If only gravity weren't a law...

Fri, 01 Feb 2008 00:14:37 GMT

Title: Star-Gazer
Author: CMT
Pairing: Per Mertesacker/Clemens Fritz
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine, this never happened.
Summary: Per catches Clemens star gazing.
Notes: This is slightly based off of the Louis MacNeice poem “Star-Gazer,” which you can find here. x-posted to footballslash and manndecker. Cut quote from Shakespeare.

The game hasn’t been over all that long; the seats are all empty, but the floodlights have barely cooled and the cheers still echo in the abandoned rows. The only light comes from a lone star: a single pinprick in the dense clouds. He’s silent, standing alone, staring into the past.

(a century? a millennium? light travels fast, but not fast enough.)

Eyes slip shut when arms slip around his waist, a cheek falls lazily against the top of his head.

(when that light left for earth, who was watching? perhaps people like them: two lovers sharing a precious moment of togetherness.)

“You’re getting philosophical again. I can hear the gears grinding.”

(a soft tickle on his ear, the warm breath a sharp contrast to the chilled air.)

He still chuckles at the worn-out joke, and the sound lingers in the empty air. He turns, and their fingers thread. In the darkness, he can just barely see the glint of the other’s eyes.

(light was leaving at that instant. by the time it got there, they’d be long gone.)

Their lips touch.

(with all the uncertainties lurking in tomorrow’s shadows, lingering on the future seems a pointless endeavor.)

They had the moment.

(this will last.)

Eeeek, I'm not sure what I think about this. I like it, but it just seems...off. Comments? Please?

Picspaaaaaaaaam!

Mon, 03 Sep 2007 16:56:14 GMT

Alright, so I decided to do a picspam with some of the pictures sitting on my computer. As far as I know, most of these haven't been posted before.

This includes primarily Per Mertesacker, Bernd Schneider, and Tim Borowski; however, Lukas Podolski, Oliver Kahn, Philipp Lahm, and a few others all make guest appearances.

Enjoy! But be warned, this is not dial-up friendly, and these things are BIG. And I apologize for any watermarks. I got rid of them where I could. I also apologize for the lameness of my captions.

Let's start with Tim. Everyone loves Tim. Even if he looks a little silly rolling around on the pitch.

A man and his trophy: a love story.

If you saw this on a billboard, would you buy the beer?

No matter, he'll drink it for you!

Poor Phil. It looks like he was trying to kick the ball, but fell over in the process.

It's Captain Phil!

Yeah...evidently, FC Köln once went to a coal mine as a sort of team-building activity. That is Lukas Podolski. Really.

According to Olli, this is one of his fondest memories of Weserstadion.

I'm sure this was meant to be menacing or something, but it's just kind of silly-looking.

ViewImages was kind enough to tell me that Miroslav Klose is not only at a press conference for the DFB in Berlin, but that he also has pink eye. Seriously. (There's also a rather creepy companion picture here.)

Just because.

It's Santa Per! I love him. Seriously.

I know he's hurt, but he still looks silly. XD.

Disappointed. :-(.

Scoring an own goal.

WHAT-ever.

He's cute and he knows it.

I don't know who or what he's pointing at.

Nor do I know who or what he's yelling at.

Ahahaha. I love the look on his face.

Schnix and Becks. Sueddeutsche.de remarked that these two "raised the age cut" of the Germany v. England game.

He just CANNOT believe it.

ZOMGYAYZGOME!!

ZOMGYAYZGOME!! (Again!)

This is one of the best "WTF" looks ever.

Someone's clearly uninterested.

This is hands-down my most favorite picture of him. Ever.

The End!

Pictures courtesy sueddeutsche.de, ViewImages.com, and FC Bayern's website.

Three drabbles...

Mon, 13 Aug 2007 10:41:14 GMT

Title: That Look
Author: CMT
Pairing: Miroslav Klose/Per Mertesacker
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I am not claiming anything about anyone. I am making no money off of this.
Warnings: None, surprisingly.
Summary: Per wonders just what Miro meant with Per wonders just what Miro meant by this look.
Notes: Intentionally vague. I blame this entirely on my mother.

“Out of curiosity, what was with that look yesterday?”

“What look?”

“That look. You know, the one after the game? When I hugged you? Come on, the picture’s on the Werder website.”

“Oh. That look.”

“Yes. That look. So was it an ‘excuse me, trying to have a private moment here,’ look? Or a ‘dear God why is this man touching me doesn’t he know it’s over between us’ look?”

A pause.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Thought so. I was just checking.”

“Well, you thought right.”

“I’ll talk to you later?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Title: Poetry in Motion
Author: CMT
Pairing: Tim Borowski/Per Mertesacker
Rating: PG (or PG-13 for the sensitive)
Disclaimer: I am not claiming anything about anyone. I am making no money off of this.
Warnings: None, surprisingly.
Summary: Tim catches Per in the act.

The music gets his attention.

(Loud, upbeat, syntho-pop. Last thing he expected.)

The body holds it.

(Sliding across the kitchen floor, wearing nothing but a pair of Werder socks and a pair of tight, white briefs. Sinfully long limbs moving fluidly, hips swaying in perfect time with the bass. Poetry in motion.)

Tim rises, wanders close. Fingers brush the pale back, and Per whirls around, eyes wide.

