#hamstu

Warning:

- Implied physical abuse - Self-loathing - Dissociation - Suggestive jokes - Internalized homophobia - Internalized pluralphobia - Unintentional misgendering (Bochum and Uerdingen haven't come out yet) - Panic attack - Many references to Christianity - Red Scare era typical anti-communism and anti-atheism

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Metamourphosis

a Bundeslihaha Loose Canon story

Chapter 2: 1989 - TSV 1860 München

“And don't you or that Pillendreher make a mess in my house!”

The door’s ensuing aggressive kiss against its doorframe causes both you and your sense of propriety to wince. TSV 1860 München—Sechzig—on the other hand, doesn't bat an eye. Your heart sinks at her not defending you from the nickname. You shouldn't be disappointed with something you're so used to…

Serves you right when you expect your partner's partner's partner to coddle you like a child.

She raises a middle finger, sharp and manicured in a tiny blue-white pattern that probably complement 1. FC Kaiserslautern’s own terrifying claws. You wonder how either of them do anything with those.

“So long, hater!” Sechzig roars, equally rankling you both and pull your shoulders tight upwards like a scared cat…

“You both”? There's no both. You're just one person. Personification. The other one is Sechzig herself, who puffs her chest and exhales laughter that seems to also exhale the burdens on her shoulders. It makes sense. She has to share a house with her greatest rival. You imagine having to be roommates with Köln and feel bile rising to your throat. Which isn't good for your stupid plan…

You swallow to fight back the revulsion.

Ah-ah-ah. You feel the hairs at the back of your neck prick up. You're not one of those Traditionsvereine, are you? You can't be set in your ways. Progress is only achieved if you try new things.

You sigh. You really should at least attempt this. It’s in the spirit of experiments, as the voice in your head would say, just like Bayer AG had taught you. It's frankly not your plan, per se, but your mind has calculated the risks and rewards. Of which there should be more of the latter. You've told your partners. You're not doing anything wrong.

Sechzig throws herself on Bayern's bright red sofa, on which drapes a sheet of fabric with the diamonds of the Bavarian flag, framed with golden stars. She brushes the sheet off and it falls to the floor. Then, she pats the empty space beside her. “Come on, Lev, sit with me until Lautern gets here. I wanna watch TV before our movie marathon.”

You smile, nod, and sit down. Mental approval tugs your smile further upwards. You pick up the mouse- and bear-shaped cushions. The mouse must be Bochum's. 

“Is the bear yours?”

Sechzig looks at you and snorts. “Nope. That's Hertha's. As in Hertha Berlin.”

“How did it get here?”

“Bayern and Hertha were together,” Sechzig says offhandedly. She's already taken the TV remote and is now flipping through the channels. “Broke up a while ago.”

You wonder how they started dating and how they broke up.

Don't be nosy, you feel a pressure in your head, it's unbecoming of a gentleman.

You're not a gentleman, a streak of defiance inside you snaps. You're not supposed to have one, but it sends adrenaline buzzing from your head to your toes and your fingers to indulge. And maybe she will tell me.

The more rational side of yourself makes you step on your own toes. You bite your lip to stop yourself from screaming. Indulging is irreligious. We should all practice moderation.

She grabs the bear from you and rests it behind her, before leaning further back onto the sofa, smushing the bear between them.

“Bochum celebrated it like he'd kicked down the Wall himself, which is absolutely cruel considering the circumstances of the breakup,” Sechzig says, head lolling towards you with a sneer, “but before I could wreck Bayern with it, he blackmailed me into shutting up.” 

She huffs and looks straight into the TV again, snarling, “I hate that guy.”

You try to give her a curious gaze-

You are out of control! She's not telling you anything more, Bayer 04!

Your mind nudges you to make a sign of interest. You nod politely and mutter something like, “I hate him too.”

Too perfunctory.

