Archive of Our Own ^beta

“What’s wrong with you? We’ve been here for a day, and you’ve literally grunted at me about a thousand times. No ‘hi Marc, yeah babe, I love you too.’ Hell, you’re even sleeping in the other bed, so I must have pissed you off.” Marc rolled his eyes as he sat beside the older man, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

“Go away, Marc,” Bernd muttered, standing up and moving away from the shorter man. “Can you not take a hint?”

“For fuck’s sake, can you stop being such a whiney little brat and tell me what’s wrong with you so I can maybe help you find a way to fix it? You know, do what people usually do when they are together?” Marc raised an eyebrow.

“What? Now you’re questioning my commitment to this relationship? That’s rich coming from you, ter Stegen,” Bernd spat.

“Bernd, not everything is a personal attack on you. Christ! Now tell me what the fuck is wrong with you!” Marc shouted.

“I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here…” Bernd swallowed, focusing on the view from the window.

“What? You love internationals, though…” Marc wondered as he moved closer to the older man.

“No. Not this one. Just leave me alone, Marc - just pretend that it’s U-17 again, yeah?” Bernd squeezed his eyes closed.

“What? Go back to fucking every so often? After all these years? What’s wrong? I love you, I’m not going to let you just curl up in front of me, Bernd, please…” The crack was evident in Marc’s voice, but Bernd didn’t want to accept that he was the cause of it.

“I just want to be left alone for a while,” Bernd muttered before he fled the room, Marc following after him.

“Leno! Leno, you come back here, do you fucking understand me?!” He shouted, knowing the look he received from Marco and Mesut was going to get him into a lot of trouble.

It was dinner the next time Marc saw Bernd - of course the two of them were sitting beside each other, thanks to Jogi and his stupid plans for them to become the best of friends. Bernd and Marc had had the talk about when to tell everybody about their relationship, but it just never came up, so they left it that way.

There were five of them at the table: Marc, Bernd, Marco, Toni, Mesut and Julian. They were all eating quietly, the friendly glares between Draxler and Marc the best thing since sliced bread.

“You know, it’s true when they say that, as a keeper, playing against a national team player is harder: they know everything we’re going to do. At least you did.” Marc narrowed his eyes.

“Are you still going on about that? You probably should have saved it,” Julian frowned.

“Lighten up about it, Jules. What’s wrong, anyway?” Toni wondered.

“He’s missing his midget, who was kidnapped by the U-21 squad. He’ll bring you back another medal?” Mesut tried.

“That would be nice, a gold one this time,” Julian grinned.

“Keep it PG, Draxler,” Marc shuddered. “What’s wrong with you, princess?”

As always, Bernd scowled at the nickname, but honestly Marc didn’t care if he was poking a lion - when Bernd was angry he’d let everything slip, anyway.

“Fuck off. Congratulations on winning La Liga, Toni,” Bernd smiled. Everybody at the table knew it was a dig at Marc - this could get interesting.

“Thanks?” Toni looked uncertain if he wanted to engage in this anymore - yet if Marc and Bernd started slinging insults, it would be brilliant.

“How is the bottom half of the table this half of the year?” Marc retorted. “Europe sure is going to be fun next season.”

“How is Celta? I do love when you try to be Manu and you fuck it up terribly.”

“Yes, because you’re a bitter and horrible person.”

“What was it like to be Dybala’s puppet? Because for all of us watching, it was hilarious.”

“But, Bernd, you were the only one watching it on your TV; we were all either training or playing in matches. The hardships of being you…I’m sorry, losing to Schalke? That has to be my favourite fuck-up,” Marc said, looking straight into his lover’s - possibly ex-lover’s - eyes, pinpointing the exact moment his heart shattered.

“At least I’m not a lying piece of shit like you. I hope you fall on a fucking spoon,” Bernd snarled, keeping his voice low so only those at the table could hear him.

The goalkeeper received a few curious glances as he made his way out of the room, but most people assumed he was going to the bathrooms across the hall.

