Chapter Text
My weaknesses
You know each and every one (it frightens me)
But I need to drink more than you seem to think
Before I'm anyone's
And you know
It's a question of lust
It's a question of trust
It's a question of not letting what we've built up
Crumble to dust
It is all of these things and more
That keep us together .*(c)
The chance to finally see Paul comes at the least anticipated time and in the least anticipated way. It's been a little more than a week since their first – and the last, so far – night together, and to Richard it seems like an absolutely unrealistic period of time. He can't make up his mind, though, whether it feels as if it had happened only yesterday or maybe in some other life, in another universe and to another person. Sometimes he's even starting to question the mere fact that it took place at all.
The confirmation that it did, after all, happen comes in the form of a late phone call.
Schneider is still at home but he's got plans for the night, judging by how fidgety he's been all evening, and he's the one who answers. At first, Richard doesn't even pay attention to the fact of the phone ringing at all. Even though they have a landline, phone calls aren't very frequent in their shared flat, especially late-night phone calls for him – night seems to be Schneider's time. Still, when the drummer guffaws and calls the one on the other end of the line a 'little shit', something in Richard's stomach tenses in anxiety, and he perks his ears to be able to hear the rest of the conversation. Virtually, there's only one person among the people he knows who could be, rightfully so, described as a 'little shit', and that very person happens to be the one he's most interested in at the moment.
Richard's smoking beside the open window, and since Schneider could see him from his spot in the corridor if he turned his head, he pretends not to mind him at all. For some reason, that seems very important. Probably for the same reason his heart has picked up the pace considerably.
"After you've fucked off for almost two weeks leaving us to do your job here instead of you, I should be the one grumbling about having to listen to your bullshit again!" Schneider snaps, and now Richard's absolutely positive as to who the other person is.
The drummer's been bitching constantly about Paul sodding off to somewhere without letting anyone know and thus leaving the entire production job on his bandmates' shoulders. Richard can certainly relate, even though he's got no business to do with Paul except doing Paul, and the delay has nearly driven him up the wall, too.
"Not that I really want to speak to you, you bastard, so there you go… Richard!!!" Schneider yells from the corridor, making Richard give a start and nearly drop his cigarette. "Come get the phone, that wandering little twat says he's got some important business to sort out with you."
"Who's that?" Richard mouths at the drummer from his place by the window, for the sake of decency trying his best to feign surprise. Besides, his heart is beating right in his throat, making it slightly problematic for him to speak normally anyway.
"Paul," Schneider scowls, rolling his eyes. "Do you know any other little twats in the neighbourhood?"
"He's back?"
"Damned if I know." The drummer makes a face as he gives Richard the receiver and sashays back into the room. "Says he is, but I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him."
Tentatively, as if it could bite him, Richard presses the receiver to his ear and starts speaking only when he's sure Schneider's not anywhere near, not safely out of hearing range but as far from the telephone as he could be.
"Yeah?" he says, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.
He's not sure he succeeds, though. It feels like he's going to spit his heart out in the next couple of minutes if it doesn't slow down.
"My place?" Paul asks by way of greeting, the hushed urgency of his voice making its tone drop so low that it seems to reverberate deep inside Richard's stomach.
"Where the hell have you been?" Richard inquires, his sweaty hand squeezing the receiver so hard he has to make a conscious effort to relax his fingers a little lest he snap the bloody thing in two.
It's not that it's crucial for him to know where exactly Paul has been, but it's all he can come up with.
"Jesus, I'm sure Schneider has been fussing and moaning about it more than enough these past few days so that you would know where I was. While we're on the topic, how many times have I been called 'the little shit' or 'the little wanker' or 'the insufferable little twat', huh?"
It turns out to be so accurate it actually makes Richard snigger despite how wound-up he is.
"You forgot the 'chief smart-arse' and the 'selfish little prick'. There have been a few new ones, I guess, but I'm sure you'll have a chance to hear them all personally."
"Already have, thanks a lot," Paul grumbles from his end of the line. "But back to business, the flat's empty, and my bed seems way too big and way too cold and all that, I guess you know the drill," he says, and Richard's sure he's smiling as he does so.
Smiling his unique sly little smile, and the knot that's formed in Richard's stomach first loosens a bit and then lets the weight of fast awakening desire drop down into his groin.
"You're astonishingly romantic, you know?" he jokes, keeping his voice low as he throws a glance back at the room. Schneider's nowhere to be seen, so he guesses he must have relocated to the kitchen. So much the better.
