Fic: Midnight Mass in Stadio Olimpico
Title: Midnight Mass in Stadio Olimpico
Pairing: Miroslav Klose/Lukas Podolski
Summary: Lukas visits Miroslav in Rome. Thankfully not just to chat about club politics in Italy.
Rating: NC-17/R
AN: Written for footballkink2. Club politics and real politics are complex--this is just a story. I should give a warning for issues of racism, national identity and neonazis.
From where Lukas stands, though he has no clue where exactly that is, other than somewhere vaguely near the city of Rome, he can smell freshly cut grass and wet concrete. The black blindfold, probably one of Miroslav’s ties judging from the brand of aftershave clinging to the fabric, prevents him from seeing exactly why the familiar combination of scents is flooding his senses. A few ideas are tumbling around in his skull; the most salient being that he suspects Miroslav lied when he said they were going out to get a ‘real Italian gelato.’
“Okay,” Miroslav sounds so animated and Lukas can’t help but smile when he hears the other man speaking Polish. He can tell that Miroslav has shuffled around to stand directly in front of him. Blindly reaching out toward the familiar voice, Lukas feels Miroslav take his hands. Fingers encircle his wrists, thumbs stroking along his thrumming pulse. They start moving forward with Miroslav guiding him. They’ve done things like this before with the national team; trust exercises and ridiculous team building games. “Now step, step, step…” Miroslav instructs, his grip tensing slightly every time Lukas takes another step down, just in case.
“Miśku.” Lukas abruptly stops following him down the seemingly never-ending stairs, hands firmly placed on hips. Somehow, he manages to glare at Miroslav through the makeshift blindfold. Apparently sight of Lukas, blindfolded and irritated, draws out a laugh from somewhere below him and before he can react, Miroslav’s arms wrap around his waist. “Hey!” Lukas cries as he is unceremoniously tossed over Miroslav’s shoulder. The man turns and continues walking down the stairs with Lukas protesting loudly.
“Knew I should have gagged you as well,” Miroslav teases, his breath hot against Lukas’ hip. Thin lips brush against the exposed skin and suddenly it does not seem so bad to be pressed so close against Miroslav. For the most part Lukas goes limp, crossing his arms and subjecting himself to Miroslav’s manhandling with a small pout. He gets an appreciative pat on the ass for his trouble.
After what feels like several flights of long stairs, Miroslav finally puts Lukas down. He spins the younger man around, turning him to face the unknown. The fabric of the blindfold twists against his skin as Miroslav unties it. When his eyes finally adjust to the half-light, a lopsided smile spreads across his face.
“Wow,” Lukas breaths, taking in the immense grandeur of the Miroslav’s new home, the Stadio Olimpico. The Elite stadium rises all around him, a sea of blue seats and the night sky peering in through the wide-open top. A thrill runs up his spine, ticking through the long list of legendary footballers that have played in the stadium. “And here I though you were going to be a good Catholic boy and take me to see St. Peter’s.” Lukas turns to playfully punch Miroslav in the shoulder.
“Next stop,” he grins brightly, a glint of much missed mischief sparking to life in his wide eyes.
“Of course.” Lukas rolls his eyes, shoving an open palm against Miroslav’s chest, brushing past him with a smile. Miroslav laughs quietly but shies away from meeting Lukas’ eyes. Instead, he turns his attention to carefully folding his tie into a small square before stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans.
Lukas knows him too well.
They silently explore the large spectator section, wandering toward the curve of the stadium in order to get a different view of the pitch and Olympic track running round the field. Miroslav follows close behind, arms coming up to encircle Lukas’ shoulders while his friend to investigate the new arena.
“Bit different from the Allianz,” Lukas murmurs, reaching up to touch Miroslav’s wrists.
Side by side, they stop to gaze down at the pitch, admiring the vast expanse of the recently revamped arena. Lukas seems to bristle when he realises which end of the pitch they are standing in. Anxious, he starts looking around, eyes darting from aisle to aisle, scanning the seats.
