Ich Will: W ä hrend und Nach - A Rammstein Fanfiction
During - Richard
Breathe. Pop a Valium and you'll be ready to go. Richard doesn't feel ready to go, though, so he pops another Valium and then about three more. There isn't any water around, which is really quite a pity. So he just crunches them between his teeth and although he should be feeling horribly sick, the sensation of sudden calm quashes that feeling. He feels kind of drifty, kind of mellow, pleasant butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Kind of like a heart attack, but in the stomach. It's a lot less romantic when you put it that way, but oh well. He grabs his Walther P99, bites down on a cigarette and marches inside the building.
It's sufficiently been messed up by Paul, Olli and Schneider as it is. He passes Flake, who is sitting on the marble counter with a completely passive expression on his face and a huge bomb strapped to his chest. He gives the man a little glance and Flake doesn't open his eyes, simply holding onto the bomb and the detonator and not moving a muscle as if he's always been there. Might as well be a statue. Richard walks ahead without any further acknowledgement; he takes out another cigarette and takes a long drag, hearing the slow, metallic 'clink-clink' of Till walking slowly behind him, from the weight of his leg brace and his skull-topped cane. The thought is kind of alluring, but at the same time, it means that he's falling behind, he's got to go faster - Richard, at this thought, lets out a weak moan of both pleasure and agony.
"Ohh," he groans. "ohh. Ohhh. Gott. Hilf mir."
The smell of blood is coming from the floor. Richard makes his way to the counter, seeing that all the glass has been smashed in - the only bloodied person he can see is a male bank teller, bleeding from his head but otherwise alive. Schneider probably gave him one hell of a wallop. He's not sure why he's so sure of Schneider being the culprit but that's not important and he doesn't really give a fuck. None of them do. Could probably fill a whole building with all the fucks that they don't give. And then blow it up. Which in a way is kind of what they're trying to do, anyway. When he peers underneath the counters, he smiles to see that he's a little more successful - there's a young female teller who's cowering and trying to make herself as unnoticeable as possible (looks around twenty-five), along with a male teller who is a little ways from her. Can't be older than twenty-one. Perhaps freshly out of university? Not even that, actually. The female is shaking as she blindly reaches for the alarm button - well, Richard won't have that.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, liebes Fräulein."
He's just trying to be a gentleman and he doesn't think that he did anything wrong, but the girl gasps and scoots away from him the moment he opens his mouth. At the same time, the university kid stands up. Ahh. Hormonal crushes. Definitely still in university. "You - you leave her alone! Or I'll-"
"Watch yourself," Richard used to wrestle and get in a fair number of fights. This is what he's thinking as he lands a solid punch on the kid's face and knocks him down calmly. "I'm trying to be polite and I won't have people rejecting my hospitality, no sir."
He turns back to the female teller, bends down and gently presses the big red button for her, the added pressure of his leather-gloved hand on hers making her flinch and stare. He'd like to think that it was because she was attracted to him, but knows that this isn't the case. Ah well. A man can dream. He snatches up her arms and gives her the most suave smile that he can muster. "Say," he says, ignoring her frightened expression and the university kid teller trying to stand up straight and going straight for her charming little heart. "you ever seen us before? On television maybe?"
"Shut the hell up, kid!" Richard roars and goes for the other's heart the fastest way he can think of - a bullet right through the sternum. He goes down, coughing up blood and gagging and writhing around on the floor. "the adults are talking!"
"Why are you doing this?" she shrieks finally, making Richard wince, which just makes his grip on her tighten. It's more out of the fact that he wants her to stop shrieking rather than any other vile intentions, but she doesn't see it that way. "why? Why are you doing this?"
Before he can either answer her or shoot her too to shut her up, Till walks past and Schneider, along with Paul, emerges from a side room to follow him. Till's the boss. The singer glances at Richard before stopping dead on his tracks for a few seconds, staring silently into the other's eyes. Richard stares back at him and the lady in his arms follows the direction of his gaze, turning her face towards Till, her chocolate-brown eyes wide and childishly afraid and tears running down her face. He's looking around at the carnage and the teller and the dead body on the floor and he knows that the guitarist did it all and for a little moment he sees a little frown of disapproval cross Till's face before the latter takes up his cane and walks away. Paul skips along but not before giving Richard a surprisingly dirty look, and the younger guitarist suddenly has a pounding headache, letting another soft, weak moan escape his mouth.
