Raison D'etre

Set just post-Rock the Beach, Helsinki, 2013, 29th June 2013 and written for Lindekrusp. 

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"… What on earth are you doing with all those bags, Till?"

The singer doesn’t respond for a long time, standing and staring at Richard as if he hasn’t even registered the question. It’s only when the baffled guitarist repeats himself that he blinks and responds, his voice hoarse and almost-monotone after their show. “Would you mind switching rooms with me," he says - his tone is so flat that it comes out as a statement, not a request - “I know it’s a bother when we’re going to be leaving in a few hours anyway, but I’m having urges to write and Paul is so goddamn loud that I can’t focus. But I don’t want to be mean to him, either, there’s no point in telling a drunk or snoring man to cut it down when he’s already contained in his room."

"So this is how you’ve chosen to deal with things? Bothering me instead at one in the morning?" it comes out much harsher than intended; Richard knows what Paul can be like and it isn’t that far of a move, just a few doors down the corridor. The only person next to him currently is Olli, who is always mousy-quiet, and as a writer Till would probably appreciate that silence more than Richard ever could. So really, this is not an unreasonable request in the slightest.

It’s just that he doesn’t know why Paul is suddenly getting all this consideration at his expense. That’s all it is.

"Please don’t argue with me, Risch," the older man says. His voice is quiet and almost defeated; he sighs, runs a hand over his bleached-blond hair - nibbles delicately on his lip ring, a movement that Richard follows intently with his eyes - and looks at the guitarist once more. That’s all he says; there are no further pleads or annoyed retorts, but there is no sign of backing down, either. Combined with the fact that from Richard’s point of view he would never deny the older man anything, there isn’t a lot of choice.

"… I’ll pack my stuff."

”Danke," the singer says, and moves out further into the corridor - and mumbles one final thing. “I think you’d prefer it next to another guitarist, anyway."

"… What?"

There is no answer. Of course.

Typical Till, no less cryptic than he was twenty years ago, weaving baskets and saying not a word.

——-

Half an hour later, the switch has been completed, and Richard shuts the door behind him before surveying what will be his room for tonight.

The first thing he notices is that Till’s room has been tidied to an absurd degree; it’s probably cleaner than how the man would have gotten it first time, fresh from the actual staff of the hotel. The desk is spotless, so are the windowsills; only the bed shows the evidence of Till having been there, and even that’s had the pillows plumped and the sheet smoothed out a little. A quick look at the bathroom proves it to be just as clean and devoid of any of Till’s hair products or any such item. If he didn’t know better, he might have even said that the older man must have spent hours getting the entire room in order.

Hmm.

A bit too much of a meticulous job for it to have been a spontaneous reaction to Paul’s noise levels (which only started about an hour or two ago). Certainly too tidy for something that Till could have done right after a show, Richard thinks to himself as he rubs his chin and sighs. Ah, well. Who cares. They’ll be out of here before eleven in the morning. The guitarist doesn’t bother unpacking more than his planned clothing for later in the day (his grey shirt with a star emblazened on it, jeans, beanie hat) and a couple of toiletries before kicking his shoes off and perching on the bed. His fingers ache from the show, the adrenaline’s worn off and he’s tired. Not that much is happening for the next few days, until the sixth of July in Belgium; he supposes that he can stay up all night and be irresponsible (as Paul seems to have chosen to do), it’s not as if it’ll make much difference when they have a whole week to get themselves back in order. Can, being the operative word. Doesn’t mean that he will.

Speaking of Paul, he can’t even really hear the older guitarist next door; couldn’t from the moment he set foot in this room, rather. That just makes him more annoyed, that Till might have kicked him out of his room for the benefit of himself and a man probably too drunk and happy to be of a genuine bother to anyone.

What’s with the two of them anyway? Richard thinks to himself as he takes off his shirt and tosses it haphazardly to the ground. What’re they hiding from the rest of us?

