WE BREAK OUR OWN HEARTS (2)
Fandom: German National team
Pairing: Klinsmann/Loew, various
Disclaimer: I still don't know people mentioned in this story and I still hope it isn't true. The plot is still only my fantasy
Summary: we break our own hearts, we are to blame, we see the things we want to...
Author's notes, previous chapters and music here
Timeline for the series is here
We Break Our Own Hearts (2)
Jürgen's suite is big enough to look like a living apartment rather then hotel room. The only thing that indicates that it's a temporary habitat is the order surrounding them - no small objects clustering the space, no papers thrown around in disarray, no clothes lying in heap on a neatly-made bed. Pastel colors - light-blue and gold, curtains are still open and there is darkness behind the window.
"What were you thinking?" Repeats Jürgen in the same tone. "What if someone..."
He's not listening, just looks at the blonde man. Wooden panel behind his back is warm - warmed by his own body heat. It's not pleasant, because the air in the room is too hot. He feels beads of sweat gather on his brow.
Jürgen raises a hand and he flinches. As if expected to be hit. It's a pure reflex, and he sees Jürgen's face - surprise written over it, slowly turning into shock. The hand touches his temple and freezes there for a moment. Maybe Jürgen is trying to judge his reaction. Or maybe trying not to scare him.
He notices just then that he's still gripping the doorknob, so hard that it's a wonder in itself how come it's still not broken. Decorative carvings on the metal plate cuts into his skin. Hurting.
"Jogi", both of Jürgen's hands are on his temples now, massaging and caressing at the same time. "Joachim", down to his shoulders, squeezing lightly, rubbing in small circles. And lower, caressing his arms. "Dearest".
His hand is still on the doorknob.
"I'm sorry", Jürgen is speaking very evenly. "I shouldn't have talked like that. I'm sorry".
He's speaking with him like with a petulant child. They all treat him as if he was someone who's unable to take care of himself.
"Who were you talking with?"
His voice is rough, maybe because of too much smoking. He's had to buy himself a third pack at the airport.
"A friend", Jürgen doesn't bat an eyelash. He thinks... He dares...
"Let's go", Jürgen forces his hand open. There's this sense of unreality again, and he allows Jürgen to lead him to the bed and sits down without saying anything. Jürgen kneels on the carpet and is now looking up at him, studying his face carefully.
He idly wonders what his lover sees right now. Is angry disappointment, dull ache of presumed betrayal, wounded pride mirrored in his features, or is this half-crazed smile that scared him so at the airport back on his face? In the glass panels of the large window he sees only silhouettes, reflected against the darkness, in the halo of multiple lights from outside. There is no mirror in front of him. He wants to see what he looks like now.
Jürgen puts both hands on his tights, palms flat. Just touch and nothing more, even though their position is as suggestive as it gets. Jürgen is too busy right now watching him. Watching. With eyes so blue like water in the lake. And nobody knows what's hidden in the depth...
"Rough day". He's already going to wonder what Jürgen will do if he doesn't reply when he realizes that it was not meant as a question. Meaningless remark to break the silence that was too loud. It worked.
Though he still isn't going to say anything. And he's almost sure that the other man knows it.
He simply wouldn't know what to say. He's come here without any plan, any rationalisation. He just needed to see the man he loves, he realizes, wanted to see him, touch him, hear his voice as if this alone could make everything right, make all things fall back in place. Maybe he believed that this can happen - just like that.
But no. Things are not right again, to the opposite - everything is wrong. He's coming unannounced, and here is Jürgen talking on the phone, and there is the man he's talking with, and here are Jürgen's eyes and this soft remark about the rough day. Just a rough day after a month of being strained to the extreme, lost final, lost friend, metal ringing in beloved voice. Just a rough day...
No, he's never considered himself as being one for hysterics, and yes, he's priding himself because of the useful ability to control his temper when it is needed. But the laughter - this hysterical sort of barking laughter that is so hard to stop - is rising in his throat, making him choke.
And he didn't come all the way to München to make hysterics to Jürgen and he's not going to make scenes. Except that he already does. And it's not pleasant, no. He has too much self-respect to humiliate himself before the man who dares to... cheat... on him... in his absence...
Logic, where is logic here? Where are his thoughts wandering and why is he sitting on a large bed, not saying a word while Jürgen is looking at him? What is he thinking, what was he thinking?
