Five Times Miroslav and Lukas Never Met
Title: Five Times Miroslav and Lukas Never Met
Pairing: Miroslav Klose/Lukas Podolski
Summary: Part Five: Friends in Unlikely Places: Lukas works for his mother's child day-care. When she wants a new rocking chair he meets a quiet carpenter named Miroslav. (aka: Normal!People AU)
Rating: Part Five: NC-17/R
Disclaimer: Don't know them.
AN: In honour of the friendly on Tuesday vs Poland I thought I best get my shit straight and finish this asap. Last one. :( I hope you like it...this whole series was so wonderful to write! Thank you for all the feedback, I deeply appreciate it.
Five Times Miroslav and Lukas Never Met
Part Five: Friends in Unlikely Places
“I just think a rocking chair would really brighten up the main room.” It’s difficult for Lukas to concentrate on the sound of his mother’s voice; it fades into the background as his attention is absorbed by the loud crunching granola and yogurt between his teeth. Not to mention the sun is still in the process of rising and Lukas has never claimed to be a morning person. Everything seems a bit fuzzy around the edges as he reaches for a large glass of fresh orange juice. From the sweet, wistful expression on his mother’s face he assumes she talking about some new addition to her day-care. It’s the only thing that would make her smile crook up higher on the right side of her mouth. He drains the glass, swallows and pauses to catch her next sentence. “It would make story time more entertaining for the children.” She leans over to refill his glass of orange juice before adding, “not to mention the benefits for nap time.” Lukas goes back to spooning heaping mouthfuls of granola and yogurt out of his bowl.
He tunes out the soft drone of his mother’s voice as she continues talking at him about the suddenly essential rocking chair. Instead, Lukas starts trying to figure out if he can begin running passing drills for the four year olds today-finally teach them how to properly pass to each other while keeping the ball on the ground. It’s his primary responsibility at his mother’s day-care, teaching the children a whole host of fun, athletic games and playing outside with them all day. He never realized how fucking exhausting it was to keep up with a bunch of three to eight year olds until his mother offered him the job after he finished school. It is even worse now that it’s summer and the older kids need more structured games to play, not just free time to run around screaming their heads off. Instead, they beg Lukas to play football with them, but never by the real rules.
“There is a new hand made furniture shop that just opened in town. I think it’s run by a few carpenters from all over the country.” He tunes in for a moment, pausing to add another scoop of yogurt to his breakfast. “They’re offering a nice discount on new commissions.” Lukas slowly stirs the granola into the yogurt until it’s one big lump globbed onto his spoon. There is a clank as his mother puts down her fork and knife, staring at him intently. “Łukasz, are you listening to me?”
“What?” Lukas asks around his final mouthful of breakfast, the spoon still stuck against the inside of his cheek.
“I swear, Łukasz,” his mother sighs as she starts clearing off the kitchen table, attempting to grab Lukas’ empty bowl. He easily evades her, keeping the bowl in order to lick the last bits of yogurt off the sides of the porcelain.
“You want a new rocking chair, hand made and on sale from some new, fancy carpentry shop. Correct?” Lukas rambles off, placing the bowl back on the table before slouching back in his chair. He folds his arms over his chest with the utmost self-satisfied look.
She flicks him in the ear.
“I want a classic bentwood, nice and pretty. Like your grandmothers. I think I have a picture of her sitting in it some where around here…” She toddles off to search her dresser for the photograph.
A small bell above the door rings as he steps inside the quaint, cluttered shop. Lukas remembers when the place used to be a Christmas ornament and trinket store. It smells like fresh cut wood underpinned with a rich, smoky scent and a bit of varnish. Looking around, Lukas sees no one else, not even an employee working the checkout counter. The walls are lined with various ornate hand carved bookshelves, spice racks and heavy cabinets meant to showcase the intricate, painstakingly precise craftsmanship of their head carpenter. A dining table set up is prominently featured at the heart of the shop, alongside other artfully constructed furniture intended for practical everyday use. Lukas’ fingers glide over the smoothly varnished tabletop, admiring the delicately detailed patterns running along the edge. He stops to examine the handiwork, trying to imagine how much training and pure talent it takes to craft such a beautiful table.
It reminds him of the dinner table in his childhood home.
“Hello, may I help you?” Lukas glances up from the table as a soft voice breaks through the calm. A man, a few years older than Lukas, stands behind the counter wearing a dark green button down with the sleeves rolled up past his forearms. He is wiry with deep-set, sad eyes and a soft smile-he seems to blend in rather nicely with the quiet, gentle atmosphere of the carpentry shop. Perhaps a bit stiff and reserved but overall gentle, at least that is the impression Lukas gets with one glance. Lukas pulls back his slouched shoulders, straightening up to his full height. A little current of warmth spreads up the back of his neck, tinting it a faint pink colour.
“Yeah.” Lukas flashes a bright, self-consciously charming smile as he strides over to the clerk. “I need a rocking chair.” He places his hands on the edge of the counter, leaning against them with all the nonchalance he can muster in the handsome face of the man opposite him.
“Alright,” the man replies, still smiling even as he restlessly shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Do you know what kind you’re looking for?”
“Well, it’s for my mother’s day-care, so it needs to be kid friendly.” Lukas explains and notices the way the man’s eyes soften. The look is a vast improvement over the stoic sadness. “Oh,” he adds, coming back to himself when he realises he is staring, “-and she said something about ‘bentwood.’” The word is cumbersome, sounding almost deformed as it tumbles out of his mouth.
“Of course.” The man nods and Lukas is relieved that he understands the strange terminology his mother fed him that morning. “I can show you a couple examples of the ones we’ve made before.” He sounds genuinely excited, as if this is a rare occurrence and Lukas idly wonders if their newly established business has been slow since opening only a few months prior. Stepping out from behind the counter, the man turns to lead Lukas into the workroom, right past a sign that clearly states ‘Employees Only.’ For some reason, it makes Lukas smile.
The smell of freshly cut wood combined with artificial varnish is much stronger in the back room.
“She also gave me this.” Lukas pulls out the photograph of his grandmother from his trouser pocket. It’s a bit mangled, folded in half and missing a piece of the upper left hand corner-but that’s how his mother gave it to him, honest. “I don’t know how helpful it will be but she said she wants it to look something like this.” He points to the old rocking chair in the photo before handing it over.
“Does she want an exact copy?” The man asks, carefully examining the simple design of the antique chair in the proffered picture. Long, elegant fingers of one hand trace over the lines of the rocker while the other smoothes out the creases and delicately glosses over the torn edges. Lukas notices the wealth of calluses sprinkled across the planes of his palms and he has the strangest urge to touch them, ask how he got them, learn what tools cause them to form in such a strange constellation. He starts to imagine what the rough skin stretched along those graceful, skilled fingers would feel like on his hipbones. After a moment, the question finally registers in Lukas’ mind. The man glances up from the photograph to check Lukas vacant expression.
“Oh, uh,” Lukas stumbles over himself, his mind a complete blank as he stares into the man’s wide, eager eyes. The unbidden thoughts of those strong hands on tan skin are quickly tamped down as he struggles to regain his composure. “I’m not sure…” He finishes lamely, shrugging his shoulders and hoping that the carpenter will somehow have all the answers.
“Well,” the carpenter begins, returning the photograph. Lukas notices how careful the man is not to damage it any further. Moving to stand beside Lukas, close enough that their shoulders brush while he explains his thoughts. Long fingers skate over the outline of the rocking chair in the photo clutched in Lukas’ hands. “I could use the same basic framework of this chair but with some of my own tricks. Update it a bit.” Lukas is intrigued by the way the man’s entire demeanour brightens up-like something flickered to life inside his chest.
“You?” It is only takes a split-second after blurting out the question that Lukas realises how ridiculous it must sound-he has yet to see anyone else in the small shop and the man standing before him clearly works with his hands and smells like a heady mishmash of pine and sweat.
Who else would be clever enough to carve all the beautiful pieces from unwieldy chunks of wood?
“Yes, I’d be the one making it.” His voice is soft and quiet but underpinned with purpose and a clear-cut confidence. But Lukas cannot figure out how he is supposed to read the man’s shy smile.
“Oh. Okay, sounds cool,” Lukas pauses to glance down at the plastic nametag pinned to the man’s shirt pocket, situated just below the shop’s embroidered logo, “Miroslav.” The man, Miroslav, reacts with a more genuine smile at the addition of his name, nodding his head briefly before responding.
“These are some of our more standard rocking chairs.” He gestures toward a few completely assembled chairs cluttering one corner of the workroom while they wait to be stained. Most of them seem simple enough, effortless and sleek. They are all built to blend in seamlessly, generic enough to fit in with any given home interior or aesthetic design. “And, this is my handiwork,” Miroslav says quietly, motioning behind Lukas. The opposite end of the workroom is covered with several beautifully crafted pieces similar to the more intricate ones on display in the main shop.
With only a basic aesthetic appreciation for carpentry, Lukas already knows he wants Miroslav to be the carpenter in charged of constructing his mother’s rocking chair.
He completely ignores the bland rockers, instead wandering over to the section of the workroom dedicated to Miroslav’s more elaborate works. Immediately, he is drawn to a tall, imposing bookcase that just barely clears the ceiling. The wood feels strangely soft to the touch, perfectly sanded a stained a warm amber tone. Lukas runs his fingers along the intricately twisted column running up the length of the case. It is a work of art. Practical, yes, but more stunning than any other bookcase Lukas has ever seen. Beside the case is what looks like an updated equivalent of the antique writing desk Lukas’ great-grandfather used prior to the wars. His hands sweep across the vast expanse of expensive wood, pushing back the panelled cover to properly look over the actual writing surface. Pulling open drawers, he thinks about the hours and hours Miroslav must have laboured over the construction of such a sophisticated piece.
Lukas wonders why such a beautiful desk is hidden away in the backroom.
“Miroslav,” a harsh voice disrupts Lukas’ exploration. He stills, glancing over his shoulder surreptitiously. A tall, barrel-chested man strides across the workroom, headed straight for the carpenter. Miroslav takes a reflexive step backwards, colliding with the wall behind him. The older man’s mouth is set in a firm line, exaggerated by the deeply carved wrinkles framing his lips. He wraps a thick-fingered hand around Miroslav’s shoulder, yanking him around like a rag doll. “What are you doing?” He asks in a harsh whisper turning them around so his back is to Lukas, barely maintaining the thin pretence of keeping their conversation secret. “You’re supposed to be back here working.” The man releases him, shoving his index finger into Miroslav’s chest, knocking the man off balance with the force of the gesture. Miroslav tries to hide his stumble with a quick step sideways. “I help the customers.” The man jabs himself in the chest with his thumb, asserting his dominance as he looms over the carpenter.
“I, eehm, was just showing him-” Miroslav stutters out, his voice just above a whisper, motioning toward Lukas. They briefly make eye contact over the man’s shoulder. The carpenter quickly looks away, embarrassment written all over his face. All of the sudden, the other man’s entire behaviour changes, tension melting from his shoulders just before he turns to face Lukas. Of course, he is a potential customer. Lukas looks away before the man catches him staring.
“Hello, may I help?” A mask of professionalism falls neatly in place. He takes a step closer.
“No,” Lukas responds with an even tone. Refusing to acknowledge the other man, he continues pretending as if he is thoroughly inspecting Miroslav’s woodwork and not eavesdropping on their spat. “He’s already helping me.” He gestures vaguely in Miroslav’s direction without a second glance back. The statement is greeted with the sound of feet shuffling anxious, kicking around a pile of sawdust before stilling.
“Well, sir, Klose needs to get back to work,” he says, condescension thick in his voice. “But I can assist you with whatever you need.” Lukas’ eyes flick over the old man’s shoulder. Miroslav is reluctantly wiping off a pair of clear, protective glasses, ready to resume diligently working on another generic piece of furniture.
“I’d prefer him, thanks.” He gives the old man his best saccharine, toothy grin. The man pauses, closely examining Lukas from head to toe.
“Miro.” The nickname comes out terse and crisp and Lukas does not like the sound of it on the man’s tongue. It jolts the carpenter into action. Safety glasses clatter on to the tabletop, abandoned by Miroslav as he hurries over. The man silently nods toward Lukas before leaving to work the shop front.
“Errm, so,” Miroslav mumbles, eyes downcast and Lukas realises that the man has already retreated back into himself.
“You made all this, yeah?” Lukas checks, already sure of the answer. Miroslav nods silently, the movement rigid and awkward. “They’re really beautiful.” He waits for Miroslav to look up at him, holding the other man’s gaze as he speaks. “I think my mother would really like your style.”
“Thank you.” Miroslav’s body seems to slowly relax after the exchange, his voice more sure and his movements less restricted. “Do you want me to still use the photo as a reference?”
“Yeah, that sounds good.” He flashes a beaming smile before adding, “I trust you.” Lukas extends his hand, a purposefully open smile softening his features. “I’m Lukas, by the way.” Miroslav’s grip is firm and solid, a little rough due to his calluses but Lukas finds the texture just as fascinating as he imagined.