(Blushes when hands smooth over his hips, a forehead rests against his own. Arms tangle around Tim’s neck, a seductive smile flickers across Per’s lips.)

“You’re such a dork.”

“I love you, too.”

Title: Untitled
Author: CMT
Pairing: Miroslav Klose/Luca Toni
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I am not claiming anything about anyone. I am making no money off of this.
Warnings: None, surprisingly.
Summary: Miro and Luca manage to connect on and off the pitch.
Notes: Because someone had to write these two.

They are the dream strikers. The ones who will bring trophies back to Bayern.

(Connecting on and off the pitch. They shake hands for the first time and neither can help the grin.)

No common language (not yet) but there’s no need for one.

(Stumbling over the precious few words of English between them, flushed cheeks and shy smiles need no translation.)

Alone after the game (the one they won together). Luca struggling with the German, not meeting Miro’s eyes. Looks up, falls silent when Miro’s finger falls over his lips. A small smile is returned.

(A kiss is universal.)

Remind me never to post this early in the morning. *Shuffles off for tea*

Wed, 13 Jun 2007 00:06:47 GMT

Title: Variations on a Theme
Author: CMT
Pairing: Per Mertesacker/Miroslav Klose
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I am not claiming anything about anyone. This is a work of fiction. I am making no money off of this.
Warnings: Severe (and I do mean severe) parenthesis abuse, angst
Summary: The anatomy of saying (or not saying) goodbye.
Notes: Technically, no names are given, but this was intended to be from Per’s POV. The other person isn’t named, but Miro just seems to fit. The lines about time are from a poem by Henry van Dyke. This is kind of experimental, so please be as critical as you want. Cut quote from Star Trek: Generations.

Time is too slow for those who wait…

(Waiting for what, precisely? It seems he’s spent most of his life waiting. Waiting for a game to start, end; a second chance; a new day; waiting for that first (second, third) kiss from him. (Their lips touched and it was like a sudden burst of cool rain on a hot summer day. He’d shuddered, cold.) He’s waiting now. (For that one word they both know is coming but don’t dare say.) Watching as he sits silently, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. A second ticks by. (He could have sworn it’s been longer.))

…too swift for those who fear…

(Six. Alone in his room, blankets pulled up to his chin, eyes squeezed shut, terrified of that monster (just a pile of clothes) in the corner. His first kiss, just a silly little touch of lips with that cute kid down the street. (But hesitant and frightened nevertheless.) Seventeen. His first time. (Quivering, whimpering, soft words of reassurance hissed in his ear.) Twenty. Bouncing anxiously on his heels, the sounds of screaming fans ringing in his ears. (The whole world’s eyes on him.) Twenty-one. A new town, a new life. (Familiar face, lips, hands.) Afraid now, Afraid of the inevitable. Heart racing, time crawling. (But when he looks at the clock twenty minutes have passed.))

…too long for those who grieve…

(Losses, injuries, deaths, broken hearts. Seen them all, shed the tears. He’s been broken, rejected, hurt. (Some things more painful than others.) But even at his worst, he’s been there. (Sweep up the pieces, reassemble, a soft kiss and a pat on the back.) Time ticks by slowly, seconds turn to hours, no one to help him now. (He hasn’t given him anything to grieve for (yet).)

…too short for those who rejoice…

(Fingers threading, spinning each other in circles, laughing like a pair of little kids. (Empty stadium, clear blue sky, sound ringing off abandoned seats.) Excited over everything, nothing. (This simple ecstasy of just being together.) Fall to the ground, roll, laugh even more. Bangs fall (just a bit) in his eyes. His hand sweeps them aside. (You know you look adorable like that.) Sweet kiss, sweeter smile. (Their lips touch, the sun’s warm on his skin. Lips part, stars dot the sky.) The memories speed up the seconds, but when their eyes meet, time comes to a standstill.)

…but for those who love, time is eternity.

(We are forever, he’s always said. (Forever being relative, he’s realized.) Time stands still, they do too. (Balanced on the edge of eternity, he waits, waits.) Say it, just say it. He doesn’t want to hear it, but craves the freedom from the whirlwind. (Headlines and contracts and signatures and negotiations and I’m really going.) It’s time to end it. But he says nothing, just connects their lips. (Soft, sweet, infinite.) Rises, walks to the door. (Looks back once, his expression unreadable. (Sad but guilty but loving.)) A tear falls, the door shuts, time runs out. (They never did say it.))

Goodbye.

*Winces.* I tried to cut back on the parentheses, really! Ugh, is it unreadable, or am I paranoid?

Sun, 28 Jan 2007 20:57:22 GMT

Title: Maybe It’s For Real
Author: CMT
Pairing: Miroslav Klose/Per Mertesacker
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Never happened. If it did I’ll eat my hat.
Warnings: Um…angst, non-descript smut
Summary: A night of drinking leads to harsh feelings between friends, but as always, things are never quite as they seem.
Notes: My best friend requested a romance story with a prompt of “clouds” that had a happy ending. This is the result. Rather terrifying when you think about it.

That one looked a tap-dancing bunny.

That one was a turtle holding a thumbtack, and that one was a clam eating a slice of pie.