Even so, Sechzig looks satisfied, both with your obviously fake sympathy—this is because you're neglecting your public speaking practice. How can you represent our family when you can't even show kindness?—and the channel, which is showing some trashy soap.

You let your eyes get bleary with the drama while you get onto thinking.

Sechzig seems to be in touch with her rival's friends, something you can't say for yourself. Köln’s long-standing partnership with FC St. Pauli isn't something you think about, as the punk club is in a lower division than you now… though you unfortunately do see that aggravating goat when you're in Hamburg. Facing the unrelegatable Hamburger SV, that is. Who is Stuggi's ex. Your partner still calls him Perle, which Hamburg rolls his eyes at, because you’re the one who has to call him that whenever you're at the Volkspark.

“Can it with the nicknames, lab rat. You're such a sucker for the pearls in my pants,” he would snicker, “Is Stuttgart paying you to do this?”

And then you'd smirk at him and reply, “Oh, you know that he pays me with kisses!”

“Dear gods!” He’d do a dramatic gasp. “So that's why you're gonna say goodbye with a socialist fraternal kiss. Like the fucking slut you are.”

“We're all socialists and sluts, Perle.” You'd meet his eyes. Then, on your tiptoes, you'd put your lips on his cheek, as your partner had mandated, though without the passion that he must have for this man. You're but a deliverer of the Swabian Hamburgpost. “We share Stuttgart here.”

As expected when you're being that flippant with the power of matchday booze, when you're secretly enjoying playing messenger for your partner to his ex, you'd have a headache that spikes like your owner's hand makes you kiss the wall.

Hamburg would tease you, “Got any aspirin?”, which would incense you like no stimulant can, but would calm the blue-green glare in your head. You don't think Hamburg likes you at all.

That's because he is a drunken sailor whose social skills amount to talking to his fellow feral, unwashed idiots.

You've met Hannover, whom Wolfsburg has described as feral, but definitely not unwashed or an idiot. Bielefeld seems to be quite beautiful, which is not a compliment you don’t give lightly to men, most of whom dress in overly-casual eye-searing messes.

Köln doesn't dress like that, your treacherous side tempts you, conjuring images of him with his big hair and maroon lipstick, neck piled up with bow ties and cravats and gaudy jewelry. Is he not beautiful?

No, he's not, you chide, firm and polite, his sense of dress is inappropriate. His insistence on being a fop in the year of our lord 1989-

You can't call people a fop, you argue, not even Scheißbock!

An inward sigh is your response.

I'm only calling him as the invert he is. A ghost of a hand ruffles your hair, pulling a shudder out of you. The blue-green eyes soften as you feel the edges of your lips turn upwards. And you're not like that, are you now, Bayer 04? You're his rival, because you're his opposite.

He's a real Traditionsverein, the stray thought rams into your head at full speed like two horns of a goat. Fuck.

The same ghost hand that ruffles your hair now presses your lips close.

Bayer clubs like you and 05 do not swear, you tell yourself, Swearing is a shortcut for proper emotional and intellectual expression.

That means, Bayer 04, its soothing flowing-Rhein tone freezing into ice, It's a lazy trick to skip thinking.

Sechzig, meanwhile, doesn't seem to catch your internal debate. You're thinking about your partner and your former metamour—and also an obvious distraction from your plan.

Why do I have to do this, again? you wonder. You may not have any feelings for your rival's partner's rival, which is a stupid phrase to say, but Hamburg is a man—a man? The way he's acting, he should be called a hormonal teenage boy!—and you can appreciate men, in general.

He has broad shoulders, like Stuttgart, who is one of the most handsome men you've ever laid your eyes on. Stuggi's skin is soft, yet his hands are calloused, used to fixing and modifying cars. Sometimes he's lathered in engine grease. Sweat slick and shiny on his skin like he's a porn star. It's awful but you love it. His hair smells like care products and car smoke. The sweet-smelling cream… the shampoo that protects his silver-bleached hair… The brown growing out around the mohawk, prickly to the fingers and stimulating to the tongue… the roots popping in like a bullseye for you to kiss…

Are you quite done?

