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Silence	By : kimbk Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1909 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know any members of Rammstein. This is purely a work of fiction: it does not intend to reflect any aspect of the members' lives and I do not make any profit from this work.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
Author's Note: Okay yeah so the chapter did come up quite a while before 10th Feb. I've had... some weird fluctuations in my life lately. Weird things been happening. Shouldn't happen again hopefully. Anyway, this is the sixth chapter and no, the fic is not done. x_x
I can't give away too much here but I would recommend following Schneider's point of view closely, and note that Till is the only member of the band who calls him 'Schneider' instead of 'Doom'. It's important. Otherwise this chapter should explain why this fic is called 'Silence' in the first place. I can't believe I genuinely took this long to come to the main point of the story. Oh dear! x.x Hopefully things should be uphill from now on.
The next chapter should be free of songfic sections because they can only be used ever so many times before they get tiring, and this is not a songfic after all. They need to be effective and I'm verging on abusing them. I won't say that the next one will be devoid of lines from songs, but they should not be interwoven with the narrative. I also really like little details as you'll see! Do read on and please tell me if I'm inducing apathy in you due to so much horrible stuff happening to them. That's not what should be happening at all!
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No one can understand it. It just starts up without any real reason as to why. Richard and Till are alone in their hired flat that morning; Paul and Flake are out shopping for some liquor, Olli is in the gym, and Schneider is God knows where. The important thing is that the guitarist is the first one to be treated to Till's sudden silence. They are all actually in fairly good terms at this particular moment, which has been the exception rather than the rule in recent times; no songs or new material has come of it yet, but they're certainly hoping for it, which makes what happens next at least twice as cruel.
"Morning," he greets Till when he wakes up. The singer is sitting in the main room, staring at the blank TV screen. He doesn't look at nor respond to Richard; he's not too surprised by this, so he moves past Till and makes a cup of strong morning coffee. He expects the singer to call out for a cup as well, but he doesn't, which is slightly odd - but not an unusual occurrence. After all, people don't always feel like a cup of coffee. Richard wonders why one wouldn't, but c'est la vie.
"Did you sleep well?" he asks as he returns with the cup of coffee and sits down on the other armchair, facing the older man. Again, no reply. "you're quiet."
Till slowly turns to him, and he sees that the singer's face is as white as chalk and he nearly spills his coffee with the sheer shock of it. He places the coffee cup down on the table slowly, trying to keep himself as calm as possible, aware that his hand is shaking so much that a bit of the liquid has spilled from the sides of the cup.
"Till?"
No answer. "Are you feeling alright?"
"..."
Something is very, very wrong.
Till opens his mouth and attempts to talk, but no sound comes out; not even a gasp or a hoarse moan. Richard can see that he's not faking it, he's trying desperately to speak but he just can't - from the look in his eyes the younger man sees that Till is just as frightened as he is.
"... Dietrich," he whispers, knowing that Till hates being called that - if nothing else, surely that'll get a reaction. The older man mouths something for a few seconds but stops doing even that, looking down with a horrified expression and one hand moving up to clutch at his throat. "what... what's going on?"
Richard is aware that he's on the verge of hysterics, and with some difficulty manages to calm himself down, telling himself that this isn't going to help his friend in the slightest. Instead of waiting for a reply that quite clearly isn't going to come, he picks up his phone and dials the first number that his dazed mind can think of, his fingers shaking so badly that every press of a button seems to take an eternity. He nearly jumps from his seat and swears roughly when Till's cellphone rings in response. The man stares at his ringing phone and back at Richard with an incredulous look.
"Scheiße," he says, aware how high his voice has gotten in his utterly mortified state; he disconnects the call and clutches the phone in his hands tightly, feeling as if he's about to pass out. "Till, I'm so sorry. It's just - habit - oh my God."
The frozen look on Till's face softens slightly, but he can see that he's made the vocalist feel even worse. Cursing himself, he dials Flake's number (taking special care to get it right) and within seconds is talking to him.
"This is Richard," he says. "Flake, stop whatever you're doing right now and come back here. Paul, too. Never mind the liquor. No, something's gone horribly wrong here, I don't care what he says. It's Till, he can't - he can't talk."
Not the most eloquent description, but Flake knows better than to ask more questions. "We'll be there in a few minutes," he says curtly, and cuts off the call there. The guitarist puts down the phone, feeling slightly better now that help is on its way but at the same time not knowing what exactly he should do next.
"... Do you want anything?" he says in a barely audible voice, staring at the coffee table and speaking in a tone more directed to himself than to Till. He stands up, his head spinning, wanting to do something to settle his mind. "a glass of water, maybe that might..."
But before he can leave, Till gives him his first true response so far by reaching out and grabbing his hand, pulling him back down. The look in his eyes is still shell-shocked, but his grip is so tight and so utterly desperate that Richard can't bring himself to question it. Through that touch alone, even before he is forced to sit back down, he deduces the message that Till is trying to send him: please don't leave me.
"I've got you," he murmurs, taking both of the other's hands and holding them tight in their mutual panic; not even his intrusive thoughts usually regarding the older man come to mind. "I won't leave you for anything, Till. You know that. It's okay."
