(no subject)
However You Throw the Dice
Author: ladyhurt
Characters: Hamit Altintop, Toni Kroos, Halil Altintop
Warnings: None. Just mush and emo here.
A/N: For wispykitty, who asked for Hamit talking to a teammate about how much he misses Halil. I chose Kroos because of her deep, dirty love for him. Stubby :) I know absolutely nothing about him, despite how hard alex_andras and I worked to dig dirt up on him, so please do not expect deep insight into his character. Or, um, accuracy in details.
Unbeta'd.
Hamit hung back after practise, taking longer than usual to stash his cleats and practise kit. Slowly the room emptied itself of its tired occupants, one by one each player saying his goodbyes and heading back home to his wife, girlfriend, partner, dog, whatever. Hamit had no one waiting for him, nothing but a cold apartment and twenty unpacked boxes in his spare room, so he didn’t bother to hurry.
The kit room was empty when Hamit sat heavily on the bench and dropped his head into his hands. Behind his eyelids was black relief. Hamit wished for one second he could look around and not see a single fleck of goddamned red, just for once. He let out a long sigh and scrubbed angrily at his face. His eyes were feeling hot and prickly, but damn if he was going to cry, like the little girl Halil always said he was, in the middle of the Bayern change room.
Just then, the door banged open, and into the kit room fell one Toni Kroos, swearing up a storm and not even noticing Hamit for a moment.
“Damnit! Goddamn forgetful bast--” he looked up and noticed Hamit, starting noticeably. “Oh, Jesus, Altintop, I didn’t see you there, I just forgot something in my locker.” Toni was turning an amusing shade of red. Hamit blinked up at him, then coughed into his hand, trying not to look like he was having a small breakdown in the kit room, alone. Toni struggled to claw open his locker, while taking small glances over at his teammate.
“You okay?” he asked, carefully. Hamit raised one eyebrow at him.
“Yeah, sure. Just, uh, a little homesick,” he admitted, shrugging one shoulder upwards. He got up to fumble around in his locker, pretending everything he needed to take home wasn’t already stacked beside him. Just needing something to do with his hands.
“Oh,” Toni replied awkwardly. “I- I get that, I mean, I guess I’ve had more time to get used to it, but it sucks, I know.” Toni’s hands in his locker had stilled, and he was looking at Hamit in a way that made Hamit worry this was going to turn into some big girly discussion or something. He didn’t want to look like some sap who needed a shoulder to cry on. Wondering how to wipe his eyes without looking suspicious, Hamit just nodded and slowly went to close his locker door. His eyes caught on the photo stuck there, Halil and he wrestling on the ground in their Schalke kits, laughing stupidly. He fingered the corner, bent slightly from where Halil had shoved it into the envelope. He didn’t turn it over, but knew that on the back, in Halil’s usual scrawl, the words Wish you were here were inked there.
Hamit jumped slightly when Toni’s hand fell onto his shoulder. He closed the locker door and sat heavily down on the bench.
“You miss your brother?” Hamit asked suddenly, needing suddenly to get something out, quickly, not knowing how. Toni sat down beside him, close enough for their thighs to touch even with the miles and miles of empty bench around them. He looked relaxed and genuine, like he had nothing better to do but sit and mope with Hamit. Hamit thought with resignation that the next package Halil sent should have chocolate and tampons.
“Sure. I mean, I miss my whole family, you know, but he and I aren’t all that close. When he was growing up I was playing football all the time, and well, he’s more into school. Maths and all that.” Toni shrugged apologetically, an elegant rise and fall of one shoulder.
Hamit nodded politely, although secretly he didn’t understand. Missing Halil was like missing a limb, like missing part of his heart, like missing one half of us. This was an impossible feeling to describe, unfathomable to one who had never experienced it. Toni was too young to understand this feeling of missing. What did Toni understand of this, with a new girlfriend every week and friends who he partied with but never expected to finish his sentences, or know his thoughts before he even considered voicing them?