Richard doesn’t know whether it’s just that Till’s being too friendly with Paul for his liking or that Till’s treating everyone else but him the same, but he has been feeling recently that interactions between him and the singer have waned. Either way is not a good development. Richard starts off exactly as far from Till as Paul is every show, but he doesn’t understand why the older man doesn’t come around to his side of the stage much anymore; he can almost swear that with every subsequent performance it’s getting worse. Just today has seen Till having fun headbanging and smiling with Paul, not to mention the ever-loved Buck Dich sequence and an almost-romantic ballad shared with Flake on the piano. That’s just onstage, of course, he’s spent a good amount of time sitting next to Olli and Schneider during their break and bickering playfully with them about something or the other. Richard doesn’t remember what, because he wasn’t part of it, and that makes him both highly irritated and sad because this development has pretty much come out of nowhere.

Richard lays down face-first on the bed and closes his eyes. He opens them back up immediately after only a single breath; Till’s scent is still alive in the sheets. Cinnamon cologne, the slightest tang of sweat, the honey-and-pear scent of his new shampoo for blond hair (too girlish, he does remember Till complaining), damp leather, and then of course his musk, that uniquely male scent that Richard would probably never learn to describe adequately. It’s only then it really does sink in that Till has slept in this bed for the past couple of nights, clutching the pillow under one arm, perhaps almost completely undressed as he’s wont to do during summer.

The guitarist groans and turns onto his back, staring resolutely at the ceiling. It feels as if confronting this smell would draw out the hesitant feelings he has for Till. They’re not new by any means, but Richard has never ceased to be uncomfortable with them, each jab of tenderness as smouldering and fragile as the countless cigarettes smoked between them.

He’d rather have said that Till has been ignoring him throughout the entire tour and during the years before that. Not an encouraging attitude, but then at least it would make sense why Till would favour everyone else. But when only a couple of weeks ago they rented a red Volkswagen, just for the two of them, to go on a scenic drive and lunch whilst on a break - when Richard remembers turning his head to the left, marvelling at how the other’s eyes remained so calm and unblinking whilst he drove, how sunlight glinted off his piercings and his golden hair that was mussed from the breeze-

- well. Then it’s certainly easy to see why Richard would be miffed when Till turns away. He has no idea what the hell the singer’s thinking half the time, and that’s not a good thing.

Richard’s half-hard underneath his trousers; now that he’s begun a trip down memory lane, he’s thinking back to about four hours ago, when Till and Flake were hoisted up on that platform; the keyboardist looking thin and bemused under the stage lights, Till mimicking shoving that dildo up him with a grin on his lips, catlike eyes staring directly in Richard’s direction.

No, he wasn’t staring up at them throughout the whole sequence. For most part - save for a glance that gave him a view of Till’s pink tongue sticking out a little in faux lust - he was only sensing it, with sweat prickling at the back of his neck. He slips his hand under the fabric of his trousers and begins to stroke, hand curled around the heartbeat warmth of his member, slow and without any real rhythm.

He’s tried to tell himself that it wasn’t lust, before, even when he had wet dreams about Till in the middle of the night.

He’s tried to tell himself that it wasn’t love, either, even when he could (and still can) feel his heart in his throat whenever Till’s wielding fire, for fear that he’ll end up injured.

It’s whatever it is, Richard whispers wordlessly to himself, as he spreads his knees as wide as the bed allows and peels his trousers off his legs. Whatever that makes us tick.

If only he had the courage to slide behind Till during those long tour bus rides, crawling into his bunk to wrap his arms around the other’s waist, feeling his heat and the shuddering breaths the singer would take. If only Till were lying next to him right now, sharing rooms instead of switching over in the middle of the goddamn night, instead of Richard having to make do by clutching at the pillow saturated with the scent of him.

If.

Countless things that Richard knows he’d never be able to do, not when they’re like this - because he simply values Till too much, gentle voice and playfully-erotic smiles and all, and he doesn’t want to risk a wall of silence and blank stares shutting the older man away from him forever.

Richard’s beginning to pant now, the throbbing between his legs urgent instead of a mere inconvenience; he turns his head so his cheek nuzzles into the pillow, breathing in. "Till," he breathes out, and hastily reminds himself - quiet, Paul’s still next door, I can still be heard. This doesn’t stop him peeling off his boxers altogether and staring down at himself with a mixture of arousal and dismay, watching his erection twitch and leak over his stomach.