But even with the rest of the band hearing about this incident, there is no improvement. Paul and Flake come back to the flat to see both Richard and Till sitting there stunned and (somewhat literally) dumbstruck, and get to asking them both the same frantic questions. Richard answers them because the other can't even if he wanted to. Schneider follows not a minute later, having also gotten the news.
"What's this about Till being unable to talk?"
"Exactly what it is, Doom," Paul says, running a hand through his hair. Till doesn't meet their eyes. Flake (being the only one who's thinking clearly at this moment) peers at him closely and talks softly to him, trying to get a reaction out of him if not coherent speech. In a way, having waited for the others to turn up and keeping close to the singer was the best thing to do from Richard's part: Till has recovered enough from his shock by this point to be able to nod or shake his head to yes or no questions, and when Flake provides him with a piece of paper and a pen he immediately fires off (in his hurried handwriting) answers to certain things - including what he's feeling right now. A slight pain in his chest that's preventing him from standing up and moving around too much, a sense of approaching doom and the inability to make sounds. Apart from that he's not feeling particularly ill, but he's completely unable to speak and he doesn't know why.
Olli comes in while they're discussing this, and while he doesn't ask any questions about what's going on, he stares absolutely horrified at the man and the scribbled reply that he's given them. "What does this all mean," he asks to no one in particular. "how can this be possible?"
"This isn't just a sore throat or anything, right?" Richard asks hoarsely, rubbing his forehead. "we have been overdoing it the past few weeks, maybe you're just - just overworked-"
Till scribbles his reply at this, looking a little indignant. I'm not overworked! It would be somewhat amusing to see them both bickering in this way had it been under any other circumstances, and Richard can at least take some comfort in the fact that his friend is just as mentally sound and sharp as ever, but it doesn't solve the problem. Schneider gazes at the scene with a dismayed look, holding his head.
"Well, Till's definitely not doing this on purpose," he says. "he's been like this all morning?"
"I literally woke up about two hours ago and he couldn't speak. We all talked to each other last night, remember? And now his voice is just gone."
"I remember all too well," the drummer replies, looking up again. "that's partly why I can't exactly grasp this situation properly. Forget speaking for a moment; can you make no sound at all, Till?"
The man looks down as if ashamed. He looks kind of like a oversized puppy that's been scolded, and it would be sort of adorable if it wasn't so tragic. "We've got an upcoming concert," Flake says hoarsely, and the implications of this statement crash down on the rest of the band. "in about two weeks. If it isn't just a... just a one-time thing, then what the hell do we do?"
"Goddamn it, Flake. Don't say that. It's not even two weeks, sixteen days, more like - what makes you think that he won't recover by then?"
But the damage has been done and not even Paul seems convinced by his own logic. They simply look helplessly at the singer and at each other, for once having completely lost the will to fight amongst themselves. This is beyond arguing or blaming each other, when they don't know what's caused this in the first place, and when they're so close to a concert it simply doesn't bear thinking about. It might not be a whole tour, just a small stint to truly solidify their comeback - but now disaster's struck the one person who's crucial to the entire operation. Till's lips tremble in response, but there is nothing there; he's completely out of it as far as things are concerned and that's how it's going to be for a while. For maybe a longer while than any of them, including Till himself, are comfortable with.
Olli buries his head in his hands. "Mein Gott," he whispers, and he actually sounds as if he's about to burst into tears. It sums up what they all feel about the situation perfectly.
-----
Once the initial bout of panic is over, the entire band decides to take the day off and just calm down. Worrying isn't going to solve anything and it's certainly not going to help Till; when asked if he wants to see a doctor, he responds in the negative. "Are you sure?" is followed by an affirmation of what he said. Richard stays by him for the entire day, tending to him at certain points, but they mostly try to keep up some sense of normalcy. Till himself appears to prefer it that way as well, and that helps them think that perhaps this is just a temporary symptom resulting from being tired or overworked. After all, voice loss and strain is not unusual amongst singers. It was bound to happen to Till sometime. The guitarist does make sure that the man goes to bed after a hot cup of lemon tea, though, and feels profoundly strange for looking after his friend in such a way, although he's certainly not ashamed of it.
But the next day brings no more luck, and that's the true point of concern. Till looks more tormented than before if anything, and watching him struggle is just as torturous for the rest of the band. Olli catches him frantically trying to muster a few words and failing miserably when he lurches over and clutches at his chest instead. They bring in a doctor that day against the singer's wishes who listens to Till's chest and checks his throat, suspecting vocal cord nodules or paralysis. But he doesn't actually detect any problem whatsoever, much to their confusion and dismay; he tells them to drop in after a few more days if there is no improvement, saying that it is perhaps too early to give a diagnosis. He departs with the final piece of advice that perhaps the band members are better off leaving Till be for a while. This is getting more and more confusing by the second. Till writes down his thanks, but when the doctor leaves he slumps down on his chair and covers his face with both hands.
"We don't know what to do, Till," Olli says, almost to himself rather than to the singer, while the rest of band stand by the doorway. "please tell us what you need. Tell us what you want us to do. We'll do our best."
The older man lets his hands drop to his lap at this, but doesn't open his eyes - he has a disturbingly defeated expression on his face, and even the usually-cool Schneider actually starts biting his lip at how far Till has gone downhill already. A thick pause lingers in the air before he opens his eyes and reaches heavily towards the pen and paper; he writes down only one word. Richard.
