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Title: Nothing to say
Author: icebear_cw
Fandom: Football (Soccer)
Pairing: Jens Lehmann/Oli Kahn
Rating: PG 13
Timeline: Italy Game July 2006
Disclaimer: Not mine, not real, did not happen. I don't own them.
It's all J's fault (as usual)
The dream is over. And it certainly was just a dream. Or so you try to tell yourself. The lights are blinding and somehow comforting. Not that it matters what the lights are like. You just got kicked out of World Cup. Most likely your last. Your last and only chance to win it. But all you can think of is how bright the lights are. You know you are in some kind of trance not unlike the one from the Argentina game. Different anyway. Everything is dull. Numb. You don’t seem to be able to focus. Not on your surroundings anyway. Not on your teammates, or the coaches for the matter. Not even on sounds or distant images. You hear bits and pieces though, you feel pats on the back, take the hugs without really hugging back and hear whispered words meant to comfort. You just can’t hold on to them. They drift away, leaving you alone in your own world. A world you never knew before. Sure you lost the Champions League finale without really having played in it. That was hard. Hard to get over and hard to forgive yourself for.
This here is different even though it is similar. It is different because it means more than just a game, a title or a career ending. So much more. And that is probably what overwhelms everything else right now. The underlying threat of “more”. A “more” you know and can define but don’t actually want to think about. Not now. Not when everything is numb and unfocused. You can’t think straight not even for a second.
The first sense which comes back is feel. You feel the grass under you. The patch your are gripping hard is soaking your hand. You have no idea where your gloves went but it’s not like it is important right now. You stand up slowly afraid you might keel over and hurl up your breakfast. That would be embarrassing. Not that losing in the last 2 minutes of freaking overtime of an overtime isn’t embarrassing anyway. The next thing which comes back to you is sight and hearing. Both at once. And now you actually keel over. Brace yourself on your knees. It is loud, almost drowning you in sound. The fans are cheering again. And it takes you a second to realize that they cheer for you, your team. They are shouting fighting songs as if to say it is okay. As if everything is still alright even though you lost. Later when you are back in your room, when you aren’t alone anymore you will realize that this was truly amazing and that everything indeed is still alright despite the fact that you lost.
Right now though you take a look around, search for every one of your teammates. You don’t know why but you have to make sure that they are okay. You see Poldi taking Odonkor with him, shielding the camera. It almost makes you smile. Then Micha and Fringser, almost huddled together, seeking support from each other. You never really knew how this friendship worked out between them but in this second you are heartbreakingly happy for them. They take some of the other guys with them. Micha being captain and being good at it. Chris and Sebastian try to get Peer and Basti of the field. More or less successful and this actually makes you smile. They seem to be good, heartbroken but okay.
The hand on your back doesn’t startle you as much as it should. You chide yourself for expecting it. But then it was bound to happen. You know what it means and even though it is insane you are grateful for it. The touch pulls you back. Fully into the present, into the situation you much rather would have wanted to avoid. You know you blink to much, blink at the lights, at Jürgen a few feet away and then you are suddenly staring at him. You don’t know what is written on your face or what he sees but it must have triggered something. A second later you are in his arms, pulled into a fierce hug. What scares you about it is that you wanted it. You wanted to be pulled into his arms and you want to seek comfort from it. What scares you even more is that you have been craving to me close to him the entire 120 minutes, that you need to feel this. It secures you somehow. It’s the first time ever he is doing that for you. The first time he has to, the first time he is there to do it. It’s brief but comforting nonetheless. “Come on. Let’s go.” You nod. Everything else would be too much. And really, there is no need to say anything. He knows what’s going on inside your head. He has been there before. A step farther but still.
He is guiding you back to the locker room. And you somehow manage to walk the way without pumping into other people, be it journalists, officials, camera or even other players. But once you are back inside the catacombs a mic is shoved into your face. Speechless is not the right term to use, it’s more that you are at a lack of words. So you stumble through the interview. Just a few sentences but you have the feeling that millions of people can see you break and grumble. Not really a comforting thought.
He is back at your side in an instant and you have no idea how he does that. He lost, too. It’s his team as well and you don’t know why he is here for you.
“You would do the same. Believe me. And I thought you might want me to.”