You're vomited out of your inappropriate thoughts. Bile—your sins—rises up your digestive tract again like you're about to vomit your homosexuality out in real life. Your dry eyes prickle with tears. You find yourself blinking and gently wiping. You can't let the contact lenses get messed up. And you should be looking at the TV.

It shows a heterosexual couple making out like they're paid way more than they must be. A glance at Sechzig shows her snickering at the sheer insanity of the acting.

That's how it's supposed to be, your mind chides. Now, your plan. Reagan talked about tearing down the Berlin Wall. Now you, Bayer 04, must tear down the walls of your shame.

“Sechzig,” you say softly, but not so softly that you sound like a cry for help. “Have you ever kissed someone like that?”

“Not just someone. Sometwo.” She brandishes two fingers. “Lautern wouldn't want Stuttgart to be alone, don'tcha think?”

“I get that,” you reply, “I wouldn't want to leave Offenbach alone if he's with me and Stuggi both.”

“Hell yeah,” Sechzig says, raising a hand, which you high-five like normal. “Pun intended.” A wink, which is definitely Lautern's influence. “We're kindred spirits, you and I.”

You laugh as best as you can.

Come on, don't be nervous.

You can do this. “Do you think you could kiss me like that too?”

Sechzig lifts her feet up and folds her legs on the couch, shifting closer to you. “You sure?”

No. “Yes.”

“I dunno how many times you've kissed a girl,” Sechzig grins. Her knees are pressed to the side of your thigh. “But women and men aren't different species. Just listen and you'll hear what we like… turn around to the right a little bit? Two o'clock direction?”

You do just that.

She cups your face. Your mind immediately goes to the last time you've kissed a woman. She was a mortal, most likely. You've kissed many mortal women during your time as a chemist, and then as a spin doctor. Maybe she was a coworker. Maybe she was the wife of your fellow factory men. You were youthful and strong and tireless, good traits for a husband to have, they'd say. Or a homewrecker. You laugh. Out loud.

Sechzig pulls away to breathe—to laugh with you, or maybe at you—before she enters your half open mouth, tongue knocking on yours. You hold her sides and pull her into a hug, which she takes as a cue to do whatever she wants. Your mind runs to your time experimenting in your owner's labs. This, too, is an experiment, though the chemicals involved are probably different. You don't remember any of it. Your chemistry knowledge now stops at “humans—and personifications, apparently—breathe oxygen”.

The ever-vigilant eyes in your mind glare at you again. You can't even distract yourself without getting distracted.

It should not stop there, Bayer 04, your mind warns, scientific knowledge is important, especially when the official unveiling actually happens and you need a talent to showcase.

You pull away from Sechzig and press your lips on her cheek. But I'm currently practicing this talent…

Sechzig's arm snakes around you and rubs your back, head landing on your shoulder and nuzzling your neck. Her long, fluffy mane tickles your cheek, your nose.

You sneeze.

The glare hardens. You can't breathe.

“Lev,” Sechzig cries, and because you're stupid, your lungs can barely take more of that necessary oxygen, not like you need to breathe, right? “Lev! Was it that bad?!”

You watch Sechzig's face contort in panic. “I shouldn't have done that! You’re gay! That's what Stuttgart- I'm not trying to convert you I promise!”

You need to actually breathe. You have to answer her.

“I-” A gasp. Your heart is beating too fast. It knocks on your lungs and crushes your throat. You grip the armrest on the far side. Tighter. Because the half blue and half red walls and the fan and the posters are spinning around you and you have to hold on before you get swept in… you need to get your medication. Where's your bag? Why can't you see it from here?

There's a thudding noise. Sechzig is suddenly in front of you, worried like you're going to die in front of her. Maybe you are. You feel like you are.

“Breathe with me,” Sechzig says. “Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth.”

