take the shots like the other pros, right on the grassy floor, through a lens that zoomed in on Jobe, tracking his every move.
That was the plan before blue came jogging onto the field, bright and blinding in contrast to Dortmund’s yellow and black.
Jude, in a moment of distraction, let the camera lower, head raising enough to take in the large field, neck craned in a near cramp.
Ignored it to squint at the opposing team members who now lined up to shake hands. Walking past one another, some smiles high, others pinched up with tension. Sportsmanship Jude hated doing because nothing was exciting about getting your ass handed to you (or whooping ass and having to deal with the aftermath of haters).
It was then that Jude's eyes locked in on a player. Not for the first time, given he’d watched football all his life, but the first to see it in person.
To see him in person.
Maybe it was the staggering height that did it, or the translucent blond hair that, at certain angles, made the man look bald.
Whatever it was, brown eyes tracked like a hawk. And when the game started, cueing for Jude to pick up the camera and start doing something worth taking up space.
Well, he’d done just that.
Now, if one asks why the film consisted 90% of what he later learns (already knew) to be Erling Braut Haaland and not Jobe Samuel Patrick Bellingham—he may argue back and say there was a terrible wind tugging the camera in that direction.
Plus, Dortmund lost, four to one. Erling Haaland having scored three of those four goals, who could blame him for watching the giant after the first goal?
Later that week Jobe had confessed, with what seemed much more difficult than losing, that he was glad his tear-stricken face hadn’t been captured on film. Or, at least not Jude’s film, because it’d been plastered across social media the second the game ended.
Not like it was the first time it would’ve been.
All's well that ends well, right?
Wrong.
Since that dreadful day, Jude, for some reason he still could not answer, would not ever, started tracking this: Erling Haaland.
The giant Norwegian man who got called Viking in passing. He stood at 195 centimeters. Who grew his hair out to a length Jude couldn’t fathom doing himself, and stared with eyes of mossy green with speckles of blue that rivaled the very sky and grass he danced upon.
Because that is what he did, dance. While others ran across the field, heavy-tongued, lead-footed, Erling Haaland in all his weight, moved with the grace of a ballerina.
Jude traced it all back, out of sheer curiosity.
From the beginning of this man’s football career, and then some. Family members, siblings. One older brother and sister, and two younger half-sisters. Divorced parents, much like Jude's own.
Erling Haaland joined the Bryne FK academy in Norway at just five. Two years before Jude started ball.
Was three years older than Jude, six with Jobe.
Liked video games, kebab pizza, carrots. Wished to one day own a farm with cattle and goats, random livestock. In an interview, he’d even said how cows were one of the best animals, something that keeps humans grounded.
And wasn’t that just sweet?
How crazy that Jude, who loved nature and the beautiful outdoors, could fit right into that. Maybe even help with a cow or two.
Maybe.
What started as a bit of curiosity soon became a, well, if it be easier to call it by such a word, an obsession. Just a small one, enough to, after accidentally liking an Instagram post from five years ago, make Jude follow the footballer with a quickness. And to his surprise, he’d been given a follow back not even ten minutes later.
That sparked some news given both their roles in the public eye. Though it blew over just as quickly, given Jude’s younger brother was Jobe, a professional football player much like Erling. There wasn’t much more to make of it except they must’ve met, chatted, and eventually became friends.
Cool, nothing crazy, right?
Nothing crazy about having a random guy’s notifications on to alert whenever they posted. Jude did that all the time to his fellow artists and streaming mates. And, so what if he travelled a few places that Manchester City just so happened to be having a game in? Portugal and its beautiful beaches.
Stretford was proper decent at this time.
Norway too.
This was for work. Fueled the blogs and streams, landscape photos he could use for the next art exhibition coming up in early January. If it just so happened that he got enough free time to drag his manager to a specific game playing in that city or country, then so be it.
He loved football.
That is all it was – all he told Jobe, who seemed to pry more and more into why Jude wasn’t at any of his games as of recent. And why the background of his photos had looked eerily similar to a specific Norwegian footballer.
