There are the nights where they party, and there are the others.
The first ones consist of drinking and getting high and fucking—that is, for the ones that are better at one-night-stands than Flake—until they all collapse in various states of debauchery. The second ones are there to make up for these, and the reason why it’s usually with Till that Flake shares a room. Of course, he loves the guys, but there always comes a time when Paul’s chatter feels more tiring than endearing, Richard’s level of tidiness gets too high, Schneider’s habits too stiff, and Ollie’s aloofness just too much.
It’s never like that with Till, though: their evening routines are spectacularly synchronized, their moods as well, all quiet banter, comfortable silences, and fond friendship. Then, he can really recharge his batteries. Till doesn’t sleep well but is quiet as a mouse—although Flake wouldn’t know, he’s a heavy sleeper anyway. They reached a level where they hardly have to talk; Flake just has to take a look at his friend to know if he wants company or to be left alone, lightness or depth. Often, all he needs is a bit of room to breathe and a warm smile.
Flake just stepped out of the shower—he took one after the show, but at the venue, it never feels as good as a real, long hotel bathroom shower—and is smoking a joint at the window, clumsily flapping around to try and keep the smoke outside.
At 2 AM, all cities look alike. Streetlights, closed curtains, headlamps. A few people hurrying back home. A bright waxing moon. He hardly remembers where they are: they played five evenings in a row, which is enough to blend everything into a blur of intoxication, spotlights, and waiting rooms. With a soft smile and tired eyes, Till joins him. Flake hands him the spliff and they silently pass it back and forth, like they always do—Flake needs it to unwind and Till likes to shower slightly buzzed. Flake watches the thick curls of smoke dissolve into the night and wonders what Till is thinking about. When they reach the filter, Till takes his turn in the bathroom.
He reappears a few minutes later to fumble around in his bags, hair still drenched and a towel wrapped around his waist. Flake is sitting on the side of the bed he claimed (the closest to the door, as usual) and trying to fix the Walkman he can’t seem to get started anymore. He’ll have to see what Paul can do about it—himself, he’s clueless. But he soon drops it anyway to try and figure out what Till is doing. He would offer his help, but he can’t seem to bring himself to. He feels lazy and comfortable in the warm, dim light of this anonymous room, and so exhausted things are getting fuzzy.
Till is kneeling in front of a suitcase when Flake realizes he’s staring. Till’s back is wide and pale, his shoulders sun-kissed. The light gives it a smooth, golden glow. He’s close enough that Flake can see burn scars, a big, fading bruise on a shoulder blade, and drops of water falling from his hair to run down his neck.
They’ve been in similar situations millions of times before, yet tonight, something compels him to place a warm hand on the small of his back. He goes up, his fingers following his spine, light but firm enough not to tickle. Till sort of freezes, but bows his head when Flake’s hand reaches the back of his neck, inviting him further.
Why now? Is it because a couple of days before, Till took a punch for him (again) and still has the bruises to prove it? Because he’s been looking at Flake a lot lately, complimenting him on his bleached hair, his stupid puns, even his outfits, which—really? Or just because of the combination of their tiredness and the coziness of the atmosphere? Because tonight, the distance between Till’s crouched figure and Flake’s curious hand is exactly an arm’s length? He delicately scratches the base of Till’s skull. Goosebumps cover the sides of his neck. Interesting.
Till moves to sit back on the floor next to Flake, his back to the side of the bed. Flake’s hand lands on his shoulder, and he decides he may as well go on. He runs his fingers through the wet strands of dark hair, traces the curve behind his ear, his jaw. Till slightly turns his head, just enough to kiss the inside of Flake’s palm. And then he looks up. He doesn’t look surprised, merely interrogative, and gives him a small, lopsided smile.
Flake smiles back and goes on, his hand finding the back of Till’s neck again, sliding down to the smooth curve of his bicep. It feels nice and oddly natural. It feels natural as well when Till presses his temple to the side of Flake’s thigh and closes his eyes. Flake traces his collarbone and his hand settles on his chest. Till’s breathing is slow and soothing.