"Oh really? So should I go get some candles and rub myself with aromatic oils or something?" Paul's voice sounds ironic as if he was joking, too, but there's a certain edge to it, some deep, low, purring intonation, and Richard's not so sure that Paul's in a particularly joking mood. Before he can say anything, though, the voice on the other end of the line continues, "Or will saying that I just want you awfully suffice, huh? That I've been thinking about you every single day since that night? Thinking and imagining about how you'll hold me down against the bed and--"
"Stop," Richard hisses into the receiver, excited to the point of sporting a half-formed boner inside his underwear. He can hear the rush of blood in his ears, and he thinks he knows where the whole amount of it is directed.
"Then come?" Paul asks immediately, and this time he sounds as serious as he's possibly capable of. "I want you, Richard."
"God--"
"I need you," he repeats as if he hasn't heard him. "Want you in my mouth--"
"Be at yours in half an hour," Richard blurts and slams the receiver back onto its hold hard.
His hand is shaking and he feels perspiration on his temples, on the small of his back and in his groin. His breathing is ragged and fast, and it costs him a titanic effort to get it more or less under control as he storms into his room to change into something relatively decent and get out as soon as possible. He could never have thought that merely hearing Paul's voice over the phone could do such things to him, but here he is, feeling wired and on edge, the only thought beating in his head in red pulse is not a thought at all but a feeling, the conviction that if he doesn't get Paul right now, he'll die, or maybe explode, or go completely nuts, all because of just how fucking much he wants him.
"Where are you off to?" Schneider asks in surprise, which can be perfectly justified since Richard complained earlier that day that he wasn't in the mood for parties when the drummer suggested going out.
Richard's hand freezes on the front door knob.
"Out," he says, panic starting to rise in his throat.
"I can see that." Schneider rolls his eyes. "I mean, with Paul?"
"He said some band's in need of a guitarist tonight, so yeah, kind of," Richard babbles and before the front door slams shut behind him, he can hear Schneider's confused 'what?' and 'which band?' and 'thought you didn't feel like going anywhere tonight!'
Not looking back, Richard sprints down the stairs, blissfully ignorant of the fact that his guitar is standing peacefully back in his room just next to his bed.
He's sure it takes him improbably short time to get to Paul's place because he runs half of the way, then catches what seems to be one of the last buses, and then sprints the rest. By the time he reaches Paul's block of flats, he's so totally out of breath he needs a while just to stand before the entrance panting, hands propped into his thighs. He honestly cannot remember if he's ever run like this to a date with a girl, and there's a part of his mind that's still telling him it's all insane, that he should stop being an idiot and get his shit together, that it is not normal, for god's sake! But that voice has long lost its ability to bother him. It's become so easy to just dismiss it, shut it off, and pretend it's never even spoken up.
He doesn't need that voice to tell him anything, no, not now. Not now when all his mind's occupied with is the way Paul's body looked stripped of all clothes; not now when he wants Paul so desperately; not now when it feels like he absolutely must touch his skin and taste his mouth and then do both things to his cock simply to survive the day.
If it's madness – let it be so. He welcomes it with open arms.
He can barely wait for Paul to open the bloody door – the period of time between the moment he urgently rings the doorbell until the lock finally turns seems to have taken forever.
Richard's sure he can't remember when was the last time when he felt like this, if ever at all. His heart is a wild drum inside his chest, hammering against his ribcage so hard Richard can feel the reverberations through his entire body. His hands are shaking, his breath is ragged, his body is covered with a thin sheen of sweat but he's not sure if he's hot or cold or maybe both at the same time. It feels like he's shivering from sheer, concentrated desire that's circulating through his veins instead of blood. It makes him feel like he's a live wire twisted by the force of an electrical current.
When the door finally does open wide enough, Richard all but bursts in, his hands seeking Paul's waist as he pushes him inside, pushes him until the moment the smaller man's back hits the wall and the man himself lets out a surprised yelp. A yelp is all Paul has time for, though, because the next moment Richard's lips are on his and all sounds he is able to make from now on are but mere hums and moans, which get louder when Richard grinds his pelvis against Paul's, letting him know – letting him feel – just how excited he is to finally see him.
What Paul does in response seems to flicker some switch inside Richard's head, and there goes all more or less coherent thinking ability he had left. Paul puts his hands onto Richard's butt, squeezing his buttocks hard with those trained guitarist's fingers, pulling him closer against his body and simultaneously pushing his thigh between Richard's. Richard doesn't need to be told what to do – he rubs himself against Paul's leg instinctively, his entire erect length, letting out little helpless noises into Paul's mouth.
The one and only thing that he does know about anything in this world is that he wants Paul and he must get him. There's no alternative. He simply must, otherwise it's going to be the end of him, for sure.
