Fic: Warmth, Arne Friedrich/Miroslav Klose, PG
Shivering, Arne blindly placed his arms behind him, and felt around. His hands repeated clutched nothing but cold air. Finally, his hand hit something. It was warm; pleasantly warm that burned his hand. He wanted the warmness all around him, inside him, wanted it to wrap around his core and spread throughout his lanky body.
Warmth
Arne walked over to Miroslav who was clad in nothing but pyjama pants. He climbed into bed; not his bed, but their bed. It sounded so new to him, so strange. Arne laid far away from the other German. He turned his back away, reached over to the lamp and got rid of the last source of light. Chills ran up his legs, crawled over his hips, danced across his sides, and clutched his heart. Shivering, Arne blindly placed his arms behind him, and felt around. His hands repeated clutched nothing but cold air. Finally, his hand hit something. It was warm; pleasantly warm that burned his hand. He wanted the warmness all around him, inside him, wanted it to wrap around his core and spread throughout his lanky body. He clutched his hand, tried to grasp the inferno, and it was surprisingly fuller than he had expected. He continued to try and get a firm grip when he rather felt, not heard, a rumble through his fingers: it went from his fingertips, into his long fingers, and wriggled through his arms. Arne’s fingers locked, joints stiff, unable to clutch the “blanket.” As if the other man wouldn’t notice, the Berlin captain slowly began to retreat his hand. Successfully he did, and slid his hand between his muscular thighs for warmth. He squeezed his eyes shut, and mentally slapped his own head. Trying to ignore the other presence he could not do; he could feel grayish blue eyes staring into the back of his head. Arne shivered, and not because he was cold. He shut his eyes even tighter.
“How long until you admit that you know I am awake?” said Miroslav. Arne groaned inwardly; he just knew Miro’s lips were tugged upwards. Though he knew the other man was awake, he used all his will power to hope he was sleeping. “You…” Miro paused, took a breath. He started again. Quietly, he said, “I don’t talk much; I enjoy silence, but with you, Arne, with you I’d talk as much as I can. I like your voice. It’s soothing. You, here, lying next to me, it makes me feel at ease.” Arne listened, entranced by Miroslav’s low, melodic, hypnotizing voice. He heard the Werder striker take in a breath of the night’s cool and calm air, and slowly, bit by bit, let it out again. “Are you-“
“I’m sorry,” Arne gently interrupted. He turned around, kept his green-gray eyes low, afraid to look into the expressive eyes of Miro. “I didn’t… mean to ignore-“
“It’s fi-“
“No… no it’s not.” He paused. He clenched his eyes shut, began to fidget with his shirt. Nervously, he peeked through his left eye, and looked up. He didn’t see regret, shame, coldness. He saw Miro’s lips gently pulled upwards, eyes glittering, squinted a bit. Arne saw a glimpse of worry in the usually calm and confident man. He’s shy, Arne realized. He opened his eyes properly, and shyly smiled back. Miroslav’s smile widened. He grabbed Arne’s hand, softly pulling him forward, commanding him to move forth. Arne obeyed, moved over sideways, and curled around Miro. He laid his head across Miro’s chest, and raised his hand; ear against breast, hand over heart. He could feel his friend’s, his teammate’s, his lover’s heart beat through those lanky fingers. Arne heaved a sigh. Pleased at the new source of warmth, he snuggled closer to his Miro. Warmth spread through his limbs. Miro ran his elegant fingers through Arne’s dark blonde hair, still damp from his shower. Miroslav left soft kisses on top of Arne’s head, and stroked his upper arm. The melodic signs of affection not only heated up Arne’s physical self, but appealed to his mental and emotional self. His Miro wrapped his body over Arne, trying his best to share his warmth to his… what? Friend? Lover? Teammate? What was he now? Whatever Arne was, Miroslav was smitten with him. He didn’t always think of him, not every single second while conscious, but Arne always ended up as his last thought. The thought of Arne lingered in Miro’s mind all day, just waited to be pulled affront. It would always weave its way through unconsciousness; all thoughts were created to eventually, gradually lead up to the Hertha Berlin captain.
Arne looked up, watched, stared at the intensity ooze out of Miroslav’s eyes. He seemed lost in thought. Using his one arm, Arne pulled himself up, face leveled with Miro’s. He laid his eyes on Miro’s face. He could see him getting older; there were rings around Miroslav’s eyes, though barely noticeable, from taking care of his twins. Forward leaned Arne, lips against the older man’s ear. Softly, Arne whispered, “I can’t say don’t worry, I don’t have that power, but Miro…” He lowered his mouth and laid a tender kiss on Miro’s temple. A wave of comfort crashed into Miroslav’s mind, and flowed throughout his skinny body. He turned his head to the side, and let Arne see into his eyes, for once, unguarded. Arne looked perplex, but only for a brief moment. He then smiled. Miroslav returned the classic Klose smile: small, gentle, tender, warm. He lifted his hand and took Arne’s head within his hand. He pulled Arne forward, and allowed Arne’s lips land on his own. It wasn’t fierce, wild; it was slow, steady. Miroslav let go, Arne’s Miroslav let go, and watched his… his lover’s eyes glow with happiness. Arne slid back to Miro’s side, and allowed himself to be tightly wrapped in a warm embrace.