Practice had ended long ago, but Per wanted to be absolutely sure that everyone was gone before he went to go shower. So he chose to lie on the pitch, watching the clouds lazily drifting through the sky. The sky was a particularly nice shade of blue, and the grass was warm on his skin; Per was content to stay there a while.

He knew that they were talking about him in the locker room. Discussing why he was lagging behind, why he hadn’t been himself today, or the past several days for that matter. A few of them had asked during practice, ”What’s going on? You were fitting in so well…”

Per had only shrugged, muttering some nonsense about not feeling well or just having a bad day.

That wasn’t the reason, of course, but he was in no mood to explain things. No mood to try and make the others understand just what was wrong. Not that they possibly could understand anyway.

“Hey, you alright?”

Per looked back to see Miro standing there, fully dressed, hair still wet from his shower. Rolling his eyes, Per gave no answer. Miro arched an eyebrow, bemused by Per’s stubbornness.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked. Per shrugged; half-lifting a shoulder and letting it fall. A soft rustling sound, and then Miro was lying beside him, parallel.

Miro said nothing at first, staring at the clouds, watching them lazily drift through the sky.

“You know, um, everyone’s wondering what’s wrong with you. They seem to think that I know.”

Miro kept his voice soft. Per turned his head to briefly glance at the other man, an irritated expression on his face.

“You know full well what’s wrong.”

Miro winced a little when he heard the sharpness in Per’s voice. He did know what was wrong with Per, but he didn’t really know how to talk about it. Per shot the other man a glare, annoyed by his presence.

“Do you want something?” he finally asked. Miro shrugged lamely.

“Maybe we should talk about this,” he said finally. Per bit his lip.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he whispered, a faint hint of sadness in his voice. Miro pursed his lips. He was fairly certain there was.

Per had been anxious about a new city and a new club, and he’d seemed so relieved when Miro offered a chance for Per to talk and relax. Just a night for the two of them at Per’s apartment.

But Per was tense and shy, even around his friend. Having expected this, Miro had come armed with a leftover bottle of red wine. He poured a glass for each of them, just something to loosen Per up. But “a glass” quickly became several, and before either of them knew it, they were sprawled across the couch together. Per’s head was nestled in Miro’s lap, and Miro’s fingers were absently tangling themselves into the light blond hair.

As hoped, the wine had indeed loosened Per’s tongue -- perhaps too much so. He spent most of the night rambling on about his insecurities, self-confidence, personal life… And then Miro caught it, in the middle of a rant about his popularity. It was said quickly, hardly even a breath between words.

“…I may not the most popular player in the world, but that doesn’t mean I can go around saying whatever I want and no one’s gonna listen. I mean, I like guys, but I can’t just go around telling everyone…”

Miro leaned his head back against the couch, chuckling breathlessly as he twirled some of Per’s hair around his finger. And then Per was blushing, realizing what he’d said, quickly swearing Miro to a vow of silence. Miro had only laughed again, taking another sip of wine, careful to keep himself just slightly tipsy.

“Relax,” Miro muttered, “I won’t let anyone find out.” Per sighed, relieved.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, reaching over to refill his glass. He swallowed a mouthful, then sighed again. “You’re a good friend, Mirek,” he said. “I like you.” His face flushed a deep red as he added, “Probably more than I should.”

He knew he shouldn’t have, but Miro just couldn’t resist the chance. Couldn’t resist the implications of Per’s embarrassed confession, couldn’t resist the wide eyes that looked up at him; glazed over from a strange mixture of wine and want.

Their first kiss was sloppy and wet, tasting of desperation and cheap alcohol. Lips connecting, missing, accompanied by soft moans and rough, roaming hands.

Miro’s voice was soft and sultry, his breath hot as he hissed in Per’s ear exactly what he wanted to do to him. Per was moaning pleadingly, groping blindly at the older man. Then somehow they were tumbling onto the bed, and there were more kisses, more clumsy passes, more moans, more more more…

Exhausted, spent, Per let himself be soothed by the sound of a gentle, slightly slurred voice; whispering in his ear countless promises, quiet words of love, praise. Per had laughed softly, touching a gentle kiss to Miro’s chin before snuggling close, drifting off to the feeling of fingertips drawing invisible pictures on his back.

He never expected to wake up alone. Never expected to find only a warm spot next to him and a few teeth marks on his neck. He yawned, squinting as he rolled out of bed, wandered through his apartment in the feeble hopes that Miro was still around. But the only sign that he’d even been there were the two half-empty glasses on the coffee table.

His head started to really throb, and Per sank onto his couch; humiliated, ashamed, and wanting nothing more than to wring Miro’s pretty little neck.

“I’m sorry.”

Per screwed his eyes shut at Miro’s apology.

“Don’t,” he whispered. Miro sighed, trying again.

“Just hear me out,” he said. “I’m sorry things happened the way they did…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Per interrupted. “You’re sorry I wasn’t drunk enough to forget it all? God, Miro. I trust you with my biggest secret and you just turn around and take advantage of me. You’re supposed to be my friend…”

“Per.”

Per grew silent, looking over at the sound of his name, finding Miro sitting up and looking down at him. He had a serious look in his eyes, accented by the faintest devilish twinkle. Per arched an eyebrow, sitting up to face the other man. Miro smirked as he cupped Per’s chin in his hand, leaning close and resting his forehead against Per’s.