He needs another cigarette.
Schneider gives him a look as well, which is - actually, well, it's just that. A look. They stare into each other's eyes for a second, one blue eye to another blue eye, one blue eye to one white milky nothing. Then the man gives him what might be a smirk and hoists up his gun and follows Till towards the back of the building. His stare is always so cold and calculating, mesmerizing in its own way; it always looks like he's thinking about life and everything behind it, contemplating the unknown. That, or maybe it's just the lack of depth perception. He turns back to the teller.
"Television's a dangerous thing," Richard says nonchalantly at the girl in his arms, who is staring into his face in blank horror. He's not sure why she's so terrified, he's not that hideous or anything. He's just trying to keep her calm because female hysteria isn't a good thing. Sure, the bank's getting robbed and people are getting shot from side to side and floor kind of looks like a bloody piece of modern art but that's not important. He doesn't know what's important, actually. Richard is confused and he doesn't like being confused so he might as well carry on. "things were pretty much done for us when we first got on television, you know? I didn't want to go through with this at first, thought Paul was finally reaching into his hidden dark side, the one we really know that he's got. He's not even hiding it. He's the one who first charged in, in case you didn't notice. Flake's gonna get killed because of us but I can see the logic behind all of this anyway, which tells you how much of a serious business this is. All down to economics, really! You ever done economics?" the lady shakes her head, terrified. "bullshit. You're a bank teller. You've all done economics. So we're now all hotshots, not getting a single bit of privacy because the cameras are always on us. It gets to a man, you know. And to women. Kind of like erectile dysfunction, except I'm still young and sexy and you're a woman so we clearly don't have that, you sicko. We'll fuck up bad one day, maybe Till will end up hitting a woman or Olli gets arrested for drug possession or something and the cameras will capture every second of it for good because the cameras are always there. And because the cameras are always there, and because we'll fuck up one day, we might as well go out with a bang and with all our middle fingers raised, you know? Kind of fucking up in the most fucked up way therefore not actually fucking up. Shaped like itself really."
"What the hell are you talking about?" the female teller cries even though she's nearly faint with hysteria in his arms.
"What am I talking about? What am I talking about?" Richard shouts, suddenly feeling a mixture of fury and utter irritation towards the whole thing and wishing that she'd have just passed out like a good girl already because she's wrinkling his suit. That suit's from Hugo Boss for god's sake. The jacket and trousers are lightly pinstriped, made of 97% virgin wool and 3% elasticine; none of that pesky percentage stuff with the shirt and tie, they're pure cotton and pure silk respectively, so it's not like, he's totally unjustified for feeling this way or anything. "the media is what I'm talking about! What all of us are talking about! All they want is a good story regardless of the kind of shit they have to wade through to get it! If they want such a good story, then they can have one right fucking here! You can see it happening, you're even a part of it! Weren't you listening to a damn thing that I was saying?"
No response. She just keeps crying. Sob, sob, sob. Very typical of the entire female ego. Richard sighs, his fury fading away.
"Of course not," he says smoothly, twirls her about a bit, and then drops her like she's hot, yo.
Where mah sexy German dawgs at? Bark at me, like, if you're mah dawg.
He's not sure if this is relevant in any way in 2001, though. Shrug.
Pick up the pistol and move on.
Don't touch anything that's not cooled down yet, is the magic rule for pyrotechnicians. Do not pour flammable chemicals directly into whichever object you will be using to hold your pyrotechnics; use inert plastic to transfer everything. Always be prepared to quit your show if the risks are too high. Always keep two or more fire extinguishers, preferably at least one of pure water, nearby. None of which the police and the media currently possess (in the care of the fire extinguishers), or are following. They came to stop a bank robbery, not put out a building on fire, so they aren't prepared with anything. Till doesn't really understand that sort of mentality; if they're prepared to pull out bodies, see more people being downed in front of them, and maybe even maim and kill some people themselves, they should be prepared to put out a fire as well. But then it's been quite a while since he understood anything about crowds and authorities and crowd mentality. In about ten seconds the bomb's going to go off and that's not a long time to wait so he just waits patiently and politely like a gentleman ought to. It'll be worth it, even though right now he's being cuffed and being forced to eat pavement and pavement tastes bad.