"'Richard'?" Olli reads, before glancing back at the bewildered guitarist. "looks like he wants to tell you something."
"What could that be?" Richard asks out aloud, but he's strangely elated at the same time. "well, I guess we'll have a talk then... as best as we can, I mean."
"You do that. Let's go."
The rest of the band leaves them be and closes the door shut behind them. Feeling the need for additional security, the younger man also walks over and locks the door, tugging lightly on the handle and turning back. Till's watching his every move with a tired expression, and he swallows nervously, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
"You said you wanted me for something?"
A nod.
Richard waits for him to write down a reply or otherwise find a way to communicate. It doesn't come for what seems like a very long time; the other man simply sits there, his eyes half-lidded and barely focused on the guitarist, but he eventually sits straight up and writes down something on paper. He gazes at what he's written, hesitating and nibbling the tip of the pen lightly as he usually does when he's thinking of the next line in a poem, and this familiar act lets Richard relax a little at least. It doesn't last long.
"Can I see?" he asks gently. Till looks at him for a second, and back down at the paper - and without writing any more, suddenly hurls the pen across the room and tears the paper into pieces. Richard gasps at the unexpected violence and hurriedly steps back for a second, but then changes his mind and reaches for the pieces of paper, snatching them out of Till's hands before he can do more damage. While he's glad that Till hasn't stopped him, he genuinely feels quite terrified. The singer breaks things quite often, but he's never shown such disregard for anything he's written, no matter how insignificant. "Till, don't! This isn't like you! What's wrong?"
Till stalks out of the room, trying to slam the door open and fiddling angrily with the lock when he can't; Richard makes sure to give the pieces a look through and hastily shoves them into his pocket before following. The others have been waiting by the door, he can see (much to his annoyance), and they stare at Till with an unnerved expression as he storms into the kitchen.
"Jesus," Paul breathes, nervously fiddling with a shirt button before noticing the guitarist by his side. "did you really piss him off or something? What happened?"
"Knock it off," Richard mutters, and follows Till into the kitchen. He finds the older man searching for something, almost tearing the cupboard doors off their hinges in his frenzy, and guesses that he's after liquor. Which would be the usual thing, except that they're out of liquor for the moment because Richard stopped Paul and Flake from getting some. Sorry about that, he thinks to himself before he approaches the singer and puts a hand on his arm. "there isn't any alcohol in the flat at the moment. Calm down. I didn't mean to anger you, I honestly didn't."
The other's scowl suddenly falters into a defeated look, and he sighs before pushing past Richard and back into his room. None of the others are in the living room now, having wisely decided to keep away for the time being to avoid Till's wrath - he might be silent, but he's still capable of being a dangerous man when angered. The guitarist rather suspects that they've withdrawn into Paul's room, which is the one next to Till's, and are still very much listening to what's going on, but he can't really care about that at the moment. He takes out the pieces of paper and lays them out on the counter, leaning over them and frowning as he tries to figure out how they fit together. It takes him a minute, but he finally rearranges them to the right form and scans the page, reading the words written on it.
Words have deserted me.
He reads this sentence over and over again, frowning. It's certainly true that speech has deserted him, that much doesn't even need elaboration, but Richard knows that there must be much more lurking beneath the seemingly obvious statement because Till is not that one-dimensional. It's best to ask the man himself, he decides, but he can't help hesitating when he looks at the door to Till's room - the older man could be in there breaking something for all he knows and he wouldn't be able to do anything about it except for getting out of the way. But his concern for the older man wins over, and he tucks the paper back into his pocket before walking over to Till's room and giving the door a few knocks.
"I'm coming in."
Richard knows that if the older man would block the door with a chair or even his own body if he really didn't want to be seen, speaking be damned. None of those things happen when he pushes open the door, so he goes in and shuts the door behind him, enveloping both he and Till in darkness.
The room is still clean and doesn't seem as if it's been trashed in any way, and nothing is broken. But Till is sitting on the armchair with his face buried in his hands, the notepad and pen lying ominously on the small coffee table next to him, the page full of crossed-out words and frantic scribblings. Richard approaches him and sits down on the left arm of the chair, not sure where else to go. The singer doesn't look up, but doesn't push him off either.
"I pieced that page back together," Richard says. Till's head snaps up and he stares at the guitarist. "I guessed that there's more to it than... well, than what's going on right now. Am I right?"
The singer stares at him for a little longer, but he doesn't seem angry. He eventually gestures with his head towards the notepad, making no further motion to write anything down; the younger man is no stranger to Till being enigmatic, so he obliges and leans over to look at the sheets of paper to see if there are any clues. The scribbles don't tell him anything particularly interesting, nor do they at any point merge to make a coherent sentence or anything that Richard could derive a meaning from. But Till keeps looking at him with a near-hopeful expression and this spurs Richard on until the pieces finally fall into place.
"Talking is the least of your problems," the guitarist speaks up, reaching out for the topmost sheet of paper and tearing it off the notepad. "you mean... you've lost the ability to express yourself. You can't write anything."