“If you’re too drunk to remember,” Miro whispered, “then you’re too drunk to want to do it again.”

“What the –“

Miro cut him off by connecting their lips. His tongue darted out, tracing the thin line between Per’s lips, his mouth moving gently. Per could only sit stunned, unsure if this was real, or if the heat was finally getting to him. But by the time he decided it was a reality, just when he began to respond, Miro was leaning away, a smug, teasing little grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

“I’ll leave you with that thought,” Miro shrugged, winking. He chuckled softly to himself as he got up and started to leave. Per stared in shock, watching Miro walk away, not once looking back.

Sighing wearily, Per rolled his eyes skyward, noticing that that turtle now appeared to be stabbing himself in the head with his thumbtack.

“Believe me,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I know exactly how you feel.”

BONUS:

Since the above story doesn’t quite have the desired happy ending (sorry); I’ve also got a Five Things that I did. It’s more humor than slash, but the love is there. Let’s hear it for deepandmeaningful!Per and childish!Miro!!

01.

“Do you ever wonder what your purpose in life is?”

Miro arched an eyebrow as he glanced at Per.

“Um, no,” he said. “Why, are you wondering what yours is?”

Per shrugged, and Miro smiled as he leaned his head on Per’s shoulder.

“I know what it is,” he said with a grin.

“Oh?”

“It’s to defend the goal. That’s usually what a defender does.”

Per groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Your profoundness never ceases to amaze me.”

02.

“Why are you reading the obituaries?”

Per glanced up from the newspaper to find Miro eyeing him and sipping a cup of coffee.

“Gets me thinking,” he shrugged. Miro indicated for him to go on, so he did. “Just…how do you want to be remembered? When you’re gone, all that’s left are the memories. Do you want people to remember your words, your actions, your character… There’s so much to think about.”

Miro looked contemplative as he sipped his coffee.

“If I’m dead,” he began slowly, “what do I care what people think of me?” He paused, then added, “Unless I come back to life like some Night of the Living Dead kind of thing. That’d be cool, wouldn’t it?”

Per said nothing. He just pursed his lips and decided that Miro had spent far too much time with Lukas over the summer.

03.

“What it is this thing called happiness? We spend our entire lives searching for it, but can we ever really find it, or is it simply some illusion created by our minds? It’s so easy to say we’re happy and not mean it. Can something so easily faked have any grounds in reality?” He paused to sigh. “What do you think?”

“Hmm?”

Miro looked up, his teeth working easily around a piece of gum. He shrugged a little, blowing a bubble before calmly popping it with his index finger. Per shook his head.

“Sometimes I envy you, Miro.”

04.

Miro smiled, shaking his head as Per ran ahead of him, jumping into one of the puddles left over from the afternoon’s rainstorm. Per laughed as the water splashed up, grinning like a six-year old.

“Like puddle jumping?” Miro chuckled, walking over and absently kicking at the water. Per shrugged a little.

“Sometimes it’s nice to let yourself go,” he explained. “Nice to forget about your problems by indulging yourself in a childish activity. It’s almost like a therapy. Revert to a child-like state in order to remain indignant to an adult issue.”

He looked up to find Miro with head cocked and eyebrows raised. He whimpered questioningly, sounding oddly like a confused puppy. Per’s shoulders slumped.

“Yes, I like puddle jumping,” he sighed. He thought for a moment, then jumped again, drenching Miro’s feet and ankles with rainwater.

05.

“Why did I fall in love with you? I mean, why didn’t I just do what was expected of me and just settle down with some nice girl? I suppose we don’t exactly pick who we fall in love with, but it’s still something to ponder. Just think of the odds that we’d end up on the same team, let alone in the same bed. But then again, I guess fate might have something to do with it. Somehow you always find your way to the person you’re meant to be with…”

Per’s voice trailed off as Miro groaned against his neck.

“It’s two in the morning,” he muttered. “Now is not the time to contemplate the universe.”

“I’m not contemplating the universe,” Per replied with a grin. “I’m contemplating the nature of love.”

Miro’s response was to roll over and whack Per in the face with his pillow.

Thu, 26 Oct 2006 22:23:28 GMT

Title: All That's Left Is a Band of Gold
Author: CMT
Pairing: Miro Klose/Per Mertesacker
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, angst, kissing
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Archive: Beautiful Games
Summary: He never should have opened the door.
Notes: Per's POV, un-beta'd. I desperately hope I did Sylwia some justice in this part. The quote in the cut is from yours truly, title's from a Belinda Carlisle song. Follows Night Musings and And I Want You For All Time.

You respond to the insistent knocking on the door, only to instantly regret it. Her lips curl inward, and her eyes narrow when she sees you. You chew your lower lip and try to remember how to breathe.

"I...if you're looking for Miro, he...he's out now," you mumble, perhaps too quickly, hoping the words will make her go away. But if anything, they seem to make her more determined, and she holds her ground, her icy glare making your skin crawl. She sizes you up, her mouth twisting in a smirk.

"So," she begins, her voice dripping with sarcasm and bitterness, "this is what my husband left me for?"