"You…" he pants as he temporarily leaves Paul's mouth be, paying more thorough attention to the side of his neck instead, making the latter gasp shakily, "have no idea…" Flicking his tongue against the silver earring, "just how fucking much…" Down to his quivering larynx, licking his skin this time, "I needed you," Richard finishes, sucking at the hollow between Paul's sharp collar bones, sucking hard enough to make sure there will be a bruise come following morning.
A mere image of Paul sporting a hickey from him on his neck makes Richard even hornier. Paul, meanwhile, still panting and gasping, is clawing at the hem of his t-shirt and his sweater in a clumsy attempt to pull them off at last.
"I've wanked myself sore this past week," Paul laughs quietly, breathlessly, sounding completely deranged, taking the throbbing in Richard's groin to the point of unbearable.
It's not even exactly what he says – even though it in itself is a huge turn-on – but how he says it that makes Richard almost howl with helpless want. At least it seems that way to him, that he could actually be loud enough to howl; in reality, all he manages is a strangled groan as he catches Paul underneath the buttocks and half-pushes, half-carries him further inside the flat, towards the familiar bedroom.
The rest of what they do rushes past in a whirl of skin, tongues, hair and this unbearable, maddening tension. They barely manage to get rid of their clothes, and there's absolutely no time to go get any lubricants, either, because at the moment it seems simply impossible that he could somehow let Paul out of his arms. No, just no. Fuck everything, all he needs is to be able to feel, all of it; the smooth slide of Paul's feverishly hot skin against his own; the litheness and slimness of his body as they writhe against each other; Paul's scent – tonight having a tinge of some kind of cologne; his hands in Richard's hair, pulling and stroking alternatively; his rasping voice asking Richard – begging him, really – to hold him tight and oh-god-please-don't-stop-yeah-more, his pleas drowned out by his own moaning.
Richard realises he can't stand it any longer – all of it; it's too much for him, too much of everything that feels so incredibly good, but he can't stop. There are Paul's lips against his own, so wet and eager, and he's got his tongue what feels like down to his very tonsils, and there's Paul's hard on pressed against his own, squeezed between their bodies as they squirm and wriggle against each other, thrusting, rolling over the expanse of the bed, holding on to each other, unable to stop the motion. It seems crucial that they keep it on, not only in the region of their groins but involving their entire bodies, too. It's way too good to stop, and Richard wants more of it, and more, and more.
His want is so great, so all-absorbing, so overwhelming that tonight he is absolutely not in control of it. When he realises that he's on the homestretch of what has every chance of becoming the most glorious orgasm of his life, it's way too late to put it off any longer, and he lets himself rush towards it. It might be his own voice that he hears as he comes hard, crying out as he rides through this perfect, agonising bliss, muffling the sound against Paul's shoulder, or it might not – it sounds way too distant through the noise in his head.
His orgasm grips him, making all his body muscles tense and cramped, but even then he's aware of the sensation of Paul's stiff thick cock pressed against his thigh, of the moist touch of his pre-cum on his skin, of the way Paul's hips thrust erratically against his body. It does require an effort of will from Richard to push himself off Paul since all he feels like doing now after he's just come is lying down, holding tight onto Paul and letting him finish the business himself. Still, what he wants even more is… well, more.
Trying not to pay attention to how profoundly frustrated Paul sounds the moment the contact between them is broken, Richard slithers down along his body. Paul's hips hump the air where there has just been Richard's thigh, and a whine of obvious indignation leaves his mouth. He sounds as if he would like to actually say something but he's so gone that the best he's capable of is this unintelligible whining. Paul doesn't have to suffer for long, however, because the next moment his cock is taken into Richard's hand, and Paul's hips jerk again, shooting up just to get more friction.
Once again, it takes Richard only a heartbeat to comprehend the whole picture in front of him, maybe just because he doesn't need much time to comprehend anything but Paul's flesh. It's big and thick and swollen, its head wet and glistening, and it feels weirdly good – weirdly right – in the hold of Richard's hand. The skin is so delicate and so hot and so silken, and beneath it there's that stone firmness that's driving Richard completely mental. He doesn't just want to feel it against his palm, he wants to get it into his mouth to feel it against his tongue and his lips and… oh Jesus.
So this is precisely what he does, eyes closed, his hand pumping the shaft, his tongue swirling around its slick tip, his lips sucking to the best of his abilities. Somewhere in the world where his and Paul's bodies exist, Paul howls something and his hips thrust upwards again, to ram his cock deeper down Richard's throat, but it doesn't happen – Richard's whole weight is holding Paul's hips pressed firmly into the mattress. He just goes on with what he's doing, methodically, and out there somewhere Paul howls again, his body thrashing in a fit of something bordering on convulsions.