“Nice to meet you, Lukas.” A similar smile lights up Miroslav’s face and Lukas forgets the look of embarrassment, instead replacing the visual memory with the man’s bright smile and eager eyes.
Two days later the home phone rings while Lukas is dicing vegetables in the kitchen for dinner. His mother is occupied with closing up the day-care, tidying and making sure that everything is ready for the next morning’s arts and crafts project. She informed Lukas that it would involve several boxes of the notorious dry elbow macaroni, so they were going to have soup for dinner instead of pasta. This leaves Lukas’ father in charge of manning the phone. Mr. Podolski grumbles as he hastily folds up his newspaper and lumbers out of his recliner to answer the call.
“Hello.” Lukas can hear his father’s gruff voice from all the way in the kitchen when he picks up. He knows exactly what it’s like to be on the receiving end of his father’s less than pleasant greeting. “Who is this?” There is a pause. Lukas continues cutting the onions into smaller and smaller cubes before starting on the carrots. “Come on, speak up, boy!” His father impatiently rebukes the apparently soft-spoken caller. Lukas chuckles, shaking his head as he chops two carrots side by side. “Oh, why didn’t you say so before,” Mr. Podolski says, more to himself than the caller. “Łukasz, telephone,” he yells louder than necessary and Lukas is sure even the neighbours now know he has a phone call.
“Who is it?” Lukas calls back in Polish. He stops chopping, glancing over at the open doorway into the living room.
“Some carpenter?” The old man mutters, confused.
Lukas hurries out of the kitchen, still carrying the knife, his front covered in flecks of carrots and onion.
“What are you doing, Łukasz?” His father starts to question him in a chiding tone, pointing to the knife and vegetables splatter across his son’s shirt. “Calm down, he’s not going anywhere.” The old man’s eyes crinkle as he grins, teasing.
“Just give me the phone, Da.” Lukas holds out his hand, gesturing to it with the knife. He is silently grateful that even if Miroslav can hear them bickering, at least he can’t understand a word of what is going on. “Hello, Miroslav,” Lukas’ voice comes across as nice and cheerful, despite the act of brandishing his knife at his father.
“Oh,” Miroslav sounds flustered but smiling, probably relieved to no longer be dealing with Lukas’ father. “You remembered my name.” A breathy, anxious laugh crackles over the phone line. Lukas has to quickly turn away from his father in order to hide the absurd grin that spreads across his face at the sound. “I just have a few questions about your mother’s rocker.”
“Oh, ok.” Without glancing back, Lukas quickly walks back into the kitchen pressing the cordless phone tight to his ear.
On the following Saturday afternoon, Lukas realises he is going to be swamped with a relatively small gaggle of the most rambunctious six to eight year olds he could possible imagine. He always feels sorry for the Saturday group, the minority of kids whose parents, or in some cases their only parent, either work weekends or they really just want a few hours of peace and quiet on the weekend. So he makes a deal with his mother. She stays at the day-care and watches the younger children while he takes the older ones out to the nearby park to play a few games, but only after stopping at the shops to buy each one of them an ice cream treat. It’s really in her best interest to let them go play outside, he tells her with a straight face. After all, she already knows the devastating amounts of trouble one energetic little boy can get up to when he’s cooped up during the summer, try multiplying that by sixteen. When she concedes, Lukas smiles and takes the two twenty Euro notes from his mother, kissing her softly on the cheek.
“Listen up, kids” he yells to get their attention as they mill about on the sidewalk out front of the nearby shop. Only about nine of the sixteen actually turn to look at him. The other group at the back of the crowd continue pinching and jostling one another. “Listen or no ice cream. You hear me, Hans? Thomas?” That seems to get their attention. All the other children standing near the two troublemakers stop and stand still. “Stay with me and do not run off. Or no ice cream and no park. Take your buddy’s hand and follow me. Okay, kids?” He asks loudly, surveying the group while doing a silent head count to make sure he does not leave a kid behind.
“Okay, Lukas,” they all chime in together with sugary sweet voices and wide grins. Lukas takes the proffered hand of one of the girls, who, despite having a buddy of her own, seems rather attached to Lukas. He shoulders the mesh bag of footballs and leads them inside.
They practically overrun the whole shop; a swarm of rowdy children surrounding Lukas in a small radius while he makes a beeline to the frozen treats section. It has to be quick or else the whole store will look like a disaster zone. Luckily, the storeowner is used to them stopping by on Saturdays during the hot summer months and doesn’t make a fuss over the total chaos that engulfs her establishment. A few of the kids try to climb into the ice chest when Lukas slides open the glass case. He has to forcibly pull them off, calmly setting them down in the back of the group so the other kids block them from trying anything else dangerous. They calm down after being called out, waiting anxiously on the fringes of the group to see which ice cream Lukas will pick.
“What kind?” He crouches down to ask the girl with a conspiratorial tone. She peers over the top of the case and her eyes fill with the reflection of gold and silver foil wrappers. She points to the massive pile of Cornettos tucked away in the back. Lukas stands up and starts pulling the individually wrapped cones out of the oversized freezer. He sticks to the more normal flavours, nothing to wild that might upset the picky eaters in the group. After counting out seventeen, he starts corralling the kids toward the self-checkout area on the opposite side of the store.
Lukas is surprised when he turns around in time see a sweaty Miroslav trot inside the shop with a pair of ear buds wrapped around his neck. The carpenter looks as if he just finished a long run through the public park across the street. His white t-shirt is drenched with sweat, clinging to his thin frame as he reaches up to the top shelf for an ice-cold bottle of water. Lukas watches as a few droplets of sweat roll down the sharp cut of his jaw. A thin slice of pale skin, sharp hipbones and the crease of lean abdominal muscles are exposed as he stretches to grab hold of the bottle.
Lukas drops an ice cream.
In that moment, he can’t seem to find his voice, breath catching in his throat as he struggles to address the familiar man. One of the boys standing beside him picks up the fallen Cornetto. He has to stand on his tiptoes in order to place it back on top of the armful of treats Lukas clutches tightly to his chest.
“Miroslav!” He calls out, voice cracking as he unglues himself from the spot, taking a tentative step toward the carpenter. The group of children follow accordingly, matching the movement and shuffling forward together as a single unit around Lukas. Thankfully, they all fall quiet for one short moment. Sixteen pairs of curious eyes are suddenly trained on the shy man standing before them, silently evaluating him and his sudden appearance in their adventure to the park.
“Herr Podolski?” Miroslav turns quickly to greet Lukas; he starts frantically wiping at the sweat covering his forehead and cheeks with the back of his hand. He pauses the minute he notices the cluster of six to eight year olds crowded around Lukas. “Hello,” he says tentatively, waving to the more mild mannered children standing closest to Lukas. Each one gazes up at Miroslav with small puzzled faces, trying to figure out if they are supposed to trust the stranger or not. A few of them look up at Lukas in hopes of gaining some kind of social cue from the man. The rest of the children have gone back to talking, teasing and pinching each other behind Lukas’ back.
“You want an ice cream? I’m buying.” Lukas shrugs with a slightly frazzled smile, nodding down to his armful of Cornettos. Miroslav laughs at the sight and accepts the offer, but says yes only if Lukas will allow him to help carry the rest of the ice cream to the checkout aisle. He stuffs the bottle of water under his arm and takes more than half of the pile. Lukas sends one of the kids back to the freezer to grab an extra Cornetto for Miroslav. The girl skips off and returns quickly with the treat. Together, they make their way over to the self-checkout with the pack of kids scurrying around them.
As soon as they reach the machines, the children race past to the other side and queue up in single file. Each and every one of them puts on a sweet, patient act as they wait for their ice cream, hands folded calmly behind their backs to demonstrate the proper amount of good-natured restraint. Lukas rolls his eyes but ruffles the hair of Thomas who has jockeyed his way to the front. They all smile up at Lukas with deceptively earnest expression.
“Thanks,” Lukas whispers as Miroslav hands him the ice cream once the man has scanned it through the self-checkout machine. He begins distributing them to the children one at a time before realising that none of the cones seem to be making it past the front of the queue. “Pass them down, Thomas,” Lukas instructs the young boy sternly, withholding the next Cornetto until the boy sighs and nods in acquiescence. Pulling a few cones from his pockets and one from the front of his jumper, Thomas hands over an armful to the next kid who proceeds to pass them down. “Here.” He gives Miroslav the last two treats before fishing out his wallet to pay.
“Thank you, Herr Podolski.” Miroslav slowly unwraps one of the ice creams while Lukas slips the notes into the machine. Once he is done, Miroslav hands the opened treat to the younger man.
“Lukas,” he corrects, taking the proffered cone with a small smile. Their fingers connect and he holds Miroslav’s gaze a second longer than necessary. Taking a bite of the chocolate covered ice cream, he pockets the change and receipt.
“Thank you, Lukas.”
It’s fairly easy to herd the group of children outside the shop, now that they are preoccupied with smearing their faces with ice cream. Miroslav and Lukas hang back while the kids overtake the pavement, all blissfully silent while they enjoy their frozen treat. Soon enough each one will become a sticky, sugar high, little terror that will try and run Lukas ragged. But that is what the footballs are for.
“So,” Miroslav starts, munching on his Cornetto with an expectant smile, “are you headed back to the day care?”
“Actually, I’m taking the kids to go play football in the park.” Lukas points to the mesh bag full of scuffed up footballs hanging off his back. Suddenly, an idea pops into his head and he cannot seem to shake it. “Do you want to come?” The question tumbles from his lips before he has a chance to throw up his filter. He almost shoves the rest of his Cornetto in his mouth the minute he hears the unadulterated hope and eagerness in his own voice-too obvious, Lukas. “I mean if you’re free and don’t have anything better to do today…” He adds hastily, back peddling furiously as he attempts to salvage some dignity while playing rather poorly at casualness. A slight flush creeps up the back of his neck, managing to reach the tips of his ears. “And like kids…and football…” He trails off, fiddling with the straps of the football bag.
“I am…erm, I do…But I should…” Miroslav hesitates, pulling at the last bits of paper wrapped around the bottom of his cone. Lukas cannot help but notice the way Miroslav continues to take several noncommittal steps in the direction of his shop before abruptly stopping each time.
“We’ll have an even number if you join, nine on nine.” Lukas smile, licking the melted vanilla ice cream from his fingertips as he tries to convince the carpenter to shirk his nonessential duties and come play. The afternoon will definitely be more fun for him, as well as the kids, if Miroslav agrees to accompany them. He turns to the horde of now extremely hyper children and raises his voice to get their attention. “Hey, who wants Miroslav to come play football with us?” There is a short pauses as the kids peer around Lukas to examine their potential playmate. After a short, sceptical appraisal of the wiry man, an uproar erupts from the group. They hustle to encircle Miroslav, tugging and pulling him in the direction of the park. “Now you have to come.” He tells Miroslav as if he is totally powerless to stop the children. And in a way, he is.
It takes the combined effort of both Lukas and Miroslav to properly restrain the overenthusiastic children when they approach the busy crosswalk, grabbing sticky, little hands and shirt collars until the cars have stopped and the path is clear. Usually the group knows how to act when it comes to respecting the dangers of oncoming traffic, but Lukas thinks the addition of a new adult to play with has sent them over the edge of excitement and into the realm of slightly reckless behaviour.
But he can relate.
As soon as they cross into the park the kids break away, sprinting off toward the empty football pitch. They push and shove and get nasty grass stains all over their knees and elbows. Lukas calls after them to slow down but he knows that it will probably do no good; it never has before. Miroslav laughs, throwing a friendly arm around Lukas’ shoulders and suddenly he really could care less if Elsie’s white shorts have twin green streaks along her knees.
When he and Miroslav arrive at the pitch, Lukas throws down the bag of footballs. He bends to unzip it while instructing the children to queue up in single file and count off. They alternate between one and two, dividing themselves up into two equal teams. After a little rearranging on Lukas behalf, mainly splitting up the firebrands, Hans and Thomas, onto different teams, he tosses Miroslav a few footballs.
“Okay, ones with me and twos with Miroslav.” The group splits in two, each team trotting off to their appointed end of the pitch. “Ten minute warm up,” he calls over to Miroslav who nods, his face surprisingly serious. Lukas cannot help but watch as the man crouches down to converse with his team. The back of his t-shirt rides up as he kneels, revealing more of that pale flesh and lean muscles. He follows the trail of Miroslav’s spine, up to his sharp shoulder blades shifting beneath thin fabric and skin while he wraps his arms around the two children standing beside him to form a tight knit huddle. It seems the man is a natural at handling kids. There is a simple elegance in his movements and Lukas seems to not realise that he is openly staring at the man.
“Lukas, Luuukas,” Hans whining is suddenly blaring in his ear, bringing Lukas back to reality. The boy relentlessly tugs on Lukas’ shirtsleeve, repeating his name over and over again while the other children wait penitently for directions. “I wanna be keeper, Lukas. Pleeeease!” The collar of his t-shirt stretches almost to his shoulder as the boy attempts to prove just how badly he wants to play the position.
