(no subject)
Author name: Neens
Fic title: Three ways that Bastian Schweinsteiger and Lukas Podolski didn't meet
Summary: Three different locations, three different times and yet it doesn't change anything.
Pairing: Bastian Schweinsteiger/Lukas Podolski
Rating: NC-17 (for the second part), the first and third are PG-13
Disclaimer: Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.
Archive: Beautiful Games.
Notes: About 9,400 words, yes, it's bloody long, and can I say that the lovely cerulean_eyes must've had the patience of a saint?? Ah, Niña. You saved my ass so many times I can't even start to count, and I will be forever and ever indebted to you. You're just amazing, my love.
Notes II: Also many heartfelt thanks to harisukaori about educating me on the finer points of soccer translated into Polish! *smiles*
I.
Oberaudorf, 2001
He’s gulping down the coke, burps after the last swallow. The keyboard is slightly sticky with the drink’s sweetness, and Tobias will go to Mom and Dad and yell about Bastian’s negligence and why can’t they afford two computers, one each? But Bastian knows that they’ll just smile and say, “So that you learn to share,” as if they didn’t do that anyway, having to share school, the youth football club that they’re members of; Bastian’s not too bad, as is Tobias, and they’re quite popular with the local youth here in Oberaudorf.
Logged in, finally - the ISDN takes way too long and he wishes he could get DSL, but living in such a shit little village means you’ve got to deal with some or other inconvenience.
And then he’s typing in the url of the chatroom he had found last week, curious and always glancing to the door, in case one of his family would burst in and see… well, everything. But he knows that Tobias’ somewhere with his friends, and his parents are doing the weekly groceries-shopping. So… he should be alone for some hours, at least.
Ballack84: Hi. Anyone there?
Someone pings him, asking for a private conversation, but it quickly turns out that whoever it is, he just wants a quickie, and Bastian’s blushing as he blocks him. He’s not out to find someone like that; he wants to meet someone like him, someone who likes soccer and burping matches and brain-dead comedy shows and maths and, well. Someone average. Not one of these queens or fairies he has seen on TV, coverage about the Munich CSD. No, nothing like that.
He just watches the conversations, intent on picking up as much slang as he can, furrowing his brows at the ‘no bbb’ thing, discarding it, and then someone comes online.
‘Lukas85 is logged in’
Only a year younger than him, and about as clueless about nicknames as he is. Bastian grins and types.
Ballack84: Hey Lukas. Wanna chat?
Lukas85: Uh, yeah. What about?
Ballack84: I don’t know, actually. That’s my first time here.
Lukas85: Coincidence! Me, too. :- ) Where do you live?
Ballack84: Deepest Bavaria.
Lukas85: Bad luck! I’m from Cologne, myself.
Ballack84: 1.FC-Köln fan?
Lukas85: Hell yeah. It’s a great club, although they’re not doing too well now.
Ballack84: Yeah, they need a forward. And a decent midfield. I mean, Szabics…
Lukas85: Exactly! Man, we so could’ve needed one in that last match against Bayern.
Ballack84: Heh. Yes, there’s no match for Ballack at the moment.
Lukas85: Damn - you’re a Ballack fan and a Bayern fan, too?
Ballack84: Right you are.
Lukas85: Well, I hope you’re happy with your ignorance.
Ballack84: Hey!
Lukas85: Well, you know what they say about Bayern fans.
Ballack84: So what? At least my club’s not one step away from the 2nd Liga.
Lukas85: At least my club’s not boring.
Ballack84: Admit it: you’re just jealous.
Lukas85: Not in the least bit. Although…
Ballack84: …what?
Lukas85: Ballack on our team, that’d be something for sure.
Ballack84: Yeah, well, isn’t going to happen. Ever.
Lukas85: Mh. At least, there’d be someone drop-dead gorgeous on our team.
Ballack84: …Heh.
Lukas85: Well, he’s really good-looking, isn’t he? I bet that’s the reason why you’re his fan, too.
Ballack84: Okay, yeah.
Lukas85: Have you ever been to a Bayern match?
Ballack84: Two years ago, but Ballack wasn’t there.
Lukas85: Too bad. I would have loved to be there at the last match, but you know how it is.
Ballack84: Huh?
Lukas85: I’m not exactly rolling in money.
Ballack84: Yeah, I get that. Too bad, isn’t it?
… and so on, and then they’re chatting for hours straight, building onto and expanding on their mutual love for soccer and, well, the thing that unites them - Bastian’s not yet ready to think of himself as such, he’s just, what do they call it, having a phase.
And then Lukas asks him for his mail address, and then his parents come home, his brother towing along, and Bastian has to say goodbye and shuts down the internet, but not before he has sent off his mail address, not waiting for Lukas’ reply.
Two days. And he can’t believe he’s still waiting for an answer from Lukas; he doesn’t dare to go back to that chatroom, not wanting to tempt fate. His brother’s getting more and more annoyed at Bastian’s repeated questions like, “Are you finished now?”, “How long still?” and “Please, please, damn it, Tobias!” - well, that wasn’t a question, the last one - and when Bastian saw a new mail from someone called Lukas Podolski in his inbox, he grinned.
Hey Bastian,
sorry it took that long, my sister chats almost all the day and there’s no privacy with her around. She’s now shopping, thank god that lasts at least some hours so I can write this mail. You must be gloating now that Bayern did win again, no? Or maybe you aren’t, having gotten used to it a long time ago. Boring, no? And yeah, I know that Köln lost again - no need to rub it in. I did tell you that I’m in 10th grade, no? School’s not too bad at the moment, it’s the last year. Finally. It’s strange, you think school goes on for ever and ever, but it doesn’t. I’m probably going to become an electronic technician, my uncle’s said he’s got a free training place at his firm should I ever consider it. Hope your boss wasn’t too mad about the butchered paint job on the Fiesta, hey, it could have happened to anybody. Your colleague shouldn’t have disappeared in the middle of it; it should’ve been his responsibility. Well, I guess this is it; you’ve got my mail address now and you can mail me back whenever you want.
Bye,
Lukas
And this was just the beginning; they exchanged short mails that grew longer and longer over time, and Bastian introduced Lukas to cool websites he had found on the internet and they updated each other on the state of their clubs and then, one day, Lukas asked for Bastian’s phone number.
“Schweinsteiger, Bastian speaking.”
“Bastian! That you?”
“Lukas?”
“Who else? Hey, great to hear you.”
“Likewise, yes.”
And then there should have been an awkward silence, but there wasn’t, as Lukas covered it with babbling about the state of the 1. FC Köln, and about his parents that were driving him mad with restricting internet access and even threatening him to take away his video games - “geez, who needs parents like that, Bastian?” - and Bastian listened and chuckled and told Lukas about the time Tobias got grounded for a month because he had run away when he was about eight, out of sheer stubbornness, wanting to show dad who could be responsible and level-headed - “and he’s still as bad as he was back then, but mom and dad have given up on him,” - and tells Lukas the dirtiest jokes he knows and their combined laughing sounds great.
More and more phone calls follow, until his parents get aware of the amount of phone calls Bastian gets, and he tells them just the bare bones about Lukas, a guy he met online, someone who likes football, too, and his dad mutters, “as if there aren’t enough of these around here”, and that they get on well. And that’s it, basically; they’re used to see him lounging around on the leather sofa that has seen better days in another epoch, Bastian’s fingers absent-mindedly digging into the cracks of the upholstery, and his cell to his ear, listening intently and replying with hums and chuckles and the occasional ‘yeah, course’, and sometimes he’s talking at length, animatedly. Tobias teases him about getting cancer from the cell’s waves and Bastian just scowls at him - he hadn’t been aware that his phone bill had skyrocketed that high.
One day, his mother says to him, as he’s sitting over the second bowl of cornflakes, munching, “Why don’t you go to Cologne?”
Bastian almost chokes, but manages to swallow it the right way, eyes watering. “Huh?”
“Cologne, Bastian, where your friend lives, that Pole. Ascension Day is soon, and you could use the long weekend to go up there and meet him.”
He stares at his mother. “How - I mean, why?”
She smiles, and Bastian can almost see the young girl that she once was. Just a blink, and then it’s gone, and his mother’s back in place, faint lines around her eyes and her mouth, more pronounced there from the smoking, and she shrugs. “Well, your dad and me, we’d love to have some time to ourselves, you know.”
Bastian nods, concentrating on scraping the last bit of cornflakes from the bowl’s bottom. Seeing Lukas. Not a bad idea, actually; it otherwise would’ve been just him and his friends from the soccer club, getting totally and abysmally pissed in the mountains, in that little hut that Matthias’ parents own and which has seen quite some booze-fuelled outings (complete with barfing and horrid hangovers) already, thank god that Matthias’ parents are such a trusting lot.
Now, he has come to like Lukas very much. A lot, actually. He can talk with him about just anything, and Lukas has taught him some Polish cursewords, and in turn Bastian has chuckled at Lukas’ attempts to speak Bavarian, and they have agreed to disagree on club favourites, but are all for Ballack, of course. Lukas is still struggling with school, English and German not being his favourite subjects, and there has been a lot of bitching about stupid Boerchert and Brecht - how fitting a name, Lukas had said - and teachers that love analyzing everything to death, just about, and, well. Bastian can phone Lukas anytime, even in the morning at 3 (he once did, after a sleepless night, actually), and Lukas has an own cell, too, which just vibrates - the walls are thin, he explains to Bastian, and his mother can hear as well as an owl or whatever animal that is, “dunno either,” Bastian says, so. And then he’s calling Lukas and asks if he’s got anything planned in May, and soon the plan to visit Lukas is discussed intensely, Lukas says he’ll put up a spare mattress in his room, and no, he hasn’t planned anything definite for Ascension Day yet, and it’ll be a blast, and Bastian just listens to him, smiling.
Suddenly, it’s Thursday, and his mother’s driving him to the railway station; he has got to take a train to Munich and then the ICE to Cologne where Lukas’ll fetch him, and Bastian’s packed his huge training bag to the brim; he has brought his video games, too.
The train ride is fairly uneventful, landscapes zooming past; it isn’t the first time Bastian’s been out of Bavaria, he has been to Berlin once and Stuttgart often and Frankfurt’s on the list, too. But this is different; no visiting relatives or being on a class trip or something like that; no, he’s going to visit someone he has never seen before, and he suddenly realizes that he really doesn’t know what Lukas looks like.
They never have exchanged pictures; he can remember Lukas talking about wanting to get new pictures of him taken and then sending Bastian one, but somehow that got forgotten amongst the other things that they talked about, and, well. He’s still in that phase, yes, and if he has checked out Benny Lauth, the only other apprentice at the car garage and 1860 fan, well, that’s his business. He doesn’t know, really - or doesn’t want to know, a little part of his mind argues.
Well, whatever. Lukas will be the litmus test - if he doesn’t fancy him, then it’s a done deal: he’s not one of them. But if it’s the other way around, well. He sighs and stares out of the window, green meadows and white-washed houses surrounded by bushes and trees and the occasional cow herd, blackbrownwhiteflecked, and he leans his forehead to the cool glass.
What if Lukas isn’t handsome? A boring, ugly fellow like Jakob who he had to sit next to all during 7th grade, and Bastian still remembers the peculiar smell - Jakob’s parents own a dingy pub, and he works there evenings, a pale pudgy fellow with almost-too-blond hair, wispy locks. Nobody wanted to be friends with him even if he offered them free beer, desperate.
Bastian hadn’t been his friend, either. But Lukas - no, Lukas wouldn’t look like that. Although it’s irrational, he does know. Someone like Lukas, with that cheerful exuberance and good-natured ribbing, someone like this can’t be ugly - it would show in his behaviour and speech, too. No. Lukas will be handsome, not pretty - like Benny can be sometimes -, but he’ll be nice-looking and they’ll just click. Yes.