Jürgen moves. Unclasps the buckle on his belt and then the button. Stops his half-hearted attempt to move. Jürgen's careful fingers stroke his already half-hard cock, making him gasp and hold his breath.
Whatever Jürgen is doing, he knows what he wants to do and why. Maybe this was what he was looking for when he bolted from Berlin to München before giving himself a pause to think. Lips wrap around his shaft, moving teasingly slow. So good, oh, so good... Steady and slow rhythm, and he buckles his hips, pushing forward, into the warm moist heat - but Jürgen’s hands are steady on his hips, holding him firmly on his place and making him obey even though he needs more, more, harder... His moan sounds pitiful to his own ears, and Jürgen laughs, releasing him for a second.
"Hush", Jürgen reaches out and takes his sunglasses from the pocket of his shirt and puts them somewhere on the carpet, then lifts his head to smile at him.
He's beautiful, his lover is beautiful with this boyish smile, these sparkling blue eyes... Maybe this is what he's missed - the beauty of a man that means the world to him, the happiness of seeing his own reflection in these eyes.
His attempt to move once more is still unsuccessful. Just soft whisper, 'hush', the skilful tongue swirls around his tip, and then Jürgen takes him in the mouth again, this time as deeply as it goes. And then he is moaning full-voice, helpless, happy, riding out one wave of pleasure after the other till no more thoughts and no more questions remain.
Exhausted, he falls back, lying now on top of the covers. He's floating in a sea of pleasured tiredness, almost half-asleep. Jürgen’s hands touch him again, unbuttoning his shirt and then removing it, roughly touching the skin on his chest. A pinch at his nipple makes him gasp, then he's turned to lie on his stomach, and then he's completely naked and still not opening his eyes, leaving himself at his lover's will.
Sounds of footsteps, muted by thick carpet, the mattress cracking when Jürgen sits down beside him. He feels a kiss pressed between his shoulderblades and then slick hands on his shoulders, kneading the muscles, massaging the tension away from his body.
This lotion, or massage oil or whatever it is - it smells of roses. The scent is not strong and it's pleasant this way. It's good, so good, so perfectly right to be like this, to be touched, loved...
But the thought stumbles over the word 'love', and the memory - it's so recent it is still alive and in full-color - doesn't leave. 'I'll call you later...' Later? When? How soon this 'later' will be? 'Call you later, Gary'...
"Relax", Jürgen whispers in his ear, a bit of impatience already evident in the voice.
Gentle fingers sneak between his buttocks, not quite entering, and he is pushing against the probing touch, trying to take them inside. It's good, so impossibly good to be touched so, to be taken, to belong, to give himself away...
Tender hands leave him, and yes, he's whimpering, aroused and needy again. Then there is soft rustling of clothes, quiet laughter, pillow pushed under his hips and then Jürgen takes him. Slowly at first, holding back and letting him adjust, and then faster to the point of almost frantic movements, pleasuring him and making him forget all the doubts once again.
He is staring into the ceiling for quite some time already. Jürgen is lying maybe four inches apart from him, and there is enough room so their bodies don’t touch, which is a wise decision – the room is too hot. Jürgen has forgotten to open the window and conditioning system is either out or simply doesn’t work. Or is set to create a Californian heat inside.
Which is not like Jürgen, Jürgen loves open windows and cool winds, so he couldn’t have probably set the conditioner to create a savannah in here. Or maybe Jürgen is missing the sun already and Germany is too cold for him?
The spot he is staring at is the point where two decorative wines that are winding themselves over the ceiling cross and create some sort of fence-like ornament. Beautiful in a way, and the effect is hypnotizing. He can’t take his eyes off the swirls of gold over the plain white ceiling and all his thoughts are fixated on these crossing lines and the hotness of the room.
“What?” He’s too busy looking so he only notices that Jürgen is saying something, but the meaning escapes him. He turns to look at the naked figure next to him. Jürgen is propping himself on one elbow. And he is smiling.
“I’ve just said that I like looking at you”, the smile is bright and joyful, as is the voice – teasing tones are a good indication of it.
And that is it.
Another realization (it’s a day for realizations it seems) that is as clear and plain to see as the cross of two ornamental wines. Whatever he can say right now, it doesn’t matter, because Jürgen will laugh it off. So lightly, like a breeze gliding over water – everything will be dealt with, smiled about, waved away and never remembered. This way adults treat the tantrums of their beloved kids. And it doesn’t matter that twenty minutes ago Jürgen was fucking him into oblivion, moaning his name in passion.
