(no subject)
Title: Three Acts.
Rating: PG-13? I honestly have no idea.
Pairing: Timo Hildebrand/Philipp Lahm
Summary: Reminiscing in three acts.
Warning: Slash and (gasp) angst! Yes, this one is strangely angsty and long. I blame Valencia.
Disclaimer: All in my head.
Archive: Just ask!
Notes: This is by FAR the longest piece I’ve ever posted - just a bit over 1500 words. Go figure! Critiques are always good - seriously, don’t be afraid. It's disjointed and strange and mostly I'm not really sure where it came from. :D;
Philipp doesn’t watch the press conference, but he does watch the news coverage of it - sitting on his couch after supper, feeling tired and - more and more - like his recent vacation was far too brief. The television shows snippets of Timo’s shy Spanish - flipped, lilting r’s hidden behind a wry and slightly apologetic smile. The program cuts to a downtrodden Stuttgart fan, and then to teammates - each extolling bittersweet good wishes, playful anecdotes and best-of-lucks. Philipp watches and, for the life of him, doesn’t feel sad. Not happy, certainly, but not the twisting dread in the pit of his stomach that had emerged when it first became clear that Timo wouldn’t be renewing his contract.
This particular peculiar emotion isn’t natural, though. It’s practiced and just perfect enough to be suspicious if examined closely enough. But Philipp has even managed to fool himself, to an extent. He has laughed and joked and smiled so dutifully, congratulated so sincerely, and worked so hard to strip away any sign of wretched, selfish grief that he can almost believe that he isn’t bothered. But that act goes too deep, and the end result is that now, sitting on the couch and watching Timo glinting under the afternoon sun and lobbing a ball into the crowd, he feels distinctly separate from himself. Good Boy Lahm, who doesn’t spoil the moment with moping, and Philipp, who is barely containing the kind of horror and grief that he had previously thought reserved for hysterical movie heroines.
It isn’t that he isn’t happy for Timo, of course. Deep down, Philipp is exactly the sort of sentimental person who can say “if it makes you happy, it makes me happy,” without a hint of irony. And, after all, he left Stuttgart too, once.
He lingers on this thought for a moment, feeling much older than 23 for a moment. It’s an irritating side-affect of nostalgia - the ability to make even the most rosy-cheeked youths sigh and creak under the weight of memories long past. He smiles, despite himself. This is exactly the sort of navel gazing that drives his mother wild. “Philipp,” she would say, sitting and looking very beleaguered at the kitchen table, “when you find your first gray hair you’re free to reminisce lovingly, but until then? Hush.”
He does remember it clearly, though, those first days at Stuttgart -- heady with adrenaline and, though he would never have admitted it - fear. Philipp was well used to being handled with kid gloves, and was determined to prove that a new club (a new city, new faces) were nothing out of the ordinary. There was a distinct air of overcompensation to it, but he hadn’t ever been one to allow himself to be hindered by fears.
*
He had smiled nervously for what felt like days on end, slowly working his way into the center of the team - squeaky clean (and barely twenty, at that) and quick to laugh. For their part, his teammates welcomed him warmly into the fold - jostling about playfully in training and making jokes as though he had always been there. Little Philipp (a nickname that he was never sure if he ought to be put out by) who, as it turned out, was irresistible to even the coldest of them.
And Timo had been cold, at first, and intimidating. He was neither unfriendly nor arrogant, but his manner was distinctly reserved. There was a simple unwillingness to give too much away for free. Unfortunately, this made him impossible not to watch - and Philipp did - innocently, but not without the slightest bit of innocent greed to go along. Timo was tall and lean, making Philipp feel distinctly small next to his teammate. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling per se, if anything it was rather exciting. Timo’s reticence made him intriguing and certainly worthy of investigation. Philipp was indiscriminate with boyish smiles and kind words, and a cool response only served to pull him in closer. Close enough to make a careful study of long, quick fingers and that strong jaw. Timo, no doubt, learned something about determination then - for stubborn is still stubborn even when presented with crooked smiles and bright looks from across the room.
