Vision im Spiegel

Author's Note: Ten months after Silence began and over six months after its completion, I am back with the three-parter sequel, Vision im Spiegel. And unlike the last one - this one is smutty, and I completely admit it :3

This chapter is a lengthy introduction, really. The next two parts are full of lovely sweetness. Reading 'Silence' would be a good idea before this one; but even if you don't, it's specifically written so that it can be enjoyed as a simple Till/Richard romance. But I would recommend it so the full impact gets through.



Apologies that it took so long - and please enjoy!



----------------------------



The department store is busy as always, even in the height of a Berlin midsummer; young girls in skirts and tight tops and men wearing shorts are everywhere to be found amidst the bustling crowd. And yet it is not a disruptive kind of liveliness; no one is fighting over goods or talking in an overtly loud voice, and the food courts are only half-full, people going about their business in a brisk and efficient manner.



It is this kind of crowded atmosphere that Richard Kruspe has sorely missed during his time in New York. "Danke," he says to a vendor who's just sold him a plain, but particularly nice Café frappé; he sips at the coffee as he walks around, browsing, and nods approvingly at the sweet taste. There are times when the simple things in life are most appreciated, and this is one of them. He's wearing a buttoned-down black dress shirt and trousers, and for once he doesn't have any product in his hair - he's been walking around for about an hour now, lazily admiring the items on display.



He's managed to find some time off to do some shopping; a few plain shirts and a visit to the music shop, picking up a tin of cream guitar polish and some more chamois cloths. Nothing very elaborate. But really, right now he's more focused on something special - he's looking for a present, and finding just the right item is proving to be rather troublesome.



But he won't give up. He's generally good with finding the right gift for anyone, and he's fairly confident that his skill will measure up this time around as well.



He enters a shop selling formal wear for men. It is not a large one, but beautifully cleaned and the lighting and decor are good; he's the only customer in there at the moment. Suits and jackets aren't exactly items that sell well during summer - the only assistant working right now looks almost bored and dazed, mindlessly thumbing through a mail-order catalogue. Richard can't honestly blame him. He walks around casually, glancing at the racks of clothes, before he pauses in front of a collection of belt buckles.



"Too small," he mumbles to himself, and then turns to see three tall, circular racks stacked with boxed neckties. This gets his attention; ties tend to be things that can be bought and appreciated regardless of season, if one makes a sensible choice. He reaches up to one of the racks and picks up a box after first carefully placing the shopping bag down at his feet; the shop assistant, seeing that he is intent on doing more than just browsing, perks up considerably and starts paying proper attention to him. Richard isn't thinking about that right now, however - he's examining the tie very closely, completely serious and observant in the way that he always is when buying items of clothing. The guitarist isn't one to prioritize a factor over another when it comes to clothing; it has to have it all, fit, colour, comfort, the right material, everything. It's an intricate pearl-grey number that he's picked up now, with thin, diagonal silver pinstripes running throughout.



"Too light," he murmurs to himself as he replaces the box in its place. It'd be good for his own figure, but right now that's not the issue. He picks up another necktie, this time a plain black one, but puts that one back just as quickly.



Almost all of the ties he has are black or too-dark, anyway. I want the one I give him to be special.



And then he sees it. Higher up, he spots a flash of green and pulls the box down; it's a soft pastel-green number, patternless and very subdued in tone with the faintest hint of teal. Not a colour that anybody can pull off with ease, and perhaps a few years ago Richard wouldn't even have noticed it. But this is now, and he does have to admit - the more he's staring at the tie, the more he's finding himself drawn to it, and he's not the only person that has noticed this.



"Guten Tag, kann ich Ihnen helfen?"



The young, sweet-faced assistant has come to stand beside him. Richard briefly considers dismissing him with a polite 'nein, danke' but decides that it'd be rather unproductive to do so; anyway, what'd be the sense in that, when there is something the man can help him with? "Ja. What can you tell me about this one? The material, price...?"



The assistant takes the box in his hands and peers into it. "Ah, this one. This is one of our finer ties - woven silk, 145 centimeters in length. You have fine taste."



"Do you have one of those on display that I could try out?"



"Of course. Just open the box, Herr," the assistant says brightly; when Richard gives him a look, however, he blushes and hastily explains himself. "... I don't mean that we sell items that have been repeatedly opened and tried on! I do apologize for the confusion. All the boxed ties up there-" he gestured at the rack. "-are specially available just so customers can try them on, right on the spot. The actual unopened boxes are behind the counter and these are the ones that are sold."



This makes sense. Richard nods and opens up the box, admiring the length and feel of the necktie between his fingers; it is very soft, but the weave is tight and the stitching at the back is flawless. If this is what a tie that's been tried on and put back into the box many times looks like, Richard imagines that the new deal would be even more impressive. The assistant guides him towards a half-length mirror; he adjusts his shirt and places the tie around his neck; his black neck collar is showing, but if the assistant's noticed, he's done a good job of not commenting on it. With a simple four-by-hand he ties the silk garment deftly around his neck and adjusts the length - and then looks, silently.



It looks all right on him, but it's not the colour that he'd have chosen for himself. Indeed, he's probably a little too sharp-looking for the tie to suit him. But he doesn't have himself in mind. Staring into the reflection, he envisions Till in his place - with his larger form, soft lips and those melancholy glass-green eyes - and nods in approval. He's fairly confident that this will be appreciated.



