diekaiserin5

[diekaiserin5]

Bottled Up Feelings

• Warnings: scar inflicated by cigarette burn.

• Pairing: Franz Beckenbauer x Johan Cruyff

• A/N: It’s been a while since I posted, but I’m back! Sorry if this is less than what you’ve expected, but I tried my best :). Thank you for my homegirls for staying patient.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hotel room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that clung to the walls, heavy with all the words neither of them dared to say out loud for weeks. Maybe months.

Johan paced. Back and forth, like a rabid animal. Cigarette resting between his fingers, trailing smoke behind him like a comet tail. His hair was a wild mess, falling into his eyes. Eyes that haven’t looked at Franz in more than five minutes.

Franz watched from the armchair. Silent. Still. That kind of stillness that feels like it could shatter into a thousand pieces if you so much as breathe wrong.

“You never say anything,” Johan snapped suddenly, spinning mid step. “You just sit there like a goddamn statue. Like none of this matters.”

Franz lifted his gaze. Calm, controlled, stoic. But there was something simmering underneath.

“Because shouting won’t fix anything,” he replies evenly. “And you’re not even sure what you’re angry about.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Johan laughed–a bitter, jagged sound. “I know exactly what I’m angry about. I’m angry that you–” He cut himself off, exhaled hard, smoke curling out his nose. “I’m angry that I care more than you do.”

Franz’s jaw tensed. Just barely. But Johan caught it.

“That’s not true.”

“Then say something!” Johan exploded. “Say that you care! Say you hate seeing me with my wife! Say you missed me! Just… God, Franz, say anything human!”

And that’s when Franz stood up. Swift, precise. He walked over in two strides and grabbed Johan’s wrist mid-motion, stopping him in his tracks.

Their eyes locked immediately.

“You think I don’t feel this?” Franz accused, low, rough edged. “You really think I don’t stay up at night, wondering what the fuck we’re doing?”

But Johan flinched. The cigarette jerked, almost involuntarily–and the glowing end pressed into Franz’s bare forearm.

A hiss. A small, sharp sound of pain. Franz’s grip released instantly.

The cigarette dropped. Landed straight on the floor. But it was still smoldering.

The room went dead quiet.

Johan stared at the reddening mark on Franz’s skin. His breath got caught in his throat.

“Franz…” It’s not a word so much as a breath. A wound.

Franz didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the wall, the burn beginning to blister at the edges.

“I didn’t…”

“I know,” Franz sighed quietly.

“Let me see,” Johan muttered, then stepped closer. His fingers twitched again, unsure where to touch. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to. I just… I wasn’t thinking…”

“You never do,” Franz murmured. But there wasn’t any venom in it. Just… exhaustion.

Johan looked up, his blue eyes wild and glassy. “Why are you still here, then?”

Franz’s eyes met his. Steady and achingly honest.

“Because I love you.”

Johan flinched again. But not from pain. From impact.

“You…” His voice broke, jabbing an accusing finger at Franz’s chest. “You can’t just say that now.”

“Why not?”

“Because it changes everything.”

“It already changed everything.”

They stood inches apart. Just breathing each other in.

Johan reached out, this time carefully. His thumb brushed the edge of the burn. Soft. Reverent.

“I hurt you,” he whispered.

Franz caught his wrist again. But this time, it was gentle.

“You always do,” he broke the silence, “but I stay. Every time.”

Johan exhaled, sharp and trembling. His other hand rose to Franz’s chest, resting over his heart like he was checking for something. Life, maybe. Or forgiveness.

“I hate how much I need you,” he admitted.

Franz’s hand covered his.

“I hate how much you make me feel.”

And that, somehow, was the truest confession of all.

They leaned in. Not for a kiss, not yet. Just their foreheads touching. A brief ceasefire in a war they didn’t know how to stop fighting.

Outside, the city didn’t sleep. But for a moment, in the dim, smoke-tinged quiet of the hidden room–they did.

[diekaiserin5]

Reassurance

• Warnings: mention of injury, panic attack.

• Pairing: Paul Breitner x Uli Hoeneß

• A/N: The timing is crazy, because as I was writing this oneshot, I was suffering from knee pain too haha… Special thanks to A., the red wine and KK’s voice — Truly gave me the lift and motivation I needed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1975, Munich

2:23 AM.

Paul was already half awake when the phone rang.

Something in him had expected it. The way certain people cling to your subconscious even when you’re asleep–how their silence feels loud, their absence unnatural. He hadn’t spoken to Uli in days. Not properly. Just scattered words over the phone, dry updates, the occasional crack in the voice quickly patched over with jokes or silence.

So when the phone rang, Paul didn’t hesitate.

“Uli?”

At first, he got no answer. Just breathing. Fast. Ragged. Uneven. Then–

“Paul. I’m–I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t know who else to call…”

His voice was thin, barely clinging to structure. Paul sat up in bed, reaching for the lamp but not turning it on. Darkness seemed to be softer somehow.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Paul whispered, voice still grogged. But he was gentle and calm. “I’m here. Take your time.”

But Uli didn’t take his time.

“It’s all ruined, isn’t it?” He asked, breathless. “I mean–not officially. At least not yet. They’re not saying it out loud yet but I know. I can feel it. I know my body, Paul. I know what it can’t do anymore. It’s like–I’m twenty three, and it’s already slipping. All of it. The running, the weight, the fucking… sharpness. It’s not coming back. I think–I think I’m broken.”

His voice cracked on the last word. Paul leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, holding the receiver tighter than necessary.

“Uli,” he began, his voice low and warm. “You’re not broken.”

Uli laughed–sharp and bitter. “You didn’t see me, Paul. You didn’t see how slow I was just getting up today. Susi had to help me stand after I sat too long. It took three minutes just to straighten the leg. I feel like a goddamn old man. Do you know how that feels? Being useless in your own house?”

Paul closed his eyes. Let the silence stretch just long enough for Uli to hear it. Then he spoke again.

“You’re not useless. You’re recovering. And recovery isn’t weakness. It’s brutal, slow and cruel. But it’s not failure.”