Eventually, Flake moves a little bit to give him some room and Till sits next to him. It could stop there—it could be just that. But then their thighs are touching; Till is so close he can smell the familiar scent of his shampoo. His body radiates a mellow, alluring heat.
Till carefully tangles his fingers through the long, bleached strands of his hair, Flake turns to face him, and he doesn’t really know how it happens but their lips find each other. It’s surprisingly soft; their mouths glide against each other with ease. It has happened before, but not like that. It feels good and homey, sweet, not as ambiguous as it should—he’s aware that they’re sitting alone on a bed and that Till is basically naked, but he can’t bring himself to freak out.
Everything is happening eerily smoothly, not a word is said. It’s almost as if Till was expecting it. Could it be? The moment feels as fragile as a bubble, though, and Flake is afraid he’s going to blow it by doing something stupid, like elbowing Till in the ribs or falling off the bed or going too fast or god knows what else could go wrong.
He tentatively puts a hand on his friend’s knee; Till is so pliant and relaxed against him that Flake feels all tensions melt away. Till sighs when Flake runs his tongue along his parted lips and tilts his head, beckoning him to go further. Flake does, and Till nibbles on his bottom lip, languid and eager.
As soft as this all is, it’s pretty clear where it’s heading. Flake’s pulse is starting to run: he doesn’t want it to stop. He tentatively breaks the kiss and the way Till spontaneously leans in for more is telltale—good. He cups Flake’s cheek and kisses him again. It’s more heated this time; Flake follows, answers, ramps it up. It’s a bit like their usual banter, except with smooth strokes of their tongues instead of witty comebacks.
His hand on Till’s knee slides up, sneaking under the towel, slow and curious. And then it just unwraps itself and, well, Till is hard, which was predictable but still makes Flake blush big time. He sort of skips a beat and of course, Till notices. “What did you expect?” he chuckles; his voice is low and husky, his pupils are dilated, and for some reason, it’s only now Flake really realizes how turned on they both are. “Is it too much?” he asks again. Flake shakes his head and curls his fingers around Till’s cock.
He keeps his grip light; they’re just getting started and there is a lot to explore. Till buries his face in his neck, kissing and nibbling at the sensitive skin there. He hasn’t shaved and his chin is raspy but Flake doesn’t mind—it spices things up. Certain twists of his wrist make Till’s breath hitch; he feels it, cool against his wet skin.
One of Till’s hands creeps between their bodies to grip Flake’s crotch. He traces the contours of his hard-on through the light fabric of his pajamas and tries to slide his pants down his hips. Fair enough, Flake thinks. He wiggles his way out of them and discards his shirt as well. As soon as he’s naked, Till wraps his arms around him and they kiss with more urgency than before. His hands, rough and wide and warm, slide all over his thin body, careful, almost reverent. Flake whimpers: he’s seen Till fuck more than once, admittedly usually in an inebriated state, and be sloppy at best, sometimes even callous, clearly not the tender type, and yet...
Flake drops his glasses on the nightstand and they both lay on the bed, pressed against each other—not that they could fit any other way, it’s a single bed. It feels amazing to lie down at last, it’s like the mattress is sucking in all the tiredness his body accumulated over the last few days. Till must be feeling the same: he sort of stretches, his muscles taut for a second, then slumps down with a cozy, delighted grin. He runs his fingertips up and down Flake’s arm. “Never thought you’d want that...”
“Never thought I’d want that either, yet here we are,” deadpans Flake, and they both giggle, which feels really, really good. The night air pouring from the window is balmy, the thin curtains billow gently. Everything is quiet and the small cocoon of golden light shed by the bedside lamp gives Till’s eyes a warm, inviting shine.
In a distant part of his brain, something tells him he should watch it, that it could backfire in so many ways, but he doesn’t. He’s relaxed, at ease. He trusts Till completely and Till looks utterly comfortable with whatever is going on, so. Sometimes, it feels like he knows Flake better than Flake does himself. He wonders what Till knows about this.