It's not a question, rather a series of statements, but Till nods grimly in response. Richard bites his lower lip as he stares at the sheet of paper; the image of Till trying desperately to produce some creative output to make up for his condition and failing miserably suddenly rises far too clearly in his mind for comfort. He can't imagine what the man must be feeling - what is Till without his poetry, his muse?
A friend who needs to be comforted, first and foremost.
"The concert isn't far off," Richard says quietly, staring at the wall. He can feel Till's gaze boring into him but forces himself to look ahead because this needs to be said. "there's no use trying to pretend that it's not going to happen. I think the others are trying to ignore it as much as possible so that it won't stress you out, but what use is it when you'll still worry about it all along? I know what you're like."
He pauses and waits, wondering if he's come off as too callous. But the older man is stronger than that, and the statement seems to have rung true with him from the way he keeps looking into the guitarist's face, searching and waiting for him to say more. "I want to help, I really do. But how can I, when neither of us know what's going on? I'm not blaming you, Till. But I..." Richard hesitates for a second or two before resuming his talk. "I... miss your voice. Which is stupid, I know, it's not even as if I've never gone without hearing you every day in the past years. Remember when you didn't have a phone? I certainly didn't hear you for weeks back then. And whenever I or one of the other guys piss you off you don't talk to us. But this is different and I don't know what to do. Not a single one of us does. This isn't even about the damn concert, what's the point when without you Rammstein doesn't mean anything. I'd give anything to hear your laugh or even yell at me for being an idiot."
He stops there and lets the heavy, uncomfortable silence fall between them. It strikes him that for the first time in many years, Till is at a far more vulnerable position than he; he could spill out his confused feelings right now and the man would have to just sit there and listen. If any kind of confession along those lines made Till angry, it might snap him out of all of this and force him to speak out in indignation, and while Richard might be left sad and heartbroken that could only be a good thing. But he doesn't have the heart to try it, not when the older man is so far removed from him that he doubts that Till will be able to comprehend it at all.
The singer's gaze has faltered to the ground; he looks at Till before grasping him in an embrace. It's an awkward position to be in - he's kind of hugging the older man sideways because of where he's sitting, but he wouldn't move for the world when he has the other's face buried in his chest and can feel his warm breath against his shirt. Till leans into the embrace limply but doesn't return it, and Richard feels the sensation of a considerable weight crashing down in his heart. It only hits him then that Till really can't respond to anyone; he's become shut off from outside stimulus altogether. The guitarist runs his fingers through the other's hair, noticing that even that feels lifeless compared to just a few days ago, before he puts both of his hands by the side of the other's face and lifts it up.
"Please say something," Richard pleads, even though he knows that the other can't help it. "don't do this to us. Please."
The singer's looking in his direction without really seeing him, just like he does onstage, and that makes Richard unbearably sad.
"Nothing else matters. I need you. More than ever," he whispers as he strokes the other's face, wanting to get through to him. "come back to me, Till."
But Till's eyes are dull and dark and he can no longer find any answers in them.
-----
Olli and Paul are back in the living room and discussing their situation in shushed voices when Richard comes out of Till's room and tiredly shuts the door. The sound alerts them both to the guitarist, and they beckon to him, silently inquiring as to what is going on. "It's not good," he states flatly, and their expressions become more dismayed.
"Is he asleep?" Richard nods in response. Paul leans back and rubs his forehead, frowning lightly. "I guess that's better than him being awake and angry. What was he so furious about, anyway?"
"He wanted a drink. We don't have any though. It's my fault that you and Flake couldn't bring any back yesterday - I felt absolutely terrible, you don't even know."
"What's this?" Flake pops his head out from the kitchen, followed by Schneider doing the same. "oh, the liquor?"
"Shhh," Paul gestures frantically at the door. "not so loud, Flake!"
Richard observes the scene before him and is surprised at how not annoying he finds this. Any other time, even the littlest of bickering amongst them would have had him reaching for a cigarette and mindlessly hating everyone for a few minutes - now it's simply a sign of unity, because for once they're actually pursuing the same objectives. Flake leaves the kitchen with a glass of water in hand, assuring them that he'll go and buy some liquor when morning comes and that the alcohol on the top half of the fridge will be for Till's consumption only. If Till has his own supply of drink that no one else can touch, that will probably cheer him up slightly if nothing else; Flake knows almost as much as Richard does about the man, and quite likely understands him better, which still kind of makes the guitarist feel upset when he thinks about it. Quite petty, really. He's not sure if he's ever going to get over this, which is yet another layer of irrational altogether.
"Was he up to eating anything?" Schneider asks quietly, throwing a worried gaze towards Till's door. Richard shakes his head; the drummer looks a little disheartened, but nevertheless picks up a tray from the table that has a covered slice of chocolate cake, two apples, and a thermos filled with coffee on it. He scribbles out a note to the singer before walking over with the tray, placing it just by the side of the doorway and sliding the note beneath the door. Richard watches this and suddenly feels a knot tighten in his chest - Till and Schneider's always had a little rivalry going on ever since the band got together. Schneider was Till's replacement, after all, and one who suits drumming far better than the latter ever did. They've always been friendly with each other, but Till has even admitted out loud that he does a lot to piss the younger man off rather more often than would be necessary and vice versa. Seeing the drummer completely disregarding all of this now is somewhat noble and at the same time quite sad. It's as if their previous conflicts never existed in the first place.