“It feels like failure,” Uli whispered weakly.

“Of course it does,” Paul sighed. “Because you’re wired for war. You’ve never known how to sit still without thinking it means you’ve lost. But healing is a different kind of fight, Uli. And you’re still in it.”

There was another beat of pause on the other end of the line. Then:

“Why are you always the one who knows what to say?” Uli muttered, and Paul could hear the tears in his voice now. Not sobbing. Just leaking pain. “You were always like that. Even in’66. I couldn’t tie my boots right, and you sat down next to me like it was nothing. Like you knew. I think you’ve always known.”

“I didn’t always,” Paul corrected him softly. “But I know now.”

Uli took a sharp inhale. “Paul, I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“What if I never get back to where I was?”

“Then we go somewhere new.”

“...Will you still be there?”

Paul’s breath hitched, just a little. Then–firmly, clearly:

“Yes. I’m here now. I’ll be there tomorrow. I’ll be there when you can run again. I’ll be there if you never do. It doesn’t matter. Not to me.”

“It does to me,” Uli admitted, tone low.

“I know it does. But it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

Silence. Dense and full.

“I have no idea what I’d do without you,” Uli finally chuckled.

“You don’t have to know,” Paul murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Another breath. This one was quieter. Steadier, even.

Paul could almost hear the trembling begin to still.

“Will you… stay on the line?” Uli asked. “Even if we don’t talk?”

“I already turned off the light,” Paul replied with a soft smile. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Another soft chuckle. Tired, but real.

“Danke, Paul.”

Paul leaned back against his pillow, the phone still warm against his ear.

“Anytime, Uli. Always.”

And in the quite that followed, two men–bound by years, scars, and something neither dared to name–sat across miles of midnight, holding each other through the wire.

No spotlight. No stadium. Just the soft hum of the line, and a love shaped like comfort. Like constancy. Like breath in the dark.

[diekaiserin5]

Late Night Nerves

• Warning: none.

• Pairing: Franz Beckenbauer and Gerd Müller

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The room was dark.

Quiet, except for the occasional sound of shifting blankets and the soft rustle of sheets. The window was cracked open, letting in the warm July air and the distant hum of crickets. It was late. Too late to still be awake.

And yet–

Pace. Crack. Mutter.

“Gerd,” Franz groaned into his pillow, voice gravelled with sleep. “If you don’t sit down in the next ten seconds, I swear–”

“I can’t sit down,” came the desperate whisper from across the room. “Franz, it’s the final. The final. The very one. Against the Dutch. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since breakfast. No, since March. No, since the beginning of the tournament.”

Pace. Crack. Mutter.

Franz flopped over with an exasperated sigh. “I know it’s the final. We’ve all noticed. There are banners and press and people who keep calling us ‘legends’ before the game is even played. But Gerd, for God’s sake, it’s nearly two.”

Gerd didn’t answer. He just kept pacing, feet light but constant, knuckles popping one by one like a metronome of nerves.

Franz stared up at the ceiling.

Then he sat up. “You’re gonna wear a hole in the carpet.”

“It’s not even our carpet.”

“That makes it worse.”

Silence again, except for the rhythm of Gerd’s stress. Finally, Franz sighed again–less irritated now, more… resigned. He shifted to the side on his narrow bed, pulled back the blanket slightly, then gave the faintest pat to the empty space beside him.

“Come on.”

Gerd stopped. “What?”

“Just shut up and get in before I change my mind.”

There was a pause, long enough for Franz to think he might have misjudged.

But then, Gerd padded across the floor like a sheepish kid and carefully slipped under the covers. At first, there was a rigid line of distance between them. Then–softly, hesitantly–Gerd edged closer. And before Franz could brace for it, an arm looped around his middle.

He didn’t flinch. He knew this about Gerd. Knew that he clung to people like anchors when his mind wouldn’t stop spinning. Physical comfort. That was how he regulated the storm inside.

So Franz let it up.

The room fell quiet now. Softer.

A few minutes passed. Then–

“You’re warm,” Gerd murmured.

Franz huffed a laugh through his nose. “So are you. Don’t get used to this.”

Gerd just smiled faintly. “You always say that. And then you let me anyway.”

Silence again.

Then, movement.

Gerd’s head titled up slightly, brown eyes searching Franz’s face in the dark. Franz glanced down at the same time. Their breath mingled in the small space between them.

Neither knew who moved first. Maybe both of them did.

But suddenly, their lips met–tentative, brief, and barely even there.

And yet, it bloomed with the weight of everything they never said.

When they pulled back, they didn’t speak. Just blinked, completely dazed.

“...That didn’t feel wrong,” Gerd whispered, breaking the silence.

“No,” Franz replied. “It really didn’t.”

And then–

The door slammed open.

“Guten ABEND, ihr Idioten!” Sepp roared, flipping the light switch with dramatic flair and a bottle of something wildly inappropriate in one hand. “Guess who found the good schnapps and has no intention of sleeping tonight?!”

Both Franz and Gerd winced as the light exploded across the room. They scrambled apart, still under the same blanket but now with a suspicious amount of space between them.

Sepp blinked.

Then, his eyes narrowed, a grin tugging at his mouth.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled. “Sharing a bed now, are we? Looks like someone’s found a new tactic to beat the Dutch!”

Gerd flushed crimson. “It’s not–!”

Franz cut in smoothly, “He was having a meltdown. I was being generous.”

“Generous, right,” Sepp winked. “Well don’t let me interrupt. I just came to celebrate–early. You two lovebirds want a sip, or should I come back after round two?”

“Sepp,” Franz warned.

Sepp only cackled, kicked off his slippers, and made himself in the armchair.

Gerd groaned and buried his face in Franz’s shoulder. Franz–despite everything–didn’t push him away.

And as the lights stayed on and Sepp began a half-drunken rant about Dutch arrogance, Franz reached under the blanket and gently, quietly, took Gerd’s hand.

Just for a second.

Just long enough.

Because in the morning, they had a final to win. But tonight, in this weird little bubble of nerves and noise and unspoken things–they had each other.

