Parallel Lines
Summary: They have started counting the hours till they board the plane to Brazil and Bastian should have showered by now, but here he is, standing outside a toilet stall and having to listen as Mario barfs out his entrails.
Schweinski with a side of Götzeus and a pinch of Le Grand OTP (mentioned), because the whole German national team is apparently just a covert operation set out by the government to drive me insane, one pairing at a time.
Disclaimer: I'd certainly love to be invited into the Nationalmannschaft's locker room but, alas, I made this all up.
They have started counting the hours till they board the plane to Brazil and Bastian should have showered by now, but here he is, standing outside a toilet stall and having to listen as Mario barfs out his entrails. With the exception of Andre, who stopped by for a moment and almost offered to take Bastian's place (the operative word being almost), the rest of their teammates are minding their own business and pointedly ignoring the retching sounds coming from that side of the locker room. Bastian pinches the bridge of his nose, wondering how this became his life. He'd never been particularly talented at nursing friends who drank too much (hell, most of the time chances were he was that friend), and he feels he's too old to start doing it now, especially because in this particular case there isn't even alcohol involved.
When there's a halt in the disgusting noise, he knocks at the door and calls Mario's name again, barely hearing the "fuck off" the younger man grumbles in response. Bastian considers doing just that - let the kid solve his own problems, he's not a fucking babysitter, and has he mentioned he hasn't showered yet? Because he hasn't, and if he has to get on the bus all sweaty and sticky someone is going to pay for it. But then he hears Fips' voice on the back of his head reminding him Jogi already has too much on his plate as it is, and figures if Mario were to be dragged out of the toilet by their coach, he'd probably only get sicker due to shame. So Bastian stays, wondering what the hell he should do.
Oh, and Lukas is going to kill him.
Speak of the devil, the Bavarian thinks as he looks down the corridor and sure enough, there comes Prinz Poldi honoring his nickname and strutting like he's royalty among peasants, white towel wrapped low around his hips and another hanging around his neck (uselessly, because it's clear the bastard hasn't dried one square inch of that delicious skin of his). It's an undisputed fact that even on his bad days Lukas Podolski ranks high in the attractiveness scale, but on days like this - when everything conspires in his favor and he gets to showcase all he's got (one goal and three assists in a half-time, for fuck's sake, that should be illegal) - on days like this, when his ego has got that extra boost, the man is just... Jesus Christ, he's sex on legs. Bastian's pretty sure Lukas would just have to snap his fingers and the whole room would line up to suck his dick, and he knows for a fact most of these guys are actually straight. Hell, even Miro, who Bastian's convinced is 101% heterosexual, seems to give Lukas a look that lingers a little too long for the midfielder's tastes.
The forward stops briefly to talk to Miro in Polish (probably to congratulate him on his 69th goal, Bastian tells himself, trying not to be jealous), exchanges a few more back slaps and laughs with the rest of the guys as they finish getting dressed and tidying up their bags - and then he zeroes in on Bastian.
Yup. He's going to kill him.
Lukas' blue eyes roam up and down Bastian's figure as he approaches the toilet stalls, his frown leaving no doubt that he's taking in the grass and dirt stains all over Bastian's kit. (Well, write me down as scared and horny, Bastian thinks to himself as he gulps.)
"And why haven't you showered yet?" Lukas argues, hands on his hips and eyebrows raised, and once he's close enough to keep the conversation private he adds in a whisper, "If you think we're going out with you smelling like that, I've got bad news for you."
(Not that them going out tonight is a secret to anyone in the team by now. They even went through the trouble of checking whether Jogi would mind if the two of them didn't stay for dinner at the hotel with the others. And maybe Bastian should have been a bit embarrassed that the coach didn't bat an eyelid when Lukas justified their request by saying "it's our ten-year anniversary", but they got their thumbs-up, and he isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.)
Bastian sighs and points to the toilet stall in front of which he's been standing for the last 15 minutes. "Götze's sick," he explains, keeping the low tone of the conversation.
"And that's your problem because...?"
"Fips."
Lukas rolls his eyes, but nods in understanding anyway. He's one of the select few who knows the captain is set on making Bastian his successor at wearing the armband. That means anyone else will have to work twice as hard to usurp the throne, but it also means Fips will want to make sure his chosen candidate is the absolute best option for the role, which means he's been not-so-subtly encouraging Bastian to take on more responsibilities around the team over the last few months.
Understanding doesn't mean Lukas is willing to let go of their date in favor of Bastian's vice-captain duties, however. He knocks at the door a bit more forcefully than the Bavarian did, and speaks louder too. "Alright, pants up, kid, I'm coming in." Sticking a finger in the lock's "occupied" sign, he forces it around to the "vacant" position then pushes the door open. It hits Mario's leg as he's sitting on the floor, elbows on knees and forehead pressed against his crossed arms. The stall smells like one would expect it to smell, but the scene is not that messy - the guy isn't drunk, after all, so he managed to keep the contents of his distress into the toilet bowl, and there mustn't have been all that much in his stomach for him to puke anyway. He has probably cleaned himself with his jersey, too, since it is unceremoniously discarded on the floor.