"I'll take this one. I like it."



"Ah, of course!" the assistant looks a little surprised - he probably shared Richard's initial notion about it not being quite the necktie for him - but he nevertheless takes the tie and rolls it up neatly before placing it in the box. "let me just check the number there... neunundsechszig, ja..." he then walks behind the counter and deftly pulls out a blue box, with the new green tie nestled within it. "... and that'd be 41 Euros, bitte."



"Here's my card."



"Vielen Dank. Are you buying it for yourself to wear?"



"No," Richard says, and before he can control himself his face lights up in a smile. "it's for a very, very good friend of mine. If I could have that boxed and gift-wrapped as well, bitte."



-----



When his 'Ich bin daheim!' goes unanswered, Richard figures that Till's gone out as well. Kicking off his shoes, he arranges them neatly by the door and locks it, entering the apartment and breathing in the scent of apple-and-cinnamon air freshener that he has come to regard as homely in the past few weeks. Whistling quietly to himself, he goes to fish out the tin of guitar polish and the pieces of chamois cloth, pushing open the door to the practice room and placing them beside his guitars, setting himself a reminder that he ought to get to work on polishing them sometime later on in the day.



Till's room is next. He smiles as he enters the room; the bed is tidied and empty, but somehow he can't help but feel that he might have found the singer curled up underneath the covers. Till's room tends to be split into two halves when it comes to tidiness; the side with the bed, dresser and window is always clean, while the desk and wastebasket tends to be strewn messily with books and crumpled up pieces of paper that haven't managed to become anything of literary value. Today is no exception. Sometimes he has a look at some of the pieces that Till considers a failure, and sometimes he is inclined to disagree; but if the man feels that way, there isn't much that Richard can do about it. It's at least good that the death-of-the-author theory is fully in place between them and the singer feels comfortable with Richard reading them at all.



Brushing the pieces of paper aside, the guitarist feels obliged to at least tidy the pile of books on the desk, and while he's doing that a framed photo on the shelf above catches his eye. It's a simple one, a little photo of he and the older man sitting together in a bar and glancing roughly in the same direction with the same look of general apathy on their faces. Definitely one of them together, and filled with a tension that the two of them would instantly recognize - but completely nondescript and not a photo that anyone else would be able to appreciate fully. It makes him laugh and he thinks fondly as to how very much like Till that is, and how the older man's still so full of surprises like those even though they've been living as flatmates for the past month.



A full month. A month since they confessed their feelings for one another after over seventeen years of waiting. A month since they've adjusted to living together, a month away from prying eyes, a month spent in secretive bliss. It is this that Richard has bought the necktie to commemorate, and to express how grateful he is that Till has allowed him to stay with him; he takes out the boxed and gift-wrapped tie and sets it upon the middle of the desk, smoothing down the elegant gold-and-black wrapping paper. A part of his mind still thinks that he ought to find another place to live as not to inconvenience the man, but - why hurry, when he and the singer are so content living like this together?



If anything, he probably ought to buy someplace nice and quiet where they can reside together without worrying about rent or anything like that. But he likes to think that that's something for when Rammstein is no more, and they've still got a little while left before that can feasibly happen. As long as Till doesn't mind his presence, he's happy to stay with him and contribute to his share of rent and work around the apartment.



He should go now. With one last look at Till's gift, the guitarist nods and closes the door behind him as he leaves. His room's only a few steps away from Till's; he goes inside and tosses the shopping bag (now considerably lighter) on the bed and makes as if to change out of his clothes when something on his desk catches his eye.



"Hmm?"



When he recognizes it, though, he grins happily and rushes over. It's a beige envelope with his name and the date written on it in familiar handwriting; considering the date, it was about time, too. He sits down on his desk with a smile as he opens up the letter, putting the envelope aside. As he expected, four handwritten pages are inside, all dated and numbered meticulously. "Oh, Till."



Till still writes him letters, once a week now, despite the fact that they're living together and there is no actual need to. They're never redundant, though. While the two men never run out of things to discuss, and while they certainly don't find it awkward to talk to each other, Till's letters discuss things that cannot be expressed accurately just by sitting and talking to each other for a few minutes. They convey an extra layer of romance also, quite often. So Richard is simply expecting the singer's own reflection on what their shared week has been like, just like the contents of the other letters, when he starts reading.



He doesn't know that this one is different to the others that came before.



-----



Lieber Richard,



Guten Tag, meine Schatz. I'm writing this letter at two in the morning; when you go out to shop, I will leave this on your desk and go to visit my family and then take care of some things in town before I return. So if you're reading this now, I imagine that you're back from shopping. How was it? Was the place busy? I hope that you found everything that you needed. I look forward to coming back and talking about it with you already, and you haven't even gone yet. Anticipation sets in at the oddest times, don't you think?



This is my fourth letter to you since we began living together. I believe today marks the first full month, in fact. It has been one of the happiest months of my life, finally being able to live with you like this - it almost seems blasphemous that we ought to tell the others soon about our relationship and break the peace, or it would be so if they didn't suspect it already. I think they all have a gist of what's going on - and I don't exactly know your opinion on this matter, but I admit to being quite the mischievous child when it comes to this and I will say that I'd like to keep them guessing just a little longer!