“Okay, okay,” he placates the child, patting him on the head and prying his fingers off the material of his shirt. “Lets do some passing drills, practice shots, and then we’ll show them what we’re made of.”
A quarter of an hour into the game, Lukas receives a wild pass from a keen boy playing the midfield. With a little effort, he manages to tame the pass and bolt forward. But Miroslav is right there with him, a lithe force of nature blocking his direct path to the goal. He almost gets tripped up by the man’s intensity and quick feet but successfully eludes him with a broad, mocking grin before shooting the ball to a gangly kid who slips past the defence and scores the first point of the match.
“You gotta wake up a lot earlier if you’re going to try and pull a fast one on us, Miro.” Lukas teases loudly, earning a laugh from the kids on his team. A few of the children on Miroslav’s side roll their eyes but withhold their usually immature retaliations, seeming to adopt their captain’s more serious demeanour.
“You talk too much,” Miroslav responds, expression unreadable except for a slight mischievous glint that Lukas nearly misses as he jogs past. There is something more to the look that Lukas wants to explore later, most likely in a different setting, no children surrounding them and with a lot less clothing between them. It is only two minutes later when Miroslav’s claim is vindicated by a short brunet girl with fast little legs. He sets her up with a beautiful cross and Lukas can do nothing but stare as she perfectly heads the ball straight past the baffled Hans.
“Anna!” Lukas grins as he calls to the girl, mouth open in shock. She trots over to him, beaming proudly as he holds up his hand for a well deserved high five. “Where did you learn that?”
“Miro.” Anna glances over at the man with a bright blush.
“You taught her that in ten minutes?” Lukas ask in total disbelief.
“What? She’s a natural.” Miroslav holds up his hands in defence before gesturing toward Anna as if the eight-year-old girl possesses all the answers. Shyly, hands clasped behind her back, Anna shuffles away from Lukas toward Miroslav. He reaches down to pat her shoulder.
“Shut up,” Lukas playfully punches him in the shoulder, earning a chuckle from the older man.
“Great goal, Anna.” Miroslav holds out his hands to Anna, palm up. She slaps her smaller hands against his.
They only play a short sixty-minute match, effectively burning quite a bit of the children’s pent up energy. The game ends with Miroslav’s team winning by one goal, also scored by the surprise wunderkind, Anna, with only two minutes to spare. Miroslav’s team rushes around him, tugging his shirt and tackling him to the ground. Lukas cannot help but laugh quietly, even as he tries to cheer up his own team with the prospect of a rematch the next weekend.
“Ok kids,” Lukas shouts, walking over and leaning down to give Miroslav a hand up.
“Thanks,” Miroslav says, brushing himself off. They are standing very close and Lukas can feel the waves of heat coming off Miroslav’s body. “I had a lot of fun but I probably need to be getting back before…” He trails off, taking a step back, nodding over his shoulder in the direction of the carpentry shop. “Oh, and thanks for the ice cream.” An easy smile pulls at the corners of his lips before he turns to say goodbye to the swarm of children.
“No problem.” Lukas chews the flesh of his bottom lip. “See you later,” he calls, watching Miroslav wave goodbye while the children begin to gather up the footballs. Just before Miroslav turns away, Lukas catches sight of the warmth draining from the man’s eyes.
A week goes by before Lukas finds a legitimate excuse to return to the carpentry shop. In that time he speaks with Miroslav on the phone twice, just to check on the progress of the chair and of course to invite him to the Saturday afternoon rematch. Lukas is pleased to have discovered all the right buttons to push when it comes to Miroslav, telling the man that the children will be sorely disappointed if he is unable to attend. Everyday after work, for the entire week, Lukas stops by the shop opposite the park, hoping to stumble across a sweaty, charming Miroslav once more. Unfortunately, his timing has never been that good. But when he finally has a perfectly good reason to step inside the carpentry shop, Lukas’ face falls the moment he sees the barrel-chested co-owner’s dower glare occupying the counter in place of Miroslav’s soft smile.
“Good day,” he calls, voice gruff and domineering the minute he hears the bell sound. “May I help you?”
“Hello,” Lukas greets the man hesitantly with a small nod of his head. A few other people quietly mill about the store, picking items up and admiring Miroslav’s handiwork while they peruse. He loiters near the doorway, debating about whether or not he should just leave and come back later to see if Miroslav has returned. The man stares expectantly, eyes raking over Lukas with an unpleasant sneer; obviously he has remembered the young man from earlier. Lukas is about ready to bolt, halfway out the door with one foot on the pavement. “Actually I-”
“We need to order m-Herr Podolski,” Miroslav appears from the back workroom, the front of his denim overalls dusted with bits of finely sanded wood and his clear, protective glasses pushed up to rest on his forehead. The tips of his long fingers are stained a faint red colour despite otherwise looking scrubbed clean. Lukas steps back inside the shop, the door clattering shut behind him. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot. The carpenter immediately changes his course, weaving around the display furniture and crossing the length of the shop to speak with him. Lukas hopes he is not simply imagining the slight spring in the man’s wide strides as they suddenly come face to face for the first time in a week.
“More what?” The man calls after but Miroslav ignores him.
“Hello, Miroslav,” Lukas’ voice is uncharacteristically quiet. Cautious, he glances over Miroslav’s shoulder to make sure the sour man is not about to storm after the carpenter. Luckily, another customer steps up to the counter to purchase a hanging spice rack. “I was just running errands in town when my mother said you called the day-care.” His eyes slide back to meet Miroslav’s.
“Oh yes…” A wide smile crinkles the skin at the corners of his eyes. He anxiously pulls the clear glasses off his forehead, as if suddenly remembering they were there. Folding them quickly, he slides one of the earpieces into the front pocket of his overalls. His hands smooth over the fabric along his sides. “I’ve, eehm, finished the rocking chair, it’s in the workroom.” He gestures over his shoulder to the doorway.
Miroslav leads him back to the private workroom, straight past his occupied business partner, beyond the fully assembled pieces of furniture to where the commissioned rocking chair sits atop a worktable drying. It is sleek and elegant, stained a deep, rich crimson colour that stands in such stark contrast to the understated man who crafted it. Miroslav stuck with the classic design, no complex mechanism for children to get their fingers caught. The sleek armrests curve into the base of the chair, a single plank of wood bent to span from the back of the chair to the end of the rocker. Each of the spokes running up the back is spiralled to cradle the human back while fostering good posture.
“I hope the colour is okay,” Miroslav shifts beside him, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his overalls. The man’s wiry frame seems to curl in on itself, shoulders rounded and elbows tucked in to his sides. Lukas can practically feel the tightly wound anxiety radiating from the carpenter. He tries to set the man at ease with a lopsided smile of encouragement.
The rocking chair really is a wonderful re-imagining of his grandmother’s. Lukas feels a pang of nostalgia wash over him.
“Miroslav.” He turns to look at the man and catches the carpenter staring at him with one of the most open and unguarded expression he has ever seen from Miroslav. It lasts for only a split-second but it is just long enough for Lukas to notice the melancholy longing bubbling up to the surface. He has heard that same feeling in his voice as well. “It’s beautiful.” Lukas knocks their shoulders together, hoping to diffuse the tension with a playful nudge. Miroslav tries to shuffle away with a forced chuckle before being engulfed in Lukas’ arms, pulling him close. “Thank you.” The words come out low and breathy in Miroslav’s ear and Lukas can feel the man shiver in his arms before slowly moving to embrace him in return. Quickly, Lukas pulls back and pauses with their noses tip to tip. Before his mind can catch up and put a stop to his impulses, tell him how incredibly stupid and risky his train of thoughts are when it comes to the carpenter, Lukas presses his mouth against Miroslav’s.
The older man stumbles back in surprise at the sudden contact, but one of his callused hands reaches up to grip the back of Lukas’ neck, pulling him along. They go tumbling back into the shelves of lumber as Miroslav’s heel catches the corner of a strip of wood. He knocks over the load of freshly cut timber they received that morning. It clatters to the ground but they continue kissing, now pressed against the remaining planks propped against the far wall. A desperate moan pours from deep within Miroslav’s chest as he grasps for something solid. His knuckles fade to white as he push-pulls at the tight fabric stretched across Lukas’ shoulders.
It does not seem to be enough.
“Miro?!” A stern voice from the front of the shop calls back to them in a panic. Miroslav shoves Lukas away with both hands on the flat of his chest, eyes impossibly wide and frightened.
“It’s fine!” He yells back, breathing heavily as he scrambles to gather up the fallen wood. “Everything is fine.” Lukas quickly moves to help him tidy up.
“Miro…”
“So,” Miroslav begins before Lukas can explain. He glances over at the younger man with an armful of lumber, clearing his throat as he tries to compose himself. “Eehhm…” He looks away several times, eyes flitting around the room, roaming up and down Lukas’ body in a vain attempt to avoid making eye contact. Miroslav’s cheeks are flushed as he stumbles over his words, a funny yet familiar accent twisting his pronunciation. “I can deliver the chair for you whenever-no charge.” Together, they set the wood back against the wall, returning the workroom to its previous state. “Tomorrow morning okay?” Miroslav turns to Lukas, but his eyes remain trained on the doorway to the main showroom, waiting for his business partner to come barrelling in.
“Yeah.” Lukas says, straightening out his red pullover and brushing off the bits of sawdust that transferred from Miroslav’s overalls to his clothing when they were pressed together. “Can you possibly come by around half past six? Before the kids arrive?”
“Sure.” Miroslav finally looks up at Lukas.
“Thanks.” Lukas smiles. He leans in to steals a quick kiss from the shell-shocked carpenter before leaving.
The doorbell chimes throughout the empty day-care. Hearing the short melody, Lukas immediately drops his mesh bag of footballs in the middle of the large playroom. He pivots and sprints in the direction of the front door, skidding down the hallway on the hardwood floors Lukas himself recently polished. Through the small window of frosted glass inlay, he can see Miroslav’s tall shadow. Pausing for a brief moment, Lukas fusses with the front of his freshly ironed button down and puts on a megawatt smile before slowly opening the door.
“Hello, Lukas.”
“Morning, Miroslav,” he responds slowly, slightly dazed from the sight of a rather confident looking Miroslav. Dressed in his usual uniform of work slacks and dark green shirt, the cuffs properly buttoned about his wrists this time, the man stands with his shoulders squared, body drawn up to his full height. Perhaps, Lukas thinks, all Miroslav needed was a rather aggressive shove in the right direction to dispel the man’s perennial shyness. Lukas is so taken in by the newly self-assured smile curling up the corners of the carpenter’s mouth that he fails to register his mother walking up behind him until she speaks up, catching him mooning over the older man.
“Can I get him anything?” She asks quietly in Polish, manoeuvring around to peer at Miroslav from over her son’s shoulder.
“No Ma, it’s fine.” Lukas says pointedly in German. He glances back, gently nudging her with his elbow in hopes of shooing her away while periodically throwing charming looks over his shoulder at Miroslav.
“You need to be more hospitable to handsome young men, Łukasz,” she reprimands her son loudly, oblivious to the reaction of the man in question. The same grin that is currently plastered on Lukas’ face appears on his mother’s as well. Miroslav cocks an eyebrow, clearly amused by the odd exchange between mother and son.
“Yes, Ma.” Lukas whirls around to stare at his mother with wide eyes; silently imploring her to leave them alone, and yes, he has the whole situation is under complete control, and no, Miroslav would not care for a glass of lemonade.
“Thank you, Mrs. Podolski, but I’m good.” Miroslav answers the woman in flawless Polish, sounding almost as if it were actually his first language. Lukas turns back around slowly.
“Oh, I like this one,” she mumbles in Lukas’ ear, nodding toward Miroslav with an appreciative glint. “Don’t let him get away too easily.” She grins, swatting her son on the backside before leaving the pair alone.
“Yes, mother.” He stares at Miroslav, brows knit; the absolute picture of confusion and surprise all jumbled into one bizarre expression. “You know Polish?” It comes out like an accusation, though Lukas never intended it to sound so harsh. An uncomfortable flush of embarrassment rolls up his spine as he ticks through all the possible things Miroslav has overheard him say to both his mother and father while on the phone or the painful exchange just now.
“I was born in Poland,” Miroslav says plainly before turning and jogging down the short steps up to the front door of the day-care. Lukas remains transfixed in the open doorway, mind racing as he tries to process the new information. “Want to help?” Miroslav calls over his shoulder, switching to German. It jars Lukas back to the present and he hurries over to assist with unloading the new rocking chair.
Miroslav slaps his gloved hands together and they emit a plume of sawdust and dirt that catches light in the high morning sun. He throws open the sliding metal door of the company’s moving truck with a swift shove. It clatters loudly against the metal frame to reveal the chair, bundled and secured for the short trip over. Climbing up into the back, Miroslav looks down at Lukas with a sceptical frown.