He can feel the tension building in Paul's thighs and his abdomen, and there's that throbbing sensation against his lips, a couple of powerful contractions that resonate with his own still pulsing with the residue of his orgasm cock, and then Paul's slimy semen is suddenly sliding down the back of his throat. Richard pulls back by instinct, coughing a little, but once he can breathe normally again, he returns his lips to the head of Paul's dick, licking the mess off, sucking out the last droplets of his cum.
In this frenzy, it doesn't taste merely alright. Right now – and Richard realises it must be a glitch in his brain that makes it perceive every single thing connected with Paul as a source of pleasure – right now, it is nothing short of a delicacy. He might have second thoughts about it come next morning, but not at the moment. At the moment, his utmost goal is not to miss a single drop and make Paul cry louder, a task he successfully accomplishes, to his profound delight.
Afterwards, when the thrashing and moaning and gasping has finally stopped, they lie in silence for a while, drifting off on the slow waves of satiation and pleasant exhaustion, Richard on his back, one hand tucked comfortably under his head, the other holding that post-coital cigarette which tends to taste twice as good as a regular one. Paul's right beside him, curled on his side and facing the wall, his breath soft and even. Richard casts a glance in his direction, thinking that the man must have fallen fast asleep already. Not surprising, that, after how he tossed about in the throes of orgasm.
What is surprising, though, is how infuriatingly normal it feels, how Richard doesn't have any desire whatsoever to get out of this bed and run to wherever it is that his guilty conscience lies in wait to slaughter him with self-blame at first chance. It shouldn't be like this, should it? It is as if this whole situation is so normal that Richard's mind simply has to venture on an exploratory voyage into the depths of his self for the sole purpose of making sure that something is not, after all, normal. It shouldn't be that a perfectly straight man – at least a man who has all his sexually conscious life considered himself to be nothing but straight, and somehow still considers himself that way – should want his fellow male so compulsively, feel so oddly at peace lying side by side with this fellow male after they've just had the greediest sex of his life. It shouldn't be that staying in this bed should seem so perfectly reasonable to him and feel so comfortable.
Still, despite every single one of his mind's ridiculous attempts to find something wrong with the entire situation, for some reason, Richard doesn't feel that there's anything wrong at all.
Carefully, so as not to wake Paul up in case he's really fallen asleep, he puts out his cigarette and edges further under the blanket, but it turns out Paul isn't asleep after all.
"Can you hold me?" he asks into the pillow, his voice muffled but perceptibly heavy and languid with drowsiness.
The request sounds a tad strange to Richard but it elicits a small smile from him all the same – if nothing else, it feels pretty nice to hold Paul, so why not.
"Sure," he replies, scuttling closer until the front of his body is pressed against Paul's back.
He snakes his arm around his partner's middle, pulling him even closer, his hand squeezing itself between his side and the mattress. The sigh which follows is so full of quiet satisfaction that Richard can't help but smile even wider. Saying nothing else, he nuzzles the back of Paul's neck, lips against that delicate curve where it joins his bony shoulder, and leaves there a little peck. This time it holds no sexual implication, though; he's way too tired and still sated with the previous experience to start to think of another round. This time it's just a kiss, a caress conveying gratitude, or care, or a wish good night; or maybe all of it.
Paul squirms deeper into his hold, lazily, somehow reminding Richard of a sleepy feline; the only thing amiss in that image is that of him starting to purr and scratch at Richard's arm like cats do when they're not set on murdering the human but allowing themselves to be petted instead. His hand starts its slow exploration of Paul's body all by its own accord since Richard's sunken way too deep into this pleasant, trance-like, condition to have any control over it. Slowly, dreamily, it splays itself over Paul's stomach, stroking it softly, fingers running over the warm skin, over the hardness of the protruding ribs and hip bones, trailing down along that light path of light hair that stretches from Paul's navel down to merge with the equally light hair in his groin. His palm brushes over the warm softness of Paul's cock and relocates to his hip, stroking along his thigh, meditatively, up and down and up again.
Lost in his thoughts and in the sensations, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, Richard is pulled back into the room and into the bed they're sharing by Paul's quiet moan. It is so profoundly contented that, inexplicably, it sounds almost desperate, so Richard wraps both of his arms around Paul's middle, drawing him even closer, holding him even tighter, kissing the side of his neck and his shoulder over and over again. To his great surprise – and will they never cease tonight? – and certain delight, what he's doing elicits even more small, choked sounds out of his partner's mouth. It seems as if these nothing if not trivial caresses get him totally undone, and Richard suddenly recalls their first time when Paul actually told him as much – that he wanted to be held – and how he came so unhinged when Richard complied.
So that's what turns you on, he thinks with a smile, rejoicing at the sounds Paul's making and at the way his body is all but melting against his own.