[diekaiserin5]

Cigarette, Daydream…

• Warning: none.

• Pairing: Johan Cruyff x Franz Beckenbauer

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The city below murmured softly, wrapped in the hush of midnight. Lights blinked in scattered windows, neon flickered somewhere far off, but here–on the narrow balcony of a hidden hotel room–it was just the two of them.

Johan leaned on the railing like he was born to do it: shirt unbuttoned halfway, cigarette resting between his fingers, his light brown hair tousled from Franz’s hands or the wind–probably both.

Franz sat behind him, legs parted, elbows on his knees. And he watched.

God, he watched.

Smoke curled lazily from Johan’s lips, glowing orange at the tip like it was lit by the stars themselves. His jaw flexed, then relaxed again. Every movement was fluid. Thoughtless. Like seduction without intention.

Franz never really liked smoking. He told Johan a thousand times to stop–”It’s not good for your lungs,” “You’re a star athlete, damn it,” “At least cut back” – but of course, Johan never listened. Johan never had to listen.

But now? Watching him like this?

Franz felt like something inside him was unraveling.

“Staring won’t make me quit, you know,” Johan murmured, voice low and amused, without even turning around.

Franz managed a blink. “Wasn’t trying to.”

“Oh?” Johan turned slightly, cigarette hovering near his lips. “Then what were you doing, Franz?”

Franz didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, he rose slowly, stepping toward him–close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Johan’s body. He reached for the pack sitting on the ledge, pulled one out, rolled it between his fingers like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing.

Johan watched him now, something sharp and knowing in his eyes.

“I’ve never seen you smoke before,” he whispered under his nose.

“Because I’ve never wanted to smoke,” Franz replied. Then added, “Until now.”

He placed the cigarette between his lips. Didn’t ask or reach for the lighter. Didn’t feel like it.

He leaned in.

Johan froze for the smallest second–then smirked. The tip of his own cigarette glowed as he drew in a breath, and Franz, lips parted just slightly, brought his unlit cigarette forward, touching the ends together.

The heat transferred.

Their eyes locked.

Smoke rose between them like a secret.

And when the fire caught?

Johan didn’t look away.

Instead, he lifted his hand–slowly, deliberately–and curled his fingers around the back of Franz’s neck. He pulled him closer. Not for a kiss, not yet.

He exhaled.

Franz gasped–just a little–as Johan blew the smoke gently into his mouth.

It tasted bitter, warm, unfamiliar. It filled his chest and made his skin feel electric. His knees almost buckled, but he steadied himself, fingers curling around the iron railing like an anchor.

“Still hate smoking?” Johan whispered, impossibly close now.

Franz swallowed hard, eyes darkened. “You’re cheating.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Franz didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. His silence said everything.

Johan smiled, soft and slow. “Thought so.”

Franz let the cigarette fall from his lips, forgotten entirely without even taking one puff, crushed it beneath his heel without looking away. “Next time you try that, I am going to kiss you.”

“Is that a promise?” Johan’s voice was a dare.

Franz’s gaze flicked down to his mouth, that was turned into an upward, knowing smirk.

“A warning.”

And just like that, the tension folded into the quiet again. But it was much more heavier now. Richer. More alive. Johan lit another cigarette. Franz let the smoke curl around him this time–and didn’t complain.

No more words were needed. It was all there, written in their eyes.

[diekaiserin5]

Canon interaction😔

[diekaiserin5]

“Will You Still Love Me When I’m No Longer Young and Beautiful?”

• Warnings: none

The park bench was nothing special. Faded wood, chipped green paint, the kind of thing no one really notices, and maybe that’s why they always ended up here. It was far enough from the path to avoid curious eyes, shaded by a crooked tree whose branches swayed in rhythm with the wind.

They sat close. Not touching though–never touching–but close enough to feel the air around each other.

Johan stared ahead, watching a pair of ducks glide across the pond. Franz glanced sideways. He could feel it before he saw it: something was off. Johan was too still. Too quiet.

“You’re not talking,” Franz observed softly.

Johan exhaled a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “Must be bad, then. Even if you noticed.”

Franz smiled faintly. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“I’m losing my touch.”

“You’re never subtle,” Franz murmured. “That’s the whole point.”

Johan didn’t answer. Not at first. Just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands laced. His shoulders rose with a breath, but no words followed.

Franz waited. Patiently.

Then–

“It’s stupid,” Johan finally broke the deafening silence.

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Another pause. An even longer one.

“I’m afraid,” Johan began quietly. “Not of anything right now. Not of the press or the next match or whatever nonsense the federation is cooking up. I’m afraid of… time.”

Franz didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.

“I know it sounds dramatic,” Johan went on, tone much rougher now. “But sometimes I think–when we’re not young anymore, when I’m not…me the way I am now–what if you stop loving me?”

Franz turned to him fully, eyes narrowing, not in anger but in something like disbelief.

“Johan–”

“I mean it,” Johan cut in quickly, eyes still on the pond. “Right now, it’s easy. We win things. But one day, even we’ll get old. I’ll get grey and slower and maybe I’ll forget things and maybe you’ll see someone younger and–”

“Stop.”

Johan, surprisingly, did.

Franz’s voice quiet, but it carried a certain kind of firmness and certainty. “You really think I’m that shallow?”

“I don’t know,” Johan admitted, shrugging. “I just know how the world works. People fall in love with fire and forget what it feels like when it turns to ash.”

Franz was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You’re an idiot.”

That startled a faint, surprised laugh from Johan. “Thanks.”

“I’m in love with your soul,” Franz confessed, his eyes forward now too, steady as always. “That stupid, infuriating, brilliant soul of yours that never shuts up and always challenges me and sees through everything. That’s what I love.”

Johan blinked. Once. Or maybe twice.

“I’m not going to lie. You’re beautiful,” Franz continued, a little softer now. “I notice. Of course I do. But even if your face changes, even if your body fails you one day… you’ll still be you. And I’m in love with you.”

Johan sat still, frozen, like someone afraid to move too fast and shatter something fragile.