Bullshit.
Jude was going for the cities. For the food, culture, the open air and grassy meadows. For the fans that lined up at the airport after seeing his tweets about where he was headed next. He did it for those reasons and those only.
Which is why Jude could not be called a stalker, let alone a person who did things at the will of a certain blond who’d never even spoken to him after all these years they’ve followed each other.
That was fine.
Jude only ever made his presence known in the form of a like to whatever the man posted, nothing more, nothing less.
And if he started posting more stories himself after the blond started to like each one of them seconds after Jude posted. Especially ones with his face, then that happened to be mere coincidence as well.
All of it could be chalked up to just that.
Coincidence.
They were worlds apart, despite being in a close circle.
Jude could settle with that, be content with it, and was content with it. Let the thoughts linger about it during the day before focusing back on his tasks. Scrolled through a very curated timeline of the Manchester City team before bed as a nighttime ritual.
Wanked off every night to videos of people that happened to look like Erling Haaland. And, maybe, on occasion, a workout breakdown posted by Man City themselves of said footballer.
All normal activities.
Which is why Jude could not understand why Jobe, the devil's spawn this past month, was calling him a stalker.
He didn’t appreciate that one bit, and had much to say for it.
“What?” Drawled through the phone, obnoxious already. Jude placed it on speaker, laying the phone flat against the table. He didn’t respond right away, clearing his throat, prompting Jobe to bite out another, “What?”
“Shouldn’t you be apologizing?”
“The fuck are you on? Why do I need to apologize to you?”
“Oh, so now you’ve got amnesia.”
“Jude, what the hell you calling for? It’s late as hell?”
“Bro, it's barely ten.”
“Bruv, I got training in the morning,” he mocked right back.
Jackass.
“Why’d you call me a stalker?”
At that a moment of silence passed before the slow rumble of Jobe’s not so quiet laughter started up. Came about small before tumbling through the mic, coming out in chirped cackles. “No way. No way you’re pissing me right now. You called for that?”
“I’m just confused why I’m being labeled a stalker. I haven’t stalked anything before. Or anyone.”
“You’re pissing me.”
“No.”
“Jude.”
“Shut up.”
Another laugh, louder now. “You watch that giant bloke's page day in and day out. Mom told me she saw your phone open and three different apps with the search engine Erling Haaland in them.”
Fuck.
Jude’s face pinched up, top teeth digging into bottom lip. He was so glad they weren’t on FaceTime; Jobe would probably screenshot the pure mortification present.
“He’s just – interesting. Is all.”
That same bothersome laugh, if possible, even more boisterous than seconds ago. And if not for the time, and their dad's strict sleep schedule, he’d probably shake up the whole house.
“You suck,” Jude spits right into the mic. Real spit and all, as it speckled across the phone's screen.
“I would’ve let this slide, bro, but you called me.”
“Because you called me a stalker.”
“Yeah, but you deadass swiped up on his story to be a temporary personal chef.” Even as Jobe said these words, it sounded like some weird comedy horror slasher that made no fucking sense to either of their ears.
“I shouldn’t have told you this. Really, you’re going to laugh at me?”
“Hell, yes, I am. You can’t cook for shit, Jude; you aren’t good at anything with your hands besides taking photos.”
Well shit.
“I was good at football.”
“Piss off with it. You know you can’t cook anything besides eggs and toast, maybe canned beans. Blokes going to eat breakfast all day. He’ll show up to the next game half his ton.”
“Laugh it up, bud, but when I’m hired and living in Cheshire in that big ass house, you’re going to be begging me to get you a good word in.”
“Like hell I want a good word with that knob. I’m not over him kicking our ass.”
“That was two years ago, Jobe.”
“Yeah, two years you been stalking him too.”
Fuck.
Jude let out a dry laugh, standing up now, phone in hand. He didn’t know what to say, which was a first between the two. Jude was meant to be the talkative one, or at least the one that got under his little brother’s skin. As it stood, Jobe had successfully taken up the role.