"Disgusting," Lukas shakes his head as he steps over Mario's feet and flushes the toilet. "That's what you get for living on crappy junk food, you little--"
Bastian would have laughed at the hypocrisy of Lukas criticizing anyone's eating habits, considering the way he himself used to eat back when they were 20, but then it hits him.
"Luki, Luki," Bastian pulls him gently by the wrist, jerking his head for him to come out of the stall. The forward had headed straight to the showers after the match, so he wasn't around when the team doctor shared the bad news. "It's Marco. Mull says he's not coming."
"What, to...?" Lukas whispers back, the unspoken word hanging in the air. When Bastian nods, he winces. "Shit."
They share a silent look, then the Gunner stares at the desolate figure sitting on the floor inside the stall and sighs.
"I'll get your stuff sorted up," Lukas says, sounding resigned as he hands Bastian the unused towel that was hanging on his neck, and walks towards their lockers.
Bastian closes his eyes and exhales deeply before going inside the stall again. How did this become my life, indeed.
He closes the door behind him, not bothering to lock it, then lowers the toilet lid and sits on it. The smell is making him a bit nauseated, but he can handle it - he'll have to handle it, anyway. He pokes Mario's arm and offers him the clean towel. The striker lifts his head a bit to accept it, but doesn't look up at him. Bastian tries to wait and give him a chance to express himself before going on full pep-talk mode, but the silence stretches on, and he still hasn't showered.
"You were doing fine earlier. Scored twice today, even. So don't try to make this about stage fright."
Mario continues to refuse to look at him. He's gazing at the towel instead, clutching it like a security blanket. If Bastian didn't have a date tonight, he might have felt worse for the guy.
"Look, I know--"
"You know nothing," Mario bursts out like a teenager throwing a tantrum, but he looks up at Bastian with bloodshot eyes, and at least that's something. He shakes his head then hides his face in his hands, mumbling "Just leave me alone" against the towel.
Bastian lets out another sigh, looks up at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling till he's seeing dark spots, and guesses the best path to make the kid open up is by laying the ground himself.
"You're right." Mario looks up again, startled by the frankness in the midfielder's voice. "You're right, I know nothing."
That did catch the boy's attention, even though he's still staring at Bastian with suspicion, probably expecting some kind of edifying parable he just doesn't want to hear. But Bastian's bad at parables; he only knows how to talk about literal things, the things that he knows about. "My first World Cup," he starts in a hushed tone, looking at his hands, "Lukas was there. In South Africa as well, and now." He stares at the door, as if he could see Lukas through it on the other side. "I can't even begin to imagine what it would be like if he wasn't."
He looks back at Mario, then, and guesses something must have hit home, because even if the kid's still hesitating and pensive, his guard is noticeably down.
"It's not the same. Me and Marco..." He bites his lip, searching for the right words as if they are weaved into the fibers of the white towel in his hand. It takes him some time, during which Bastian can almost visualize the gears turning inside his head, as Mario wonders if and to what extent he can trust the Bavarian.
He finally looks into Bastian's eyes and settles for "You wouldn't understand," whose meaning is of course so clear that he might as well have spelled out the tiniest minutia of his relationship with Reus.
Bastian has to chuckle, because although it's true that 'it's not the same' - it could never be the same, they're different people with a different history, different baggage, different ages, different clubs -, it's still a ridiculously similar path to the one he and Lukas have walked. Injuries? Check. Playing in the same club? Check. One of them abandoning the club and the other being wrecked in his wake? Hell, check. Living miles apart? Check. Drama? Ugh, check. Wives and girlfriends? Let's not go there.
"You have no idea how well I understand."
Now Mario looks at him and holds his gaze, wondering, of course, if he's reading it right; if Bastian really implied what he thinks he did, of if it's just wishful thinking on his part to believe Marco and him are not the only guys in the team with a complication between them. And Bastian feels tempted to tell him loud and clear (but instead he just shrugs, nods and raises his eyebrows) that yes, he understands perfectly because Marco and Mario are currently at Stage 3: Bargaining while he and Lukas are finally somewhere close to Stage 7: Acceptance. That they are not the first and will not be the last, because he played with Mischa and Torsten and he knows things happened there as well. That it seems like every few years, every generation of the national team gets their own pair of dudes in that same situation, like some sort of endless karmic cycle.
And then he remembers something Torsten of all people had told him way back then in 2006, when they were all still trying to digest the loss in that semifinal and Bastian was feeling miserable, sitting on the locker room floor much like Mario is now. "It will be easier for you," Torsten had said, and Bastian didn't know exactly what he was referring to at the time, but now it hits him like a slap in the face. He wants to go back in time and inform him that it's still not easy, but then he thinks of how the locker room jokes used to be a lot worse, and how the new kids sound a lot more accepting, and how absolutely unfazed Jogi seemed to be by the "ten-year anniversary" thing, and yeah. Maybe it is a teensy bit easier. And considering how much things have been changing just over the last few months, maybe it will be easier for Mario and Marco, too.
