(Untitled)
PROMPT POST 1
Please make sure you've read the rules post first, and play nice!
Flat comment page here just to clarify, as a few people have been asking, art fills are also very much welcomed!
Please make sure you've read the rules post first, and play nice!
Flat comment page here just to clarify, as a few people have been asking, art fills are also very much welcomed!
Mesut gets up before the confrontation ends and hobbles out the door of the club, panting into the cool air, hands on his knees. He twists around and jumps back when someone taps his shoulder, torso aching in protest.
“Are you okay?” It’s Miro, and Mesut nearly collapses in relief to see his teammate framed by the dimly-lit entrance. “I talked to them, they won’t bother us anymore.”
“You speak Spanish?” Mesut blurts out blankly.
Miro laughs, probably more out of adrenaline rush than genuine amusement. “There’s this thing, Mesut, called body language, and perhaps it would be wise for you to learn how to read it.”
He just nods wearily, still doubled over, and Miro tucks Mesut’s arm around his shoulders to prop him up. The area around Mesut’s neck feels strangely light, and he groans in realization. “I lost my headphones, they must have fallen inside the club-”
Miro shakes his head and maneuvers them towards the main road to hail a taxi. “I’ll buy you another pair.”
“Would you really?” he asks. “You know, they cost over 150 Euros.” Miro grunts and helps him into the cab before climbing into the front passenger’s seat and babbling some incomprehensible Afrikaans for the driver.
“How did you know where I was?” he tries.
“You aren’t nearly as sneaky as you think you are,” Miro replies, and Mesut sighs, tapering off into half-wake, half-sleep for the rest of the ride.
When they get back to the hotel, Miro tosses the driver a wad of cash and waves him off. Mesut tries to flee to Wohlfahrt’s room for painkillers and some kind of relief, but his pathetic attempts are thwarted when he’s pulled into Miro’s room and pushed into a sitting position on the bed.
“Maybe I should go see the doctor and-”
“And have him lecture you about going off on your own?” Miro reaches into a cabinet and takes out a first-aid kit. “Take your shirt off.”
“What?”
Miro opens the box and waves a bundle of sports bandages in front of his face. “How am I supposed to clean you up when your clothes are covering all the bruises?”
“Oh. Right.” He gingerly peels back the layers of clothing, wincing whenever his hands brush over a particularly tender patch of skin.
He shivers when Miro starts prodding at his side. “Yeah-ow-yeah, a little bit higher-there.” A dark purple bruise stretches across the left side of his abdomen. He holds his breath as Miro meticulously applies a thin film of cream on the mark and starts bandaging it.
“How’s your jaw?”
“Aches.”
Miro hands him a couple of painkillers and he swallows them dry.
“Try to get some sleep. Nothing’s too serious, and everything should heal well before our game against Spain.” Mesut stands and Miro cuffs him lightly on the head, ignoring his noise of protest. “Don’t pull shit like that again and you won’t get hurt, alright?”
“Yes, sir,” he salutes, laughing and managing to avoid Miro’s good-natured ruffling of his hair before ducking out of the room.
fin
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