[oneshot] the one where miro is a creepy stalker (and mesut sucks at sneaking out)
Title: the one where miro is a creepy stalker (and mesut sucks at sneaking out)
Pairing: miroslav klose/mesut ozil
Rating: pg13 for language
Genre: gen, hurt/comfort
Warnings: swearing
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: written for an anon on footballkink who wanted hurt/comfort ozil/klose. 1,059 words.
Anna-Maria’s constant, fluttering presence wherever he goes was comforting maybe the first two hours she was in South Africa, but has since grown very, very old.
At first, sneaking out is just a means to get away from her suffocating company; sometimes Thomas and Jérôme leave with him after morning practice to go and sample South African cuisine or wander the streets of Johannesburg. There are times, though, when the others are too tired or too preoccupied with their own wives and girlfriends to venture outside the warm enclave that is the German floor of their hotel. So then Mesut uses those few, precious hours to himself to comb through live music clubs, custom-colored beats slung around his neck, head bobbing to the beat of jazz and classic hip-hop and-kwaito.
Kwaito is primal and raw, and the mixture of Afrikaans and English loops through his ears in lazy circles. It is like nothing he has ever heard before, the rhythmic chanting and babble rushing the blood through his veins faster and faster-it’s like he could lose himself in the music and forget about Anna-Maria’s nagging and maybe even the World Cup, if he really wanted to.
By the time the quarterfinal round begins, though, teams have been whittled down to eight and there’s barely any time to go out, not with Jogi and Oliver and Philipp around to coerce them into more practice or efforts to build team unity and games scheduled too close together to leave as many free days in between as they had before.
He finally finds the opportunity to steal away the night they destroy Argentina. The air is crisp and cold and reminds him of winter in Bremen; on the bus across town, he pulls the hood of his jacket over his head in an attempt to hide his identity from passersby when he disembarks. Deep, raucous music booms from within a familiar-looking building and Mesut crosses the street, slips inside.
An inexplicably sick feeling starts building in the pit of his stomach the minute he sees tell-tale blue on white scattered throughout the crowd, but as he’s trying make a quiet exit, he manages to back right into a group of disgruntled argentine supporters. Someone grabs his arm and flips his hood off to expose his face.
He can’t understand what they’re saying, but their voices are harsh and discordant and their eyes glint dangerously underneath the club’s strobe lights. He’s not sure who moves first (if he tries to break through the tight circle around him or if one of them throws a punch), but the next thing he knows, pain is blooming all along his side, down his arms, and the coppery tang of blood fills his mouth. Hands are tearing at his clothes, pulling him back whenever he tries to run.
And then something is yanking at the back collar of his shirt, dragging him across the floor, and Mesut is clawing at whoever it is-
“Stop, I’m trying to help you.” It takes him a moment to realize that the dark silhouette is speaking in German, and by then his mystery rescuer is striding towards the angry crowd of people and yelling over the continued pound of bass beats and percussion.
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
Pairing: miroslav klose/mesut ozil
Rating: pg13 for language
Genre: gen, hurt/comfort
Warnings: swearing
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: written for an anon on footballkink who wanted hurt/comfort ozil/klose. 1,059 words.
Anna-Maria’s constant, fluttering presence wherever he goes was comforting maybe the first two hours she was in South Africa, but has since grown very, very old.
At first, sneaking out is just a means to get away from her suffocating company; sometimes Thomas and Jérôme leave with him after morning practice to go and sample South African cuisine or wander the streets of Johannesburg. There are times, though, when the others are too tired or too preoccupied with their own wives and girlfriends to venture outside the warm enclave that is the German floor of their hotel. So then Mesut uses those few, precious hours to himself to comb through live music clubs, custom-colored beats slung around his neck, head bobbing to the beat of jazz and classic hip-hop and-kwaito.
Kwaito is primal and raw, and the mixture of Afrikaans and English loops through his ears in lazy circles. It is like nothing he has ever heard before, the rhythmic chanting and babble rushing the blood through his veins faster and faster-it’s like he could lose himself in the music and forget about Anna-Maria’s nagging and maybe even the World Cup, if he really wanted to.
By the time the quarterfinal round begins, though, teams have been whittled down to eight and there’s barely any time to go out, not with Jogi and Oliver and Philipp around to coerce them into more practice or efforts to build team unity and games scheduled too close together to leave as many free days in between as they had before.
He finally finds the opportunity to steal away the night they destroy Argentina. The air is crisp and cold and reminds him of winter in Bremen; on the bus across town, he pulls the hood of his jacket over his head in an attempt to hide his identity from passersby when he disembarks. Deep, raucous music booms from within a familiar-looking building and Mesut crosses the street, slips inside.
An inexplicably sick feeling starts building in the pit of his stomach the minute he sees tell-tale blue on white scattered throughout the crowd, but as he’s trying make a quiet exit, he manages to back right into a group of disgruntled argentine supporters. Someone grabs his arm and flips his hood off to expose his face.
He can’t understand what they’re saying, but their voices are harsh and discordant and their eyes glint dangerously underneath the club’s strobe lights. He’s not sure who moves first (if he tries to break through the tight circle around him or if one of them throws a punch), but the next thing he knows, pain is blooming all along his side, down his arms, and the coppery tang of blood fills his mouth. Hands are tearing at his clothes, pulling him back whenever he tries to run.
And then something is yanking at the back collar of his shirt, dragging him across the floor, and Mesut is clawing at whoever it is-
“Stop, I’m trying to help you.” It takes him a moment to realize that the dark silhouette is speaking in German, and by then his mystery rescuer is striding towards the angry crowd of people and yelling over the continued pound of bass beats and percussion.
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