darrus (darrus) wrote,
darrus
darrus

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Coach OTP fic - Perhaps Love


ALLE ROSEN DIESER WELT (2)

Author
: darrus
Fandom: German National team
Pairing: Klinsmann/Loew, various
Rating: PG 
Language: English
Warning: RPS

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

Author's notes, previous chapters and music here

Timeline for the series is here 


Alle Rosen dieser Welt (2)

 

Markus has fallen asleep in the middle of the bed, pushing him to the side so he has to be careful lying so close to the edge. This is intentional – taking up the whole bed, stealing covers, demonstrating that there’s no place for him.

 

He chuckles as always – endearing childishness. Markus is a grown man, but sometimes his behavior is so cutely immature… He laughs at every single one of these gestures, but especially this – bed that is only for one, no matter how wide it can be. He’s tested the theory – booking the rooms in cheap motels with only narrow cots and in posh hotels with four-poster-bed in the middle of the room… The last one was tricky for Markus, he was forced to lie diagonally across the bed in a very uncomfortable position, but still managed to leave no place for the other man.

 

There are roses on the table, lying in a heap – three dozens, also nine flowers in the vase, red rose petals on the pillow and more crumpled petals swept onto the floor, some floating in small puddles of white wine. Markus has tipped over the glass when they were undressing (or rather he was… helping… Markus undress), and cleaning up the mess was not on his agenda. He’ll ask Markus to help him with it in the morning.

 

He runs a hand over Markus’ hair, strands soaked with sweat. The man stirs and murmurs something barely polite, but doesn’t wake – and won’t for some time. It was a long day for him, and more than tiring, especially the evening. Markus is good in bed, capable of doing a lot of things, but his stamina is sometimes not enough too.

 

The phone beeps happily, signaling the incoming SMS. Markus doesn’t even react to the sound. He curses and uncurls from his position on the bed. Curses once more when he almost trips over some particle of clothing (too dark to see what it was). Still barefoot, paddles across the room, shivering from the chill. Opens the phone and reads. Curses again.

 

Markus will be asleep for quite some time yet, with this he is like his brother – both are heavy sleepers. No problem to leave him alone for some hours. And even if he wakes up he won’t leave. There’s no need even to lock the door.

 

Using the phone as a light source, he locates his jeans – half-thrown under the chair. The shirt is there too, but when he lifts it up he sees that the cloth is torn in two places (oh yes, the button was stuck and he didn’t want to waste time). Throws it again to the floor and curses once more, not showing any variety – just the same ‘oh damn’.

 

And Markus is still sleeping, oblivious to his muted whispers and careful footsteps.

 

He grabs the clean-looking t-shirt (‘oh damn, pink’) from the laundry box, grabs the jacket, drops the keys in a pocket. His watch is showing almost 1 a.m. when he drives off.

 

 

Jogi is drunk.

 

His leather jacket lies on a chair next to him. The collar of grey polo-shirt is open.

 

Silver locket is lying on the floor under his feet, black leather cord torn carelessly. He bends down, lifts it and pushes it deeply in the pocket of his jeans.

 

And Jogi is drunk. Long past the stage of throwing things around – the locket seems to be the only victim. Now he’s half-lying on the table, head propped by folded hands. His hair is tousled, in complete disarray. No indication of him being in the fight, though. Just drunk.

 

He sits in front of the man. No reaction. He clears his throat.

 

“Jogi?”

 

Yes, definitely drunk. Jogi tries to lift his head, manages to almost sit upright though he has to grip the table to achieve this feat. Glassy eyes focus on him.

 

“Hansi… Wh-what the… what the hell?”

 

And grabs the glass. Tall bear-glass that is standing in front of him, half-filled with dark amber liquid. And whatever it is, it’s not beer.

 

“Olli called me, said to come and get you home because you were not listening to him”, judging by Jogi’s look, he could have been talking in Chinese. “Can you walk?”

 

“Olli?” Jogi laughs. “What didya want fr-from Olli?” He takes a swig from the glass. “Salut”.

 

“Let’s go home”.

 

Jogi runs his hand over his hair, tousling it even more. His movements are slow and deliberate – he’s beyond drunk at this point.

 

“You hear me?”

 

“Ah, right…” Löw rocks and almost tips over but manages to catch the edge of the table and stay upright. “You… home. Right. Righ-right…” And suddenly laughs, throwing his head so far back that it looks like he’s about to break his neck. Loud drunken laughter, but nobody pays attention – half of the customers are no better than he is in the moment. “Daniela”.

 

And Joachim laughs again.