“Marc-Andre ter Stegen, you better go apologise to him now, or I’ll fucking get Jogi. That last part was unnecessary, and you know it,” Mesut growled.

“I’m not apologising to him,” Marc frowned. He knew he really should, but he’d just fucked up everything. “He wants me to fall on a spoon.”

“Marc, go, now.” Marco was giving him that angry Marco look that made practically everybody feel uncomfortable.

“Don’t start cursing in Spanish - I play with Silva and Cavani, I know those words. They aren’t nice words.” Julian shook his head as the older man walked away.

“What did we just witness?” Mesut asked.

“I don’t know, but if they aren’t back in 10, Toni and Marco? You can see which of them has fallen on a spoon,” Julian muttered. Mesut smirked.

When Marc walked in, Bernd was leaning on the countertop, his eyes squeezed shut - but the tear tracks evident on his face. Marc was hoping that Bernd wouldn’t realise it was him as he went to envelope him in a hug, but that didn’t happen.

“Come near me and I’ll kick you in the kneecap,” Bernd muttered.

“How did you know it was me?” Marc wondered.

“You’ve been wearing the same stuff for God knows how long. Come here to laugh?”

“I’m here to say sorry. I took things too far. I, I didn’t mean it,” Marc whispered.

“You did, just like I meant mine. It’s how we work, Marc: we thrive off of each other’s failures. It’s not healthy sometimes, not right now anyway. Do you know how it felt the second I came here to be reminded of a season where I fucked everything up? Our perfect no-conceding record in qualification, gone because of me. Jesus, imagine the headlines…We were basically in a relegation battle, Marc, and what did I keep doing? Letting the fucking balls in the back of the net. Meanwhile, you were off sunning it up in Barcelona,” Bernd muttered.

“Why do you always think, just because I play for Barca, that I have it easier? The pressure would make anybody feel bad about every mistake. There have been times when I’ve thought that I didn’t deserve to be there, that I didn’t deserve to be here. We both knew, at the very beginning when we hated each other, that this was going to be hard - and look, our stupid selves were right,” Marc grinned halfheartedly.

“Do you know why I don’t want to be here? I don’t deserve it. Every time I’d see Andi in the crowd, I’d get a knot in my stomach and I’d think, ‘This is the game where they realise that I don’t deserve it, that I’m crap.’ There have been so many times that I needed you, but you weren’t there; I just needed you to tell me that it would be okay, and you didn’t. That’s what’s wrong with me. So, is this where I get my final ‘I love you?’”

“Bernd, I’m a phone call away, you idiot. I love you. This isn’t the last one; there’s a hundred thousand left in me. I love you, I love your eyes, I love you. Don’t you ever think that I’m going to leave you. What happened out there, that’s just for them. This, this is us,” Marc promised before he pulled Bernd close, scratching his fingers through the older man’s hair.

“I love you, too; I just wish you were closer. Phone calls, I can do those.” Bernd breathed before he pulled away to press a gentle kiss to the corner of Marc’s mouth. “We’re never doing that again.”

“No, no, we’re not. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too; I’m not happy when you try to be Manu and you fuck up.”

“Yes, yes, you are. I feel the same way when you do it,” Marc replied before the door opened.

“I fucking told you! Marco, money, please!” Toni grinned.

“How did you…?” Marc muttered as Bernd buried his head in his neck.

“You two fuck really loudly, like, so loudly. Plus, you’re easily the most obvious out of our…” Marco started to count on his fingers. “…our 6 national couples, and then the two of us that like to go outside of the Germans.”

“Make it 7 now,” Toni added.

“True. Seriously, even Jogi has a bet on it - why do you think the two of you are always in rooms together? Anyway, does this mean you’ll stop being dicks?”

“I mean, we were just keeping up appearances - tonight was just rough, though.”

“Yeah, we know. You both better have apologised, because they are giving out dessert and I don’t want Jules to eat all of it,” Toni pouted.

“Come on, princess,” Marc smirked.

“Stop calling me that,” Bernd grumbled.

So in reality nothing changed, except for the fact that Marc and Bernd were at each other’s throats for entirely different reasons.