He wants to feel the touch of Till’s tongue, just once, and it arguably doesn’t matter where he feels it. Whether it’s Till sucking briefly at Richard’s finger to soothe a burn as he reaches for the bandages (it’s happened before, and they’ve been teased for it before), or they’re sharing a lewd open-mouthed kiss, or even if it’s Till teasing barely over the tips of his nipples - it doesn’t matter where and how ridiculous the scenario might be. In his imagination, anything goes. He bites hard into the pillow and tries to recall the older man’s expression in several real-life events he’s witnessed, like the time he was licking absent-mindedly over his lip ring (oh, how jealous he is of that tiny piece of metal), or cleaning the back of the spoon after an ice-cream sundae, or-

"Lick mine too," he whimpers despite himself, and immediately has to shake his head fiercely, absolutely motified that he’s let that slip. But it’s too late because the image is in his head now, Till forcing his legs apart with his calloused, brutish hands, bruising the skin of his thighs as he holds onto Richard and flicks his tongue against his length like a cat with cream. He himself is hardly delicate, but there is no doubt that Till is physically stronger than he is. He doesn’t stand a chance. He can still remember back to when Till was a carpenter and basket-weaver, large hands grabbing and tearing at reeds or whittling fiercely away at the wood to get it into shape, his wrists sometimes wrapped to lessen the pressure. But when it came to the actual crafting he would be gentle and careful, soon setting down a carved figure or a woven basket with pride.

Richard imagines that contrast in bed, daring to actually reach down and brush his right hand over his erection; it twitches under his hand, and he stifles a buck and a moan in response. Till would be rough with his kisses and foreplay, perhaps, tearing the younger man’s clothes off and shoving him down onto the bed, harsh clinging hands locking him into place. But the moment he delves into Richard’s more intimate spots, the guitarist has no doubt that he’ll suddenly be treating him as if he were glass, too precious and fragile to hurt. The thought of Till’s fingers - large but just as dextrous as Flake’s, and that’s saying something - caressing his face, pressing the tip of his leaking member, or even lube-slicked and pushed inside him makes him groan and push the sheets off him altogether.

It’s utterly shameful. The door isn’t even locked and anyone could just barge in; but right now, being as aroused as he is, he doesn’t care at all.

Flake. The thought of him at least offers him a pause (though it’s not enough to break him out of his fervor). Both he and Till are impossible contradictions, level-headedness and intense passion obsfucated with insanity and silence respectively. There’s of course the time the two kissed passionately onstage - Richard knows that it really didn’t mean anything back then but he can’t help but feel jealous, even now, years later, because Flake has already tasted Till’s lips and yet he has never thought anything of it.

Whereas I would… I’d never just let that go to waste…

He thinks back to the mysterious conversation he’d had with the keyboardist, and for a brief moment feels a lurch in his stomach - oh God, what if he knows? Was that what he was talking about? What if everyone knows, what if Till-

No. At this point the guitarist tries to cut his thoughts away, shaking his head and clinging tighter onto the pillow. He wouldn’t be able to handle that, whether their friendship broke as a result or not. Instead he tries to imagine Till lying next to him, Richard’s hand wrapped around his length, body pushing him into the flimsy support of a hotel bed.

Hello there, Risch, the vision of Till whispers in his ear, and for that moment Richard can imagine that instead of this pillow he’s holding the older man instead. Hello, you.

"Till," he cries out, and rolls over so that he’s atop the pillow, just barely grinding into it. The grinds soon evolve into hard, desperate rutting. "nngh."

And then the pushing turns to an imagined pressure, some unknown force clutching at them and pushing them together until he sinks into the imagined Till, totally exposed and unashamed. Till keeps smiling at him, sliding wet kisses down his chest, the touch of his warm soft mouth punctuated only by the cool staccato of his lip ring brushing against Richard’s skin. He’s leaving black lipstick marks everywhere and they’re going to be a pain to scrub off later but he doesn’t want to, it feels so good. Decisiveness is not his forte - never has been - but right that second Richard becomes sure that he really does want Till, in a carnal way and beyond, and that it’s not just a crush or fantasy that he latched onto because he was lonely.

