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Complications Of The Flesh	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1264 -:- 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.

Chapter List
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Title: Complications Of The Flesh 8/10
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”.

VIII.

*Make it stop…*

The world was a sick place. And I was contaminated and seriously ill.

In the following days all I did was just stay in my house and drink. To get myself so drunk so I wouldn’t hop into my car and go searching for him. I would have found him, covered him in kisses and told him that I wasn’t upset with him, that I wanted him. He could have been the worst serial killer on the face of this planet; I still would have wanted him.

If I hated someone, if I was upset with someone, that was me. Yes, me, for being so stupid, for falling for someone like him, for…

Every day I would repeat each of the charges I found myself guilty of, every hour of every day, as I was forcing myself to stay drunk, as I was wishing, hoping, that maybe I wouldn’t wake up the next day.

I was brutally woken up early one morning by Christian’s voice.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Till? What happened? Your boy-toy left you?”

“No, I left him,” I groaned with a thickened by alcohol voice.

“So, I guess, you were celebrating.”

“Cute,” I mumbled rolling on my stomach. “Now, fuck off, I want to sleep.”

“Ok, before falling back to sleep, listen to me, Till.”

Clanking sounds, then cold, and a fresh breeze of air – he’d opened the windows.

“Shit, man,” I grumbled.

“Till, I sent your book back long ago. I didn’t get any sign from you. It’s the best stuff you’ve ever written; I’m not going to let it get wasted like this. You have to finish it, and then you can do whatever you want. Drink yourself to death, whatever. But first, you’re going to finish this.”

I made an attempt to rise on the couch I was sleeping on, but it was too much of an effort.

“I can’t,” I whispered, feeling all the flesh shivering on me, and not because I was cold.

“Oh, yes you can!”

“Poetry is for fags,” I muttered, covering my face with my arm. My head was throbbing.

“Oh, Till, I’m shocked!” Christian mocked me.

“Who the fuck reads poetry anymore, these days?” I pleaded my case on a feeble voice.

“Fags,” he replied. “I think you should either stay with your mother or sister until you’re done with this book. Or, you could come to my place…”

“Uh huh,” I mumbled, squeezing my eyelids. I was starting to feel sick.

“Till, I’m serious. Get off your ass or I’m going to beat the shit out of you!”

I removed the arm off my eyes and stared at him. He’d said it on a very threatening tone. He actually meant it! Before realizing it, I burst into this loud laughter.

Christian was skinny and had the consistency of a twig. One of my arms was thicker than both his legs put together.

His reply surely amused the hell out of me. As a result, I got off my ass, as he asked me, showered, put on clean clothes and packed my bags. I went to my mother’s.

I stayed away from the booze and finished the work on that book. I sobered up and I buried myself in work, trying to ignore that dull pain in my heart.

It wasn’t a collection of love poems; it was as if Christoph triggered this thing in me that gave me the ability to dig deep into the hidden chambers of my soul and my mind, pick from there sadness and happiness, thoughts and feelings, and mould and polish them, like the jeweler does with raw diamonds. I knew it was good stuff, and actually I was proud of it; but it was me there, not some cold, detached perspective over the world. It was the me that was brought to the light by him.

I didn’t clear my mind during that period I was away, but I finished that book, and started working on something else. I didn’t tell Christian about the new project. I didn’t even call him while I was away, and I didn’t answer any phone calls, either.

There was also the dream. I had this recurrent dream about a moth trapped in an electric light ball. The electric light was switched on – thick, contagious and dirty yellow electric light – and the moth was struggling in its cage made of glass until it died, either of exhaustion or fried by the heat. I never really knew.

When I finished my work, I only e-mailed it to him, then packed my bags and went back home. I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do from that moment on.

*When I think I can overcome, it runs even deeper…*

It was the first night I went out since I got back. The days had become warmer, and so had the nights. Everything turned green; soft colors and bright light. But I couldn’t find in me the strength to face the world outside until that night.

I couldn’t even get drunk; maybe because I didn’t feel like it. I just cruised the streets, watching the nightlife from the safety of my car. When I got tired enough, I returned home. It was the hour when some wake up to go to their jobs. I was planning to sleep and then continue working. I had loads of ideas already.

I was so preoccupied about those ideas actually that I didn’t see him until the moment I got to my entrance door. I couldn’t distinguish his features, but I knew it was him the moment I spotted his silhouette sitting on the steps.

I stopped and looked at him for a few seconds. It was still dark outside, but I saw when he lifted his head to look back at me.

“Mornin’ Christoph!”

“Hey Till,” he whispered faintly.

I could sense him waiting. Waiting for me to tell him to fuck off.

“Would you be so kind to move over? I want to open the door,” I said and stepped toward him.

He stood up slowly, picked up what seemed like a backpack and walked down the steps, making room for me to pass. I unlocked the door, opened it, got inside the entryway and turned on the light. Then I turned to see him standing there, outside, in the alley.

“Aren’t you coming in?” I asked, and watched him start to walk slowly, with stiff movements.

Where were his feline-like steps and all that gracefulness?

Then he entered the house. He closed the door behind him and turned, facing me.

That’s when I saw it – the split on his lip, the black bruises spread over his face like a cancer, the swollen eye that he could barely keep open.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

He didn’t answer, just stood there, staring back at me. He still had dried blood on his clothes.

“You should be seen by a doctor…” I whispered, but he shook his head slowly. In his situation, I wouldn’t have felt like going to the hospital either.

“Ok, put that down and come in,” I said.

He did as told, and followed me into the lounge. He sat down on the couch without even waiting to be invited, but I didn’t mind. I didn’t know what to think or how I should take this whole situation. I had the impulse to tell him he got what he deserved and to throw him out of the house, so he’d feel what it was like. But I was sure that if I were to welcome him here, I would have been the first human being to treat him decently in a long time. On the other hand, I wanted to take him into my arms and hold him there, never to let go, to feel the sturdiness of his flesh, his scent of earth and salt, and his warmth.

“I’m gonna have something to drink. Do you want one, too?”

He didn’t answer; he only threw me this tired glance.

I waited a few more seconds.

“Ok, then,” I said. “If you want to, go take a shower, change your clothes, and sleep a lil. You look like shit.”

Somebody should take care of those cuts and bruises, I was thinking. I lit myself a cig.

“May I have one too?” He asked on this dry tone.

I handed him the pack and the lighter.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?” He questioned then, after he lit himself a cig too.

“Was it your friends again?”

“No,” he whispered and exhaled the smoke, while he was staring at something on the floor.

I waited a few more seconds, but I realized he wasn’t going to elaborate on his answer.

“Ok,” I said then. “Christoph, I didn’t sleep at all tonight, and I’m tired as shit. You need medical care, but obviously you don’t want any. Do whatever you want then, my house is your house too. But now I’m going to sleep,” and I took a few steps, to go to my bedroom.

“Some kids decided it would be funny to beat the shit out of a fag,” he said on a soft tone, behind me. I stopped. “You’re not going to give me what I deserve for what I did to you?” I turned to face him. “How can you just receive me in your house and…?”

He halted his speech. I was staring at him, at the obscenity of those marks, swells and bruises on his white skin. His neck was covered by purple palmprints, the fingers on one of his hands were swollen too – he was so damaged, so tainted.

“If you expected me to chase you away, why are you here then?” I asked, feeling this rage inside me as it was growing.

I wanted to get my hands on whoever did that to him and destroy them physically.
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Complications Of The Flesh