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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!
For someone who has always prided himself on fast reflexes and keen skills of observation, he never saw the kick coming.
One moment he has the ball, perfect passes to Lukas and Miro opening up down the pitch, and the next he’s getting tackled from behind and literally falls on top of a blur of orange from the front-right. The turf is prickly against his skin and the places where they collided against him are pounding at the beat of his pulse, blood rushing to pool and burn where he knows bruises are already forming. Somewhere above him, he hears the sound of a referee’s whistle; the other two players (de Jong? van Bommel? Heitinga?) untangle themselves from around him, speaking in loud, rapid Dutch and attempting broken English.
Mesut’s already collected a string of scrapes and cuts from the past sixty minutes of play, but those injuries are only slight stings when he rolls over and groans, struggling to breathe. A knee to the chest has him completely winded, and his vision swims every time he tries to prop himself up on one arm.
No, he thinks, desperately clinging to consciousness, I can't get subbed out, I can still play-and then a blur of pink and black swims into focus in front of him. Miro.
He tries to choke out something intelligible, but they're both horrified to find that instead of words, hot bile rises up his throat; he has to jerk his head painfully to the side to spit the bitter liquid out. The dull roar in the stadium has risen to almost ear-shattering levels, and for the first time, Mesut cannot hear the pervasive buzzing of vuvuzelas above the noise. Fans in the stands are probably screaming bloody murder or, alternatively, voicing their raucous approval.
He makes to get up again, but Miro gives a firm push to his shoulder. “Don't even try.” He turns and yells towards the sideline. “Coach, you're going to need a fucking sub!” The white shapes of paramedics gather around to move him onto a stretcher, but Miro practically growls at them to step aside-such an uncharacteristic display of emotion that even the referee seems at a loss.
sixteen.
When Mesut first goes down, Philipp isn't overly concerned; the game has been just as nasty up till now, and by nature, he is a calm personality, slow to anger.
But the flip side to this is that he is also very slow to forgive, and when he sees Miro and Sami's expressions, it dawns on him that something is very, very wrong.
He breaks into a run, Per and Piotr's footsteps pounding across the grass behind him. Mesut's right arm and leg are twisted at odd angles and Miro is bending over, whispering fiercely into his ear as the medics hover around the scene uncertainly.
“Well?” Philipp asks the ref, brow furrowed in agitation. He fumbles inside his shirt pocket and starts drawing out the yellow card-
“Fuck no!” Lukas shouts at the same time angry booing starts reverberating from the bleachers.
Philipp turns to the sideline and sees Jogi and Hansi striding up and down the bench area, a measly possible technical the only thing keeping them from rushing onto the field in person. When he turns back around, Basti and Lukas are arguing with the referees and the two Dutch players.
seven.
Bastian's back is turned when it happens. It's not until the sudden commotion in the stands starts and Manuel exits the goal area at a run that he registers that someone is hurt.
Miro is crouched beside an unmoving figure near the opposite goal, roaring something at the bench. Lukas is close by, waving his hands and making a ruckus, and without a second thought, he jogs over and joins him. It's as easy as it was two years ago, four years ago, six years ago; easy to slip back into old patterns of supporting their teammates together, yelling down refs without care for another foul.
Because this is die Mannschaft, and they would all rather have one of their own safe than achieve some sort of individual glory at the cost of another; because Mesut can't even speak, he's in so much pain; and when Thomas runs up and tosses the first punch, Bastian hazards a glance at Jogi and sees his face so full of fierce approval that he cannot help but turn and enter the fray himself.
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