You flinch inwardly, her words stinging. Her temper seems to rise as she continues.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" she hisses. "We had a family, and now you've ruined it. God, do you even care? Do you realize how much pain, how much shame you've caused me? What am I supposed to tell people when they ask about my husband? How will I explain this to my children? Do you have any fucking clue..."

And you can't take anymore.

"Shut up!" you holler, cutting her off. She seems taken aback, as though she's surprised that you actually lost your temper. You swallow, somehow managing to force out the words you want to say. "You can't blame this all on me," you whisper, trying to keep your voice as calm as possible. "I never forced him to stay with me. That was his choice." Her teeth clench, and for a moment, you worry you've gone too far. Her hands begin to tremble slightly, as though any second they'll reach out and strangle you. You take the slightest of steps backwards, and a smirk suddenly splits her icy look.

"You're so naive, aren't you," she whispers smugly, stating it more than asking. "You actually think that this means something?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" you hiss. She lets out a burst of laughter, throwing her hand in the air and vaguely gesturing around her.

"This!" she cries, laughing. "You! Do you honestly think that you mean something? He doesn't love you. You're just some goddamned midlife crisis." Your head has started shaking, but her smirk only grows wider. "You're such an idiot," she continues. "You really think that he's going to throw away all of the beliefs and morals he's had since he was a child? He knows better than to do this. I don't know who he thinks he's fooling."

"He seems pretty sure of himself to me," you whisper. She purses her lips for a moment, then smiles, nodding.

"Just you wait," she chuckles. "Oh, he'll get over whatever the hell demon he's trying to exorcise by fucking you. And then what? That sorry bastard will be crawling back to me. But you know something? I don't need him. I can do better."

Her voice is trembling slightly, as though she's trying to convince herself as well as you. You open your mouth to speak, but the words dry up in your throat. She sighs impatiently, thrusting a manila envelope at you. You take it, eyeing it for a moment before looking back at her. She gives you a dark glare, then her eyes dart to the floor. She hesitates a moment, then pulls off her wedding ring and holds it out to you. You offer your palm, and she drops the ring in it. She stares at it sitting in your hand, and you wonder if she'll take it back. But when you curl your fingers around it, she closes her eyes, and you can practically see her heart breaking.

"Give him this stuff," she says quietly, her voice suddenly sounding broken. You swallow as it hits you. Underneath her anger, she's completely shattered. Guilt overcomes you, and you find yourself feeling almost sorry for her. You stare at her, watching as she struggles for a moment to regain her composure. She calms herself down, then eyes you. It's obvious she wants to take one last shot. You wait for it, wait to see what blow she'll deal. And then she just shakes her head, disgusted. "Faggot," she spits, a final, weak-sounding stab at you. You can only watch in silence as she turns and walks away. Closing the door, you walked dazed into the kitchen. You place the envelope on the counter, but continue to stare at the ring in your hand.

Sinking to the floor, you lean back against the cupboards. One hand wraps around your legs, drawing them to your chest, the other clutches the ring, a non-descript gold band. Such a simple piece of jewelry, and yet it means so much. Curling your fingers around the ring, you bite your lip and rest your chin on your knees. Your head is spinning, Miro's soft words mingling with her bitter accusations. Groaning, you fold your arms over your knees and bury your face in them.

You're still like that when he comes home. You hear the door opening, footsteps, and his voice. Papers rustle, and then a soft, relieved sigh that sounds a little too much like "Finally." There's a pause, and then your name. Looking up, you find him leaning over the counter to look down at you, concern in his eyes.

"You alright?" he inquires gently. You nod, and he raises an eyebrow. He walks around the counter to sit next to you. "What happened?" he asks. You shrug a little, squeezing the ring even tighter.

"Sylwia stopped by." You speak casually, as though it was an everyday occurrence. His eyebrows rise slightly.

"What she want?" he asks. Licking your lips, you gesture towards the counter.

"She...she dropped off that stuff," you shrug. He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, and you sigh. The ring is starting to burn a hole through your skin, so you grab his hand and press it into his palm. You fold his fingers around it and hold his fist closed. He glances at his hand, then back at you.

"What's this?" he asks quietly. You let go of his hand and he lets it fall open. He nods slowly when he sees what it is. Looking up at you, he slowly shakes his head. "What'd she say?" he whispers. You pull your knees tighter to your chest and shrug.

"A lot of things," you reply. When you don't elaborate, he puts an arm around you, and you fall limply against him, resting your head on his shoulder. His fingers gently rub at your arm, and he sighs into your hair.

"What'd she say?" he asks again, softer now. You sigh wearily, shaking your head.

"Nothing important," you murmur.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

It's clear he doesn't believe you as he shrugs a little, touching a faint kiss to the top of your head.

"Whenever you're ready," he whispers. And you sit there, in silence. His cheek rests against the top of your head, and he's humming softly, barely audible. You finally sigh and shrug.

"She..."

"Hmmm?"

"She...had some words for me," you say carefully. You feel him nodding, and you cautiously continue. "She said that I was just a..." Your voice trails off, because you just can't bring yourself to repeat her insults.

"Just a what?"

He's guiding you softly through the conversation like a mother. If it were another time, you'd be annoyed, but for now you find it comforting.

