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Well you don't like, don't like the way I walk
And you don't like, don't like the way I talk
You criticise about me endlessly
Logic defies how you get stuck with me
And you complain about the clothes I wear
And you explain there's other boys out there
You complain my car makes too much noise
And you cry I'm always out with the boys
Whoa whoa
I give up little darling
Yeah no matter what I do, well and you know it's true
Ain't good enough for you.*©
"You only want him in the band because you sleep with him!" Schneider sputters from under his drum kit, where he's been adjusting something for the past twenty minutes or so, sounding annoyed.
There's a heartbeat of ominous silence that follows the statement before the drummer realises that something is off and his head finally emerges from behind his instrument of trade. He still looks annoyed, but now the emotion – to Richard's profound satisfaction – is compromised by something suspiciously resembling apprehension. Oh yeah, the wanker had better be scared out of his pants. Come to think of it, he'd better be on his way out of the basement they use for a rehearsal ground right now instead of lagging behind his half-assembled drum kit and staring at him in dumb surprise. That is, if he wants to keep all his bones intact and teeth present, of course.
"I what?" Richard asks, smiling his very fake but very pleasant smile at the drummer who seems to be losing his confidence at a surprising speed.
"Shit," Schneider mutters almost under his breath and casts his eyes aside. "Look, I didn't mean--"
He trails off, a trifle uncertainly, as Richard meticulously stubs his cigarette out and then turns to face him properly, arms crossed over his chest.
"No, Schneider, go on," he urges, clenching his fists hard enough to make his joints crunch. The sound comes threatening in the tense silence that's settled over the room. "Humour me."
Schneider stares at him with a mixture of palpable nervousness, the residue of irritation and just a little bit of embarrassment, then swallows and shakes his head.
"Look, I'm sorry, alright?" he finally says.
As Richard leaves his spot at the small basement window and walks slowly towards Schneider's drum kit, his fists now stuck into the pockets of his jeans, the air of agitation about the drummer intensifies, to Richard's great satisfaction.
"Look, don't be foolish, huh?" Schneider shifts his gaze between Richard's face and his fists. There is much less amusement in his eyes than in his voice. "Don't get your knickers in a twist because of some silly joke!"
Richard doesn't say anything, just keeps on walking.
"Richard!" Schneider huffs, bewildered. "You don't seriously mean--"
"Who I sleep with," Richard interrupts him, his voice slow and threateningly quiet, and points his finger at the drummer's chest, "is none of your fucking business."
Schneider's eyes drop to Richard's hand then return back to his face, wide open. He still looks as if he can't for the life of him comprehend what's going on but the understanding is finally starting to kick in. Good. Because Richard's not in the mood for jokes, not at all, damn it. Especially when such jokes concern his private life. Especially when he's fed up with Schneider's stubbornness in the first place. Technically, they haven't even formed the band yet, and there are already so many disagreements it sometimes seems it's time to fucking disband it. Blast it all.
"Are you following me?" he asks, doing the best he can to contain his anger inside.
He doesn't touch Schneider, even though he does really feel like gripping the front of his t-shirt and shaking him for all he's worth. The sensible part of him, which is, thankfully, still in control, knows, however, that the moment he makes a move the shit is going to really hit the fan. Schneider would most probably shake him off and then they'd be in for an utterly unnecessary – and a very stupid, too – fight.
"Yes," the drummer finally answers.
To his surprise, Richard notices faint flowers of pink starting to blush on his cheeks, and it would be rather funny weren't Richard so wound-up.
"Good," he says and takes his hand away, sticking it back into his pocket. "And since I am apparently supposed to explain my motives," he goes on, articulating every single word, "I want Paul in this band because we need another guitarist. And, we also need someone who's good at producing music, which, as it happens, Paul also is. As to having sex with him," Richard pauses, deriving a wicked kind of pleasure from seeing how Schneider momentarily averts his eyes at his explicit choice of words, "we can do it any day of the week, without having to form bands or ask for your opinion."
