Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Night of August 23th to 24th, 2019

Chapter 01: Showman

He watched him in his sleep.

The small furrow between his eyebrows, as if something was bothering him in his dreams. The eyelids closed over the usually ever-vigilant eyes. The jaw pressed firmly together. The breathing calm, inaudible. The rhythmical down and up of the ribcage was soothing.

Very deliberately he ignored certain details.
He had learned to set priorities.
Right now Paul ranked first.
In second place would come his rage.

To watch each other sleep was far from uncommon to the band. Every now and then someone would drift off from exhaustion. Or boredom. Or some other reason. What humans do sometimes.
Today it was different.

Tentatively Richard lifted his hand to the bed in front of him and gently reached for Paul's fingers to encircle them with his own. He could feel the calluses on his fingertips. Similar to his own. Guitarist hands.

He hoped the eyes would open. He increased the pressure of his grip.
Nothing.
Not even a tiny reaction.

With a deep exhalation, way too loud for the quiet room, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Pulled his brows together. Shook his head thoughtfully.
“Why,” he whispered and, hoping for an answer, looked at Oliver, who sat at the other side of the bed.
The bassist seemed to struggle with accepting the situation as well and had his gaze fixed expectantly on Paul's face. “ … no idea,” he whispered back after a minute and swallowed a lump down his throat.
A short melody of beeping sounds ripped two of the three men out of their thoughts. The monitor next to Paul's bed showed a normal cardiac rhythm. The equipment went silent again and Oliver and Richard fell quiet once more.
The night had taken a horrible turn.

~~~

Only a couple hours earlier they'd finished the last concert of their first tour leg. They'd torn down Vienna two times in a row – proverbially. The crowd had been electrified and band and masses alike had been fueling each other. The after show party should have been the cherry on top before they all were to reward themselves with a little timeout and vacation.

They had dressed up in the hotel and had planned on heading to the party together. The venue was located only a few minutes away by foot. Paul had excused himself, he would have to make an important phone call first. Promised, he'd come along as soon as possible. No, security wouldn't be necessary. Yes, he knew were to go. No, they really needn't wait for him, he had no idea how long the call would take. Yes, he'd have to take it now.

The other five band members started out and on their way to the club they recalled today's final show.

The venue was fancy, maybe a little over the top even. Pleasant indirect lighting in hues of magenta and blue filled the room, heavy chandeliers were hanging from the cross vault ceiling. The sheer size of the bar was impressive, with five bartenders bustling around like nocturnal bees. The whole place was packed with quite a lot of people Richard had never seen in his life – or forgotten about. Then there were familiar faces. Even some people he couldn't wait to catch up with.

Jackets were given to the cloak room. Drinks were handed out. Hands were shaken. Niceties exchanged. Within half an hour he stood at one of the bar tables and traded the most interesting stories with another musician, a sound designer and an actress. Within an hour he enjoyed himself tremendously and, if asked, he'd almost be tempted to say that the moment was perfect.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder, pulling him forcefully around an out of his rather engaging conversation. He would have complained immediately, were it not for the urgency and underlying panic in Schneider's eyes, whom the hand belonged to. “Come with me,” he was told, “Now.” There was no room for discussion, not even for a question, though Richard had a few in mind.

He left his drink on the table and excused himself with a helpless “Be right back”, before he was dragged to the entrance of the venue. He heard sirens passing by and found the emergency lights that traveled along the huge curtained off windows matching the lighting inside perfectly. Against his expectations Schneider didn't come to a halt near outside the door, but kept moving along the street into the direction of the hotel.
“What's going on!?” he now asked and began to slow down.
The drummer started to run.
“Schneider!” Richard all but yelled.
“Come,” came the urgent reply, panic openly shining through.
Another police car drove by, sirens blasting through the early night. It drove into the same direction Schneider was headed.
A knot formed inside Richard's stomach and he started to run as well, following his friend who seemed to be running for his life.

Nothing mattered.
Not his aching body after months of touring and performing.
Not the faces of passersby.
Not that anyone could recognize them.
Not his jacket that he'd left behind.
Not even the promise he'd given to someone back at the party to have a dance together.
Nothing but the trust in Schneider, that if he was worried, there was a reason why.

It seemed to take an eternity until they arrived at the forefront of their hotel. In reality it was only minutes.
The air was filled with flickering blue lights. All Richard could see was police cars – parked, but motors still running – and officers inside and outside of their vehicles. Some talking with others, some walking around, some rushing to one of the cars and driving off in a hurry.
“Do you see Olli or Flake? They must be here somewhere?” Schneider's voice was sharp, urgent, uncompromising. The drummer hastily walked closer to the police cars and the ambulance vehicle further around the corner, closer to the rear entry of the hotel.
Did something happen to them? But why would they be here? They'd been at the party, hadn't they? Richard tried to focus and look around while following Schneider and making a new attempt to get some information on what was going on. “What is this all about!? Tell me!” Maybe his own rising panic made his words sound angry, but it helped to make Schneider stop in his tracks and finally turn around. It was a gut punch to see tears stand in the taller man's eyes. “Paul got hurt.”
The ambulance started its sirens and drove off right in front of them. They both couldn't help but silently watch it rush down the road until it had left their sight. Richard suddenly felt numb and detached from the whole scenery. This was not right. They were supposed to meet at the club. Paul had promised to catch up to them and then they would have a toast and celebrate their milestone. No, this was horribly wrong!
Suddenly Flake and Oliver were at their side, obviously equally shaken, shocked and struggling to catch their breath. Richard tried to grasp what they were telling him. An attack. More than one attacker. Witnesses. First responders. Serious injuries. Emergency surgery. A hospital name.
His eyes had scanned the area where it must have happened. The quiet driveway that led to the back entry of the hotel. Some shrubs at each side. Cobblestone paving. More police officers, some with flashlights in their hand. Where the light hit the ground, there were discarded pieces of cloth, partly colored in red. And blood on the ground. So, so much blood.

~~~

The door of the hospital room was opened softly by an old stern faced nurse. Oliver immediately straightened up in his seat while Richard just lifted his eyes to look at her. She was followed by a defeated looking Till who chose to walk to the corner where the blank white wall met the window side.

The nurse did a swift check on the IV, the catheter bag, the medication dosage and the vitals on the monitor. She lifted the covers to have a look at the dressing on the freshly treated wound on Paul's left side, just below the ribs. Richard had a good view from where he was seated. The skin was still smudged with the remains of the antiseptic agent, but the dressing itself looked perfectly clean. The covers were put back gently, while the face of the nurse stayed unmoved.

“I'll be checking on him again in about an hour,” she told them with a low voice and in a deep Vienna dialect, before she left the room to attend to her other duties. It seemed the night shift solely weighted on her shoulders. They quietly nodded to her and watched her leave.

Richards eyes wandered to the device that autonomously provided the medication for the patient. Small lights. Scales. Numbers. Switches. Cables. In a way it resembled his own equipment.

“How is he?” Till's voice was gentle enough to sneak through the quiet without breaking it. Oliver made a hand gesture to please take the empty chair and have a seat closer to the bed. Till complied. “Surgery went well, they say,” the bassist answered, as the chair was set right beside him. “He was lucky.”
“Lucky,” the singer repeated while sitting down, obviously not sharing the opinion.
“Yeah, lucky,” Oliver said with conviction, “He might have bled out before he got here.”
Silence.
The weight of understanding what that meant dripped from the ceiling like invisible liquid lead.
“I know,” Till answered finally.
Richard leaned forward a little and took Paul's left hand in his again. Still no response. But it was warm and therefore reassuring. Reassuring as well was the presence of their singer. There was something about him that gave him the feeling that somehow everything could be fixed. It was what Richard needed to finally confront himself with all the little details that up to now he carefully ignored.
First the oxygen tube that led around Paul's ears and under his nose. The cut on his lower lip. The bruising on his right temple and eye, which was heavily swollen. Right hand bandaged. IV-needle in orange color. Bruises forming on both his arms. He remembered the hematomas around the area of the ribs as well. Small abrasions on his left hand and face. All of it fuel to his anger.