“Is this the Curva Nord?”
“Hey, why don’t we go down and see the pitch,” Miroslav suggests, ignoring the question. Instead, he puts on an overenthusiastic smile, grabbing Lukas’ wrist and tugging the younger man toward the end of the aisle. His grip is loose and Lukas easily pulls away, resolute.
“Miroslav.”
“Come on,” he tries again, but its weaker this time, almost resigned to the fact that they will inevitably have to have this conversation at some point. Lukas does not move. Miroslav shuffles back, restlessly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Turning to his friend, one hand on his hip while the other gestures to the seats surrounding them, Miroslav tries to explain. When he opens his mouth the first time nothing comes out. He swallows thickly. “It’s not like it used to be.” The smile is a less than convincing.
Lukas holds his gaze for a moment, expression unreadable, his lips pressed in a flat line. Suddenly, he kicks one of the nearby seats up. It wobbles back and forth, creaking faintly as it oscillates. The movement slows and Miroslav focuses in on a Celtic cross crudely etched into the blue plastic underside. A white-hot shock runs up his spine, buzzing inside his ribcage and churning his stomach. Miroslav takes a half step back, a pink tongue slipping out to run along his lips.
“It’s a great club, Łukasz,” he says after a moment, peering into Lukas’ face, eyes flicking back and forth as he searches for understanding. “And they’re giving me everything I need right now.” There is a hint of frustration and possibly embarrassment curbing his word. Resentment, perhaps. If only he was still twenty-six, like Lukas. “I try-” He cuts himself off and Lukas moves to close the distance between them. “It’s just…” Miroslav reaches out to touch Lukas’ elbow but stops, forcing his hand to drop away before making contact. “The ultras-and I know they’re in the minority, but…” Miroslav slumps into a seat, head hung, back curved to press elbows to thighs. “They bring so much hate.”
Lukas perches on the back of the seat opposite Miroslav. He nudges the other man’s thigh with his knee, hoping to draw him out. Miroslav shows no interest other than simply allowing the touch. Leaning forward, Lukas grabs the back of his friend’s neck. The pads of his fingertips dig into the skin stretched over the bumps of Miroslav’s spine. Lukas presses their foreheads together. Miroslav’s eyes are shut and Lukas is near enough to watch the delicate flutter of the older man’s eyelashes. The tip of his nose brushes against Miroslav’s as he adjusts his grip.
It’s familiar and comforting to be so close once again.
“You don’t play for them.”
Lukas smoothes a hand through the man’s hair, tipping his head back to kiss Miroslav softly. It’s reassuring, just a press of lips and soothing hands. His fingers tangle in the short hairs at the nape of Miroslav’s neck, joining his other hand to cradle the man’s head. He strokes his thumb along the delicate curve of an ear.
Miroslav is hesitant at first, clever hands still clenched tightly in the fabric of his jeans. Cautiously, he reaches up to fist a hand in the front of Lukas’ bright red zip up. He applies just the suggestion of pressure to the fabric, inclining his head and tugging Lukas to him.
With a groan, the kiss deepens and Lukas surges forward. And Miroslav is there to meet him. Their teeth click together, noses bumping against cheekbones. Slick track pants grate against jeans and Lukas straddles Miroslav’s lap, knees knocking against hard blue plastic. It quickly turns into desperation, the time and distance and basic need for that easy support between them boiling over. The tight muscles of Miroslav’s jaw jump as he explores the familiar warmth of Lukas’ mouth. Long fingers skitter along hipbones, pushing up the hem of a red hoodie and groping the warm flesh beneath.
“Miśku…”
“Just imagine if they knew,” Miroslav huffs a laugh against Lukas’ lips. The younger man begins to roll his hips in slow burning bucks against Miroslav’s lap. Warm hands slide under the pale blue Lazio polo, snaking up his wiry torso to splay against the width of his chest. Thumbs brush over sensitive nipples. Miroslav tips his head back, eyes falling shut and Lukas nips at his sharp collarbones, slick tongue trailing up the corded muscles of his throat. Lukas is already half hard and pressing against the hot beginnings of Miroslav’s erection.