You really need to get more resilient! The scream quickens your heartbeat. Your ribcage feels like it's rattling out of your chest. Do you have to depend on a Drittligist now?!

You try to take the air from the nose as she says. The air comes in short bursts. You're drowning. You're not even near water. You  breathe harder. Your chest expands so hard it hurts. Then you open your mouth and blow like a lunatic. It's not working.

Just ask her to get your medication, Bayer!

“Lev? Did I fuck up?” Sechzig asks, clutching your wrist, “Should I leave?”

“D-don't leave,” you choke out. You try breathing like her instructions again. It's not working so well. Because you're incompetent and weak. You can't even act like a real first division club. “I'm sorry.”

“Okay,” Sechzig whispers, squeezing your hand, which honestly has been white-knuckled frozen on the armrest for… God knows how long. “I won't leave. I won't leave… but I might have to take something from my room, okay?”

“Okay,” you gasp, and she squeezes your wrist before running to the left side where the walls are blue.

You try to breathe in through your nose again…

Why are you still following her instructions? She's clearly not a good example for you, Bayer 04.

It's not working.

Of course it's not working. Look, she's a total mess. Even a small fry like Bochum can blackmail her.

You try again.

Stubborn, your mind clicks its tongue, tsk, tsk, tsk. You clearly never learn. Bayer 05 is doing her part. It's only fair that you do yours.

But you already have. You've kissed Sechzig. You imagine doing it again, except with Uerdingen this time. She has long hair, too, like Sechzig, though unlike the Munich club's naturally voluminous curls, Uerdingen's was permed. Her hair, originally red, had been bleached blonde to match yours since the sixties, and the other personifications would say that Bayer made you in a lab and cloned her from your genes. You were numbered, 04 and 05, like an assembly line robot.

Of course, thinking about robots reminds you of Fortuna Düsseldorf and her Kraftwerk obsession. She's chopped off her dark curls into a bowl cut and left it undyed for once, all to match that freaky band, though sometimes she’d spike it up.

Dusseldorf is a disgrace. She's straightening her beautiful, trendy curls… and for what? The thought stresses you out. There's not a shortage of curly-haired clubs. Köln’s hair is in a big pompadour with curled ends. St. Pauli has jheri curls in funky colours. Werder Bremen, with that long wavy hair, androgynous face, and Bohemian-style clothes, still looks like a hippie from the 60s. You have curly hair, too. 

Are you listening to me?

Speaking of Düsseldorf, her short black hair and red lipstick does make her look like the cover of Techno Pop. You listened to Kraftwerk a few times, trying to get the appeal. All it does is make you feel like you are actually an engineered personification coming out of an assembly line. 

You can almost hear her voice. Wir laden unsre Batterie… Jetzt sind wir voller Energie…

Speaking in a robotic monotone. Wir sind die Roboter. Then the stupid tone. Ba-ba-ba-ba! Wir sind die Roboter! Do-re-so-mi!

That song is so catchy. You find yourself playing the song mentally, before continuing to Der Telefon-Anruf. 

“Ich geb' dir meine Zuneigung und meine Zeit,” you hum, “Ich muß dich wiedersehen, wann ist es soweit?”

Sechzig comes back with a big horn—as in, the brass instrument—of some sort. “You like Kraftwerk?”

“Düsseldorf makes me listen to them,” you shrug, “and all those local punk bands.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Sechzig hoists the horn up and starts playing an intro that kind of sounds like Latin dance music. And then moves on to a Karneval-like sound… wait… you recognize this song. You're so shocked at her accuracy that you can't even sing it.

“Plüschprumme! UEFA Cup ‘88!” You point a finger at her with a big smile you can't control. “How did you know this?”

Sechzig takes the mouthpiece of her horn from her mouth. “Stuttgart makes me listen to this.” She grins. “It’s a pretty cool song. And you're feeling better, huh?”

“I guess I am,” you grin back, “Thanks to you, Sechzig.”