And with that thought in mind, Bastian dozes off, only to be shaken awake in between by the conductor demanding his tickets and a second time by an elderly woman who wants him to lift her heavy bag out of the overhead compartment.
Still hearing the echo of Usher’s crooning in his ears, he arrives at the Cologne main railway station, having cleaned himself up quickly in the men’s ten minutes before, nodding to himself, “you’ll do”, and hopes that his jitters won’t be that visible. Damn, even Usher hadn’t been able to calm him down, and he had gotten a strange churning in his stomach; had he eaten something bad yesterday evening? But it’s too late, the train’s rolling in, and the platform is slowing down, or rather, it’s the other way round, the train is slowing down, too quickly.
And then Bastian’s stumbling out of the train, his fingers gripping the handle of his bag tightly, people pouring around him, towards the exit, but he doesn’t go with them, Lukas said he’d pick him up on the platform, and that’s where he’ll be. Soon, the platform’s clearing and with a quick look to the distant end behind him, only an elderly man sitting on a seat there, he walks forward, scanning the faces in front of him.
He only knows that Lukas’ll be wearing a 1. FC Köln t-shirt, and he himself is wearing his most prized possession, a Ballack jersey. How hard can it be to find a fellow in a white-red t-shirt? Apparently very much, as almost every second kid - or so it seems to Bastian - is wearing one. But then he spots a boy walking towards him, the 1. FC jersey is there, yes, and bleached-out jeans, and gods, he is beautiful.
Beautiful. Breathtakingly so, even.
Bastian can just stare as the boy approaches him, big shit-eating grin plastered all over his face, and extends a hand, “Bastian, right? I’m Lukas,” and then Bastian nods dumbly, his mind still reeling with what just happened, and when their palms meet, it’s like lightning. But of the good kind, and he remembers that he wasn’t born mute, and says, “um, yeah, sorry, it’s me,” and Lukas just smiles, a little twinkle in his blue eyes, summersky blue, Bastian’s favourite colour as of now, having replaced Bayern red.
They’re still holding hands right in the middle of platform 3 and people walk around them, train announcements blaring from the loudspeakers, crackling, jingles from advertisements, and Bastian hears the Cologne dialect, Kölsch, and Turkish, and German in all variations and some English and French around him, but he’s only seeing Lukas.
And Lukas doesn’t mind; quite on the contrary, he’s also looking at Bastian, and if the faint blush is any indicator, he’s also liking what he sees - and Bastian’s secretly glad about this; he knows that he would never stand any chance against the Ballacks of this world.
Lukas’ hand slips from his, but not after a quick squeeze, “let’s go,” and Bastian’s falling into step next to him, not able to turn his eyes from Lukas, and hell, yes.
He’s gay, he’s a fucking faggot, a damn fairy, anything. If it makes him feel that great and light-headed and wanting to conquer the whole world, then so be it, and the giddiness starts to bubble over and -
“My parents will be gone tomorrow evening, and my sister’ll be over at her boyfriend’s,” Lukas says, and Bastian almost stumbles on the stairs that lead to the top of the Cologne Cathedral, because - the undertone, and he catches himself just in time on Lukas’ arm, and then they’re standing in front of a tacky souvenir shop, the huge Cathedral looming over them, but the sun’s shining and Lukas is grinning at Bastian’s floored face.
“I’m always told that I’m too forward, but I guess I’m going to take my chances with you,” and then - all of a sudden, although Bastian feels he saw it coming in slo-mo, their lips connect, awkwardly because Bastian’s stunned, he kissed me here in public, everyone can see us, a voice shrieks in his mind, and Lukas stops the kiss, his hand on Bastian’s chest.
“Hey,” he whispers, his eyes having gone from sunny to earnest in an instant, “don’t worry. Remember, this is Cologne,” and Bastian nods, blinking, and then Lukas closes in onto him again, and this time Bastian just lets his bag drop to the floor, half-hearing a yell from an older man swerving just in time around it, and then his arms are around Lukas, and their kiss deepens, and when there’s tongue, Bastian shuddersighs into Lukas’ mouth, never having had a clue that kissing could be that good - damn it, he should’ve been gay from the very beginning, but only with Lukas, of course, Lukas, who is kissing him fervently and whose hands, slightly stroking, are holding him in place. And this is, he realizes with a sudden clarity, just where he belongs.
II.
Somewhere in Upper Silesia, 1944
Bastian dragged himself forward step by step. The harsh November winds were tearing at his thin uniform coat, not designed for the upcoming Russian or Polish winters. And with the snow pounding his face, or as little as he dared to show, wrapped up in the thick woollen scarf that his mother had sent him - the last thing he had received from Bavaria before things went bad. Once he’d be reunited with her, he’d thank her a thousand times - the scarf had saved his cheeks and his nose from being frostbitten, although it was a pity that he didn’t have anything else to cover him up with; a blanket would be wonderful. But here, in war-torn Silesia, nothing would be found at all and he had to make do with curling himself up in ditches, shivering against the cold wind and willing his teeth to stop chattering, futilely. Often he got up again and walked - although one might call it a drunken swagger more accurately - on, blinking and trying not to fall asleep until he had reached the next little village or the next farm where he’d search for a little wind protection, huddling in the corners of any abandoned stable or house and jerking awake any time steps neared and lost themselves in the snow.
He carried an empty water flask with him and a stale loaf of bread - it had been three days since he had managed to snatch the goods from the canteen the day he deserted, and a huge sausage, too. He hoped that no one was searching for him; but the way things were at the Front, where he had been about to be called to, nobody would really have the time to search for a lowly foot soldier. At least, he hoped so. Very much.
But first he’d have to lose the damned clothes; but so far, he hadn’t found anything that would be at least somewhat warmer and he wouldn’t kill anyone for clothes; he had discarded his gun long ago, throwing it into a nearby lake, watching the thin ice crack and water splash up as the gun vanished into the blackness. Soon, ice would form again over the spot, more or less seamlessly. He had only his passport with him and some money; not that much, really, about five Reichsmark, which wouldn’t get him very far.
The people here were - as far as he could see from watching them from a safe distance - quite under-fed, the children scrawny and dark-haired. He knew that most of them were Poles; the land around him had belonged to Poland once, before Hitler had seized it. There were some Germans, too, scattered around; but what these people had in common was that they were wary of strangers, and especially of those in Wehrmacht uniforms. It was a damned vicious circle; he needed to contact people to persuade them to give him clothes, but with the uniform he wore, he would just scare them away or, even worse, make them go after him with pitchforks and knives and hunt him down.
Bastian shuddered at the thought, and suddenly realized that he was that close to fainting; black little specks danced in his vision. He quickly stumbled off the path and held onto a thin birch tree, swaying. He breathed in deeply, again and again, until he felt more secure on his legs.
He had planned to go back to Berlin, where he could disappear in the muddle the city was in; if he was lucky, he’d find an acquaintance of his, Arne Friedrich, but with the bad luck he’d had, it was more than possible that Arne had been sent to soldier on, too. Other than that, he could only recall Sebastian Deisler, but the man had been sent to the navy, up north, Eckernförde. Bastian only hoped that Sebastian hadn’t been on the submarines that had been sunk by the Americans; he had liked Deisler well enough.
All’s fair in love or war - the thought suddenly popped into his head. He shook his head; damn, where did it come from?
All of a sudden, a big shape loomed in front of him; he must have gotten too close to a farm without noticing. This had to be the barn, by all appearances; he could hear faint whinnying from in there. Slowly, he tiptoed - as much as you can with heavy leather boots - to the barn door and listened. No steps, and it was pitch dark in there; the thought of sleeping in dry straw with a horse - or several - as company appeared to him as the most perfect notion he could have, and so he stumbled in, his eyes squinting as he tried to make out things in the dark. The horse - it was definitely only one - was in the back, to his left; it whinnied again, but with the snowstorm outside Bastian doubted that it could be heard much farther than the barn. At least he could make out some contours; there was a heap of straw, it seemed like, and he more like fell upon it, and then all lights were out.
This had been a mistake.
Suddenly, he jerked awake - someone was standing over him, shaking his shoulder forcefully. He yelped, drawing away from the man - it was definitely one - and scrambled up, his mind still reeling from being abruptly roused from a deep sleep, ready to flight at the slightest notion of danger.
The man was about the same height as he, and it was still somewhat dim in the barn, but not as dim as that he was able to see that he was the same age as him, clad in dirty and far too thin clothes, dirt streak over the one cheek, and a scrutinizing gaze sizing him up.
“German?”, he asked, with a distinct Polish tinge.
So far, he didn’t seem to be particularly averse to Bastian. He nodded.
“You’re a soldier, no?”, the man asked, again. “Yes,” Bastian said, his voice scratchy with disuse, and cleared his throat. “Please…” and he trailed off, not knowing what to ask for.
“You want me to help you?” - “Yes, if you can,” and Bastian tried a faint smile. The effect this had on the slightly grumpy features was astonishing; it lit up with a big grin, and the eyes shone, and suddenly Bastian realized that the man - or rather, boy, as he wasn’t that old himself, only having turned twenty some months ago - was excited at the thought of helping and abetting a deserter, and Bastian didn’t want anything to happen to an innocent bystander.
So he shook his head and said, “Listen, this is dangerous; I just want to sleep for a few nights here until I’m okay, and then I’m on my way, and you don’t have to say anything to anyone, got it?”
The guy was still smiling, but at Bastian’s words there was a little frown. He shook his head and said, slowly, clearly dredging up the words - German wasn’t his mother tongue, “No, there will be other horses led here; and they will see you. You will have to hide somewhere, and I know where.”
With these words he turned and motioned Bastian to follow him. Sighing, as he clearly didn’t have any choice, Bastian trudged after him. They walked along the barn’s side, keeping to the shadows; but as it was an overcast day, the deep clouds promising even more snow, it was still quite dark this early, and then they arrived at a low building which was adjoined to a bigger one, which Bastian guessed to be the farmhouse. The man walked to a door, weathered and cracked with age and the elements, and lifted the bolt off it. It creaked on its hinges as he went in, and Bastian looked around once again, finding nothing out of the ordinary, and then stepped over the threshold.
He found himself in a smallish room, having only space for a bed with thick woollen blankets thrown haphazardly over it, a little table next to it with a picture in it - a woman, it seemed - and hooks in the wall next to the bed, with working jackets and coats hanging from them, and then there was a wardrobe next to the door, and that was all.
The man smiled. “My room.” He apparently was a worker here; a farm labourer, to be exact. Bastian nodded. “It’s nice,” he offered, not knowing what to say or do. To be amongst people - okay, this was only one man, but it counted - again, it was quite disturbing.
“My name’s Lukas, by the way,” the man said, “Lukas Podolski.” He held out his hand, and Bastian automatically grasped it, initially shocked at the innate warmth. “Bastian Schweinsteiger,” he said, letting his hand linger a bit in - Lukas’ warmth.
Then Lukas told him to just stay in his room; that it was only him who would come here, and no one else, and that he could stay here as long as he liked, and that he’d give Bastian bits of what he’d have for meals, and when Bastian started to refuse his offers, he just smiled and said, “Let me help you,” and really, what could you say to that?
So, in the end, Bastian got out of his uniform coat and his boots, wiggling his cramped feet and climbing into the bed and under the blankets, and although the mattress was quite lumpy and the blankets somewhat threadbare, he thought that no king could sleep better.