"Just a 'mid-life crisis'," you sigh, unable to help rolling your eyes. He says nothing, but his grip on you tightens. You wait a moment, then shake your head. "Why are you here?" you ask. You know you sound utterly defeated. He sighs softly, and you feel his warm breath in your hair. He seems to be thinking, so you wait, chewing on your lower lip. You expect him to offer that silly smile that always serves as an answer to this question, so you're surprised when he actually speaks.

"I'm here because I want to be," he says quietly. "I'm here because I happen to have fallen in love with the most amazing person in the world." You smile weakly as you slip your fingers into his hand, removing the wedding ring and rolling it around your palm.

"Did you ever love her?" you ask gently, glancing at him. He shrugs a little.

"I don't know," he admits. " Yes, I cared about her, and I still do. But it's not like I feel about you. I suppose at one point I was convinced that it was actually love." He pauses, uncomfortably, and you're about to speak when he starts again. "I mean, I convinced myself that if I just settled down and got married, everything would be okay. I couldn't bear to even imagine the look on my mother's face if she found out that her son was in love with another man. That sort of thing just doesn't happen in my family." He sounds sad, maybe even embarrassed, and you turn your head to softly kiss his neck.

"I'm sorry," you mumble. "I didn't mean to pry."

"It's alright. Feels good to actually say it," he says quietly. "She deserves better. And she's a wonderful person. She'll be alright." There's a pause, and then his hand is on your chin, drawing your lips close and connecting them with his. He kisses you soft and sweet, then rests his forehead against yours. "I know it's hard sometimes," he whispers. "But I love you more than anything. Remember that." You laugh softly, tilting your head up to touch your lips to the tip of his nose.

"Love you too," you whisper with a warm smile. You sit in peaceful silence for a moment, before your face falls slightly. "You don't think she'll... Go to the papers or anything, do you?" you ask nervously. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

"Not Sylwia," he says quietly. "She's not the revenge type. She’s always been more of a 'forgive and forget' type."

"Even this?" you ask, arching an eyebrow. He shrugs a little.

"Maybe, maybe not. If so, it'll take a long time. We shall see." You nod slowly, and then he suddenly sighs. "Can we discuss something more pleasant?" he asks. You smile and tug him towards you to capture his mouth. There's a soft clatter as you wrap your arms around him, dropping the wedding ring in the process. His lips suddenly break from yours and trail down your neck. Your eyes close, and just before you completely lose yourself under his soft kisses, you manage to sneak in one final, coherent thought:

Yes, there'll probably be more than a few nights where you're kept awake, plagued by thoughts of ethics and morals and right and wrong and too many emotions to keep track of.

But that's a price you're more than willing to pay for him.

Sun, 15 Oct 2006 19:55:21 GMT

Title: And I Want You for All Time
Author: CMT
Pairing: Miro Klose/Per Mertesacker
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The usual. Not mine. Don’t sue.
Warnings: Angst. Lots of it. Yet at the same time slightly more light-hearted.
Summary: Per sleeps and Miro reminisces
Notes: Companion to Night Musings from Miro’s POV. The title’s from the Glen Campbell song “Wichita Lineman.” Second person, un-beta’d, the usual…

His hair’s tickling your cheek, and he’s snoring faintly. His hand is splayed across your chest, so you take the opportunity to gently lace your fingers with his. He shifts, nuzzling against your neck and mumbling something incoherent.

If you’re to be totally honest, you never envisioned anything remotely like this. The two of you, curled up together, that is. And even if you had imagined it, you’d never imagine yourself wanting, needing it so badly.

The first time you’d shared a room with him, you found yourself taken. He was funny, sweet, charming, and overall good company. You just enjoyed spending time with him. He also sparked something in you. Something you thought you’d buried a long time ago. Something you hoped wouldn’t be dug up ever again. You soon found you were blessing yourself and murmuring prayers far too frequently.

The first time he’d kissed you, any and all thoughts of right and wrong vanished, and all that mattered was the fact that he felt this way too. When you’d leaned apart, he’d offered you that wide, infectious grin that you still love to see. You found yourself smiling too, and then he rested his forehead against yours and started to chuckle. You were soon laughing as well. That night, he slept in your bed.

That started it all.

As time passed, between the stolen kisses and the secret meetings, you somehow found the time to realize that there was more than simple attraction to this relationship. But you weren’t sure if it was love. Neither of you had ever used the word with each other, nor any other word for your feelings either. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t a homosexual thing. It wasn’t some sort of release-tension-by-having-sex thing either. It just was.

There was also the distance. Just far enough away to be conspicuous. You two did what you could, taking advantage of games with the national team and games against each other to make the most of your relationship. You apologized on more than a few occasions, saying you were sorry about making him feel like a dirty little secret. He’d smiled, given you a soft kiss, and said that this was more than enough. That had only served to make you care for him more.

And then he’d moved to Bremen. You were thrilled at first, knowing he’d be close by. But anxious too, afraid that keeping things separate would be even harder. You’d kicked up your efforts, and you’d done a damn fine job. You always met as his place, except for the rare occasion when you knew that no one would be at your house except for you two. You were careful never to let anything slip. No one suspected anything. It had been so perfect…

Until it all came crashing down.

It was nothing physical. Not an article of clothing you accidentally kicked under the bed. Not some remnant of your activities that could have been hidden in the bottom of a drawer. Nothing like that.