Outside the first birds started singing loud enough the be heard through the closed windows. The monitor beeped again for a couple of times. Till took out his phone and started typing. Waited. Read. Typed again. Put the phone away.
“The others?” Oliver asked.
Till nodded. “They are trying to reach his family and the management.” He took a deep breath. “If I can get my hands on those who did---” Richard stopped listening to their front man as he felt his fingers being pressed together ever so softly. His gaze hasted to Paul's face while he responded to the grip with his own hand. “Paul?” he asked gently, stopping Till effectively in his rant,”Are you awake?”
The man in question stirred a little. His breathing went into a slightly labored state as if fighting a rising pain. He let out a small distressed sound. “Shhhh, stay calm,” Oliver tried to help, “You're in a hospital. You're safe. Try not to move.” It worked. Paul started to relax as best as possible, and tried to open his eyes. The right one indeed was too swollen to open properly.
“Hey Kleener,” Till greeted him in a familiar Berlin dialect – hiding all anger from his voice and, surprisingly, all worry, too. Hey, little one.
Grey-blue eyes reacted to that and searched the room. Paul had to move his head to look at Till and, wondering why his range of vision was smaller than usual, wanted do feel his face with his right hand. Telling by the creases on his forehead, he had to fight a new onslaught of pain, which he endured until he was able to see the bandages on his hand. He stopped mid-motion and uttered a weak groan.
“Done hurting yourself?” the bass player asked patiently and helped him lower his arm back on the bed. “Again: Try not to move.”
Richard lifted a curious brow. “Do you remember what happened?” He wanted to busy Paul with something other than causing himself physical pain. It probably meant trading it for psychological pain, but it was something he would have to face anyway.
For a few moments it looked like Paul hadn't heard him and just tried to fall back into sleep. But, keeping his eyelids shut, he finally answered in a whisper. “I've been ambushed.” He said it in a strange tone. Like a child who had seen snow for the first time. He opened his good eye again and seemed to search for something in the distance, far beyond the ceiling, while he was pulling his left hand out from Richard's fingers. “So this is what that feels like.” He made himself smile ever so slightly.
Till, Oliver and Richard looked at each other, all of them wearing the same worried expression on their features. They knew him. Seeing him smile in a state like this had nothing to do with a state of shock. He had already decided how to deal with this. They silently agreed that they would be there should he fail.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 02: Solo

Paul had dozed off again. A cooling pad rested on the right side of his face. The three other musicians had taken the opportunity to try and rest, even though it was hard to sleep in those hospital chairs. Richard had taken the liberty to lean forward and put his arms and head on the bedside.

Normally visitors weren't allowed at this hour. The hospital had made an exception because of the unique incident and, to a certain degree, because of their celebrity status. Still no more than three visitors were allowed. It was a fair deal and they'd agreed instantly.

Rounds started early. When the doctor, a gentle looking man in his forties with a slight Bulgarian accent, entered the room together with a young nurse, they all had to pull themselves into a more upright position, which made their muscles ache. The nurse did his best to wake Paul up and check the vitals in no time.

After making clear that Paul wanted, yes, even demanded that everything that was being told him should be heard by the band members, too, the doctor explained the extent of the injuries and what that meant for the next couple of weeks.

The most pressing issue was the stab wound at Paul's left side. Luckily enough the blade had missed most of the vital organs. Several blood vessels were severed and part of the small intestines injured. They could stitch him up in surgery, but he'd lost quite a lot of blood and, since they couldn't operate laparoscopically, it would take more time to heal. The risk of infection was higher due to the cause of the injury itself as well as the fact that it had been an open surgery. Three ribs were broken as well and would have to heal by themselves. The left ankle was sprained, and there was a huge but thankfully only superficial cut on the inside of his right hand and wrist. The bruise on his right side of his face had extended over the night. He'd suffered a cheekbone fracture. Again it was luck that, if everything went well, it could be treated with an non-operative approach. The countless hematomas would fade in time as well.

He received pain management treatment to make the whole ordeal endurable. He was in pain non the less. He tried not to show it. In fact, he smiled most of the time and nodded every now and then, signaling the doctor that he'd understood what he'd been told.

“How long will you keep me here?” Paul asked, his voice hoarse. Twelve hours ago the man in front of him was a jumping bundle of energy in front of a roaring crowd, Richard mused. Now he was barely able to move.

“That depends,” the doctor answered and returned the smile, “Two to three weeks sound very likely. We will see how good your body heals and take it from there, okay?”

“Okay.” The patient looked at the bathroom door and then back to the doctor. “How long until I can get up?”

“Until I say it is safe to do so.” One smile faltered, the other increased. “Look, I know this is a lot to take in. A word of advice: Concentrate on resting and don't do anything stupid. Then you'll be up and running in no time.”

Paul nodded and, after a heavy sigh, started to grin. “I'm prone to do stupid things, but I'll try my best.”

The nurse took the cooling pad from Paul's face and silently left the room, probably to exchange it with a new one.

“Other questions?” the doctor asked and looked at all four band members.

“How bad is the cut on his hand?” Richard wanted to know. “Will he be able to play?”

“I don't see why not,” came the calm reply, “But we will schedule ergotherapy just to be sure.”

“As if anything has ever stopped me from playing.”

The eyes of the guitarists met and ironically enough it was the injured one who reassured the other that everything would be okay.

The nurse came back in and cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but two police officers are waiting outside. They would like to speak to Mr. Landers.”

The numbers on the heart rate monitor went up immediately. It was an open secret that Paul didn't like police in general. Certain events in the past had made sure that his trust in that institution was shattered for good. Richard didn't feel much differently about it and fought the urge to excuse himself in order to have a smoke, just to escape the situation. But more than that he wanted to know what had happened last night. And so he stayed and looked at Paul. “Maybe it's for the best to get it over with. They will want to talk to you sooner or later anyhow.”

The nurse reached out to pass the new cooling pad to Till, who gave it to Oliver. The bassist gently placed it on Paul's right temple, eye and cheek. The grin had vanished. Paul stared upwards at the ceiling and mumbled a thank you. With his left hand he absentmindedly tugged at the sheets. They gave him the time to make a decision. He'd been through a lot after all.

There was resignation in his voice, when he finally sighed and said, “Fine. There's not much I can tell them anyways.” Then a helpless smile followed.

The doctor said his goodbye for now and together with the nurse he left the room. In exchange two police officers walked in and came to a halt right next to Richard, were Paul could see them without too much effort.

Richard eyed them closely. One of them was a young man with a strict looking haircut and round glasses. The other was a freckled woman with loose brown locks and intelligent eyes. They introduced themselves and checked Paul's particulars. Then they asked how he were. He smiled and answered that he'd never been better. With that he'd set the tone.

“Okay,” the man with the glasses said in a throaty voice and straightened his posture, “what do you remember.”
“I remember leaving the hotel. Then something hit me against the head. Then I was lying on the ground and then my lights went out.” He shrugged his shoulders but instantly regretted moving that much.

“Has it been one person that attacked you? Or more?”

“Definitely more.”

“How many?”

“It was dark. How should I know?”

“Please try.”

Paul closed his good eye for a moment, obviously recalling memories. “Five. Maybe six.” He opened his eye and looked at the officers. “I really don't know.”

“Could it have been more than six?”

“It's hard to tell.”

“Was there anything that was standing out? Any distinguishing features?”

“I wasn't exactly paying attention to their shoe brands while they were kicking me if that's what you're asking.”

Richard wasn't sure if Paul was snapping at the man in the uniform, or if he tried to diffuse the tension.

“Don't be difficult,” Till sighed.

“It's okay,” the woman spoke up and stopped making notes, “But, Mr. Landers, we need your help in order to help you. We would like to find those who did this to you. The smallest detail could make a difference.” She sounded sincere. Not like her partner who simply seemed to follow protocol.

“I really don't remember much.”

“Did they say anything?” her colleague went on.

“Something … yes,” he answered irritated.

“Did you hear a specific dialect or accent?”

Paul snorted in amusement and quickly hat to readjust his oxygen tube with his left hand. “You can ask questions.”

“Do you think they specifically targeted you?” she asked.

At that he looked around, his gaze switching from one spot to the next, as if weighing what to answer. “I guess. Yes. I mean … “ He trailed off.