“Stay there,” he instructs, holding up a hand that will be easily brushed aside by the younger man.
“What?” Lukas asks with a wilful, knowing grin as he hoists himself up into the truck. Miroslav rolls his eyes and ignores Lukas’ flagrant disregard of his rather simple and straightforward request. A smile flits across his face, Miroslav already understand so much about him. “Where in Poland where you born?”
“Lukas,” Miroslav sighs as he crouches down to undo the taut restraints holding the chair in place.
“When did you come to Germany?” The younger man follows close behind, playfully prodding and pulling at Miroslav’s green work shirt. “Tell me,” Lukas implores and he manages to successfully tug the tails of the green garment out from the waistband of Miroslav’s slacks. Draping himself across the older man’s bent back, Lukas presses his lips to the sensitive shell of his ear. “Tell me,” he whispers, hot and heavy against the exposed skin of the carpenter’s throat.
“I thought you were going to help me.” Miroslav stands, whirling around to confront him but Lukas catches his wrist. He pulls Miroslav close, nearly throwing him completely off balance before kissing him soundly. “Wait, Lu-” Miroslav protests, attempting to unsuccessfully outmanoeuvre Lukas. He tries to duck his head but Lukas steals another brief kiss. “Łukasz.” Palms pressed against the centre of Lukas’ chest, Miroslav firmly pushes him away. His cheeks are flushed but the stern look rimming his eyes is not something Lukas wants to be on the receiving end of ever again. “The chair first, then we can talk.” He releases Miroslav, pouting like a rather petulant child but otherwise proceeding to follow the man’s orders without protest.
“Oh, Miroslav.” Mrs. Podolski gushes in Polish for the umpteenth time in since laying eyes on her new rocking chair. “It’s simply gorgeous. Reminds me of my mother's.” She turns to Miroslav, clutching his elbow and patting his hand in gratitude.
“Your welcome, Mrs. Podolski.” He smiles down at her before she turns her attention back to her struggling son. Lukas stands awkwardly holding the surprisingly heavy wooden rocker in his arms, waiting for further instructions from his mother. He has already spent a good quarter of an hour moving the chair about the entire playroom, from one corner to the next until Miroslav suggested placing it near the window.
“A little more to the right, Łukasz,” she calls, pointing in that direction until the sun hits the wood just right and the piece of furniture practically glows auburn.
“Ma!” Exasperated, Lukas shuffles himself and the chair over a few centimetres, hoping his mother will deem its new position satisfactory.
“Perfect.” She claps her hands together, crossing the room to kiss her son’s forehead approvingly. Lukas tolerates the display in silence, refusing to meet Miroslav’s eyes until she moves away. “The colour is so warm and lovely.” The woman starts running her fingertips along the smooth wood, revelling in the pristine, sleek texture of the solid material under her hands.
“I hope you enjoy it.” Miroslav gives Mrs. Podolski one of his business cards. “Please feel free to phone if you have any problems.” She tucks it away in her apron pocket as if it were something to cherish deeply.
“Thank you again, Miroslav,” she pats him on the cheek before turning to escort him to the front door of the day-care. Miroslav catches Lukas’ gaze on the way out, giving him an almost unperceivable nod before leaving.
“Ma, I need to talk to Miroslav for a few minutes, okay?” Lukas watches the man stride over to the company truck. “I’ll be right back. Promise.” He presses a kiss to his mother’s cheek before following after the carpenter.
They sit side by side in silence after Miroslav finishes explaining the details of his childhood travels to Lukas. After a few moments, it seems that Miroslav has chosen to move on to the much more important and immediate topic at hand.
“So this,” Miroslav starts, swallowing thickly as he glances over at Lukas who sits in the passenger seat of the moving truck. “What-? Eeh, are we? I mean, do you-?” Frustrated with his inability to form a coherent sentence, Miroslav cuts himself off with a huff. He stares down at the empty space between them. Lukas feels the urge to reach out, force Miroslav to look at him-draw out the introvert. But Miroslav surprises him. “I like you.”
“Good.” Lukas responds instantly, dumbfounded. It is blunt and concise and Lukas likes the conviction with which it is said. Back straight, shoulders pushed against the faux leather seat, Lukas continues staring out the front windshield. “I like you.” Lukas blinks a few times, chewing on his lower lip.
“Okay.” The carpenter says slowly, carefully wrapping his mouth around the short word. He looks up at Lukas.
“Okay.” Lukas parrots back; the beginnings of one of his megawatt smiles starting to pull up the corners of his mouth. He turns to finally look at the carpenter. Miroslav leans over the gearshift and Lukas feels the tip of Miroslav’s nose nudge against his cheekbone. His lips fall open. It only lasts for a few seconds, the delicious pressure of hot breath mingling between their open mouths. Oh, Lukas thinks, doesn’t he smell just like a beautiful fucking forest full of pine trees? Miroslav’s slick tongue slides out to trace the curve of Lukas’ full lower lip. With a free hand, Miroslav begins to unfasten Lukas’ belt buckle with clever fingers. “Miro…” The nickname escapes him in a low whisper, humming against his lips while the carpenter moves to nip along his thrumming pulse.
Miroslav deftly snaps open the button fly of Lukas’ trousers.
“May I?” He asks quietly, fingertips tracing the hem of Lukas’ pristine button down stuffed into the waist of his jeans. Lukas thinks Miroslav and his beautiful, soft-spoken and painfully respectful demeanour will eventually be his cause of death. But in the long run, it is the only way he would want to go. Especially if it meant getting a handjob from the man. A rather undignified whimper slips from Lukas’ mouth, the vibrations tickling Miroslav’s lips and tongue. It’s all the man needs. He pulls up the tails of Lukas’ shirt before pushing past the worn denim material to brush against soft cotton boxer briefs.
Lukas is already hard and pressing hot and eager against the constricting fabric. It has been an embarrassingly long time since Lukas’ last encounter with anyone and he is sure Miroslav can easily tell from his rather keen reactions. At first, Miroslav simply cups Lukas’ erection though the soft material of his boxer briefs, seeming to enjoy the rigid length of it against the heel of his rough palm. Everything feels unbearably hot, just shy of stifling in the cab of the truck as they bake in the sunlight drifting in through the large windshield. Lukas’ hips twitch impatiently when the lack of real contact between teeters off the edge into the realm of frustrating. It is then that Miroslav starts moving his fingers over the cotton, applying the slightest pressure and friction. Lukas frantically wraps his arms around the carpenter’s tense shoulders, white knuckles digging into green fabric as he practically drags the man out of the driver’s seat and into his lap.
“Ahh, Lukas,” Miroslav groans in pain as he attempts to wriggle away when the gearshift jabs into his side. A small bruise will shortly begin to stain the flesh along his ribcage, but he’s suffered much worse for nowhere near as much a reward.
“Sorry.” Lukas’ face flushes as he instantly releases Miroslav. He shifts anxiously in the passenger seat before darting forward to kiss the man again. His hands come up to soothe over Miroslav’s face and chest, sliding down to gingerly press against his abused ribcage. “Sorry,” he repeats against Miroslav’s thin lips that are beginning to pull away in a smile.
“Shhh.” Miroslav whispers, hands stroking down Lukas’ clothed torso before dipping inside his boxer briefs. Lukas gasps when the long, callused fingers wrap around him, skin against skin. Miroslav’s touch is firm and sure, rough around the edges where he has held the tools of his trade. Lukas is beginning to think he prefers the sensation of pleasure with a bit of bite. It is maddeningly slow, gently teasing Lukas into a slow burning frenzy with soft touches and deliberate jerks. Miroslav eases him back into the passenger seat, head tipped back against the headrest while he withdraws his hand. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of both denim and cotton, yanking them down mid-thigh, just far enough to comfortably free Lukas’ stiff cock.
Miroslav’s mouth is so wet and hot and perfect and very, very real as it engulfs him.
Lukas moans, overwhelmed by the sensation and the sight of Miroslav’s cheeks hollowed around his cock. Blunt fingernails rack over the faux leather covering the headrest of the passenger seat, leaving fain indentations. He winds his arms around the cushion, not trusting himself to touch Miroslav. And it’s too much, too fast and all he knows is that he cannot to come just yet. When Lukas’ moans take on a twinge of discomfort, Miroslav pulls away with a slick popping sound.
“Okay?” He asks, leaning back in his seat to give Lukas a once over. The younger man is a bright pink shade, the colour peaking out from the open collar of his button down, crawling up his throat to dust over the bridge of his nose and cheeks. Cool air rushes over his cock and it brings him back down. Mouth open, breaths coming in short, shallow pants, Lukas nods. Miroslav kisses him again.
“Mmmh…” Lukas tries, but the sound of Miroslav’s name comes out muffled against the man’s own mouth, and he never has been so aroused by the taste of himself on another person’s tongue before. Miroslav’s hand returns to Lukas’ cock, slicked with saliva and in desperate need of release. But it’s not what Lukas wants. “Please, I-I-y-your mouth,” Lukas begs softly in Polish, eyes screwed shut, brows drawn and somehow he manages to look so damn innocent. Smiling, Miroslav pressing one last quick kiss to the younger man’s full lips before ducking back down, replacing his callused hand with a yielding, wet tongue. The dramatic shift in sensation is enough to send Lukas’ pelvis jutting forward. Miroslav adjusts to the sudden fullness in his mouth, thumbs digging into the crease of thigh and hip as he pushes Lukas back into the seat. He begins sucking in earnest, making delightfully obscene slurping sounds in his enthusiasm-dispelling every last notion of the introverted, reticent boy in Lukas’ mind.
“Miro!” Lukas comes undone, narrow hips jerking erratically, fingers finally sinking into the short brown hair at the crown of Miroslav’s head as it bobs up and down in his lap. His back curves so he’s bent around the other man. Miroslav swallows everything, the flat of his pink tongue flicking out to absorb the last few bits of come oozing from the swollen head.
He allows Lukas a brief moment to come down off his orgasm before gently tucking the younger man back into his boxer briefs. A dazed smile spreads cross his thin lips, as if he had been the one to come only seconds ago. Lukas snaps back to life, wriggling back into his trousers before grabbing Miroslav’s thigh. He moves to press his face against the obvious erection tenting Miroslav’s work slacks.
“Ahh,” he moans, but it sounds full of surprise rather than pleasure. “Lukas, hey,” Miroslav soothes, pulling at the back of the younger man’s neck until he sits up. “I have to get back to the shop.” He covers Lukas’ hands with his own, prying them off him before pushing them back in to the younger man’s own lap. A callused hand curls into the short hairs at Lukas’ nape, gently running along the slope of his hairline. “But, I’m free for dinner.”
“Ok. Meet me here at seven.”
Lukas swoops in for another short kiss, a disobediant hand groping Miroslav’s hard on through his constricting trousers. He cannot begin to imagine Miroslav having to walk back into work in such a state. But then his traitorous mind starts playing pornographic scenes of the carpenter jerking off in the truck, long legs spread wide, callused fingers knowing exactly where and how to touch himself, hot breath pouring from his lips in the form of Lukas’ name. It would be so rushed and frantic, Miroslav needing to get off before returning to the pine-scented workroom. Lukas runs his thumb along the outline of Miroslav’s wonderfully thick, erect cock, sucking the man’s tongue into his mouth. And, Lukas realises, it is probably best not to think about that little scenario until later, when they can be alone again.
“See you at seven, Lukas.” Miroslav says with a good-natured laugh as he bats Lukas’ hands away.
“Thank you, Miśku,” his voice is a low murmur and Lukas cannot seem to look at Miroslav as he opens the passengerside door. The carpenter sits immobilized by the familiarity of the nickname, perhaps something only his family has ever called him before now. Lukas is about to turn and hop out when Miroslav appears to adjust to the new moniker. “For everything.” He meets Lukas halfway for one last kiss.
“What took you so long?” Lukas’ mother asks the minute she hears the day-care’s front door snick close. He hears the tell tale sound of a few high pitched voices and realises just how long he must have spent with Miroslav. It’s a quarter to eight and the neighbourhood kids have already been dropped off for the day.
“I was just talking to Miroslav,” he pauses, silently thanking God that Miroslav had been smart enough to pull around back to park in their private driveway. “About the possibility of a small playground for the kids.” The lie sounds logical enough and he’s sure Miroslav would love the challenge of engineering a play set for the children, as well as the opportunity to work onsite at the Podolski Family Day-Care.
“Sounds good.” She appears at the front door, balancing one of the toddlers on her hip and smiling approvingly. “I think a boy like that will be a very good influence on you, Łukasz.” Pinching a cheek, she grins at her son before pushing him in the direction of the playroom. “Now, back to work. It’s almost eight.”
“Oh, and I won’t be home for dinner,” Lukas calls down the hallway as he starts to gather up the mesh bag of footballs.
++++++++++++++++++++++
AN: I also wanted to thank miro_klose_pics for being so awesome and helping me with this particular section. Thank you!
