Like We Used To || Manuel Neuer

6

        I don't know how I wake up in my room, safely tucked in cocoons of warm quilts and soft blankets the next morning. I also don't know how I'd managed to change out of my clothes the previous night. All I know is that everything that had happened the previous evening is an absolute blur. Hence, as I laboriously slide out of my bed this morning, I try to tell myself that I had simply been a smart drinker for a change. The only problem? Ever since I started drinking alcohol, I've had a streak of being the complete opposite.

Whenever I am truly intoxicated, I can be found doing the stupidest things. One time, after Manuel had left Gelsenkirchen for good, I'd even made out with one of Manuel's old best friends, a boy named Colton Haynes, in an angered haze. And that doesn't even begin to describe how irrational I can be when I'm under the influence. 

Heaving out a fatigued sigh, I amble in the direction of the bathroom, hoping to have not done anything too bizarre the previous night. As soon as I enter the bathroom, however, my hopeful feelings dissipate into suspicion. Why? you may ask. Because standing before me is no one other than Bastian Schweinsteiger, casually brushing his teeth, no shirt covering his torso.

I do the first thing that comes to mind; I scream.

Bastian's startled eyes immediately dart towards my own, and as soon as they do, I let out another ear piercing scream.

"Azelie—"

"What the hell are you doing here?" I demand. 

"I was—"

"Schweinsteiger, how did you even get in? And—holy Jesus, why in the world don't you have a goddman shirt on?"

"The door was open, Azelie, and I was j—"

"Oh, fuck. Oh my, God. This must be a dream. I—I should just pinch myself multiple times and I'll wake up and all of this will be over and I'll be—"

A small smile materializes on Bastian's face as he stops me, saying, "Becker."

"Schweinsteiger," I mimic.

"You're just like Sarah, Azelie, I swear. You two have got to meet one day."

I awkwardly place my hand on one side of my hair, glazing through it momentarily before raising my voice to say, "Why are you here, Schweinsteiger?"

Bastian immediately nods, as if coming to a stark realization, and before I can point out how confused I currently am, he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from one of his pockets. Once he's fully grasped onto the piece of fabric that he'd been scavenging for, Bastian outstretches his hands, nonchalantly handing the paper over to me. "Came to give you this." 

As soon as the object of Bastian's possession falls onto my palms, I notice that it's the paper containing all of Die Mannschaft's autographs.  

"It has everyone's signature except Manuel's," Bastian points out, carelessly mentioning Manuel, making my heart prickle. "I tried to force him to sign it for you, but he refused, saying that he didn't want to do that against your will. So, that's all on you, Azelie."

"Oh."

"Things seem pretty intense between you two."

"You think?"

"Yeah, I do," Bastian replies, an unforeseen, solemn expression overtaking his face. "You want to tell me why my favorite goalkeeper's been distant ever since you came around?"

I look away from Bastian, unable to meet his sudden, serious gaze. "Put on a shirt, Schweinsteiger," I mutter under my breath, attempting to stray from the topic from Manuel. "Maybe then we can talk."