"Whatever you say," Schneider lets out a resigned sigh and gets back to adjusting his drum kit, creating the illusion of being busy but seemingly relieved to get away with the entire thing. "What I was just trying to get across is that we'll have our fair share of pain in the arse working with him. I'm not saying he's a bad guitarist or a bad tech or whatnot, or even a bad person for that matter, I'm saying that I'm so fed up with him and all about him that I'm not sure I'll be able to bear with him any fucking longer."
"Well, you'll have to," Richard grunts, turning his back to the obnoxious drummer. "Because he's in."
"He hasn't even agreed to join for all I know!" Schneider bristles from behind his drums, exasperated.
"That's just the question of time."
Richard grabs his cigarettes from the window sill and his guitar case from where it stands leaning on the nearby wall.
"But he's just so fucking difficult to work with, for god's sake!" Schneider all but pleads.
This time, Richard points his finger at himself, already at the door. "Yeah, I've noticed, you know. We still need him so I'm ready to make a few sacrifices now and again."
"We'll see how you'll talk in a few years or so," Schneider rolls his eyes. "Where're you going?"
"Out," Richard snaps.
"But we're supposed to start in ten minutes."
"Ten minutes my arse!"
"When are you gonna be back?!"
"Tomorrow!"
"Richard, damn you!"
"Fuck off!" Richard flips him the finger and slams the door of their improvised studio shut.
"Arsehole!" comes a prompt reply from behind it.
*
"What got into you? Schneider said you nearly screwed his head off," Till's voice flows into the kitchen along with the muted voices from the TV from the adjacent room.
"Did Schneider say why that was, huh?
The mere memory of their morning exchange still ticks Richard off so much he puts down the knife he's been chopping vegetables with and gesticulates in an absolutely exasperated manner, even though no one is even looking at him.
"Said you two had different opinions on Paul."
"Bastard!" Richard huffs, shakes his head and resumes the chopping.
"No?"
"Yes. But he also got it into his stupid head that l want him in the band because l sleep with him, for fuck's sake! Of course, l blew a fuse a little."
Till only chuckles amiably. "I wish I'd seen the entire exchange. Must have been amusing."
"Did you rehearse?"
"Are you kidding me?! We were not one – as we permanently are – but actually two guitarists short. Schneider and Olli jammed a little after all and then we just gave up the entire idea and went off to drink beer."
"Do you think he'll agree?"
"Who? Schneider?"
"Paul," Richard sighs, wishing for an uncountable time over the past several weeks that the man was at least a little easier to find common ground with in matters wherein they disagree with each other. "You're not against him, are you?"
"No, he's just fine. If l were, you'd have known about it long ago and for slightly different reasons," Till chuckles again, this time sounding more wicked than amused. "Wouldn't allow my little brother from another mother to be shagged by an asshole."
Richard can't help rolling his eyes, mouthing a quiet, 'fuckers' and wishing his potential bandmates would get off this slippery topic of his relationship with Paul at last, but it seems like he'd probably better get used to it if they really want to end up in one band together. Well, Till has always been different at least. He doesn't miss a chance to tease Richard every once in a while, but – somehow, thank heaven for small mercies – he seems to take them seriously and doesn't meddle in what doesn't concern him. Over the years, Till has become his only refuge to run to when there is a problem with Paul. Not that there have been many, but Richard certainly appreciates the fact that there's at least someone to talk to about it in case things go south.
"I mean, l can't understand why he's taking so long to decide," Richard says after a while.
"Well, he's got his own band, at least technically."
"But it's doomed, or will be, anyway. They have no future."
"It's not so easy to give up on what you've had for years and what's been successful enough. Give him time, Richard. He's not a fool, I'm sure he'll see what's good for him."
"I hate you and this wise master Yoda tone of yours," Richard huffs, good-naturedly, though. Because, in fact, he absolutely loves Till for it.