“I’m sure their heads would explode,” Lukas practically growls in the man’s ear with a wicked grin, deep voice catching in his throat when he bats Miroslav’s hands away from the elastic waistband of his track pants. He shakes his head, instead placing the mischievous hands on his thighs while continuing to rub against Miroslav through the layers of jeans and track pants. The lack of proper friction is maddening but will prolong the sensation. Lukas leans back to look at Miroslav, pupils blown with arousal and thin lips wet and slightly swollen. It has been a long time since he has seen that particular look on Miroslav’s face. A hand comes up to touch the older man’s chin, turning his face to the right for Lukas to admire his profile. “Polish, Catholic, queer and a great footballer?” Lukas lists off, mimicking a disgusted tone of disbelief. “No way,” he gasps, hips hitching as Miroslav slides to the very edge of the plastic seat.
“Never.” It comes out in a low rumble, and suddenly a switch seems to be thrown somewhere inside Miroslav. “And certainly never two of them.” He grabs the back of Lukas’ neck, dragging him down into a biting kiss.
Blue plastic creaks as Lukas grips the back of the seat with both hands, knuckles turning white with the pressure. Blunt fingernails dig into the strained seam running along the cleft of Lukas’ ass. The pace quickens, Miroslav’s hips jerking up to meet Lukas’ hard thrusts. His hands push and pull at Lukas, demanding more. The younger man complies with a lopsided grin and hooded eyes. Palm open, Lukas brings his hand to Miroslav’s mouth. With the other, he manages to pop open the man’s fly while still grinding against his confined and painfully hard cock.
“Now,” Lukas whispers and Miroslav flicks his tongue into the crease between fingers before tracing the man’s lifeline with the tip. Slicked with saliva, Lukas dips a hand beneath the waistband of Miroslav’s boxer briefs. “Whenever you look here.” Miroslav shivers, fingers spasm against the swell of Lukas’ ass before clenching the thick muscle tighter. He stills as soon as Lukas’ fingers encircle him. “No matter their banners or chants,” his voice is rough, sounding impossibly loud in the calm atmosphere of the stadium though it barely registers above his partner’s panting breaths. “You’ll remember this.” His thumb swirls over the swollen head and it does not take long for Miroslav to come completely unravelled by Lukas. A moan rolls out of his chest, the sound seeming to fill them both, rattling against bones and muscle in much needed release.
Miroslav collapses back into the plastic seat, Lukas sliding with him.
Hot breath puffs against the side of Lukas’ face. No longer in control of his fine motor skills, Miroslav blindly runs his hands along the younger man’s sides. Up and down several times, over the red fabric, as if to reassure himself that Lukas is still there, still warm and real against his own body. Lukas twitches at the gentle contact, desperate to come. Eyes screwed shut, face buried in the crook of Miroslav’s neck; he waits anxiously until the busy hands settle against his hips.
“Łukasz.” Miroslav nudges him with his shoulder, looking down at the younger man with a small sated smile. Head still resting against Miroslav, Lukas slowly turns to kiss him.
One of Miroslav’s hands strays lower, cupping Lukas’ hard cock through the material of his track pants. Wound far too tight, Lukas frantically rubs himself against the large hand, unable to wait for anything more direct. The kiss is wet and languid, in complete opposition to Lukas’ frenzied movements. Once again, he grabs the back of the stadium seat for balance. It only takes a few snaps of his hips and he is panting Miroslav’s name into the man’s own mouth.
“Thank you.” And even in his post-orgasm haze, slumped against his strike partner’s lithe body, Lukas knows it will take a lifetime to fully understand exactly what Miroslav means just then.
Miroslav stares down at the pitch over Lukas’ shoulder, arms winding about the younger man in a tight hug.
(End)