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Captivation	By : Rina76 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Tokio Hotel Views: 6307 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know Bill or Tom Kaulitz or any members of Tokio Hotel and this story is a complete work of fiction; it is all made up and not true. I am not making any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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A/N: Special thanks to Luna and BleedingHearts for their kind reviews. Hope you like this chapter! I'm making them a bit shorter than usual so I can update faster for you guys :)
Chapter 9. Pull.
I turn the lights on to wake the boys up. It works, both of them groaning and swearing at the abruptly interrupted slumber.
“Fuck, I wish he’d stop doing that!” Tom bitches in a pissed-off mutter, shielding his eyes. He turns towards the phone, expecting it to ring but it doesn’t. Stretching his legs beneath the blankets, he gives Bill’s unmoving figure a kick.
“Yo, what time do you think it is? Morning or afternoon?”
Squinting and raking rumpled black hair out of his face, Bill looks around the room, utterly clueless. “Bit hard to tell with no windows and no sun. It feels late but I could be wrong.” Yawning first, he then sighs, dropping his head back onto the pillow.
“I don’t know. My body-clock is all messed up, like when we’re touring. It’s like jet-lag.”
“Only permanent,” Tom grumpily adds, fumbling beside the bed for his packet of smokes. “I can’t wait to get the hell out of here. Stupid fucking Cujo.”
“Koji.”
“Whatever.” Lighting up a cigarette and taking a deep puff, Tom conversationally says, “I finally figured out how to get us out of here.”
Glancing sideways as he’s picking a crusty bit out of the corner of his eye, Bill replies, “Oh? How?”
“I’m gonna get the password for the locks out of him. It came to me last night as I was lying here trying to sleep,” the tan-skinned teen explains. “We’ll wait for him to drop his guard around us. Sooner or later, he’ll get careless. When that happens, you’ll distract him and then I’ll grab the bastard by the throat and do that shinigami thing on him.”
“Shime waza,” Bill corrects, fetching his own smoke.
“Yeah, that. I’ll choke him until he passes out, tie him up with my belt and then force him to tell us the password.”
Bill looks highly dubious. “You really think it’ll be that easy? He won’t just TELL us.”
“By the time I’m done with him, he will,” Tom guarantees. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make him talk.”
Frowning, the brunette repeats, “Whatever it takes? What do you mean? Are you talking about torturing him?”
“If I have to.”
“You’ve never tortured anybody in your life, Tom. You’re not even capable of that!”
“When it comes to protecting you, Bill, I’m capable of anything,” the older twin grimly declares. “He assaulted you. He kidnapped you, drugged you, tied you to a chair and hit you across the face. I think he deserves a bit of payback for that, don’t you?”
Starting to look uneasy, Bill returns, “I don’t know. I’m not sure torture is a good idea.”
Tom’s eyes grow slightly darker. “Why not? Don’t you want me to hurt him?”
“No,” Bill answers hurriedly, “I just don’t believe he’ll crack that easily. Japanese guys are tough. I mean, samurai would rather commit suicide by cutting their guts open than reveal their secrets!”
“He’s not a samurai. He’s just a man. He feels pain like everyone else.” With steely eyes, Tom stares at the lit end of his cigarette, probably picturing my bare skin burning under the smouldering orange-red tip if he cruelly crushed it into me.
“If I hurt him enough, he’ll tell me exactly what I want to know. And then we can just walk out of here and leave him for the cops to deal with. We go home, he goes to jail.”
When Tom says it like that, freedom sounds feasible and achievable, Bill pondering his role in the scheme. “How am I gonna distract him?”
“By playing on his weaknesses. You know what his major one is? You, Bill.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. He’s always looking at you with those creepy yellow eyes, like he wants to eat you. Or fuck you. If you want to distract him, all you’d have to do is lift up your shirt and show him your nipple or something.”
Bill reddens. “I don’t wanna do that!”
“Don’t worry about it now. We’re not doing it yet; we have to wait for the right moment,” Tom smoothly assures. “I’ll tell you when it’s time to act. Until then, just chill. I’ve got it all under control.”
“You really think you can get us out of here?”
“I just said so, didn’t I? Let’s just get through the next couple of weeks and try to carry on as normal. We don’t want him to suspect we’re planning anything.”