So you apparently said it aloud. The strange thing is you don’t mind. Not at all. Right now with everything feeling numb and somehow muted the little tuck at your heart his words leave is welcome. Even if you know you’ll question it later again. You always do.
Later in your room when you are tugged against him, his arms around you, your head on his chest you will ask yourself why again. Why this has to happen every time you are close, every time you play a tournament together
Right now though his hand on your back, his glare towards everyone not team-related and his low words comfort you, guide you into safety. The safety of the locker room. The safety of the team, of people feeling the same. You know it must look ridiculous, him pressing you down on the bench and you obeying like a child. But you don’t care. All you want to do is curl up somewhere, preferable with him close, and sleep.
“Jens?”
“Yeah?”
“Good. Just wanted to check if you are still in there.”
You laugh at that, really laugh and the smile kind of stays.
“Jerk.”
He grins, nods his head and goes back to getting ready. Ready to go. To Leave. And you heard him say it was the last time. You just now remember that. When you look at him he smiles back. Somehow it seems that he knows what you are thinking, he usual does. It used to drive you crazy, freak you at even. At first. But you haven gotten used to it. It will be strange to let that go, to not have someone on the team who knows you that well. Which, considering everything which was written about you two, is a wonder in itself. He nods again, just a tip of his head but you know he wants to say everything will be alright. You’ll talk about that later. Much later.
“Jens? Oli?” That is Basti. And as usual you are the last ones on the locker. You never know how that developed. Maybe it’s a goalie thing or something. But the others now to keep their distance even though no one really knows that you need this time. Both of you. To calm down and to be alone. He shouts back that you are on your way out. He already has your things gathered up, as usual. You grab them, accept that pat on the back, the slide of his fingers through your hair. Fleeting touches conveying much more than he would ever say to you. Always the same. During the games when he talks to you the words never fully register, only later when they don’t mean anything anymore. Only touches. And those are the things you remember anyway.
And then… you step out into the spot light.
You can’t wait to be alone. In your room. In your bed. With nothing else than your thoughts, his fingers in your hair and on your body and his heartbeat under your ear to keep you awake.
Author: icebear_cw
Fandom: Football (Soccer)
Pairing: Jens Lehmann/Oli Kahn
Rating: PG 13
Timeline: Italy Game July 2006
Disclaimer: Not mine, not real, did not happen. I don't own them.
It's all J's fault (as usual)
The dream is over. And it certainly was just a dream. Or so you try to tell yourself. The lights are blinding and somehow comforting. Not that it matters what the lights are like. You just got kicked out of World Cup. Most likely your last. Your last and only chance to win it. But all you can think of is how bright the lights are. You know you are in some kind of trance not unlike the one from the Argentina game. Different anyway. Everything is dull. Numb. You don’t seem to be able to focus. Not on your surroundings anyway. Not on your teammates, or the coaches for the matter. Not even on sounds or distant images. You hear bits and pieces though, you feel pats on the back, take the hugs without really hugging back and hear whispered words meant to comfort. You just can’t hold on to them. They drift away, leaving you alone in your own world. A world you never knew before. Sure you lost the Champions League finale without really having played in it. That was hard. Hard to get over and hard to forgive yourself for.
This here is different even though it is similar. It is different because it means more than just a game, a title or a career ending. So much more. And that is probably what overwhelms everything else right now. The underlying threat of “more”. A “more” you know and can define but don’t actually want to think about. Not now. Not when everything is numb and unfocused. You can’t think straight not even for a second.
The first sense which comes back is feel. You feel the grass under you. The patch your are gripping hard is soaking your hand. You have no idea where your gloves went but it’s not like it is important right now. You stand up slowly afraid you might keel over and hurl up your breakfast. That would be embarrassing. Not that losing in the last 2 minutes of freaking overtime of an overtime isn’t embarrassing anyway. The next thing which comes back to you is sight and hearing. Both at once. And now you actually keel over. Brace yourself on your knees. It is loud, almost drowning you in sound. The fans are cheering again. And it takes you a second to realize that they cheer for you, your team. They are shouting fighting songs as if to say it is okay. As if everything is still alright even though you lost. Later when you are back in your room, when you aren’t alone anymore you will realize that this was truly amazing and that everything indeed is still alright despite the fact that you lost.