“How do you know?” she wanted to know.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead he first looked at Richard and then moved his head to look at Till and Oliver as well. The latter helped to reposition the cooling pad in the process and smiled at Paul gently.

“I don't,” he answered, still sorting his thoughts. “Maybe it's because of the interview on the radio?”

“What about it?” she dug deeper.

Paul rolled his eye because of a topic he was sick of repeating. “It was two month ago, I think. The host had brought up the question if by any chance our recent video could be interpreted as having a right-wing message. I asked them if they had even listened to the song. They insisted on the topic, kept asking stupid questions. Then I snapped – I know I shouldn't have – but I told them that without Nazis the world would be a better place and if I could make them stop coming to our concerts, I would. Told them that I really hope that this was enough in-your-face-ish to finally get it.”

“You've said it much less nicer on the radio,” Till commented.

Richard agreed. Whatever had gotten into Paul that day, it had made him say things he usually wouldn't have carried into public. Usually such a solo action was a no-go within the band, but they'd let it slide. It wasn't like they didn't agree.

“What does it have to do with last night?” the woman lay her head to the side.

Paul opened and closed his mouth a few times. It appeared he knew what he wanted to say but his body wouldn't let him. It went on for a while and they gave him all the time he needed.

Obviously frustrated by himself he slapped his left hand on the mattress. He tried again. Still his throat refused to let out a single sound.

“It's okay,” the woman said, “Maybe it's a bit too much right now.”

Paul shook his head no.

“Mr. Landers, with all due respect, there's no shame in taking some rest. Maybe part of you isn't ready to go on just yet.” She looked him dead in the eye. “We will come back later and continue with your testimony.”

She closed her little notebook and gently slapped it against the upper arm of her partner, signaling him to leave the room with her. He gave her a look in return stating that he wasn't finished just jet. She simply stared back at him. Some long seconds later he gave in nodded his goodbye to everyone, heading for the door.

“I left the door to the left,” Paul suddenly said, his voice thin from being pressed through his vocal folds. His eyelids were shut, his face calm and relaxed.

“Come again?” the police woman asked curiously and flipped open her notebook, readying herself to scribble along.

“I left the door to the left,” he repeated, copying the previous sentence perfectly in melody and tone. “I've had an important call just before I'd left the hotel, so I didn't pay attention to anything around me. I remember checking if I had my keys with me.” A small crease formed between his brows.

Richard noticed Paul was moving his left hand on autopilot. He was playing chords on the mattress.

“I went along the driveway towards the main road. Suddenly there were footsteps left and right of me and before I could look around something hit me in the face.” Till, Oliver and Richard looked at each other and anxiously listened to their band member. “I had trouble staying on my feet. One of them called me a traitor.” He paused, and so did his fingers. “No,” he corrected himself and went on playing the chords with his left, “Traitor to the Fatherland, that's what he called me. They beat me. Told me if I wasn't with them, I'd be against them. That the world would be a better place without me.” The words were flowing freely now. He kept his eyes closed. His mimic emphasized his story. Current physical pain seemed to cease and being overlain by imagined pain while his mind was digging through his memories. “I tried to fight them off. Then I was holding a blade in my hand.” As if living through it once more he'd lifted his right hand in front of him, curling his fingers as much as was possible with the bandage. “The next thing I know is that they stabbed me with the knife. That instantly hurt. I don't know if they kicked me down first or if they started kicking after I hit the ground.” As if that made a difference, Richard thought to himself. “I would soon regret taking a stance against them, they said.” His voice broke a little in the middle of the next sentence. “All I could do was protect myself. But I couldn't---” He stopped. The room went quiet. One could hear a pin drop. His fingers played a few last fading chords. “Someone found me, right?” He opened his left eye and looked at the woman.
She stepped closer to the bed and nodded. “Yes. A group of four. They called an ambulance right away.”
He took a deep breath. “Any chance I can thank them?”
“I'll ask. Promised.”

He smiled and nodded. Then his smile widened into a broad grin. “Wasn't that hard after all,” he stated.

“Telling us what happened to you?” she asked.

“Ja,” he answered without hesitation. It was like someone had flipped the switch, erasing the emotional impact of the last couple of minutes from Paul's consciousness. “I mean, last night wasn't exactly fun. But I'll get over it. My body will heal. You just promise you'll catch them so no one else gets hurt, okay?”

No one in the room dared to utter their fear he might be downplaying the recent events. There were times discussions with Paul were useless. This was such a moment and they knew him well enough. They would question his strange coping mechanism sooner than later, but now was not the time. “We will do our very best,” the man in the uniform told him. He sounded confident.

“Is there anything else we should know?” she wanted to know, pen resting on the paper of her notebook.

Paul gave it a long thought. “No,” he finally decided, “That's really all I know.”

“Okay,” she nodded, “If anything else comes to mind, give us a call.”

They bid their goodbye to each other and soon enough the musicians finally had the room to themselves.

“Paul?” Oliver broke the silence and sternly looked at the man in question.

“Mhm?” the patient hummed back, turning his head to meet his eyes. His features still displayed happiness.

“You are not okay,” the bassist stated. He couldn't help himself.

“But I am,” he guitarist replied.

“I don't think so,” Oliver shot back.

“And I think I should know best what's going on,” Paul said matter-of-factly.

“Leave him be,” Till interjected, putting a hand on Oliver's lower arm.

It was Richard who tried to diffuse the sudden tension. “We will bring you some of your stuff if you like. Clothes, books, anything you like,” he suggested, trying to pull Paul's attention towards him. And so the two guitarists made a short list, one of them putting in an order and the other one writing it down in his phone. When they were done, they agreed that it would be best if Paul would try and get some rest.

They promised to come visiting again in the afternoon. Before they could reach the door, he'd already fallen asleep.

~~~

They left the room and walked through the hallway in silence. Each of them was deep in thoughts and unable to form them into spoken words. The typical sterile smell of hospitals hung in the air. They avoided the elevator, taking the stairs instead. It was Oliver who silently came to a halt mid-stairs and stared into the distance. Richard was the first to notice it and slowed down as well. “Can you make it to the car?” he asked softly, knowing that his band mate was about to be overwhelmed. He felt the same, but a hospital staircase just wasn't the right place for that.

Oliver closed his eyes, pulled his brows together, exhaled deeply through his nose and nodded. He swallowed, as if fighting off any rising emotions, and continued the way down.

Till pulled out his phone, dialed and held the device to his ear. A few seconds ticked by. “Hey.” - Someone on the other side was speaking. - “Ja. We're just headed outside.” --- “Mhm.” - While he listened to the voice on the other end, he opened the door that led to the lobby. He held it open for the other two men and together they walked towards the huge revolving door. “How about we meet somewhere? Have something to eat?” --- “Sounds good. Any idea, where?” --- “That's the place Paul wanted to check out, right?” - Richard and Oliver silently looked at each other and continued listening to Till. - “Of course. We'll be there as soon as we can. Can you send me the address?” --- “Thank you. See you in a bit.” Just as they were outside the building, the singer hung up. He took a deep breath and reached into his pocket to stuff the phone back in and fishing the keys of the rental car out in the same process.

“Give me a second,” stated the bassist and started a fast pace off the pavement and onto the green in front of the building. Richard watched him walk towards a a huge maple tree, then he looked down at his own hands which already had found a cigarette and a lighter. When did that happen? He lit the cigarette and took a long drag. Ollie leaned against the trunk with his back and buried his face in is hands, before letting his arms drop and stare up into the waving branches.

“I want to beat those bastards into a bloody pulp,” he heard Till hiss.

I'll set the remains on fire,” he responded.

Their eyes met. They both were deadly serious. It was good that they would meet up with the others. They both needed the balance of the group.

~~~

Half an hour later they'd reached their destination in downtown Vienna. It was a beautiful old house at a street corner. The house front was full of little details and ornaments. The name of the coffeehouse they were about to enter was written in golden letters right above the door. Even outside on the street it smelled of delicious coffee and baked goods. Richard stubbed out his cigarette on the pavement.

Inside, the first thing they saw was a huge counter with various cakes and pastries on display. Chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. Small coffee house tables with leather chairs filled the wide and open room, while on the window sides there were seating booths.

