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Wicked Games	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 2287 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- 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.

Chapter List
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Title: Stay - Faraway, So Close! (Wicked Games 5)
Author: Robby a.k..a. Mr Naked
Rating: NC-17, for M/M sex, coarse language and all the tasty stuff
Pairing: Who else? Till and Richard
Disclaimer: This is all pure fiction; none of this happened, it’s only a product of my sick mind!
Summary: It’s when you’re so close to someone and in the same time you feel like that person is million miles away. Or the other way around.
Tunes list (these are the songs mentioned in the story, and that I’ve listened to for inspiration and writing mood): “Tea For One” – Led Zeppelin; “Stay (Faraway, So Close!) – U2; “Some Days Are Better Than Others” – U2; “Baby Face” – U2; “Lemon” – U2.

Stay - Faraway, So Close!

I. Tea For One

How can 24 hours sometimes seem to slip into days? And one minute seems like a lifetime?
I’m sitting here, watching the stillness of this room. A place so stern and looking so much like dozens of other places I’ve seen during the years. All the same, impersonal objects and things that get so close to your body, so intimate to your skin, but only for a night or two; you find them here and you leave them behind you, like with a hooker. One night stand, with a man, with a woman, or on a bed, under a foreign roof… Same thing.

One comes here with his own world of thoughts and problems, sits in this armchair I’m sat on now, sips his coffee or his drink, from the cup or glass as I’m sipping mine, looks quietly at the motionlessness of the furniture in the room that’s surrounding me now. One brings here his memories, sits down and unfolds them, one by one, one brings his whole collection of feelings, lights a cig, gets his drink and starts sorting those feelings, one by one.

I stopped writing long letters; torrents of words chained on paper that will not ever be seen by the beautiful eyes of the man those letters were addressed to. Actually I don’t even have the time to concentrate anymore and to get in the mood to write to him. To myself, in fact, since the letters weren’t meant to be read by anyone else. I just sit somewhere, looking at the clock, watching for the hands to move until I can’t watch anymore, while all my thoughts jump, yell, fight amongst each other, race like kids after classes on the playground of my mind.

Richard never made a single comment about those letters, anyway. And now those papers are piled in a corner, back in my home. I know he wants to talk with me about what they did to me; I know Christoph wants to, as well. But I just can’t.

I’m trying so hard to forget. I’m trying so hard to get back to the man I used to be. Back to my musing and wondering about things people don’t even notice they exist around.

I still love Richard, oh, Hell, I feel it so strong! It’s like a river of fire burning and pulsing in my veins, but I can’t make one step closer to him. In these moments I feel like a wall of disgust is falling in front of me, blocking my way toward him. All I can do for now is to pretend that he’s not there, and not allowing him to get any closer, either, or that river of fire would explode inside me, devouring me with it’s rage. All I can do is to love him from distance.

Richard is…. uhmmm four years younger than me, but now he seems to me like a teenager, with his rebellious fits.

And Christoph… What about Christoph?

I don’t know, man! I don’t even know what to feel. I’ve tried so hard to hate him, to hate them both, Christoph and Richard, but I haven‘t won this battle. All I can do is to observe from a distance, to watch them struggling, like two hounds from hell fighting between themselves. Maybe they deserve each other! Maybe I should just leave them with themselves and step out of this triangle that was forced on me.

That night – another night, in another hotel – I bumped into Richard while he was storming out of Christoph’s room, the same room I had left only short time before him. But Richard had blood on him, a bruise was starting to spread its tentacles on his pretty face, he looked so disturbed and so flustered, like someone ruffled his feathers pretty bad. It was scary.

“What did he do to you?” I whispered, worried, trying to sound as gentle as a husky voiced, big-sized man can sound.

“Nothing!” he snapped, cocking his head, his angry glance burning my gaze.

“He hit you? He raped you?”

“No!” he replied sharply, clenching his jaws. “We just fucked! Hard and rough, just as I like it!”

And he just left.

And, since then, from time to time, they just fuck, hard and rough, just as Richard seems to like it.

But I don’t like it…

At least Christoph isn’t drinking every night anymore, as if he is trying to kill himself with all that alcohol. And that’s a good thing. At least we can go on, as a band, with this tour. At least neither of them, Christoph nor Richard, aren’t hassling me that bad anymore, trying to talk about that infamous prank they played on me. I don’t know how good that is though.

All I know is that I feel so drained, so worn out by all this life of mine, and all I want to do is to listen to this so sad, sad, gentle and slow song, to fit my mood, to soothe my thoughts and feelings. To sit here, having my drink by myself, watching these motionless objects around me, in my room, and to listen on and on to that song, making my soul cry, if my eyes can’t pour any tears.