Later, much later, he awoke, blinking blearily. A lit candle was on the table, and Lukas was closing the door, juggling something in his hands, and then he crossed over to the bed and saw that Bastian was awake and then the things he had held landed on the bed, and Bastian sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Bread, and sausage, just a bit, and I’ve got a pitcher of milk outside the door, to keep it cold,” Lukas said, smiling at him. Bastian nodded and made as if he wanted to get out of bed, but, “No, stay there, be comfortable; there isn’t much more space,” and with these words Lukas sat himself on the edge of the bed, taking the bread in his hands and breaking it in two, and then he and Bastian shared the food, and later he fetched the jug of milk and he let Bastian drink about roughly half of it - he had almost forgotten how good milk tasted - and with his stomach filled, after a very long time, Bastian dozed off again.
But then, when a warm body pressed up against him from back, he started again and twisted around - “Hush, get back to sleep,” and Lukas pushed at him, obviously wanting him to scoot closer to the wall, and Bastian did that, too tired to object although he would have found it very hard to do so; after all, Lukas had shared everything with him. And now he was sharing his body warmth, too, as it seemed; and Bastian couldn’t hold himself back from burrowing back, into Lukas, into that blazing warmth that he once imagined could only be found right in front of a hearth fire, but there it was, contained in a male body.
And then Lukas’ arm slid around his side, and their bodies - fit, like that. Bastian couldn’t describe it better, other than they just seemed to click, like two puzzle pieces, and the fact that they were roughly the same height made it the more easier, and he felt Lukas’ warm breath fanning over his neck, smelled the sharp sweat of Lukas’ body - but who was he to complain, he must positively stink, and fell right into Morpheus’ arms.
In the morning, it wasn’t awkward, curiously enough - Lukas just disengaged himself from Bastian, slipping out of the bed, shuddering slightly as his feet touched the cold stone floor, and then he was pulling on his clothes quickly and then he was out of the door, for the first duties of the day; later on, he’d come back to their room, bringing something to eat, mostly bread, sometimes dried apples or sausages or hard cheese, too, and a cup of scorching hot malt coffee, sweetened with a bit of honey, that they shared. And so it went every morning.
Lukas would ask him questions about where he came from, and Bastian would answer readily enough; he’d tell the Pole about his family in Oberaudorf, of the family farm that his father had to sell parts of because it wasn’t sufficient enough for them all, of his dog, Hasso, and of his brother Tobias, who was with the Schutzstaffel, and how he hadn’t heard from him for a year straight, “Doesn’t have to mean anything,” Lukas said quietly, never once taking his eyes from Bastian’s, and chewed on the bread.
And he told Lukas about himself, too, about school, about playing soccer - he had to explain the game to Lukas and then the Pole’s eyes lit up and he nodded, “yes, piłka nożna, I know it, too,” and then they launched into a discussion of matches they had played with friends, and Lukas said, “I would like very much to play soccer with you once all this is over,” and Bastian grinned, said, “Me, too.”
Later, that one night - three nights past the one where Lukas had discovered him - Bastian lay awake, Lukas’ arm around him, as always, and was thinking. It was so unlikely to have found a friend here; and if he was entirely honest with himself, he would love to stay on. Forever, to be here, in this bed, to wait for Lukas, and to pace the small room, counting steps and when he got bored, he did exercises, sit-ups and such that didn’t require too much space, and he could feel himself getting stronger. He should have been gone yesterday, or today, but something held him back. No, he knew what it was, clearly: it was Lukas. He couldn’t go without having repaid everything the Pole did for him in full.
Just this evening Lukas had bought in a bucket full with water - cold, of course - and a thin towel, and had told Bastian that he could wash himself, and so Bastian had did, splashing cold water all over him until his teeth were chattering, and then he accepted the small piece of soap from Lukas and then, finally, he was clean, but the thin towel got soaked full too quickly and so he had climbed in bed still half-wet, as Lukas put the bucket to the side to pour it outside later, and he had lain there, shivering and dampening the woollen blankets. He heard the faint rustle of Lukas taking off his clothes, down to his shirt, as always, and then he had sighed blissfully as the Pole’s strongwarm body slid in behind him, and had leant back, and Lukas had chuckled slightly, “Cold, isn’t it?”, and had slung the arm around him after pulling up the blankets to cover their shoulders.
And then he had dropped off to sleep, snoring slightly and stirring up Bastian’s hair at the nape of his neck. Which was an oddly comfortable feeling, at that.
Bastian sighed; he didn’t know what to make of Lukas, who took him in, shared his food with him and even his bed and his body warmth, and was probably very much content with this, as far as he could see. He never had met a man as selfless as Lukas, as far as he could remember. And he didn’t want to be indebted to him. But how to change this?, and with this thought in mind, he finally went to sleep.
Suddenly, he jerked awake; and it felt almost like a déjà vu, if it weren’t for the warm body behind him, holding him in place - but something was different, and Bastian realized what it was: Lukas was hard, his member pressing against Bastian’s buttocks, and he sighed in his sleep, little content whimpers, whereas Bastian was just lying there, still-shocked, not knowing what to do. The feel of the hot length through the thin fabric of Bastian’s shirt and underwear was disturbing, but in a rather awkward way that Bastian couldn’t exactly describe; it wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t anything else, either - it was just weird, and he debated with himself if he should wait and see if Lukas wakes up, which could be any time, or even rather soon, if he’ll spill himself onto Bastian, and this thought alone made him shudder, and this probably was what did wake Lukas up.
He shut his eyes tightly, not wanting to give anything away, to spare Lukas the embarrassment. The Pole seemed to notice what was going on and he scooted away from Bastian, far enough that Bastian couldn’t feel it anymore, and then he was turning over, and if Bastian weren’t faking sleep, he’d have woken up by now. And then the round swell of Lukas’ buttocks pressed against his - they didn’t fit anymore, this sudden thought crossed Bastian’s confused mind.
Then he felt - and heard - clothes rustle, and Lukas shifting and moving, and then a steady movement which Bastian was all too familiar with started, and he could almost see Lukas’ hand on his cock, shifting up and down, smoothing the thumb over the top, and his breathing got more laboured, too.
It was torture, that’s what it was, Bastian thought, as his own cock reacted to the on-goings just a stretched arm away and hardened, and he bit himself on his lip to not give himself away. Which proves harder than he thought when Lukas started to make little bucking movements, the naked flesh of his legs rubbing against Bastian’s slightly, and it had been too long, damn too long, he told himself as he turned around and lined up with Lukas again, fitting, and then his hand was edging under the covers around Lukas’ side, fingertips scrabbling on Lukas’ skin until his hand came to rest over Lukas’, enclosing it.
Lukas was utterly still now, but he must have felt Bastian’s cock at his backside, and the only sounds to be heard was their controlled breathing, as this was the point of no return; either they go forward or they stop, there’ll be no in-between, and Lukas knew this as much as Bastian did. But when Bastian’s hand squeezed Lukas’, it’s as if a dam broke; Lukas arched up against him, moansighing, and Bastian pressed himself against Lukas’ body, his cock slipping in the cleft between the butt-cheeks, only the thin fabric of Lukas’ shirt separating it from the naked skin beneath, and Bastian moaned.
It was too much, to be with another man like this - this wasn’t his first time, which he had to thank Benjamin for, the neighbours’ kid with the easy laugh. What had become of him, anyway? Shoving that thought aside, Bastian concentrated on his hand on Lukas’, trying to follow the movements of the hand, getting faster and faster, and he buried his face into Lukas’ neck, smellingtasting dirt and sweat and underneath something that was uniquely Lukas, something he would have recognized the Pole with anywhere. His cock got caught in the fabric of Lukas’ shirt and Bastian pulled it up, freeing his cock and only when he heard Lukas’ gasp, he realized what this could mean.
“No, I won’t do that,” he said, or rather, whispered into Lukas’ ear, while he adjusted his cock with his other hand, wiggling and shifting to get the best leverage until it slid right into the place he wanted it to - right into that place between Lukas’ thighs, up to his nuts, and he nudged at the upper thigh to easen up, and, with a slight shudder, Lukas complied - and then his cock was caught in the delicious warmth that pervaded Lukas, that was everywhere about him and Bastian sighed in bliss. His other hand was still on Lukas’, the movements having stilled, and he squeezed it, wanting to signal that they could continue; and after a split-second, Lukas did just that, and Bastian followed his set rhythm. As it picked up, he also met it with thrust and thrust, right into that delicious place, the almost-soft skin of Lukas’ inner thighs getting slicker with his own seed, and suddenly, it crept up on them and rushed over them, drowning them in moans and grunts and Bastian thrust one last time before he eased his cock out and loosened his hold on Lukas’ hand.
They lay there, their hearts thumping, and neither spoke a word. Hard breaths were the only sounds in the little room, and just when Bastian thought Lukas would leave, the Pole sighed and turned around. In the dim light, his features seemed particularly vulnerable; as if he were barely grown-up. No lines marring his face, his eyes as innocent as these of a newborn.
“Why did you do that?”, he finally asked.
“I don’t know,” Bastian answered, and in a way, this was the truth. He honestly didn’t, hadn’t consciously decided to join Lukas in pleasuring his body.
“It’s good?”, and Bastian nodded. “Yes.” And their hesitant smile mirrored each other, until Lukas turned away and got up from the bed, whitish streaks running down his legs and Bastian blushed; knowing that these were his, to a part. But the Pole just squatted down next to the still half-full bucket of water and cleaned himself off, diligently. Then he stood up again, wrung the towel out and handed it over to Bastian, who accepted it with a nod and set the blankets aside to clean himself off, too. Lukas then put the soiled towel into the bucket and got back into bed, lining himself up against Bastian’s back again, an arm sliding into place.
Bastian sighed and burrowed, and he felt Lukas chuckle. He smiled, knowing that this had changed virtually everything and yet not a single thing.
And so it went for about four months, Lukas had persuaded Bastian to wait at least until spring when the travel would get easier, and provided him with civilian clothes and a shirt of his that he had resewn so many times that it was sure to fall apart at the slightest touch, but actually was quite sturdy. Bastian accepted the clothes and the shirt with thanks, which Lukas wanted to have none of, but he let Bastian repay it to him by letting him serve Lukas with his mouth.
The next day Bastian put the bits of the Wehrmacht uniform that were still wearable into a bundle with two loafs that Lukas had given him on top; and he was ready to go. The evening was approaching, and he’d better be off soon to put a good distance between him and the coming Russians; Lukas had warned him about these and, just in case, taught him the bits of Russian he himself knew. Bastian had also learnt some Polish from Lukas, which would help him in getting to Germany - and hopefully to Berlin.
This was it: he probably would never see Lukas anymore. The Pole eyed him with a faint smile, and then declared him passable, “You can pass as a Pole, or as a German; both will help you. Remember what I told you, yes?”
“Yes,” said Bastian, “I will remember. - And take care of yourself, will you?”
“I always have done so,” Lukas smiled, but now the smile was rather wistful. “You’ll be in more danger than me, I’d say.”
“Right, and I should hurry,” Bastian said. “Again - thank you so very much, and I will repay you,” - “No talk of this,” Lukas interrupted him, “just remember me, yes?”
Bastian swallowed down the words he wanted to say and nodded. “I will.”
And because there was no more to say, he opened the door, peering outside and checking if everything was clear; then he stepped outside and turned. Lukas stood in the door, a hand on the doorframe, and smiled.
“Farewell, Bastian Schweinsteiger.”
It was oddly formal, and yet fitting. Bastian nodded. “Farewell, Lukas Podolski.”
And then - because, really, what else was there to say, nor to do? - he turned back to where the path was which would lead him onto a paved street which went westwards, and took the first step. And another one, and then one more, and so on until his feet met stone, and he turned. The small farm had disappeared around the bend, and there was nothing to be heard save the wind softly rustling in the leaves and a bird singing, a forlorn tune, and if his cheeks were quite damp despite the cooldry breeze, so be it.