And regarding that, I do implore you, for you've seemed concerned for the past few days - please don't feel as if that you are imposing on me. Having you staying with me was not a problem in the days before Rammstein, and it is not a problem now. This isn't the pleading of a lonely old man, either. You are special to me, my Richard, and you have been away in another country for a long time. Being able to look at you every day just by stepping out of my room, being able to make you a breakfast or hearing you practicing your guitar, and waking up to you murmuring in my ear - 'Guten Morgen' - ah, nothing can be more of a blessing. I only hope that my presence is also good for you, and that you are comfortable enough in this apartment. If there's anything lacking, then do - as I've said before - tell me what it is, bitte.



I always seem to end up writing letters to you when it's late at night. I write at all hours, but you know that my muse comes to me most often during sleepless nights - and I think this is also the case with you. Night unveils all pretensions. I want to offer nothing but the utmost honesty in those letters to you. I feel glad that these letters reach you faster, at the very least; when you were in the US I would write a letter, send it off first thing in the morning, and every day I spent wondering when your reply would come was beautiful agony.



You inquired to me about poems last week. I've been thinking about it and as I sit here and write this I can confirm that I have a good idea in mind for a single. I will likely begin work on it during the next couple of days - when it's done, what do you feel about having Olli over for a bassline session within the next couple of weeks? Do you think it'd be better that we go over to his place, or that he comes over to here? Please think on it and let me know.



This might just seem like a straightforward question from Till's part, but Richard has read between the lines. This makes him pause a little, the pages held in his hand, as he ponders on the idea - the tone of this letter is different to the previous ones. Till has never mentioned making their relationship known until this point; he's clearly wanting to know if Richard wants to advance the status of their relationship to a sligtly-less-private one, and he suddenly feels rather unsure about what else his lover might have written about.



A photoshoot-and-interview session tomorrow. I hope you are adequately prepared; but there is no sense in me worrying about you in that regard. You are always well-prepared for times like those, Richard. I do have to admit that I find them rather exhausting and unnecessary nowadays, but what can we do? I'd gladly endure it, as long as you were by my side. So by all means, viel Glück for all of us.



It will be wonderful to see you in your stage get-up again, if nothing else. Which brings me to the issue that I have spent the past couple of pages shying away from.



"... Till...?"



I'd like to start out by apologizing for what happened two nights ago - I know that you weren't offended, but nevertheless, it wasn't exactly polite of me. It's simply hard to bear, sometimes.



Since becoming your 'Freund' - in the decidedly more-than-civil sense - I have been dreaming of you often. I don't just mean at night. It is as if you have pushed out the minor, inconsequential thoughts that would occupy my mind when I wasn't writing or going on with daily life and have settled down in the remaining space. I think of you lying next to me. I think of you smiling at me, your smile honest and true as always, and I think of your hands upon my body or mine upon yours. For the touch of your hands are immensely distinctive; you could blindfold me, seal off every sense save for touch, and I would know you from the second your fingers pressed upon my skin. I dream of your kiss, your lips satin-soft upon my scarred body, calming and arousing at the same time.



You are a man full of contradictions, of binary opposites, and I would like nothing more than to love and possess it all.



I now have the privilege of being able to watch you sleep next to me. Whenever I do, I kiss your forehead, hold your hand, and wonder if I am selfish (and please tell me if I am) for wanting more, wanting to please you, wanting to taste more than just your kiss upon my tongue. 'Mehr', that simple word, 'mehr' - press the lips lightly together, hum through the vocal cords lightly, then pry them apart with a soft exhaled sigh. Strange how such an effortless word can carry so much sensuality.



I would like to be able to coax that word from your lips. I would like to be able to watch you, enjoy you, as you actively desire more from me. And I know that you are open to the idea at the very least, from what you showed me the first night we spent together in this place.



During all those nights spent awake, these words emerged like bubbles, and tonight I have finally mustered up the courage to write them down for you to read. So... by all means-



Richard pauses there and sets down the letter. He's still got about a page to go, but his head's gone completely blank.



Of course he knew this was coming. He's known it for a while, ever since that day when he and Till became a couple. And it would be a lie to say that Richard is at all surprised that the topic's come up now; but it's not just as simple as agreeing to have sex and then getting on with it, not at their age and not when they still have band responsibilities. He imagines that it's taken the older man quite a fair amount of courage to come out and write it in a letter, and he really ought not to undermine it. And that means that he should keep on reading. Thought can wait until then.



-So... by all means, would you like to consider consummating our relationship at some point in the near future?



Please don't keep it in mind if it bothers you. Your comfort is what I care about the most. Just the sensation of your body next to mine, your head resting on my chest when we're lying in bed together is enough for me. For you see, my Richard, my love for you makes itself known not in the desire to make love to you - that's a desire that one feels for an infinite number of others in their life - but the desire to share sleep. You close your eyes and your breathing slows on the pillow next to mine and I feel almost eternally peaceful.



Believe me. I wouldn't give that up for anything.



This letter is getting long now. I hope this week was also enjoyable for you. I believe I'll be baking a Kirschtorte sometime soon; until later then, meine Liebe.



Dein Till Lindemann.



-----



Your Till Lindemann. Simple yet intensely romantic. Whenever he reads those words of closure that always end Till's letters, he feels something warm in his heart and the utter conviction that Till is finally all his to love and cherish, after all those years of heartache. Names are very important things, the condensation of identity, and just being able to have that reassurance is enough. Richard did spend a little while after they'd entered their relationship wondering whether he could make use of nicknames or affectionate terms towards Till, and he does remember it being a rather interesting experience.