“When we’re old,” Franz still continued, which was a big thing from him, “and you’ve gone completely grey and you’re yelling at pigeons in this same park… I’ll still want to sit next to you.”

Silence again.

Then Johan leaned just slightly, just enough for his shoulder to brush Franz’s. Not enough to raise suspicion. Just enough to feel.

“You mean that?” he asked quietly, glassy eyes searching.

Franz nodded. “I do.”

A pause.

Johan finally smiled, and it was the softest he’d looked all day. “Guess I’ll stop worrying for now.”

“For now?”

“I’m neurotic, Franz. Don’t ask for miracles.”

Franz chuckled. “Fine. But the next time you spiral, at least let me hold your hand.”

“Well, look at you, Franz Beckenbauer.”

Their shoulders stayed touching. The wind moved the leaves overhead. No one looked. No one knew. And yet, in that small hidden space between breaths, between words–

It was everything.

[diekaiserin5]

Recognition

• Warnings: mention of underaged individuals

• Pairing: Wolfgang Overath and Günter Netzer

• A/N: First ever oneshot about them to my knowledge. It’s truly an honor to be the first one :,)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hotel bar smelled like cigarette smoke and aftershave, low-lit and lacquered with the kind of glamour that clung to athletes on their peak. Wolfgang nursed a small glass of red wine, his wife Karin beside him, fingers curled around the stem of her own drink, her posture always elegant in that soft, quiet way women from Köln seemed to master.

Across the room, Günter sat in the center of attention, as always. One woman perched on the barstool to his right, laughing too loud. Another leaned in from his left, her hand on his shoulder, whispering something that made his grin twitch wider. His blonde hair caught the light like it had been styled for the cameras.

Wolfgang saw it all through narrowed eyes, and maybe through the reflection in his glass.

“You’re squeezing too hard,” Karin murmured under her breath.

He blinked down at his hand, relaxing the grip slightly. “Sorry.”

“Is it him?”

Wolfgang didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Günter looked up at that moment. Their eyes locked across the distance. One heartbeat. Two. Then Günter’s smile shifted. It wasn’t warm–it never was, at least not with him. With a young, beautiful woman? Perhaps. But it wasn’t cruel either. It was something else. Knowing. Daring, even.

Karin noticed. She always did. “He’s just trying to get to you.”

“He doesn’t have to try.”

They didn’t really speak after that. The tension hovered like smoke above the table. When Karin finally stood up, brushing her skirt down with delicate fingers, she touched her husband’s shoulder gently.

“I’m tired. Come up soon?”

He nodded, a kind smile playing across his lips. “I will.”

Then she was gone.

The women by Günter had vanished, too–melted into the crowd or lured off to another kind of distraction. Wolfgang wasn’t sure. But now there were only two men in the dim bar, opposite corners of the same fading war.

Günter moved first. Walked over with the confidence of someone who didn’t believe in bad timing.

“Your wife is beautiful,” he began, sliding into the empty seat across from Wolfgang. “Not surprising. You always struck me as someone who’d have good taste.”

Wolfgang just arched a brow. “Is that meant to rattle me?”

“Would it work if it was?”

“I’m not sure.” He scoffed. “Where are those two women who were practically sitting on you? I was starting to think you’d bring them to training tomorrow.”

Günter just shook his head, smirking. “They were underaged. I sent them away.”

“Really?”

“What can I say? They didn’t like it, but believe it or not, even I have morals.”

Wolfgang let out a low chuckle. “Well, that’s definitely a relief.”

Günter grinned, but it was quieter now. “It was a compliment. What I said about your wife earlier.”

Wolfgang straightened, puffing his chest out slightly. “I know. It was… loaded.”

“All things are, between us.”

A silence opened. Not awkward. Not angry. Just weighted.

“You don’t like me,” Günter finally broke the silence.

“No. But I think I respect you.” Wolfgang’s eyes didn’t leave his. “Which is worse.”

Günter’s lips twitched. “Funny. I was about to say the same.”

“You’re flashy.”

“You’re rigid.”

“You showboat.”

“You disappear.”

Wolfgang huffed, half a laugh, half something else. “The papers make it sound like we’re enemies.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what they want. But my question is…” Günter leaned back, studying him. “What do you want?”

“I want a place on the team. I want to win.”

“Me too.”

Their drinks sat untouched. Neither of them noticed. Or just pretended to not notice.

“I thought you’d be more arrogant,” Wolfgang admitted after a moment.

“I thought you’d be duller,” Günter returned.

“And yet here we are.”

Another pause.

Then Günter leaned forward again, voice even lower. “You play like you’re afraid of wasting time.”

Wolfgang met his gaze. “You play like you’ve got nothing to lose.”

They held each other’s eyes for a long, unspoken moment. The bar buzzed behind them–soft music, laughter, glasses clinking–but it felt miles away. This was something else. Something quieter. Closer.

Günter tilted his head. “Maybe we’re not that different.”

Wolfgang’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Maybe that’s what scares me.”

The tension after that wasn’t the kind that came with rivalry. It wasn’t sharp, not exactly. It was something deeper. Like recognition. Like the crackling hum before a storm.

And maybe that storm never broke. Perhaps it didn’t even have to.

They sat there for a while longer. No more words, no more final declarations. Just two men, star athletes, finally stripped of the roles the world had assigned them, seeing each other not as rivals–but as mirrors.

[diekaiserin5]

The Last Night

• Warnings: none

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The suitcase stood by the bed like it had been waiting there all week. Paul had packed fast–he always did things like that, suddenly and with conviction. His bed looked bare now, save for all the crumbled bedsheet and the Che Guevara poster still taped above it, fluttering faintly with the breeze sneaking in through the cracked window.

Across the room, Uli sat hunched over his open bag, still trying to figure out what “important” really meant.

“You packed everything?” Paul asked, leaning against the windowsill, arms folded, voice low.

Uli didn’t look up. “Not yet.”

Paul crossed the room in a few strides and crouched next to him. “Want help?”

Uli nodded faintly after a beat. He wasn’t sure what he needed help with, only that it felt unbearable to do it alone.