III.
Cologne, 2005
Lukas grins as his friends greet him with catcalls, “Poldi, dressed to kill, what?”, and Malik nudges him, grinning, and whispers into his ear, “Better hire bodyguards as you won’t escape tonight unscathed,” and then they’re off, squeezing into Malik’s car, five guys, all ready to rumble in Cologne’s city, to let out the bear, so to speak.
After a quick detour by McDonalds to stock them up with greasy fat goodies so that they don’t get drunk too quickly - one has to enjoy nights like these, when you’re off work and the birds are chirping and the girls’ skirts get higher and higher until it would just need a mere centimetre more to show round asses, and the temperature’s around 25°C, just perfect for a warm summer’s evening, the day’s sun blaze still wafting up from the stones. Lukas is swallowing down the last bite of his Royal TS as they discuss where to go next, but this decision is easily made; first they’ll go to one of the Irish pubs down in the Altstadt, preferably the one with the big screen where they can watch some soccer, if they’re lucky, and then they’ll go and see if one of the in-clubs around there has good music, dance a bit, drink some more, and then it’s off to the Dollhouse, and Mike makes them agree on ordering two female strippers at once at their table so they can watch them make out - of course it’s fake, but nevertheless it’s cool.
Walking down the street leading to the Altstadt, Lukas is sandwiched in between Stephan and Mike, grinning at their antics, letting himself being jostled by Mike in an attempt to offset Stephan, but the latter just neatly sidesteps and then Lukas would have spent the night in hospital weren’t it for Mike who had pulled him back from fast approaching death by a Mercedes SLK, roaring past them.
“I saved your life, don’t hit me,” Mike pleads with Lukas, only half-jokingly, and earns a wry grin from the Pole. “Next time, don’t do either - shoving me off or saving me, capisce?”, Lukas says, and takes Mike’s head into a headlock, mussing up his gel-styled hair, but draws back in time to avoid Mike’s revenge in form of a same-minded hair-muss.
Malik, who has been walking behind them, snorts, “If I see you like that, I’d think that the fag among us would be Mike, not Lukas - seeing as you care so much for your hair, Hanke,” and this now earns him a little shove from Mike, who grumbles at him, “You’re just jealous of it,” - “Sure, do I want to run around like the little poster boy for the Hitler Youth or what?”, and Mike just says, “Fuck off, Fatih,”, but in a friendly tone - he’s easy to tease, but cools off in the same speed, too, which is one of the good things about him.
His friends are good guys, Lukas thinks with a smile. Mike, the belligerent one; bit of a hot-head, but when the going got rough, you could always count on him. And Malik, the ‘token foreigner’, as he often joked, in their little gang, who had the best chances with the girls, which had just to look into his smouldering eyes - a glance, and boom. Malik does have something of a reputation as a ladies’ man, yes. And then there’s Christian, another guy who cares more for his hair than Lukas himself does, but apart from this vain strain, Christian’s a good guy, the proverbial son-in-law every mother dreams of; polite, nice and good-looking, and the fact that he’s currently studying for his Abitur exams doesn’t hurt exactly. He’s the only one that’s still at school, but he doesn’t want to go to university or something like that; he has said that he’ll use his one year of civil service to think about what he wants to become, and that’s that. Stephan is a friend of Mike’s, having moved to Cologne about a year ago and he’s a good balance in their group - he’s funny, quiet and has always the best plans what to do - his parties are always a dead success, because he just knows how to play the crowd.
And they know that he’s gay - and it doesn’t bother them. Lukas had thought it would be Mike who’d have the most difficulties, but the blond had just shrugged. “So what? As long as your boyfriend, whoever he is, can talk soccer, too, it’s fine by me.” The others had agreed unanimously, and thus it came that Lukas had often to suffer his friends trying to help and pointing out various guys to him, snickering when they had landed onto a rather unfortunate guy. Lukas lets them; it’s not as if they’re actually shoving him in said guys’ arms.
At the Irish pub, they see that it’s crammed full with people, no chance to get in. Or even to grab a Kölsch each, so they scratch it and instead go for the next best club. Stephan has heard about a good one that’s supposed to be right around the corner with a mixed clientele, and so they set forth into its direction.
It’s not full in there yet; “still a secret, you know,” Stephan whispers into Lukas’ ear, “only those in the know know,” and Lukas raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re one of them?”
“No, I’m the Easter Bunny,” Stephan quips, and then he signals to the bartender and yells their order of Kölsch - they all agree unanimously that Pfäffgen’s is the best - and then they sit, or rather, slouch around a table in a corner. The clientele is mixed, some gay guys huddling over on the bar, high-pitched laughter emanating from them as they probably exchange stories about their last lay or whatever, and then there’s a girl-girl couple nursing their drinks at the table next to them, chatting quietly. They’re dressed up quite nice, too, as proven by Mike’s ogling them, and Lukas rolls his eyes and nudges his friend.
“What?”, Mike hisses.
“Stop that,” Lukas says, “you’re embarrassing us all.”
Mike sighs. “You guys never let me have any fun, you know.” But he’s content enough to turn to Christian and get into a heated discussion about whether Köln should buy Ailton - Mike’s all for it, and Christian’s so not for it, pointing out the ‘Kugelblitz’ failures in the past to get on with his clubs and his managers.
And then Malik nudges him in the side and whispers - almost too loud - “That guy, wouldn’t he be something for you?”
Lukas sighs. So far his friends have proven abysmally bad taste in picking a guy for him; he really doesn’t know where they get it from. But he’s still the nice Lukas, so he turns his head and - stares.
The guy that Malik means is standing at the entrance with three other guys, all huddled together and quite big-eyed - probably fresh from a nearby village, Lukas guesses. This guy is quite something; wearing good jeans, bleached and ripped just the right amount, and a white T-Shirt with some print on it underneath a black simple jacket, silver rings adorning two of his fingers, catching in the strobe light hanging above the bar.
He’s wearing a curious haircut; half Mohawk, half short-cropped, and with bleached tips. On any other guy that would probably look really ridiculous, but this guy, it just fits. Lukas can’t tear his eyes away from the strong jawline, the half-smirk on the guy’s lips - he’s by far the most relaxed one out of the bunch - and the easy posture.
Malik croons. “And we have a hit, ladies and gentlemen!” Simultaneous gasps can be heard from the direction of Mike, Christian and Stephan - Lukas knows that they’ve almost given up on him, declaring that his coming-out was just a fluke and that he’s secretly hetero. Lukas ignores their curious looks and continues to watch the guy. He’s about the same age as he is, Lukas thinks; he’s now at the bar, ordering something, and then he’s looking around again, obviously searching for some free space - the rather gay guys at the bar probably aren’t to his liking, either - and just when Lukas despaired as this place has gotten crammed to the gills over the last some minutes, the lesbian couple next to him leaves, and Lukas hopes for the guy to notice it, and he’s almost going to get up on his table and wave and point, when the guy jerks his head towards him, well, not towards him, but into their direction, and Lukas exhales. Him and his friends slide in around the table, and as fate wants it, the guy is seated so that he’s facing Lukas.
Damn.
“Go on, talk to him,” Malik whispers, nudging Lukas. Lukas turns and hisses, “Stop it!” His glare doesn’t make Malik cower, instead, he says unfazed, “If you don’t do it, I’m going to do it. Turn on my ladies’ charm, and I bet it’ll work on him, too, and hey, these days it’s apparently the thing to be a little bit bi, don’t you agree?”, and when he has finished his little speech, Lukas has already gotten up, and then he’s standing in front of the guy. He just hopes that his outfit - the denim jeans and the black tight t-shirt - doesn’t look too boring, and smiles.
“Hey,” he says, and damn, what’s he supposed to say now?
But the guy comes to his rescue. “Hey,” he says, and his eyes wander over Lukas’ body, obviously enjoying what they see.
“Uh, can I invite you to a drink?” Instantly, Lukas wishes someone would hit him over the head with a paddle. It’s bad enough that his friends are looking on and hanging on his every word, but the guy’s friends are also eyeing him - and rather suspiciously.
“Sure, yeah, but only if it’s wheat beer,” the guy says, and something clicks.
“You’re Bavarian?”, Lukas asks.
“Yeah, that’s me - Bastian Schweinsteiger, by the way,” the guy says - wait, no, he does have a name now, Bastian, although the family name sounds weird. Bavarian, eh.
“I’m Lukas Podolski,” he says.
“Lukas, nice to meet you,” Bastian says, and is holding out his hand - when he’s interrupted by one of his friends, sitting at his side. “Podolski - is that Polish?”
Lukas bristles inwardly. “Yeah, it is. Got a problem with that?”
“Just that we don’t get many of these around back home.” The guy that’s speaking isn’t bad-looking, either, quite the opposite. He’s smirking slightly, but then Bastian shakes his head at him, and smiles up at Lukas. “Excuse him, Michael’s still suffering of a rather nasty turn-down.”
And this is the moment where Mike bends over and says, “Hey, we’re friends of that giant unlucky sod that’s trying to hook up with your friend there, and my name’s Mike.”
“Mike!” - “What, it’s true,” Mike defends himself, “just look how badly Poldi is doing, Christian. Geez, Lukas, we thought you were a smooth talker.”
Bastian grins at Mike. “Well, he’s smooth enough for me, and that’s what counts, right?” With these words, he gets up from his seat, so that he’s standing next to Lukas.
He wants me, too, this thought rises unbidden in Lukas’ mind and he smiles at Bastian. “Want to go order something to drink?”
“Yeah, love to,” and then they’re weaving through the throng to get to the bar, and yelling in each other’s ear over the loud music, Lukas finds out that Bastian’s actually on visit here, to see if he could hack it up here, as he got offered an job here, through connections, and Lukas yells, “There’s a Bavarian mafia? I never would have guessed,” and he hears Bastian laugh for the first time this evening. Then Lukas remembers Mike’s stipulation on any possible boyfriends on his and asks Bastian if he likes soccer - which causes the Bavarian to launch into a detailed account of just why his favourite soccer club, Bayern Munich - which causes Lukas to roll his eyes, again, for which he gets a “Hey!” from Bastian - would do better to sign Ballack right now, because they won’t get such a good player ever again.
Lukas agrees, but confesses to his love of the 1. FC Köln, and then they’re sticking their heads together, and soon Lukas’ voice is hoarse from yelling too much, and he’s on his third- or fourth? - Kölsch and Bastian’s nursing his second wheat beer and it’s just great, it’s peaches, and it could go on for hours - which it does, until they have to be (almost forcibly) separated by both their friends who have in the meantime got on quite well, mostly by observing the lovebirds, and then they exchange phone numbers - Bastian does it the old-fashioned way, with a biro on Lukas’ forearm, and Lukas scribbles it on a coaster, and at the door, there’s a chorus of bye-byes and Lukas hesitates; should he kiss Bastian, or not?
But when the Bavarian’s stepping up to him, smiling that cockysure grin up at him, that’s no question anymore, and their lips touch, tasting beer and smoke and a bit of the cashew nuts from the small dishes scattered along the bar, and then their tongues meet and it’s better than anything that he could ever have dreamt of, even than the awkward first kiss with Stephan, and Lukas feels as if he’s dreaming, but dreaming in a really, really lucid way and it would just need a little bit to actually wake him up and he doesn’t want that, not when it comes as good as Bastian, and he practically devours him, marking him as his only, and then Bastian breaks for air, his hands resting on Lukas’ hips, smiling at him.
“Yours or mine?”
“Mine,” Lukas says, and laughs, because this day - the first shimmer of a new dawn is creeping up on the horizon - is turning out to be the best of his life.