... So... what do I call you now? 'Tillchen'...?



He did call Till that, just once, about a week after he moved in. He tried it out as a spur-of-the-moment thing; Till gave him such an adorably confused look at that that Richard had just burst into laughter, and then after a little hug and explanation they'd basically just agreed to stick to their already-established names. (The guitarist does prefer his full name being used, now that they've entered this kind of intimacy, though.) The memory makes him grin - but it fades to a more serious look as he reads the last couple of pages again.



I've got to hand it to Till, though. This is probably the most polite way that I've ever been asked as to whether I want to have sex.



He folds up the pages and slides them back into the envelope. On one of the shelves above the desk is the seventeen-year old basket that Till made just for him, the very last one he would ever weave; he's carried on his tradition of keeping the older man's letters in there, and after gently placing the envelope into the basket he picks it up and sits back down, placing it on his lap. Large and tarnished, but still sturdy. Nothing less could be expected of anything that Till makes. Richard gently runs his hand over the handle of the basket and over the reed-woven sides, letting out a small 'hmm' as he loses himself in contemplation.



"What should I do...?" he asks softly, closing his arms around the basket and feeling its reassuringly smooth texture; because it's been with him for so long and the presence of those letters, when Till's away this basket is the closest embodiment of him that Richard can really get. It offers no answers, as expected, but it's nevertheless comforting to hold onto. Strange to think that the first time he saw the basket being made, he'd been somewhat jealous of the attention that Till had been lavishing on it - when it'd been intended for Richard all along. He smiles quietly at the memory, closing his eyes.



He revises the past month in his head. They show their affection for each other in various ways, but aren't yet blatant about it. Till and Richard being in love with one another is completely known and silently acknowledged amongst the band, but they aren't yet aware of the fact that they've actually entered a relationship; being middle-aged, the two genuinely do appreciate the moments of youthful secrecy that they can still engage in. Sooner or later it'll have to be told, but they're only a month in, they can keep their fledgling love to themselves for now. During band meetings they are reserved and act perfectly innocent with each other - but still allow the others the rare pleasure of seeing them sharing little looks and smiles, and occasionally when no one else is looking they briefly squeeze each other's hands. They're like that in public most of the time. It's only within the confinement of their shared flat that they can let themselves be openly affectionate.



Till's done his best to be a good host to Richard, a responsibility that he's taken beyond being the younger man's friend and lover. He constantly asks if Richard needs anything and gives him the occasional little treats; never in the form of cliched flower-and-chocolates, but in ways that make the guitarist smile in surprised delight. Waking him up with a hot cup of morning coffee, bringing him scrambled eggs for breakfast that have tiny slivers of smoked salmon and sprinkles of pepper added to them, letting Richard hear him singing softly around the house. In return Richard shows his appreciation by cleaning up frequently, leaving small notes with suggestions for lyrics and melodies on Till's desk, treating Till with the occasional massages on the back and knees, and also making the meals every now and then. They're both good cooks from having lived by themselves and having been single fathers as well, and it shows. They curl up together on the sofa often, watching a movie, snacking, trying out new songs or even managing to just talk themselves to slumber throughout the night. For the past month, it's worked out perfectly and Richard honestly couldn't be happier.



And then there's the issue of sleeping.



They do have separate rooms and sleep in individual beds half the time, although both of them infinitely prefer sleeping together. It doesn't generally matter which bed; one of them usually will go to bed first, and if the other hasn't crept under the covers with them by midnight, that's the cue that they are to sleep independently for whatever reason - perhaps Richard is working on a piece of music and maintaining his guitars in the soundproofed room, or perhaps Till's had a burst of creativity that's making him scribble throughout the night. Or perhaps they just want some space. That's perfectly fine. It just makes the times when Richard finds himself cuddled up against the older man's back or feels the other's head resting next to his even more precious.



They haven't made love yet; after that first night, they've taken it very slowly for sure. Richard likes it that way. They usually sleep together in light pajamas but occasionally strip down to just boxers, getting more and more comfortable seeing each other in various states of undress. Kissing and playful fondling is the norm, with them occasionally - shyly - delving into more intimate things. Richard looks down at the envelope and thinks back to the event that Till mentioned, what happened just two nights ago - they had been lying in bed together, Richard drifting off with his back to Till, when he'd felt the other shift towards him slightly and spoon him from behind.



"Richard," Till had murmured in his ear, voice low with sleep and barely concealed longing. The guitarist closes his eyes and recalls the other's warm body against his back - along with the sensation of Till pressing an erection into his thigh, and blushes heavily at the memory.



"Yes, Till."



Till hadn't answered. He'd just nuzzled Richard on the back of his neck for some minutes, silent, only his slightly quicker-than-normal breathing and his arousal betraying his longing. "Do you want me?" Richard remembers asking ever so quietly, even though the question was moot, feeling his own member stir and body beginning to flush at the touch before he turned around to face Till.



The singer's eyes had been smoldering with love and lust, their colour vibrant even by the dimness of the moonlight. "I want you very, very much."



Richard hadn't said anything for a while. Then he'd shifted up on the bed to kiss Till, their almost-nude bodies pressed tight, eager and full of desire. He thinks of it now and he's still blushing at how into it they both had been - they didn't progress a huge amount because Richard pulled away first with a little 'tut mir leid' and simply contented himself with holding the singer in his sleep, but since their first night spent together in the apartment that's the furthest they've gone. He supposes that the older man's feeling guilty about that, about the possibility that he might have made him terribly uncomfortable.