While he watches this he feels a hand on his shoulder; it's Flake, who merely gazes at him silently and nods to convey his understanding. this simple act settles his mind a little.
"Perhaps you should sit down and relax for a bit. You look insanely tired," Olli tells him. Richard looks over at the mirror on the wall and sees that the bassist is right; he looks gaunt and nearly out of his mind with worry. Certainly not the beauty of Rammstein that he's known for being. He shakes his head, disgusted with himself, and gets out the final cigarette from a crumpled pack in his pocket. "the hell are you smoking for, Risch."
"The hell aren't you smoking for," he snaps back, but regrets saying it almost instantly. "damn. Ignore what I just said, Olli. That was ridiculous. Immature. I'm not thinking properly, I didn't mean it."
The bassist doesn't look offended; Richard being moody is nothing new at this point, but the concern in his face has become more obvious. It's Flake who frowns at the guitarist. "We're all worried about Till. No need to bite anyone's head off."
Richard decides that he does kind of deserve it, and holds back a fierce retort, instead going for a muttered "Christ, Flake, don't I know that," before fumbling around for a lighter and cursing when he finds that he doesn't have one. Flake taps him on the shoulder and Richard spins around to find that the other has an open lighter. Surprised, he nevertheless takes up on the offer.
"Thanks."
"It's no problem at all. Shame that it was your last, because I could certainly use a smoke as well," the keyboardist says as Schneider comes back; without even needing to elaborate, the drummer immediately fishes out his own pack of cigarettes and tosses it to Flake. "ah, Doom. Always equipped for everything. Vielen Dank."
"That was quite neat," Paul comments, gazing at them with a rather disbelieving look. "how did you guys just happen to have what the other guy you were talking to needed?"
"We are in the same band," Schneider says. "and have been for a very long time. Six hearts burning as one. We all complete each other, no matter what happens. Don't even need to involve Till to see that," he then lets out a strange chuckle, sounding like a mix between a hysterical laugh and a sob, before collapsing next to the bassist and covering his face. Olli looks startled - the drummer isn't known for being like this at all - but quickly (if a little awkwardly) puts his arms around him in an attempt to comfort.
"Calm down, it's not the end of everything. Don't you start now," but there is no malice in Olli's tone, and he almost looks as if he's about to cry himself.
"I know it's not," Schneider murmurs before raising his head and gazing at all of them. "but I looked things up... apparently voice paralysis might last up to a year..."
Richard nearly drops his cigarette. "Shit. Are you serious?"
The drummer nods miserably. "Would I lie about something like that? When we've got that concert coming up - no, forget the concert, that doesn't even matter when we've got up to a year to think about. And if it doesn't improve afterwards, then it might end up being a permanent thing."
"We don't know that it's paralysis, though," Flake says. "you heard what the doctor said. No problem detected at all. Paralysis doesn't just set in because it feels like it."
They all fall silent as they think over this information; Richard stubs out his cigarette, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He agrees with Flake, but whatever it might be, the irrefutable truth is that Till's voice and creativity have disappeared. They can't argue with that, and if they want to achieve anything they're going to have to work with it.
"What bothers me is that it had to be Till," Paul finally speaks up, letting out a heavy sigh. "I mean, look at me. Rammstein can manage without a rhythm guitarist for one single concert, I can be replaced or left out temporarily-"
"-and I can be replaced if need be," Olli also nods. "it's no big deal, for just one night. I get what you mean, Paul. Till is - just that one person who simply can't be replaced under any circumstances."
"Rammstein doesn't work without his voice. I'd rather leave altogether than see Till replaced," Schneider says tearfully. "I want to keep to that promise we made, way back then. And for the record, I don't agree that any of you guys are replaceable, I can't even begin to imagine a gig with just one of us missing anymore. I just... I never thought we'd ever have to think of this possibility, for anything other than age..."
"Maybe there's no sense in thinking about it now," Richard says as firmly as possible, even though his mind is also on overdrive. "there's no need to overreact to anything. I don't think Till would want it either."
"I go by what Risch said," the keyboardist adds, giving the younger guitarist a nod. "we'll give him time."
How much time exactly, though? That question lingers in Richard's mind, and he can see that everyone is thinking the same - not even the keyboardist is exempt. But they can't focus on that now. They need to keep what little peace they've left so that they can keep themselves from falling apart. If they keep certain things to themselves so that Till can have all the time he needs, it should be worth it in the end. But when even two days without the man's voice feels like an eternity, he can see that it's going to be a difficult task.
-----
No one's up to staying up any later than that, even though it's just gone past eight. The house is dark and Richard is lying on his bed, only a desk lamp brightening the room and his eyes closed tight in concentration. A flat, silver-coloured CD player rests next to him, the earphone wires tangled up messily beside it; the larger one that he used to have broke a few months back, and while he could have invested in an MP3 player, he still prefers CDs. (He stashed the old one in the attic out of fondness even though it was beyond repairing.) Call him old-fashioned, but that's just how it is. He's not listening to anything, though, too busy trying to focus on other things.