They worked in silence. Socks, the postcard from home, the little notebook Uli had doodled in during downtime, crumpled papers with formations scribbled across them. Paul folded his favorite shirt and tucked it in for him without saying a word.

By the time Uli’s bag clicked shut, the sky outside had turned an inky violet. Neither of them made a move toward their beds.

Instead, they sat on the floor, backs pressed to the cold wall, knees barely touching. The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full. Like a balloon stretched too tight.

“Do you think they’ll remember us?” Uli asked suddenly, blue eyes wide and glistening with that child-like curiosity.

Paul scoffed lightly. “Breitner and Hoeneß? They’ll talk about us like a set.”

Uli smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not really. “Feels strange. Going back home.”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“We were always together,” Uli murmured, almost to himself. “Even the coaches noticed.”

“I liked that.” Paul’s voice was softer now. “Felt like I had… someone.”

That made Uli look over. Paul wasn’t staring at him, but at the crack in the ceiling, like he didn’t trust his own words if he saw them reflected in someone else’s eyes.

Then, suddenly, Paul stood up, wiping imaginary dust off his jeans. “Come on.”

Uli blinked, utterly confused. “Where?”

“The roof.”

“The–what? Paul. No. That’s–what if we fall? What if–”

“We won’t. I’ve been up twice already. Don’t be dramatic.”

“You didn’t invite me?!”

“I didn’t think you’d come.” Paul shrugged, then grinned crookedly, offering his hand. “But now I do.”

Uli just stared at the hand for a second too long before taking it with a big gulp.

The climb was quiet. The air smelled like October was slowly but purposefully coming toward its ending–dry leaves, cool breeze, and the comforting scent of something else Uli couldn’t name. He stayed close behind Paul, heart in his throat still, and when they made it to the flat part of the roof, he breathed like he hadn’t in years.

It was beautiful. The world stretched out beneath them in soft, sleepy colors. The horizon was blushing already, the colors of autumn more noticeable by the earliest rays of sunlight.

Paul sat cross-legged and pulled something from his jacket pocket.

Uli squinted. “Is that…?”

“Cigarettes.”

“Where the hell did you get those?”

Paul smirked. Again. “One of the older guys. I traded my brand new deck of cards for it.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe.” Paul tapped the pack against his knee. “You wanna try?”

Uli hesitated. “I’ve never–”

“I know.”

Another pause. Then finally: “Okay. But just one!”

Paul lit it with a clumsy flick of the match. The tip glowed orange in the dimness. He took a drag. held it like he knew what he was doing, and passed it over.

Uli tried. And he coughed immediately.

Paul chuckled. “Don’t try to impress me. Just do it slowly, naturally. Like I’m not even here.”

Uli tried again. It still burned, but at least he didn’t cough this time. Paul eyed him like he was proud. They passed the cigarette back and forth until it was gone, and the silence stretched again–warm, heavier now.

Then Paul broke it. Quietly.

“You know, I’ve never believed in happy endings.”

Uli turned his head toward him. “Why not?”

Paul shrugged, eyes kept on the sky and its stars. “People leave. Things change. This… this doesn’t last.”

“It could.”

“It won’t.”

Uli swallowed thickly. “I’ll prove you wrong.”

Paul finally turned his head toward him. And for a split second, neither of them breathed.

The kiss wasn’t planned. It just happened–slow, unsure, but definitely real. No fireworks, no movie magic. Just two boys, fourteen and fifteen, chasing something they didn’t understand, under a sky that was starting to light up.

When it ended, Uli stared strictly at the roof tiles.

Paul looked away too.

Neither of them said anything. But neither of them pulled back.

It was a lot. It was too much. But it didn’t feel wrong.

Eventually, they climbed back down, slower than they had gone up. Paul went first, and when Uli hesitated at the edge, Paul reached up, steady hands catching his wrists.

“Got you,” he murmured, his tone reassuring, but Uli was able to catch the faintest of teasing lilt in it.

Back in the room, the sun had cracked the window open with light.

Paul blinked up at his Che poster. He peeled it off, as gently as possible, rolled it up tight, and held it out.

Uli’s eyes widened. “Paul… that’s yours.”

“Not anymore. I want you to have it.”

Uli took it with reverence, unsure whether to say thank you or something else. Instead, he just nodded. Because a weak, barely there nod was all he was able to manage.

[diekaiserin5]

I love doomed yuri

Becruyff / Johanz

We made their ship name!!!

Until the day everybody knows the ship name 🔥

[diekaiserin5]

MY SHAYLASSSSS💔💔

My first edit about them

[diekaiserin5]

Babies

@diekaiserin5 this was for you

[diekaiserin5]

Confessions, part2

• Warnings: angst, swearing.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Franz sat on the edge of the bed, chest still bare, the room too quiet, too cold now. The echo of Johan’s voice still clung to the walls.

“I loved you. You never even let yourself try.”

And then–something. A pull in his chest. A knot in his stomach. Something was wrong.

He didn’t even think. He moved.

Shirt. Shoes. Doors slamming open. Stairs taken two, three at a time. The hotel was quiet, too late for conversation, too early for breakfast. But Franz didn’t see the hallways, didn’t feel the floor beneath his feet. Just that gnawing in his ribs.

He skidded to a stop in the lobby, scanned the glass doors–and then–

There. Outside.

Johan, standing by the pool, alone in the blue-hued dark. A cigarette dangled between two fingers. His other hand was stuffed into the pocket of his jeans. His posture was slouched, not careless–but exhausted. Like the night had finally taken too much.

Franz didn’t breathe as he stepped outside. Didn’t blink as he walked closer. Johan didn’t turn around. Didn’t have to. He knew. Still staring at the water, he finally began to speak.

“You know,” Johan began, his voice low, smoky, like the cigarette he barely touched, “I thought it would get easier. Being near you. Being with you. That maybe if I kept coming back, I’d stop needing more.” A beat. The cigarette crackled.

“But it’s the opposite, Franz. Every time you touch me, I forget how to breathe. And every time you leave, I remember.”

Franz froze, just a few steps behind him.