He didn't pull away back then because of that, though. He pulled away because he was just happy enough with being able to love and feel Till in that way -  there really is no sense in hurrying. Though... if he's eager to take it further, then... well, I certainly wouldn't mind...



But that's not to say that he only feels lust when Till's initiating it. Often brief images dance behind his eyes, images of what he would do to Till; it's inevitable. Richard is a man, and one who needs his desires fulfilled at some point. Maybe ten years ago he might have given into temptation and coaxed Till into it, or perhaps sought physical solace elsewhere with other company - but now he's nearly forty-five, too mature and devoted to the man that he's loved and wanted for so long to even consider such alternatives. Now that they've waited so long - well, what's the sense in rushing into it, when they've been patient for years already? He does allow himself one thing, however - and that is the act of pleasuring himself. Sometimes, during the nights when he's sleeping by himself, he closes his eyes and lets himself fantasize - his hands exploring his own body, soft groans and sighs escaping his lips (ever so quietly, as to not wake Till - he might be impatient, but Richard is a man of impeccable manners), feeling both satisfaction and emptiness whenever he reaches climax and it fades away.



He does wonder if Till does the same, too. It wouldn't surprise him all that much - he would be quite flattered, actually. But pleasuring oneself is exactly that, only limited to a single self, wholly unrepresentative of what it might be like with an actual partner. And so far, he hasn't spoken up out of respect for their friendship and Till wanting to bide his time.



Well, Till has expressed it now. Twice in less than a week, nonetheless. That's a fairly clear sign that he's ready, and that Richard ought to prepare himself, too.



He stands up again and replaces the basket by its place on the shelf, pondering as to what to do next. Does Till mean for him to come clean and tell him upfront what he thinks of the idea? The singer's known for his spectacular bluntness when need be, after all. But then Richard thinks over it again and decides that this isn't the right way to approach the situation - Till doesn't tend to discuss his letters verbally. What he says in speech and what he says in writing are rather different things, and Richard certainly understands that - this also means that his letters are best answered with another letter. Once a week the older man gives him a letter, and after two days or so the guitarist hands him a reply; he might be able to pour out his feelings within one day this time, hopefully. Sitting down on his desk, he plucks out a fountain pen from a drawer and smiles as he begins to write: Lieber Till...



-----



The singer isn't due back for a while. Richard finishes a third of his letter and takes a brief smoke break; but instead of leaning over the balcony, he leaves the flat and walks to the shop down the road as soon as he figures out that he's only got one cigarette to last him through the rest of the day. He smokes that one on his way to the shop, sitting down on a bench to savor it properly; the midsummer sun shines down into his eyes and he squints a little, pulling his sunglasses out from his bag and putting it on before he exhales pearly smoke into the air.



Sometimes he ponders as to whether he ought to quit. It's not very good for him. Till himself has cut down significantly, although they do spend a few minutes every day smoking together out on the balcony - because of this, Richard doubts he'll be able to stop completely, not when it'll result in a loss of one of his and his lover's shared moments. That makes him smile and feel a bit empty at the same time.



Still. If Till implored him to quit, or if they could quit together, he might be able to do it. But for now he enjoys the final taste of the smoke, letting the aroma fade away on the tip of his tongue, before he stubs it out on a nearby ashtray and tosses it in the bin. A large ginger tabby cat is walking past the bench; it has bright green eyes and one corner of its right ear is tattered from (presumably) too many fights. He bends down to stroke its back as it trots in front of him, grasping lightly at its tail, and it turns around to meow haughtily at him before hurrying on its way.



"Tschüss!" he calls back, chuckling to himself. He is very much like a mischievous boy sometimes. He can't really help it.



Probably a tomcat patrolling its territory, he thinks as he leans back on the bench and watches the cat - it's stopped a distance away to stare at some flowers by the road - and thinking of its green eyes and oddly-disdainful demeanor reminds him of Till. But then, he tells himself, doesn't anything remind me of Till nowadays?



Richard misses him. Only a few hours apart and he's longing for the older man already. With that in mind, he gets up and starts walking towards the shop again, thinking about Till and the contents of his letter. Would you like to consider consummating our relationship at some point in the near future, he asked, and to that technically the guitarist doesn't need to write a letter in response.



"Yes," he murmurs under his breath. "I would. As soon as possible."



But at the same time it feels a little anticlimactic to come right out and say it, so he does decide that he's still going to stick with the letter. If he's being realistic, however, he ought to be prepared just in case that Till isn't just yet - so when he walks into the shop, he nervously checks to see if there's anyone else in the place apart from him. Luckily, there's only a young girl who's just getting her purchases rung up now, and the cashier's a man. Good. It's not going to be too awkward, then.



He's wrong, however. Richard waits until the girl pushes the doors open and leaves the shop; then he goes over to the section marked 'Toilettenartikel', picking up a tube of lubricant and a box of twelve condoms. Six Euros. Condoms are entirely too expensive nowadays. While he's there he also remembers that there's no more plastic wrap left in the flat, so he figures that he'll get himself a box of that as well. It's not until he goes to the counter and the cashier gives him a look like he doesn't know whether to be turned on or terrified that he realizes that his choice in items might have been rather questionable. He guesses that his neck collar isn't helping.