“Aww.” She leans on her horn like it's a pillow. “Anytime, Lev. Sorry for kissing you, again, really.” She hides her face behind her instrument, now, face reddening.

“It's not your fault,” you reassure her with your sweetest smile, "I was the one who asked.”

She sits next to you again, still holding her horn. You look at the TV again. It's now showing news about East Germany's increasing discontent. You wonder how their personifications are doing, considering Bayer's insider told you that they're actually working as personifications in an official capacity to "boost morale" (Propaganda tools, you want to say). According to your owner, the Western clubs would have to do the same, to foster good relations. You don't know why your owner has an informant in the GDR, or why you have to follow their example even though this side of the Iron Curtain cares about freedom of expression, nor do you want to. 

The TV blinks into black. You look to your right to see Sechzig turning it off. You can't help but sag in relief.

“Why'd you ask me to kiss you, anyway?”

You turn to the TV again. Then at her horn, which is leaning on the far side of the couch. You can't look at her curious eyes, so blue, so genuine. They're sky-blue, like Bayern's, and not like Uerdingen's dark ones, but… “You ever heard about the concept of ‘official unveiling’?”

“Not personally,” Sechzig replies, “but Bayern's whined about it enough that I know the gist of it. Why?”

“Every first division club is going to be unveiled as soon as the Wall comes down,” you explain, “including me and Bayer 05 Uerdingen.” You swallow. “They want us to be a couple. So I thought I'd get some…”

God.

You wring the cuffs of your shirt. You're a horrible person. Why are you hesitating?

“...practice. In being in love with a woman.”

You glance at Sechzig, face warming as you do. Her jaw has dropped.

“What the hell?” Sechzig cries when your questioning stare intensifies. “Aren't you brother and sister?!”

At least she's not calling you plastic clones bent on destroying football culture as bequeathed by the entire Himmel-Elf to bless the people of Earth. Which is what the goat man would say. You'd politely tell him that according to his alleged beliefs, God is a Trinity and not an Eleven…ity.

“Not literally,” you correct her, “we're not related by blood, that's not possible… but she’s like a sister to me.”

“That answers my question.”

Your sock-wrapped feet suddenly become highly interesting. They're black, with red toes and heels. The Bayer cross on your neck, unfortunately, dangles from its chain like an amateur hypnotist, blocking your view of the socks.

“You're not gonna ask what my question is?”

You shake your head. “It's none of my business.”

“You're my partner's partner's partner, Lev.”

Sechzig pats your back.

You turn your head to face her.

“It's your business now.” She beams. “And my question was, ‘did the personification of Bayer AG give birth to you two?’”

You shudder. “God forbid.”

“See? You answered my question.” Sechzig cackles like she's just successfully roped you into an evil plan. “But it must be awful that you have to be straight for each other.”

Awful? Your eyes glare at Sechzig, proper blue and green, at their own volition. That's how I'm supposed to be.

Sechzig looks at you weirdly… her pupils almost turning into catlike slits… and then lowers her gaze to…

Oh.

Your gaze arrives there too. The Bayer cross. It's an expensive necklace. It's been bitten by baby Köln since he had no teeth until he grew a full set. It's been fixed and polished with company money until no marks remain. You're truly a waste of resources.

“She wears one too,” Sechzig points out. Pity is all over her frown, her forward lean, the knit of her eyebrows. “And it's supposed to be a romantic matching necklace thing instead of a creepy family emblem. Right?”

It's not creepy! It's a symbol of our club and city history!

“Right,” you say instead.

You feel like you've been slapped in the face.

Uerdingen must be practicing all this on her own, your thoughts churn in your gut, and you're just lazing about because you can't handle a simple kiss… You sigh. Should've started smaller, I guess.

“It still looks like a creepy family emblem,” Sechzig continues, taking the shiny cross between her fingers, before looking up at your face, “because you and Uerdingen have the same eyes, same nose, almost the same face shape. No one's gonna see you two as a couple. Is your owner out of its mind?!”