Johan continued, eyes fixated on the pool’s dark shimmer. “I used to think love was a thing for other people. Poets. Teenagers. But you–” He laughed once, bitter and soft. “You ruined me for that. You made it real.”

The cigarette hit the water with a hiss. Johan turned, slowly, and his face–God. His face was soft and broken and glowing all at once. Blue eyes glassy, but a knowing smile tugging at his lips. He opened his arms. And said, barely audible:

“Come here, you idiot.”

Franz hesitated. His heart was pounding. Everything about this felt like the end of something and the beginning of something else.

But Johan was still standing there. Waiting. Open.

Franz took a breath. Then a step. And another.

He walked into Johan’s arms like he belonged there. And in a sense, he did. He always did. And always will. The hug was immediate–tight, trembling. Johan buried his face in Franz’s neck, and the sound that escaped him wasn’t quite a sob, but close. Way too close. All his sharpness melted. All that fire turned to water.

“I love you,” Johan whispered, breath warm against Franz’s skin. “I love you so fucking much. I don’t care what it means, or what it costs. I choose you. Even if you don’t choose me back.”

Franz opened his mouth–something forming, something aching–but Johan pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes.

Then he grinned. Hell, he even winked, too.

And shoved them both, hard, into the pool.

The water swallowed them with a crash. Cold. Shocking. Alive.

Franz came up sputtering, coughing, blinking chlorinated starlight out of his eyes.

“What the hell?” he gasped.

Johan’s laugh echoed off the tiles, wild and boyish and soaked.

“What, you thought I was gonna just cry on you all night?”

Franz blinked. Chest heaving. Lips parted.

And then–Johan leaned in. Close enough to kiss. Franz’s breath caught in his throat. He pulled back, just slightly. And for a heartbeat, Johan’s smile faltered. His mouth opened to say something–maybe an apology, maybe a goodbye–

But Franz just grabbed him by the collar. Pulled him in. And kissed him like drowning was worth it.

There was nothing gentle in it–just fire, ache and everything unsaid. Franz’s hands tangled in Johan’s wet hair, pulled him closer still. Johan’s arms wrapped around his back, fingers gripping like he might disappear again. Their mouths moved together like a language only they could understand. Franz’s lips were demanding, desperate, breathing him in like he needed Johan to live. Teeth clashing, breaths shared, tongues slick and urgent. Johan whimpered once against his mouth, and Franz groaned, kissed deeper, like he could chase every scar from both of their souls.

And in that pool, under the moonlight and chlorinated stars, nothing else existed.

When they finally broke apart–barely–foreheads pressed together, Johan was gasping, grinning, tears lost somewhere between water and joy.

“I knew you’d come,” he finally whispered, half laughing.

Franz just nodded, chest heaving, hands still gripping Johan like a lifeline.

“I’m here,” he breathed, his voice hoarse, wet, and broken open. And for the first time in a long time, meant it.

[diekaiserin5]

@alinaxchan00 Thank you for this AMAZING moodboard for my Paul x Uli oneshot❤️

[diekaiserin5]

Confessions

• Warnings: swear words, implied smut

• A/N: I’m writing this for my amazing girl, who kept nudging me to write it for DAYS xD. This is going to be a 2 parts oneshot. This is 1/2. Hope yall will enjoy, especially you, A. <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The air was still humming. That post-match kind of quiet–too heavy to be peaceful, too tender to last.

Sheets twisted like a battlefield. Pillows crooked at angles that spoke of desperation, of hunger, of not wanting to stop. Skin still warm. The room smelled like sex and sweat and something almost like love.

Johan lay on his side, limbs loose and lazy, cheek pressed to Franz’s bare shoulder. His breath was slow now. Franz’s even slower. Neither spoke–not at first. But silence was never Johan’s way.

He moved first, always did. Slid a hand across Franz’s chest like it was second nature. Traced the line of his collarbone, thumb skimming a scar there.

“You’ve got this furrow between your eyes,” Johan whispered, voice hoarse from earlier sounds. “Like you’re still marking me on the pitch.”

Franz didn’t respond. He stared at the ceiling like it owed him answers.

Undeterred, Johan tilted his face closer, nosed at Franz’s jaw. “Come back,” he murmured, softer this time. “Wherever you are.”

Franz blinked once. Swallowed. His blue eyes were distant, like they were looking past the room, past Johan. Past everything.

Still, Johan kept trying. He reached for Franz’s hand, laced their fingers together.

But Franz… Didn’t hold back.

Didn’t squeeze.

Didn’t anything.

The emptiness of it made Johan sit up halfway, the sheet sliding down his back.

“Okay,” he began lightly, too lightly. “So you’re in that mood now.”

Franz finally looked at him–but it was brief. Cold. Like Johan was a problem, not a person. His voice, when it came, was low. Controlled. Calculated.

“You should go.”

Johan froze. “What?”

“You heard me.”

A pause. Then a laugh–short, sharp, stunned. “What the fuck is wrong with you tonight?”

Franz sat up too, pulling the sheet with him like it might shield him from everything Johan was about to become. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, faced away.

Johan stared at his back. That strong, guarded spine. That carefully composed silence.

Then, quietly. “Did I do something wrong?”

Franz didn’t answer.

So Johan’s voice rose. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

“I said look at me, you coward.”

That did it.

Franz turned, slow and lethal. “I told you not to catch feelings.”

Johan’s breath caught. Just for a second.

“You knew,” Franz added, cool as winter. “You knew what this was. And yet you’re lying here like we’re lovers.”

Johan blinked. “We are.”

“No,” Franz stated firmly. Final. Icy. “We’re not.”

Silence. Deadly silence. Then–

“You’re full of shit,” Johan hissed. “You lie to yourself so fucking much, it’s pathetic.”

Franz stood now, dragging on his pants like armor. “You want the truth?”

Johan rose too, chest bare, eyes dark. “Yeah. Enlighten me, Beckenbauer.”

Franz looked at him then. Really looked. And said, flatly:

“This is a mistake. You. This. All of it. You’re reckless. Loud. You think you’re some kind of genius but all you do is push. Push until people leave. I should’ve left a long time ago.”