ETA: Miro!Carpenter Gif
Pairing: Miroslav Klose/Lukas Podolski
Summary: Part Five: Friends in Unlikely Places: Lukas works for his mother's child day-care. When she wants a new rocking chair he meets a quiet carpenter named Miroslav. (aka: Normal!People AU)
Rating: Part Five: NC-17/R
Disclaimer: Don't know them.
AN: In honour of the friendly on Tuesday vs Poland I thought I best get my shit straight and finish this asap. Last one. :( I hope you like it...this whole series was so wonderful to write! Thank you for all the feedback, I deeply appreciate it.
Five Times Miroslav and Lukas Never Met
Part Five: Friends in Unlikely Places
“I just think a rocking chair would really brighten up the main room.” It’s difficult for Lukas to concentrate on the sound of his mother’s voice; it fades into the background as his attention is absorbed by the loud crunching granola and yogurt between his teeth. Not to mention the sun is still in the process of rising and Lukas has never claimed to be a morning person. Everything seems a bit fuzzy around the edges as he reaches for a large glass of fresh orange juice. From the sweet, wistful expression on his mother’s face he assumes she talking about some new addition to her day-care. It’s the only thing that would make her smile crook up higher on the right side of her mouth. He drains the glass, swallows and pauses to catch her next sentence. “It would make story time more entertaining for the children.” She leans over to refill his glass of orange juice before adding, “not to mention the benefits for nap time.” Lukas goes back to spooning heaping mouthfuls of granola and yogurt out of his bowl.
He tunes out the soft drone of his mother’s voice as she continues talking at him about the suddenly essential rocking chair. Instead, Lukas starts trying to figure out if he can begin running passing drills for the four year olds today-finally teach them how to properly pass to each other while keeping the ball on the ground. It’s his primary responsibility at his mother’s day-care, teaching the children a whole host of fun, athletic games and playing outside with them all day. He never realized how fucking exhausting it was to keep up with a bunch of three to eight year olds until his mother offered him the job after he finished school. It is even worse now that it’s summer and the older kids need more structured games to play, not just free time to run around screaming their heads off. Instead, they beg Lukas to play football with them, but never by the real rules.
“There is a new hand made furniture shop that just opened in town. I think it’s run by a few carpenters from all over the country.” He tunes in for a moment, pausing to add another scoop of yogurt to his breakfast. “They’re offering a nice discount on new commissions.” Lukas slowly stirs the granola into the yogurt until it’s one big lump globbed onto his spoon. There is a clank as his mother puts down her fork and knife, staring at him intently. “Łukasz, are you listening to me?”
“What?” Lukas asks around his final mouthful of breakfast, the spoon still stuck against the inside of his cheek.
“I swear, Łukasz,” his mother sighs as she starts clearing off the kitchen table, attempting to grab Lukas’ empty bowl. He easily evades her, keeping the bowl in order to lick the last bits of yogurt off the sides of the porcelain.
“You want a new rocking chair, hand made and on sale from some new, fancy carpentry shop. Correct?” Lukas rambles off, placing the bowl back on the table before slouching back in his chair. He folds his arms over his chest with the utmost self-satisfied look.
She flicks him in the ear.
“I want a classic bentwood, nice and pretty. Like your grandmothers. I think I have a picture of her sitting in it some where around here…” She toddles off to search her dresser for the photograph.
A small bell above the door rings as he steps inside the quaint, cluttered shop. Lukas remembers when the place used to be a Christmas ornament and trinket store. It smells like fresh cut wood underpinned with a rich, smoky scent and a bit of varnish. Looking around, Lukas sees no one else, not even an employee working the checkout counter. The walls are lined with various ornate hand carved bookshelves, spice racks and heavy cabinets meant to showcase the intricate, painstakingly precise craftsmanship of their head carpenter. A dining table set up is prominently featured at the heart of the shop, alongside other artfully constructed furniture intended for practical everyday use. Lukas’ fingers glide over the smoothly varnished tabletop, admiring the delicately detailed patterns running along the edge. He stops to examine the handiwork, trying to imagine how much training and pure talent it takes to craft such a beautiful table.
It reminds him of the dinner table in his childhood home.
“Hello, may I help you?” Lukas glances up from the table as a soft voice breaks through the calm. A man, a few years older than Lukas, stands behind the counter wearing a dark green button down with the sleeves rolled up past his forearms. He is wiry with deep-set, sad eyes and a soft smile-he seems to blend in rather nicely with the quiet, gentle atmosphere of the carpentry shop. Perhaps a bit stiff and reserved but overall gentle, at least that is the impression Lukas gets with one glance. Lukas pulls back his slouched shoulders, straightening up to his full height. A little current of warmth spreads up the back of his neck, tinting it a faint pink colour.
“Yeah.” Lukas flashes a bright, self-consciously charming smile as he strides over to the clerk. “I need a rocking chair.” He places his hands on the edge of the counter, leaning against them with all the nonchalance he can muster in the handsome face of the man opposite him.
“Alright,” the man replies, still smiling even as he restlessly shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Do you know what kind you’re looking for?”
“Well, it’s for my mother’s day-care, so it needs to be kid friendly.” Lukas explains and notices the way the man’s eyes soften. The look is a vast improvement over the stoic sadness. “Oh,” he adds, coming back to himself when he realises he is staring, “-and she said something about ‘bentwood.’” The word is cumbersome, sounding almost deformed as it tumbles out of his mouth.
“Of course.” The man nods and Lukas is relieved that he understands the strange terminology his mother fed him that morning. “I can show you a couple examples of the ones we’ve made before.” He sounds genuinely excited, as if this is a rare occurrence and Lukas idly wonders if their newly established business has been slow since opening only a few months prior. Stepping out from behind the counter, the man turns to lead Lukas into the workroom, right past a sign that clearly states ‘Employees Only.’ For some reason, it makes Lukas smile.
The smell of freshly cut wood combined with artificial varnish is much stronger in the back room.
“She also gave me this.” Lukas pulls out the photograph of his grandmother from his trouser pocket. It’s a bit mangled, folded in half and missing a piece of the upper left hand corner-but that’s how his mother gave it to him, honest. “I don’t know how helpful it will be but she said she wants it to look something like this.” He points to the old rocking chair in the photo before handing it over.
“Does she want an exact copy?” The man asks, carefully examining the simple design of the antique chair in the proffered picture. Long, elegant fingers of one hand trace over the lines of the rocker while the other smoothes out the creases and delicately glosses over the torn edges. Lukas notices the wealth of calluses sprinkled across the planes of his palms and he has the strangest urge to touch them, ask how he got them, learn what tools cause them to form in such a strange constellation. He starts to imagine what the rough skin stretched along those graceful, skilled fingers would feel like on his hipbones. After a moment, the question finally registers in Lukas’ mind. The man glances up from the photograph to check Lukas vacant expression.
“Oh, uh,” Lukas stumbles over himself, his mind a complete blank as he stares into the man’s wide, eager eyes. The unbidden thoughts of those strong hands on tan skin are quickly tamped down as he struggles to regain his composure. “I’m not sure…” He finishes lamely, shrugging his shoulders and hoping that the carpenter will somehow have all the answers.
“Well,” the carpenter begins, returning the photograph. Lukas notices how careful the man is not to damage it any further. Moving to stand beside Lukas, close enough that their shoulders brush while he explains his thoughts. Long fingers skate over the outline of the rocking chair in the photo clutched in Lukas’ hands. “I could use the same basic framework of this chair but with some of my own tricks. Update it a bit.” Lukas is intrigued by the way the man’s entire demeanour brightens up-like something flickered to life inside his chest.
“You?” It is only takes a split-second after blurting out the question that Lukas realises how ridiculous it must sound-he has yet to see anyone else in the small shop and the man standing before him clearly works with his hands and smells like a heady mishmash of pine and sweat.
Who else would be clever enough to carve all the beautiful pieces from unwieldy chunks of wood?
“Yes, I’d be the one making it.” His voice is soft and quiet but underpinned with purpose and a clear-cut confidence. But Lukas cannot figure out how he is supposed to read the man’s shy smile.
“Oh. Okay, sounds cool,” Lukas pauses to glance down at the plastic nametag pinned to the man’s shirt pocket, situated just below the shop’s embroidered logo, “Miroslav.” The man, Miroslav, reacts with a more genuine smile at the addition of his name, nodding his head briefly before responding.
“These are some of our more standard rocking chairs.” He gestures toward a few completely assembled chairs cluttering one corner of the workroom while they wait to be stained. Most of them seem simple enough, effortless and sleek. They are all built to blend in seamlessly, generic enough to fit in with any given home interior or aesthetic design. “And, this is my handiwork,” Miroslav says quietly, motioning behind Lukas. The opposite end of the workroom is covered with several beautifully crafted pieces similar to the more intricate ones on display in the main shop.
With only a basic aesthetic appreciation for carpentry, Lukas already knows he wants Miroslav to be the carpenter in charged of constructing his mother’s rocking chair.
He completely ignores the bland rockers, instead wandering over to the section of the workroom dedicated to Miroslav’s more elaborate works. Immediately, he is drawn to a tall, imposing bookcase that just barely clears the ceiling. The wood feels strangely soft to the touch, perfectly sanded a stained a warm amber tone. Lukas runs his fingers along the intricately twisted column running up the length of the case. It is a work of art. Practical, yes, but more stunning than any other bookcase Lukas has ever seen. Beside the case is what looks like an updated equivalent of the antique writing desk Lukas’ great-grandfather used prior to the wars. His hands sweep across the vast expanse of expensive wood, pushing back the panelled cover to properly look over the actual writing surface. Pulling open drawers, he thinks about the hours and hours Miroslav must have laboured over the construction of such a sophisticated piece.
Lukas wonders why such a beautiful desk is hidden away in the backroom.
“Miroslav,” a harsh voice disrupts Lukas’ exploration. He stills, glancing over his shoulder surreptitiously. A tall, barrel-chested man strides across the workroom, headed straight for the carpenter. Miroslav takes a reflexive step backwards, colliding with the wall behind him. The older man’s mouth is set in a firm line, exaggerated by the deeply carved wrinkles framing his lips. He wraps a thick-fingered hand around Miroslav’s shoulder, yanking him around like a rag doll. “What are you doing?” He asks in a harsh whisper turning them around so his back is to Lukas, barely maintaining the thin pretence of keeping their conversation secret. “You’re supposed to be back here working.” The man releases him, shoving his index finger into Miroslav’s chest, knocking the man off balance with the force of the gesture. Miroslav tries to hide his stumble with a quick step sideways. “I help the customers.” The man jabs himself in the chest with his thumb, asserting his dominance as he looms over the carpenter.
“I, eehm, was just showing him-” Miroslav stutters out, his voice just above a whisper, motioning toward Lukas. They briefly make eye contact over the man’s shoulder. The carpenter quickly looks away, embarrassment written all over his face. All of the sudden, the other man’s entire behaviour changes, tension melting from his shoulders just before he turns to face Lukas. Of course, he is a potential customer. Lukas looks away before the man catches him staring.
“Hello, may I help?” A mask of professionalism falls neatly in place. He takes a step closer.
“No,” Lukas responds with an even tone. Refusing to acknowledge the other man, he continues pretending as if he is thoroughly inspecting Miroslav’s woodwork and not eavesdropping on their spat. “He’s already helping me.” He gestures vaguely in Miroslav’s direction without a second glance back. The statement is greeted with the sound of feet shuffling anxious, kicking around a pile of sawdust before stilling.
“Well, sir, Klose needs to get back to work,” he says, condescension thick in his voice. “But I can assist you with whatever you need.” Lukas’ eyes flick over the old man’s shoulder. Miroslav is reluctantly wiping off a pair of clear, protective glasses, ready to resume diligently working on another generic piece of furniture.
“I’d prefer him, thanks.” He gives the old man his best saccharine, toothy grin. The man pauses, closely examining Lukas from head to toe.
“Miro.” The nickname comes out terse and crisp and Lukas does not like the sound of it on the man’s tongue. It jolts the carpenter into action. Safety glasses clatter on to the tabletop, abandoned by Miroslav as he hurries over. The man silently nods toward Lukas before leaving to work the shop front.
“Errm, so,” Miroslav mumbles, eyes downcast and Lukas realises that the man has already retreated back into himself.
“You made all this, yeah?” Lukas checks, already sure of the answer. Miroslav nods silently, the movement rigid and awkward. “They’re really beautiful.” He waits for Miroslav to look up at him, holding the other man’s gaze as he speaks. “I think my mother would really like your style.”
“Thank you.” Miroslav’s body seems to slowly relax after the exchange, his voice more sure and his movements less restricted. “Do you want me to still use the photo as a reference?”
“Yeah, that sounds good.” He flashes a beaming smile before adding, “I trust you.” Lukas extends his hand, a purposefully open smile softening his features. “I’m Lukas, by the way.” Miroslav’s grip is firm and solid, a little rough due to his calluses but Lukas finds the texture just as fascinating as he imagined.