From the other end, all tucked in Germany, cozy in bed and surely cheesing, Jobe spoke once more. “What’d you even say to him. Hi, my name's Jude, I’ve been stalking you for years, and I would like to volunteer as personal head chef for you. I can’t cook. Have no proof of cooking. Hate getting my hands dirty. And make a living taking pictures. Pleased to meet you.”
“You’re doing my head in, Jobe; I’m ‘bout to hang up.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be sour. I’m curious forreal, whadd’ya say?”
To tell Jobe or not, that is what Jude juggled in his head for all but ten seconds. He was already taking the piss at him; might as well lay it all out, least he be tormented even more. “I just said, like, if he can’t find anyone, I could try.”
“Deadass?”
“Yeah.”
“Blimey.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re so not getting hired.”
At this, Jude huffed out a whine, head falling back as one hand ran down it. He let it fall back up top, upon trimmed hair. “Don’t say that.”
“You can’t think, world-renowned Erling Haaland, who just competed in the World Cup, is going to hire a random to be his chef?”
“Temporary chef; it is lasting just till, like, he can find someone new. And I’m not a random dickwad.”
“That ain’t the point, idiot,” Jobe cackled. Then came a bit of shuffling, a few loud pressed fingers on a screen before another chuckle. “He took down the story.”
“No way? Already? It ain’t even been five hours.”
“Dude’s messages are probably flooded with people trying to get in; you should know that. I’ve seen your own messages.”
If Jude said he wasn’t miffed at the moment, he’d be lying. A real stink swelled in his core, making his lips tighten sour.
Realistically, he knew that what he asked, how lame he’d asked to begin with, wouldn’t lead to much. He’d become lost in the sea of messages and fan mail that came to Erling Haaland.
The man had always been a looker, but after the 2026 World Cup, where he’d brought Norway farther than ever seen before, the man became worldwide. All types of footage, some from ten years back and even more, started resurfacing. Old interviews where the giant was once youthful, pink-cheeked and snotty-nosed.
Jude had seen them all, of course, way before the World Cup.
It sucked still; even if he knew it wasn’t going to be, he couldn’t help but pout. And somehow, probably through their brotherly wavelength, Jobe had known.
His voice cut through the self-loathing. “Tighten up and check your messages; maybe he replied to you."
“I doubt it; I would’ve got a notification.”
“Your phone is like a timebomb, could’ve missed it in all the shit that pops up. Just check.”
“What if he rejected me?”
“Bro, just check.”
“…What if he left me on read?”
“Jude.”
“Or worse, what if he hasn’t even opened it?”
He heard Jobe take a sharp inhale, and really that should’ve been sign enough for him to pull the phone from his ear. Instead, he got an eardrum-bursting shout. “Just go check, you fucking nutter, before I hang up.”
Ok.
Jude moved to sit once more, placing the phone back to its original place on speaker. He swiped through the phone with a pointed finger. Tapped the app, squeezed eyes shut, cracked one open after a second, clicked on messages, and fastened them shut once more.
There is no way Erling fricking Haaland messaged him.
If he did, what would he say?
What could he say?
Why would he say it?
No, there would be no message, and that was fine, preferred actually. Jude had made a proper fool of himself for messaging to being with. Though it’d partially been out of jest, he’d let wants triumph over reality for a moment when sending the message. Something that he couldn’t even take back.
At the least, aside from rejection, Jude hoped it was left on delivered. Unopened would be better than seen or some type of awkwardly put together ‘no thanks’ that would surely come.
Please, anything but that.
Enough time seemed to pass before Jobe’s voice creaked from the speaker, startling Jude back to the present. “On with it, bro, I’m off to bed soon.”
“Shoot. Okay.” Eyes snapped open, albeit slowly.
“Well? Jude?
He could no longer respond, eyes peeled wide, staring at the screen, jaw slack.
Holy shit.