And as if Paul's been able to read his thoughts, he squirms and shifts in the hold of his arms, then finally rolls over, letting his face hover mere inches above Richard's. For a couple of moments, he doesn't do anything, just looks down on him, breathing heavily – Richard can feel it both in warm puffs of air on his face and in the way Paul's abdomen rises and falls against his own. He just looks, doing nothing, saying nothing, lips parted as if he would like to but either can't or doesn't know what to say. Richard's not sure what exactly he sees in Paul's face, it's way too dark in here to tell with way too many shadows shrouding his features, but for some reason he thinks – feels – that there's something akin to dismay in Paul's eyes.
Then, before he can jump to further, utterly groundless, conclusions, Paul kisses him full on the mouth, deep and slow, but yes, he does seem totally desperate. It's this desperate intensity of the kiss – a different kind from the one which spurred them on when they were horny to the point of getting blue in the balls – that actually makes Richard hug Paul closer this time, to hold him flush against himself, and when Paul's lips relocate to the corner of his mouth, and then to his jaw, to his cheek, Richard closes his eyes, once again overwhelmed by that dizzying sense of inevitability.
They shouldn't be doing this, not like this, but huh, who in their right mind would call it a day and stop it? Not him when it feels this desperately good, no.
"I…" Paul mutters against his cheek, voice so soft Richard more feels him speak rather than actually hears it. He swallows and kisses the corner of Richard's mouth again with such unbearable tenderness that Richard almost feels the sense of vertigo coming on. "It's just…"
Richard doesn't let him finish. Instead, he turns his head until he can feel Paul's lips on his own once more, and kisses him back. Slowly. Thoroughly. Soothingly.
"It's okay," he whispers in between those painfully gentle kisses, one arm holding Paul close, the hand of the other resting against Paul's cheek, his thumb stroking his skin in a feather-light caress.
He doesn't know what exactly he wants to convey with that 'okay'. That it feels okay? That what they're doing to each other is perfectly okay? That how good it feels is okay? That Paul's strange craving for this tactile contact is okay? He doesn't know because he doesn't know what exactly is so suddenly off with Paul, but whatever it is he wants him to know that it's all okay all the same.
That's why he repeats it, stroking Paul's dishevelled hair. "It's all right, Paul," he whispers. "That's all fine."
He opts for soothing to let Paul know that he doesn't mind holding him like this for as long as he wishes, and to convince himself that his own desire to hold Paul close is indeed just fine, too. Judging by how Paul's body gradually relaxes into his embrace, he probably succeeds. He cannot quite say the same thing about himself, though.
A quarter of an hour or maybe a quarter of the night later – Richard has no idea anymore, he only knows that it's still pitch dark and thus it must be night – Paul seems to have dozed off, this time for real, his cheek resting snugly on Richard's shoulder, his breath a soft caress of air against the side of Richard's throat. If he turns his head just a little, his mouth brushes over Paul's forehead, and he keeps occasionally doing it, just for the sake of feeling Paul's skin on his lips again.
It doesn't mean anything, does it? he tells himself. It's only normal to want to leave a kiss there since it's actually so close to his mouth.
As minutes drag by and sleep still wouldn't come, Richard has nothing else to occupy himself with but give free rein to his thoughts. Probably not the brightest idea considering it's the dead of night, and allowing your thoughts to roam freely and venture anywhere at such a time might not end up all too well, but he's got nothing else to do. He's feeling pretty weary and he wouldn't really mind to pass out at last but he guesses it's the fact that he's got Paul all over himself, clinging to him so tightly that he's all but wrapped around Richard's body, that is preventing him from falling asleep. Not that he minds much, though. If anything, it really feels good to have Paul wrapped around him, but that's what raises more questions, too.
As if he already didn't have way too many, most of them unanswered.
Strange as this situation is – at least for him, because he would never have imagined himself ever thinking about sleeping with a man, let alone enjoy all this touchy-feely nonsense – strange as it might be, he could perhaps understand Paul's possible reasons.
He just might have that weird curiosity, that itch that just needs to be scratched, along with the fixation on being held and touched that gets him so completely undone, whatever it is caused by. This desire, combined with how goddamn slender Paul is, could possibly justify the need to find himself a man to do just that. And then as far as men are concerned, why, Richard makes a perfect candidate, doesn't he? He's bigger than Paul; not much taller but certainly way heavier and having much more meat on him. Now that Richard thinks of it in this light, even that sleek-arsed Jacob the club owner fits into this theory pretty well because he's nowhere near like Richard himself, at least appearance-wise, taller yet leaner, his muscles well-defined but not bulky, which may be the reason why it's not him but Richard who is sleeping in Paul's bed now.