He considers telling it to Mario, but he's no Torsten and it would just sound cheesy coming from him, so he goes back to pep-talk mode.
"Look, you're basically a newborn, he's still 25. And his leg wasn't chopped off. Before you know it, it's Russia, and you'll go with him, and you two'll bring home the fifth star, because Lukas and I have been doing this shit for ten years to this day and if we don't win this year, I think I'm jumping off a fucking bridge." And then Mario chuckles at last, and Bastian feels Fips is going to be proud. "So you better cheer up and do your thing in Brazil. Because we need you. Now more than ever. Ok?"
Mario breathes out heavily, rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and nods. "Ok."
"Then go brush your teeth," Bastian orders, poking the younger man's leg with the tip of his dirt-soiled boot, and for a moment he feels very, very old.
They both get out of the bathroom stall (thank god - a few more minutes in there and Bastian might have been the one hugging the porcelain, and then Lukas would definitely kill him) and walk to the lockers. The whole room is almost empty now, only the distant sound of a shower head or two still on; some of their teammates might very well be already napping in the bus, and Bastian has yet to shower (Mario too, but the seat beside his on the bus will be empty and the Bavarian suspects the kid's too tired to care).
Lukas is sitting fully dressed on the bench in front of their empty lockers, his bag on the floor between his feet, Bastian's on a seat not too far from him. Bastian's clean clothes are separated on a neat pile next to the bag, with a fresh towel on top. He knows Lukas' own stuff must look like a nuclear disaster inside his bag, and it makes his heart flutter a bit. Maybe they're growing soft in their old age, Bastian thinks as he takes off his shirt and drops it on the floor, then sits next to Lukas.
He takes off his shoes and socks, then looks over the forward's shoulder at his phone screen. Candy Crush level who-knows-how-far-that-thing-even-goes. Typical. "Nerd," he mumbles between his teeth, and Lukas elbows him on the ribs.
On the bench in front of them, Mario has frozen from the moment he pulled open the zipper in his bag. Bastian considers asking him if there's anything wrong, but Lukas is faster.
"That was me," he says, sliding his fingers deftly over the screen. The annoying game voice congratulates him with a 'Tasty!'. "Thought you might want to keep it."
Bastian doesn't get to ask what it is that Mario would want to keep, either: the striker opens the bag a little wider, and he's able to catch a glimpse of the number 21 in black over white inside. When Mario looks up at them, Lukas winks at him and places his index finger over his mouth; the phone goes 'Sugar Crush!'.
Mario shakes his head, the ghost of a smile daring to creep in at the corner of his lips. "This won't get me in trouble, will it?" he asks, gently pulling Marco's jersey aside to retrieve his toiletries.
"If nobody finds out, it won't." Lukas' logic, always on point.
"I'll keep that in mind," Mario laughs. Then, in a softer voice, he adds a "thanks" and vanishes around the corner, toothbrush and mouthwash in hand.
Bastian wants to know which strings Lukas pulled to smuggle Marco's spare jersey into Mario's bag, or if it had been left behind in all the hurry to take the poor guy to the hospital, and the Gunner just snatched the opportunity. But now they are alone, and Lukas is smirking and looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and he's still oozing pheromones.
The midfielder shakes his head and exhales, trying his best to look stern and cold as he pushes back against the locker behind him and lifts up his hips a bit to get rid of his shorts. "I was going to fuck you into the mattress tonight, you know."
"Was?" Lukas raises an eyebrow at him, his phone forgotten.
"Yeah, was," Bastian stands up in his black briefs, kicks his dirty clothes under the bench and throws the clean towel over his shoulder. Lukas gives him an appreciative once-over, and it's all it takes for the Bavarian to break up into a smile. "But after that I guess I'll have to make sweet love to you instead." And then he holds Lukas' head back by the jaw and presses his lips against the forward's, stealing a quick kiss full of promises for the rest of the night.
"Go take your fucking shower," Lukas laughs, slapping his thigh, and Bastian finally does.
Notes: Look at me resurrecting this account. :)
I was going to wait for my AO3 invitation tomorrow, but I'm too pissed at today's draw and can't wait. Also, I haven't finished a fic in ages and want to share it with the world before it grows stale in my computer.
If anyone got lost in the timeline, or if you're reading this in the far future, this is set on June 06, 2014, after Germany's 6-1 victory over Armenia, their last friendly match before the World Cup. Despite Reus' injury, it was a nice anniversary gift to Poldi and Schweini, both of whom had their first international cap on a friendly against Hungary on June 6, 2004 (Germany lost 2-0).
And when I say they were counting the hours to fly to Brazil, they were literally counting the hours: according to this report they arrived in Salvador "in the early hours of Sunday", which means they must have left Germany in the afternoon on June 07. Add in Lukas' 29th birthday on June 04, and I'm dubbing it Poldi's Big Week.
Damn. That could be a fic of its own.