There was a beat. A heartbeat. Then–

A glass hit the wall. Shattered.

“You piece of shit.”

Franz didn’t flinch.

“You loved it,” Johan spat. “You loved every fucking second. Every moan. Every kiss. Every time you begged me to stay just a little longer. Don’t act like it wasn’t real.”

“It wasn’t” Franz snapped.

Johan laughed again–wild now, furious and broken. “Of course it was. You just don’t have the fucking spine to admit it.”

Franz clenched his jaw.

“God, you’re so afraid,” Johan kept going. “Afraid of what people will say. Afraid of feeling anything. You walk around some goddamn statue and think that makes you strong. It doesn’t. It just makes you alone.”

Franz’s voice came low. Wounded. “You don’t understand.”

“No,” Johan scoffed, bitter and breathless. “I do. I just thought you’d fight for me anyway.”

Another beat.

Then Johan’s voice cracked. Just once. “But you never will.”

He pulled on his shirt–wrong side out, shaking–and stormed toward the door. Opened it. Paused only to throw one last truth over his shoulder, quiet and brutal:

“I loved you. But you never even let yourself try.”

And then he was gone.

Door slammed. Silence rang.

Franz stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched. Still shirtless. Still shaking.

He sat back onto the edge of the bed like a man shot in battle. Looked at the hand Johan had tried to hold.

And for the first time in years, Franz Beckenbauer let his head drop into his hands.

And didn’t stop shaking.

[diekaiserin5]

1974 FIFA World Cup Official Film - Heading for glory

[diekaiserin5]

“When I see you in orange, I hate you. When I see you alone, I forget I ever played football.”

- Munich, 1974

• Warnings: angst

• A/N: I didn’t include the New York days now, but maybe (👀) I’ll write something about that. Hope you’ll enjoy <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~

They say the World Cup was about nations. About triumph. About glory.

But Franz knew better.

It was about him. And Johan. And the way they played like gods before disappearing into the quiet of hotel rooms that smelled of cigarettes and unspoken things.

He still remembers the silence of July 6th. Rain tapping at the window in the city. A match behind them. A match ahead. And in between, them–crushed between linen sheets, the weight of their jerseys still pressed into the backs of their minds.

“Don’t talk,” Johand had whispered, chest against Franz’s back, one hand tracing the scar just under his ribs he got when he was still a kid. “Just stay. One night.”

Franz hadn’t answered. He never did.

Because if he spoke, he’d say too much. And men like him weren’t allowed to.

They were leaders. Icons. Captains. Meant to carry countries on their backs, not desire in their hands.

They first met under stadium lights.

Not formally, not really. Just eyes across the pitch in ‘72–Ajax against Bayern. Johan had danced past defenders like it cost him nothing. Franz had watched him with clenched fists and a mind that screamed stop him, even as his heart whispered look at him.

Later, they passed each other in the tunnel. And Johan had looked at him–really looked–like he knew. And Franz? He hated that.

Hated how he felt seen. Unraveled. Stripped bare of legacy and duty and all the things he was supposed to be.

“Beckenbauer,” Johan began that first night, smirking like a sin. “You play like you’re afraid to break something.”

“And you play like nothing matters,” Franz shot back.

“Exactly.”

Franz should’ve walked away. He should’ve ignored the heat that rose in his throat, the way Johan’s fingers brushed his wrist in passing. He should’ve remembered who they were.

But he didn’t.

They never called it love. Not even once.

It was nights, mostly. In foreign cities. Paris. Zürich. Munich, sometimes, when the calendars aligned and the world turned its head. A whisper through the phone. A key left at a hotel desk.

Always fleeting. Always unspeakable.

Johan would light a cigarette and talk politics while Franz sat in silence, memorizing the curve of his mouth. Sometimes they’d argue–about power, about freedom, about who they were allowed to be.

“You follow rules like they’re commandments,” Johan would say, pressing a thumb to Franz’s lips. “But you break the most important one every time you come here.”

Franz never answered that either.

Because Johan was right.

1974. The Final.

When they shook hands before kickoff, Johan held Franz’s gaze too long. There was no smile. No flicker of warmth.

Just war.

And Franz understood. That was how it had to be.

So they did what they knew best: played.

Ninety minutes of grit and sweat and everything they couldn’t say. Franz won that match. West Germany lifted the trophy. Johan watched from the wrong side of history.

They didn’t speak that night.

They didn’t touch.

It was months before they met again. Barcelona. By accident or fate. Johan looked older. Tired. But when Franz closed the hotel room door, it was the same pain, the same ache.

“You got what you wanted,” Johan whispered. “The Cup. The glory.”

Franz looked at him like he might drown.

“No. I didn’t.”

Silence again. Always that damn silence.

Then Johan laughed bitterly, fingers trembling as he lit a cigarette.

“You Germans. Always winning. Always pretending it doesn’t cost you.”

And that was when Franz finally broke.

He crossed the room, snatched the cigarette from Johan’s mouth, crushed it under his heel. And kissed him. Desperate. Bruising. Like it might be the last time. Because it would be.

They stopped after that.

There were reasons. Families. Press. Legacy. The sharp edges of time.

But mostly, they just couldn’t bear it anymore–the way love had to feel like failure.

Years later, long after they’d both retired, when the spotlight had dimmed and the noise had faded, Franz watched a clip of Johan on TV. Young. Fast. Brilliant. And that same ache opened in his chest like an old wound that never healed.

He turned off the television. Closed the curtains. Sat alone with the silence, and decades after, he whispered the one thing he should have back in the golden days. Great words that declared his love.

But Johan wasn’t there to hear it. Not anymore.

He never would be again.

[diekaiserin5]

1966, Karlsruhe

• Summrary: A 14 year old Uli Hoeneß arriving to the training camp, meeting someone… really special;)

• Warnings: None?