It was a name. His name, slipping out at the wrong time. It wasn’t like the old cliché; you weren’t shoved out of bed because you screamed his name during an intimate moment. But looking back, you rather grimly wish it had been. It would have been so much easier to walk out the door if it there had been some sort of passion involved. If tempers had been flaring, if curses and insults were being thrown at each other. But of course, it couldn’t be like that.

It had been late. You’d been curled up in bed with her, and she had just whispered goodnight, and that she loved you. Half-asleep and groggy, you’d mumbled that you loved her too, and for reasons still unknown to you, you added his name after the last word. You didn’t notice, but it soon became obvious that she had.

She was shaking you, and your eyes opened, finding her looking confused. It was then that you realized what you’d done. Struggling to keep calm, she asked you to repeat yourself. And then the excuses had started. Pouring from your lips, each one more pathetic than the last. You rambled until she could take no more, and she silenced you by laying a finger over your lips. With a weary sigh, she sat up. Looking straight into your eyes, she asked for the truth.

It was only fair. You cracked.

To her credit, she was silent as you told her everything. When you were finished, she shook her head. Without looking at you, she asked very quietly if you loved her. You stuttered a moment. The answer you knew she wanted to hear mingled with the answer you knew was the truth, producing only a quiet, choked noise. She buried her face in her hands, and she didn’t need to say anything. You knew what she wanted.

You dressed quickly, grabbing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. You were putting on your shoes, when you heard a soft sob. Looking over, you saw her crying. Moving towards the bed, you went to hug her, but she twisted away, whispering for you not to touch her and to get out. As you headed for the door, you made sure to stop to give each of your boys a kiss, unsure if or when you’d see them again.

Without thinking, you soon found yourself fidgeting in front of his door, knocking impatiently. A small part of your mind had started speaking up. You’re going straight to hell for this, sinner, how dare you, you evil, disgusting…

He opened the door, and all that mattered was that you had someone to cling to, someone to cry with. He seemed surprised, but soon he’d guided you to his bed, and you lay there together. Feeling his hands gently caressing your skin, his lips brushing through your hair, you knew it was time to name this. Maybe there was a reason you called your wife by his name when saying you loved her. Tilting your head up, you’d touched the softest of kisses to his chin, whispering that you loved him. There was a split-second pause, and then he was rubbing his cheek over the top of your head, whispering that he loved you too.

He didn’t ask what happened the next morning. He just looked at you with a rather sad shade of guilty confusion, almost like a child who was under the impression that mommy and daddy’s divorce was somehow his fault. You’d reached out and squeezed his hand, smiling reassuringly. He’d smiled back, weak and shy.

You called her after breakfast, out of necessity rather than desire. He stood behind you, arms around your waist, holding your body against his, rocking gently. After much begging, you’d finally convinced her that she should let you over to see the boys once in a while, but you had to agree that she wouldn’t be there. You usually pass her, leaving as you’re walking in, and vice versa. She never says a word, doesn’t look at you. You’ve gotten in the habit of checking your mail for the divorce papers that you know are inevitable.

He asks you sometimes, why you’re with him, why not her. You’ve never told him, because you’re still not sure how to put it in words. You don’t know how to say just how he makes you feel, how to properly express exactly what he means to you. So you smile, because that’s the only way you know how to say it. He always smiles back. You’ve finally managed to convince him that none of this was his fault. It was your choice. He responds to this with a fake look of suspicious disbelief, which he only manages for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. You then roll your eyes and ruffle his hair.

As with any major decision in life, there were, and still are on rare occasion, those times when you have your doubts. Your morals have been shuffled so much you’re not even sure what you believe anymore. You’ve lost yourself in this thought one more than one occasion, only to be brought back to reality by a soft kiss or a gentle nuzzle.

Glancing at the clock, you wince at the time, realizing that if you want to be even remotely aware tomorrow, you should get some sleep. Turning your head, you lightly touch a kiss to the top of his head, pausing to smell the light scent of his hair. You smile to yourself as he grunts, somehow managing to cuddle even closer.

As you close your eyes, you realize there’s no place you’d rather be.

Fri, 06 Oct 2006 23:04:13 GMT

Title: Night Musings
Author: CMT
Pairing: Miro Klose/Per Mertesacker
Rating: PG
Warnings: RPS, naturally
Disclaimer: Not mine. These guys belong to themselves and not me. This story is complete fiction, so please don’t sue. And if you do, be warned that I have nothing worth suing for.
Summary: Miro sleeps and Per thinks.
Notes: Second person point of view. Unbeta’d, so read at your own risk.

He’s asleep next to you, an arm thrown lazily over your waist. You’ve always envied how easily he can fall asleep. He just closes his eyes, then is out like a light. As usual, you can’t sleep, so you stare at the ceiling, listening to his quiet breathing. Your arm’s wrapped around his shoulders, fingertips lazily caressing his soft skin.

You wonder sometimes, how it came to this. The two of you, twined together under the sheets. The very idea of it seems almost impossible.

And yet here you are.

There was a time when it wasn’t like this. A time when you were both leading your respective lives, each of you aware of the other’s existence, but nothing further than that. Sure, you ran into each other occasionally during a game -- sometimes literally. Perhaps you’d trip each other up in a fight for the ball, or maybe slam into each other when there was no time for either of you to stop, but that was about it.