Or perhaps Richard just wants to get that slimeball out of the picture and convince himself that whatever intentions he might have for Paul, they're doomed to failure. Not quite pleased with such conclusion, Richard pushes the thought out of his head. What does it even matter who else might have their eyes trained on Paul? He's an easily likeable guy, he's got every right to draw people's attention to himself.
And then, when it comes to trying to justify his own motives, Richard gets hopelessly stuck.
And really now, what's his excuse for being in Paul's bed? How the hell did it even happen that he looked at him this way at all? He doesn't need to be held and he doesn't need to be fucked and he doesn't need a man beside him; what he needs is a woman, the more feminine, the better, he's as sure of it as he's ever been. But nonetheless, here he is, wanting Paul to the point of dementia; wanting to hold him and wanting to fuck him. And, Richard realises with a certain amount of surprise, wanting to talk to him, too. Or maybe wanting Paul to talk to him because it seems like there is something Paul might have to say.
It could be nothing but his curiosity, of course, Richard muses. His curiosity and mere chance that he and Paul happened to be in the right place and at the right time for everything to just click into place. If it hadn't been Paul back then, it might be someone else some other day, or maybe it would simply never have happened at all.
What is also a little unsettling is that all those questions don't really bother Richard as much as he thinks they should. Probably, it's the most unsettling thing of all, he muses, absently drawing his hand over Paul's back. On the other hand, if the lack of problems is his only problem, then maybe he'd better stop trying to find fault with it and enjoy the whole thing while it lasts.
He doesn't mind holding Paul. He's not the biggest fan of those lovey-dovey kissy-huggy things, but it's never been hard for him to give, at least as far as sex and all that's connected to it is concerned. People that know him personally might beg to differ, of course, but certainly not his sexual partners; that he's almost sure of. Besides, he thinks he does like Paul, and not only as someone he'd want to sleep with. He thinks that he likes Paul as a person he'd want to have as his friend. He wouldn't mind to have him as his bandmate, either. And the sex is good, too. Well, screw that. The sex has been amazing so far.
A soft sigh leaves Richard's mouth as he half-smiles, half-huffs against the top of Paul's head, wishing he could fall asleep as easily as the man in his arms did.
When Richard opens his eyes next time, it's still dark and he's not nearly as rested as he'd like to feel, which altogether means that it couldn't be morning yet. Apart from that, he's alone in bed. After a short and somewhat dazed examination of the surroundings, Richard comes to the conclusion that it must be around four in the morning – now that his eyes have got accustomed to the lighting, it doesn't look completely dark anymore. The room is filled with dull, pre-dawn light that makes it hard to understand yet whether the oncoming day is going to be fair or overcast.
After a second or third round of looking around the room, he finally notices Paul. He's out on the balcony, seemingly naked. The balcony door has been left ajar, and Richard can feel the coolness of the morning breeze on his arms. It also brings inside a barely noticeable smell of cigarette smoke. He suddenly realises he craves a shot of nicotine, too, and why not when he's already woken up – might as well take the opportunity, the only thing stopping him is uncertainty whether that strange fit of whatever happened to Paul earlier has passed. After a brief consideration, the craving wins, and Richard reluctantly gets out of the warm bed and into the considerably fresher air of the room, his skin instantly getting covered with gooseflesh. He shivers and snatches the coverlet from where it lies crumpled on the nearest chair, along with his cigarettes from the stool which serves as the nightstand.
It turns out that the coverlet is not a bad idea at all since, in the best tradition of Paul Landers, he's indeed lingering there butt-naked, and judging by how unnaturally rigid his body looks, it can't be all that balmy outside.
"You'll freeze your balls off, you fucking exhibitionist," Richard mutters, a cigarette sticking out from the corner of his mouth, as he wraps the coverlet around both of them, his arms crossing in front of Paul's chest and unceremoniously pulling the smaller man against himself.
The latter gives a start, followed by an elaborated curse as he nearly drops his cigarette but manages to recover his hold on it at the last moment. Then he shivers, relaxes a little and snuggles further into Richard's embrace.
"I thought my balls were solely my concern, huh?" Paul answers in a matter-of-fact manner, taking a slightly quivering drag.
His body feels cold against Richard's warm and still drowsy one.
"I beg to differ for as long I sleep with you."
As if to prove his words, Richard takes hold of the corners of the coverlet in one hand and lets the free one tickle its way down Paul's stomach until it gently takes a handful of Paul's genitals, squeezing them ever so lightly.
"I guess I kind of need those, you know. For at least a while longer."
Paul laughs out quietly, letting out a small cloud of smoke. His hips thrust forward, into Richard's hand, and his head, on the contrary, rests back on Richard's shoulder.