Richard's room is right next door to Till's. He's been pressing his ear to the wall for over an hour, knowing that his bed and Till's are separated only by that wall and longing to hear something, anything from him. It's a thin wall even for flat standards, he can quite often hear Till humming or speaking or even coughing through it very clearly. Could, anyway. Now Till can't do any of those things, and from what he's gathered over the past hour, his breathing isn't loud enough to carry through the wall either. Richard curls up and clutches at his CD player, trying not to let despair get the best of him and to get a grip on himself.
His shaking hands reach out to the bedside drawer and rummages around before taking out a CD case. He doesn't even need to look to see what CD it is, he can simply feel it from the worn grooves and scratches engraved on the case, indicating how many times he's listened to it in the past. Keeping his eyes firmly shut, he snaps open the case, takes out the CD and pops it in the CD player; he then feels for the earbuds and awkwardly puts them on without bothering to unentangle the cords or even figure out which side is right and which is left. Pressing 'play' results in the familiar brief intro of drums and ominous chords, but he simply isn't interested in anything other than one particular song at the moment. He skips through every song before getting to the penultimate track and letting it play.
Till's surprisingly-soft baritone startles him to such an extent that Richard actually tenses up when he hears it. He's never thought about this particular song very much, except for thinking that it is one of the most honest songs that the singer has ever written, but he hasn't listened to Till's voice in two days and suddenly being exposed to it feels both right and absolutely heartbreaking.
"Und der Wald er steht so schwarz und leer-"
Despite the lyrics, the first thing that comes to Richard's mind is not the image of a forest; rather, it is of a lone tent in a desolate, snow-covered wasteland, straight out of the music video for this song. Nearly every video they've ever made have been strange and disturbing videos, so that one had seemed tame by comparison, even when they'd quite happily agreed to the storyboarding and had acted it all out. But even back then, when he saw the finished result, Till's absolutely beautiful and peaceful dying face at the end had hit him so hard that he had actively avoided watching the video again for a few weeks.
"Ohne dich kann ich nicht sein, ohne dich..."
His voice in this song is considerably higher, lighter than his usual tone but at the same time weighed down with a sense of sorrow and what might be memento mori. It's admittedly not much like Till's speaking voice, but to hell with that for the time being because it's still him and this is what Richard wanted to listen to in the first place. He can't handle anything heavier at the moment. For the first time in ages he listens to one of their songs for the simple sake of listening, not to try to work out meanings hidden in it, and it fills him with so many different emotions that the guitarist doesn't know what to do about it. From past experience he knows that pointless angsting won't help, so he simply lies there, opening his eyes and forcing himself to stare straight up at the ceiling and not at the wall so that he won't envision Till behind it.
"Ohne dich zähl ich die Stunden, ohne dich... Mit dir stehen die Sekunden, lohnen nicht..."
As the song plays on, the memory of Till's face floats back into his mind and Richard can't help but shudder. Of course he's being ridiculous. He's acting like Till's actually died or something, and of course he isn't dead. Even if he never made another sound again, he is still very much alive and perfectly functional and Richard doesn't need any proof of that when the man is sleeping right next door. He wonders if anyone else in the house is asleep now, or collectively tossing and turning in their beds, going out of their minds with worry. Till's kept quiet out of spite before, but just because it happened many times before doesn't mean that it lessens the blow any.
"Und das Atmen fällt mir - ach, so schwer..."
Well, think of it this way - Till always did sound better when he voluntarily kept quiet for a few days or so. It'll be one hell of a voice he'll have when he recovers. If he ever does.
"Weh mir - oh weh..."
But it's not just the voice. Losing all ways to properly express himself has taken the soul out of Till already, and if it goes on any further it'll kill him. Writing and singing's what Till's depended on for survival for all those years, and by now it's so deeply integrated into his lifestyle that if words have actually deserted him, he won't be able to go on. No one knows that better than the younger man. Death by writer's block. Whimsical yet such a terrible possibility.
"-und die Vögel singen nicht mehr!"
He can't listen any more. His fingers tighten around the cord as the chorus kicks in, wanting to tug it out and throw it across the room so that he won't be tormented by Till's (utterly agonizing) voice any longer. He never should have done this in the first place, not when he already knows Till as an unintentional siren of sorts, luring him further into combined lust and adoration and anguish with everything he does. But he can't be blamed either, all he wanted to do was to hear Till. Besides, if he stopped now, what has he left to listen to except for the oppressive silence next door? Richard finds that he has no will to actually do anything about the music; their songs are the only thing he can find solace in, so he might as well get used to it for a while, seeing as he can no longer just waltz in and start up a conversation with the man.
Blearily opening his eyes, Richard reaches out again towards the chest of drawers and this time retrieves his notebook from top of it. All of them have taken to carrying around one or two, though only Olli and Flake write regularly in them. Till is the only one who strictly keeps to specific types of writing, only noting down snatches of lyrics, poems or even little observations that he wants to keep around for a long time. He's probably filled up enough to fill entire shelves by this point. The rest of them do similar things, noting down things that might be of use to the band, but things like mini-journals, lists of restaurants and reservation details do find their way into their notebooks.