Original Entry
Fic title: Three ways that Bastian Schweinsteiger and Lukas Podolski didn't meet
Summary: Three different locations, three different times and yet it doesn't change anything.
Pairing: Bastian Schweinsteiger/Lukas Podolski
Rating: NC-17 (for the second part), the first and third are PG-13
Disclaimer: Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.
Archive: Beautiful Games.
Notes: About 9,400 words, yes, it's bloody long, and can I say that the lovely cerulean_eyes must've had the patience of a saint?? Ah, Niña. You saved my ass so many times I can't even start to count, and I will be forever and ever indebted to you. You're just amazing, my love.
Notes II: Also many heartfelt thanks to harisukaori about educating me on the finer points of soccer translated into Polish! *smiles*
I.
Oberaudorf, 2001
He’s gulping down the coke, burps after the last swallow. The keyboard is slightly sticky with the drink’s sweetness, and Tobias will go to Mom and Dad and yell about Bastian’s negligence and why can’t they afford two computers, one each? But Bastian knows that they’ll just smile and say, “So that you learn to share,” as if they didn’t do that anyway, having to share school, the youth football club that they’re members of; Bastian’s not too bad, as is Tobias, and they’re quite popular with the local youth here in Oberaudorf.
Logged in, finally - the ISDN takes way too long and he wishes he could get DSL, but living in such a shit little village means you’ve got to deal with some or other inconvenience.
And then he’s typing in the url of the chatroom he had found last week, curious and always glancing to the door, in case one of his family would burst in and see… well, everything. But he knows that Tobias’ somewhere with his friends, and his parents are doing the weekly groceries-shopping. So… he should be alone for some hours, at least.
Ballack84: Hi. Anyone there?
Someone pings him, asking for a private conversation, but it quickly turns out that whoever it is, he just wants a quickie, and Bastian’s blushing as he blocks him. He’s not out to find someone like that; he wants to meet someone like him, someone who likes soccer and burping matches and brain-dead comedy shows and maths and, well. Someone average. Not one of these queens or fairies he has seen on TV, coverage about the Munich CSD. No, nothing like that.
He just watches the conversations, intent on picking up as much slang as he can, furrowing his brows at the ‘no bbb’ thing, discarding it, and then someone comes online.
‘Lukas85 is logged in’
Only a year younger than him, and about as clueless about nicknames as he is. Bastian grins and types.
Ballack84: Hey Lukas. Wanna chat?
Lukas85: Uh, yeah. What about?
Ballack84: I don’t know, actually. That’s my first time here.
Lukas85: Coincidence! Me, too. :- ) Where do you live?
Ballack84: Deepest Bavaria.
Lukas85: Bad luck! I’m from Cologne, myself.
Ballack84: 1.FC-Köln fan?
Lukas85: Hell yeah. It’s a great club, although they’re not doing too well now.
Ballack84: Yeah, they need a forward. And a decent midfield. I mean, Szabics…
Lukas85: Exactly! Man, we so could’ve needed one in that last match against Bayern.
Ballack84: Heh. Yes, there’s no match for Ballack at the moment.
Lukas85: Damn - you’re a Ballack fan and a Bayern fan, too?
Ballack84: Right you are.
Lukas85: Well, I hope you’re happy with your ignorance.
Ballack84: Hey!
Lukas85: Well, you know what they say about Bayern fans.
Ballack84: So what? At least my club’s not one step away from the 2nd Liga.
Lukas85: At least my club’s not boring.
Ballack84: Admit it: you’re just jealous.
Lukas85: Not in the least bit. Although…
Ballack84: …what?
Lukas85: Ballack on our team, that’d be something for sure.
Ballack84: Yeah, well, isn’t going to happen. Ever.
Lukas85: Mh. At least, there’d be someone drop-dead gorgeous on our team.
Ballack84: …Heh.
Lukas85: Well, he’s really good-looking, isn’t he? I bet that’s the reason why you’re his fan, too.
Ballack84: Okay, yeah.
Lukas85: Have you ever been to a Bayern match?
Ballack84: Two years ago, but Ballack wasn’t there.
Lukas85: Too bad. I would have loved to be there at the last match, but you know how it is.
Ballack84: Huh?
Lukas85: I’m not exactly rolling in money.
Ballack84: Yeah, I get that. Too bad, isn’t it?
… and so on, and then they’re chatting for hours straight, building onto and expanding on their mutual love for soccer and, well, the thing that unites them - Bastian’s not yet ready to think of himself as such, he’s just, what do they call it, having a phase.
And then Lukas asks him for his mail address, and then his parents come home, his brother towing along, and Bastian has to say goodbye and shuts down the internet, but not before he has sent off his mail address, not waiting for Lukas’ reply.
Two days. And he can’t believe he’s still waiting for an answer from Lukas; he doesn’t dare to go back to that chatroom, not wanting to tempt fate. His brother’s getting more and more annoyed at Bastian’s repeated questions like, “Are you finished now?”, “How long still?” and “Please, please, damn it, Tobias!” - well, that wasn’t a question, the last one - and when Bastian saw a new mail from someone called Lukas Podolski in his inbox, he grinned.
Hey Bastian,
sorry it took that long, my sister chats almost all the day and there’s no privacy with her around. She’s now shopping, thank god that lasts at least some hours so I can write this mail. You must be gloating now that Bayern did win again, no? Or maybe you aren’t, having gotten used to it a long time ago. Boring, no? And yeah, I know that Köln lost again - no need to rub it in. I did tell you that I’m in 10th grade, no? School’s not too bad at the moment, it’s the last year. Finally. It’s strange, you think school goes on for ever and ever, but it doesn’t. I’m probably going to become an electronic technician, my uncle’s said he’s got a free training place at his firm should I ever consider it. Hope your boss wasn’t too mad about the butchered paint job on the Fiesta, hey, it could have happened to anybody. Your colleague shouldn’t have disappeared in the middle of it; it should’ve been his responsibility. Well, I guess this is it; you’ve got my mail address now and you can mail me back whenever you want.
Bye,
Lukas
And this was just the beginning; they exchanged short mails that grew longer and longer over time, and Bastian introduced Lukas to cool websites he had found on the internet and they updated each other on the state of their clubs and then, one day, Lukas asked for Bastian’s phone number.
“Schweinsteiger, Bastian speaking.”
“Bastian! That you?”
“Lukas?”
“Who else? Hey, great to hear you.”
“Likewise, yes.”
And then there should have been an awkward silence, but there wasn’t, as Lukas covered it with babbling about the state of the 1. FC Köln, and about his parents that were driving him mad with restricting internet access and even threatening him to take away his video games - “geez, who needs parents like that, Bastian?” - and Bastian listened and chuckled and told Lukas about the time Tobias got grounded for a month because he had run away when he was about eight, out of sheer stubbornness, wanting to show dad who could be responsible and level-headed - “and he’s still as bad as he was back then, but mom and dad have given up on him,” - and tells Lukas the dirtiest jokes he knows and their combined laughing sounds great.
More and more phone calls follow, until his parents get aware of the amount of phone calls Bastian gets, and he tells them just the bare bones about Lukas, a guy he met online, someone who likes football, too, and his dad mutters, “as if there aren’t enough of these around here”, and that they get on well. And that’s it, basically; they’re used to see him lounging around on the leather sofa that has seen better days in another epoch, Bastian’s fingers absent-mindedly digging into the cracks of the upholstery, and his cell to his ear, listening intently and replying with hums and chuckles and the occasional ‘yeah, course’, and sometimes he’s talking at length, animatedly. Tobias teases him about getting cancer from the cell’s waves and Bastian just scowls at him - he hadn’t been aware that his phone bill had skyrocketed that high.
One day, his mother says to him, as he’s sitting over the second bowl of cornflakes, munching, “Why don’t you go to Cologne?”
Bastian almost chokes, but manages to swallow it the right way, eyes watering. “Huh?”
“Cologne, Bastian, where your friend lives, that Pole. Ascension Day is soon, and you could use the long weekend to go up there and meet him.”
He stares at his mother. “How - I mean, why?”
She smiles, and Bastian can almost see the young girl that she once was. Just a blink, and then it’s gone, and his mother’s back in place, faint lines around her eyes and her mouth, more pronounced there from the smoking, and she shrugs. “Well, your dad and me, we’d love to have some time to ourselves, you know.”
Bastian nods, concentrating on scraping the last bit of cornflakes from the bowl’s bottom. Seeing Lukas. Not a bad idea, actually; it otherwise would’ve been just him and his friends from the soccer club, getting totally and abysmally pissed in the mountains, in that little hut that Matthias’ parents own and which has seen quite some booze-fuelled outings (complete with barfing and horrid hangovers) already, thank god that Matthias’ parents are such a trusting lot.
Now, he has come to like Lukas very much. A lot, actually. He can talk with him about just anything, and Lukas has taught him some Polish cursewords, and in turn Bastian has chuckled at Lukas’ attempts to speak Bavarian, and they have agreed to disagree on club favourites, but are all for Ballack, of course. Lukas is still struggling with school, English and German not being his favourite subjects, and there has been a lot of bitching about stupid Boerchert and Brecht - how fitting a name, Lukas had said - and teachers that love analyzing everything to death, just about, and, well. Bastian can phone Lukas anytime, even in the morning at 3 (he once did, after a sleepless night, actually), and Lukas has an own cell, too, which just vibrates - the walls are thin, he explains to Bastian, and his mother can hear as well as an owl or whatever animal that is, “dunno either,” Bastian says, so. And then he’s calling Lukas and asks if he’s got anything planned in May, and soon the plan to visit Lukas is discussed intensely, Lukas says he’ll put up a spare mattress in his room, and no, he hasn’t planned anything definite for Ascension Day yet, and it’ll be a blast, and Bastian just listens to him, smiling.
Suddenly, it’s Thursday, and his mother’s driving him to the railway station; he has got to take a train to Munich and then the ICE to Cologne where Lukas’ll fetch him, and Bastian’s packed his huge training bag to the brim; he has brought his video games, too.
The train ride is fairly uneventful, landscapes zooming past; it isn’t the first time Bastian’s been out of Bavaria, he has been to Berlin once and Stuttgart often and Frankfurt’s on the list, too. But this is different; no visiting relatives or being on a class trip or something like that; no, he’s going to visit someone he has never seen before, and he suddenly realizes that he really doesn’t know what Lukas looks like.
They never have exchanged pictures; he can remember Lukas talking about wanting to get new pictures of him taken and then sending Bastian one, but somehow that got forgotten amongst the other things that they talked about, and, well. He’s still in that phase, yes, and if he has checked out Benny Lauth, the only other apprentice at the car garage and 1860 fan, well, that’s his business. He doesn’t know, really - or doesn’t want to know, a little part of his mind argues.
Well, whatever. Lukas will be the litmus test - if he doesn’t fancy him, then it’s a done deal: he’s not one of them. But if it’s the other way around, well. He sighs and stares out of the window, green meadows and white-washed houses surrounded by bushes and trees and the occasional cow herd, blackbrownwhiteflecked, and he leans his forehead to the cool glass.
What if Lukas isn’t handsome? A boring, ugly fellow like Jakob who he had to sit next to all during 7th grade, and Bastian still remembers the peculiar smell - Jakob’s parents own a dingy pub, and he works there evenings, a pale pudgy fellow with almost-too-blond hair, wispy locks. Nobody wanted to be friends with him even if he offered them free beer, desperate.
Bastian hadn’t been his friend, either. But Lukas - no, Lukas wouldn’t look like that. Although it’s irrational, he does know. Someone like Lukas, with that cheerful exuberance and good-natured ribbing, someone like this can’t be ugly - it would show in his behaviour and speech, too. No. Lukas will be handsome, not pretty - like Benny can be sometimes -, but he’ll be nice-looking and they’ll just click. Yes.