"Well, then take better care of them," he huffs, the tone of his voice unmistakably teasing.
It makes Richard smile, too, almost against his will. The man, whatever demons he's got in his head, no matter how complicated his personality is – and for some reason Richard suspects he hasn't yet seen even a half of it yet – the man, nonetheless, can be adorable. Ridiculous as it may sound, even Richard himself finds him so, and as to girls… girls must be utterly lovestruck next to him.
"I will once we're back in bed," he purrs into his ear, punctuating his promise with another playful squeeze of his hand. "Now gimme some fire and tell me why the hell you would want to hang out here butt-naked at shit o'clock."
Paul obliges, letting him light up his cigarette from his own, and then accommodates himself a bit more comfortably in Richard's arms. As of now, Richard can't detect any discomfort or that fidgety sort of despair either in his movements or in his words.
"Woke up, wanted to take a piss, decided to have a smoke while I was at it. Besides, I like the view from here, especially when the streets are empty. Woke you up, huh?"
"Not exactly," Richard smiles. "I guess the fact that I was finally able to breathe without being squeezed to death was what woke me up."
"Asshole," Paul retorts with a huff. "I was going to ask you if it was alright but you--"
"It was alright, Paul, I'm just kidding," Richard interrupts him before the man can voice any of his mistaken conclusions. "And it is alright. I don't mind it."
Paul nods but doesn't say anything.
"In fact, I think I kind of like it, too," Richard goes on, not particularly pleased with the ensuing silence.
Still, there are no silly jokes or caustic remarks on the topic, and Richard winces at the thought that he should probably have kept his mouth shut. They smoke without saying anything else for a while until Richard decides to break it with another question. The common sense – strangely alert at this time of day – tells him it might be another one of his not very bright ideas, but Richard habitually tells it to shut up and mind its own business.
"Paul?"
"Huh?"
"Talk to me?"
"Talk to you?" Paul asks. "Well, the park over there – you see, just at the corner of Kniprodenstrasse and Am Friedrichschain--"
He points with his hand, the cigarette, which has gone out by now, still stuck between his index and middle fingers, and all of a sudden Richard has an urge to take his hand and press his bony wrist to his lips.
"--it's particularly nice early in the morning. It's got those two hills and sometimes mist--"
"Fuck's sake, Paul, I know what that park looks like," Richard interrupts him mid-sentence, not particularly pleased with Paul trying to evade the question. "Are you okay? I mean, what's it with you and that holding you tight thing?"
Paul doesn't answer immediately, and Richard feels his body tense, making him wish he had kept his mouth shut after all.
"Don't know," Paul sighs at last. "Apparently something in my childhood, all things are from childhood, they say," he chuckles. "There's no tale of woe and no drama behind it, at least none that I know of, so if you wanted to hear anything of that sort – sorry, man. It's just… it turns me on, as you might have noticed, and it… I don't know, it makes me feel good. More at peace."
"So that's it, you're just so full of piss and vinegar you need to be grounded?" Richard chuckles softly, aiming at diluting the situation and lightening the mood.
Paul shrugs awkwardly and reaches out to put his cigarette into a makeshift ashtray perched on the balcony bannister.
"If you don't feel like it, just don't do it. No problem."
"Why wouldn't I do something if it makes you feel good?" Richard asks with a sigh, putting his own cigarette out, and then pulls Paul back into his embrace. "Besides, I told you, I like holding you."
"Good then," Paul huffs. "Because I like you holding me. I guess I might be getting a little hooked on it, too."
Hearing that, Richard can't help but laugh out. He also thinks he can't help liking Paul even more now.
"So if that's settled, tell me then, I wasn't your first?"
"Hell, is it an interrogation?" Paul sputters, sounding perfectly exasperated, but Richard guesses that for as long as he stays relaxed in the circle of his arms, there's no immediate danger of getting one of his infamous Paul Landers attitudes. He'd prefer to avoid those for as long as possible, thank you very much. "Do I have to call my lawyer?"
"You don't have a lawyer, you vagrant," Richard chuckles amiably. "But seriously, I'm just curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat," Paul deadpans.
"Yeah, but you don't seem like you're gonna go homicidal anytime soon. And anyway, who'll hold you and take care that your tools down there don't freeze off, huh?"
"What makes you think so? I thought it was a complete blunder on my part," Paul sighs, letting the back of his head rest on Richard's shoulder again.
"Well, maybe it was, but I was certainly not the one to notice and criticise, you know."
As Richard turns his head a little, he can see Paul smiling softly.
"I did it once, a couple of years ago," he says after a brief consideration. "Thought I could probably like the entire thing if I did it with someone else."