• A/N: This is the FIRST EVER thing I wrote here (I’m pretty nervous haha). English isn’t my first language, so please, excuse my mistakes—I’m trying my best. Hope y’all will enjoy <3

~~~~~~~~~

Karlsruhe, October 1966, South German Representative Team Training Course

Uli had never been this far west before. The train ride had felt endless, a blur of dull gray skies, forests rushing past like silent spectators. He’d spent the last hour pressed against the window, watching his own reflection tremble on the glass, wondering what the hell he was doing here.

The air in Karlsruhe held a kind of nervous clarity that only autumn brings. The trees outside the training camp had already started to burn gold and copper, the wind sharp like the edge of something just beginning. Inside the dormitory, the floorboards creaked beneath cleats and the air smelled of liniment and wool.

When the coach handed Uli a room key and pointed toward the stairwell, he didn’t ask questions. He just nodded, stuffed his duffel over one shoulder, and went. His heart was thudding, the way it always did before a match.

He had arrived with a bag too big for his fragile frame and a mind still fogged by the train ride. Fourteen, blonde, cheeks flushed red like he’d run the whole way from Ulm.

The door creaked when he pushed it open.

Inside: a bed on the left, a bed on the right, and someone already sitting cross-legged on the left one, flipping through a book. Not a football magazine. Not Kicker. A book with a black and red cover.

The boy looked up. Hair longer and more untamed than most boys had it. Sharp, angular face. Calm, something ancient-like eyes like he already knew everything about Uli just by looking at him. A rolled up poster was poking out from his duffel bag, and when he caught Uli looking, he raised an eyebrow.

“You’re Hoeneß,” he stated. Not a question.

Uli blinked. “Yeah. And you’re–?”

“Breitner.”

They stared at each other. A beat. Two.

Paul went to his book. “Left your boots downstairs.”

Uli flushed, blue eyes widening. “Sheiße.” He turned, ready to dash back, but Paul waved a hand lazily.

“Kidding.”

Uli paused. No, froze. Then he let out a breathy laugh that sounded more like a scoff, short and surprised. “You’re an ass.”

Paul smirked. “You’re blonde.”

“So?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head, clearly amused by the whole situation. Oh, this was going to be fun.

Later that evening, the sky bruised violet outside their small window, Paul tugged his duffel from under the bed and started pulling things out. Shirts, jerseys, a notebook scribbled all over in blue ink. And then, carefully, rolled a poster.

He unfurled it and smoothed it on the wall above his bed: Che Guevara, black beret, cigar, unreadable stare.

Uli was halfway through tying his bootlaces when he stopped. “Hey, I know that guy!”

Paul raised an eyebrow again. “Do you?”

“Yeah, uh…” Uli stood, walked over, squinting. “He’s like… Cuban? Rebel guy?”

Paul turned to him, really turned, giving Uli his full attention. This time, there was no mockery in his eyes, only curiosity. He patted the edge of his bed. “Not bad for a footballer from Ulm. Come here. I’ll tell you.”

Uli sank down onto his roommate’s bed, eyes still glued to the poster. Close, but not too close. Their knees nearly touched.

Uli grinned, sheepish. “Tell me more. What’d he do?”

Paul shifted on his bed, his face suddenly turning even more serious. “He fought in the revolution. With Fidel Castro. Against the Batista regime. For the people.”

“Was he… good?”

Paul blinked up at him. “Depends on who you ask. To the US? No. To me? Yeah. He believed in fighting for change. For justice. Even if it cost him everything.”

“Is he dead?”

“Probably by now. But that’s not the point. He stood for something. For something bigger than himself, or Castro. He lived like he meant every word he said.”

“You believe in that kind of stuff?”

Paul shrugged, but his voice was steady. “Someone has to. Otherwise we’re just running in circles, doing what we’re told without asking why.”

Uli took a look at the poster again, then at Paul. There was something electric in how Paul spoke–like a match striking in the dark. And Uli definitely felt it catch, somewhere in his chest.

Uli nodded slowly. “I like that.” Then he looked at Paul. “You’re really smart.”

Paul chuckled under his breath. “Don’t say that like it’s weird.”

“It is. Most guys our age just care about goals and girls.”

“And you?”

Uli shrugged. “Goals. Mostly.” Then, after a beat of silence: “Girls, sometimes.”

Something flickered in Paul’s expression. “Sometimes?”

Uli looked over, a boyish smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “I like people who make me feel something. Doesn’t really matter who.”

Paul just stared at him for a long moment. Then, quietly, in a barely audible tone, “Yeah. Same.”

“And besides… I never think about stuff like that,” Uli admitted. “Not because I don’t want to, or don’t care. I just… don’t know how.”

Paul smiled, slow and lopsided. “Good thing you’ve got me, then.”

That made Uli laugh. It was easy with Paul–easier than he expected.

“You talk like you’re older than fifteen,” Uli broke the easy silence, his pale cheeks completely flushed. Why? He had no idea.

Paul gave him a look, something unreadable flickering in his expression. “And you talk like you’re not scared of me.”

“I’m not.”

“That’s rare.”

Uli smiled again, and this time, it stayed. “I think I like you already.”

Silence hung between them, but not uncomfortably. The kind of silence that let things settle, let things grow. Outside, the wind rattled the window panes.

“I’ve got some more books too,” Paul was the one to break the silence. “Marx, Fanon, Brecht. You can borrow them.”

“I’m… not sure I’ll understand everything.”

Paul’s hand brushed past Uli's, just briefly, as he reached for the poster again. But it was enough. Uli didn’t pull away.

“I’ll explain. I’m patient.”

And he was. That night, when the lights went off, Uli lay in the narrow bed across from Paul, eyes on the ceiling, mind racing–not with tactics or drills, hell, not even with girls. But with thought of Cuba, of firebrands, of eyes like flint and matches waiting to be struck.

“Paul?” he whispered into the dark.

“Hm?”

“I think we’re gonna be good together.”

Paul didn’t laugh, didn’t joke. Just said, quietly, like a vow, “I know.”

From that moment on, they were never apart. Not truly. They bickered, sure. Debated. Pushed each other. But the foundation had been laid in that tiny room in Karlsruhe, on a cool October evening, where two boys from different worlds found, in each other, the start of something unbreakable.

And maybe–just maybe–something a little more.