“But what if it doesn’t work? What if he doesn’t tell us the password?” Still looking anxious about the whole idea, Bill chews on his thumbnail, the cigarette he’s holding completely forgotten about, a ribbon of grey smoke trailing up into the air. “What if he gets so mad he never lets us go?”
“Hey…hey, look at me.” Rolling over, Tom shifts nearer until they’re sharing the same pillow, forcing his fretting twin to meet the dark brown depths of his eyes, steady and serious.
“Trust me, Bill. I know what I’m doing. I’ll take you home, I promise. You just gotta trust me. Okay?”
Convinced by his big brother’s firm confidence, Bill nods. “Okay.”
“Good. Now, stop worrying. You’ll get wrinkles,” Tom scolds, quickly pecking Bill’s furrowed forehead before taking the remainder of his cigarette and drawing back on it in a long, cheek-hollowing suck. As he plucks it out of his mouth, he habitually glances at his bare wrist.
“You know, that crazy freak even took my damn Rolex.”
It’s true; I removed the expensive black and gold watch from Tom’s luggage. I’ll give it back when he leaves but for now it’s out of his reach. Of course, having no clock or windows or even live TV in their room is part of my plan. Keeping them underground so they stay hidden away where nobody can find them isn’t just something I did for myself. It’s also to disorient and isolate them. If they don’t know what time it is or even what day it is, they won’t be thinking of appointments or other activities they might be missing. If they can’t see the outside world or hear news of it, they don’t think about it as much. If it doesn’t distract them then they will naturally focus more on this whole situation that they’ve found themselves in and they will naturally focus more on each other.
It’s no wonder they haven’t made love together yet – they’ve been too pre-occupied promoting themselves and their band, dealing with interviews, photo shoots, plane trips, concerts, relentless paparazzi and thousands of squealing fans. Now, that chaotic craziness is all gone, all been removed from the equation. Now it’s only them two, alone in a room, their timeless solitary existence broken up by meetings with their calculating kidnapper. They might think I’m out of my mind but believe me, I know exactly what I’m doing.
By taking the world away from Bill and Tom, I’m giving them back quality time with each other.
With no pressing engagements or television appearances to go to, they lounge in bed for a bit longer with their cigarettes, actually seeming to enjoy the peace and quiet, a welcome change from the hectic pace of their usual lives. As Tom smokes, Bill gazes at him across the pillow, noting the three-day growth of stubble covering the guitarist’s jaw, chin and upper lip.
“You’re all prickly, Tom. Aren’t you gonna shave?”
Scratching at his dark whiskers, Tom yawns. “Why should I? Nobody sees us down here.” Then he looks at Bill. “Why? Don’t you like it?”
“Actually, I do. It makes you look older. More mature.” Bill reaches out, lightly running his hand over Tom’s rough face. “Maybe I should stop shaving too. Grow a beard.”
“No, dude. Just no,” Tom drolly advises, exhaling a cloud of smoke towards the roof. “I can get away with the manly, stubbled look but on you…Honestly, Bill, it would just look like shit.”
Pulling back his hand, Bill drawls, “Thanks a lot.”
“I didn’t mean…” Tom pauses to word this the right way without sounding offensive. “Your face is just too…delicate…to suit a beard, that’s all.”
“Delicate?” Smiling, Bill stretches his arms over his head, blinking prettily. “You think so?”
It seems that Bill is waiting expectantly for more flattery and complimentary remarks on his appearance but for Tom that’s enough niceness for one day, especially at this time of the morning, and he butts out his cigarette and gets up, grunting with the effort.
“You made coffee yet or what?”
Sighing, Bill also extinguishes his smoke and climbs out of bed to put the kettle on and get dressed. I watch him in the media booth, my eyes roving his thin torso, mentally making notes of all the meals I’m going to feed him while he’s in here. The nasty black bruise on his hip that he got from falling out of the conference room chair has faded to a greenish yellow. Soon, it will completely disappear and his skin will be back to porcelain-perfect.
Following a piss, Tom gets dressed in the bathroom. He shows no signs of regretting what he did last night in there so he’s obviously chosen to forget about it and pretend it never happened. He’s going to pretend that he did not get excited over his little brother’s body and that he did not jerk off on the toilet because of it. Bill has no idea about Tom’s impure thoughts or actions as he was fast asleep when the older teenager came all over his own belly. It seems Bill doesn’t remember Tom sleep-groping him in bed beforehand either or Bill would have brought the subject up, or at least acted awkward about it. It’s a real shame as it would have made for some highly entertaining morning conversation. Ah well, I shall just have to provide the entertainment myself, later during our next meeting.
