Chapter Text
“You did what?” Jobe’s voice echoes through the living room, his tone caught somewhere between disbelief and pure exhaustion. He’s standing there, arms crossed, looking like he’s genuinely about to give up on his older brother.
“Oh, God,” he mutters, dragging his hands down his face like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. “Bro, I swear you’re mad sometimes.”
Jude, sitting casually on the couch like he’s done nothing wrong, shrugs and picks at the edge of his hoodie sleeve. “What?” he says, all innocent-like. But there’s that little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“What?” Jobe repeats, his voice going up an octave as he throws his arms out. “You always aimed high, Jude, but with the goat? ” His face twists like he can’t even believe the words coming out of his mouth. “Are you ‘avin a laugh?”
Jude bursts out laughing, leaning forward as he grabs a napkin off the coffee table and throws it at his younger brother. “Oi, stop makin’ me feel bad about it!” he says, still grinning.
“You don’t feel bad about it!” Jobe fires back, catching the napkin mid-air. His voice drops suddenly, lower and sharper, his eyes narrowing like he’s about to interrogate him. “And that’s the problem, innit? You’ve got a serious issue, Jude. Like, proper serious .”
Jude rolls his eyes, leaning back on the couch with a dramatic sigh. “It’s not that deep, Jobe.”
“Not that deep?” Jobe steps forward, looking absolutely done with him now. “Not that deep? You—” He shakes his head, like he can’t even get the words out. “You’re out ‘ere talkin’ about tryna impress Kylian bloody Mbappé like he’s some lad from round the corner!”
Jude raises his eyebrows, his smirk turning cheeky. “Well, he is just some lad. He’s just… really, really good at footy.”
“Mate,” Jobe says flatly, his hand back on his face, “you’ve lost the plot. Fully gone. Ain’t no comin’ back from this.”
Jude can’t help himself—he starts laughing again, his shoulders shaking as Jobe just stares at him in disbelief. “You’re impossible,” Jobe mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile now, despite himself.
“You talked after it?” Jobe asks, his voice quieter now, more curious than anything. He’s sitting on the arm of the sofa, his arms crossed, studying Jude like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on in his head.
Jude’s grin falters. His gaze drops, and he suddenly looks very interested in the pattern of the carpet. “Nope,” he says, the word quick and clipped.
Jobe raises a brow, tilting his head. “Nope?”
“Nope,” Jude repeats, still not looking at him. He shifts uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. “He’s, uh… acting like nothing happened.”
Jobe blinks. “You…what?”
Jude shrugs, trying to play it off, but the way his knee’s bouncing gives him away. “He’s just… chillin’. Like it’s all normal.”
Jobe stares at him, his jaw slowly dropping as the reality sinks in. “Hang on, so after the two of you—” He pauses, gesturing vaguely, like the words are too much to say out loud. “You’ve not said a word? Nothin’?!”
“I tried,” Jude mutters, finally looking up. “After the game, I thought, y’know, maybe we’d… chat or summat. But nah. He just… nodded at me. A nod, Jobe.”
Jobe’s lips press into a thin line, and then he bursts out laughing, doubling over. “A nod? Nah, mate, that’s mad. The Mbappé nod of death! ” He laughs harder, holding his stomach.
Jude throws a cushion at him, his face bright red. “It’s not funny!”
“It’s hilarious!” Jobe manages between wheezes. “You’re sittin’ ‘ere stressin’ while he’s probably out there practicin’ penalties like nothin’ even happened!”
Jude groans, covering his face with both hands. “You’re the worst, you know that?”
Jobe wipes at his eyes, still grinning. “Nah, mate, you’re the worst—for getting yourself in this mess in the first place. What’re you even gonna do?”
Jude lowers his hands, staring at his brother like he’s waiting for an answer himself. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I don’t know.”
“You were the one who dived his hands in his shorts!” Jobe exclaims, pointing an accusatory finger at Jude, his voice full of disbelief.
“Oi!” Jude snaps, his face instantly turning a deep shade of red. “Keep your voice down!” He glances over his shoulder as if someone might magically appear behind him and overhear.
Jobe doesn’t lower his voice one bit. “Nah, don’t you ‘oi’ me, Jude! You did it, mate. You started all this. So if anyone’s doin’ the talk, it’s you.”
Jude groans, collapsing back into the couch. “You think I don’t know that?” he mutters, his hands covering his face.
“Then why haven’t you done it yet?” Jobe demands, standing over him now like an angry teacher. “You two are supposed to be friends, ain’t ya? He should care. At least enough to talk.”