“You know the longest we’ve been apart, Halil and me?” Hamit asked suddenly. Toni shook his head. “One week. We were eleven, and Halil went to this totally lame art camp.” Toni snorted, but covered his mouth to hide his smile. Hamit didn’t bother. “I know, I know. But how do you go from one week to 4 months?” Toni went quiet, thinking about it. Hamit didn’t tell him he cried for hours the night Halil went away. Or that he currently awoke every morning gripped with fear to an empty house, and every night went to sleep with a feeling as if something was tearing within his chest.
“I don’t know,” Hamit started again, then quieted. Toni was watching him carefully, and he scrubbed the hair on the back of his neck nervously. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this. Here.”
It was a vague innuendo of a statement, but Toni stiffened as if Hamit had announced early retirement.
“Hamit,” his voice was calm. “Today you passed me the ball on the field. Do you remember?”
Hamit looked up briefly, brow wrinkled, and nodded. Toni continued, “And I put that ball right over Oli’s gloves, right into the back of the net.” Toni smiled faintly. “We’re going to do that on the field one day, you and me--or, or maybe it’ll be you and Phil, or me and Franck, or whoever, it doesn’t matter, but listen: we’ll score and keep scoring, keep winning right to the top, and one day you and Halil will be sitting on your back porch in Gelsenkirchen or Friedberg or Tübingen, or some godawful backwater Turkish village,” Hamit glared and shoved Toni, who laughed but kept on: “And you can boast how in 2008 you stole the cup from him, and he’ll probably make fun of you for wearing blue shoes with your kit, and then you’ll move on to talk about other things: your kids, your retirement, the Red Sox, hell if I know, whatever dumb shit you two talk about in the wee hours of the morning like 13-year-old girls at a slumber party,” Toni probably would have continued had Hamit not shoved him into his locker. He was snorting with laughter and stuck his tongue out when he was out of reach.
Hamit snorted and grinned, shaking his head at the kid’s antics. But he was right, Hamit knew he was right. Bayern was a beautiful dream, a dream now come true, but it was just a blink. On the plain of life that spread out before him, there was football and Bayern and Schalke and the stupidest of rivalries; and then there was Halil, the unwavering linearity in his life through which all other things intersected.
If he kept down that line, he would be okay.
Author: ladyhurt
Characters: Hamit Altintop, Toni Kroos, Halil Altintop
Warnings: None. Just mush and emo here.
A/N: For wispykitty, who asked for Hamit talking to a teammate about how much he misses Halil. I chose Kroos because of her deep, dirty love for him. Stubby :) I know absolutely nothing about him, despite how hard alex_andras and I worked to dig dirt up on him, so please do not expect deep insight into his character. Or, um, accuracy in details.
Unbeta'd.
Hamit hung back after practise, taking longer than usual to stash his cleats and practise kit. Slowly the room emptied itself of its tired occupants, one by one each player saying his goodbyes and heading back home to his wife, girlfriend, partner, dog, whatever. Hamit had no one waiting for him, nothing but a cold apartment and twenty unpacked boxes in his spare room, so he didn’t bother to hurry.
The kit room was empty when Hamit sat heavily on the bench and dropped his head into his hands. Behind his eyelids was black relief. Hamit wished for one second he could look around and not see a single fleck of goddamned red, just for once. He let out a long sigh and scrubbed angrily at his face. His eyes were feeling hot and prickly, but damn if he was going to cry, like the little girl Halil always said he was, in the middle of the Bayern change room.
Just then, the door banged open, and into the kit room fell one Toni Kroos, swearing up a storm and not even noticing Hamit for a moment.
“Damnit! Goddamn forgetful bast--” he looked up and noticed Hamit, starting noticeably. “Oh, Jesus, Altintop, I didn’t see you there, I just forgot something in my locker.” Toni was turning an amusing shade of red. Hamit blinked up at him, then coughed into his hand, trying not to look like he was having a small breakdown in the kit room, alone. Toni struggled to claw open his locker, while taking small glances over at his teammate.
“You okay?” he asked, carefully. Hamit raised one eyebrow at him.
“Yeah, sure. Just, uh, a little homesick,” he admitted, shrugging one shoulder upwards. He got up to fumble around in his locker, pretending everything he needed to take home wasn’t already stacked beside him. Just needing something to do with his hands.
