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Prosit Neujahr	By : aerie01 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1745 -:- 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.

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- 1-Prosit Neujahr
- 1
Who's idea was this? I can't even remember now, it seems like it was months ago when someone suggested we take this trip, and at the time, it sounded ridiculous. After all, we had spent most of the year together on tour, in and out of hotels, on trains, planes and automobiles, on stages from here to Timbuktu...why the fuck would we want to go on vacation together too? But that other stuff was us being Rammstein, this..."thing" that we create that is an entity unto itself that is all of us and yet none of us at the same time. Before we were Rammstein, we were six friends, and thankfully, we're still six friends, we've never lost that. But we hardly ever get the chance to relax and be ourselves, to reestablish what it was that brought us together in the first place, so that was the purpose of this.

Oh wait. I know who's idea it was – Richard. Ever the pep-talker/therapyspeak-er/self-appointed leader, he had looked at all of us sitting around the table at Pilgrim, there for a publicity meeting, and declared that he missed us, and that we didn't spend time together like we used to in the old days. He was right. We've all gotten so busy with our individual lives that we've drifted apart. Children, wives, ex-wives, girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, it's been a sort of blizzard of relationships over the years, that has woven itself over and under and through and taken away alot of our steam as mates. That was to be expected, of course. That's what happens when you grow up.

But a trip for New Year's? Paul was the first to complain. His children would kill him, he'd said, and various voices around the table concurred. Oh come on, Richard, you're out of your mind (as per usual, I thought). There's no way that any of us can swing that. However, I realized that there was one person who hadn't said anything yet. Till. He had taken a seat in the row of chairs at the back of the room, not at the main table, and while the discussions about business were going on, he had gazed out the window at the leaden Berlin sky as if contemplating how to fly away. Now though, he simply sipped his coffee, watching us with that slightly bemused expression he always gets, that makes me wonder what he really thinks of us, and why he stays.

He wastes no words, our Till. He can sit beside you and say a sentence an hour but when he finally says that sentence, it instantly commands all of our attention. And often in the softest of voices – so incongruous coming from that throat that can roar onstage. He fascinates me, to tell the truth, and it's no secret. Look at any casual pictures of us and you can always find me next to him; I didn't even realize I did that until Flake pointed it out once.

"Sure. Why not?" was what he finally said this time, and like some sort of weird magic trick, the entire mood of the room changed. At once, without even saying it aloud, we agreed to the trip, and began to chatter excitedly about where we might go and what we could do. Then, standing, Till crushed his cup into origami and tossed it into the trash as he walked out. That was it. He had better places to be.

Richard was looking after him as he left and when he met my eyes, his expression was unreadable. But I grinned and said, "And thus, God has spoken," making him laugh.

So here we are, on our "Rammstein retreat". It must be past two at least, and I'm lying here watching snowflakes gracefully dance past the window. I can almost imagine I hear each one releasing a little tinkling "clink" as it hits the ground, so quiet is it. We had a great day of snowboarding and Nordic skiing in our winter wonderland, followed by a terrific dinner that Richard managed not to burn this time. After a couple of schnapps and hearty wishes of "Happy New Year!" everyone had drifted to their own beds, happy and exhausted and looking forward to another day just like this one tomorrow. But something woke me, and now I can't get back to sleep.

Swinging my feet out of bed, I decide to go downstairs to the kitchen to get a drink. I walk as quietly as possible out of the room and to the landing, begging the stairs not to creak as I descend.

Wait a minute...what's that sound? I hold my breath, willing it to come again, and when it does, I can sense my brow crease, pondering it. It's like a sigh, perhaps? Or a little...moan? Is someone sick? I may not have the paternal instincts of the others, but I still feel my absolute connection to them, and worry that something's wrong.

My heart is beating so rapidly, I can feel it thudding in my chest. And then there it is again, a sound like the wind caressing the chalet...though...no...this susurrus is human. I'm sure of it now. The prickle of the skin on the back of my neck confirms it, and as I reach the bottom of the steps, I can see the glow from the fire in the great room. Someone else is up. I exhale, and begin to walk with concern towards the doorway...until another sound stops me in my tracks, this time, the merest whisper of a name...Richard....

A bolt of thunder shoots through me, turning my blood to ice. Till. That's Till's voice, and the carnal shading was unmistakable. He'd said "Richard"...what the fuck? I should go back upstairs and mind my own business but I can't help myself – I have to see what's going on in there. Peeking into the room while keeping hidden in the shadows, I almost gasp out loud.

For there, on the rug in front of the fire, are indeed, Till and Richard. Till is stretched out supine, his head on a pillow, and Richard sits on his haunches beside him, his hands gently stroking from throat down that broad, heavily-muscled chest, his gaze adoring. It looks to me like a sculpture come to life, some sort of erotic Pieta in fact, those two beautiful bodies shamelessly nude and bathed in flickering firelight, skin golden and glistening. Till's eyes are closed in rapture.