Warmth
Arne walked over to Miroslav who was clad in nothing but pyjama pants. He climbed into bed; not his bed, but their bed. It sounded so new to him, so strange. Arne laid far away from the other German. He turned his back away, reached over to the lamp and got rid of the last source of light. Chills ran up his legs, crawled over his hips, danced across his sides, and clutched his heart. Shivering, Arne blindly placed his arms behind him, and felt around. His hands repeated clutched nothing but cold air. Finally, his hand hit something. It was warm; pleasantly warm that burned his hand. He wanted the warmness all around him, inside him, wanted it to wrap around his core and spread throughout his lanky body. He clutched his hand, tried to grasp the inferno, and it was surprisingly fuller than he had expected. He continued to try and get a firm grip when he rather felt, not heard, a rumble through his fingers: it went from his fingertips, into his long fingers, and wriggled through his arms. Arne’s fingers locked, joints stiff, unable to clutch the “blanket.” As if the other man wouldn’t notice, the Berlin captain slowly began to retreat his hand. Successfully he did, and slid his hand between his muscular thighs for warmth. He squeezed his eyes shut, and mentally slapped his own head. Trying to ignore the other presence he could not do; he could feel grayish blue eyes staring into the back of his head. Arne shivered, and not because he was cold. He shut his eyes even tighter.
“How long until you admit that you know I am awake?” said Miroslav. Arne groaned inwardly; he just knew Miro’s lips were tugged upwards. Though he knew the other man was awake, he used all his will power to hope he was sleeping. “You…” Miro paused, took a breath. He started again. Quietly, he said, “I don’t talk much; I enjoy silence, but with you, Arne, with you I’d talk as much as I can. I like your voice. It’s soothing. You, here, lying next to me, it makes me feel at ease.” Arne listened, entranced by Miroslav’s low, melodic, hypnotizing voice. He heard the Werder striker take in a breath of the night’s cool and calm air, and slowly, bit by bit, let it out again. “Are you-“
“I’m sorry,” Arne gently interrupted. He turned around, kept his green-gray eyes low, afraid to look into the expressive eyes of Miro. “I didn’t… mean to ignore-“
“It’s fi-“
“No… no it’s not.” He paused. He clenched his eyes shut, began to fidget with his shirt. Nervously, he peeked through his left eye, and looked up. He didn’t see regret, shame, coldness. He saw Miro’s lips gently pulled upwards, eyes glittering, squinted a bit. Arne saw a glimpse of worry in the usually calm and confident man. He’s shy, Arne realized. He opened his eyes properly, and shyly smiled back. Miroslav’s smile widened. He grabbed Arne’s hand, softly pulling him forward, commanding him to move forth. Arne obeyed, moved over sideways, and curled around Miro. He laid his head across Miro’s chest, and raised his hand; ear against breast, hand over heart. He could feel his friend’s, his teammate’s, his lover’s heart beat through those lanky fingers. Arne heaved a sigh. Pleased at the new source of warmth, he snuggled closer to his Miro. Warmth spread through his limbs. Miro ran his elegant fingers through Arne’s dark blonde hair, still damp from his shower. Miroslav left soft kisses on top of Arne’s head, and stroked his upper arm. The melodic signs of affection not only heated up Arne’s physical self, but appealed to his mental and emotional self. His Miro wrapped his body over Arne, trying his best to share his warmth to his… what? Friend? Lover? Teammate? What was he now? Whatever Arne was, Miroslav was smitten with him. He didn’t always think of him, not every single second while conscious, but Arne always ended up as his last thought. The thought of Arne lingered in Miro’s mind all day, just waited to be pulled affront. It would always weave its way through unconsciousness; all thoughts were created to eventually, gradually lead up to the Hertha Berlin captain.
Arne looked up, watched, stared at the intensity ooze out of Miroslav’s eyes. He seemed lost in thought. Using his one arm, Arne pulled himself up, face leveled with Miro’s. He laid his eyes on Miro’s face. He could see him getting older; there were rings around Miroslav’s eyes, though barely noticeable, from taking care of his twins. Forward leaned Arne, lips against the older man’s ear. Softly, Arne whispered, “I can’t say don’t worry, I don’t have that power, but Miro…” He lowered his mouth and laid a tender kiss on Miro’s temple. A wave of comfort crashed into Miroslav’s mind, and flowed throughout his skinny body. He turned his head to the side, and let Arne see into his eyes, for once, unguarded. Arne looked perplex, but only for a brief moment. He then smiled. Miroslav returned the classic Klose smile: small, gentle, tender, warm. He lifted his hand and took Arne’s head within his hand. He pulled Arne forward, and allowed Arne’s lips land on his own. It wasn’t fierce, wild; it was slow, steady. Miroslav let go, Arne’s Miroslav let go, and watched his… his lover’s eyes glow with happiness. Arne slid back to Miro’s side, and allowed himself to be tightly wrapped in a warm embrace.