'Beginnings' (Wigan)
Since fanfic100 is a little behind on updating new members, I'll be doing these unofficially. I'll set up a table once I don't have to rush off to class!
001. Beginnings
Notes: I don’t think HSV is really all that quiet, not when you’ve got Benny ‘why am I still in the closet, hello denial’ Lauth and co.
The scene unfolds before him like a dream, or maybe a nightmare. He had grown accustomed to the relatively calm dressing room of HSV, with its low-key Hochdeutsch lilting with occasional banter. Nothing could have prepared him for this madhouse.
Hip hop is blasting so loud he can feel his eardrums vibrate. Some of the lads are yelling to be heard over the music, thick Scouse and Irish with some erratic foreign accents thrown in for good measure. One man (Jason, he thinks; he’s struggling to remember their names) heads for the stereo and turns it up even louder. Two others are having a mock fight, wet towels flying as they trample over anything in their path. A man with curly blond hair (James? Jim?) is jumping around and hollering for no apparent reason, and then, amazingly, he’s joined by another man wearing the strangest clothes. They bounce and yell and not infrequently crash into benches. Amidst the bedlam of ear-piercing noise and careening bodies, a sandy-haired man sits in the corner and calmly reads his newspaper.
He watches it all, still standing at the threshold and now he’s clinging to the doorframe as if it’s the only thing that will keep him sane. Tottenham was never like this; Hamburg was definitely never like this.
"Reto!" A boy with lanky brown hair (Leighton, this must be Leighton) approaches him with a big smile. Reto looks around and sees that most of the team, including the towel-fighters and the bouncing lads, are smiling at him and raising their hands in greeting.
"Welcome to Wigan," Leighton says. And with that, Leighton takes him by the arm and drags him into the chaos.
001. Beginnings
Notes: I don’t think HSV is really all that quiet, not when you’ve got Benny ‘why am I still in the closet, hello denial’ Lauth and co.
The scene unfolds before him like a dream, or maybe a nightmare. He had grown accustomed to the relatively calm dressing room of HSV, with its low-key Hochdeutsch lilting with occasional banter. Nothing could have prepared him for this madhouse.
Hip hop is blasting so loud he can feel his eardrums vibrate. Some of the lads are yelling to be heard over the music, thick Scouse and Irish with some erratic foreign accents thrown in for good measure. One man (Jason, he thinks; he’s struggling to remember their names) heads for the stereo and turns it up even louder. Two others are having a mock fight, wet towels flying as they trample over anything in their path. A man with curly blond hair (James? Jim?) is jumping around and hollering for no apparent reason, and then, amazingly, he’s joined by another man wearing the strangest clothes. They bounce and yell and not infrequently crash into benches. Amidst the bedlam of ear-piercing noise and careening bodies, a sandy-haired man sits in the corner and calmly reads his newspaper.
He watches it all, still standing at the threshold and now he’s clinging to the doorframe as if it’s the only thing that will keep him sane. Tottenham was never like this; Hamburg was definitely never like this.
"Reto!" A boy with lanky brown hair (Leighton, this must be Leighton) approaches him with a big smile. Reto looks around and sees that most of the team, including the towel-fighters and the bouncing lads, are smiling at him and raising their hands in greeting.
"Welcome to Wigan," Leighton says. And with that, Leighton takes him by the arm and drags him into the chaos.