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Complications Of The Flesh	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1262 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Rammstein. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Title: Complications Of The Flesh 3/10
Author: Robby a.k.a. Mr. Naked
Rating: NC 17
Pairing: Till/Christoph, mentions of Till/Flake
Disclaimer: Never happened.
Beta: hannelore_k
Author’s note: Based on lisa_thecat’s wonderful “Dirty Story”.

III.

*Please don’t come around, bringing me down, tossing and turning my smiles upside down…*

I would have given up after the first few rings, but when it’s about him I never do. Of course, I had the other option – the keys to his house, which I still had since the time we were lovers.

While knocking on Till’s door, then ringing the doorbell, various scenarios were crossing my mind. I didn’t use the keys from the start because I didn’t want to barge in and find him with someone. It was early in the morning though. So, I kept knocking and ringing, hoping I wouldn’t have to use the keys.

Why had he never asked for them back?

I knew Till’s habits very well, he wouldn’t even wake up that early, so going out of the house at such hour was out of the question. What if he’d given in to his mother’s plea and went to celebrate the holidays with her? Or with that sister of his? No, Till hated Christmas on principle. His idea of celebrating holidays was lazing on the couch in front of the TV, while suckling on a bottle of booze. The stronger the booze, the better.

“Ok, ok, knock it off!” His grumpy voice, thickened by sleep, came from the other side of the door, followed by the clinking sounds of the lock. “Jesus!”

I grinned as the door was opened.

“Mornin’ sunshine!” I greeted him, and he replied with a humph. “Here’s your newspaper!”

He only turned around and I followed him in the house. He was wearing this pair of briefs and this not too clean t-shirt. His hair was all ruffled, and he was moving like a sleep walker.

“I’ll make us some coffee,” I said.

“There’s some left in the pot. Just heat it in the microwave,” he mumbled heading toward the bedroom.

I didn’t have to watch him to know he had collapsed back in his bed, falling asleep even before his body touched the mattress. I figured he might not have slept at all that night. But why, what was he doing?

I left the newspapers on the small table in the entrance hallway. That’s when I saw the pile of letters and advertising leaflets and catalogues they abuse people’s mailboxes with. This must have been serious if he didn’t even bother to sort his correspondence. What was going on?

I heard noises coming from a different room and I figured it must have been the TV. I stepped into the kitchen. Yes, there was something resembling coffee in the glass pot of the coffeemaker, but green-whitish fluffy spots covered it.

How many days have to pass to get coffee like this? What the fuck was going on with him? Even during his worst periods when he got depressed he wasn’t that careless with himself.

I cleaned the pot, searched for that box I knew was stashed somewhere – the box I brought him when we were still together, and inside that box, my favorite brand of coffee. Of course, it was still untouched.

I poured the water and put the coffee in the filter and turned the thing on. Then, I looked around. The kitchen was clean, no dishes in the sink. It actually looked like no one had been in there for quite a while.

I shook my head. Some pieces didn’t fit at all in this whole combination. It wasn’t as if he’d gotten sloppy; it felt as if he wasn’t spending too much time at his home. Then, where was he wasting his time?

Weeks. I hadn’t heard from him for weeks, actually, since that evening he left me in that bar and hopped into his car, giving me the feeling he couldn’t wait to leave me there and go find himself someone to suck his cock for a few bucks.

I stepped into his den and turned the TV off, then stopped and looked around, while listening to the gurgling sounds of the coffeemaker in the kitchen. If the kitchen looked clean and untouched, the study room was a mess. His computer was still on, while the desk was buried under pieces of paper scribbled with his handwriting. He was working on something.

But the businessman in me didn’t find the opportunity to feel happy about this. How come he didn’t tell me that he was back to work? He was usually a bit superstitious when it came to his work, he hated talking about it before even an initial thing was assembled, he thought that it would jinx it and he’d never finish that project. But he always told me that he had something going on. Why not this time though?

I moved the mouse of the computer, and the screen came back to life, but there were no documents open. I didn’t want to search though, it would have meant an invasion of his privacy. I had the pieces of papers scattered everywhere around the room. On a chair I spotted a box of some frozen food. So, that’s why the kitchen was so clean – he would heat food and not even bother to eat it from a plate. What the hell?