Jude lets out a long sigh, dragging his hands down his face before looking up at his brother. “I know, alright? I know he should care. But he’s Kylian, yeah? He’s not like anyone else.”
Jobe narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Jude starts, his voice quieter now, “he doesn’t let anyone get close, does he? Like, he’s always got that wall up. You know what he’s like—he’s so focused on football, it’s like nothing else even matters.”
Jobe snorts, crossing his arms. “Yeah, well, maybe that’s true for everyone else. But you? Nah. You lot were thick as thieves at one point. Always laughin’ and messing about. Don’t tell me he don’t care, ‘cause that’s rubbish.”
Jude hesitates, his eyes flicking away. “It’s different now.”
“How?”
Jude shakes his head, the words sticking in his throat. He doesn’t know how to explain it—how the locker room moment shifted everything between them. How Kylian’s silence since then feels heavier than anything he’s ever experienced on the pitch.
“It just is,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jobe looks at him for a long moment, his expression softening just slightly. Then he leans down, gripping Jude’s shoulder. “Mate, you’re overthinkin’ it. You gotta talk to him. You’ve come too far to let it end like this.”
Jude sighs, leaning his head back against the couch. “Yeah, maybe.”
Jobe straightens up, smirking now. “Not maybe. Definitely. And don’t forget—you started it , so it’s on you to sort it out.”
Jude groans, throwing another cushion at him. “I swear, Jobe, one more word—” But Jobe’s already laughing as he ducks out of the way, his voice echoing through the room.
Jude stares at his phone, the screen glowing in the dim light of his room. His thumb hovers over the keyboard, hesitating for what feels like forever. Finally, he types:
You awake?
The second he hits send, he groans and drops his head back onto the pillow. “You awake?” he mutters to himself, mocking his own words. “Could I be any more cliché?”
He tosses the phone onto the nightstand and rubs his hands over his face, feeling the weight of the whole situation settle onto his chest. A part of him hopes—no, wants —Kylian to reply right away. Maybe even something simple, something normal, like they used to do. But he knows better.
Minutes tick by, and the phone stays silent. Jude sits up, staring at it, the little notification light mocking him in its stillness. “Come on,” he mutters. But nothing comes.
Eventually, he gives up. Tossing the blanket over himself, he buries his face into the pillow and forces his eyes shut, though sleep doesn’t come easy.
When Jude wakes up the next morning, sunlight spilling through the curtains, his first instinct is to grab his phone. He blinks against the brightness of the screen, scrolling through notifications until he sees it—Kylian’s name.
He swipes it open, his heart jumping for a split second before the message sinks in:
Sorry, was already asleep.
That’s it. Nothing else. No follow-up, no warmth. Just a cold, simple apology.
Jude stares at the words, his chest tightening. Deep down, he knows. Knows Kylian wasn’t asleep, knows the message is a lie. Knows the distance between them isn’t just about time zones or schedules anymore—it’s something heavier, something unspoken.
He lets the phone drop to his chest, exhaling slowly. “Brilliant,” he mutters to himself. “Absolutely brilliant.”
For a moment, he thinks about replying, but the knot in his stomach stops him. Instead, he tosses the phone aside and rolls out of bed, determined to distract himself.
But even as he moves through the motions of the day, Kylian’s name lingers in the back of his mind, along with the growing question: What the hell happens now?
“Oi, wakey, wakey!” Mark Bellingham’s voice booms through the hallway, followed by a sharp thud thud thud of his foot kicking Jude’s door.
Jude groans, dragging the blanket over his head. “Alright, alright!” he calls back, his voice muffled.
“No ‘alright,’ lad. Get up! Breakfast’s on, and you ain’t skippin’ it,” Mark replies, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Jude sighs, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. His phone rests beside him on the bed, the screen dark, Kylian’s message still fresh in his mind. He picks it up for a second, his thumb hovering over the text, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, he locks the screen and sets it down firmly on the nightstand.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his face as he mutters to himself, “Right. Christmas. Home. No Madrid, no… no Kylian.” The name feels heavy on his tongue, and for a moment, he wishes he could shove the thought of him as far away as the city he’s left behind.
Jude stands and stretches, his bare feet padding across the cool floor as he pulls on a hoodie and heads downstairs.
The smell of bacon and eggs greets him as he enters the kitchen, where Jobe is already sitting at the table, scrolling on his phone with a smirk. “Morning, superstar,” he says without looking up.
“Morning,” Jude replies, plopping into the chair next to him.