“Nice to meet you, Lukas.” A similar smile lights up Miroslav’s face and Lukas forgets the look of embarrassment, instead replacing the visual memory with the man’s bright smile and eager eyes.
Two days later the home phone rings while Lukas is dicing vegetables in the kitchen for dinner. His mother is occupied with closing up the day-care, tidying and making sure that everything is ready for the next morning’s arts and crafts project. She informed Lukas that it would involve several boxes of the notorious dry elbow macaroni, so they were going to have soup for dinner instead of pasta. This leaves Lukas’ father in charge of manning the phone. Mr. Podolski grumbles as he hastily folds up his newspaper and lumbers out of his recliner to answer the call.
“Hello.” Lukas can hear his father’s gruff voice from all the way in the kitchen when he picks up. He knows exactly what it’s like to be on the receiving end of his father’s less than pleasant greeting. “Who is this?” There is a pause. Lukas continues cutting the onions into smaller and smaller cubes before starting on the carrots. “Come on, speak up, boy!” His father impatiently rebukes the apparently soft-spoken caller. Lukas chuckles, shaking his head as he chops two carrots side by side. “Oh, why didn’t you say so before,” Mr. Podolski says, more to himself than the caller. “Łukasz, telephone,” he yells louder than necessary and Lukas is sure even the neighbours now know he has a phone call.
“Who is it?” Lukas calls back in Polish. He stops chopping, glancing over at the open doorway into the living room.
“Some carpenter?” The old man mutters, confused.
Lukas hurries out of the kitchen, still carrying the knife, his front covered in flecks of carrots and onion.
“What are you doing, Łukasz?” His father starts to question him in a chiding tone, pointing to the knife and vegetables splatter across his son’s shirt. “Calm down, he’s not going anywhere.” The old man’s eyes crinkle as he grins, teasing.
“Just give me the phone, Da.” Lukas holds out his hand, gesturing to it with the knife. He is silently grateful that even if Miroslav can hear them bickering, at least he can’t understand a word of what is going on. “Hello, Miroslav,” Lukas’ voice comes across as nice and cheerful, despite the act of brandishing his knife at his father.
“Oh,” Miroslav sounds flustered but smiling, probably relieved to no longer be dealing with Lukas’ father. “You remembered my name.” A breathy, anxious laugh crackles over the phone line. Lukas has to quickly turn away from his father in order to hide the absurd grin that spreads across his face at the sound. “I just have a few questions about your mother’s rocker.”
“Oh, ok.” Without glancing back, Lukas quickly walks back into the kitchen pressing the cordless phone tight to his ear.
On the following Saturday afternoon, Lukas realises he is going to be swamped with a relatively small gaggle of the most rambunctious six to eight year olds he could possible imagine. He always feels sorry for the Saturday group, the minority of kids whose parents, or in some cases their only parent, either work weekends or they really just want a few hours of peace and quiet on the weekend. So he makes a deal with his mother. She stays at the day-care and watches the younger children while he takes the older ones out to the nearby park to play a few games, but only after stopping at the shops to buy each one of them an ice cream treat. It’s really in her best interest to let them go play outside, he tells her with a straight face. After all, she already knows the devastating amounts of trouble one energetic little boy can get up to when he’s cooped up during the summer, try multiplying that by sixteen. When she concedes, Lukas smiles and takes the two twenty Euro notes from his mother, kissing her softly on the cheek.
“Listen up, kids” he yells to get their attention as they mill about on the sidewalk out front of the nearby shop. Only about nine of the sixteen actually turn to look at him. The other group at the back of the crowd continue pinching and jostling one another. “Listen or no ice cream. You hear me, Hans? Thomas?” That seems to get their attention. All the other children standing near the two troublemakers stop and stand still. “Stay with me and do not run off. Or no ice cream and no park. Take your buddy’s hand and follow me. Okay, kids?” He asks loudly, surveying the group while doing a silent head count to make sure he does not leave a kid behind.
“Okay, Lukas,” they all chime in together with sugary sweet voices and wide grins. Lukas takes the proffered hand of one of the girls, who, despite having a buddy of her own, seems rather attached to Lukas. He shoulders the mesh bag of footballs and leads them inside.
They practically overrun the whole shop; a swarm of rowdy children surrounding Lukas in a small radius while he makes a beeline to the frozen treats section. It has to be quick or else the whole store will look like a disaster zone. Luckily, the storeowner is used to them stopping by on Saturdays during the hot summer months and doesn’t make a fuss over the total chaos that engulfs her establishment. A few of the kids try to climb into the ice chest when Lukas slides open the glass case. He has to forcibly pull them off, calmly setting them down in the back of the group so the other kids block them from trying anything else dangerous. They calm down after being called out, waiting anxiously on the fringes of the group to see which ice cream Lukas will pick.
“What kind?” He crouches down to ask the girl with a conspiratorial tone. She peers over the top of the case and her eyes fill with the reflection of gold and silver foil wrappers. She points to the massive pile of Cornettos tucked away in the back. Lukas stands up and starts pulling the individually wrapped cones out of the oversized freezer. He sticks to the more normal flavours, nothing to wild that might upset the picky eaters in the group. After counting out seventeen, he starts corralling the kids toward the self-checkout area on the opposite side of the store.
Lukas is surprised when he turns around in time see a sweaty Miroslav trot inside the shop with a pair of ear buds wrapped around his neck. The carpenter looks as if he just finished a long run through the public park across the street. His white t-shirt is drenched with sweat, clinging to his thin frame as he reaches up to the top shelf for an ice-cold bottle of water. Lukas watches as a few droplets of sweat roll down the sharp cut of his jaw. A thin slice of pale skin, sharp hipbones and the crease of lean abdominal muscles are exposed as he stretches to grab hold of the bottle.
Lukas drops an ice cream.
In that moment, he can’t seem to find his voice, breath catching in his throat as he struggles to address the familiar man. One of the boys standing beside him picks up the fallen Cornetto. He has to stand on his tiptoes in order to place it back on top of the armful of treats Lukas clutches tightly to his chest.
“Miroslav!” He calls out, voice cracking as he unglues himself from the spot, taking a tentative step toward the carpenter. The group of children follow accordingly, matching the movement and shuffling forward together as a single unit around Lukas. Thankfully, they all fall quiet for one short moment. Sixteen pairs of curious eyes are suddenly trained on the shy man standing before them, silently evaluating him and his sudden appearance in their adventure to the park.
“Herr Podolski?” Miroslav turns quickly to greet Lukas; he starts frantically wiping at the sweat covering his forehead and cheeks with the back of his hand. He pauses the minute he notices the cluster of six to eight year olds crowded around Lukas. “Hello,” he says tentatively, waving to the more mild mannered children standing closest to Lukas. Each one gazes up at Miroslav with small puzzled faces, trying to figure out if they are supposed to trust the stranger or not. A few of them look up at Lukas in hopes of gaining some kind of social cue from the man. The rest of the children have gone back to talking, teasing and pinching each other behind Lukas’ back.
“You want an ice cream? I’m buying.” Lukas shrugs with a slightly frazzled smile, nodding down to his armful of Cornettos. Miroslav laughs at the sight and accepts the offer, but says yes only if Lukas will allow him to help carry the rest of the ice cream to the checkout aisle. He stuffs the bottle of water under his arm and takes more than half of the pile. Lukas sends one of the kids back to the freezer to grab an extra Cornetto for Miroslav. The girl skips off and returns quickly with the treat. Together, they make their way over to the self-checkout with the pack of kids scurrying around them.
As soon as they reach the machines, the children race past to the other side and queue up in single file. Each and every one of them puts on a sweet, patient act as they wait for their ice cream, hands folded calmly behind their backs to demonstrate the proper amount of good-natured restraint. Lukas rolls his eyes but ruffles the hair of Thomas who has jockeyed his way to the front. They all smile up at Lukas with deceptively earnest expression.
“Thanks,” Lukas whispers as Miroslav hands him the ice cream once the man has scanned it through the self-checkout machine. He begins distributing them to the children one at a time before realising that none of the cones seem to be making it past the front of the queue. “Pass them down, Thomas,” Lukas instructs the young boy sternly, withholding the next Cornetto until the boy sighs and nods in acquiescence. Pulling a few cones from his pockets and one from the front of his jumper, Thomas hands over an armful to the next kid who proceeds to pass them down. “Here.” He gives Miroslav the last two treats before fishing out his wallet to pay.
“Thank you, Herr Podolski.” Miroslav slowly unwraps one of the ice creams while Lukas slips the notes into the machine. Once he is done, Miroslav hands the opened treat to the younger man.
“Lukas,” he corrects, taking the proffered cone with a small smile. Their fingers connect and he holds Miroslav’s gaze a second longer than necessary. Taking a bite of the chocolate covered ice cream, he pockets the change and receipt.
“Thank you, Lukas.”
It’s fairly easy to herd the group of children outside the shop, now that they are preoccupied with smearing their faces with ice cream. Miroslav and Lukas hang back while the kids overtake the pavement, all blissfully silent while they enjoy their frozen treat. Soon enough each one will become a sticky, sugar high, little terror that will try and run Lukas ragged. But that is what the footballs are for.
“So,” Miroslav starts, munching on his Cornetto with an expectant smile, “are you headed back to the day care?”
“Actually, I’m taking the kids to go play football in the park.” Lukas points to the mesh bag full of scuffed up footballs hanging off his back. Suddenly, an idea pops into his head and he cannot seem to shake it. “Do you want to come?” The question tumbles from his lips before he has a chance to throw up his filter. He almost shoves the rest of his Cornetto in his mouth the minute he hears the unadulterated hope and eagerness in his own voice-too obvious, Lukas. “I mean if you’re free and don’t have anything better to do today…” He adds hastily, back peddling furiously as he attempts to salvage some dignity while playing rather poorly at casualness. A slight flush creeps up the back of his neck, managing to reach the tips of his ears. “And like kids…and football…” He trails off, fiddling with the straps of the football bag.
“I am…erm, I do…But I should…” Miroslav hesitates, pulling at the last bits of paper wrapped around the bottom of his cone. Lukas cannot help but notice the way Miroslav continues to take several noncommittal steps in the direction of his shop before abruptly stopping each time.
“We’ll have an even number if you join, nine on nine.” Lukas smile, licking the melted vanilla ice cream from his fingertips as he tries to convince the carpenter to shirk his nonessential duties and come play. The afternoon will definitely be more fun for him, as well as the kids, if Miroslav agrees to accompany them. He turns to the horde of now extremely hyper children and raises his voice to get their attention. “Hey, who wants Miroslav to come play football with us?” There is a short pauses as the kids peer around Lukas to examine their potential playmate. After a short, sceptical appraisal of the wiry man, an uproar erupts from the group. They hustle to encircle Miroslav, tugging and pulling him in the direction of the park. “Now you have to come.” He tells Miroslav as if he is totally powerless to stop the children. And in a way, he is.
It takes the combined effort of both Lukas and Miroslav to properly restrain the overenthusiastic children when they approach the busy crosswalk, grabbing sticky, little hands and shirt collars until the cars have stopped and the path is clear. Usually the group knows how to act when it comes to respecting the dangers of oncoming traffic, but Lukas thinks the addition of a new adult to play with has sent them over the edge of excitement and into the realm of slightly reckless behaviour.
But he can relate.
As soon as they cross into the park the kids break away, sprinting off toward the empty football pitch. They push and shove and get nasty grass stains all over their knees and elbows. Lukas calls after them to slow down but he knows that it will probably do no good; it never has before. Miroslav laughs, throwing a friendly arm around Lukas’ shoulders and suddenly he really could care less if Elsie’s white shorts have twin green streaks along her knees.
When he and Miroslav arrive at the pitch, Lukas throws down the bag of footballs. He bends to unzip it while instructing the children to queue up in single file and count off. They alternate between one and two, dividing themselves up into two equal teams. After a little rearranging on Lukas behalf, mainly splitting up the firebrands, Hans and Thomas, onto different teams, he tosses Miroslav a few footballs.
“Okay, ones with me and twos with Miroslav.” The group splits in two, each team trotting off to their appointed end of the pitch. “Ten minute warm up,” he calls over to Miroslav who nods, his face surprisingly serious. Lukas cannot help but watch as the man crouches down to converse with his team. The back of his t-shirt rides up as he kneels, revealing more of that pale flesh and lean muscles. He follows the trail of Miroslav’s spine, up to his sharp shoulder blades shifting beneath thin fabric and skin while he wraps his arms around the two children standing beside him to form a tight knit huddle. It seems the man is a natural at handling kids. There is a simple elegance in his movements and Lukas seems to not realise that he is openly staring at the man.
“Lukas, Luuukas,” Hans whining is suddenly blaring in his ear, bringing Lukas back to reality. The boy relentlessly tugs on Lukas’ shirtsleeve, repeating his name over and over again while the other children wait penitently for directions. “I wanna be keeper, Lukas. Pleeeease!” The collar of his t-shirt stretches almost to his shoulder as the boy attempts to prove just how badly he wants to play the position.