Richard flicks through his own. Lyrics and drafts, mostly for Emigrate, make up the first twenty pages. The rest are scribbles that aren't related to his band activity, nothing of much significance. He pulls out the pen that he keeps in the wire-bound spine of the notebook and starts a new page, noting down the current date along with the previous day's, not sure what he's wanting to achieve but at the same time hurting too much to not keep it on record. Perhaps writing it down, as matter-of-factly as possible, will give it some semblance of reality.
"Lohnen nicht..."
Till Lindemann has been silent for two days as of 21st Jan 2008, Monday evening...
"Ohne... dich..."
And reality is a brutal customer. It amazes him how forty-two years, a divorce and continuous heartaches have made his acquaintance since birth and he still hasn't learnt a damn thing.
-----
A week passes by from that day, and Rammstein has never been without a singer for this long before. Any hopes of getting Till's voice back in time seems slim now, with only another week left before their gig. It's no big deal, they can technically cancel the concert, and none of them can even think of caring that much about it with Till's entire position at stake. Considering that they don't like cancelling concerts and disappointing their fans, this is not very respectable conduct; but there's no way to force a man who's been nigh mute for over a week to sing in front of a crowd, and that's really the most important thing. The most important thing that they can no longer ignore.
"We're going to have to pull out," Olli finally says during breakfast. "there's no alternative. Rehearsal's in four days' time - we'll have to tell them to call it off."
"Yes," Paul answers, glancing at Till, who is listening to their conversation in rapt attention. "perhaps we should."
Flake tries to speak but is stopped by the singer's firm strong hand gripping his wrist. Richard watches and feels a slight twinge of jealousy arise inside him, before he scowls and admonishes himself for not focusing on the main issue. "Till? Yes?"
Till reaches over to the table and grabs a notepad and pen, tearing the cap off with his teeth and frantically jotting down a few words before throwing the pad in front of the five. They lean down to read the words written on it with some confusion and disbelief.
Let me go to the rehearsal.
Richard looks up. "Till, you've not spoken a single word for over a week. How can you sing in front of a crowd? It'd be a different matter if you lip-synced, but-"
The older man frowns and shakes his head, looking disgusted with the very idea. This is a familiar sight and at least lightens their mood, although not by a significant amount. There is something steely in his eyes that hint at his resolve and they all know that he's not about to give up on this issue. He'd walk - no, crawl all the way to the practice if he had to, even though it will take him hours.
"Let him," Flake says quietly.
"But-"
"Till has something in mind. He's never let us down before. Besides, if he can't perform, it's going to come out in the open whether we let him or not. Just one time will be enough."
Blunt and to-the-point, as is the normal thing for Flake now. Till nods at him gratefully, affirming his feelings towards the situation. Before any of them can argue, Flake leaves the room for a smoke; Till also stands up, although he instead goes to his own room, locking the door behind him. Paul, Schneider, Richard and Olli watch silently and then put their heads together.
"Till isn't going to make it," Olli says resignedly. "we just - haven't got enough time."
"Olli, if you're insinuating in any way that he's not going to recover-"
Paul holds up his hand. "Don't get worked up, Risch. Olli is right. I doubt he'll be able to perform right now."
"Well, Flake had a good point. Let's give Till a chance. If he can't perform then we'll probably be pulled out of the arrangement altogether," says Schneider, standing up. "it might actually be easier than explaining. Then at least we can walk out together with our heads held high."
That is the end of the conversation. Of course none of them are comfortable with it, not even Till himself; he barely touches his food during dinner and gets up early. He's been hiding himself away a lot nowadays. But this time he goes to his room without closing the door and lies down on the bed in full view of the others, staring up at the ceiling. It really begs the question as to whether Till is doing this just to mess with his bandmates; at least Richard sees it that way. It wouldn't be entirely out of character for him. He's equally frustrated and enamored with this Till - he's bordering on downright unresponsive, only saving the pen and paper for dire situations and no casual conversations, but because of this the guitarist can see that the older man is developing his other senses and abilities to make up for the lack of speech, He seems to be a better listener than ever, and while he does conceal himself a lot, it's not long before he comes back out and sits there paying attention to them. As strange as it is, this is the first time in months - years - that the band has actually been this closely bonded, too busy thinking of Till first to hold onto their personal resentment against whomever. They've mostly gotten over the uneasiness that comes with Till's sudden silence, and they have found it easier to discuss things and resolve their differences as a result of it. They've actually gotten better at it compared to how it used to be before Till stopped talking. All this is yet another different side to the man and one that would actually be quite attractive if he weren't the goddamn vocals for the band. When dinner's finished, Richard takes up a new pack of cigarettes and his lighter and leaves the flat, wanting to smoke his worries away.
"... Doom?"
Schneider is sitting outside the door, head held in his hands and an empty bottle of gin sitting next to him. "What are you drinking for?"
"I'm not drunk," comes the muffled reply. "I know my limits, Risch. I'll drink all I bloody want. With all that's happened, you can't blame me."
Richard is silent for a moment as he gazes at the other's form. He's struggling with two mixed emotions for Schneider; what the drummer's said is uncomfortably reminiscent of what Richard himself used to be like in the earlier days of his divorce and any time he became depressed, and he really doesn't like being reminded of it. But at the same time, he is right, things have been quite bad recently and how can he be faulted for drinking when the dreadful possibilities of the rehearsal is looming over them? Barring Richard himself, Schneider has also been the one who's looked the most depressed about the entire situation out of all of them for some unknown reason. He settles himself down next to the drummer and touches his shoulder, feeling the other tense up a little. "But I don't. I never have, Doom."