Flake and Schneider already expected them and so two hands rose in a silent greeting from the booth in the back of the coffeehouse. So they walked past chairs, tables, other guests and staff and scooted into the free space of the corner sofa, while saying their hellos to each other.

“It's so good to see you,” Schneider blurted out, “How is he?” He must have already ordered a coffee and held the half empty cup tightly in both his hands, without lifting it from the table.

Oliver, Richard and Till looked at each other, wordlessly deciding on who should answer. The singer nodded and looked at the drummer.

“He is okay,” he told him, watching the imminent sighs of relief on the other side of the table. “And he is not okay,” he added, while taking one of the menus and opening it.

“What do you mean?” Schneider asked.

“It is difficult.” Till flipped through the pages halfheartedly. “The most important thing for now is that he is alive, and that he is awake and in good hands.” He looked up from the menu and right into Schneider's eyes, nodding once. The drummer nodded, too.

“How about we order first, so we have that out of our way?” Oliver suggested. They agreed. Otherwise they would have to send the waiter or waitress away repeatedly.

It was almost lunchtime, so they decided to have a proper meal. They placed their orders and, when the waiter left their table, leaned forward to pick up their previous conversation.

“Okay, now tell us about the not-okay-part,” Flake demanded.

They took turns telling Schneider and Flake about what had happened in the hospital, how severe the injury was and what Paul had told the police. They all fell silent as their drinks – coffee, tea and a soda – were placed in front of them and the already emptied cups were put away. They nodded a polite thanks to the waiter. When he was out of earshot, Schneider tipped his index finger on the wooden surface of the table, to emphasize his next sentence. “So this was not an unfortunate coincidence? They've what – waited for him?”

“Or for us,” Flake mumbled into his tea.

“Yes,” Richard simply replied and poured some sugar into his mocha.

Somewhere in the front part of the coffeehouse a group of people laughed loudly. It was as incongruous as sunshine at a funeral.

“We shouldn't have left without him.” Oliver's voice sounded thinner than usual.

Till shook his head at that. “Don't even start.” They all have had that thought. “It happened. There's nothing we can do to change that. The question is: what we do now?”

Richard took a sip from his coffee and put the cup back down. “What we have to do is look out for Paul, that's for sure. There's something about him that's really off.”

“Meaning?” Flake asked and expectantly looked at the guitarist.

“He's trying to take it way too lightly. Or at least that is what he seems to want to make us believe.”

“True,” Oliver chimed in, “He doesn't make a big deal out of it. But it definitely is!”

Richard nodded. “He's all smiley-face and no-big-deal. It's unnerving.”

“Do you think he wanted to convince himself, too?” Schneider asked.

Richard shrugged his shoulders. “Quite frankly I can't tell. All I know is that he didn't seem honest with us. Maybe it's the shock?” He took a sip from his mocha. “I don't know what to think.”

Flake and Schneider looked at each other, obviously communicating through eye contact. It didn't go unnoticed by the others, who waited for what was to come.

Schneider was the one to take a deep and long breath, before he first looked out the window and then at each member of their group. “Speaking of being honest with us... ,” he started and seemed to search for the right words, “did any of you know Paul was going through a divorce?”

“Pardon?” - “What?!” - “Come again?” - “No.” - They answered at once.

“Okay, so Flake and I weren't the only ones being left in the dark about that.”

“We called his family,” Flake explained, wanting to give a little more detail, “Wanted to let them know and maybe fly them in to visit him, you know. When his soon-to-be-ex-wife told us to better not, without us even giving her the whole picture, it was weird. We told her he got injured and she didn't even want to know what exactly had happened. Only wanted to know if he would be okay again. We didn't understand what was going on and she didn't understand why he hadn't told us about the divorce.”

“That's a damn good question indeed,” Till thought out loud.

“So she won't be coming?” Oliver asked.

Schneider shook his head no.

“Fuck,” Richard muttered. As if the attack wasn't enough to deal with. “And now? Do we tell him that we know about it? Do we play dumb?”

The table went quiet for a moment. They weighed the pros and cons.

“Do you know the reason why they split up?” Oliver wanted to know.

“She didn't tell us,” Flake answered, “We don't even know who broke up with whom.”

Their food came to their table and they fell silent once more, just helping the waiter sort out which dish belonged to which person. They thanked him and then stared at their beautifully arranged plates. It smelled heavenly. And yet it didn't matter.

“Maybe there's a reason why he hasn't told us,” Schneider said quietly, turning his plate clockwise a little, “And maybe we should respect that. For now at least.”

They silently, tiredly, agreed and started to eat. He was right. But it hurt.

~~~

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 03: Backstage

Richard pressed the button to the 5^th floor and listened to the elevator doors shut. He had the cabin to himself and shot a quick glance to the mirror. The man that looked back at him sure wore his clothes, but he seemed to have aged beyond recognition. His body yearned for sleep so desperately it was almost painful to blink. And yet the gears in his head wouldn't stop moving. So much had happened in the past couple of hours. So much had to be organized, to be planned, rearranged and, in time, be discussed.

He drew his gaze away from his reflection and looked at the two keycards in his hand. One belonged to his hotel room, the other to Paul's. The group had split up after their meal at the coffeehouse. He was tasked with packing a bag with the things the other guitarist liked to have at the hospital. Since he'd written down the list it was only logical he'd take care of it. There would be enough time left to take a nap, too, before they would drive back to make use of the afternoon visiting hours.

The elevator juddered a little and slowed down before opening to the destined floor. A cloud of some woman's perfume hung sweetly in the air. The long green and cream colored hallway stretched to the left and right. Richard made his way to his own room first, getting a shower and some fresh clothes.

He unlocked the door and dragged himself inside. The sudden silence hit him. The absence of music, roaring voices, sirens, beeping machines, motors running, voices discussing, footsteps, and most of all the panicked voice inside his own head – the quiet was deafening in his ears. He felt an emptiness crawl up in his mind, but it was different from the one he still sometimes felt after their concerts. He couldn't tell why, but he felt like he didn't belong in this room.

He kicked his feet out of this shoes and walked to the freshly placed bottles of water. Room service must have been here in the meantime. He opened one and drank while looking out of the window. His room was facing the main road. If he would lean out of the window, he could see the entrance of the driveway were Paul had been attacked last night. Life outside went on as if nothing had happened. He set the bottle aside.

Management had chosen this hotel specifically because they'd been here before and had experienced a very pleasant stay with utmost discretion and still a wonderful down-to-earth treatment. Not the over the top VIP stuff they hated so much. The room itself was spacious, yet still cosy. Two simple contemporary paintings in vibrant colors hung from the gray-blue walls. The furniture was tasteful – modern, but with an antique touch. It matched the the character of the city.

He'd quickly tidied up his room last night in case he might have met someone at the party and would have chosen to spent the night together. At least that way he now didn't have the urge to clean up. After all, he'd already decided to stay here longer than planned. In fact he had already booked the room for another two weeks, minimum. He couldn't leave the city knowing one of them was trapped here in a hospital. And he would have gone on holiday anyway. He might as well find some relaxation here – all circumstances considered. Earlier at the coffeehouse they had spoken about who could and should stay and agreed that of cause Paul wouldn't want anyone to stay just for him. He would be the first to understand that all of them wanted to see their families again. Yet they all wanted to stay at least a few days longer. After all this had not been a simple stage accident. This was entirely different and affected the group as a whole. Calls would have to be made. They would see.

For Richard it was easy. It was just him. He had no one to take care of or make arrangements.

He stripped off his clothes and went under the shower. The hot water did wonders to his aching muscles and woke him up as much as was possible. He washed his hair, too, and brushed his teeth afterwards. Longingly he looked at the bed, but the nap had to wait. He slipped into a comfortable pair of jeans and a dark hoodie. Then he took the keycard to Paul's room from the sideboard, shoved his phone into the pocket of his pants and left his room.

~~~

The lock opened with a prolonged click. The guitarist hesitantly entered the room that wasn't his and closed the heavy door behind him. It was surprisingly dark in here. The curtains were drawn shut. A faint scent of Paul's cologne reached his nose. It felt strangely intimate to be here uninvited.

Without bothering to switch on the lights he crossed the room to open the curtains. He stepped on something soft. His hands reached the thick fabric and he pulled it aside to let light flood the room. Below he could see the busy main road again.