"So l see. Besides, when Paul agrees--"
"So you really believe he will?"
"Yep. So, when he agrees, l think it'll be much easier to persuade Flake to join, too. He'll have no choice. I hope so."
"Don't even start on that one!" Richard rolls his eyes again. It hasn't been easy to change Paul's mind, and as to Christian… it's probably going to be an utter nightmare unless he's simply dragged along by Paul. "Let's take one step at a time."
"Well, at least you have more means than all the rest of us to influence Paul."
This time Richard doesn't just roll his eyes. It's time for heavy artillery, so he hurls a tea-towel in the direction Till's voice came from.
"Fuck you all, seriously! It'd probably be of more use if you applied this wise-arse tone of yours to persuade Paul to join!"
"I did, and he said he'll think. Maybe now it's your turn to apply something else," Till positively brays from the room, making Richard curse and roll his eyes yet again as he conjures the dinner over the stove.
The towel he's tossed at Till comes flying back.
"I hate you all," he mutters under his breath. "I really, genuinely do."
But he's smiling all the same, rather stupidly, too.
*
"Oh for fuck's sake!"
That's Paul, and his curse is, of course, directed at Richard, but this time, unlike on many other occasions, it only makes Richard grin wider. Because it's not at all about music, or playing, or how one should do his job. It's just that at this very moment they're closeted inside a toilet stall in the bathroom of one of Berlin nightclubs and Richard's hips are pressed deliciously tightly to Paul's behind and one of Richard's hands is firmly squeezing Paul's crotch. His lips are all over the side of Paul's neck, the tip of his nose brushing the stubble on his jaw, his tongue occasionally twirling around Paul's silver earring. When he feels the flesh in his hand getting noticeably harder, he can't hold back a victorious – and slightly evil – giggle.
"But it's been awhile. I want you," Richard whispers into Paul's ear, feeling his own hot breath against Paul's skin, hearing Paul's ever so soft, almost helpless, groan, feeling Paul's hips pushing forward towards his hand. He swallows, feverishly kisses the side of Paul's cheek, spasmodically squeezes his fingers on Paul's rapidly hardening cock, bucks his own pelvis against Paul's arse. "Want you so much."
This time Paul moans audibly enough, his palms coming to rest on the backs of Richard's thighs. Both of them are in a rather desperate state, and for some reason knowing that Paul's desire matches his own is – ridiculously – heart-warming.
"But not here, for god's sake." Paul's voice is husky and just a tiny bit quivering. "Not now--"
"When?"
A kiss on Paul's collar bone – just where the upper buttons of his black shirt are undone – and the latter starts clutching at Richard's thighs for dear life.
"Tonight?" he exhales, rubbing his arse against Richard's groin.
"Good."
Richard pushes his forehead against Paul's shoulder, helplessly. He can hardly bear this little bastard's teasing any longer.
"Yours? Mine?"
"Yours, Till's crashing at mine these days."
Paul emits a noise – something resembling a mixture of a hum of agreement and a gurgle of a choking man – and suddenly squirms around in Richard's arms. He then pushes him against the wall and kisses him with such intensity that for a couple of heartbeats even Richard's desperate need is overcome by dizziness. There's a clash of teeth, a sudden sting in his upper lip and an ever so brief flicker of Paul's wet, slick tongue in his mouth – and that's it; just like that, he's gone, the stall door slamming loudly behind him.
Richard just stands there for a while longer, simply catching his breath and waiting for his heart to stop its mad pounding in his ears. He licks his lips, the upper one throbbing slightly, the taste of Paul still lingering in his mouth and mixing with the characteristic salty taste of blood on his tongue. There's more throbbing – much more intense and uncomfortable – happening in his southern regions, too, but Richard tries to ignore it the best he can, harshly rubbing his face with both palms and silently ordering his cock to calm the fuck down. He doesn't want to touch himself now, no. He'll save it all for tonight. He'll save it all for Paul.