And with that thought in mind, Bastian dozes off, only to be shaken awake in between by the conductor demanding his tickets and a second time by an elderly woman who wants him to lift her heavy bag out of the overhead compartment.
Still hearing the echo of Usher’s crooning in his ears, he arrives at the Cologne main railway station, having cleaned himself up quickly in the men’s ten minutes before, nodding to himself, “you’ll do”, and hopes that his jitters won’t be that visible. Damn, even Usher hadn’t been able to calm him down, and he had gotten a strange churning in his stomach; had he eaten something bad yesterday evening? But it’s too late, the train’s rolling in, and the platform is slowing down, or rather, it’s the other way round, the train is slowing down, too quickly.
And then Bastian’s stumbling out of the train, his fingers gripping the handle of his bag tightly, people pouring around him, towards the exit, but he doesn’t go with them, Lukas said he’d pick him up on the platform, and that’s where he’ll be. Soon, the platform’s clearing and with a quick look to the distant end behind him, only an elderly man sitting on a seat there, he walks forward, scanning the faces in front of him.
He only knows that Lukas’ll be wearing a 1. FC Köln t-shirt, and he himself is wearing his most prized possession, a Ballack jersey. How hard can it be to find a fellow in a white-red t-shirt? Apparently very much, as almost every second kid - or so it seems to Bastian - is wearing one. But then he spots a boy walking towards him, the 1. FC jersey is there, yes, and bleached-out jeans, and gods, he is beautiful.
Beautiful. Breathtakingly so, even.
Bastian can just stare as the boy approaches him, big shit-eating grin plastered all over his face, and extends a hand, “Bastian, right? I’m Lukas,” and then Bastian nods dumbly, his mind still reeling with what just happened, and when their palms meet, it’s like lightning. But of the good kind, and he remembers that he wasn’t born mute, and says, “um, yeah, sorry, it’s me,” and Lukas just smiles, a little twinkle in his blue eyes, summersky blue, Bastian’s favourite colour as of now, having replaced Bayern red.
They’re still holding hands right in the middle of platform 3 and people walk around them, train announcements blaring from the loudspeakers, crackling, jingles from advertisements, and Bastian hears the Cologne dialect, Kölsch, and Turkish, and German in all variations and some English and French around him, but he’s only seeing Lukas.
And Lukas doesn’t mind; quite on the contrary, he’s also looking at Bastian, and if the faint blush is any indicator, he’s also liking what he sees - and Bastian’s secretly glad about this; he knows that he would never stand any chance against the Ballacks of this world.
Lukas’ hand slips from his, but not after a quick squeeze, “let’s go,” and Bastian’s falling into step next to him, not able to turn his eyes from Lukas, and hell, yes.
He’s gay, he’s a fucking faggot, a damn fairy, anything. If it makes him feel that great and light-headed and wanting to conquer the whole world, then so be it, and the giddiness starts to bubble over and -
“My parents will be gone tomorrow evening, and my sister’ll be over at her boyfriend’s,” Lukas says, and Bastian almost stumbles on the stairs that lead to the top of the Cologne Cathedral, because - the undertone, and he catches himself just in time on Lukas’ arm, and then they’re standing in front of a tacky souvenir shop, the huge Cathedral looming over them, but the sun’s shining and Lukas is grinning at Bastian’s floored face.
“I’m always told that I’m too forward, but I guess I’m going to take my chances with you,” and then - all of a sudden, although Bastian feels he saw it coming in slo-mo, their lips connect, awkwardly because Bastian’s stunned, he kissed me here in public, everyone can see us, a voice shrieks in his mind, and Lukas stops the kiss, his hand on Bastian’s chest.
“Hey,” he whispers, his eyes having gone from sunny to earnest in an instant, “don’t worry. Remember, this is Cologne,” and Bastian nods, blinking, and then Lukas closes in onto him again, and this time Bastian just lets his bag drop to the floor, half-hearing a yell from an older man swerving just in time around it, and then his arms are around Lukas, and their kiss deepens, and when there’s tongue, Bastian shuddersighs into Lukas’ mouth, never having had a clue that kissing could be that good - damn it, he should’ve been gay from the very beginning, but only with Lukas, of course, Lukas, who is kissing him fervently and whose hands, slightly stroking, are holding him in place. And this is, he realizes with a sudden clarity, just where he belongs.
II.
Somewhere in Upper Silesia, 1944
Bastian dragged himself forward step by step. The harsh November winds were tearing at his thin uniform coat, not designed for the upcoming Russian or Polish winters. And with the snow pounding his face, or as little as he dared to show, wrapped up in the thick woollen scarf that his mother had sent him - the last thing he had received from Bavaria before things went bad. Once he’d be reunited with her, he’d thank her a thousand times - the scarf had saved his cheeks and his nose from being frostbitten, although it was a pity that he didn’t have anything else to cover him up with; a blanket would be wonderful. But here, in war-torn Silesia, nothing would be found at all and he had to make do with curling himself up in ditches, shivering against the cold wind and willing his teeth to stop chattering, futilely. Often he got up again and walked - although one might call it a drunken swagger more accurately - on, blinking and trying not to fall asleep until he had reached the next little village or the next farm where he’d search for a little wind protection, huddling in the corners of any abandoned stable or house and jerking awake any time steps neared and lost themselves in the snow.
He carried an empty water flask with him and a stale loaf of bread - it had been three days since he had managed to snatch the goods from the canteen the day he deserted, and a huge sausage, too. He hoped that no one was searching for him; but the way things were at the Front, where he had been about to be called to, nobody would really have the time to search for a lowly foot soldier. At least, he hoped so. Very much.
But first he’d have to lose the damned clothes; but so far, he hadn’t found anything that would be at least somewhat warmer and he wouldn’t kill anyone for clothes; he had discarded his gun long ago, throwing it into a nearby lake, watching the thin ice crack and water splash up as the gun vanished into the blackness. Soon, ice would form again over the spot, more or less seamlessly. He had only his passport with him and some money; not that much, really, about five Reichsmark, which wouldn’t get him very far.
The people here were - as far as he could see from watching them from a safe distance - quite under-fed, the children scrawny and dark-haired. He knew that most of them were Poles; the land around him had belonged to Poland once, before Hitler had seized it. There were some Germans, too, scattered around; but what these people had in common was that they were wary of strangers, and especially of those in Wehrmacht uniforms. It was a damned vicious circle; he needed to contact people to persuade them to give him clothes, but with the uniform he wore, he would just scare them away or, even worse, make them go after him with pitchforks and knives and hunt him down.
Bastian shuddered at the thought, and suddenly realized that he was that close to fainting; black little specks danced in his vision. He quickly stumbled off the path and held onto a thin birch tree, swaying. He breathed in deeply, again and again, until he felt more secure on his legs.
He had planned to go back to Berlin, where he could disappear in the muddle the city was in; if he was lucky, he’d find an acquaintance of his, Arne Friedrich, but with the bad luck he’d had, it was more than possible that Arne had been sent to soldier on, too. Other than that, he could only recall Sebastian Deisler, but the man had been sent to the navy, up north, Eckernförde. Bastian only hoped that Sebastian hadn’t been on the submarines that had been sunk by the Americans; he had liked Deisler well enough.
All’s fair in love or war - the thought suddenly popped into his head. He shook his head; damn, where did it come from?
All of a sudden, a big shape loomed in front of him; he must have gotten too close to a farm without noticing. This had to be the barn, by all appearances; he could hear faint whinnying from in there. Slowly, he tiptoed - as much as you can with heavy leather boots - to the barn door and listened. No steps, and it was pitch dark in there; the thought of sleeping in dry straw with a horse - or several - as company appeared to him as the most perfect notion he could have, and so he stumbled in, his eyes squinting as he tried to make out things in the dark. The horse - it was definitely only one - was in the back, to his left; it whinnied again, but with the snowstorm outside Bastian doubted that it could be heard much farther than the barn. At least he could make out some contours; there was a heap of straw, it seemed like, and he more like fell upon it, and then all lights were out.
This had been a mistake.
Suddenly, he jerked awake - someone was standing over him, shaking his shoulder forcefully. He yelped, drawing away from the man - it was definitely one - and scrambled up, his mind still reeling from being abruptly roused from a deep sleep, ready to flight at the slightest notion of danger.
The man was about the same height as he, and it was still somewhat dim in the barn, but not as dim as that he was able to see that he was the same age as him, clad in dirty and far too thin clothes, dirt streak over the one cheek, and a scrutinizing gaze sizing him up.
“German?”, he asked, with a distinct Polish tinge.
So far, he didn’t seem to be particularly averse to Bastian. He nodded.
“You’re a soldier, no?”, the man asked, again. “Yes,” Bastian said, his voice scratchy with disuse, and cleared his throat. “Please…” and he trailed off, not knowing what to ask for.
“You want me to help you?” - “Yes, if you can,” and Bastian tried a faint smile. The effect this had on the slightly grumpy features was astonishing; it lit up with a big grin, and the eyes shone, and suddenly Bastian realized that the man - or rather, boy, as he wasn’t that old himself, only having turned twenty some months ago - was excited at the thought of helping and abetting a deserter, and Bastian didn’t want anything to happen to an innocent bystander.
So he shook his head and said, “Listen, this is dangerous; I just want to sleep for a few nights here until I’m okay, and then I’m on my way, and you don’t have to say anything to anyone, got it?”
The guy was still smiling, but at Bastian’s words there was a little frown. He shook his head and said, slowly, clearly dredging up the words - German wasn’t his mother tongue, “No, there will be other horses led here; and they will see you. You will have to hide somewhere, and I know where.”
With these words he turned and motioned Bastian to follow him. Sighing, as he clearly didn’t have any choice, Bastian trudged after him. They walked along the barn’s side, keeping to the shadows; but as it was an overcast day, the deep clouds promising even more snow, it was still quite dark this early, and then they arrived at a low building which was adjoined to a bigger one, which Bastian guessed to be the farmhouse. The man walked to a door, weathered and cracked with age and the elements, and lifted the bolt off it. It creaked on its hinges as he went in, and Bastian looked around once again, finding nothing out of the ordinary, and then stepped over the threshold.
He found himself in a smallish room, having only space for a bed with thick woollen blankets thrown haphazardly over it, a little table next to it with a picture in it - a woman, it seemed - and hooks in the wall next to the bed, with working jackets and coats hanging from them, and then there was a wardrobe next to the door, and that was all.
The man smiled. “My room.” He apparently was a worker here; a farm labourer, to be exact. Bastian nodded. “It’s nice,” he offered, not knowing what to say or do. To be amongst people - okay, this was only one man, but it counted - again, it was quite disturbing.
“My name’s Lukas, by the way,” the man said, “Lukas Podolski.” He held out his hand, and Bastian automatically grasped it, initially shocked at the innate warmth. “Bastian Schweinsteiger,” he said, letting his hand linger a bit in - Lukas’ warmth.
Then Lukas told him to just stay in his room; that it was only him who would come here, and no one else, and that he could stay here as long as he liked, and that he’d give Bastian bits of what he’d have for meals, and when Bastian started to refuse his offers, he just smiled and said, “Let me help you,” and really, what could you say to that?
So, in the end, Bastian got out of his uniform coat and his boots, wiggling his cramped feet and climbing into the bed and under the blankets, and although the mattress was quite lumpy and the blankets somewhat threadbare, he thought that no king could sleep better.
