Title: A Promise, Broken
Author: sdk
Fandom: Alles was zählt
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Mike/Lars (whut? IDEK)
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst
Length/Word Count: Ficlet, ~500 words
Warnings: Mentions of off-screen violence/blood
Summary: Mike wakes up to find that Ingo isn't the one looking after him.
Notes: Takes place after Lars, Ingo and Oliver rescue Mike from the fight club and goes AU from there. Also references a much earlier episode in which Mike and Lars beat the crap out of each other for "therapy". Thanks to aldiara for cheerleading! Written for graspthethorn. Welcome home, sweetheart! And uhm, happy wedding! Have some angst. <3
Disclaimer: The following is based on fictional characters that I don't own doing fictional things in a fictional world that I didn't create. No copyright infringement intended, no money's being made.




A Promise, Broken

"What the fuck were you thinking? Shite."

A jagged whisper pulls Mike from his restless sleep. Even in dreams he feels the sharp sting of the cut slashed across his forehead, the taste of his own blood on his lips. Sleep doesn't offer any peace--might as well deal with reality's flinging crap.

Or get drunk; one or the other.

Mike cracks open an eyelid, expecting to see his best friend frowning from the chair across the room, but it's empty.

"Ingo?"

"Gave him a break. Told him to get some sleep." Ah Lars. Told him a piece of shit like you wasn't worth it, is implied.

Mike closes his eyes and sighs. He doesn't need to look, Lars' glower burns into his cheek as if he was branding Mike--like a cow.

Mike stifles a snort.

"Answer me."

"What?"

"You obviously heard me--what the fuck were you thinking?"

Mike wants to roll his eyes only it hurts too god damned much.

"Is this funny to you?"

"Yeah, end of my life--real fucking funny." Despite his words, Mike wants to laugh. Everything is shite, and now he can't even sneak out of bed for a double shot of vodka--maybe two, three--not with Saint Larsie around.

Pain lances Mike's jaw and it's not until his eyes jump open in surprise that Mike realises Lars has clamped his chin between a thumb and a knuckle.

"Why didn't-" Lars' voice wavers--so quietly that Mike's sure he's imagined it. Lars drops his gaze--he lets go with his eyes, with his touch, and Mike's jaw throbs with the absence of both.

"You promised." The jagged whisper that pulled Mike from sleep, now pushes him back in time, back to cold tiles against his cheek, the hard floor of the Steinkamp locker room giving no relief except where Lars' muscled hip juts into his own, and the round warmth of his arm presses against Mike's neck. Broken and bruised by each other's fists and teeth, blood dripping down his cheek, over Lars' brow, smeared along their knuckles--there in that damn locker room around which their whole world revolves--between the hazy shock of too much pain and not enough sleep, Mike whispered his promise.

A promise, broken.

"I won't do it again." Silence meets Mike's words. A clock ticks again and again, like a tack hammer against his skull, steadily driving its point home. It's too late; promises are worthless--he's just proven that, hasn't he?

Mike rolls away from Lars to his side, fisting the sheets beneath layers of covers, when suddenly the bed dips and heat pulls a body toward his back like a magnet until skin meets skin. Whiskers scratch against Mike's shoulder, the weight of an arm falls against his hip, and Mike finally lets out the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.

"Good," Lars mumbles against his neck.

And this time when sleep claims him, Mike finally finds some peace.


-Fin-







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