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
Author's notes, previous chapters and music here
Timeline for the series is here
Wind is blowing across the streets. Rippling the water in the river, tearing the leaves off the branches, tearing the mist apart. Windy days mean the sky is almost clear, golden spears of the church glistening high into the grey sky. Wind is blowing, cold and fresh, carrying the wrapping papers over the pavements, toying with the flags flying over the rooftops.
Her face is beautiful. The definition of beauty that he's still waiting to see in any other woman - and knows that he never will.
She is beautiful, even in the flour-stained apron and kettle in hand. The woman he loves. Always loved and will be. No matter...
"Younger than your daughters!"
"Only one of them", he's enjoying the exchange, sitting there in the corner of a kitchen and doing his best to keep out of the way.
"Should it prevent me from living with her?"
She's silent. Busy with the vegetables and maybe trying to pretend she hadn't heard. Or maybe just thinking about what to answer. He knows that he's right, but at the same time she is too, and he's not going to deny it - but not going to admit it in her face. Like always.
Her tone is laced with contempt - directed at whom?
"I don't know what happened to you in
"I am still your son. And it's my life, shouldn't I be able to live it as I want?" He's reasoning calmly.
"My son... In all my life I've never thought that one of my sons will make a mockery out of himself". 'And thank God for Wolfgang', he reads on her pursed lips. In her half-turned face, in the silence which is left by the words not spoken. Thank God for Wolfgang, their model son, their pride, perfection personified, joy to his ageing parent's hearts. Serious and moral, family man Wolfgang.
His mother always loved him over Wolfgang. He was and still is her child, her boy. When in childhood he cried after hurting his knee, she's kissed him like he never did with his brother. He knew then - he's better. He feels it now again, while she's dumping the chopped carrots into the frying pan, still silent, still her lips forming a thin line - and even like this she is beautiful, his mother. And how she would love for him to be like Wolfgang and not have all neighbors gossip over him again and again...
"May I bring her here?"
She drops the fork into the sink harshly, turns to him and then further to the left, to see her own reflection in a polished surface of the fridge and with angry gesture tucks the wayward strand of hair back under the clip. "When she'll be your wife - then sure", comes the answer he's expected. "Till then don't you dare even mentioning it".
"You want me to marry her?" Laughs he.
She starts chopping the onions with the knife - and her movements are quick, too quick...
The wind is blowing, cold wind, making him hide his hands in the pockets. Autumn wind, unpleasantly cold and dry, first hello from winter.
The turn of the key starts the ignition. Familiar road, familiar direction. Turn to the right, pass the building with the ornate facade and to the right again - and there's the highway.
For a minute - two - three - more - he contemplates the direction. Simple possibility - taking another familiar turn and driving another familiar road and in three hours there is München, and suddenly the wish to be there is irresistible, all-consuming, and he starts counting the turns...
If only he wasn't old enough to realize what he is doing - how much easier it would be. Then he would have driven through München and arrived to the stadium, and came inside and said hello and asked for a time to talk... And maybe even made a fool of himself sitting on the high chair in the canteen and drinking coffee and looking in the blue eyes...
But he passes the turn on speed and his grip on the wheel is steady. He's going home and not going to do another foolish thing.
He's not even going to call, though he could - and he knows even that there will be an answer. And at the background - he knows it - he will hear Löw's voice and laughter of a lover, and he's sensible enough to spare himself the pain.
Sometimes he thinks that he'd be better not knowing what's going on in Jürgen's life, but the minutes pass and regrets with them, and living without illusions is much easier in the end.
"You're late again", she's pouting lika a child. Younger than his daughters... One of them at least. His current lover. His fourth wife?
So much for being reasonable.