Flake tangles their legs and presses their bodies together, the wet tip of Till’s cock gliding along the jut of his hip. They kiss again, Till’s fingers entwined in his hair; they keep it slow, but it’s getting messier, dirtier. Gingerly, Flake sneaks an arm between them and slides a hand down Till’s chest, playing with the dark hair which gets coarser, thicker as he gets lower. He tries to sort of rub their dicks together, which doesn’t work as well as he intended, but Till gets involved and they find a pretty good system, one of Till’s big hands wrapped around both of their dicks, Flake cupping their warm heads, their hips slowly rocking in sync. It’s hardly any relief, just builds the tension; slow ripples of pleasure and smoldering heat.
Before it gets unbearable, Till stops and moves around so they’re lying top to tail, his face dangerously close to Flake’s crotch. Flake feels his blood rushing fast and flops on his back, eagerly tilting his hips up, which makes Till’s weary eyes sparkle with mischief. He props himself up on his elbow and runs his other hand down Flake’s flank to his cock. Flake stares with wide eyes: for a moment, it feels like everything around them freezes. When Till’s lips finally close around his dick, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and red-hot lust shoots up his spine. Till is taking his time, carefully drawing the foreskin back to lap thoroughly around the slit. His tongue and lips are warm, slippery; for a while, Flake just watches his cock slide in and out of Till’s mouth, his nerve endings on fire.
When he gathers enough of his senses, he rolls on his side and Till follows, bracketing Flake’s hips with his hands. Flake grabs Till’s dick and lets it glide in his mouth as far as he can take it. That’s not the most comfortable angle but the whole thing is too arousing for him to complain. In this position, he can run his hands on Till’s meaty thighs and the small of his back, which is actually very nice as well—it feels like he can’t get enough of his skin.
He’s not too good with multitasking—playing two different melodies with his hands is all he can do, really—and giving and receiving head at the same time turns out to be challenging. From the way he’s whimpering around Flake’s cock, Till doesn’t seem to mind the half-assed blowjob he’s getting, though, which is the only thing that matters. Through the waves of pleasure, Flake grips Till’s ass and runs his fingers from the end of his spine to the back of his balls. At the low groan it elicits from his friend and the way his cock twitches in his mouth, he decides to go for it and presses his thumb in.
Then things accelerate and before he knows it, Till’s cock stiffens and he’s coming, hot spurts first in Flake’s mouth and then wherever it lands when he withdraws. Amazingly enough, Till keeps on sucking almost until the end, not letting Flake’s dick slide out before his orgasm starts wearing off. Then Till rolls on his back and turns around to to face Flake again, his whole body limp. His eyes are huge and clear, a nice blush colors his neck. Flake notices the shade of a bruise and a small cut on his cheekbone and feels vaguely guilty—and grateful.
Till goes to run a hand in Flake’s hair but stops in his tracks with a chuckle. His fingers brush a lock and Flake watches him rubbing them together. Oh no.
“Sorry about that...” His voice is a bit hoarse. It sends shivers down Flake’s spine.
“You came in my hair?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose! It’s just a few drops, I swear.”
“I just washed it,” groans Flake.
“I’ll help you wash it again tomorrow. It’s not that bad—it-it’s beautiful, really. It looks like pearls on a crown.” Flake rolls his eyes but grins. “Gold and love,” Till adds with a bawdy grin.
Flake chortles. “You do like this hairdo, don’t you.”
“It’s not just the hairdo.” Maybe it’s just the aftermath of his orgasm, but Till really is flushed. “But yeah, it is nice.” He looks sated and open, which is a very good look on him, Flake decides. With a small, crooked smile, Till runs a broad hand down his chest to his cock. “We could fuck,” he murmurs.