When he turned around to look at the room he raised his brows in astonishment. The place was an absolute mess. Clothes were scattered all over the place. He couldn't tell which were already worn and which were freshly washed. The blanket was halfway pulled off the bed and hung over the lower end, curling around a hollow space. Crumpled-up tissues were scattered all over the carpet. He must have stepped on one of those a minute ago. He knew Paul didn't catch a cold. Then why all the tissues? Had he been crying? Was that the reason for the hollow in the blanket folds? Or had he just spilled something?

He must have taken his main guitar with him right after the show. It was sitting neatly in the armchair close to the window, the sun reflecting gently on the black wooden body.

Richard's eyes wandered to the nightstand. Paul's laptop balanced on top, a good part of it reaching far over the edge. A half empty glass of orange juice had been placed on the closed lid. A book lay on the floor. By the looks of it it must have fallen off the nightstand. On the mattress there were some snacks close to the pillows. Next to them a closed notebook and a pen. More snacks and fruits on the desk.

Richard sighed.

He called the lobby and asked if the hotel provided laundry service. They told him yes and how he could use it. He thanked them and hung up. Paul wouldn't be able to get out of bed for a couple more days anyway. And Richard sure as hell wasn't going around sniffing each item if it was dirty or not.

He pulled the already open suitcase closer and stuffed every clothing he could find into it. When he took the black shirt from the backrest of the armchair, his eyes again fell to the busy street below. He paused in his tracks.

There was a woman with a dog. Two people in wheelchairs chatting with each other. Children standing in a small group, all looking at one single phone, cheering happily. Someone helping someone else get out of a car. A group of four just passing by. His eyes followed that group. And then a thought hit him.

Another group of four had made the difference last night. If those people hadn't been there, he might as well now stand in the room of a dead man. A dead friend.

He stumbled backwards and sat down on the side of the bed, still clutching the shirt with all his strength. He stared at the guitar as water started to fill his eyes. He remembered the blood on the pavement. How long had he lain there until they found him. How long would it have taken before it would have been too late? The length of a song? More? Less? How close had it been? He blinked away a few tears, but the pain only grew. Even though the worst did not become reality, Richard was overcome by grief. He thought about the possibility that the instrument in front of him would stay silent forever.

He had to stop his thoughts right there. He couldn't dig deeper into what he'd almost lost. While tears were running down his face, he tried to block out everything that might be able to pull him down. He couldn't allow himself to sink into that hole of negativity. Not right now while his friend, his very alive friend, needed his support. He knew he would have to deal with the grieving sooner or later, otherwise it would linger in the unresolved-section of his mind. Therapy had taught him that he should be glad he could feel it and name it and give it room when the time was right. He'd come a long way.

Richard sniffed, wiped his eyes and rose to his feet. He put the shirt inside the suitcase. He pulled up the smaller bag Paul usually carried over his shoulder and dropped it on the bed. It was almost empty. Next he took out his phone and checked the list. He would bring the requested clothes once they'd been cleaned. He collected the notebook and put the pen into the holder. Of course he was tempted to peek inside, but it felt wrong. Especially since the issue of the divorce came to light it was obvious that Paul was keeping more things to himself recently. Snooping around in his stuff wouldn't exactly evoke the trust he would need to open up more. If trust even was the issue. One way or the other he decided to wait for Paul to start talking.

He went to the nightstand and bent down to lift up the book, checking the title. It wasn't the one Paul had asked for but he decided to bring it anyway. A plectrum fell out of it in the process, presumably having been used as a bookmark. It was placed back between the pages at random. He found the requested book eventually and together with the mp3-player and quality headphones he put it in the bag as well. After getting the toiletries from the bathroom, he closed the bag and hoisted it on his shoulder, took the laptop, the fly rig and guitar with him and left the place.

Back in his in room he put everything down, checked his phone, answered a message, set his alarm and lay down before any more haunting thoughts had a chance to creep up his mind and keep him from sleeping. He was out within seconds.

~~~

He woke from something, but he didn't know what. It was the middle of the night and the bedside lamp was burning softly. The curtains were partly closed. He pushed away the blanket. It didn't make a sound, but he didn't care. His bare feet hit the carpet of the hotel room. Something didn't feel right. And then there it was! A strangled scream from outside! He rushed to his feet and pulled the curtains aside. Suddenly bright sunlight fell through the window. Automatically he looked down to the entrance of the driveway. He could see something spread out on the pavement. He just knew it was blood. He just knew whom it belonged to. He wanted to run to him but his feet were rooted to the spot. He panicked! He started to scream, but no sound came out of his mouth. He wanted to hammer his fists through the window glass but they simply went right through as if hitting thin air.

His alarm rang and woke him up. Richard reached for his phone, hit the snooze button and let his head fall back on the pillow. His mind was in a very trippy state. His heart pounded relentlessly. Adrenaline rushed through his system while his muscles slowly woke up from a relaxed state. He knew it must have been a dream, and yet he had to bring his hands to his face and rub it to make sure. He groaned into his palms and stayed like this until his alarm went off again. This time he killed it for good. The adrenaline had faded and his heart rate seemed to be back to normal. He'd have a little over an hour until they wanted to meet back at the hospital. Enough to arrange the laundry service, text the others and get a little snack. He got up and cast a look outside the window. Everything seemed fine. But he had to check.

When he left the building to take a cab, he had to check again.

If it was affecting him that much, there was no way it wasn't affecting Paul at all. He was sure of it.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 04: Make-Up

The moment he got out of the cab, Richard placed the bag next to his feet and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He knew he should smoke less, but he'd already grown numb to the disappointment of not having enough self-control. So he took a long drag and looked at the hospital building. In his eyes it was ugly. Whoever had designed it, hadn't done the city a favor as far as he was concerned. In a way it reminded him of the socialist architecture of the 70th. It was supposed to appear modern, but it looked like they'd used so much concrete the building was ready to bite down on the people inside it at any moment.

He glanced at the cigarette between his fingers. How was he almost halfway through?

Behind the huge concrete monstrosity with all those miracle working humans in its belly thunderclouds were rising in the distance. He watched the heavy smoke-gray sky moving slowly and had to admit it looked rather impressive. Before he could tear his eyes away, the first cigarette was gone. He lit a second one and checked his phone.

A new message from Till. Stuck in traffic. Wanna go ahead? We'll be there asap.

Will do, he wrote back.

They all were probably huddled in a fully packed minivan with a good portion of their instruments, some of the personal equipment, outfits and whatnot. The stage would be deconstructed and safely transported back to their storage in Berlin within the next couple of days, as would be each and every piece of equipment. Yet there were certain items that they liked to take care of personally at the break or end of a tour.

He was glad that they'd scheduled a tour break anyway. And that the attack happened after the last concert. Otherwise they would have had so much more trouble organizing everything around them. They would have had to postpone concerts, disappoint fans, worry them for sure, too. The rearrangement of logistics alone would be a nightmare. Tabloids and newspapers would have caught wind of the attack. Then the media shitshow would have to be dealt with, too. Luckily up until now no one besides the police, some people in the hospital and the closest group around Paul knew what had happened. Maybe it was only a matter of time, but it sure as hell helped that they hadn't planned any public appearance for the next months. The longer they could keep this a secret, the better.

The stubbed out his cigarette in a public ashtray, lifted Paul's bag from the ground and headed for the entrance.

~~~

Before entering Paul's room, Richard had asked the staff for the personal belongings they must have kept somewhere after Paul had been brought here. They told him they weren't allowed to hand it to him since he wasn't next of kin, but promised to bring it to the patient's room as soon as one of them had time for it.

He pressed down the handle and gently opened the door. “Hey,” he greeted with a soft voice, not sure if Paul would be awake or not. He closed the door behind him and listened carefully. No response. His free hand reached for the beanie on his head and pulled it down. The bag was carefully placed next to the small wardrobe and his feet dragged him closer to the bed. He was welcomed by the soft beeping of the device monitoring Paul's vitals. Then the room went quiet again.