"You sons of bitches are going to get it now," a policeman is shouting. He's barely a man at that, looks like he's not even twenty-five yet. Probably a rookie who's overexcited to have the honour of participating in the arrest and imprisonment of who he probably thinks are a bunch of gangster Nazis. They're a tanz-metall band, but to some people, they're the same thing. Till is thinking this all the while he's dragged towards where all the others were already chained in a little circle of sorts, being unceremoniously dumped next to Richard and being bound as well. "now don't you-"
Boom. The world goes bright. People scream, glass and plaster and pieces of wood go flying, and the rookie policeman screams like a little girl and drops to the ground, curling up and whimpering. Everyone except for the five enter a state of complete and utter panic, with some reporters making a run for their handbags and dragging their cameramen by the wrists and desperately trying to get to their cars. The ones who get to their cars and drive away will later cause a traffic jam that ends with somebody running over a deer and causing a domino car crash, but that's not what matters. All the five members saw it coming, so when the light hit they knew instinctively to close their eyes tightly and wait the explosion out, shifting a little closer to better guard themselves. Eventually the noises fade somewhat, but the screams get louder if anything, and it's a pity.
"...siebundfünfzig," Till counts softly under his breath. It takes ages to say them because German numbers take ridiculously long to pronounce but what the hell. "achtundfünfzig, neunundfünfzig."
He opens his eyes. The smoke is still thick around the building but he can see that flames are licking within the place. All the glass has been blown away and the few suckers who were unfortunate enough to be standing in front of it are now lying horizontally, moaning and bloodied and impaled with tiny shards. A doorway crumbles. No survivors within the building, probably. Fantastich.
"Ha," Paul is the first to give a reaction, and it's not unlike what he's been doing for the entire couple of hours that they've held the bank hostage. "hahaha! Oh my God! We actually blew up the bastard! Oh man, that's just gold! Hahahahaha!"
He's laughing kind of like a hyena and it would be annoying and Till would reach over to give him a slap around the face, but he knows that within the completely uncaring and utterly blissful exterior, Paul is actually a deadly serious person. And his irritating laughter is exactly that: he's doing it to irritate people. The police around them, specifically. And because Till knows - and while the guitarist is laughing his head off, none of that laughter reaches the deep-seated fire and loathing and triumph in his eyes - he doesn't give the bastard a slap around the face. What he's doing is working anyway! It's actually kind of funny really, how they're all staring at them with fascinated horror and revulsion and Paul's throwing it directly back in their faces, so the singer gives in and starts laughing as well. Everyone else in the band takes this as a cue to do the same, because, you know, Till's the boss and all. "Can you just imagine the chaos," Olli shouts while doubling over in mirth. "there isn't another proper bank around for several minutes. The money's all gone up in smoke and nobody understands a damn thing about the situation. How do you explain this shit? Not even I know how to even begin describing it and I'm part of the group that set off the assault in the first place because I adore you lot so much. Is this what they mean when they talk about honor before reason?"
"Situation schmituation," Paul giggles, trying to raise his handcuffed hands to wipe at his eyes. He fails, but it doesn't hinder him. It's funny because they never wanted the money in the first place, they just wanted to be heard and understood. Now they're the king of the world and everyone else can kiss their ass. "I need to pay university tuition fees. There's a major sale streak going on in Europacenter. A new casino's opened and I want to gamble my life away, for god's sake. Don't you know how important that is?"
"You bastards," a purple-faced man is shouting, eyes wide with anger and horror. His grip tightens on his truncheon. Haha, truncheon. "what have you done, how can you even-"
"- You might as well stay away from us too," Schneider gasps out, tears running down both his cheeks from laughing too hard. Considering the fact that he technically only has one eye, this is quite an achievement. "who knows what else we've got strapped on our bodies? Not you for sure. I mean, I might have a jackknife or ten. that brace for Till's clubbed foot might actually be just a facade to conceal a real club. Paul might be hiding more bombs in his stomach for all I know, Risch might have poisoned everyone in that building with his cigarettes even before the bomb went off - seriously, he smoked like three packs while we were in there, you have no idea - and Olli... actually no. I guess Olli's carrying around, uh, target practice, what with that bullseye on his chest? So yeah. We're all cool."