“Y-yeah.” Flake swallows, which makes an awkward gurgling sound. Ugh. “Yeah,” he says again when he finally processes what Till means. “Wait—uh, do you mean now? Because I mean… I guess…” That was much better when they weren’t talking, clearly. His whole body thrums with arousal at the very idea of fucking Till but at the moment, he can’t bear the logistics—just getting out of bed to get condoms sounds appalling. “B-blow me?” he finally blurts out.
“Sure,” says Till, and he pulls him in until he’s basically straddling his chest. They wriggle around until they’re comfortable, Flake kneeling over the upper body of his partner, Till slightly sitting up, his forearms leaning on Flake’s thighs, his hands resting lightly on his hips. He shoots him a blue, heated gaze from down there, and closes his eyes when he takes his cock in his mouth. His lashes paint feathery shadows on his cheeks.
Flake tries his best not to buck forward and after a few uneasy seconds where he doesn’t know what to do with his arms, he figures he can use one to brace on the headboard and still caress Till’s hair with his free hand. He brushes a thumb against his hollowed cheek and moves in slow, shallow thrusts that Till seems to handle easily.
Engulfed in soft, moist warmth, his orgasm builds up fast, and then it hits hard, everything fading away in vague shapes and shadows and far away sounds, Till’s hands and mouth his last anchor to the world.
Till swallows and catches him when he threatens to collapse. Flake holds him tight.
He wakes up with a gasp. He can’t remember anything, just the feeling of the floor opening under his feet. It happens sometimes.
“You okay?” Till twists his neck to give him an interrogative look. He’s lying on his side, facing away. He’s very close. “Did I wake you?”
“I’m fine, just a nightmare or something.” His eyes adjust to the dim room—Till’s bedside lamp is on and the night sky is fading outside—and his brain catches up fast. Right. This happened. Flake tends to get sappy after sex and must have asked Till to push their beds together. He’s pretty sure he fell asleep in his arms, which was nice. “Can’t sleep?”
Till just shakes his head.
“Nothing’s wrong. You know how it is.”
Flake knows how it is. Till is a restless guy who thinks too much and takes too much cocaine on tour which completely screws up his sleeping pattern.
“What are you reading?” Flake scoots closer to peek over his shoulder. Till shows him the cover of some Bret Easton Ellis thing. “Any good?”
“So far, yeah.”
And then he’s not too sure what he does but he sort of pokes Till’s lower back with his hard-on, because yeah, apparently he’s hard, which is a bit mortifying. Till chuckles. “It doesn’t feel like it was a nightmare.”
“It was! It’s… It wasn’t what you think it is.”
“Maybe I’m j-just being greedy.” He remembers wondering before falling asleep if when they would wake up, everything would be back to normal. Turns out whatever was making Till’s body so alluring a few hours ago is still there.
“I don’t mind,” Till murmurs, his voice soft and low.
There is a fleeting moment where he’s not too sure how to react. They just rest against each other, their bodies spontaneously aligned as if from their own volition. The slight height difference is definitely working for them; they fit together with ease, spooning the tiredness away. It easily segues into something more, Flake merely going with the flow. He’s counting on the fact they will end up on the same wavelength again—so far, it has worked spectacularly well.
He experimentally presses himself against Till’s back, his hips snug against his ass. Till sighs and presses back. He figures he can touch him, then, and that’s what they do for a while, idle caresses and body heat shared in the darkness. Flake still feels sleepy and Till must be exhausted. He stills, one arm thrown around his waist, and a few seconds stretch before Till twists in a way that looks very uncomfortable so they can kiss. They do, slow and deep and lazy. Their hips never part.
When he finally ventures between Till’s legs, he feels him getting hard too. His cock is pleasantly warm and heavy in his hand; arousal spreads in his body like a fever flush. He moves his hips again and his dick glides between Till’s buttocks. Till reaches back to grab his ass and keep him close. He moans when Flake grinds down, so he does it again. He definitely could come like that—and it wouldn’t take long. But seeing how turned on Till feels, he could also get more.
“You’re still d-down to fuck?”