 

He sighs. What do we do with a drunken Bundestrainer?

 

Joachim shakes his head.

 

“Drink with me, Hans-Diet… Oh bloody hell, your… ya’name damn long, daaaaamn looooooooooong”, he giggles. “Drink with me, Hansi Flick, my fr… fr… bloody hell… My friend!” Last words he almost screams and laughs again, raising his glass. His hands are shaking and he spills some drops of liquid on the shirt. “Bloody hell”, repeats he.

 

It’s the first time he sees Jogi really drunk. The sight is pathetic – just as he expected. Too bad that Bierhoff didn’t have the guts to deal with him himself. Better to dump this dirty work on someone else. And why did it have to be him?

 

He never thought too much of Joachim Löw though so he isn’t disappointed.

 

“Not here. Let’s go somewhere else”.

 

“Wha…” Closed eyes open again. “Ah, right… Somewhere else”. Jogi tries to stand up but falls back and grabs the glass again. “I’ll finish first”.

 

Expressionless drunken voice makes Hansi cringe. He schools his features and tries to sound concerned.

 

“Problems in personal life?”

 

It’s not too much of intuition, just a knowledge that there are not many things that can make Jogi (good-proper-boy-are-we?) drink madly the whole evening through till he makes such silly-cliché gestures like the one with tearing off the pendant.

 

Jogi jerks his head up to look straight at him. Now the dark eyes are burning.

 

They look at each other for some time. And then Jogi laughs again.

 

“Pr… problems ya hell prob-bl-blems”, he hits the table with both hands, grabs the glass again and drowns the scotch in one big gulp. “Fuckyoualldamnhellfuck…” He trails off, out of breath.

 

“What happened”, he even leans closer to Jogi, his interest picked up, mind in full alert. He has to know what’s going on. Everything.

 

“Home”, murmurs Jogi and closes his eyes.

 

Oh damn.

 

And just when this night-trip becomes worth leaving the lover in bed alone and coming to this shabby place where there’s more cigarette smoke in the air than oxygen… And Löw is going to fall asleep on him! No way.

 

He stands up and shakes Jogi by the shoulder trying to make him come back to his senses. The man doesn’t react.

 

“Damn you”, he whispers under his breath and shakes him more forcefully.

 

“I’ve told th… damn… him to get the fuck out of my life”, says Jogi suddenly in almost normal voice, not opening his eyes, and the pain, the pain in these words…

 

He chokes on his laughter and tries to mask it as a cough, fails and has to close his mouth with his palm to keep from laughing out loud. Melodrama, such a cheap melodrama – but then again, it’s Löw, and pathetic melodramas run in the family if you look at two brothers.

 

When he’s finally able to speak normally again, he shakes Jogi once more and makes him stand. Jogi is swaying and leaning on him with all his weight, but they manage to get to the car without falling once.

 

“Where?” He fastens Jogi’s seatbelt.

 

Jogi takes time to comprehend the question, and he decides to elaborate. “Are you going home or maybe it’s better I drive you somewhere else?”

 

Jogi opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens and closes again. Laughs briefly, drunken mirthless laughter. “Home”.

 

“You sure? Daniela won’t be happy to see you in this state”.

 

“Damn Daniela. It’s me… my… my fucking house”.

 

“You could spend night at my place”, he says and then curses himself – if Jogi takes him up on the offer right now, how he will explain Markus’ presence there? Though Markus is too heavy a sleeper to wake even if they crash there singing “Schwarz und Weiss”, and Jogi won’t notice an elephant right now.

 

“Want it, Hansi?” Whispers Jogi suggestively. As if he needed more proof that the man is drunk.

 

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to rise to the offer right now, so my dignity is safe”, Jogi starts giggling again at it. “So, home?”

 

“Home”.

 

 

Markus is still sleeping, naked on the soft cotton sheets. 4 a.m.

 

And he is tired.

 

The story still amuses him, and Jogi banging on his own door forgetting the keys was a comical sight, though he managed not only not to laugh, but to make a sympathetic face at Daniela who was trying to calm her raging husband, before driving off into the night.

 

He throws the clothes off and lies down, pushing Markus a bit to make room for himself. The man doesn’t even stir, so deep is his sleep.

 

Dear Markus. Childish sometimes, amusing almost all the way and so dear. He places the kiss on his shoulder, then drops another one to the temple – still the man doesn’t react. Dear, dear Markus.

 

So warm and so close. His own.

 

30.09.2008

 

tbc

Tags: coach otp, fanfiction, football, klinsmann, loew, matthaeus, perhaps love, slash, soccer
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