That doesn't make sense. It probably wasn't intended to in the first place. But it was a threat, and it's true that they don't know what they're carrying on their bodies (except for Olli, the streaker that he is). And after what's just happened, this only incites the policemen and the various reporters surrounding them to gasp and step back, watching them warily but too afraid to actually go up and search them or call their bluff, freeing up breathing room. Much appreciated. The singer looks over sideways at Richard, who is using this opportunity to take out a cigarette from a still-intact pack in his pocket. He's struggling a little, because they're all chained together - Till can't move around much because his handcuffs are a little tighter than everyone else's, but neither can Richard because he's got the weight of both Olli and Till pressing against him. But he eventually gets one in his mouth; Till peers in a little closer and sees that Richard still has about three cigarettes left. Worth a try.
"Give me one," he demands. The guitarist gives him a long look - Till's not that surprised really, he's very protective of his cigarettes, and the singer's making him do extra work, since when did the diva of the group have to do any more work than necessary - but when the younger man rolls his eyes a little and starts fumbling again, the sight makes him a bit happier than he'd care to admit. But when you're all chained together watching a bank burn to the ground, anything feels like bonding. He likes it.
"Can' hold i' up," Richard mumbles through the cigarette in his mouth, though, which ruins the mood a little.
The singer sighs, although an idea is forming in his head. He gazes around the scene, noting that people are watching his every move with nervous eyes and rolling cameras, and inwardly nods to himself in approval. "Well then, if Herr Kruspe wants to play hard to get," he growls, and without waiting for a reply, he leans over (ignoring the flash of pain in his leg) and attacks Richard's mouth viciously with his own lips. He coaxes the guitarist's lips open ever so slightly, feeling the soft warmth and shivering at the touch, before he turns his attention to the object clenched between them. A light brushing of Till's tongue on his lower lip makes Richard whimper and this loosens the cigarette - swapping smokes instead of saliva. Charming. Don't see young couples doing that nowadays. What's the world coming to? The cancer stick falls onto Till's lap and technically he's got what he wanted, but Richard is reciprocating and it's one tiny spark of warmth on a shit day like this.
Put on a show. Might as well, why the hell not. Flashes and stunned gasps and whispers rise around them, along with the other three wolf-whistling in unison. Just what Till wants. Slip him a little tongue, too. Richard responds accordingly - his eyes actually slide shut and he moans ever so softly into the other's mouth, reaching to try to touch more of Till's tongue with his own. "Mmmph," he whimpers as the singer raises his hands and trails a finger down his tie. "ahh, Lindemann-"
"Yes," Till groans against the other's lips. "you like that, don't you," reach out and place both hands on Richard's chest. Slip underneath the jacket a little. "you beautiful smoldering son of a bitch. Ohh yeah. Ohh. I'd totally give you a healthy dose of bück dich right here."
"Go get a room," Schneider chuckles. "you can't fuck in the fucking outdoors surrounded by all those fucking people. Actually, how would you even fuck if we're all chained together like this?"
"Unless you'd like us to all join?" the bassist offers, raising an eyebrow. Till would tear his mouth away from Richard's just to shoot back a reply before going back to what they were doing, but he doesn't get a chance to do so because without any warning whatsoever the guitarist sinks his teeth onto his lips and actually manages to draw blood.
"Scheiße!" he hisses before pulling back, staring incredulously at Richard. Flash. Camera shutters. All wanting to capture Till Lindemann being bested for once. He can't let too much on, so he simply takes a deep breath before forcing a smile. "I mean, touché. Didn't think you liked it rough?"
"I know you do," Richard smirks, running his tongue very lightly over his lips; his smirk widens to a near psychotic grin. "no need to go any further like this at the moment, God forbid we come out of this looking like porn stars instead of a metal band. Next they'll be wanting to see me and you screwing each other senselessly in a bus while Olli and Paul just disappear into thin air and Doom's mentioned only as a plot point. We've got enough time for the tomfoolery that you want soon. You know what they do to guys like us in prison?"