But first, I ring to ask them what they want for breakfast, Tom stubbornly replying, “Nothing,” but when I suggest poached eggs on Turkish toast with Hollandaise sauce Bill begs me to bring it over. Again, once he realises how good it smells, Tom changes his mind and eats it. Yay, more progress.
After breakfast (actually, it’s more like late lunchtime but they don’t know that), Tom fetches the weights and does a work-out routine to stop himself from getting lazy and fat, sitting on one of the kitchen chairs so he can curl his arms down towards the floor and get a greater extension, a metal dumbbell held in each hand. He’s tied his hair up so the dreads don’t dangle in his face. Soon, all his arm-muscles pump with blood and veins start enlarging, his naked chest beginning to glimmer with sweat.
Scrawling song lyrics into a purple notepad, Bill pauses to watch his brother getting fit, the brunette vocalist lying stomach-down on the bed and resting on his elbows, ankles crossed in the air behind him.
He flips to a clean page and begins to jot down some curved lines, every now and again glancing back up at Tom. Pen in hand, he scribbles in shadows and creates hollows and angles. He outlines the profile of a face, shoulders, arms, back. He’s sketching.
Sketching Tom’s body.
Bill spends a bit of time trying to capture the two dimples in the skin at the base of Tom’s spine, his pierced tongue sticking out with the effort. As if sensing his twin’s concentration, Tom suddenly stops, turning his head around with a frown.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Looking guilty, Bill snaps the notebook shut.
“Were you drawing?”
“No.”
“You must have been. It didn’t sound like you were writing.” Curious as to what Bill has sketched, Tom puts the weights down and holds out his hand. “Let me see.”
Appearing insulted, Bill clutches the purple item tightly to his chest. “This is my private notebook. You’re not allowed to look at it. It’s secret.”
“We’re twins, Bill. We don’t have secrets.” Smirking playfully, Tom approaches the bed, bare-chested. “Give it to me.”
“No!” Starting to appear panicked, Bill sits on the book, slapping at Tom’s attempts to grab it. “Ew. Get away! You’re all sweaty!”
With a single shove, Tom pushes his littler sibling sideways and yanks the book out from under his butt.
“Tom!” Bill yells, scrambling for his possession. “Give it back, you asshole!”
But it’s too late. Tom has opened the book and found the page. His eyes grow round as he realises what the picture is of. “You were drawing ME?”
Preparing himself for ridicule, Bill arms himself with the pointy end of the pen and mutters blackly, “I’m going to stab you in the eye with this.”
Tom ignores the threat. After a moment’s contemplation of the blue-inked piece of paper, he murmurs, “This is good, Bill. I like it.”
“You do?” The younger teen seems dumbfounded by the praise, lowering his ball-point weapon. “But you always tell me I can’t draw! You say I’m a shitty sketcher, like a kindergarten kid.”
“Well, normally you are but this is a picture of me. Anything to do with me HAS to be good,” Tom drawls, waggling his eyebrows. “Why were you drawing me anyway? Jealous of my buff hotness?”
“You wish,” Bill grumbles, grabbing the notebook out of Tom’s hands. “I was just bored and there’s nothing else to do down here.”
“I really do like it,” Tom offers before he goes to wash his sweat off. “You could make my muscles a bit larger, though.”
Bill sticks his tongue out at the closed bathroom door. Then, in the notebook, he draws a big penis on Tom’s forehead.
………
Once Tom showers, he proceeds to wash his scalp and dreadlocks using a special no-residue shampoo (which I saw when I went through his bags), the tanned teen squeezing the water out of them and blotting each dread with a piece of fabric that doesn’t shed fluff, much like a large, checked bandanna. Though I didn’t watch him showering, I do observe his hair-care habits with interest, wondering how he keeps those funky locks of his in such great condition. He’s got the door open now, letting steam evaporate from the room and clear the mirror.