"Was it Flake?"
"God forbid!"
"Aljoscha?"
"Jesus, Richard, are you going to name everyone both you and I know?" Paul chuckles and shakes his head. His hair tickles Richard's shoulder and the side of his neck as he does so. "It wasn't him, either. He probably wouldn't mind, for all I know. He wouldn't make too bad an option, I guess; I know him well enough, but he's… well, what you could call not my type, I reckon."
Richard nods, silently, despite himself trying to imagine Paul with someone else. Paul and his band have so many bizarre people hanging around them all the time; it could have been any of them.
"That Jacob what's his name…" he says, remembering something he actually wanted to tell Paul.
"Huh? What of him?"
"He was hitting on you, back there in the bar."
"I know," Paul sighs after a little hesitation.
"Yeah, I guess you do; probably hard to miss it when he was all over you."
"'twas him."
"Huh?" Richard isn't sure he can quite understand what Paul means. Was him where? Was him when?
"First time and all," Paul answers, not sounding too excited about the fact that they have raised this slippery topic.
Richard can't help but cringe in disgust. "Are you having me on?"
"Nope."
"Jesus, Paul… he's… I mean, no offense, but… Ugh."
"Well, I'm sorry, but you weren't around at the time, you smart arse," Paul retorts, but despite his obvious annoyance, there's also a hint of a smile in his voice.
So Paul really must like him better than that sleek bastard, Richard thinks. And just like that, the fit of revulsion dissipates as suddenly as it hit him, and he feels himself grin like an utter moron instead. He laughs quietly, nuzzling Paul's temple and pulling him a bit closer.
"What was wrong with him?"
"Will your questions never cease?"
"I just wanna know what I shouldn't do, you know. So that you wouldn't dump me, too."
"I didn't dump anyone. We weren't in a fucking relationship to start with," Paul snaps in irritation. "And as to what was wrong. Well, everything was. You saw him for yourself, for fuck's sake."
"Why him then?"
"He's older. He knew what he was doing. I didn't really, I was merely curious. And drunk. It was alright, but… well, right thing, wrong person. And not my type, either."
"So picky," Richard chides quietly right into Paul's ear, making the latter fidget against him.
"Yeah, so you're one lucky bastard to have me," he huffs, his hand creeping over Richard's side to rest against his buttock. "So, what's your excuse then? Enough revelations from me, your turn."
Oh, so here it finally comes.
Instead of a reply, Richard just hugs Paul tighter, leaving a trail of soft pecks from his ear, along his jaw and down his throat, making Paul sigh with satisfaction.
"I don't know," he says after a long moment, shaking his head, and then shrugs. He genuinely wishes he knew what his excuse is.
For a while, they remain still, watching the incipient morning light up the sky in the east, and then Paul breaks the silence, voice ever so soft.
"Hey, you're being too quiet."
"And you're customarily not," Richard smiles. "I just want you, I guess. That's the only excuse I have."
"Does it frighten you?"
"A little. Less than I thought it should, though. Were you frightened? That first time?"
"Of you? Nope," Paul says quietly, taking Richard aback because he actually meant Paul's first ever experience, but if he's willing to somehow forget about that sleek bastard of a bar owner and refer to the night he spent with Richard as his first, he definitely wouldn't be the one to object. "Frightened of myself? Yes."
"You looked delirious."
"I wanted you so much I was delirious."
"Maybe that's because I'm your type, huh?" Richard asks, feeling that stupid kind of smile creeping back onto his lips uninvited.
He can't help it because it's always nice to be wanted. By now, he's only got used to being wanted by ladies, but huh, being wanted by Paul doesn't seem half so bad.
"Maybe you are." Paul's other hand finds its way to Richard's behind, as if in confirmation. "And as long as it's fine by you, I suggest we keep this thing going because I'm nowhere near done wanting you."
"And I suggest we get the hell out of here and I'll take care of the state of things below your waist as promised," Richard grins, once again venturing down to grab hold of Paul's suddenly not so soft cock. "You not quite so little insatiable wanker."
He rubs his own groin against Paul's small firm butt before pulling him back into the room.
"And you like me just like that," Paul states smugly and giggles like a complete idiot as Richard's fingers tickle him just down there.
"Like you? You're driving me delirious, Paul, whatever I've done to deserve it," Richard all but groans because it's so true. "I'd eat you if I could."
This time Paul positively guffaws, his hands squeezing on Richard's butt possessively.
"I don't know about eating me whole, but there's a certain part you can start with," he sniggers as Richard propels him back towards the bed, suddenly not sleepy at all.
This night is turning out to be very long, but hey, if it's not the very joy of it, then what is?