“You asleep?” he whispered into the silence while walking to the side of the bed he'd been last night. His eyes didn't leave the motionless body, his mind again trying the comprehend that this indeed was real. He sat down and, since the other guitarist obviously was sleeping soundly, just looked at his friend. Again it felt oddly intimate, as if he'd stepped over a line. Maybe because he'd never seen Paul like this.

He took a deep breath and cocked his head to the left, leaning a little against the backrest of the chair.

Paul's head was slightly tilted towards Richard, another cooling pack resting on his injured face. The bandaged right hand lay on his hip above the covers, which were only pulled up to his waist. He of course was still only covered in the typical loose hospital gown. Richard knew that Paul could shiver easily. Then again it was still summer.

He debated with himself on whether he should wake him up or let him sleep some more. Light-gray eyes studied the peaceful face in front of him. His gaze traveled to the bare arms. The bruises seemed to have gained even more color. This was to be expected, but still it was painful to see. He remembered every word Paul had told the police this morning. Fending off a knife with his bare hand. Richard shuddered from the sheer imagination.

He decided to let him sleep. He didn't know what to say to him right now anyway. Anything that would come out of his mouth, he feared, would probably be overly emotional or too self-centric. Paul was the one needing support right now. If he knew it himself or not didn't matter.

And still, Richard wished he could tell Paul about his dream. About how scared he is. About how much he'd taken their friendship for granted and how easily someone had almost taken it away from him. How the very idea of losing him made him feel hollow. How much he feared facing an empty left stage.

He took a long deep breath and shut his eyes, fighting off the welling sadness.

It was strange, he thought, while watching Paul again. Yes, he was the smallest of the group. And yes, they made fun of it at every second opportunity, just because they could. But usually Paul appeared much bigger than he actually was. Sometimes because of his ego, but mostly because of all the energy, his winning manner and his straightforwardness. He didn't let room for the possibility to think of him as small. Now, lying there in front of him, bandaged and broken, Richard couldn't help but notice how tiny Paul looked.

The longer he let that impression sink in, the more he wished he'd been the one those cowards had attacked. Although he knew he wouldn't have stood a chance either, he wished he could have spared Paul from the experience, from the pain. Wished, he could have protected him in any way possible.

Now the best he could do was to take care of his friend and help him heal. He started by getting up and exchanging the cooling pack with a new one. He gently took it off Paul's sleeping face, careful not to disturb him, and carried it outside to a small fridge outside in the hallway. Inside was a box labeled used and he put the item there. Then he got a new one from the clean box on the top shelf of the fridge and went straight back to Paul. He was still sleeping and didn't even stir as the cold pack was placed on his face.

Richard sat back down and closed his eyes. If he listened very closely, he could hear Paul breathe. He kept listening and felt himself relax more and more. Minute by minute he drifted more towards the edge of sleep himself.

A soft click startled him out of his state and he turned his head to the door. Flake was the first to come into the otherwise quiet room. After him followed the rest of the group. Till and Oliver both carried a cardboard holder full of disposable cups. Schneider must have kidnapped a chair from somewhere and placed it right beside the one Richard occupied. Within seconds a faint scent of coffee filled the room.

They whispered their hellos to each other, not wanting to rip Paul out of his dreams. Schneider and Flake needed a moment to take in the sight. They just stared and needed to let it sink in. Of course there was a difference between hearing about someone's condition and seeing it with one's own eyes.

“Hey,” Till whispered towards Richard, reaching a white plastic cup to him, “Can you put that on the nightstand?”

The guitarist nodded and did as he was asked. It was water and it obviously was meant for the patient. So he was allowed to at least drink something? Good.

“And this is for you,” Till went on and gave him a brown paper cup with a plastic lid. He took it gratefully.

Flake was about to take the place opposite Richard and made himself comfortable in his seat. Till joint to the right of the bed and took the other chair. Ollie asked Schneider to please take the remaining seat next to Richard, while the bass player carefully shuffled on the edge of the bed, half sitting, half standing.

“He's been asleep since I got here,” Richard told them, trying to keep his voice low, “So … no update so far.” He helplessly shrugged his shoulders. The others nodded their understanding.

For a moment they sat there in silence, each of them leaving the others to their thoughts.
It was Schneider who broke the silence, shifting in his chair and pulling out his phone. He tipped and swiped on it a few times and then held the display in Richard's direction. “That's the part of your equipment we've brought along. Anything missing?”

The guitarist took the device in his hand, enhanced the picture and scrolled. A small smile hushed over his lips. “Thank you so much,” he said to the drummer and gave him back his phone, “That's all of it.”

“Good to hear,” Schneider replied with a smile himself. Then his eyes went back to Paul.

“I've reached his parents and his sister,” Till said. “They were shocked to say the least.” Richard could feel how much those calls affected the singer. “First they all wanted to come, but … you know … .” He trailed off. He probably referred to the age and health of the old couple, Richard mused. “Anyway, we've agreed that his sister will come and visit. She's trying to get a few days off.”

“Good,” Flake commented and meant it.

It was then that Paul started to move. Just a little, but it got their attention. He pulled his brows together and made a small strained sound. His good eye opened partly, but the eye rolled back and was shut again. He tried to move his right hand, then his left arm. Another suppressed groan and an unsuccessful try to lift his head a little off the pillow. Then, finally, an eye opened and slowly focused on the surroundings.

“Well, hello there,” the younger guitarist greeted the older one with a gentle voice. The other band members were smiling warmly. All but Flake, who just looked worried.

Paul seemed to struggle to get out of sleep's tight grip, sighing heavily and blinking a few times. He heaved his less damaged hand to his face and rubbed his left eye. Then, without a warning, he started coughing, which obviously made his broken ribs hurt quite a lot.

Richard instantly reached for the cup of water, offering it to his fellow guitarist. His throat probably was painfully dry.

Paul nodded but couldn't lift his head high enough, so Richard helped him hold his head with his free hand and poured small portions of water in his mouth, waiting patiently for him to swallow it down. After a few sips Paul signaled that it was enough and mouthed a kind thank-you which Richard answered with a smile.

Then Paul looked from one face to the next slowly. “You all look like shit,” he finally stated plainly.

This was not what either of them had expected and so the sentence hung in the air unanswered for a few long seconds.

“Looked in a mirror lately?” Till retorted dryly.

“They wouldn't give me one,” Paul shot back and started to grin.
Till played along and gave him a toothy grin himself. “That can be arranged.” And with that he stood up and vanished into the adjoined bathroom.

Paul's gaze followed the singer, but when he went out of sight it shifted to Oliver. They exchanged a friendly smile. Then his eye traveled to Schneider and Paul instantly pulled his brows together. He lifted his hand at the drummer and pointed a warning finger at him. “Stop that,” he told him, his voice surprisingly sharp, yet full of empathy.
Richard turned his head just in time to see Schneider wipe a tear from his eye and forcing a brave smile on his features. He felt for the drummer.

Before Paul had a chance to find out that Flake was battling with his emotions as well, Till came out of the bathroom, holding a handheld mirror.

“You sure?” he asked the patient.

Paul put on a poised grin. “'Course!”

Till took a deep breath, shrugged his shoulders, leaned forward and held the mirror close enough to Paul's face.

For a few seconds nothing in his features changed. He grinned at himself. But then the grin faltered bit by bit. It didn't vanish completely, though. He lifted his left hand to the cut on his bottom lip, feeling it. Then he reached past the oxygen tube and tried to lift the cooling pack from his other eye.

“Wait,” Flake told him, his voice frail,”Let me.” He reached for the pack and lifted it carefully aside.

At the sight of the swollen red and blue right side Paul's face froze. He stared at his reflection, his gaze scanning every little detail.

Richard watched him closely. He wasn't sure if this had been a good idea. Maybe the doctors and nurses had a damn good reason not to confront the patient with his looks just yet. Then again, maybe this was the best way to make him understand how serious this was. Maybe the downplaying would stop and they would be able to discuss the impact of it all for real. Maybe that was what Till was aiming for?

After a minute Paul started laughing. Not just a little bit. He laughed as wholeheartedly as his current state would allow.

Richard looked around and was relieved to see he wasn't the only one being completely irritated by this behavior. With an annoyed groan Till took the mirror away and put it on the small table.

“You must be kidding me,” Oliver muttered and shook his head in disbelief.

