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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Bastian Schweinsteiger/Michael Ballack
Feedback: Good lines, typos, etc.
Disclaimer: This is all made-up and fiction and has nothing to do with these people’s actual personal lives.
Notes: For hallucinogenia in thanks for the download. Set before Michael’s transfer to Chelsea.
Summary: The rush of victory.
***
It’s just kind of a thing, where you’re coming back from the game and somewhere your legs are aching and your back or maybe your knee is on fire from that bad tackle in the first half, but it’s not here yet, not right now yet because you’ve won. You’ve won and the air is fizzy like soda and like up in the mountains, where it’s so thin and everything’s so bright you’ve gotta grin and squint in order to bear it.
When that happens, the locker room turns into the whole world. Hell, it’s even smaller than that—all a guy sees is whatever’s swinging right in front of him, and if he can actually tell what it is, then he’s not celebrating hard enough. He should be grabbing everything in sight, he should be laughing like a madman and who cares if the sweat’s burning into his eyes and his leg muscles are still shaking like he’s back running all over the pitch? Who cares whose shirt he’s got? Who cares whether he’s got a hold on somebody’s arm or waist or shoulders?
Bastian’ll grab anybody. Usually his balance is pretty bad so it kind of ends up a mess if he’s getting hold of somebody like Lahmi, but falling on the floor then never seems to hurt. It’s awkward, yeah—it’s a little better if he jumps onto somebody like Balla, who’s not going to fold up even when he doesn’t have to be the anchor. Balla’s gonna hold up and then hold Bastian up, their foreheads knocking together so that Michael’s hair gets all in Bastian’s eyes, so that later Bastian can smell the other man’s sweat coming off when he washes his face. He’ll wrap his hand around the back of Bastian’s head and pull him in, all mad and wild and jacked-up from the match, and right then, he doesn’t care either.
It’s just that thing, burning off all that excitement from their muscles so they can walk nicely out to the interviews without scaring people. Sharing the high. Taking the connection on the pitch, when it’s at its best and everyone can practically feel the strings tying the whole team together, and yanking on it so they really come together one last time before they’ve got to walk out one by one. Getting over it, giving each other a cushion for when the world finally stops spinning and Michael’s hand slides from Bastian’s head, fingers grooving hard along the spine before they finally slip away. It’s just that thing.
***