Mark turns from the stove, spatula in hand. “There he is. You better eat up—we’re poppin’ to Nan’s later, and she’ll have your life if you don’t look like you’ve eaten properly.”
Jude nods, mumbling his thanks as Mark plates up some breakfast for him. He’s glad to be home, he realizes, even if Jobe’s been giving him stick about everything lately. Madrid feels a world away right now, and that’s a good thing.
He takes a bite of toast, glancing at Jobe, who’s still smirking at his phone. “What’s so funny?” Jude asks, more out of habit than actual curiosity.
Jobe sets his phone down, his smirk widening. “Just thinkin’ how glad you are to finally talk to me about that, y’know. Considering you’re too chicken to talk to him.”
Jude shoots him a glare, but Jobe only grins wider.
“Oi, leave him alone,” Mark says, without having an idea what Jobe is talking about, sitting down across from them. “It’s Christmas, Jobe. Can’t you give him one day’s peace?”
Jobe shrugs, popping a piece of bacon into his mouth. “Not when it’s funny.”
Jude groans, slumping in his chair. But deep down, he’s grateful. Grateful that he’s home, that he’s talked to someone—even if it’s just Jobe—about what happened.
Because even if Kylian won’t talk to him about it, at least Jude’s not carrying it alone anymore.
“Hey, Kyks.”
Achraf punches Kylian’s arm lightly, his voice casual, but there’s an edge of concern in it. Kylian flinches, more out of annoyance than pain, and shrugs him off.
“I’m fine,” he mutters.
“Are you?” Achraf presses, narrowing his eyes.
Before Kylian can answer, Dembele slides into the scene, his usual grin plastered on his face. “C’mere!” Ousmane says, throwing an arm around Kylian’s neck like they’re kids in the schoolyard.
Kylian pulls away instantly, his jaw tightening. “Don’t,” he snaps, sharper than he means to.
Ousmane steps back, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No need to bite my head off, bro.”
“Told you, I’m okay,” Kylian says, his voice low, a hint of a whine sneaking in that he hates. He can feel their eyes on him, knows they’re exchanging those looks —the ones that say they know him too well to buy any of his excuses.
“Kyks,” Achraf says again, softer this time. “What’s goin’ on? You’ve been off for days.”
“Nothing,” Kylian snaps, running a hand over his face. “Can we drop it?”
Achraf doesn’t move, just crosses his arms and leans against the locker room wall, his expression unreadable but steady. Ousmane, always the joker, fidgets with shirt but stays quiet for once.
The silence feels unbearable, like they’re waiting for him to crack.
Kylian exhales harshly, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Seriously. I’m fine.” He pushes past them, heading for the door.
But as he steps out into the warm Dubai air, the truth gnaws at him. He’s not fine. Far from it.
And the worst part? Achraf and Ousmane know it. They can see the cracks forming, even if Kylian does everything he can to hide them.
What he hates most, though, is how much he wants to talk about it. About Jude. About the way things spiraled that night. About how he keeps replaying it in his mind, over and over, and still doesn’t know what to do.
But talking about it would mean admitting it happened. And Kylian’s not ready for that. Not yet.
So he keeps walking, head down, pretending that if he avoids the problem long enough, it might just disappear.
Jude steps out onto the balcony of their suite, the view of Dubai’s glittering skyline stretching endlessly before him. The city feels alive in a way that should be thrilling, but all he feels is a tight knot in his chest.
He leans against the railing, the warm breeze ruffling his hair. In the back of his mind, Jobe’s voice echoes relentlessly:
Talk to him. You started it, you talk to him.
Jude scowls at the thought, shaking his head. “Bloody easier said than done,” he mutters under his breath.
He knows Kylian is still in Dubai. Of course he knows. Kylian Mbappé breathing is practically headline news. Every move he makes is plastered across Twitter, Instagram, and every sports site imaginable. Jude swears he’s not stalking him—it’s just hard not to see. At least, that’s what he tells himself.
His phone is already in his hand, the screen lighting up with a notification from Twitter. He locks it quickly, pretending it wasn’t there, pretending he wasn’t just scrolling through a thread speculating on Kylian’s plans for the Global Soccer Awards.
“Jude?” His mum’s voice floats through the suite, tinged with concern. He glances back to see her leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You alright, luv?”
“Yeah, fine,” he lies, forcing a smile.
She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push. “We’ve got to leave soon for the press stuff. You ready?”
“Yeah,” he says again, nodding quickly. “I’ll be down in a sec.”
As she disappears back into the suite, Jude exhales slowly. His thumb hovers over his phone screen, and before he can second-guess himself, he opens his messages.