"Good. It's bad enough that I blame myself."
Richard does a double take, taking his hand off the other's shoulder, but he's not the one who ends up posing the question. Without warning Paul's stunned voice calls from behind them: "... I beg your pardon?"
The two turn to see that Paul and Olli are standing in the doorway, both wearing similar expressions of disbelief. "But how does that even work?" the bassist adds to Paul's words as he sits down in front of Schneider, scrutinizing his expression closely.
"Great," Schneider groans and buries his head deeper into his knees. "thanks a lot, Risch. Leave everyone to ask me why I'm so miserable."
The guitarist stares at him, not sure how to deal with this situation; Schneider has never been like this in all their years of playing together. They've argued lots, he's gotten angry or sad a few times, but there was no transition to downright depression at any point like Till or Richard himself. He's not sure if he can deal with a third depressed bandmate. "It's not just you, Doom. Everyone is. You think we don't see the storm coming when it's just days away? You were in agreement with Flake about the whole thing too, don't tell me you've had a change of heart-"
"Oh no," the drummer picks up the empty bottle and looks at it before putting it back down and letting out another groan. "no, that's not why I'm miserable at all. I still am going to see him there, wild horses couldn't stop me from protecting him from any backlash we might get. You've all got the wrong idea there."
Paul frowns and kneels down next to him. "So why? We're in good shape, Till is too - mostly - and if he can't perform, so what. We walk out with him. Their loss if they turn on us for it."
Schneider looks up wearily, frown lines marring his otherwise-smooth face and making him look as if he's aged five years in less than a minute. "But I can't stand it," he whispers, his voice hoarse and dry. "Till doesn't feel like Till without his voice. You can't blame me for feeling lost, he's our leader... he's always been the one who provides us with a direction to go when we're not sure what to do. Now it feels like he's gone and left behind a withered husk. This isn't just him sulking, you can all see that, right? I can't even face him, it's gone on for over a week and I can't turn a blind eye to it anymore. No, that's not right, I couldn't from the start. And that makes me feel - weak. Unworthy. Like, I've been his bandmate for thirteen years and I don't even know what I can do for him. How foolish of me is that? I can see that he's hurting, this might as well be hell for him and... and what if this is all my fault, I've been so hard on him in recent times, I've even shouted at him-"
"Now you're being ridiculous," Paul tells him, although he too looks like he's having a hard time holding himself together. "why would that be your fault? Come on, you and Till might have had a few rifts now and then - but who hasn't in this band? He's always been so good to you and you've done the same for him. As for helplessness, we're all feeling the exact same thing."
"Thing is, though, I've never really been able to figure out if he ever grew to like me as well as he likes, oh I don't know, Flake or Risch or anyone else. He's always called me Schneider. Not Doom. Over a decade together and he's never dropped that formality with me. I never understood why, maybe he never liked-"
"What the - Doom, that's just silly," Olli says, shaking his head. "he got past the 'Sie' and 'du' barrier with you within a year, isn't that proof that he wants you close by? It took me and Risch at least two. Even longer for me to drop the 'Sie' with him, what with Till being much older and all. You might as well say that I made Till lose his voice because I told him that one set of his lyrics were much better than the other three weeks ago. It doesn't make any sense."
"Or that it was my fault for actually having a full-blown fight with him around the same time," Paul adds before his expression suddenly falters into a sad and regretful look. "... it might as well have been, really. Wow. I... I'm an asshole. I've not been very patient towards Till in the past months, come to think of it. Too busy blaming his depression and general apathy towards life for everything, I just... I wouldn't be surprised if he just got sick of talking because of all the horrible things going on in his life, and I probably didn't help any."
What if it's my fault too? Richard thinks to himself, even though he of course can't let it on to the others. My fault for... for... what? For being in lust with him? For the time I spent in Emigrate? I have no idea, but I'm the closest to him, at least I'd like to think that was the case, and surely something I did could have-
"Look, if it was the fault of anyone in the band, which I doubt it is, all of us share that blame. Till hasn't been a saint to us, but neither have we to him and each other. That's the end of it," Olli pauses there, biting his lower lip before hastily dabbing at his eyes. "... we're going to get Till's voice back, because while he might be a mute bastard, he's our mute bastard and we're not giving up. Not even if we need to take another break, not even if we end up having to break up completely because I won't let him go under. And I know none of you want that either. That's clear enough to all, right?"
Schneider ducks his head, but he does murmur a small 'I know' which is heard by all. The older guitarist sighs and puts an arm around him an attempt to comfort, followed suit by Olli (who nods towards Richard to join in), and the four of them just quietly sit there in their mutual attempts at comfort. But when Richard raises his head, he sees Till watching them from the doorway - unbeknownst to everyone else. He's standing there awkwardly, the expression on his face truly one of sorrow and self-loathing as he watches his bandmates; the guitarist doesn't want to admit it to himself but then their gaze locks in midair and he knows that Till heard everything. Slowly the older man turns away and slips back inside, his shoulders hunched and leaving Richard's heart to ache alone.
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