Later, much later, he awoke, blinking blearily. A lit candle was on the table, and Lukas was closing the door, juggling something in his hands, and then he crossed over to the bed and saw that Bastian was awake and then the things he had held landed on the bed, and Bastian sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Bread, and sausage, just a bit, and I’ve got a pitcher of milk outside the door, to keep it cold,” Lukas said, smiling at him. Bastian nodded and made as if he wanted to get out of bed, but, “No, stay there, be comfortable; there isn’t much more space,” and with these words Lukas sat himself on the edge of the bed, taking the bread in his hands and breaking it in two, and then he and Bastian shared the food, and later he fetched the jug of milk and he let Bastian drink about roughly half of it - he had almost forgotten how good milk tasted - and with his stomach filled, after a very long time, Bastian dozed off again.
But then, when a warm body pressed up against him from back, he started again and twisted around - “Hush, get back to sleep,” and Lukas pushed at him, obviously wanting him to scoot closer to the wall, and Bastian did that, too tired to object although he would have found it very hard to do so; after all, Lukas had shared everything with him. And now he was sharing his body warmth, too, as it seemed; and Bastian couldn’t hold himself back from burrowing back, into Lukas, into that blazing warmth that he once imagined could only be found right in front of a hearth fire, but there it was, contained in a male body.
And then Lukas’ arm slid around his side, and their bodies - fit, like that. Bastian couldn’t describe it better, other than they just seemed to click, like two puzzle pieces, and the fact that they were roughly the same height made it the more easier, and he felt Lukas’ warm breath fanning over his neck, smelled the sharp sweat of Lukas’ body - but who was he to complain, he must positively stink, and fell right into Morpheus’ arms.
In the morning, it wasn’t awkward, curiously enough - Lukas just disengaged himself from Bastian, slipping out of the bed, shuddering slightly as his feet touched the cold stone floor, and then he was pulling on his clothes quickly and then he was out of the door, for the first duties of the day; later on, he’d come back to their room, bringing something to eat, mostly bread, sometimes dried apples or sausages or hard cheese, too, and a cup of scorching hot malt coffee, sweetened with a bit of honey, that they shared. And so it went every morning.
Lukas would ask him questions about where he came from, and Bastian would answer readily enough; he’d tell the Pole about his family in Oberaudorf, of the family farm that his father had to sell parts of because it wasn’t sufficient enough for them all, of his dog, Hasso, and of his brother Tobias, who was with the Schutzstaffel, and how he hadn’t heard from him for a year straight, “Doesn’t have to mean anything,” Lukas said quietly, never once taking his eyes from Bastian’s, and chewed on the bread.
And he told Lukas about himself, too, about school, about playing soccer - he had to explain the game to Lukas and then the Pole’s eyes lit up and he nodded, “yes, piłka nożna, I know it, too,” and then they launched into a discussion of matches they had played with friends, and Lukas said, “I would like very much to play soccer with you once all this is over,” and Bastian grinned, said, “Me, too.”
Later, that one night - three nights past the one where Lukas had discovered him - Bastian lay awake, Lukas’ arm around him, as always, and was thinking. It was so unlikely to have found a friend here; and if he was entirely honest with himself, he would love to stay on. Forever, to be here, in this bed, to wait for Lukas, and to pace the small room, counting steps and when he got bored, he did exercises, sit-ups and such that didn’t require too much space, and he could feel himself getting stronger. He should have been gone yesterday, or today, but something held him back. No, he knew what it was, clearly: it was Lukas. He couldn’t go without having repaid everything the Pole did for him in full.
Just this evening Lukas had bought in a bucket full with water - cold, of course - and a thin towel, and had told Bastian that he could wash himself, and so Bastian had did, splashing cold water all over him until his teeth were chattering, and then he accepted the small piece of soap from Lukas and then, finally, he was clean, but the thin towel got soaked full too quickly and so he had climbed in bed still half-wet, as Lukas put the bucket to the side to pour it outside later, and he had lain there, shivering and dampening the woollen blankets. He heard the faint rustle of Lukas taking off his clothes, down to his shirt, as always, and then he had sighed blissfully as the Pole’s strongwarm body slid in behind him, and had leant back, and Lukas had chuckled slightly, “Cold, isn’t it?”, and had slung the arm around him after pulling up the blankets to cover their shoulders.
And then he had dropped off to sleep, snoring slightly and stirring up Bastian’s hair at the nape of his neck. Which was an oddly comfortable feeling, at that.
Bastian sighed; he didn’t know what to make of Lukas, who took him in, shared his food with him and even his bed and his body warmth, and was probably very much content with this, as far as he could see. He never had met a man as selfless as Lukas, as far as he could remember. And he didn’t want to be indebted to him. But how to change this?, and with this thought in mind, he finally went to sleep.
Suddenly, he jerked awake; and it felt almost like a déjà vu, if it weren’t for the warm body behind him, holding him in place - but something was different, and Bastian realized what it was: Lukas was hard, his member pressing against Bastian’s buttocks, and he sighed in his sleep, little content whimpers, whereas Bastian was just lying there, still-shocked, not knowing what to do. The feel of the hot length through the thin fabric of Bastian’s shirt and underwear was disturbing, but in a rather awkward way that Bastian couldn’t exactly describe; it wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t anything else, either - it was just weird, and he debated with himself if he should wait and see if Lukas wakes up, which could be any time, or even rather soon, if he’ll spill himself onto Bastian, and this thought alone made him shudder, and this probably was what did wake Lukas up.
He shut his eyes tightly, not wanting to give anything away, to spare Lukas the embarrassment. The Pole seemed to notice what was going on and he scooted away from Bastian, far enough that Bastian couldn’t feel it anymore, and then he was turning over, and if Bastian weren’t faking sleep, he’d have woken up by now. And then the round swell of Lukas’ buttocks pressed against his - they didn’t fit anymore, this sudden thought crossed Bastian’s confused mind.
Then he felt - and heard - clothes rustle, and Lukas shifting and moving, and then a steady movement which Bastian was all too familiar with started, and he could almost see Lukas’ hand on his cock, shifting up and down, smoothing the thumb over the top, and his breathing got more laboured, too.
It was torture, that’s what it was, Bastian thought, as his own cock reacted to the on-goings just a stretched arm away and hardened, and he bit himself on his lip to not give himself away. Which proves harder than he thought when Lukas started to make little bucking movements, the naked flesh of his legs rubbing against Bastian’s slightly, and it had been too long, damn too long, he told himself as he turned around and lined up with Lukas again, fitting, and then his hand was edging under the covers around Lukas’ side, fingertips scrabbling on Lukas’ skin until his hand came to rest over Lukas’, enclosing it.
Lukas was utterly still now, but he must have felt Bastian’s cock at his backside, and the only sounds to be heard was their controlled breathing, as this was the point of no return; either they go forward or they stop, there’ll be no in-between, and Lukas knew this as much as Bastian did. But when Bastian’s hand squeezed Lukas’, it’s as if a dam broke; Lukas arched up against him, moansighing, and Bastian pressed himself against Lukas’ body, his cock slipping in the cleft between the butt-cheeks, only the thin fabric of Lukas’ shirt separating it from the naked skin beneath, and Bastian moaned.
It was too much, to be with another man like this - this wasn’t his first time, which he had to thank Benjamin for, the neighbours’ kid with the easy laugh. What had become of him, anyway? Shoving that thought aside, Bastian concentrated on his hand on Lukas’, trying to follow the movements of the hand, getting faster and faster, and he buried his face into Lukas’ neck, smellingtasting dirt and sweat and underneath something that was uniquely Lukas, something he would have recognized the Pole with anywhere. His cock got caught in the fabric of Lukas’ shirt and Bastian pulled it up, freeing his cock and only when he heard Lukas’ gasp, he realized what this could mean.
“No, I won’t do that,” he said, or rather, whispered into Lukas’ ear, while he adjusted his cock with his other hand, wiggling and shifting to get the best leverage until it slid right into the place he wanted it to - right into that place between Lukas’ thighs, up to his nuts, and he nudged at the upper thigh to easen up, and, with a slight shudder, Lukas complied - and then his cock was caught in the delicious warmth that pervaded Lukas, that was everywhere about him and Bastian sighed in bliss. His other hand was still on Lukas’, the movements having stilled, and he squeezed it, wanting to signal that they could continue; and after a split-second, Lukas did just that, and Bastian followed his set rhythm. As it picked up, he also met it with thrust and thrust, right into that delicious place, the almost-soft skin of Lukas’ inner thighs getting slicker with his own seed, and suddenly, it crept up on them and rushed over them, drowning them in moans and grunts and Bastian thrust one last time before he eased his cock out and loosened his hold on Lukas’ hand.
They lay there, their hearts thumping, and neither spoke a word. Hard breaths were the only sounds in the little room, and just when Bastian thought Lukas would leave, the Pole sighed and turned around. In the dim light, his features seemed particularly vulnerable; as if he were barely grown-up. No lines marring his face, his eyes as innocent as these of a newborn.
“Why did you do that?”, he finally asked.
“I don’t know,” Bastian answered, and in a way, this was the truth. He honestly didn’t, hadn’t consciously decided to join Lukas in pleasuring his body.
“It’s good?”, and Bastian nodded. “Yes.” And their hesitant smile mirrored each other, until Lukas turned away and got up from the bed, whitish streaks running down his legs and Bastian blushed; knowing that these were his, to a part. But the Pole just squatted down next to the still half-full bucket of water and cleaned himself off, diligently. Then he stood up again, wrung the towel out and handed it over to Bastian, who accepted it with a nod and set the blankets aside to clean himself off, too. Lukas then put the soiled towel into the bucket and got back into bed, lining himself up against Bastian’s back again, an arm sliding into place.
Bastian sighed and burrowed, and he felt Lukas chuckle. He smiled, knowing that this had changed virtually everything and yet not a single thing.
And so it went for about four months, Lukas had persuaded Bastian to wait at least until spring when the travel would get easier, and provided him with civilian clothes and a shirt of his that he had resewn so many times that it was sure to fall apart at the slightest touch, but actually was quite sturdy. Bastian accepted the clothes and the shirt with thanks, which Lukas wanted to have none of, but he let Bastian repay it to him by letting him serve Lukas with his mouth.
The next day Bastian put the bits of the Wehrmacht uniform that were still wearable into a bundle with two loafs that Lukas had given him on top; and he was ready to go. The evening was approaching, and he’d better be off soon to put a good distance between him and the coming Russians; Lukas had warned him about these and, just in case, taught him the bits of Russian he himself knew. Bastian had also learnt some Polish from Lukas, which would help him in getting to Germany - and hopefully to Berlin.
This was it: he probably would never see Lukas anymore. The Pole eyed him with a faint smile, and then declared him passable, “You can pass as a Pole, or as a German; both will help you. Remember what I told you, yes?”
“Yes,” said Bastian, “I will remember. - And take care of yourself, will you?”
“I always have done so,” Lukas smiled, but now the smile was rather wistful. “You’ll be in more danger than me, I’d say.”
“Right, and I should hurry,” Bastian said. “Again - thank you so very much, and I will repay you,” - “No talk of this,” Lukas interrupted him, “just remember me, yes?”
Bastian swallowed down the words he wanted to say and nodded. “I will.”
And because there was no more to say, he opened the door, peering outside and checking if everything was clear; then he stepped outside and turned. Lukas stood in the door, a hand on the doorframe, and smiled.
“Farewell, Bastian Schweinsteiger.”
It was oddly formal, and yet fitting. Bastian nodded. “Farewell, Lukas Podolski.”
And then - because, really, what else was there to say, nor to do? - he turned back to where the path was which would lead him onto a paved street which went westwards, and took the first step. And another one, and then one more, and so on until his feet met stone, and he turned. The small farm had disappeared around the bend, and there was nothing to be heard save the wind softly rustling in the leaves and a bird singing, a forlorn tune, and if his cheeks were quite damp despite the cooldry breeze, so be it.