There’s Kylian’s name, right at the top. The last thing Jude sent him was that stupid You awake? text, and the cold response still stings when he thinks about it.
But Jobe’s voice rings in his head again, louder this time. You started it, you talk to him.
He takes a deep breath and types:
I’m in Dubai.
The words stare back at him, simple and direct. He hesitates for a moment, his thumb hovering over the send button. His heart feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of his chest.
Finally, he presses send.
The message delivers instantly, and he stares at it like it might explode.
Jude locks his phone and shoves it into his pocket, stepping back into the room. His mum glances at him as he grabs his jacket, her worried gaze lingering.
“Ready now?” she asks.
“Yeah,” Jude says, forcing another smile.
But as they head out, his mind is already spinning, wondering if Kylian’s seen the message. If he’ll reply.
If they’ll finally talk.
Achraf leans against the doorframe, watching as Kylian scrolls through his phone. He’s seen the look on Kylian’s face too many times before—stressed, distracted, and then something else, something softer that hints at a deeper frustration. As Kylian’s thumb pauses on the screen, his face shifts. He looks... sad.
“Kyks,” Achraf says, his voice cautious. “What’s up?”
Kylian doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he stares at his phone, biting his lip as if he’s debating something. He finally sets the phone down, running a hand through his face.
“I’m coming with you,” Kylian says abruptly, as if the decision is already made.
Achraf raises an eyebrow, thrown off by the sudden shift. “Wait, what? I thought you were going to the awards?” He was just on the phone with Ronaldo this morning.
Kylian shrugs it off, though there’s a slight tightness in his voice. “Nah. I missed your mama’s food. We should visit her.”
Achraf stares at him for a moment, unsure if Kylian’s hiding something or just avoiding the inevitable—whatever it is that’s clearly weighing on him. He doesn’t push, though. Kylian’s always been like this, keeping things close to the chest, refusing to talk when he’s upset.
“Alright then,” Achraf finally says with a smile, leaning off the doorframe. “The flight is in an hour, better pack your shit.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s about time you visited her anyway. She’s gonna be happy to see you.”
Kylian gives a small nod, his lips pulling into a half-smile, but there’s still something distant in his eyes. He picks up his phone again, but this time, he leaves the screen face down, clearly not wanting to engage with whatever’s waiting for him there.
Achraf catches the brief glance Kylian gives it, but he doesn’t ask. He knows better. Whatever’s bothering him, Kylian doesn’t want to talk about it. Not yet, anyway.
The awards show is in full swing, the room buzzing with excitement as athletes and celebrities from all over the world sit together under the blinding lights. Jude’s mother is snapping pictures of him, her smile as bright as ever. But Jude’s attention keeps flickering to the empty seat between him and Ronaldo—the one that was probably reserved for Kylian.
The whole night feels off. Despite the dazzling displays and the spotlight on him, his thoughts keep drifting to the message he sent earlier. I’m in Dubai. And how Kylian hasn’t replied. How he still hasn’t replied.
The ceremony drags on, the glittering trophies and grand speeches failing to distract Jude for long. Every time he sees a pair of eyes glance in his direction, every time the spotlight flickers on someone else’s face, it feels like he’s searching for something, someone, who’s not there.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, his phone buzzes in his pocket.
Jude’s heart skips as he pulls it out, unlocking the screen quickly. It’s from Kylian.
Sorry bro. Fell asleep on the flight. Heading to Morocco now.
The words sit there, like a slap in the face.
Jude can feel the anger rising, the frustration bubbling over. He wants to scream, wants to block Kylian’s number immediately, or just storm out of the venue. He imagines smashing his phone, throwing it against the nearest wall. But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he stares at the message for far too long, his hands shaking.
He forces a smile as his mother urges him to sit up straight for another photo. He nods along, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy, even though everything inside him feels completely wrecked.
The ceremony ends later, and Jude retreats to his hotel room, trying to shake off the weight of the evening. As he scrolls through Instagram, he comes across Kylian’s comment under his latest post—a photo of Jude sitting proudly with his awards.
My g 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
Jude stares at it for a moment, something cold spreading through him. He wants to laugh, but the humor doesn’t reach him. Instead, all he feels is a growing sense of betrayal—of being strung along.
Without thinking twice, Jude pulls up Kylian’s contact and hits “block.”
The action is final, the decision made in an instant. But as soon as the block is confirmed, Jude leans back against the bed, exhaling slowly.
And for the first time all night, he feels a tiny bit lighter.