I picked up a page. What was this that got him in such a writing frenzy? But I couldn’t make out what it was all about from the apparently senseless sentences, which were written between sketches drawn by him. They were metaphors, comparisons, and a lot of abbreviations; only he knew what all that meant.

The sounds of someone walking around the house - the bathroom door slamming, made me drop the paper and go to the kitchen. I grabbed one of the newspapers and started to read it.

Till showed up a few minutes later.

“Hey!” He greeted me on a soft, warm tone, and then he lit himself a cig. “Mmm, coffee,” he added and took a seat at the kitchen table near me.

I peeked at him from behind my newspaper page. He just sat there on the stool, placed almost in the middle of the room, with his long legs crossed. As he leaned a bit forward, resting on his thigh the elbow of the hand he held the cig with, he smoked and looked out the window. Outside the window there were the old trees in the garden in front of his house.

It intrigued me. He would usually ask me what I was reading, and I would have answered that it was the horoscope. He would laugh and pick on me about my habit of being up to date with the latest developments – more bombings in the Middle East, some strike of the public workers in one of the countries of our continent, latest statements made by our own politicians. No, this morning he was sitting there, smoking his cig, staring out the window and chewing on his own thoughts.

He looked tired, indeed, yet he had this aura of … being well. He seemed to have lost some weight as well, but his face expressed contentment and … optimism. He didn’t even ask why I was there. Not that I would have needed a real reason to be there. But just as a mere courtesy.

Instead, when the coffee was done he stood up, took two mugs and filled them up. Then he put sugar in one and placed it on the table, in front of me. I put the newspaper aside and stared at him. He put the exact amount of sugar I always have my coffee with; when we were together, he wouldn’t even bother to bring me the container with the sugar in it, not to mention put any in my coffee. The reason was that he didn’t know how much I use.

“Till, what’s been going on with you?” I asked. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks, you didn’t even return any of my phone calls.”

Till drank from his coffee slowly. Prudently. Like he didn’t want to wake up too suddenly.

“I’m ok,” he said, finally, on the same soft and warm tone, making me think of those people that find some sort of illumination. Then I wondered if he was on some sort of drugs.

It felt like there was a whole world of things behind that simple “ok”.

“What have you been up to?” I insisted.

His eyes were watching the empty branches of the tree by the window, as they were bent and moved by the wind outside.

“I’ve been out a lot,” he replied on the same voice, like in a trance.

Shit, he met someone!

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re working again?”

That tree out there looked like the skeleton of a prehistoric animal, suddenly come to life. And Till was lost in contemplating it.

“You know I hate talking about my work.”

Then he smiled – a very tired smile - and turned to face me.

“What have you been up to lately, Christian?”

I didn’t answer, just sipped from my coffee.

“Did you have breakfast?” He asked suddenly. “We could go out and have breakfast. I think I’m hungry.”

“Till, what’s going on?”

He put out his cig and drank from his coffee.

“You didn’t even tell me what you’ve been up to,” he replied, not annoyed, but almost smiling. “How are you?” He asked again. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“I’m fine.” I answered and looked at him getting out another cig from the pack and lighting it.

“I’ve never noticed how much I miss the leaves in this tree, you know?” he said all of a sudden, looking again outside the window. “During summer it’s just so beautiful, against this window…”

God, could he hear himself? He sounded like a stupid kid. Like a…

“Who is he?” I asked directly.

He looked at me, startled.

“He? Who?”

“The new guy. The one that makes you go out a lot. The reason you started working again…”

Till sighed, but he kept that expression of calmness and contentment.

“I didn’t tell you that I’ve started working again because I don’t have a particular idea. I don’t even know if it will be a novel or will be just poetry. It’s…” He paused and looked again at that damn tree as if it could whisper to him the right words. “It is as if it’s a living being, possessing me, and all I can do is take it out of me, put it on the paper. When I put something together I’ll show you. It’s quite wonderful, actually.”

And his eyes were sparkling as he was telling me all that. He was talking fervently, gesticulating. That’s when I figured it out. The bastard was in love!
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Complications Of The Flesh