III.
Cologne, 2005
Lukas grins as his friends greet him with catcalls, “Poldi, dressed to kill, what?”, and Malik nudges him, grinning, and whispers into his ear, “Better hire bodyguards as you won’t escape tonight unscathed,” and then they’re off, squeezing into Malik’s car, five guys, all ready to rumble in Cologne’s city, to let out the bear, so to speak.
After a quick detour by McDonalds to stock them up with greasy fat goodies so that they don’t get drunk too quickly - one has to enjoy nights like these, when you’re off work and the birds are chirping and the girls’ skirts get higher and higher until it would just need a mere centimetre more to show round asses, and the temperature’s around 25°C, just perfect for a warm summer’s evening, the day’s sun blaze still wafting up from the stones. Lukas is swallowing down the last bite of his Royal TS as they discuss where to go next, but this decision is easily made; first they’ll go to one of the Irish pubs down in the Altstadt, preferably the one with the big screen where they can watch some soccer, if they’re lucky, and then they’ll go and see if one of the in-clubs around there has good music, dance a bit, drink some more, and then it’s off to the Dollhouse, and Mike makes them agree on ordering two female strippers at once at their table so they can watch them make out - of course it’s fake, but nevertheless it’s cool.
Walking down the street leading to the Altstadt, Lukas is sandwiched in between Stephan and Mike, grinning at their antics, letting himself being jostled by Mike in an attempt to offset Stephan, but the latter just neatly sidesteps and then Lukas would have spent the night in hospital weren’t it for Mike who had pulled him back from fast approaching death by a Mercedes SLK, roaring past them.
“I saved your life, don’t hit me,” Mike pleads with Lukas, only half-jokingly, and earns a wry grin from the Pole. “Next time, don’t do either - shoving me off or saving me, capisce?”, Lukas says, and takes Mike’s head into a headlock, mussing up his gel-styled hair, but draws back in time to avoid Mike’s revenge in form of a same-minded hair-muss.
Malik, who has been walking behind them, snorts, “If I see you like that, I’d think that the fag among us would be Mike, not Lukas - seeing as you care so much for your hair, Hanke,” and this now earns him a little shove from Mike, who grumbles at him, “You’re just jealous of it,” - “Sure, do I want to run around like the little poster boy for the Hitler Youth or what?”, and Mike just says, “Fuck off, Fatih,”, but in a friendly tone - he’s easy to tease, but cools off in the same speed, too, which is one of the good things about him.
His friends are good guys, Lukas thinks with a smile. Mike, the belligerent one; bit of a hot-head, but when the going got rough, you could always count on him. And Malik, the ‘token foreigner’, as he often joked, in their little gang, who had the best chances with the girls, which had just to look into his smouldering eyes - a glance, and boom. Malik does have something of a reputation as a ladies’ man, yes. And then there’s Christian, another guy who cares more for his hair than Lukas himself does, but apart from this vain strain, Christian’s a good guy, the proverbial son-in-law every mother dreams of; polite, nice and good-looking, and the fact that he’s currently studying for his Abitur exams doesn’t hurt exactly. He’s the only one that’s still at school, but he doesn’t want to go to university or something like that; he has said that he’ll use his one year of civil service to think about what he wants to become, and that’s that. Stephan is a friend of Mike’s, having moved to Cologne about a year ago and he’s a good balance in their group - he’s funny, quiet and has always the best plans what to do - his parties are always a dead success, because he just knows how to play the crowd.
And they know that he’s gay - and it doesn’t bother them. Lukas had thought it would be Mike who’d have the most difficulties, but the blond had just shrugged. “So what? As long as your boyfriend, whoever he is, can talk soccer, too, it’s fine by me.” The others had agreed unanimously, and thus it came that Lukas had often to suffer his friends trying to help and pointing out various guys to him, snickering when they had landed onto a rather unfortunate guy. Lukas lets them; it’s not as if they’re actually shoving him in said guys’ arms.
At the Irish pub, they see that it’s crammed full with people, no chance to get in. Or even to grab a Kölsch each, so they scratch it and instead go for the next best club. Stephan has heard about a good one that’s supposed to be right around the corner with a mixed clientele, and so they set forth into its direction.
It’s not full in there yet; “still a secret, you know,” Stephan whispers into Lukas’ ear, “only those in the know know,” and Lukas raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re one of them?”
“No, I’m the Easter Bunny,” Stephan quips, and then he signals to the bartender and yells their order of Kölsch - they all agree unanimously that Pfäffgen’s is the best - and then they sit, or rather, slouch around a table in a corner. The clientele is mixed, some gay guys huddling over on the bar, high-pitched laughter emanating from them as they probably exchange stories about their last lay or whatever, and then there’s a girl-girl couple nursing their drinks at the table next to them, chatting quietly. They’re dressed up quite nice, too, as proven by Mike’s ogling them, and Lukas rolls his eyes and nudges his friend.
“What?”, Mike hisses.
“Stop that,” Lukas says, “you’re embarrassing us all.”
Mike sighs. “You guys never let me have any fun, you know.” But he’s content enough to turn to Christian and get into a heated discussion about whether Köln should buy Ailton - Mike’s all for it, and Christian’s so not for it, pointing out the ‘Kugelblitz’ failures in the past to get on with his clubs and his managers.
And then Malik nudges him in the side and whispers - almost too loud - “That guy, wouldn’t he be something for you?”
Lukas sighs. So far his friends have proven abysmally bad taste in picking a guy for him; he really doesn’t know where they get it from. But he’s still the nice Lukas, so he turns his head and - stares.
The guy that Malik means is standing at the entrance with three other guys, all huddled together and quite big-eyed - probably fresh from a nearby village, Lukas guesses. This guy is quite something; wearing good jeans, bleached and ripped just the right amount, and a white T-Shirt with some print on it underneath a black simple jacket, silver rings adorning two of his fingers, catching in the strobe light hanging above the bar.
He’s wearing a curious haircut; half Mohawk, half short-cropped, and with bleached tips. On any other guy that would probably look really ridiculous, but this guy, it just fits. Lukas can’t tear his eyes away from the strong jawline, the half-smirk on the guy’s lips - he’s by far the most relaxed one out of the bunch - and the easy posture.
Malik croons. “And we have a hit, ladies and gentlemen!” Simultaneous gasps can be heard from the direction of Mike, Christian and Stephan - Lukas knows that they’ve almost given up on him, declaring that his coming-out was just a fluke and that he’s secretly hetero. Lukas ignores their curious looks and continues to watch the guy. He’s about the same age as he is, Lukas thinks; he’s now at the bar, ordering something, and then he’s looking around again, obviously searching for some free space - the rather gay guys at the bar probably aren’t to his liking, either - and just when Lukas despaired as this place has gotten crammed to the gills over the last some minutes, the lesbian couple next to him leaves, and Lukas hopes for the guy to notice it, and he’s almost going to get up on his table and wave and point, when the guy jerks his head towards him, well, not towards him, but into their direction, and Lukas exhales. Him and his friends slide in around the table, and as fate wants it, the guy is seated so that he’s facing Lukas.
Damn.
“Go on, talk to him,” Malik whispers, nudging Lukas. Lukas turns and hisses, “Stop it!” His glare doesn’t make Malik cower, instead, he says unfazed, “If you don’t do it, I’m going to do it. Turn on my ladies’ charm, and I bet it’ll work on him, too, and hey, these days it’s apparently the thing to be a little bit bi, don’t you agree?”, and when he has finished his little speech, Lukas has already gotten up, and then he’s standing in front of the guy. He just hopes that his outfit - the denim jeans and the black tight t-shirt - doesn’t look too boring, and smiles.
“Hey,” he says, and damn, what’s he supposed to say now?
But the guy comes to his rescue. “Hey,” he says, and his eyes wander over Lukas’ body, obviously enjoying what they see.
“Uh, can I invite you to a drink?” Instantly, Lukas wishes someone would hit him over the head with a paddle. It’s bad enough that his friends are looking on and hanging on his every word, but the guy’s friends are also eyeing him - and rather suspiciously.
“Sure, yeah, but only if it’s wheat beer,” the guy says, and something clicks.
“You’re Bavarian?”, Lukas asks.
“Yeah, that’s me - Bastian Schweinsteiger, by the way,” the guy says - wait, no, he does have a name now, Bastian, although the family name sounds weird. Bavarian, eh.
“I’m Lukas Podolski,” he says.
“Lukas, nice to meet you,” Bastian says, and is holding out his hand - when he’s interrupted by one of his friends, sitting at his side. “Podolski - is that Polish?”
Lukas bristles inwardly. “Yeah, it is. Got a problem with that?”
“Just that we don’t get many of these around back home.” The guy that’s speaking isn’t bad-looking, either, quite the opposite. He’s smirking slightly, but then Bastian shakes his head at him, and smiles up at Lukas. “Excuse him, Michael’s still suffering of a rather nasty turn-down.”
And this is the moment where Mike bends over and says, “Hey, we’re friends of that giant unlucky sod that’s trying to hook up with your friend there, and my name’s Mike.”
“Mike!” - “What, it’s true,” Mike defends himself, “just look how badly Poldi is doing, Christian. Geez, Lukas, we thought you were a smooth talker.”
Bastian grins at Mike. “Well, he’s smooth enough for me, and that’s what counts, right?” With these words, he gets up from his seat, so that he’s standing next to Lukas.
He wants me, too, this thought rises unbidden in Lukas’ mind and he smiles at Bastian. “Want to go order something to drink?”
“Yeah, love to,” and then they’re weaving through the throng to get to the bar, and yelling in each other’s ear over the loud music, Lukas finds out that Bastian’s actually on visit here, to see if he could hack it up here, as he got offered an job here, through connections, and Lukas yells, “There’s a Bavarian mafia? I never would have guessed,” and he hears Bastian laugh for the first time this evening. Then Lukas remembers Mike’s stipulation on any possible boyfriends on his and asks Bastian if he likes soccer - which causes the Bavarian to launch into a detailed account of just why his favourite soccer club, Bayern Munich - which causes Lukas to roll his eyes, again, for which he gets a “Hey!” from Bastian - would do better to sign Ballack right now, because they won’t get such a good player ever again.
Lukas agrees, but confesses to his love of the 1. FC Köln, and then they’re sticking their heads together, and soon Lukas’ voice is hoarse from yelling too much, and he’s on his third- or fourth? - Kölsch and Bastian’s nursing his second wheat beer and it’s just great, it’s peaches, and it could go on for hours - which it does, until they have to be (almost forcibly) separated by both their friends who have in the meantime got on quite well, mostly by observing the lovebirds, and then they exchange phone numbers - Bastian does it the old-fashioned way, with a biro on Lukas’ forearm, and Lukas scribbles it on a coaster, and at the door, there’s a chorus of bye-byes and Lukas hesitates; should he kiss Bastian, or not?
But when the Bavarian’s stepping up to him, smiling that cockysure grin up at him, that’s no question anymore, and their lips touch, tasting beer and smoke and a bit of the cashew nuts from the small dishes scattered along the bar, and then their tongues meet and it’s better than anything that he could ever have dreamt of, even than the awkward first kiss with Stephan, and Lukas feels as if he’s dreaming, but dreaming in a really, really lucid way and it would just need a little bit to actually wake him up and he doesn’t want that, not when it comes as good as Bastian, and he practically devours him, marking him as his only, and then Bastian breaks for air, his hands resting on Lukas’ hips, smiling at him.
“Yours or mine?”
“Mine,” Lukas says, and laughs, because this day - the first shimmer of a new dawn is creeping up on the horizon - is turning out to be the best of his life.
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