Chapter Text
It all starts, of course, with the classic letter-to-the-wrong-person.
Of course it does.
Manuel's barely moved into his new house in Munich-- every room is still littered with cardboard boxes, most of them still taped shut. There's almost no furniture anywhere, save for a simple dining table and a couch (which is a huge red Bavarian monstrosity that Manu falls in love with immediately) as well as a huge beanbag, which is shaped like a huge football, because why not.
Apparently, the previous owner-- some name that started with a B? Benjamin? Berne? Manu had been too rushed and tired to register and remember the name properly-- had the same aesthetic taste that he did, which was why Manu had fallen in love with the house the first time he'd walked in. B-something also obviously adored the house, explaining how it had been his grandparents' house and he'd grown up in it with his friends, and that the only reason he's leaving is that he needs to be closer to his university, where he's studying Aerospace Engineering.
Manuel wonders why he remembers all this but not the guy's name. (He blames it on the lack of coffee.)
He stands in the middle of the empty living room with his hands on his hips, surveying his surroundings tiredly. He knows he ought to do some more unpacking, but he's absolutely exhausted, pretty much ready to fall asleep on his feet, nevermind there's no bed, dammit. He considers playing some music to keep himself awake, but his iPod is buried six feet under in his luggage and all the stuff on his phone is slow, sappy music (thanks, Mario) which is just guaranteed to send Manu off to dreamland. What he really needs is a cup of coffee, which is out of the question because he hasn't bought a coffee machine yet, and he doesn't know the area well enough to go trudging through the streets at ten in the night looking for caffeine. He doesn't live in a particularly safe district, and Manu's too young to die, thank you very much.
He eyes the couch. It certainly looks comfortable enough.
It's funny how fast he moves when he's tired but has a target in mind-- he barrels up the stairs two at a time, brushes his teeth like a hurricane, digs out some pyjamas and throws them on inside-out, bounds back downstairs and flops down face-first onto the couch, completely worn out.
Sleep comes easily enough.
*
Though not for long enough.
Manuel wakes up with his face planted into a plush, comfortable pillow which is doing a right job of suffocating him. He raises his head off the pillow and promptly falls off the couch, wincing as the morning light hits his eyes, because of course he didn't draw the curtains.
His back hurts and he's incredibly hungry and his head feels like it's full of cotton wool.
Manuel has rarely felt so uncoordinated in his entire life. Which isn't saying much, because his life has always been supremely boring-- study, eat, sleep, train, start it all over again in the morning. In fact, leaving home in Schalke to attend university in Munich is pretty much the boldest step he's taken in his twenty-one years.
Which is pretty pathetic, when he thinks about it.
He's just drifting off on the floor all over again, praying for maybe two more hours of undisturbed sleep-- just two, please, please-- when the doorbell rings.
Manuel stares down the hallway at the dark wooden door in sheer disbelief. He reaches for his phone to check the time. He gapes at the numbers on the screen.
It's seven o'clock.
It's seven o' fucking clock in the fucking morning and somebody is at his door ringing his fucking doorbell and what gives them the fucking right, Manuel wonders.
He gets to his feet, surprisingly graceful and quick, stalks down the hallway and throws open the door, teeth bared, ready to assault whoever has the guts to come calling at this ungodly hour, when he stops suddenly, taking in the sight in front of him.
What looks like a pair of legs wearing red shorts stands at the doorstep, but the person's torso is entirely obscured by what looks like enough food to feed a football team. The dishes are stacked carefully on top of each other, each giving off a god-heavenly aroma which makes Manu want to drop everything and devour it to his heart's content.
Before he can reach for the chocolate muffin that's precariously balanced at the very top of the stack, a set of blond hair, so blond that's it's nearly silver, and a pair of very blue eyes make their appearance from behind the chocolate muffin.
Manuel freezes, hand still suspended in the air.
"Hello," the-still-faceless-but-blond-haired-and-blue-eyed stranger says. His voice is deep and low, but has a nice soft lilt to it.
"Um," Manu says intelligently, because clearly his coherence is at its best at 7 am.
"I'm Bastian." The blue eyes peer up at him curiously. "I'd shake your hand, but, uh-" He motions with his head helplessly to show his arms are occupied.
Manuel realises he's still reaching for the muffin. He drops his arm hastily, embarrassed.
"Manuel," he says by a way of introduction. "Should I?" Without waiting for an answer, he takes half of the food from Bastian and steps aside to let him enter, because stranger or not, this food is quite plainly meant for Manu and he's already decided that Bastian is his new best friend.
Bastian's head finally shows up from behind the dishes. He's quite young, about three or four years older than Manuel at most. He's got a perfect smile and charming features, with smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes, which hold a look of dignified happiness.
Manuel likes him instantly.
"I just moved in," he explains as the pair weave their way through piles of cardboard boxes.
"I know," Bastian grins. "I live next door." He motions with his head towards the left wall, which is barely separated by a finger's width of distance from Bastian's house. "I moved in last month, so I know what a nightmare it is. Figured you could use some help." He shrugs good-naturedly.
Manuel nearly trips over a bunch of photo frames strewn about in front of the kitchen, only his reflexes, developed through years of goalkeeping saving him from kissing the floor. Still, he probably manages to look intensely stupid.
Not that it matters at this point, really. He's embarrassed himself in front of Bastian in two minutes of meeting him more than he has in front of anybody in his whole life.
Fuck moving. Fuck jet lag. Fuck his life.