Do they love each other? Or are they just bound by this sick secret, and they just decided to stop fighting it and to go along with what was left for them?

Whatever it might be, I still feel like I’m the one that lost this whole war, and now I’m just sitting here by myself licking my wounds.

I want to see him, Richard, smiling just for once, just for me, a real smile of joy and happiness. I want to see, only just for once, an expression of real happiness and joy on his so beautiful face. Does he offer this to Christoph?

I want to be able to stretch my hand and caress him, offering through my touch all the warmth and affection I can ever offer, and for him to truly enjoy it. Is Christoph offering him that?

How does Christoph deal with the fact that Richard has a wife waiting for him and that, one day, he’ll go back to her?

Maybe I should just crawl into the bed. Tomorrow is another long day, waiting for us, only a few hours away.

II. Midnight Is When the Day Begins

I hear that sound, but I don’t turn my head. Someone is slowly opening my door, and coming into my room. He can go fuck himself; I’m finishing my drink and going to bed. I’m not even moving, I’m sitting still in my armchair, with my forehead resting on my palm.

Go fuck yourself, whoever you might be, Till’s calling the night off in a second!

But they don’t hear my thoughts; they just sit, almost in the same time, on chairs, in front of me. Christoph and Richard.

I feel them looking at me, but this doesn’t make me raise my gaze to look back at them.

“Till, let’s cut the crap, man, and sort things out,” Richard speaks, but it still doesn’t make me look at him.

I hear Christoph reaching for a drink on the table near the armchair.

And then, silence. A long, cold silence waving this raspy net between us. French say that in this kind of moment one can hear an angel flying through the wall, passing through the room.

But I guess tonight even angels went to sleep early.

And, as I raise my gaze, I don’t see angels, just two men sitting in front of me. And all I hear is this silence, laid like a blanket over us.

“Talk, then,” I say, with a rusty voice, almost whispering, like too scared by this silence. But they just look back at me. They don’t even smoke. They don’t even drink. Not even Christoph, anymore. They just look at me.

Why the fuck did they come in, then? Just so I’d have more motionless furniture to stare at while I let my thoughts ramble?

I couldn’t make them pay back for what they did. I couldn’t. We’ve had, all six of us, too many quarrels so far; the last thing we needed was this shit. So I just rather looked in a different direction. Just faced away and pretended that this thing never existed. Why can’t they do just the same?

“I don’t want to talk about it,” my rusty voice leaves my throat.

Only the gaze in their blue eyes answers me.

“I just want to get over it,” I continue. “That’s all.”

It’s so quiet; I can even hear an angel unfolding his wings and flying above our heads. What do I have to tell them anyway? That I sleep with the light on since that night? That so many times I have this nightmare about me waking up and finding out that I’m laying somewhere with my arms lifted above my head, restrained in handcuffs to a pipe? And that I realize, in my sleep, that I’m dreaming and I struggle to wake up, but in vain?

Richard‘s hand slides slowly to his jacket pocket, squirms in there, gets out of it, and then his arm stretches to the table near me.

Bang!

Bottles, glasses and cups jump and shiver clinking.

His palm lifts slowly and gets back to its place on his lap. My eyes turn to the table. My collar!

My collar that I gave him as the master, years ago. And he had worn it, as my slave.

“Just saying: “Till, we’re sorry” would have been more than enough,” I whisper, trying to cover that shivering inside my chest. “Though, I don’t need any apologies, from anyone.”

I know I’ve been a bad master. When you own something, you cherish it and you take the utmost care of it. I owned Richard, but I’ve ignored his wishes, his needs. So I’ve ceased being a master. I’ve become a monster. Now he’s returning the collar to the former master.

Christoph just looks at me, a stern reflection of a wide blue ice field, not even a shadow of satisfaction floating in his eyes.

I stretch my hand to the table and I get the collar; I stand up and walk slowly to the window, and manage to open it. So I throw the piece of metal spiked black leather in the dark ocean of the night behind the window.

I turn around and see them rising in silence, standing and quietly leaving the room.

And I don’t even have the strength to ask him to stay. I’d either fuck him or beat the shit out of him. When all I want is to caress him, to kiss him, to hold him in my arms, to get high on his warmth and his scent…

But tomorrow is another long day for us; I have to get over my fear of the nightmare coming to torture me again, and get few hours of decent sleep.

His arms around me probably would protect me from nightmares that keep haunting me. He’d be my knight in shiny armor.