Soon it was impossible to avoid the good natured cracks about what an unlikely pair they were. Philipp found himself nearly overwhelmed with new things to learn; and there were many. As he had expected, Timo was not made of stone, but rather was a surprisingly witty (and certainly mischievous), weirdly tidy person. He could only cook three things successfully despite having a spotless kitchen (coffee, pancakes, ham sandwiches - grilled perfectly), he had a little cousin who he would gladly babble for hours about, and he could build a tower out of playing cards. Mostly, though, he was kinder than Philipp ever would have imagined and a better friend than he ever could have hoped for.
It was worth the teasing to have someone to hold on to, as maudlin as that sounded. Although he hated to admit it to himself, Philipp just wasn’t suited for being alone. It wasn’t that he needed attention, doting friends or people to entertain him it was that, after years of being surrounded by family (mother, father, ever-present older sister, grandparents chiding and offering advice, cousins milling about, people laughing loudly, cooking, playing games, filling every open space with noise) he was completely unprepared for the still, quiet moments that came along with having your very own Grown Up apartment. It was endlessly helpful to have someone breezing around, making sarcastic remarks at the television and cursing over the complexities of Playstation controllers.
Timo was a warm, welcome presence the house and, when needed, provided a place to escape to when it was too quiet to bear or, less dramatically, when there was cleaning to be avoided. Best of all, he didn’t seem to mind having Philipp around. He seemed perfectly content to be followed home from practice, watching his guest with the kind of amused affection that caused brought Philipp to his door night after night, food and various amusements in tow. It was this strange closeness (the familiar heaviness of Timo’s arm draped over his shoulders) that began to create equal parts fear and happiness in the pit of Philipp’s stomach. It’s easy enough to justify to himself - he’s young, and is it so wrong to want to be touched? He had made such a devoted study of the line of broad shoulders (carved himself such a careful little niche at the end of the couch) was it really so strange that it had come to this? But even in the most dire moments Philipp knew that - no matter how confusing this was - it was a grave injustice to brush it off as nothing. This was too raw, too persistent to be brushed off as nothing more than youthful hormones.
With each passing moment the chance that he’ll do something stupid and reckless increases, and it’s as though he can already foresee the nights that will no doubt be spent in utterly cliché, introspective turmoil.
*
The catalyst -- their catalyst - is disarmingly innocuous and, above all else, completely unromantic: a stairwell in Timo’s apartment building. It was as dark as anything and as cold as the frosty outside, the stairs slick with the melted snow left behind by chilled tenants tromping up and down the stairway in well-loved winter boots. Philipp’s cheeks smart with cold and their breath rises in clouds in front of them, barely illuminated by the light at the top of the stairs. It’s dark and, somehow, perfect. It’s clandestine and weirdly sacred in the dim lighting. There are no judgments to be made in gloomy stairwells and this makes is so much easier to, when he notices that Timo has stopped to retrieve his keys from multitudinous coat pockets, just continue walking until - finally, just like he wanted - they touch.
There’s a quiet moment, then, and Philipp is thankful for it. It’s that silent beat that gives him the courage to stay there, pressed flush against Timo’s back. It’s not wanton; if anything, there’s surrender to it - forehead bowed to press against the soft shoulder of his friend’s coat, hands resting lightly against the small of his back - and relief. It doesn’t seem so dangerous in the dark, like there’s the chance that they can just continue walking and step out into the hallway like nothing ever happened.
“Hey,” Timo breathes, and Philipp feels a thrill of excitement as the other man turns around (gingerly, lest they lose their footing).
It isn’t romantic. This is what Philipp likes best of all. It isn’t at all like the trite movies that his sister indulges in at home, where no one’s feet are ever stepped on, and no one ever fumbles with buttons and scarves. Timo’s fingers are cold against the back of his neck, tipping his head up so that their faces finally meet. The kiss is hot and unabashed and his mouth feels sore when he pulls away and, most of all, it’s not poetry, and that imperfection makes it infinitely less frightening. It just is.
