Bundeslihaha: Where Fussball Meets Fun

Escape

I had much fun writing this chapter. I completely immersed myself in the plot and in the character, not to mention the sleepless nights when I wrote this! Thank goodness it's over. Is it worth it, though? Is it not? Well, find it out below.

I'd also like to thank Jenny (twitter.com/Starchild19DC) for her brilliant ideas :) This chapter is for you, my friend.

Warning: Dark, headcanon heavy, strong language.

(Posted 8.3.15, edited 17.11.16 - I'll never forget you, Jen. Wherever you are, I hope you're doing great.)

ID: Digital art of Bundeslihaha's Bayer 04 Leverkusen facing back, but his head is turning towards the camera. He's wearing a black jersey with red accents and a white "werkself" as the brand, the name "Lev" under it, a large "04" in the middle, and and the club name at the bottom "Bayer 04". He has curly golden blond hair, pale skin, and red eyes. His face is covered with a black and red striped scarf. He is also holding a lit flare. The background is a blurred picture of the BayArena terrace with the club crest overlaid. Over Leverkusen's shoulder is white text with my signature, "lewadda '15". End ID.

***

He was out of sleeping pills.

His hands, never losing their dexterity despite the late hour, landed on his nightstand, fingers turning each bottle to his scrutiny.

He'd meticulously replaced the long, forgettable scientific names of the medications he'd been given with simpler terms, but no matter how easy 'sleeping pills' was to comprehend, he couldn't find anything inside that little bottle, his prescribed lifeline.

Was something wrong with his eyes? Should he take more meds, maybe vitamin A supplements? His contacts were not prescription, but maybe they should be. Or maybe they'd made a new version of the pills, ones he couldn't see unless he was almost incurably sick?

No, he shook his head vigorously, messing his untrimmed blond locks, that's fucking silly, Leverkusen.

Jumping down his bed, he pulled his drawers open, the clinks of glass and plastic and wood giving him added alertness. Cough. Cold. Flu. Allergies. Headache. Nausea. "Come on," he said through gritted teeth, pushing and pushing and pushing through the sea of useless medicines with his fingers. Nothing.

Wasting no time, he moved on to the drawer under it. Stomachache. Constipation. Food poisoning. Vitamin C.

"Sleep," he hissed, willing his longtime partner to just appear right now, "Sleep." Stomach flu. "Sleep." Anemia. "Sleep." Muscle pains. "Sleep." Stimulant. The very last thing he needed. "Sleep." Calcium.

But nothing else.

Absolutely fucking nothing.

A roar made its way out of his system, its force sending the drawers crashing into each other, breaking the bottles into shards as sharp as his mounting panic.

"No," he choked out, feeling the nagging voice rearing its ugly head, "no. No. No!"

Covering his ears, he ran to his desk, praying for spares, leftovers, even if his precious pills were on the floor under it, collecting dust.

And books. So many, too many books for someone who rarely read. Maybe he'd used the pills as bookmarks a year ago. Or two. Or three. Or four.

He threw them out of the shelf like one would a frisbee, eyes scanning for the pale blue magic hiding in the night.

Nothing. His books, so seldom that he read them, were yellowed and torn, the rotten smell of dead termites sending bile running up his throat.

Coughing a sticky substance he chose to ignore, he checked his bags, his wardrobe, every pocket, every fold- but nothing.