Meanwhile Paul made a small “Ouch!”, held his left side, and laughed even more, a tiny tear forming in the corner of his eye.

Flake did his best to simply put the cooling pack back in place. “Hold still, you doofus,” he told him.

“What's so funny to you?!” Till snapped, his temper obviously getting the better of him.

Paul didn't stop laughing, but at least he tried to answer. “This is so typical,” he said and chuckled some more, before gesturing at his face, “Of course they chose the right side.”

Richard had to close his eyes and shake his head. In all the fucked-up-ness of the whole situation Paul had the nerve to pull a nazi joke? Of course he had. The worst thing was: it worked. One by one they started to laugh about it, each of them in their own way. The black haired guitarist put his hand loosely over his eyes and pulled his fingers together until he pinched the bridge of his nose and started giggling. God, this was so stupid, he thought. And in a weird way it helped them all. Paul helped them all. Whether it was intentional or not, Richard didn't know.

“Seriously though,” Paul said after they had calmed down, looking Till right in the eye, “You should see the other guy.” Again he grinned.

Their singer on the other side went dead serious and sat back down in his chair. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “There's nothing I want more than to see the other guy.” He balled one hand to a fist to emphasize his intentions.

“As much as I appreciate the gesture,” Paul answered, “I'd hate to see you in prison.” He let out an exhausted breath, that didn't quite match his happy face. “How about you all tell me about your day instead? Mine has been quite boring so far and I need input.”

They understood what he meant and gave their best to switch into a light conversation about everything that wasn't directly connected to the attack. Paul enjoyed the smell of the coffee and listened to each of them and threw in the occasional question.

Schneider was about to say something when the door was opened by the same nurse who'd taken care of Paul last night. Richard instantly wondered what crazy shifts the woman was pulling. Her face was stern, haggard and yet determined. Oliver instantly got off the bed and made room for her to do her job.

“Servus,” she greeted them and didn't hesitate to make her way to the left side of the bed, carrying some items with her. “How are we today, Mr. Landers?” She gave the monitor a quick glance, before looking at Paul's face.

He smiled up at her. “Quite okay, actually,” he responded. “How are you?”

The sincerity in his question seemed to have caught her off guard. “I... ,” she made and put the items on the bed. A small device, an IV-bag and a plastic zip lock bag, Richard noted. “I'm fine, thank you,” she answered and exchanged the empty fluid bag with the new one.

She asked him a few detailed questions about his wellbeing and he told her what she needed to know. Afterwards she checked the wound on his left abdomen as well, obviously satisfied with the current state. Then she took the small device, a thermometer, as it turned out, and took Paul's temperature. It was slightly elevated. She told him they'd have a close eye on that and that he should let them know if he started to feel unwell or funny. He nodded.

The nurse then took the zip lock bag in her hands and held it into Paul's vision. “Your friends have asked us to give them your personal items. Is that okay with you? Or do you want to take them? Or want me to lock it away for a while longer?”

Paul's gaze was glued to the content of the transparent plastic bag. Richard was almost sure he saw a glimpse of hesitation in the other guitarist's face. “Can you take it and I'll decide right after we are done here?” Paul asked him and their eyes met. Richard nodded and took the bag into his hands.

The woman turned to the Paul again. “Is there anything else you need?” She sounded as if she needed to be elsewhere but at the same time as if she'd dutifully do everything her patients needed.

“One question,” Paul said.

“I'm listening?” she responded.

“When will I be able to get up?”

“When you are better.”

“So tomorrow.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“Why?”

“You've been stabbed.”

“So?”

“You've had surgery.”

“And?”

“What is wrong with you?” she asked dryly.

“We've stopped counting,” Schneider chimed in.

“True,” Paul agreed, “But seriously. Can you give me a little bit of hope?”

Richard bet she regretted asking.

She sighed and cocked her head to the side. “Ask me again next Thursday,” she told him. It was five days from now.

With a wide grin on his face Paul nodded at her. She nodded back and left the room.

Richard took a long sip from his coffee. The bitter taste helped to dispel his need for the next cigarette. For now at least.

Oliver had taken his cup as well and sat back on the edge of the bed. “Paul?” he said and waited for eye contact with said person, “Your doctor has told you no. She has told you no. Promise me you'll stay in bed until they give their okay.” He was dead serious.

The man in question rolled his eye. “I'm not that stupid,” he answered with a lopsided grin.

“But not that responsible either,” the bass player responded and lifted an eyebrow.

“Whatever,” Paul mumbled jokingly.

“Speaking of responsibility,” Richard said, “Who should take care of your stuff?” He opened the plastic zipper and took out Paul's phone. “Wanna have that?”

“Yeah,” Paul answered, but again Richard noticed the hesitation. He had a feeling why. And he wasn't the only one because Flake leaned forward to talk to the patient.

“I've called your wife,” he said, and the rest of the band hoped he wouldn't blab they knew the truth. “She knows what happened and I told her you're okay – as far as we can call this okay,” he gestured at the bed, “And we agreed that you'll call her as soon as you can and decide on when and how she could visit. Your daughter doesn't know yet, though.” Flake shifted in his seat. “Is that okay for you?”

Paul nodded and fixed a steady smile on his face. “Did she say anything else?”

“Not much,” the keyboarder answered, “but that's my fault. I was so nervous she had to calm me down.” He looked down at his hands. “Sorry.”

“It's okay,” Paul said softly, “I'll call her later.”

Richard was proud of Flake. He'd made it believable and bent the truth just enough to not set Paul under pressure. He gently placed the phone on the nightstand and looked into the small bag, “What about the rest?” he asked, pulling the topic away from the sensitive marriage-issue, “We have a wallet, … keys, your bracelet, ri--”.

“Is one of you staying in Vienna for one or two days longer?” Paul interrupted. Richard's tone sensitive ears picked up a slight change in his voice. What it was, he couldn't tell.

“We will all be here tomorrow as well,” Till told him, “And then we will see.”
“I'll stay for at least a week,” Schneider stated. “My family is absolutely fine with it.”
“And I'll stay here until you get out,” Richard said and went on, before any protesting words could come out of Paul's mouth, “I've already made up my mind and decided to stay. Don't even try. I won't visit every day if you don't want me to, okay? But I want to be here just in case.”

Paul just looked at him. The smile was gone.

Richard quietly waited and expectantly cocked his head to his left. Behind him raindrops started to knock against the window.

After a few seconds of silence Paul brought out a whispered “Thanks”.

The black haired man nodded and was relieved the other one was too exhausted to fight.

“Can you take that with you then?” Paul asked him and pointed at the bag. “I don't want it to get lost somewhere.”

“Of course.”

Paul took a deep breath, closed his eye and pulled his brows together ever so slightly.

“Tired?” Schneider asked him, obviously wanting to know and giving him an out at the same time.

He left his eyes shut and nodded yes.

Flake, Till, Oliver, Schneider and Richard all looked at each other and silently agreed that they would let Paul take some rest. “Then how about you go to sleep and we'll see you tomorrow?” Oliver asked while rising to his feet. The others stood up as well and Paul opened his eye again, forcing a warm smile on his lips. “You are the best, you know that?”

“Don't get all sentimental,” Till mocked him jokingly.

They all said their goodbyes and left one by one.
“Don't you dare try and get out of that bed,” Oliver told him with a smile before heading for the door.

When Richard was about to leave as well, he remembered the bag he'd brought here and lifted it from the floor. “I almost forgot,” he said and turned back to the bedside. Paul looked at him expectantly. “You've asked me to bring you some things.” One by one he pulled the items from the bag and put them on the nightstand.

“Richard?” Paul looked at him.

“Yeah?” he looked down at him gently.

“Thank you,” Paul said after a long pause.

It wasn't just meant for the few items, Richard could feel that much. He reached out and softly put a hand on Paul's shoulder. A friendly gesture that was common between them.

Paul instantly shut his good eye and furrowed his brows. His shoulder shied away from the touch.

Richard pulled back his hand and whispered an insecure “Sorry”. It made Paul shut his eye even tighter.

The black haired man felt so helpless it hurt. He nodded to himself and went towards the door. At the end of the bed he stopped. “You okay?” he asked.