Rating: PG-13? I honestly have no idea.
Pairing: Timo Hildebrand/Philipp Lahm
Summary: Reminiscing in three acts.
Warning: Slash and (gasp) angst! Yes, this one is strangely angsty and long. I blame Valencia.
Disclaimer: All in my head.
Archive: Just ask!
Notes: This is by FAR the longest piece I’ve ever posted - just a bit over 1500 words. Go figure! Critiques are always good - seriously, don’t be afraid. It's disjointed and strange and mostly I'm not really sure where it came from. :D;
Philipp doesn’t watch the press conference, but he does watch the news coverage of it - sitting on his couch after supper, feeling tired and - more and more - like his recent vacation was far too brief. The television shows snippets of Timo’s shy Spanish - flipped, lilting r’s hidden behind a wry and slightly apologetic smile. The program cuts to a downtrodden Stuttgart fan, and then to teammates - each extolling bittersweet good wishes, playful anecdotes and best-of-lucks. Philipp watches and, for the life of him, doesn’t feel sad. Not happy, certainly, but not the twisting dread in the pit of his stomach that had emerged when it first became clear that Timo wouldn’t be renewing his contract.
This particular peculiar emotion isn’t natural, though. It’s practiced and just perfect enough to be suspicious if examined closely enough. But Philipp has even managed to fool himself, to an extent. He has laughed and joked and smiled so dutifully, congratulated so sincerely, and worked so hard to strip away any sign of wretched, selfish grief that he can almost believe that he isn’t bothered. But that act goes too deep, and the end result is that now, sitting on the couch and watching Timo glinting under the afternoon sun and lobbing a ball into the crowd, he feels distinctly separate from himself. Good Boy Lahm, who doesn’t spoil the moment with moping, and Philipp, who is barely containing the kind of horror and grief that he had previously thought reserved for hysterical movie heroines.
It isn’t that he isn’t happy for Timo, of course. Deep down, Philipp is exactly the sort of sentimental person who can say “if it makes you happy, it makes me happy,” without a hint of irony. And, after all, he left Stuttgart too, once.
He lingers on this thought for a moment, feeling much older than 23 for a moment. It’s an irritating side-affect of nostalgia - the ability to make even the most rosy-cheeked youths sigh and creak under the weight of memories long past. He smiles, despite himself. This is exactly the sort of navel gazing that drives his mother wild. “Philipp,” she would say, sitting and looking very beleaguered at the kitchen table, “when you find your first gray hair you’re free to reminisce lovingly, but until then? Hush.”
He does remember it clearly, though, those first days at Stuttgart -- heady with adrenaline and, though he would never have admitted it - fear. Philipp was well used to being handled with kid gloves, and was determined to prove that a new club (a new city, new faces) were nothing out of the ordinary. There was a distinct air of overcompensation to it, but he hadn’t ever been one to allow himself to be hindered by fears.
*
He had smiled nervously for what felt like days on end, slowly working his way into the center of the team - squeaky clean (and barely twenty, at that) and quick to laugh. For their part, his teammates welcomed him warmly into the fold - jostling about playfully in training and making jokes as though he had always been there. Little Philipp (a nickname that he was never sure if he ought to be put out by) who, as it turned out, was irresistible to even the coldest of them.
And Timo had been cold, at first, and intimidating. He was neither unfriendly nor arrogant, but his manner was distinctly reserved. There was a simple unwillingness to give too much away for free. Unfortunately, this made him impossible not to watch - and Philipp did - innocently, but not without the slightest bit of innocent greed to go along. Timo was tall and lean, making Philipp feel distinctly small next to his teammate. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling per se, if anything it was rather exciting. Timo’s reticence made him intriguing and certainly worthy of investigation. Philipp was indiscriminate with boyish smiles and kind words, and a cool response only served to pull him in closer. Close enough to make a careful study of long, quick fingers and that strong jaw. Timo, no doubt, learned something about determination then - for stubborn is still stubborn even when presented with crooked smiles and bright looks from across the room.