Bastian tuts, sets the dishes on the kitchen table, comes back out and bends down to clear up the photo frames, chuckling softly when Manu mutters 'you're a godsend' under his breath.
*
Bastian is easy to talk to. He's good with his words, generous with his smiles, warm and affectionate and his aura is a mix between bestfriend/brother/paternal and Manuel can't help but feel entirely comfortable wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and dozing off at the kitchen table while the former heats up the pancakes and looks for the maple syrup.
"Didn't you get any sleep last night?" Bastian asks as he flips a pancake, when Manuel yawns for the tenth time in two minutes.
"Jet lag," Manuel explains comprehensively, trying to concentrate on the delicious smell of the pancakes to stay awake. "Plus, I don't function without coffee in the morning, but I donated my old machine to Mario and I haven't bought a new one ye-"
He's cut short when Bastian puts down a thermos flask in front of him. "I didn't add milk or sugar."
Manuel gapes. "What did I do to deserve you?"
"I'm your guardian angel," Bastian says airily, one eyebrow quirked faux-modestly, as he shoves half a dozen pancakes onto Manuel's plate, taking two for himself as he seats himself opposite the latter. "It's obviously my job. Syrup?"
Manuel gratefully accepts and pours half the bottle over the pancakes.
"So, Manuel," Bastian says, cutting his pancakes up nearly with a fork and knife and everything Manu can't be bothered to use. "What brings you to Munich?"
"Studies," Manuel explains, taking a sip of his coffee. "I'm going to study Quantum Mechanics in the University of Munich."
Bastian is clearly impressed. "Wow, quantum mechanics?"
Manuel shrugs like it's no big deal-- which it isn't, really, it's just a matter of loving science and a fair amount of hard work. "What about you? You've been in Munich all your life?"
"I was born in Kolbemoor, but I moved to Munich when I was five." Bastian explains, taking a bite of his pancake and chewing carefully before continuing. "I wanted to become a football player since I could walk, and I was pretty decent, but I broke my leg in an accident and that went for a toss." He swallows the bite. "I majored in languages instead, moved to Manchester as a sports reporter. Got promoted, moved back to Germany. Now I handle the sports section of Munich Times."
Manuel feels awake enough to recognize that the accident is obviously a painful topic for Bastian, so he doesn't push it. Instead, he asks, "How old are you?"
"Twenty-five," Bastian says. "You?"
"Twenty-one in March. These pancakes are awesome." Manuel reaches unabashedly for the muffin and toast.
"Thanks." Bastian's blue-grey eyes look amused. "Do you want help unpacking? I'm free today."
*
By evening, they've got the house into some state resembling normalcy and order. (Bastian even finds some spare light bulbs in his own house and brings them over to Manuel's.)
It's only at nine o'clock that both of them start yawning, so they take a break and flop down on the sofa while the pasta gets microwaved.
"So, when does uni start?"
"Day after tomorrow." The microwave beeps and Manu stands, offering Bastian his hand to pull the latter up. They wander into the kitchen and Bastian digs into the drawers for forks. "Do you work all through Monday to Friday?"
"Sometimes more than that," Bastian says, seating himself. "Depends on when the matches are. Bundesliga prefers the weekends."
Manuel nods and spears his pasta with manners.
"Speaking of matches," Bastian points a forkful of pasta at Manuel, his starry blue eyes twinkling. "You should come with us to watch one sometime."
Manuel nods gratefully, because the one thing he loves is watching football in stadiums (not that he's had many opportunities). He smiles at Bastian but asks, "Us?"
"Me and my friends, you should meet them." Bastian's smile grows wider. "Robert, Julian, David. They're a lot of fun," he promises, and Manu doesn't doubt it.
Manuel laughs. "What about you? Got anybody in your life?"
"Would I be spending all day with your sorry ass if I did?" Bastian teases, chuckling when Manuel pretends to be offended. "But, no, there's no one. You?"
Manuel shakes his head. "Not currently, no."
Both of them yawn at the same time.
"You should probably get some sleep," Bastian informs him. "You look like a zombie."
Manuel sticks out his tongue at his friend, which is pretty much the most childish thing he's done since he was seven. "Same to you."
Which is not true because Bastian looks as immaculate as he did fourteen hours previously. And if his smirk is anything to judge by, the older man knows it.
They stand and exchange numbers-- which, strictly speaking, isn't really necessary, because all Manuel needs to do is open the kitchen window and yell for Bastian to hear. Nevertheless, they do anyway, and the older man gives him a warm hug, waves and pulls the door shut behind him.
*
It's the last day before uni starts, and Manuel is nowhere as freaked as he should be, which scares him a little.
He spends the day sorting out the house, which despite the missing furniture, is beginning to resemble a liveable environment. He gets rid of the cardboard boxes, hangs up the photos of his family and is just about to call Bastian, but then he collapses on the couch, completely worn out.
*
He wakes up early on Monday, because the last thing he wants to do is be late on his first day. Bastian turns up with Nutella and toast and promises to treat Manuel to dinner if all goes well at Uni.
"Call me if you need anything, alright?" Bastian says paternally, handing Manu the books that the latter is perfectly capable of picking up himself.
Manuel nods. "I'll do that."
"Good luck," Bastian says. He hugs him with a little more force than is strictly, but Manu lets it pass. He waves to his new friend and sets off towards the bus stop.
The October air is chilly, as it always is in Munich at this time of the year, but it's soothing as well. Manuel pulls his scarf tighter around his neck and sets off walking, hands dug deep into his pockets.