Standing in front of the sink with a bath towel tucked around his V-shaped hips, he half-dries his matted dreads with Bill’s turbo-powered hairdryer but I guess it will take a few hours of natural air-drying for the thicker ones to dry all the way in the middle. Usually when he showers, he gathers the brownish-blonde ropes up into some kind of ponytail-bun so they don’t get wet. He probably avoids getting them wet too often or they’d never completely dry out and might start growing mildew and mould, turning smelly, which Tom wouldn’t tolerate. That would turn off the ladies and he can’t have that happen. Maintaining clean dreadlocks evidently requires a fair bit of work but Tom doesn’t seem bothered by it, used to the routine by now. Besides, unlike Bill, he only has to wash his hair once every couple of weeks and he certainly doesn’t need to comb or brush it.
I briefly wonder just how long his actual hair is and how far it would hang down if it was all combed out straight and loose. I’m betting it would reach his ass. I try to picture Tom with a normal hairdo and just can’t do it. The dreadlocks are his trademarked style and I couldn’t see him with any other look.
While Tom is applying wax to some of his messier dreads and attempting to tame any escaped hairs, Bill sneaks in, standing behind him in the mirror. Bill studies Tom’s much more developed arms as the other boy has them raised, working on his locks. His shoulders and biceps are particularly emphasised. His muscular back is also shown off nicely this way too, rippling with each movement.
“Tom,” the brunette twin ventures inquiringly, pulling up his shirt to show his stomach tattoo and the waistband of his black hipster-trunks. “Do you think I’m too thin?”
Not even glancing at him, Tom quips, “Yeah, you’re a skinny little runt.”
Bill doesn’t smile at the joke so Tom sighs, wiping his waxy hands on the back of his towel. “I’m kidding, Bill. Of course I don’t think that.”
The younger one stands closer to Tom so he can compare their bodies side by side, Bill casting a peek at his older brother’s nude chest and hard abs.
“You have to admit, I DO look skinny next to you.”
“Well, that’s because I lift weights,” Tom points out. “If I didn’t do that, I’d look exactly like you.”
Flexing a tiny upper arm, Bill says doubtfully, “Maybe I should lift weights too…”
“It’s hard work, Bill. And we both know you suck at sports.” Tom teasingly pokes Bill’s soft belly. “Or anything that requires actual physical co-ordination and skill.”
Yanking down his shirt, Bill shoots Tom a glare but then sighs, knowing his sportier sibling is correct and that he’s always been as clumsy and gangly as a new-born giraffe. He can’t even dance. If he can’t dance, he certainly would find it a struggle to perform set repetitions of precise weight-bearing movements without falling over or seriously injuring himself.
“Why are you concerned about your weight anyway?” Tom questions. “I thought you liked being skinny.”
“Normally, yeah, but Koji said I was TOO thin.”
“Koji’s a fucking douchebag,” is Tom’s immediate and irritated retort. “Don’t listen to him. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“There are a lot of things wrong with me, Tom.” Now staring critically at his own reflected chin, Bill frowns and opens his mouth to make another complaint about his appearance but Tom cuts him off, knowing exactly what he’s going to say.
“Before you start asking me again if you should get your mole removed, the answer is no.”
Poking at his supposed ‘flaw’ Bill objects, “Enrique Iglesias had his taken off.”
“Well, that’s his choice. You don’t need to do what he did. It’s not like it’s hurting your career or anything. Look at Cindy Crawford,” Tom suggests with a shrug. “Her mole never stopped her from becoming a supermodel. In fact, it was her trademark.”
“But I’m not a supermodel.” Bill pouts at himself in the mirror, probably wishing he was one. “When I do photo shoots for magazines, they usually airbrush it right out of my pictures.”
“Who cares? Those stupid magazines airbrush everything,” Tom mutters, still fiddling with his deadlocks. “They even remove MY moles sometimes.”
Looking at the lighter, flatter marks on Tom’s cheek, Bill protests, “But yours aren’t as big or noticeable as this is. People must think it’s ugly! What if they’re right, Tom? What if it is?”
Fed up with the persistent self-criticism, the older teen turns away from the mirror to give Bill an exasperated look. “It’s not. Seriously, dude. You’re worrying about nothing. It’s not like you’ve got a giant, hairy tumour on there. ”
He takes Bill’s chin in his fingers, scrutinising that dark brown beauty spot just below the right corner of his twin’s mouth.
“Yeah, it’s noticeable but I’ve never once teased you for it. Have I?”
“No,” Bill mumbles, dropping his gaze. “But other people have.”