III. Baby Face

I want him so bad, and, in the same time, I don’t. There used to be a flame in my soul, something keeping me moving, keeping me motivated. Now, there’s only a deserted place, like the lunar soil, something still, cold, dead, forgotten.

Some days are sulky, some days come with a grin… Some days are work, most days you’re lazy, floats through my mind. Everything becomes a routine; each day, waking up, sound checks, concerts, press conferences, sometimes parties, sometimes visiting around, then the ending of another day, the going to sleep thing…

At least we’re not fighting anymore. At least we’re doing something. But I feel like I want to go beyond this routine that surely keeps me busy, but still leaves me bored. I want more.

Even waking up so early in the morning, and climbing on the roof of this tall building which is our hotel to watch the world from above, isn’t much of a change either.

Some days are better than others, says a song, but when you already know how your day is going to be, sometimes you feel like not waking up and starting it at all.

Some days you wake up in the other day, not remembering what happened between one event and the next one, like what’s been since that evening Richard and Christoph paid me a visit.

But I’m still craving for that so sad, sad song I haven’t gotten to listen to yet. Right now I am listening to the noises of a city waking up, muffled sounds rising up to this place that seems so close to the sky that if I stand up and lift my hand I can feel the heavens.

Surprised, I notice the sounds of a church’s bells rising to the gray morning skies.

It’s so quiet here and no one around…

“Just the bang and the clatter, as an angel hits the ground…” I repeat, whispering, the words of another song.

“…And hurts his bum.”

Richard!

Alarmed, I turn my head. I know it‘s his his voice, but want to make sure it isn’t just an apparition, that he is there, standing behind me as I’m sat on the edge of this square portion, in the middle of the roof.

“Mornin’!” I say while he gets near me, jumps down of that portion and sits next to me.

“Hey!” his rusty whisper rises to the gray skies, melting in the muffled sounds of the awakening city.

His thick and nicely shaped arms embrace his own torso, trying to warm his still asleep body.

I don’t even need to look at him; I feel the air trembling gently around him as all his particles shiver in his body.

“Beautiful morning, eh?” another of his rusty whispers rises to the heavens.

He’s making efforts not to stutter because of his clattering jaws.

“Beautiful as a hope,” I answer looking up at the blue break in the gray clouds floating on the morning sky.

I turn my gaze and look at him – black spiky hair, eyelids lowered like still covering traces of dreams in his eyes, delicate cheekbones, long and fine jaw line, muscular chest with enticing shapes profiled through the thin layer of fabric of that dark t-shirt, thick arms with stretched fibers shaking, thin hairs raised on his skin.

My hand comes to life by itself, and stretches to that skin, my fingers run slowly along his arm, to feel the fluffy layer of raised hairs, from the edge of the short sleeve, down to his elbow. Millimeters away from his skin, I feel his muscles tensing and freezing for a second, stopping that shivering; his head rises a bit, his eyes look straight ahead, he’s forcing himself not to turn his gaze, not to face me.

“You’re cold,” I whisper, as my arm surrounds his shoulders, pulling him gently closer to my chest.

He doesn’t fight it; he just rests his head on the nape of my neck, snuggling more into my body, to feed on my warmth.

I lean my head and gently rub my cheek against his silky and perfumed hair, and then I kiss his head. My beautiful boy!

“I want you back, Richard,” my whisper rises as if I’m hoping it would get through the gray clouds.

I’m resting my cheek on the silky layer of his hair. And the answer I get is his arm traveling on my back, under my coat, surrounding my waist. I feel his right arm reaching to my chest, his long strong fingers running over my shirt, under my coat, in search for more warmth.

So I shut up and squeeze him even closer to me, to feel through all the layers of my clothes, his chest, his arm and his shoulder propped on me, rubbing gently, warming on my chest. My other arm reaches over his chest to get on his other shoulder.

I look again above us, like trying to spot an angel or a piece of heaven, through the break between the clouds.

But I’m already holding an angel in my arms, and the peace in my heart is a slice of heaven. My angel stops shivering, his fingers, like busy ants, make their way under the edge of my shirt, then the t-shirt, to my skin, to caress gently my abdomen.

And those fingers don’t stop there; they caress my skin and make their way down, under my belt.

So my fingers wake up to life and start traveling up on his arm, to his shoulder, rising up to caress his neck up to the jaw, then over his cheek, to leave his face, to go down on his chest, to cup around his pectoral while my thumb is rubbing his hardened nipple poking through the texture of his t-shirt.