“Okay, okay,” he placates the child, patting him on the head and prying his fingers off the material of his shirt. “Lets do some passing drills, practice shots, and then we’ll show them what we’re made of.”
A quarter of an hour into the game, Lukas receives a wild pass from a keen boy playing the midfield. With a little effort, he manages to tame the pass and bolt forward. But Miroslav is right there with him, a lithe force of nature blocking his direct path to the goal. He almost gets tripped up by the man’s intensity and quick feet but successfully eludes him with a broad, mocking grin before shooting the ball to a gangly kid who slips past the defence and scores the first point of the match.
“You gotta wake up a lot earlier if you’re going to try and pull a fast one on us, Miro.” Lukas teases loudly, earning a laugh from the kids on his team. A few of the children on Miroslav’s side roll their eyes but withhold their usually immature retaliations, seeming to adopt their captain’s more serious demeanour.
“You talk too much,” Miroslav responds, expression unreadable except for a slight mischievous glint that Lukas nearly misses as he jogs past. There is something more to the look that Lukas wants to explore later, most likely in a different setting, no children surrounding them and with a lot less clothing between them. It is only two minutes later when Miroslav’s claim is vindicated by a short brunet girl with fast little legs. He sets her up with a beautiful cross and Lukas can do nothing but stare as she perfectly heads the ball straight past the baffled Hans.
“Anna!” Lukas grins as he calls to the girl, mouth open in shock. She trots over to him, beaming proudly as he holds up his hand for a well deserved high five. “Where did you learn that?”
“Miro.” Anna glances over at the man with a bright blush.
“You taught her that in ten minutes?” Lukas ask in total disbelief.
“What? She’s a natural.” Miroslav holds up his hands in defence before gesturing toward Anna as if the eight-year-old girl possesses all the answers. Shyly, hands clasped behind her back, Anna shuffles away from Lukas toward Miroslav. He reaches down to pat her shoulder.
“Shut up,” Lukas playfully punches him in the shoulder, earning a chuckle from the older man.
“Great goal, Anna.” Miroslav holds out his hands to Anna, palm up. She slaps her smaller hands against his.
They only play a short sixty-minute match, effectively burning quite a bit of the children’s pent up energy. The game ends with Miroslav’s team winning by one goal, also scored by the surprise wunderkind, Anna, with only two minutes to spare. Miroslav’s team rushes around him, tugging his shirt and tackling him to the ground. Lukas cannot help but laugh quietly, even as he tries to cheer up his own team with the prospect of a rematch the next weekend.
“Ok kids,” Lukas shouts, walking over and leaning down to give Miroslav a hand up.
“Thanks,” Miroslav says, brushing himself off. They are standing very close and Lukas can feel the waves of heat coming off Miroslav’s body. “I had a lot of fun but I probably need to be getting back before…” He trails off, taking a step back, nodding over his shoulder in the direction of the carpentry shop. “Oh, and thanks for the ice cream.” An easy smile pulls at the corners of his lips before he turns to say goodbye to the swarm of children.
“No problem.” Lukas chews the flesh of his bottom lip. “See you later,” he calls, watching Miroslav wave goodbye while the children begin to gather up the footballs. Just before Miroslav turns away, Lukas catches sight of the warmth draining from the man’s eyes.
A week goes by before Lukas finds a legitimate excuse to return to the carpentry shop. In that time he speaks with Miroslav on the phone twice, just to check on the progress of the chair and of course to invite him to the Saturday afternoon rematch. Lukas is pleased to have discovered all the right buttons to push when it comes to Miroslav, telling the man that the children will be sorely disappointed if he is unable to attend. Everyday after work, for the entire week, Lukas stops by the shop opposite the park, hoping to stumble across a sweaty, charming Miroslav once more. Unfortunately, his timing has never been that good. But when he finally has a perfectly good reason to step inside the carpentry shop, Lukas’ face falls the moment he sees the barrel-chested co-owner’s dower glare occupying the counter in place of Miroslav’s soft smile.
“Good day,” he calls, voice gruff and domineering the minute he hears the bell sound. “May I help you?”
“Hello,” Lukas greets the man hesitantly with a small nod of his head. A few other people quietly mill about the store, picking items up and admiring Miroslav’s handiwork while they peruse. He loiters near the doorway, debating about whether or not he should just leave and come back later to see if Miroslav has returned. The man stares expectantly, eyes raking over Lukas with an unpleasant sneer; obviously he has remembered the young man from earlier. Lukas is about ready to bolt, halfway out the door with one foot on the pavement. “Actually I-”
“We need to order m-Herr Podolski,” Miroslav appears from the back workroom, the front of his denim overalls dusted with bits of finely sanded wood and his clear, protective glasses pushed up to rest on his forehead. The tips of his long fingers are stained a faint red colour despite otherwise looking scrubbed clean. Lukas steps back inside the shop, the door clattering shut behind him. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot. The carpenter immediately changes his course, weaving around the display furniture and crossing the length of the shop to speak with him. Lukas hopes he is not simply imagining the slight spring in the man’s wide strides as they suddenly come face to face for the first time in a week.
“More what?” The man calls after but Miroslav ignores him.
“Hello, Miroslav,” Lukas’ voice is uncharacteristically quiet. Cautious, he glances over Miroslav’s shoulder to make sure the sour man is not about to storm after the carpenter. Luckily, another customer steps up to the counter to purchase a hanging spice rack. “I was just running errands in town when my mother said you called the day-care.” His eyes slide back to meet Miroslav’s.
“Oh yes…” A wide smile crinkles the skin at the corners of his eyes. He anxiously pulls the clear glasses off his forehead, as if suddenly remembering they were there. Folding them quickly, he slides one of the earpieces into the front pocket of his overalls. His hands smooth over the fabric along his sides. “I’ve, eehm, finished the rocking chair, it’s in the workroom.” He gestures over his shoulder to the doorway.
Miroslav leads him back to the private workroom, straight past his occupied business partner, beyond the fully assembled pieces of furniture to where the commissioned rocking chair sits atop a worktable drying. It is sleek and elegant, stained a deep, rich crimson colour that stands in such stark contrast to the understated man who crafted it. Miroslav stuck with the classic design, no complex mechanism for children to get their fingers caught. The sleek armrests curve into the base of the chair, a single plank of wood bent to span from the back of the chair to the end of the rocker. Each of the spokes running up the back is spiralled to cradle the human back while fostering good posture.
“I hope the colour is okay,” Miroslav shifts beside him, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his overalls. The man’s wiry frame seems to curl in on itself, shoulders rounded and elbows tucked in to his sides. Lukas can practically feel the tightly wound anxiety radiating from the carpenter. He tries to set the man at ease with a lopsided smile of encouragement.
The rocking chair really is a wonderful re-imagining of his grandmother’s. Lukas feels a pang of nostalgia wash over him.
“Miroslav.” He turns to look at the man and catches the carpenter staring at him with one of the most open and unguarded expression he has ever seen from Miroslav. It lasts for only a split-second but it is just long enough for Lukas to notice the melancholy longing bubbling up to the surface. He has heard that same feeling in his voice as well. “It’s beautiful.” Lukas knocks their shoulders together, hoping to diffuse the tension with a playful nudge. Miroslav tries to shuffle away with a forced chuckle before being engulfed in Lukas’ arms, pulling him close. “Thank you.” The words come out low and breathy in Miroslav’s ear and Lukas can feel the man shiver in his arms before slowly moving to embrace him in return. Quickly, Lukas pulls back and pauses with their noses tip to tip. Before his mind can catch up and put a stop to his impulses, tell him how incredibly stupid and risky his train of thoughts are when it comes to the carpenter, Lukas presses his mouth against Miroslav’s.
The older man stumbles back in surprise at the sudden contact, but one of his callused hands reaches up to grip the back of Lukas’ neck, pulling him along. They go tumbling back into the shelves of lumber as Miroslav’s heel catches the corner of a strip of wood. He knocks over the load of freshly cut timber they received that morning. It clatters to the ground but they continue kissing, now pressed against the remaining planks propped against the far wall. A desperate moan pours from deep within Miroslav’s chest as he grasps for something solid. His knuckles fade to white as he push-pulls at the tight fabric stretched across Lukas’ shoulders.
It does not seem to be enough.
“Miro?!” A stern voice from the front of the shop calls back to them in a panic. Miroslav shoves Lukas away with both hands on the flat of his chest, eyes impossibly wide and frightened.
“It’s fine!” He yells back, breathing heavily as he scrambles to gather up the fallen wood. “Everything is fine.” Lukas quickly moves to help him tidy up.
“Miro…”
“So,” Miroslav begins before Lukas can explain. He glances over at the younger man with an armful of lumber, clearing his throat as he tries to compose himself. “Eehhm…” He looks away several times, eyes flitting around the room, roaming up and down Lukas’ body in a vain attempt to avoid making eye contact. Miroslav’s cheeks are flushed as he stumbles over his words, a funny yet familiar accent twisting his pronunciation. “I can deliver the chair for you whenever-no charge.” Together, they set the wood back against the wall, returning the workroom to its previous state. “Tomorrow morning okay?” Miroslav turns to Lukas, but his eyes remain trained on the doorway to the main showroom, waiting for his business partner to come barrelling in.
“Yeah.” Lukas says, straightening out his red pullover and brushing off the bits of sawdust that transferred from Miroslav’s overalls to his clothing when they were pressed together. “Can you possibly come by around half past six? Before the kids arrive?”
“Sure.” Miroslav finally looks up at Lukas.
“Thanks.” Lukas smiles. He leans in to steals a quick kiss from the shell-shocked carpenter before leaving.
The doorbell chimes throughout the empty day-care. Hearing the short melody, Lukas immediately drops his mesh bag of footballs in the middle of the large playroom. He pivots and sprints in the direction of the front door, skidding down the hallway on the hardwood floors Lukas himself recently polished. Through the small window of frosted glass inlay, he can see Miroslav’s tall shadow. Pausing for a brief moment, Lukas fusses with the front of his freshly ironed button down and puts on a megawatt smile before slowly opening the door.
“Hello, Lukas.”
“Morning, Miroslav,” he responds slowly, slightly dazed from the sight of a rather confident looking Miroslav. Dressed in his usual uniform of work slacks and dark green shirt, the cuffs properly buttoned about his wrists this time, the man stands with his shoulders squared, body drawn up to his full height. Perhaps, Lukas thinks, all Miroslav needed was a rather aggressive shove in the right direction to dispel the man’s perennial shyness. Lukas is so taken in by the newly self-assured smile curling up the corners of the carpenter’s mouth that he fails to register his mother walking up behind him until she speaks up, catching him mooning over the older man.
“Can I get him anything?” She asks quietly in Polish, manoeuvring around to peer at Miroslav from over her son’s shoulder.
“No Ma, it’s fine.” Lukas says pointedly in German. He glances back, gently nudging her with his elbow in hopes of shooing her away while periodically throwing charming looks over his shoulder at Miroslav.
“You need to be more hospitable to handsome young men, Łukasz,” she reprimands her son loudly, oblivious to the reaction of the man in question. The same grin that is currently plastered on Lukas’ face appears on his mother’s as well. Miroslav cocks an eyebrow, clearly amused by the odd exchange between mother and son.
“Yes, Ma.” Lukas whirls around to stare at his mother with wide eyes; silently imploring her to leave them alone, and yes, he has the whole situation is under complete control, and no, Miroslav would not care for a glass of lemonade.
“Thank you, Mrs. Podolski, but I’m good.” Miroslav answers the woman in flawless Polish, sounding almost as if it were actually his first language. Lukas turns back around slowly.
“Oh, I like this one,” she mumbles in Lukas’ ear, nodding toward Miroslav with an appreciative glint. “Don’t let him get away too easily.” She grins, swatting her son on the backside before leaving the pair alone.
“Yes, mother.” He stares at Miroslav, brows knit; the absolute picture of confusion and surprise all jumbled into one bizarre expression. “You know Polish?” It comes out like an accusation, though Lukas never intended it to sound so harsh. An uncomfortable flush of embarrassment rolls up his spine as he ticks through all the possible things Miroslav has overheard him say to both his mother and father while on the phone or the painful exchange just now.
“I was born in Poland,” Miroslav says plainly before turning and jogging down the short steps up to the front door of the day-care. Lukas remains transfixed in the open doorway, mind racing as he tries to process the new information. “Want to help?” Miroslav calls over his shoulder, switching to German. It jars Lukas back to the present and he hurries over to assist with unloading the new rocking chair.
Miroslav slaps his gloved hands together and they emit a plume of sawdust and dirt that catches light in the high morning sun. He throws open the sliding metal door of the company’s moving truck with a swift shove. It clatters loudly against the metal frame to reveal the chair, bundled and secured for the short trip over. Climbing up into the back, Miroslav looks down at Lukas with a sceptical frown.