And, to be honest, he doesn’t remember anymore what he was going to say. Jürgen’s touches, endearments and tender words, and ‘I’ll call you later, Gary’, and soft kisses that made him melt… He doesn’t know what he is supposed to do.
“Joachim”, Jürgen is rolling his name on his tongue, as if caressing each syllable with his breath. “Are you…”
He makes a weak attempt to glare. Jürgen raises hand in mock apology. He glares some more. Jürgen laughs.
“I’m not asking it, not asking, don’t worry”.
Silence again – comfortable silence. Jürgen’s hand covers his and again they lay still, looking at the ceiling.
He doesn’t know what to say, and Jürgen apparently can’t think of something suitable – if he is in the mood to talk at all, which is not a fact… So – the silence. Punctuated only by occasional squeak of tires from the street, burst of laughter from the corridor, and their own breathing – in unison, in one rhythm, slow and steady and quiet, so quiet, quiet…
And then the stillness explodes in a shrill of sirens from outside, flashes of blue light making shadows retreat. Sirens and loud voices, someone yelling – and the cacophony of car horns joins the choir a heartbeat later.
“You can’t stay here”.
“Anyone can come here looking for me”.
“Lock the door”.
“Martin knows I’m home”.
“Tell him you’re sleeping”.
“Would you take the explanation if you were him?”
“But there’s too much work to be done”.
And, as if on cue, Jürgen’s phone starts ringing.
He looks at Jürgen.
Jürgen looks back at him.
The melody keeps playing.
Jürgen reaches out, hesitating, but takes the phone.
He makes a move to prevent him from doing it.
The melody starts anew.
Jürgen opens the phone.
He’s simply standing here, looking at his lover.
“Yes, Martin… Yeah, home… With video?.. In five minutes”.
Jürgen’s smile is apologetic.
Frantic, passionate kiss.
The door closes behind his back.
The corridor is silent and empty. He’s walking slowly towards his room. Drained, that’s how he feels now. All the energy drained from him.
Her shirt is white and almost transparent. And there’s certainly no bra underneath. And her skirt gives a new definition to the term ‘mini’. And she looks stunning in her own way – but cheap at the same time. And she’s certainly took fancy on him.
“Hi”, he stops. And smiles.
“Want some company?” She drops a small purse she was holding in her hand – and promptly bends down to pick it up, giving him the best of views on everything he would want to see.
He laughs. “What for?”
“A drink?” She presses her body to his. Forcefully. Starts rubbing slowly against him.
And he just can’t resist. Grabs her in a tight embrace and kisses these full red lips, ravaging her mouth, making her writhe and moan. And then pushes her away.
“Sorry, deary. Next time”. Waves to bewildered woman and escapes before she’s able to say anything.
And doesn’t look at what is going on behind his back.
In his pocket lies his driving license. In a small leather holder, and inside, between the cover and the plate itself, is tucked a small piece of paper, torn from somewhere. There is a small row of numbers written on it with pencil, in his own handwriting, but he was in such haste while writing them down that he himself has trouble making out what is scribbled here. And added later, with much more sure hand – letters: ‘GaryL’.
He has enough presence of mind to use the phone that is standing in his room and not his own mobile.
But what presence of mind? When in the deep darkness of the night he is dialing a number of a man he doesn’t know and actually waiting, is eager even for an answer.
There’s no answer. No wonder – it is late.
But he doesn’t put the phone down, listening to the long beeps. And counting. Twenty already. At least he’ll know how long it takes before the operator disconnects the line. Twenty-two.
He knows the man.
He knows who this man is.
The words are gone. All he’s wanted to say to this man is gone. He can’t make himself speak.
He puts the phone down.
He knows who is this man.
The voice is very, very familiar. He’s heard it from the TV-screen enough times to recognize now.
Breathe out, force the air out of his lungs and quickly inhale again.
London. Jürgen’s lover. Gary Lineker.
Slowly, lazily the sun is rising over München. It’s such a beautiful sight – pink clouds on a blue sky, the symphony of colors that is sunrise – pity that not too many people can watch it. It’s too early to be awake.
People prefer to sleep at this hour. Some are resting peacefully, some are dreaming, others are tossing and turning in their uneasy sleep.
And high above the rooftops of München, in the majestic silence begins the new day.