He lifts his head, his mouth meets mine; his lips part, allowing my mouth to taste his kiss, to suck on his tongue while his busy fingers unbuckle my belt and unzip my jeans.

My lips feast on his, my tongue digs deeper in his hot mouth, while I get rid of the coat and unbutton my shirt, taking it off too. His now-warmed fingers go further between my thighs, caressing my balls. My shirt falls like an angel’s wings, while my greedy fingers take over his chest. My mouth is pressed over his and my fingers explore the stretched shape of his abdomen, going even deeper, unzipping his pants.

His thumb rubs the tip of my cock as my index finger goes slowly up and down along the shaft of his awakening cock. Our lips are sealed, feasting on this kiss. My chest rises, getting closer to his, to be treated by his touch, his warmth. His palm strokes my cock as my hand cups on his hardened balls; his thighs spreading even more for me. My fingers, wrapped on his cock, are sliding up and down and his hand does the same, on my cock, as his fingers encircle my own pulsing member. His tongue plays like a flame in my greedy mouth. My hand rubs faster and his palm is also rubbing faster; his pre-cum oozing on my fingers. His face rubs against mine as my hand holds his neck. His lips get suddenly softer on mine. Then he makes a hasty move to grab my shirt. I moan, feeling that I’m close too; he whimpers against my lips and, in a sudden spasm of all his muscles and fibers, he releases his seed on the cloth. I also hasten to grab the cloth, while his lips steal a grunt from my mouth and my whole body is clenching as I suddenly explode in that cloth too.

Muffled sounds of a city waking up, covered by our quickened breaths.

I look down at my feet where lays what used to be my shirt. I feel Richard’s fingertips traveling up the back of my neck, caressing my skin and hair. So I dare to look in his eyes, a blue break between gray clouds on a morning sky. A somehow guilty and accomplished smile starts rising in the corner of his lips. I lean over him to pick between my lips that start of a smile of his. Richard’s arms surround me, the protective armor I was so longing for.

I want this kiss to never end. I want this morning to stay with us for ever; I want his arms around me till the end of time.

“It’s pretty late, we should go,” his lips whisper over mine.

I look again in that blue glittering sea of his eyes.

“He hits his bum, eh?” I ask almost bursting into laughter, and my forehead is resting against Richard’s.

And he just smiles again, as I lift his hand and start kissing his fingers one by one, sucking a bit on each finger’s knuckles. And his fingers leave my palm one by one, rising to my face, their tips starting to caress my jaw line, as Richard stands up, still wearing a smile on his lips. His fingers leave my skin, and he starts putting his clothes in order.

I stand too, and arrange my clothes while watching Richard kicking with his foot what used to be my shirt; he keeps kicking it till the cloth gets to the edge of the roof, then a gust of wind picks it up from there, making it fall over the edge. But I don’t go there to watch it floating along the tall wall of the building; I follow Richard and we go inside the hotel, down to our floor.

As the elevator’s doors are opening, I can see that thin and tall silhouette coming toward us in the hallway.

“Mornin’ Flake!” Richard greets him, getting out of the elevator’s cage.

The skinny man grins as he’s getting near us.

“Hey guys,” he replies, and I can’t help noticing that his fingers are playing with something.

“Whatcha have there?” I ask pointing to the thing in his hand.

“This!” he answers amused, flaunting under our noses a black leather metal spiked collar.

“It fell on my head a few nights ago, when I was coming into the hotel.”

I frown and turn my head toward Richard, seeing him bursting into laughter. Under my rib cage, to my heart, this icy snake makes its sinuous way. The shirt, for god’s sake!, a thought yells in my mind.

“What weirdo might have thrown this out the window?!” adds Flake almost laughing too, while my guts freeze to the image in my panicked mind, the image of that shirt floating in the wind as falling down from the roof to land on some passer by’s head.

“Guess I’ll keep it as a souvenir,” Flake’s voice barely reaches my ears.

But I can’t hold it anymore!

This laughter, an apocalyptical laughter bursts out of me, making all my body tremble, making all the walls shiver in echo, a sudden explosion, relief and madness.

“Didn’t think it was that funny,” mutters Flake.

But, hey man, I’m sorry, I can’t stop it!

I’m just laughing and laughing and laughing! And Richard’s and Flake’s looks in their eyes make this more hilarious.

And I’m laughing even harder, my abdomen starting to ache from this much laughter, as I see Flake shaking his head slowly, and, all of a sudden, I just feel so free of my torments, so light hearted, so eager to start this new day ahead of the six of us.

We have hell to raise tonight! So we better hurry up!

To Be Continued
- 4
- 5
- 6
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Wicked Games