“Stay there,” he instructs, holding up a hand that will be easily brushed aside by the younger man.
“What?” Lukas asks with a wilful, knowing grin as he hoists himself up into the truck. Miroslav rolls his eyes and ignores Lukas’ flagrant disregard of his rather simple and straightforward request. A smile flits across his face, Miroslav already understand so much about him. “Where in Poland where you born?”
“Lukas,” Miroslav sighs as he crouches down to undo the taut restraints holding the chair in place.
“When did you come to Germany?” The younger man follows close behind, playfully prodding and pulling at Miroslav’s green work shirt. “Tell me,” Lukas implores and he manages to successfully tug the tails of the green garment out from the waistband of Miroslav’s slacks. Draping himself across the older man’s bent back, Lukas presses his lips to the sensitive shell of his ear. “Tell me,” he whispers, hot and heavy against the exposed skin of the carpenter’s throat.
“I thought you were going to help me.” Miroslav stands, whirling around to confront him but Lukas catches his wrist. He pulls Miroslav close, nearly throwing him completely off balance before kissing him soundly. “Wait, Lu-” Miroslav protests, attempting to unsuccessfully outmanoeuvre Lukas. He tries to duck his head but Lukas steals another brief kiss. “Łukasz.” Palms pressed against the centre of Lukas’ chest, Miroslav firmly pushes him away. His cheeks are flushed but the stern look rimming his eyes is not something Lukas wants to be on the receiving end of ever again. “The chair first, then we can talk.” He releases Miroslav, pouting like a rather petulant child but otherwise proceeding to follow the man’s orders without protest.
“Oh, Miroslav.” Mrs. Podolski gushes in Polish for the umpteenth time in since laying eyes on her new rocking chair. “It’s simply gorgeous. Reminds me of my mother's.” She turns to Miroslav, clutching his elbow and patting his hand in gratitude.
“Your welcome, Mrs. Podolski.” He smiles down at her before she turns her attention back to her struggling son. Lukas stands awkwardly holding the surprisingly heavy wooden rocker in his arms, waiting for further instructions from his mother. He has already spent a good quarter of an hour moving the chair about the entire playroom, from one corner to the next until Miroslav suggested placing it near the window.
“A little more to the right, Łukasz,” she calls, pointing in that direction until the sun hits the wood just right and the piece of furniture practically glows auburn.
“Ma!” Exasperated, Lukas shuffles himself and the chair over a few centimetres, hoping his mother will deem its new position satisfactory.
“Perfect.” She claps her hands together, crossing the room to kiss her son’s forehead approvingly. Lukas tolerates the display in silence, refusing to meet Miroslav’s eyes until she moves away. “The colour is so warm and lovely.” The woman starts running her fingertips along the smooth wood, revelling in the pristine, sleek texture of the solid material under her hands.
“I hope you enjoy it.” Miroslav gives Mrs. Podolski one of his business cards. “Please feel free to phone if you have any problems.” She tucks it away in her apron pocket as if it were something to cherish deeply.
“Thank you again, Miroslav,” she pats him on the cheek before turning to escort him to the front door of the day-care. Miroslav catches Lukas’ gaze on the way out, giving him an almost unperceivable nod before leaving.
“Ma, I need to talk to Miroslav for a few minutes, okay?” Lukas watches the man stride over to the company truck. “I’ll be right back. Promise.” He presses a kiss to his mother’s cheek before following after the carpenter.
They sit side by side in silence after Miroslav finishes explaining the details of his childhood travels to Lukas. After a few moments, it seems that Miroslav has chosen to move on to the much more important and immediate topic at hand.
“So this,” Miroslav starts, swallowing thickly as he glances over at Lukas who sits in the passenger seat of the moving truck. “What-? Eeh, are we? I mean, do you-?” Frustrated with his inability to form a coherent sentence, Miroslav cuts himself off with a huff. He stares down at the empty space between them. Lukas feels the urge to reach out, force Miroslav to look at him-draw out the introvert. But Miroslav surprises him. “I like you.”
“Good.” Lukas responds instantly, dumbfounded. It is blunt and concise and Lukas likes the conviction with which it is said. Back straight, shoulders pushed against the faux leather seat, Lukas continues staring out the front windshield. “I like you.” Lukas blinks a few times, chewing on his lower lip.
“Okay.” The carpenter says slowly, carefully wrapping his mouth around the short word. He looks up at Lukas.
“Okay.” Lukas parrots back; the beginnings of one of his megawatt smiles starting to pull up the corners of his mouth. He turns to finally look at the carpenter. Miroslav leans over the gearshift and Lukas feels the tip of Miroslav’s nose nudge against his cheekbone. His lips fall open. It only lasts for a few seconds, the delicious pressure of hot breath mingling between their open mouths. Oh, Lukas thinks, doesn’t he smell just like a beautiful fucking forest full of pine trees? Miroslav’s slick tongue slides out to trace the curve of Lukas’ full lower lip. With a free hand, Miroslav begins to unfasten Lukas’ belt buckle with clever fingers. “Miro…” The nickname escapes him in a low whisper, humming against his lips while the carpenter moves to nip along his thrumming pulse.
Miroslav deftly snaps open the button fly of Lukas’ trousers.
“May I?” He asks quietly, fingertips tracing the hem of Lukas’ pristine button down stuffed into the waist of his jeans. Lukas thinks Miroslav and his beautiful, soft-spoken and painfully respectful demeanour will eventually be his cause of death. But in the long run, it is the only way he would want to go. Especially if it meant getting a handjob from the man. A rather undignified whimper slips from Lukas’ mouth, the vibrations tickling Miroslav’s lips and tongue. It’s all the man needs. He pulls up the tails of Lukas’ shirt before pushing past the worn denim material to brush against soft cotton boxer briefs.
Lukas is already hard and pressing hot and eager against the constricting fabric. It has been an embarrassingly long time since Lukas’ last encounter with anyone and he is sure Miroslav can easily tell from his rather keen reactions. At first, Miroslav simply cups Lukas’ erection though the soft material of his boxer briefs, seeming to enjoy the rigid length of it against the heel of his rough palm. Everything feels unbearably hot, just shy of stifling in the cab of the truck as they bake in the sunlight drifting in through the large windshield. Lukas’ hips twitch impatiently when the lack of real contact between teeters off the edge into the realm of frustrating. It is then that Miroslav starts moving his fingers over the cotton, applying the slightest pressure and friction. Lukas frantically wraps his arms around the carpenter’s tense shoulders, white knuckles digging into green fabric as he practically drags the man out of the driver’s seat and into his lap.
“Ahh, Lukas,” Miroslav groans in pain as he attempts to wriggle away when the gearshift jabs into his side. A small bruise will shortly begin to stain the flesh along his ribcage, but he’s suffered much worse for nowhere near as much a reward.
“Sorry.” Lukas’ face flushes as he instantly releases Miroslav. He shifts anxiously in the passenger seat before darting forward to kiss the man again. His hands come up to soothe over Miroslav’s face and chest, sliding down to gingerly press against his abused ribcage. “Sorry,” he repeats against Miroslav’s thin lips that are beginning to pull away in a smile.
“Shhh.” Miroslav whispers, hands stroking down Lukas’ clothed torso before dipping inside his boxer briefs. Lukas gasps when the long, callused fingers wrap around him, skin against skin. Miroslav’s touch is firm and sure, rough around the edges where he has held the tools of his trade. Lukas is beginning to think he prefers the sensation of pleasure with a bit of bite. It is maddeningly slow, gently teasing Lukas into a slow burning frenzy with soft touches and deliberate jerks. Miroslav eases him back into the passenger seat, head tipped back against the headrest while he withdraws his hand. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of both denim and cotton, yanking them down mid-thigh, just far enough to comfortably free Lukas’ stiff cock.
Miroslav’s mouth is so wet and hot and perfect and very, very real as it engulfs him.
Lukas moans, overwhelmed by the sensation and the sight of Miroslav’s cheeks hollowed around his cock. Blunt fingernails rack over the faux leather covering the headrest of the passenger seat, leaving fain indentations. He winds his arms around the cushion, not trusting himself to touch Miroslav. And it’s too much, too fast and all he knows is that he cannot to come just yet. When Lukas’ moans take on a twinge of discomfort, Miroslav pulls away with a slick popping sound.
“Okay?” He asks, leaning back in his seat to give Lukas a once over. The younger man is a bright pink shade, the colour peaking out from the open collar of his button down, crawling up his throat to dust over the bridge of his nose and cheeks. Cool air rushes over his cock and it brings him back down. Mouth open, breaths coming in short, shallow pants, Lukas nods. Miroslav kisses him again.
“Mmmh…” Lukas tries, but the sound of Miroslav’s name comes out muffled against the man’s own mouth, and he never has been so aroused by the taste of himself on another person’s tongue before. Miroslav’s hand returns to Lukas’ cock, slicked with saliva and in desperate need of release. But it’s not what Lukas wants. “Please, I-I-y-your mouth,” Lukas begs softly in Polish, eyes screwed shut, brows drawn and somehow he manages to look so damn innocent. Smiling, Miroslav pressing one last quick kiss to the younger man’s full lips before ducking back down, replacing his callused hand with a yielding, wet tongue. The dramatic shift in sensation is enough to send Lukas’ pelvis jutting forward. Miroslav adjusts to the sudden fullness in his mouth, thumbs digging into the crease of thigh and hip as he pushes Lukas back into the seat. He begins sucking in earnest, making delightfully obscene slurping sounds in his enthusiasm-dispelling every last notion of the introverted, reticent boy in Lukas’ mind.
“Miro!” Lukas comes undone, narrow hips jerking erratically, fingers finally sinking into the short brown hair at the crown of Miroslav’s head as it bobs up and down in his lap. His back curves so he’s bent around the other man. Miroslav swallows everything, the flat of his pink tongue flicking out to absorb the last few bits of come oozing from the swollen head.
He allows Lukas a brief moment to come down off his orgasm before gently tucking the younger man back into his boxer briefs. A dazed smile spreads cross his thin lips, as if he had been the one to come only seconds ago. Lukas snaps back to life, wriggling back into his trousers before grabbing Miroslav’s thigh. He moves to press his face against the obvious erection tenting Miroslav’s work slacks.
“Ahh,” he moans, but it sounds full of surprise rather than pleasure. “Lukas, hey,” Miroslav soothes, pulling at the back of the younger man’s neck until he sits up. “I have to get back to the shop.” He covers Lukas’ hands with his own, prying them off him before pushing them back in to the younger man’s own lap. A callused hand curls into the short hairs at Lukas’ nape, gently running along the slope of his hairline. “But, I’m free for dinner.”
“Ok. Meet me here at seven.”
Lukas swoops in for another short kiss, a disobediant hand groping Miroslav’s hard on through his constricting trousers. He cannot begin to imagine Miroslav having to walk back into work in such a state. But then his traitorous mind starts playing pornographic scenes of the carpenter jerking off in the truck, long legs spread wide, callused fingers knowing exactly where and how to touch himself, hot breath pouring from his lips in the form of Lukas’ name. It would be so rushed and frantic, Miroslav needing to get off before returning to the pine-scented workroom. Lukas runs his thumb along the outline of Miroslav’s wonderfully thick, erect cock, sucking the man’s tongue into his mouth. And, Lukas realises, it is probably best not to think about that little scenario until later, when they can be alone again.
“See you at seven, Lukas.” Miroslav says with a good-natured laugh as he bats Lukas’ hands away.
“Thank you, Miśku,” his voice is a low murmur and Lukas cannot seem to look at Miroslav as he opens the passengerside door. The carpenter sits immobilized by the familiarity of the nickname, perhaps something only his family has ever called him before now. Lukas is about to turn and hop out when Miroslav appears to adjust to the new moniker. “For everything.” He meets Lukas halfway for one last kiss.
“What took you so long?” Lukas’ mother asks the minute she hears the day-care’s front door snick close. He hears the tell tale sound of a few high pitched voices and realises just how long he must have spent with Miroslav. It’s a quarter to eight and the neighbourhood kids have already been dropped off for the day.
“I was just talking to Miroslav,” he pauses, silently thanking God that Miroslav had been smart enough to pull around back to park in their private driveway. “About the possibility of a small playground for the kids.” The lie sounds logical enough and he’s sure Miroslav would love the challenge of engineering a play set for the children, as well as the opportunity to work onsite at the Podolski Family Day-Care.
“Sounds good.” She appears at the front door, balancing one of the toddlers on her hip and smiling approvingly. “I think a boy like that will be a very good influence on you, Łukasz.” Pinching a cheek, she grins at her son before pushing him in the direction of the playroom. “Now, back to work. It’s almost eight.”
“Oh, and I won’t be home for dinner,” Lukas calls down the hallway as he starts to gather up the mesh bag of footballs.
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AN: I also wanted to thank miro_klose_pics for being so awesome and helping me with this particular section. Thank you!
ETA: Miro!Carpenter Gif