He wants an awful lot of things, that’s for certain.

He wants to talk to Till, really talk to him for the first time in years, grasping his hand across a cafe table and making his feelings clear. Till may or may not respond, and that’s fine.

He wants to be able to hold Till without pretending to roll his eyes or faking a manly awkwardness in fear that their bandmates will notice.

He wants to make the older man happy exactly in the way he promised ever so long ago, back in 1993 in that dusty workshop of his.

He wants to worship him in bed, showing him exactly how much he admires him through touch when words inevitably fail him; he can’t compete with a poet and singer, after all. And none of this would be like fucking or even making love, rather simply existing that way, because that’s the way they’re meant to be and because they are inseperable. What’s one more connection to add onto what they already have?

Richard’s body is beading with sweat at this point, and he’s moaning so loud that he’s certain that he can be heard in the adjacent rooms. But that’s a concern of the real world, not the one he’s currently in, the dark one of his subconscious longing. Till leads him there with his ghostly hands and smiles, his touches intangible and yet most definitely there, riling the guitarist up until he’s writhing with bared teeth. Kiss me, Till commands in his calm bass-baritone. Go ahead and kiss me, lick me all over, impale yourself upon me, it’s all right. Richard’s response is to bury his face in the now somewhat damp pillow, muffling his cries into it and mouthing against it in an attempt to simulate kissing Till, nails digging into the cotton. He feels the polish on his right thumbnail crack and doesn’t even react, imagining being buried in Till’s presence, nose brushing the crook of the other’s shoulder and stroking over his soft-blond hair, eventually working his way down to the coarser, darker curls at the base of his shaft, taking him in his mouth.

He has a lot of faults, for sure, but no one can fault Richard on his imagination.

"I can’t take it - Till, please - ah-"

Richard feels his orgasm coursing through him before it peaks, and in that split-second before everything goes white he tries to imagine someone/something else because this is entirely too much. But when he shuts his eyes and reaches down to grasp himself properly, the touch of his hand becomes Till’s (staring up at the younger man with that curious smile), and he finally comes with a sharp shudder and a barely-restrained scream. When he relaxes again, panting and slicked with cum and sweat, he tastes the cloth of the pillow and the faint trace of Till beneath his tongue.

Ahh.

Richard slumps in the bed, the inside of his head totally blank; he couldn’t move even if he was being forced at gunpoint. All he can do is to stare down at himself lethargically, unbothered by the pearly fluid cooling on his stomach or hand; after what seems like an eternal moment he finally lifts up his other hand and begins to lightly rub at his member, even though he’s flaccid again, sighing in a mixture of bliss and guilt.

The pillow rolls off his body and onto the floor with a muffled thud. Richard barely manages to turn over to stare at it, but doesn’t manage to do anything about it, instead turning his gaze to the window. He watches the star-studded skies and wonders distantly what Till is doing, only a few doors away from him, and what he’d say if he walked in and saw Richard like this now; sweating, naked and tangled amongst the sheets whilst covered in his own cum, inaudibly mouthing Till’s name and staring ahead with unfocused eyes. Utterly shameless.

But Till would never drop his friendship with Richard over this, even if he knew, even if he was literally right there in the room right now. Not when there’s a twenty-year old band that they’re responsible for and all their families to support; it would be insane for Till to abandon all of this just because Richard masturbated over him. But Till would know how to make the heat of shame coil within Richard’s stomach, simply by gazing at him with his own glass-green eyes, perhaps narrowed a little in confusion or even disgust. In fact, just thinking about Till and his stare is already doing the job effectively. Maybe it’s just a post-coital letdown - only that it doesn’t even qualify as that, there was only him involved - but this makes Richard so unbelievably sad that he simply curls up into a foetal position, barely holding back his tears.

A Helsinkian beach lies just beyond Richard’s window and the hotel grounds.

As he falls into a guilty sleep, he wonders whether wandering into the icy sea would solve all his problems, and whether Till would want to save him as he promised in song.

Komm in mein Boot, der beste Seemann war doch ich.

But oh, that was such a long time ago, back when Till’s hair was silver for the first time, as pure and soft as innocence since faded.