“Fuck what other people think. They don’t matter. This is a part of you, Bill, and you don’t have to change yourself for anyone. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
Even if Bill was a bow-legged scarecrow with a huge lumpy nose and teeth like a donkey, Tom would rather die than tell him and crush his baby brother’s sensitive feelings. However, Bill isn’t a hideous scarecrow. Far from it. With his willowy figure, long dark hair and lashes, ivory skin and delicately-shaped features he’s absolutely beautiful, perhaps more so than most girls. Even Tom can see that.
Stroking the pad of his thumb over and around Bill’s unique birthmark in a gentle caress, Tom ends sincerely, “Not a single thing about you is ugly, okay?”
Bill looks back up, his chocolate eyes liquidly glimmering with sudden moisture. At first it seems like he’s going to cry for being handed such a genuine and heartfelt compliment but Bill blinks the tears back, the edges of his lips slowly tugging upwards in an expression of touched happiness.
“Danke,” he thanks Tom huskily, reaching up to curl his slender fingers around Tom’s strong wrist in gratitude. “How do you always know the right thing to say?”
Tom smiles. “It’s my job to cheer you up.”
This is the first time he’s really smiled since he’s been here. When Tom is out in that conference room with me, he’s always so sullen and surly and sour. He’s always so worked up and angry and tense, his jaw clenched and brow furrowed like a cranky old man. But here alone with Bill, he finally allows himself to relax, to soften, to smile, and it makes him look so very different. It’s like his whole face lights up, that light spreading to his eyes and making them glow with warmth and affection. When he smiles, he’s equally as beautiful as Bill.
The younger Kaulitz boy seems to think so too, because he leans in and places a sweet, soft kiss onto Tom’s smiling lips. At the unexpected move, Tom turns frozen and astonished. While he’s still standing there surprised, Bill does it again, cupping Tom’s stubbled face in both hands as their mouths connect, longer this time and with more feeling. With a small puzzled frown Tom lets Bill do this, even tentatively pressing his lips back before realising what he’s doing and drawing away. It wasn’t a sexual type of kiss – rather chaste and innocent, in fact – and I’m sure they’ve pecked each other on the cheek before but this is probably the first time their lips have ever touched on purpose and I’m thrilled to be able to witness it.
In the slightly foggy bathroom the two teenagers stand there and look at each other with matching pairs of widened eyes, as though seeing themselves differently, seeing themselves as something other than just brothers. Maybe they’re starting to see how things could be between them, if they let it. Though Tom has broken the kiss, his face is still held by Bill, the slimmer singer caressing Tom’s angled cheekbones with painted thumb-tips. Thoughtfully, Bill sucks in his own bottom lip and Tom unconsciously copies the motion, blinking slowly as he stares at Bill’s mouth. The intimacy that’s pulling at them right now is strongly tangible. Deciding to do something about it, Bill begins to lean in again, lowering his lashes.
Swiftly pulling Bill’s hands away, Tom steps back.
“Bill…I don’t…” The bulkier boy stops and swallows hoarsely, as though wanting to say something else but not being able to articulate it. I think Tom is afraid that they’re getting so close, so quickly. Perhaps he’s scared that this moment will lead to something more and he’s not ready for that. Not yet.
Sensing his unease, Bill doesn’t try to kiss him again, just keeps gazing at his handsome older sibling, knowing how lucky he is to have a caring, concerned big brother like Tom, someone who makes him feel better when he’s down. Someone who is always there for him, no matter what.
“I know I’m annoying to you sometimes,” Bill confesses regretfully. “I know I can be snappy and bitchy and say that I hate you but it’s not true at all, Tomi. I really do love you.”
Impulsively throwing a pair of thin arms around Tom and squeezing hard, Bill whispers over Tom’s broad shoulder, sounding serious. “I love you so, so much. I just want you to know that.”
Rather than push Bill away, Tom allows the hug, closing his eyes emotionally and pressing his face into Bill’s neck, one calloused hand reaching up to carefully clench in the smaller boy’s silky black hair.
Tom doesn’t say it back; he doesn’t tell Bill that he loves him. He doesn’t need to say anything. Bill already knows.
Because that’s why Tom’s here.

.........
A/N: To be continued! Koji's gonna try and make them kiss for real next time...wonder how he'll go with that??
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Captivation