"One packet of HB along with those, bitte," Richard nevertheless says politely, and the items are scanned and bagged without much question. (The young man doesn't meet his eye, however.) He leaves, feeling mildly flustered and yet also amused; but nothing much else.



He puts it down to age. Had he been any younger he might have been rather mortified. But he doesn't feel that at all - he just feels as if he's prepared adequately for Till, and that's all that should matter. He has had to grow older, after all.



When he gets back, Till is still nowhere to be seen and the letter is still lying on his desk, undisturbed. He puts the box of plastic wrap on the kitchen counter and hides the condoms and lube in his bag before he sits down to get back to writing.



He's quite happy that they've carried on writing to each other. Richard is still not quite as versed in the art of letter-writing as the older man might be, but he's improving; he's even started to write more than the other sometimes, having become more accustomed to condensing his feelings down in written form and being eager to convey as much of himself to Till as possible. It's gotten to the extent that he'll sometimes sit there and wonder why they didn't start corresponding via letters much earlier; it might have saved them a lot of trouble and have eliminated many of the misunderstandings that they've suffered throughout the years. He pauses - he finds it difficult to hold a pen for very long, because of how calloused his fingers are - and skims over the first few sentences, checking that it doesn't sound awkward.



Much thanks for the letter. It was a beautiful surprise to have found it on my desk after a few hours' worth of shopping; thanks to its presence, I did not miss you quite as sharply as I am prone to feeling whenever I come back to an empty apartment. That of course doesn't mean that I don't miss you right now, I do, and that's why I'm writing this letter to you now, even when I know that it's not by any means necessary...



But then again, without those moments, their relationship might not have matured to this extent. One can't learn about someone else from smooth-sailing moments alone. Skimming down a few more lines, he gets to the paragraph that he was writing.



... surprised, but by no means was it an unpleasant surprise. And there's no need to apologize to me, Till. I wasn't offended or uncomfortable with you; I wanted you too, very badly. I can confess to that. There isn't much point in me hiding it. He takes it from there, again, and quietly lets his flowing handwriting fill up the lines, the soft rasp of the fountain pen nib against the paper immensely pleasing to his ears. And maybe if I were much younger I wouldn't have passed up the chance, but I am forty-four now and starting to sense the past in the present. I can't bring myself to be overtly crude as I once was, not to you, never to you.



So to answer your question-



The fountain pen runs out of ink at this point. Richard tuts to himself and carefully takes the pen apart after pushing the letter aside, discarding the cartridge and pushing in a new one, but this little interruption has proven to be sufficient in having led the man to lose his chain of thought. While it's not a plight unknown to writers - he's seen Till despair after losing a particularly good sentence or phrase before, and during his life so far he's managed to recover nowhere near all of them - it's nevertheless a bother, to have this happen to him while writing about a very important topic.



He sighs and gently arranges the unfinished letter back on the desk. Rubbing his eyes, he sees that it's slightly over three o'clock in the afternoon; he's quite tired already. It's been an eventful day, for sure. He could do with a lie down. Richard makes his way to the bed and lies down upon it, splayed out on the soft cool mattress, and closes his eyes lazily - the letter and the image of Till floating to the surface of his thoughts - and exhales a sigh.



I'll take a little nap, he thinks to himself as he feels drowsiness overtaking him. And by the time I wake up, he's probably going to be back and it'll be near dinnertime. I'd like to squeeze in some practice time... and then - and then, hopefully I'll have thought of something to write.



It needs to be good. He won't be disappointed.



-----



"Amour, amour..."



Richard awakes to the distant strands of a soft, melancholy song playing in the apartment. It's muffled because he has his door shut, but he recognizes it instantly. Before even opening his eyes he reacts to the song almost as if he has a cue to follow, before he nearly falls off the bed and remembers that he is no longer on tour; it has been years since they even played that one live. Oops. Well, can't blame me for reacting on instinct alone.



"Alle wollen nur dich zähmen..."



He's not sure why this song is playing, but it means Till's back home, seeing as Richard certainly didn't put it on. Richard stretches his body, wincing a little and then sighing in relief as his back creaks, before he gets out of bed and throws the covers back over the mattress. The half-finished letter is at his desk; perhaps he ought to finish it, but he's only just woken up and he can't exactly muster up the words just yet.



"What time is it?" he mumbles to himself, and looks at the clock. Twenty to seven. He's had a nice three-hour nap. Rubbing his eyes, he figures that he ought to go and say hello to Till - he doesn't leave the room until he's checked that he's looking presentable, however. When he opens the door, 'Amour' is fading out with its final strands and solo, and Richard walks around wondering what the next song is going to be.



"Till?"



There is no answer. There is a lovely sweet smell wafting in from the kitchen, though, so Richard turns his footsteps towards there in search of his lover. He does smile when the vaguely-drifting keyboard solo at the start of 'Keine Lust' starts up somewhere in the house, however; Till must be playing their entire songlist and set it to shuffle, as he sometimes does when he's in a particularly good mood. That's a great sign. When he gets there, though, he doesn't find Till - but what he does find makes his eyes light up and leads him to rush over to the counter. The fan oven is turned off but still whirring, clearly having been used not too long ago; there are two mixing bowls in the sink filled with water, and on the counter are two used cake tins and scatters of what he recognizes as cake crumbs. Chocolate cake crumbs.



Mein Gott, that can only mean...