“Oh,” Toni replied awkwardly. “I- I get that, I mean, I guess I’ve had more time to get used to it, but it sucks, I know.” Toni’s hands in his locker had stilled, and he was looking at Hamit in a way that made Hamit worry this was going to turn into some big girly discussion or something. He didn’t want to look like some sap who needed a shoulder to cry on. Wondering how to wipe his eyes without looking suspicious, Hamit just nodded and slowly went to close his locker door. His eyes caught on the photo stuck there, Halil and he wrestling on the ground in their Schalke kits, laughing stupidly. He fingered the corner, bent slightly from where Halil had shoved it into the envelope. He didn’t turn it over, but knew that on the back, in Halil’s usual scrawl, the words Wish you were here were inked there.
Hamit jumped slightly when Toni’s hand fell onto his shoulder. He closed the locker door and sat heavily down on the bench.
“You miss your brother?” Hamit asked suddenly, needing suddenly to get something out, quickly, not knowing how. Toni sat down beside him, close enough for their thighs to touch even with the miles and miles of empty bench around them. He looked relaxed and genuine, like he had nothing better to do but sit and mope with Hamit. Hamit thought with resignation that the next package Halil sent should have chocolate and tampons.
“Sure. I mean, I miss my whole family, you know, but he and I aren’t all that close. When he was growing up I was playing football all the time, and well, he’s more into school. Maths and all that.” Toni shrugged apologetically, an elegant rise and fall of one shoulder.
Hamit nodded politely, although secretly he didn’t understand. Missing Halil was like missing a limb, like missing part of his heart, like missing one half of us. This was an impossible feeling to describe, unfathomable to one who had never experienced it. Toni was too young to understand this feeling of missing. What did Toni understand of this, with a new girlfriend every week and friends who he partied with but never expected to finish his sentences, or know his thoughts before he even considered voicing them?
“You know the longest we’ve been apart, Halil and me?” Hamit asked suddenly. Toni shook his head. “One week. We were eleven, and Halil went to this totally lame art camp.” Toni snorted, but covered his mouth to hide his smile. Hamit didn’t bother. “I know, I know. But how do you go from one week to 4 months?” Toni went quiet, thinking about it. Hamit didn’t tell him he cried for hours the night Halil went away. Or that he currently awoke every morning gripped with fear to an empty house, and every night went to sleep with a feeling as if something was tearing within his chest.
“I don’t know,” Hamit started again, then quieted. Toni was watching him carefully, and he scrubbed the hair on the back of his neck nervously. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this. Here.”
It was a vague innuendo of a statement, but Toni stiffened as if Hamit had announced early retirement.
“Hamit,” his voice was calm. “Today you passed me the ball on the field. Do you remember?”
Hamit looked up briefly, brow wrinkled, and nodded. Toni continued, “And I put that ball right over Oli’s gloves, right into the back of the net.” Toni smiled faintly. “We’re going to do that on the field one day, you and me--or, or maybe it’ll be you and Phil, or me and Franck, or whoever, it doesn’t matter, but listen: we’ll score and keep scoring, keep winning right to the top, and one day you and Halil will be sitting on your back porch in Gelsenkirchen or Friedberg or Tübingen, or some godawful backwater Turkish village,” Hamit glared and shoved Toni, who laughed but kept on: “And you can boast how in 2008 you stole the cup from him, and he’ll probably make fun of you for wearing blue shoes with your kit, and then you’ll move on to talk about other things: your kids, your retirement, the Red Sox, hell if I know, whatever dumb shit you two talk about in the wee hours of the morning like 13-year-old girls at a slumber party,” Toni probably would have continued had Hamit not shoved him into his locker. He was snorting with laughter and stuck his tongue out when he was out of reach.
Hamit snorted and grinned, shaking his head at the kid’s antics. But he was right, Hamit knew he was right. Bayern was a beautiful dream, a dream now come true, but it was just a blink. On the plain of life that spread out before him, there was football and Bayern and Schalke and the stupidest of rivalries; and then there was Halil, the unwavering linearity in his life through which all other things intersected.
If he kept down that line, he would be okay.