*
And it could be like this whenever we want if we end up in one band, Richard muses dreamily and kisses Paul's shoulder, blissfully oblivious of the fact that this manner of reasoning is dangerously close to what Schneider implied the other day.
His eyes are closed and his breath is calm and even. He relishes this warmth between their bodies liking the way they're pressed so tightly together. He's always joked that Paul is one clingy bastard, what with his love for all this canoodling, but in truth he is absolutely hooked on those moments just after sex when Paul gets all mellow and sleepy and lets him hold him this tight, lets him kiss him this slowly, lets him stroke and caress his skin to his heart's content.
Well, maybe Schneider isn't completely wrong assuming that a significant motive behind Richard's obsessive desire to get Paul in the band is that he does love the sex they get. Schneider certainly does not have to know about it, though.
"--likely to tear each other's throats," Paul chuckles softly, and the sound of his voice pulls Richard out of his drowsy reverie about the benefits and pleasure of having Paul by his side on a permanent basis.
"Huh?"
"I'm saying that if you and I end up in one band, we're likely to tear each other's throats sooner than get to all this touchy-feely stuff."
"How did you know I was thinking that?" Richard asks, a bit taken aback.
"Thinking what?" Paul turns his head to give him a funny look.
"About ending up in one band."
"You were speaking out loud, you idiot," Paul huffs, but he sounds content and affectionate, almost indulgent. "And, besides, it's the only thing you've been pestering me about lately, anyway."
"Shit," Richard laughs quietly, dropping his head back onto the pillow.
"Can't think about anything but dragging me into that band of yours, eh?"
"Of course, I can't! Because you're taking bloody ages to decide upon one little thing!"
At that, Paul lets out a soft sigh and rolls onto his back, turning in Richard's arms so that he could actually face him. His gaze looks searching yet still fond.
"But it's not a little thing to me, Richard," he says mildly. "In fact, the thing is pretty big, if you ask me."
"Yeah, yeah, but..."
Richard rolls onto his back and clenches the bridge of his nose in concentration. Gods, he prays silently, don't let me fuck this up. Please. Because you know I need him.
He is hard-pressed to choose the words properly because for some reason communication with Paul sometimes reminds him of the swing of a pendulum. One moment they're so in tune with each other that words are hardly necessary at all; and then comes the moment when conveying the simplest of things seems to be so utterly impossible as if they were speaking different languages. Damn, as if they lived on different planets!
"Look, I know," he sighs, eyes still closed. "I just can't understand why you keep holding on to Feeling B so stubbornly."
He chances a glance in Paul's direction and sees him shrug lightly.
"I mean... let's face the facts, it has no future. You were quite big, right, but it was in the country which doesn't even exist anymore. Its time has gone, Paul. Aljoscha is getting too long in the tooth for that, so, yeah, it might be his last chance for success, but you are still young. And you can do better than that. We can do better than that."
For a long time, Paul doesn't say anything at all, doing nothing but thoughtfully staring into space.
"Schneider must be pissed off out of his mind because you want to have me in the band," he says at last when Richard has lost almost all hope of hearing anything at all on the topic.
"Well, he is," he chuckles, remembering the drummer's long face every time he hears Paul's name. "Whatever you did to him?"
"Well, l used to get at him, occasionally. Just for the hell of it, you know. He is a good drummer, though. And not a bad guy, too, so I was mostly doing it to tick him off."
Richard cannot help but huff and roll his eyes.
"You know, I just can't wrap my head around the fact that you – being the way you are – have come to live all those years and somehow keep all the bones in your body intact. Care to share the secret?"
"I must be charming people out of their minds," Paul smiles his trademark smile, so white and open and brilliant; the one which creates mischievous dancing sparks in the depths of his eyes; the one which makes it hard to look away; the one which makes it hard not to smile back.