He opens the fridge. What he sees there makes him beam with delight; Till has apparently baked his promised Kirschtorte a lot sooner than was indicated in the letter. It's fully assembled and iced; clearly, it hasn't been in the fridge for long. Richard takes the cake out and lets the fridge door swing shut, placing the dish on the counter with another quick look at the time. He hasn't had dinner yet - but it wouldn't hurt to taste just a little bit, would it now, when this is his favourite cake?



He gazes at it with a critical eye. It's probably about three or four layers high; the sweet buttercream frosting is covering the cake in its entirety, so he can't really tell. The top of it is studded with perfectly-round glace cherries, outlined at the edges with whipped cream. Letting out a 'hmm', Richard nods to himself - then goes to fetch himself a butter knife before cutting a little sliver off the bottom of the cake. The exposed part of the cake he manages to cover by smoothing out the icing around it. "Da," he murmurs to himself - grins, and then picks up the little bit of cake, eagerly popping it in his mouth.



"Ich hab' keine Lust etwas zu kauen - denn ich hab' keine Lust es zu verdauen..."



As he chews, he thinks that 'Keine Lust' really is a good song to eat cake to, and can't help but chuckle at that. And it is luxurious cake, indeed, as Till's cakes tend to be. The icing is cold and sweet but the cake inside is still faintly warm and crumbly. Soon he's finished and staring down at the cake, craving more; he really ought not to, though, he's still got to have dinner and find Till, so he shrugs and goes to put the knife in the sink-



"... What the-"



-his arm is grabbed from behind. Richard spins around to find the older man standing there, giving him and the cake on the counter a much-bemused look. "T-Till!"



Till doesn't say a single thing. But his green eyes are smoldering with desire as he silently raises Richard's hand to his lips, kissing along the back of it before carefully sliding a rough pink tongue against his fingertips. The guitarist can't help but let out a small mewl at the sensation of it, the tip of his lover's tongue licking and savoring the cherry-and-cream filling clinging to his skin; Till looks into his eyes as he delicately takes one of the other's fingers into his mouth, sucking it clean. "Oh... oh, you..."



The singer withdraws, kisses the tips of Richard's fingers gently, then says in a totally deadpan voice - "What did I tell you about sneaking bites out of cakes that haven't even cooled down yet, Richard?"



"W-was? But-"



He's cut off when Till slaps his backside lightly, following his little yelp with a kiss to the forehead. "Not until after dinner," he says, and picks up the cake to put it back in the fridge. "it's meant to be dessert, mein Gott. Can I not bake you a Kirschetorte and be allowed to take my eyes off it whenever you're around?"



"Hey, I only took a little bit," the younger man protests. But just the joy of seeing Till back and in front of him is overwhelming any annoyance rapidly; that, and the fact that the man doesn't sound irritated in the slightest. Till actually gives him a soft smile when he shuts the fridge door, stroking his hair and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "when did you come back, anyway?"



"Half-past three. I checked up on you, but you were asleep. I didn't want to wake you."



Richard returns his smile with the same fondness, and wraps his arms gently around Till's waist. "Glad to hear it. How's Nele, Fritz...?"



"Doing well as always," the singer returns the embrace, and the younger man doesn't miss how his voice has softened at the mention of his family. "Fritz grows more and more every time I see him, I swear... he's far more of a handful than Nele was at his age, though."



"As boys tend to be. He takes after you, Till."



"Perhaps," Till laughs, gives him a pat on the shoulder, and goes over to the sink, rolling up his sleeves. Richard leans over the counter and watches him as he picks up the sponge and washing-up liquid, starting to rinse out the mixing bowls with almost an artistic laziness. "well, now that you're awake... we ought to have dinner, nein?"



"I was planning to practice on my guitar for about an hour or so, actually."



He half expects the older man to tell him off again for not having practiced yet - this is less to do with Till pressing him to work and more to do with him knowing that Richard himself becomes moody and irritable when he feels like he hasn't even gotten in the minimal amount of daily practice. But the older man simply nods and gives him a thumbs-up, not looking up from the sink nor changing the tone of his voice.



"I understand. Something simple then, seeing as it'll be late when you come out. Does pasta sound good?"



Richard grins happily. "Yes. That sounds wonderful."



They're connecting more day by day, and he couldn't be more ecstatic at that realization. And from the way Till's smiling, he's clearly happy with it, too.



-----



It's after Richard's guitar practice and the dinner that Richard brings up the topic of his present. "Till, did you open my present?" he asks over proper slices of the Black Forest Cake (which, having been cooled completely, is even more delicious than before); he spoons cream into his mouth and quirks an eyebrow when the older man shakes his head. "did you see it at all? I left it right on the middle of your desk."



"I did. The one in the box, you mean?"



"Ja."



"That really was mine?" Till asks, looking genuinely bewildered. This isn't what Richard was expecting.



"Yes, of course. Why on earth did you think that it wasn't?"



"I didn't know whether I was meant to open it, the box didn't have a recipient name. Today isn't a date that I'd have expected to get presents and I haven't done anything to deserve one, either - I just thought you'd forgotten it in my room-"



This is a fair point; he probably ought to have written out a card or note clarifying this, and Richard acknowledges that. Just like him, so efficient as always. I wouldn't love him so much otherwise. "It was meant for you, Till. Do open it now, if you'd like."