Till snorts in amusement, and Paul lets out a half-anticipating 'ooh' before giving Schneider a nudge and a wink. He'll get his own back later. Grinning, Till laps up the blood on his lip with his tongue, tasting a hint of rusty tang and Richard's smoke. It's not much of a special taste, but it's better than pavement. (Seriously, pavement is the worst tasting thing in the world.) The younger man quietly lights his own cigarette's and Till's; after that, there is silence amongst the five for a while as they watch the building burn. A lot of the noise and smoke has died down now, bringing forth only a sort of calm; they're still fighting the flames and now firemen are rushing inside, seeking for any possible survivors despite knowing that nobody could have possibly survived that. Till's trained pyrotechnician eyes can see that they don't have enough water to cool things down sufficiently enough - rather than the lack of water, what's really the problem is that they could probably do with another fire truck to help out. Another should be arriving soon, though. He inhales the smoke and exhales it.
"We've got to call up the kids," Richard is the first to speak up. Despite the fact that now he's actively puffing at the cigarette, his words come out clear compared to how muffled he sounded when he had an unlit one in his mouth. Perhaps he was faking that one just to get a kiss. Not like Till minds that, or anything. "tell them that we might be a while."
Paul looks over at this, the expression on his face suddenly serious and composed. "Yeah. Yeah, we should."
"Tell them papa's not coming home for a while. That we love them."
"How long's 'a while', do you think?" Olli poses the question, and even though his voice is light and he's smiling, his brown eyes suddenly seem a little misty. "I don't even think that they know how long that is anymore. We're away six months of the year with each other anyway. Sometimes far more than that. How do we even measure that timescale - seven legs' worth of concerts, maybe? Except without the concerts?"
Till doesn't have children. Not in this music video. Not the realm of general fanworks. But he forgets that sometimes.
The singer lets out a sad little laugh. "I only wish. We're lucky if we get a sentence that means that they're starting to date and don't remember our faces when we come back."
And then they're laughing again, but it's not a happy or even a remotely lighthearted laugh this time. Till thinks of his perhaps-existent-in-another-world daughter and Richard thinks of his equally perhaps-existent-in-another-world daughter and they all think of their children, playing and happy and always so ecstatic to greet them when they come home. Wanting to get hugged by them, carried on their shoulders, wanting to tell them all about their day. Always holding onto their legs and being sad when they're off again. They have no idea why they're so sad about this, but they are. Till thinks of Flake and back at the burning building, people crying in front of it, and thinks about how Flake will never assume a family life, no matter how many years and decades will pass. "I'm a shit father," Paul whispers, and Till couldn't agree more. None of this has meant a single thing. Adrenaline fades, euphoria goes with it, now there is just a crushing emptiness. To ease his melancholy he takes a long drag on his nearly-finished cigarette and is just remembering how Nele gently scolded him to stop smoking when he sees Richard looking at him longingly.
"Can we share it?" Richard asks plaintively. Till blows smoke in his face in response and the hopelessly addicted fucker just stews in the secondhand smog like it's better than air. Then he glances around the scene one more time - Schneider's looking weary but still has that little smile on his lips, Olli is much the same, and Paul is leaning against all of them, his face softened with sorrow and utter fondness. He and Richard are sitting together, sharing in their cursed togetherness, feeling tired and only a vague sense of hollow sadness flickering in their hearts, still content that they're all in this together and always will be. Not good nor bad. Could be better though.
Looks like Flake got the last laugh after all. He spits out the filter of the cigarette and clears his throat.
"Put in a good word for us," Till shouts out, looking up at heaven and imagining that somewhere behind the clouds, Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Fanfic is playing Ode to Joy with the angels. "you're as good as anybody up in heaven, Christian Lorenz, even though you're East German and you're a gimp. But don't bother looking for my father and saying hello, either. Just trying to save you a bit of trouble, which is the least I can do, considering that being dead is enough trouble as it is," pause. Smile for the camera. Smile for the audience. Smile real wide, because no one cares what you feel. "seriously, though. Don't bother. He probably isn't even there. That bastard was crazy."