Well, no shit, Richard thinks, for the uncountable time falling prey to that bewitching radiance.
"Out of their pants, I'd say," he mutters.
"You mean yourself?" the little troll grins complacently.
"Paul, can you be fucking serious for once in a lifetime?" Richard asks, shaking his head as if to sober himself up, but he can't hide his own wide grin all the same.
"I am!"
"Does it bother you that Schneider holds a grudge against you?"
"Not at all," Paul snorts. "He's had it for years, I can definitely live with that."
"Then what does? What makes you take so long to decide? You've always wanted fame, you're excellent at producing, you don't mind playing with me for all I know, then what's the big deal?"
"It's just that l can't really imagine you and me being in a closed space for too long. Knowing how we function--"
"We fuck?"
"Nah, that's certainly not the problem," Paul laughs. "I'm talking about music, we always seem to have different opinions things, and the more we work together, the more polar they are. You say black, I say white. I wanna go north to the Ostsee, and you dream about California. You drink your coffee black, I want milk and sugar in it--"
"So, basically, it's the same old reason why Schneider doesn't want you in the band, but actually all about me now?"
"Well..." Paul trails off significantly, and then lets out a quiet laugh. "Have I ever pestered you just for the hell of it? I personally think it was justified every single time."
"Shall I remind you of all the occasions you did worse than that? The latest one being from today, when you turned me on and just buggered off?" Richard asks, feigning offence but somewhat softening it with his hand on Paul's bare hip which administers a caress or two on his skin from time to time.
"That's a different matter," he smiles. "But the problem remains--"
"Well, yeah, but we are good together all the same, huh? Paul, I need you there, seriously. I need you in this band. If it's not you, we'll have to look for someone to fill the space and l do not exclude that there possibly is such a person who fits all the requirements, but it'll probably take us years to find him. And I don't want anyone else, I want you. It's the chemistry we have. Paul? Please. Look, I am practically begging you, don't be such an insensitive bastard."
Richard falls silent as he suddenly realises that he's just given a goddamn speech. He looks away and then huffs. Well, damn. He is begging Paul, ridiculous as it is. What's even more ridiculous, he perfectly understands what Paul's talking about, as far as their functioning is concerned, which means that, yes, they will argue. A lot. Possibly about everything, because there's apparently no other way. But – the stubborn idiot that he is – he still believes that the combination is the best there is. He needs Paul. So begging is probably justified, given the circumstances.
"Paul?" he sighs.
"I'll tell you in the morning, all right?"
And with that, there are warm arms snaking around Richard's middle, as warm as the embrace they give him; and there's Paul's gentle breath landing in the crook of his neck; and then there are his soft, almost too chaste, kisses; and no, Richard can't deal with anything else right now.
Surrendering seems to be his only option, so he wraps his own arms around Paul, pressing close to his naked slender body and buries his nose into the shock of his ruffled hair. It smells of cigarette smoke, of sweat, of some cheap eau de cologne and so essentially of Paul. Tracing the tips of his fingers along Paul's spine, Richard doesn't even try to suppress an involuntary smile as he has a sudden insight: maybe, after all, there is a way to – if not completely avoid – then to somehow soften the inevitably forthcoming arguments.
"You clingy bastard," he whispers contentedly and rather affectionately.
"You don't seem to mind much," Paul deadpans, clinging even closer just in spite.
He's right, though. Richard very certainly does not.
*
He's woken up in the morning by the sensation of something gently but ever so persistently rubbing against his crotch. It must still be early – at least early enough for him, considering they fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning – because he has certain troubles even opening his eyes, let alone understanding what exactly is going on. That constant motion against his bare private parts feels nice enough, though, so Richard spreads his legs just a little and lets himself keep on balancing on the edge of sleep. He's shrouded in warmth and softness, so he savours the sensations, letting them seep in as he comes around: the feeling of the bed linens against his side and shoulder, the airy puffiness of the pillow underneath his cheek, the smoothness of warm skin beneath the palm of his hand.