“Yeah,” says Till, and it sounds like a moan again. Flake breathes out shakily and rolls his hips, now deliberately trying to rub against Till’s hole.
“Can I just?… Or do you need me to—I mean, should I, uh—” His neediness starts feeling a lot like panic, which is annoying. First, it’s ridiculous, and second, he’s afraid he’s going to break the mood.
As always, Till comes to the rescue. “As long as you take it slow, I can take it.” He pauses. “But then you have very nice fingers. Let me get—”
He rolls forward to grab one of his bags and gets lube and condoms out of it. So yeah, this is really happening. They settle back in the same position and Flake lubes up two fingers. He slowly slides them in, one, then two, and with a few directions from Till, he manages to make him whimper with every stroke. He goes on for a while—it feels like he could go on forever; the warmth and intimacy of it are intoxicating. He wonders if he could make him come just from that.
It’s Till who puts it to a halt to grab a condom. Flake flops on his back and watches with eager eyes as Till carefully rolls out the condom on his cock, then gives it a few nice, firm lubed-up pulls. He stretches next to him again and keeps on stroking him for a bit. It’s smooth and the glide is heavenly. Their gazes lock and Till gives him an absurdly bashful smile.
Flake removes Till’s hand and Till rolls back on his side, his back to Flake’s chest. He bites his lip and pushes in, sliding with ease, slowly inching until his hips are pressed against Till’s ass.
“Yes,” sighs Till shakily, and for a minute they stay still, their bodies snug from shoulders to thighs, Flake’s face buried in the crook of Till’s neck. All he can feel is the blazing warmth of his body. His heartbeat starts to run and he feels Till’s through his back, slightly slower than his; his blood pulses quickly through his veins, and his cock, tightly squeezed, is throbbing at the same pace. He feels Till’s heartbeat there too—it feels like he’s completely immersed in it. He wishes it could last forever, but it won’t.
He grabs Till’s waist and starts rocking his hips. After a few experimental thrusts, he adjusts their position—he gets Till to lift one of his knees and does the same, his thigh supporting Till’s—and tries again. He can get deeper like that, the feeling is amazing, almost overwhelming.
“D-does it work for you like that?”
“Yeah...” Till’s voice is raw, altered by lust, and Flake has to take a deep breath before he goes on. He keeps it slow—there is no rush; outside, the sky is lightening, but it feels like the night will never end—and builds a steady rhythm that makes them both writhe and moan, Till’s big hand a hot, pleasant weight on Flake’s thigh. Sometimes, he slows down and takes the time to stroke Till’s chest and kiss his neck, trying to stretch the moment as long as he can.
When Till’s labored breath turns to throaty whimpers, Flake grabs his cock. He’s too far gone to do much more, but the snaps of his hips are enough to make it slide in and out of his fist.
They come just a couple of minutes apart, Till with a deep, relieved sound, his spunk hot and sticky in Flake’s fingers, and Flake gripping hard on Till’s hip, still feeling the tremors of his orgasm through his body, sparks of color flashing under his tight-shut eyelids.
They catch their breath in silence. Flake slides out and gets rid of the condom, Till rolls on his back. His eyes, underlined by dark, bruise-like shadows, have a nice, warm sheen. He looks vulnerable and exhausted. Flake wants to let him rest; he also doesn’t want it to stop. Till pulls him in and they kiss, slow and gentle.
“Maybe you’ll find some sleep, now.”
“Come on, get comfortable.” His comforter slid on the floor, Flake fishes it up and clumsily rearranges it around his friend. He straightens his pillow, pecks him on the cheek. “Good night.”
Till gives him a sleepy smile and he rolls over, curled up on himself. Soon, his breathing slows, steadies; some rest, at last. Through the window, the fading blue is replaced by fiery morning light. Without his glasses, all Flake can see is impressionistic touches of color, rose-gold painting the curtains, brushing the curve of Till’s shoulder, the smooth plane of his back. A few minutes later, his whole silhouette looks gilded, basking in sun rays.
Flake smiles to himself and closes his eyes.