Then came the national team, and the forced interaction. When it was announced that the two of you were roommates, you’d shared a wary glance, as though perhaps you were scared of each other. That night, you’d started with pathetic small talk, and simply let the conversation evolve into whatever it would become. You enjoyed it, finding him open, animated, and just fun to talk with. There was also something about him, the way he listened to your every word as though it were the most important thing in the world.

You two became fast friends.

That third night in the hotel room, the scene was eerily similar to tonight’s, except with separate beds. Lying there awake, listening to his gentle inhaling and exhaling. That was when you realized that you felt something for this man. Something more than simple friendship.

You can remember clearly, as though it were just yesterday, that first time you kissed him. You had been in the bathroom, shaving after your shower. He had been lying on his bed -- the one next to the window, you remember -- recounting some story or other, and you had both been laughing. Then you’d walked over to his bed, and sat down next to him -- you did that sometimes. He’d finished his story, and then he’d given you a wide, sweet, nearly playful grin.

And that had done it.

You’d leaned in, lightly touching your lips to his. It was intended to be quick, quick enough that you could lean away before he punched you. But he’d surprised you, wrapping his arms around you and drawing you close. And you’d kissed him, and he’d kissed you back, soft and sweet.

At first, you’d been nervous about being involved with him. But he’d assured you it would be okay, no one would find out, nothing would go wrong. You, naturally, had your doubts. Being in different cities meant that visits were all but impossible to keep inconspicuous. You found yourselves limited to games against each other, or the rare long weekend. The World Cup wasn’t exactly a hindrance either, as you found more than a few opportunities to be alone together.

And then you’d moved to Bremen. You were excited to be close to him, to have someone on the team who could help you avoid the stereotype of the gangly, awkward new guy. Yet at the same time, you were anxious that it would be harder to get together in secret, that you would have to call it off.

But he’d promised that it would be okay.

And in the beginning it was. You almost always got together at your flat. He only called you when he was home alone. On those rare occasions when you were at his home, you were both so careful to erase any evidence of your being there. It had been so perfect…

To this day, you don’t know what you missed. But somehow, you overlooked something somewhere, and it was to cost you dearly. It had been late at night, and you’d thought you were going crazy, a knock on the door at three in the morning, so you ignored it, brushed it off as a dream. When it had persisted, you’d finally dragged yourself out of bed to answer.

You found him there, eyes red and watery, lips quivering faintly. You barely had time to ask what was wrong before he was in your arms, clinging to you, burying his face in your shoulder, tears wetting your skin. And you knew then what had happened. Biting your lip, you’d buried your face in his hair, hardly believing what he’d given up for you.

After standing in the doorway for some time, you’d guided him to your bed, let him curl around you. You stroked his back, pressed soft kisses to his hair, tried your best to comfort him until the sobs began to subside and he fell asleep in your arms. But before he drifted off, he had, whispering for the first time that he loved you.

You held him even tighter and whispered that you loved him too.

He’s never told you exactly what happened that night. And you wouldn’t dream of asking. You don’t need to know how details were discovered, or what curses were screamed, or any of the other gory details. You’re more than satisfied with the simple miracle of nothing being said to the papers. And things aren’t as horrible as they could be. After much persuasion, he somehow managed to convince her to let him over sometimes to see the boys.

He always comes home from those visits with a loving but sad smile.

You ask him sometimes, why he chose to stay with you, and not the one he promised his life to. His response is always the same. He cocks his head, offering a strange, cryptic sort of smile, almost as though he’s sharing a secret joke with himself. You’re never quite sure what this is supposed to mean,

There are days you wonder if it’s all really worth it, but a warm smile and the soft pressure of his lips against yours always assures you that it is. And now, even, his face pressed into your neck, his soft breath tickling your skin, his legs tangled with yours. You couldn’t ask for anything more in life. You have someone who loves you, and you love him back.

You press a kiss to his hair, smiling gently.

“I love you,” you whisper, barely audible. He seems to have heard you, as he shifts, mumbling something groggily into your neck. You smile to yourself as you rest your cheek against his head, and let yourself drift off.

fin.

Constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!

Huzzah for drabbles!

Tue, 11 Jul 2006 00:41:49 GMT

The people on ff.net seemed to like this, so I'm putting it here. Why not? ~~Please don't eat me.~~

Title: One In…
Fandom: Numb3rs
Pairing: Larry/Megan
Word Count: 130
Summary: Larry ponders just how lucky he really is.
Notes: Inspired by an old “Bloom County” strip, which is where I borrowed the pseudo-stats from, so don’t take them too seriously.

He was pretty lucky, really.

Let’s see. The odds that the Big Bang would successfully form a universe that didn’t instantly collapse in on itself?

One in four million.

The odds that a planet within this particular solar system would be able to sustain life?

One in forty-seven billion.

The odds the evolutionary process would lead to Homo sapiens sapiens?

One in six million.

And the odds he’d meet and fall in love with a woman who was beautiful, intelligent, and downright astounding?

One in two billion.

The odds that at this moment he’d be sitting with said woman on a park bench on a delightful day in Los Angles?

One in…

“Larry? What are you thinking about?”

Larry smiled and squeezed Megan’s hand.

“Oh, nothing.”

Yep. Pretty lucky alright…