You chuckle at her choice of pronouns. Bayer AG isn't just one being.

“Well,” you tilt your head, lips quirking into a smile that your owner would slap out of your face, “they could spin it as creating a most perfectly matched bespoke couple in the Bayer labs. Tell them like it's a breakthrough in science.”

Sechzig reaches out to your back—you stiffen and press your back to the other end of the sofa—and unclasps your necklace. You release a breath you just realize you’ve been holding. You don't even fight back.

Then, she holds the necklace by the cross, on her palm, and shakes her head.

“You're a Christian, right?”

You nod. Where is this going…?

“This isn't even a proper cross,” she snaps. Shoves it at your face. She then glares at it like it's wronged her personally. “I don't even believe in God and I think this is stupid.” She tosses it behind her. You watch as it falls down to the floor. “Are they telling you to to worship their company?”

You don't know what to answer. It's not worship to be grateful to the people who have raised you, taught you everything you knew, and brought you this far with all their might. It's just duty.

“You believe in God, Lev?”

“I do…”

“Then you should remember that it was that guy who created you,” Sechzig says, tone suddenly firm, blue eyes blazing, “not that pharma company. They may own your team, but they don't fucking own you. You're not a clone, or a robot, or whatever sci-fi bullshit they tell you to convince you that you're not a real person who's allowed to not want to kiss a girl.”

Sechzig holds your shoulder again. Your posture relaxes.

Stop leaning onto her, you find yourself snarling, venomous words tightening your chest, she's a godless communist and you listen to her baseless assumptions about God?

I thought I wanted to act straight, you reply, leaning further into her, to which she mirrors you. Here it is. Getting close to Sechzig. Starting small, as I should've done.

She just referred to God as ‘that guy’!

You roll your eyes. You should be preparing for more of that when the reunification happens.

You're shirking your duty as an ambassador of the company! 

“Capiche?” she asks, somehow still friendly. But the more important thing is that she's ignorant of the extent of your devotion.

How could you, Sechzig? you want to shout at her, You don't know how deeply Bayer flows in my blood… my creators, my guardians, the ones who have given me my life and livelihood-

“Capiche,” you say. As if your childhood, your years of learning and growing under the company, have been trivial. As though the factory workers creating you from their own hard work and love for football means nothing.

Sechzig grins at you, as sharp as a lioness.

Your first instinct, and your second, and third, is to wince and shudder and cover it all up with a relaxed yet proper posture and a friendly face to quiet your own thoughts. But after what she said, you think it's Bayer's blood she's thirsty for.

You find that your throat is parched, too. You're an ungrateful scum… And yet you grin back. It makes you feel like a lion of your own.

(You are not a lion, Bayer 04. You have always needed—will always need—a shepherd.)

END

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Notes:

I'm not a Christian, so... @ Christians in the readership, wearing the Bayer cross is like, blasphemous, right? 🤔

Anyway xD

Thank you so much for reading. It's been fun writing these 💚

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Songs in this chapter:

"UEFA Cup '88" by Die Plüschprummel - Youtube video - Song page - Album playlist - Album page

"Die Roboter" by Kraftwerk - Long version - Medium version - Short version

"Der Telefon-Anruf" by Kraftwerk - Long version - Medium version - Short version

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Pillendreher: Pill twister, a mocking nickname for Bayer 04 Leverkusen

Spin doctor: A public relations practitioner (derogatory), generally one who tries to deflect the wrongdoings of and improve the image of a harmful person/company

TSV 1860 shares a house with FC Bayern because their teams both played in the same stadium (Munich Olympic Stadium aka Olympiastadion München during the story, and later Allianz Arena). Sechzig has never been able to afford her own living space, and Bayern tolerates her.

Sechzig can play various marching band instruments because she plays on the Oktoberfest parades for years. I thought it'd be fun!