The older man nods and rises from the table, disappearing briefly into his room before emerging with the small box in his hand. "What did you get me a present for?" he asks as he sits back down and feels for the tape sealing the wrapping paper in place.



"Just open it and I'll tell you."



This earns Richard another brief, quizzical glance from Till, but the singer doesn't ask any more questions as he deftly peels off the wrapping paper - and looks, silently, his green eyes focused on the boxed necktie. The guitarist, too, watches from the side; eventually the older man opens the box and slides the silk garment out, letting it drape around his hands, and only then does he look back at his lover with surprise in his eyes.



"Richard... I..."



"Today marks the first month of us living together," the guitarist explains, keeping his voice calm even though he feels slightly flushed. "as you would know. I wanted to express my thanks to you, for letting me live with you and for being the most welcoming host. Plus, you needed a new tie - all the ones you have right now are dark colors, and they won't do in summer, not at all!"



"You never cease to surprise me. And you being with me here is not something you ought to be thanking me for, it's merely something we have both wanted for a long time," but the look in Till's eyes are of fond delight, and he's clearly admiring the feel of the necktie between his fingers. "... but... it's wonderful. Vielen Dank, meine Liebe. If there's anything you-"



"Oh, Till, it would defy the point of being a present if I expected something back in return!"



"Even so..."



Richard gives him a grin. "Let's settle for a kiss, and you trying it out in front of me, if you really have to give me something. I'd quite like to see if it suits you as well as I thought it would, myself."



This request is granted without a further word of protest. Till leans forward for a short, but nevertheless passionate kiss as soon as the words fall from his lips; as soon as it's over, he drapes the necktie to the desired length around his neck and begins to tie it in a neat Windsor knot, gazing ahead in concentration. The younger man watches, admiring every straightforward, quick movement of the other's hands.



"What do you think?"



The tie is just the right length and shape for Till's figure; it's not too wide, but not so narrow that it's lost amidst the singer's heavily-muscled body. The colour is also exactly right for him, light enough to be pleasant and cool during summer but not in a garish fashion. Right now the singer's not wearing a dress shirt or indeed anything with a collar, so the full effect isn't in place yet. But Richard can just imagine him wearing a suit, his hair combed back neatly and wearing that tie in combination with a white, neatly ironed shirt - and the result is so handsome that he feels lightheaded just imagining it. In short-



"... It's even better than what I thought it was going to be."



Without a word, he then gives into instinct - and tugs gently (but firmly) on the tie, making Till gasp slightly in surprise as he's forced to bend down and level his face with the other's. The shock fades away quickly, however, when he sees how filled with longing Richard's clear blue eyes are; his own gaze softens, and their foreheads touch ever so gently as they move in, breaths suddenly becoming softer and shallower in response to their closeness.



"... Did you..." Till murmurs against Richard's lips, his breath hot and half-labored; the guitarist can't help but shiver. "did you... read my letter?"



"... Huh?"



This is new. Their letters are never discussed in conversation. But Richard isn't about to complain. "I did..."



"Well..." the older man presses his lips lightly to Richard's at that, looking pleased, before he pulls back. The tip of his nose brushes against the other's. "... what did you think?"



"I'm writing you a reply now-"



He's cut off when Till shakes his head gently; this makes Richard frown in confusion before the man starts to explain. "I don't mean just that," he whispers. "not that I don't appreciate your replies whenever you write back to me. I'm just being an impatient old man-"



"-Till, you aren't old-"



"-but I... I honestly do want to know," Till pauses, licking his bottom lip, suddenly looking unsure. "just give me a yes or no answer. Are you all right with the idea of us consummating this relationship soon?"



Oh. So that was what he was worried about.



"Yes."



A brief silence follows. Something about this tells Richard that Till wasn't expecting him to answer quite that soon; but true is true, and he probably ought to add a little more to it. "I went down to the shops after I read your letter, Till."



"... Oh?"



"... And I bought some condoms and lube. For when we get to it. Eventually."



The older man's expression lightens up considerably when he hears this; he laughs and then clutches Richard tightly to his chest, nuzzling the top of his head. "You're way ahead of me," he compliments, and he looks genuinely pleased about it (save for the little blush that's risen to his cheeks). "well, that's certainly a weight off my mind. I worried that I came across as too crude for asking. And now I've deprived you of something to write about, all because of my impatience..."



"Oh, please. The more varied things I can write about, the more interesting my letter will be, wouldn't you agree?"



"Ja-ah," Till murmurs, drawing out the syllable ever so luxuriously in the manner that he only gains when he's feeling very content. "... if that's the case, would it be too forward of me to ask if you had any specific date to consummate our relationship in mind? I'm ready for you any time you want - I have been for the longest time..."



Richard honestly has to think about this one. Admittedly he hasn't thought that far ahead, and if Till wasn't going to discuss it he certainly wasn't going to suggest it straight away. But revising the factors in play that they've discussed right now - both of the men being open to the idea, the essential items being there, and the man being interested as to what date Richard might want - he decides that insisting they wait wouldn't be the right answer to give. If Till's willing, it isn't polite for him to keep him waiting.



"... Tomorrow...? When we get back home?"



"Tomorrow. Are you sure?" the guitarist nods, feeling a curious absence of nervousness. This is what he wants, that's for certain. "then that's when it'll be. I appreciate your preparations more now - Gott sei Dank!"



That's set, then. One day more, Richard, he thinks as he loses himself in their kiss once more. and - ah, Gott, I can hardly wait.