Richard squeezes it, feeble from sleep, feeling the bones and muscle moving. After a while, he can distinguish the soft puffing of Paul's breath, quiet but somewhat irregular. After a while longer his own breathing quickens, too, as if to match Paul's. Some unidentifiable time later, Richard's hips start thrusting forward by their own will, as he rubs his now fully formed erection against Paul's thigh. By that moment Paul's hands are already all over him, waking him up, stirring him to full consciousness; palms rubbing his skin; fingertips fluttering all over his sensitive spots, tickling, squeezing, caressing.
There's so much sensation Richard can barely cope with it, and the flood of emotions emerges out of his mouth in form of a long, guttural moan. One more thrust and he clumsily pulls Paul on top of himself, spreading his legs so that that wonderful contact of his cock with Paul's body wouldn't be broken. It isn't, but now instead of his thigh Richard feels the smooth, hot, firm touch of Paul's flesh against his own, and he bucks his hips in pursuit of more friction. There are lips softly closing upon his, and the next moan he lets out is stolen by Paul's mouth. Paul is moaning, too, ever so quietly, the soft sounds he's emitting synchronised with the trusts of his hips, and the vibration in his lips is driving Richard mad. When he finally opens his eyes, he can see a pale rosy patch of the light of the rising sun on the opposite wall and distractedly remarks that it must still be shit o'clock in the morning.
"You insatiable little wanker," Richard gasps against the corner of his lover's mouth, feeling the prickly touch of his stubble.
Paul only sniggers, sounding totally drunk. The fire in Richard's groin, intensified by the dry friction, is spreading through his whole body, and he kicks awkwardly at the blanket, only half-succeeding in tangling it somewhere around their knees.
"Don't stop," he slurs, letting his hands clutch firmly at Paul's little butt. "Oh fuck, just don't stop, Paul."
Paul, thankfully, doesn't seem to have the slightest intention to, continuing to writhe and wriggle and thrust against Richard's now leaking cock, making him finally bend his legs in the knees and then wrap them around his lover's hips, pulling him even closer.
"Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, Paul, you're so good. So very good."
Uncharacteristically for himself, Paul happens to be lacking words this particular morning, resorting to humming something inarticulate and gasping occasionally against Richard's lips, so the latter gives his tongue free rein and keeps talking.
"Say yes," he mutters into Paul's mouth, clinging to him, pulling Paul down by his hips and simultaneously raising his pelvis to meet every next thrust. "Say yes, Paul. Oh fuck, please… say it."
With a smack and a giggle, Paul leaves his lips alone and finally looks down at him, and there go the remains of Richard's sanity, it seems. Because no one can resist that impish, mischievous grin; and even if someone can, it's certainly not Richard, anyway. Not today. Probably not ever.
"Say yes," Richard mouths, not able to tear his eyes away from Paul's, his hushed voice quivering and hoarse. "Please, Paul... and oh, fuck, don't stop it."
"It sounds like you're proposing to me, you know," Paul gasps in reply, cheerfully, and licks his lips. The action looks so obscene Richard can't handle it and closes his eyes for a moment.
"I am... I mean, no, but... aw, fuck!" he curses and lets out a proper groan. "Whatever, I don't care... just say yes, Paul."
"Well, yes?" Paul says obediently and leans in to Richard's mouth to muffle a subsequent string of more yes's against it. "Happy now, you obsessed maniac?" he asks and then breaks into a fit of almost hysterical, quiet giggles, screwing his eyes and pushing his forehead against Richard's.
Richard can't help but do the same, Paul's laughter ever so contagious, and when he comes not long afterwards, he comes laughing and utterly convinced that there can't be any serious squabbling ahead of them. Not when they can hold on to each other and laugh like this. It's gonna be alight, he's sure. Not easy, maybe, but still alright.