Right now though you take a look around, search for every one of your teammates. You don’t know why but you have to make sure that they are okay. You see Poldi taking Odonkor with him, shielding the camera. It almost makes you smile. Then Micha and Fringser, almost huddled together, seeking support from each other. You never really knew how this friendship worked out between them but in this second you are heartbreakingly happy for them. They take some of the other guys with them. Micha being captain and being good at it. Chris and Sebastian try to get Peer and Basti of the field. More or less successful and this actually makes you smile. They seem to be good, heartbroken but okay.
The hand on your back doesn’t startle you as much as it should. You chide yourself for expecting it. But then it was bound to happen. You know what it means and even though it is insane you are grateful for it. The touch pulls you back. Fully into the present, into the situation you much rather would have wanted to avoid. You know you blink to much, blink at the lights, at Jürgen a few feet away and then you are suddenly staring at him. You don’t know what is written on your face or what he sees but it must have triggered something. A second later you are in his arms, pulled into a fierce hug. What scares you about it is that you wanted it. You wanted to be pulled into his arms and you want to seek comfort from it. What scares you even more is that you have been craving to me close to him the entire 120 minutes, that you need to feel this. It secures you somehow. It’s the first time ever he is doing that for you. The first time he has to, the first time he is there to do it. It’s brief but comforting nonetheless. “Come on. Let’s go.” You nod. Everything else would be too much. And really, there is no need to say anything. He knows what’s going on inside your head. He has been there before. A step farther but still.
He is guiding you back to the locker room. And you somehow manage to walk the way without pumping into other people, be it journalists, officials, camera or even other players. But once you are back inside the catacombs a mic is shoved into your face. Speechless is not the right term to use, it’s more that you are at a lack of words. So you stumble through the interview. Just a few sentences but you have the feeling that millions of people can see you break and grumble. Not really a comforting thought.
He is back at your side in an instant and you have no idea how he does that. He lost, too. It’s his team as well and you don’t know why he is here for you.
“You would do the same. Believe me. And I thought you might want me to.”
So you apparently said it aloud. The strange thing is you don’t mind. Not at all. Right now with everything feeling numb and somehow muted the little tuck at your heart his words leave is welcome. Even if you know you’ll question it later again. You always do.
Later in your room when you are tugged against him, his arms around you, your head on his chest you will ask yourself why again. Why this has to happen every time you are close, every time you play a tournament together
Right now though his hand on your back, his glare towards everyone not team-related and his low words comfort you, guide you into safety. The safety of the locker room. The safety of the team, of people feeling the same. You know it must look ridiculous, him pressing you down on the bench and you obeying like a child. But you don’t care. All you want to do is curl up somewhere, preferable with him close, and sleep.
“Jens?”
“Yeah?”
“Good. Just wanted to check if you are still in there.”
You laugh at that, really laugh and the smile kind of stays.
“Jerk.”
He grins, nods his head and goes back to getting ready. Ready to go. To Leave. And you heard him say it was the last time. You just now remember that. When you look at him he smiles back. Somehow it seems that he knows what you are thinking, he usual does. It used to drive you crazy, freak you at even. At first. But you haven gotten used to it. It will be strange to let that go, to not have someone on the team who knows you that well. Which, considering everything which was written about you two, is a wonder in itself. He nods again, just a tip of his head but you know he wants to say everything will be alright. You’ll talk about that later. Much later.
“Jens? Oli?” That is Basti. And as usual you are the last ones on the locker. You never know how that developed. Maybe it’s a goalie thing or something. But the others now to keep their distance even though no one really knows that you need this time. Both of you. To calm down and to be alone. He shouts back that you are on your way out. He already has your things gathered up, as usual. You grab them, accept that pat on the back, the slide of his fingers through your hair. Fleeting touches conveying much more than he would ever say to you. Always the same. During the games when he talks to you the words never fully register, only later when they don’t mean anything anymore. Only touches. And those are the things you remember anyway.
And then… you step out into the spot light.
You can’t wait to be alone. In your room. In your bed. With nothing else than your thoughts, his fingers in your hair and on your body and his heartbeat under your ear to keep you awake.