My god. I can't stop staring. Of course, I've seen all of him before – I've seen all of both of them many times over the years, a consequence of endless tour buses and showers and dressing rooms -- but definitely never like this. My eyes can't help but skitter along the chiseled torso to his magnificently full erection rising from its nest of dark curls, and Richard's hand's obvious destination. Till quivers, his legs tensing when Richard reaches his cock, gripping him with a strength that seems very familiar, like this is hardly the first time these two have done this.

And then it strikes me. Richard was the one who proposed this trip, and Till was seemingly his co-conspirator. Was this really only a ruse for them to be together, a likely story for their families: "Yes, all the guys are going"? Or was this merely something they did only in the context of the band, something they'd never dream of doing outside of its safe confines? I don't know, and suddenly, don't care. All I do know is that my heart and breath have synched to Richard's rhythm, and my own cock is beginning to ache between my legs as I surreptitiously watch them. I really should go back to bed, this is terrible of me to stand here, but I'm rooted to the spot.

Till murmurs something, his back arching at the sure touch, and he reaches for Richard's crotch but is turned away with a pat. No, Richard seems to tell him. Lie still. This is for you. And then he bends to place the tenderest of kisses on Till's lips, smiling to admire his writhing captive. My mouth goes dry to see this, to see how selfless Richard is. This can't be. This can't be the preening peacock I've seen Richard be. But then I realize, no, it isn't. This is not the Richard I know. And it's not the Till I know either, this creature spread out for another's delectation. Long ago, it seemed impossible to imagine what Till Lindemann – so cool, so tall and handsome – would want from us stupid little punks. Now though, I think I understand. With us, he can let down his guard and just be. He doesn't have to play a part, to be the über-masculine beast everyone always expects him to be, that he really isn't. He can be gentle and loving and loved.

But enough of the psychology, I remind myself, eyes devouring them hungrily. My hand migrates to the front of my boxers. I can feel the wet spot. Would it be awful of me to jerk off watching two of my best friends have sex? No worse than watching two of my best friends have sex, I decide, touching myself and loving the sneaky tendrils of pleasure that snake through my body.

Pre-come is running down the length of Till's cock as Richard twists his hand this way and that, bringing in his other to caress the bigger man's stomach. Till bites his lip to stifle the groan he seems dying to release, the cords standing out sharply in his neck, his face a rictus of ecstasy. He's close, and Richard knows this. He knows to back off the edge, to slow down and make this last. Richard's face and throat are flushed, his eyes hooded. He's really turned on by what he's doing, as evidenced by his own erection bobbing neglected, its tip shiny. It's got to be some incredible power trip too, to command something this strong and beautiful.

They pause for a few moments to kiss, Till's hands burying themselves in Richard's spiky hair, but then Richard breaks away to continue his ministrations, first massaging Till's chest, the muscles in his thighs, then taking that big, hard cock in hand again. Till's mouth forms a silent "ohhh", head rolling back and forth on the pillow as sensation begins to overwhelm. But Richard has another trick up his non-existant sleeve. With a devilish smile, he bends easily and swallows Till's cock down to the root in one huge gulp, making Till's body jump as though 40,000 volts were suddenly pumped through it.

Oh my god. Oh my god! I think I let out a little startled yelp, and I secrete myself further back from the door just to make sure I can't be seen. Till now has his hand between his teeth, desperate to muffle the cries of pleasure as his hips wildly buck. The house is still so quiet that I can hear the wet sounds of Richard sucking him; how could he possibly have all that in his mouth and not choke? And how did I not come in my pants just now?! This is surely the most erotic spectacle I have ever seen, bar none.

My chest is heaving as hard as Till's is, I think. Without releasing him, Richard has scrambled around to lie between Till's legs and eager hands fondle his balls with great tenderness. I can't believe that Till has managed to hold on this long without coming. But suddenly, Richard's fingers dart down into shadows, my imagination painting for me where they've gone, and that's it. Till's body arches helplessly and I can hear Reesh swallowing.

The blood is screaming in my ears. Richard licks the length of Till's cock gently, cleaning it like a mother cat would her kittens, and he smiles to see his lover limp and sweat-sheened and obviously enjoying the aftermath of his orgasm. With a beckoning hand, Till coaxes Richard back up to his lips and they kiss affectionately.

But then, both heads turn in the direction of the doorway, and Till, smiling radiantly, says, "Aren't you joining us now, Schneider?"

For the moment, I think my heart stopped. I don't know what to do. It would be stupid of me to pretend I'm not out here, and even beyond stupid to pretend that I don't want this. My throbbing cock is mute testimony to how much I want this. How much I've always wanted this, if I'm being honest with myself.

Obediently I go, and I don't look back. Happy New Year to me.
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Prosit Neujahr