Soon it was impossible to avoid the good natured cracks about what an unlikely pair they were. Philipp found himself nearly overwhelmed with new things to learn; and there were many. As he had expected, Timo was not made of stone, but rather was a surprisingly witty (and certainly mischievous), weirdly tidy person. He could only cook three things successfully despite having a spotless kitchen (coffee, pancakes, ham sandwiches - grilled perfectly), he had a little cousin who he would gladly babble for hours about, and he could build a tower out of playing cards. Mostly, though, he was kinder than Philipp ever would have imagined and a better friend than he ever could have hoped for.
It was worth the teasing to have someone to hold on to, as maudlin as that sounded. Although he hated to admit it to himself, Philipp just wasn’t suited for being alone. It wasn’t that he needed attention, doting friends or people to entertain him it was that, after years of being surrounded by family (mother, father, ever-present older sister, grandparents chiding and offering advice, cousins milling about, people laughing loudly, cooking, playing games, filling every open space with noise) he was completely unprepared for the still, quiet moments that came along with having your very own Grown Up apartment. It was endlessly helpful to have someone breezing around, making sarcastic remarks at the television and cursing over the complexities of Playstation controllers.
Timo was a warm, welcome presence the house and, when needed, provided a place to escape to when it was too quiet to bear or, less dramatically, when there was cleaning to be avoided. Best of all, he didn’t seem to mind having Philipp around. He seemed perfectly content to be followed home from practice, watching his guest with the kind of amused affection that caused brought Philipp to his door night after night, food and various amusements in tow. It was this strange closeness (the familiar heaviness of Timo’s arm draped over his shoulders) that began to create equal parts fear and happiness in the pit of Philipp’s stomach. It’s easy enough to justify to himself - he’s young, and is it so wrong to want to be touched? He had made such a devoted study of the line of broad shoulders (carved himself such a careful little niche at the end of the couch) was it really so strange that it had come to this? But even in the most dire moments Philipp knew that - no matter how confusing this was - it was a grave injustice to brush it off as nothing. This was too raw, too persistent to be brushed off as nothing more than youthful hormones.
With each passing moment the chance that he’ll do something stupid and reckless increases, and it’s as though he can already foresee the nights that will no doubt be spent in utterly cliché, introspective turmoil.
*
The catalyst -- their catalyst - is disarmingly innocuous and, above all else, completely unromantic: a stairwell in Timo’s apartment building. It was as dark as anything and as cold as the frosty outside, the stairs slick with the melted snow left behind by chilled tenants tromping up and down the stairway in well-loved winter boots. Philipp’s cheeks smart with cold and their breath rises in clouds in front of them, barely illuminated by the light at the top of the stairs. It’s dark and, somehow, perfect. It’s clandestine and weirdly sacred in the dim lighting. There are no judgments to be made in gloomy stairwells and this makes is so much easier to, when he notices that Timo has stopped to retrieve his keys from multitudinous coat pockets, just continue walking until - finally, just like he wanted - they touch.
There’s a quiet moment, then, and Philipp is thankful for it. It’s that silent beat that gives him the courage to stay there, pressed flush against Timo’s back. It’s not wanton; if anything, there’s surrender to it - forehead bowed to press against the soft shoulder of his friend’s coat, hands resting lightly against the small of his back - and relief. It doesn’t seem so dangerous in the dark, like there’s the chance that they can just continue walking and step out into the hallway like nothing ever happened.
“Hey,” Timo breathes, and Philipp feels a thrill of excitement as the other man turns around (gingerly, lest they lose their footing).
It isn’t romantic. This is what Philipp likes best of all. It isn’t at all like the trite movies that his sister indulges in at home, where no one’s feet are ever stepped on, and no one ever fumbles with buttons and scarves. Timo’s fingers are cold against the back of his neck, tipping his head up so that their faces finally meet. The kiss is hot and unabashed and his mouth feels sore when he pulls away and, most of all, it’s not poetry, and that imperfection makes it infinitely less frightening. It just is.