He instantly regretted the question when he saw Paul smile once more and look at him as if everything was fine. “Yes,” he answered way too quickly.

Richard wanted to punch that smile off the other one's face so badly. If you say so, he wanted to reply. “Okay,” he said instead. “Then …. see you tomorrow.”
He left and joined the others.

~~~

Richard was tired. First and foremost emotionally. Other people's feelings and moods were affecting him intensely. And right now it wasn't just the things going on with Paul, but with each of the band members as well.

Flakes tension, Schneider's fears, Ollie's worries and Till's fury.

Fucking empathy.

The whole argument that started on the way back to the hotel had almost been too much for him. Mainly it centered around if or if not they should pressure Paul into being honest with them. Honest with himself.

He stood in the middle, telling them he didn't know what was right. He honestly didn't know.

He'd retreated to his room right after dinner. He took one of his guitars – he'd brought them up earlier - and started playing to calm his nerves. It helped. Not much, but it helped.

When he was done, he put the instrument next to Paul's on the armchair.

A light guitar and a dark one.

It was funny, he mused.

He'd always thought of himself as being the dark one and Paul as being a constant ray of light.

But now … .

He went to the small zip lock bag and pulled out Paul's bracelet. Then he put it around the neck of the Gibson. Thoughtfully he looked at it and decided to take a photo of the two instruments sitting there peacefully.

He sent it to Paul. Attached to it was a small message. She's okay and in good company. You'll be okay, too.

He went to bed early, but he couldn't sleep. Every now and then he checked his phone. No answer from Paul. He was probably sleeping, like he should.

But then he saw a small info in his app. Paul was typing.

He waited, lying on his side, and stared at the display.

[Typing]

It went on for minutes and he wondered if the other one just had trouble finding the right buttons or if he should expect an essay.

[Typing]

He combed his fingers through his hair nervously.

Then he received the message.

It was a simple smiley.

He put the phone aside and rolled on his back.

All he could do was sigh in frustration.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 05: Setlist

The alarm was luring him safely out of another nightmare.

His hand reached for his phone and automatically went for the snooze button.

He could still hear the sirens in his head and blinked against the warm morning light.

A huge yawn escaped his mouth. He rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling of his hotel room and let his palms first rub against his face and then his fingers go through his hair and massage his scalp.

He felt strange. Somewhat empty, but not the way he usually felt at the beginning of a tour break. He knew tomorrow at least two, maybe three of their group would travel home. Usually he would be glad to enjoy some time apart from them – as much as he loved them, a few weeks of separation were always necessary after such a long time of working and living so closely together. Today he dreaded the moment they would be parting. With the whole band being complete he had the strength to believe they could somehow manage the whole situation. But with some of them gone it wouldn't be the same. It never was.

Yet he couldn't and wouldn't ask any of them to please stay. Neither did he have any idea on how get Paul out of his shell anyway, nor did he want to keep any of them from their private plans. Also, just yesterday they had agreed that none of them was judging it as selfish and that Paul himself would absolutely support any wish of them to see their friends and families.

The alarm went off again, ripping him out of his musing. He silenced it and pushed the covers aside. His bare feet hit carpet and carried him to the bathroom.
The moment he stuck his toothbrush in his mouth, he heard a knock on the door. Wondering who it could be, he went to his door and opened it slightly. Just then he remembered that they were instructed by their security to not open their rooms without asking who there was trough the closed door. They still didn't know if the people who had attacked Paul would try another assault.

He was relieved to look into Christoph Schneider's face and promised to himself to first ask and then open the next time.
“Morni',” he greeted the drummer, the toothbrush still in his mouth.

“Hey,” Schneider replied and scratched the back of his neck, “May I come in for a minute?”

With a welcoming gesture he opened the door wide and let his friend in. Automatically he threw a glance at each direction of the hallway, just checking.

Closing the door behind them and continuing to brush, he followed Schneider inside the room and wordlessly offered him a seat optionally on the second and empty armchair or on the edge of the bed.

Schneider opted for the chair and curiously looked at the two guitars sitting on the other upholstery across from him. A smile hushed over his face but he said nothing. Instead he turned his head and looked at Richard.

“So,” the guitarist began and battled with the foam in his mouth, “What brings you here?”

His bandmate leaned against the backrest and balanced one leg over the knee of the other one. “Just wanting to check how you're holding up,” he rather stated than asked.

“I'm okay,” he replied and shrugged his shoulders.
Schneider instantly threw his head to the right and looked at him intently. “Really?” he asked, “First Paul is pulling this shit and now you, too?”

Richard turned on his heels and went into the bathroom to spit out the remains of the toothpaste. He put the toothbrush aside, rinsed out his mouth and took a short look in the mirror. Who was he kidding? He exhaled deeply through his nose and closed his eyes for a second, before returning to the main room.

The drummer hadn't moved an inch and still watched him expectantly. Richard sat down at the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. “I'm sorry,” he finally said.

“It's okay.” Schneider's features softened immediately. “So … how are you really?”

He let himself fall backwards on the mattress and sighed heavily. His mind went through all the adjectives that might fit and tried to find the one word he could boil it all down to. “Scared,” he finally said in a haunted voice. He stared at the ceiling again. It was decorated with beautiful stucco.

“Scared of what?” the drummer asked after a short pause. It was such a soft and honest question that Richard couldn't help but wonder how he deserved this mindful friend. When he didn't answer, Schneider offered him a bait for his thoughts: “Scared of the fuckers that attacked Paul?”

“No,” Richard answered without hesitation and shook his head, “I know I should be, don't get me wrong. Yet part of me wishes to come face to face with these scumbags.”

He couldn't see it but Christoph nodded. “What then?”

The guitarist lay the back of his one hand into the palm of the other and rested them on his forehead. “I'm scared that Paul is steering himself into a very bad place.” His worry was clearly noticeable in the trembling of his voice. “That we can't do anything about it.” It was always like this. The moment he said those things out loud he felt their true impact. “That we missed something quite a while ago. That he won't let us help him.”

“Richard?”

“I mean, we've almost lost him that night and what if-”
“Richard!”

“--we lose him in a differe---”

“Look at me.”

Richard slowly sat up and Schneider waited until their eyes met. “This is exactly why I came here in the first place.”

The guitarist just pulled his brows together in a silent question.

“I know you,” Schneider explained, his voice still calm. “How you hate things you're not in control of.”

Richard looked away.

“But we both also know Paul,” the drummer went on, “If he's set his mind on how he wants to deal with something we've never been able to do much about it, have we?”

“Not really.”

“So … if this works for him we have to accept it. And if he reaches a dead end, he'll open up one way or another. It's always been like that.”

Richard took a thoughtful breath and swayed his head. “He's reached a dead end with his marriage, obviously. Didn't open up though.”

“But he successfully dealt with it up to this point. It didn't affect his work.” Schneider supported his statement by pulling up his shoulders and lifting a brow. “It's not our business. Maybe as friends, yes, but not as colleagues.”

“Then let's just talk as friends here for a second,” the guitarist responded and looked him straight in the eyes.

“'kay,” the drummer agreed in a challenging manner, “But what does it change?!What do you want him to do?”

“Talk!” Richard answered, his hands clawing into air before closing into fists.

“Why?” came a deliberately calm question.

For a moment they just looked at each other. Then Richard threw his head into his neck and relaxed his hands again. “Because we promised each other.”

Schneider said nothing and waited. He had a feeling the guitarist would go on, and he did after a heavy pause. “I mean, for obvious reasons we all agreed to talk to each other regularly. And not once in the past months he felt the need to tell us something that big?”

“Seems so,” Schneider responded, “Because, again, it has no influence on our work. And that has been the sole reason of those meetings. That some of us used it to talk about deeper personal stuff doesn't oblige Paul to do the same.”

“But it affects me,” Richard threw back, “This affects my work, now that I know. Now that I see that he hides behind that stupid smiling facade!”

“And who's problem is that?!” the drummer asked him, provoking Richard to look right back at him, “Who has to do something about it?”

For a moment they just stared at each other. Richard knew exactly that Schneider was right. He was having a problem with himself, not with Paul. He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the window, coming to a halt right behind the armchair with the guitars. The world outside looked happy. Absentmindedly his fingers brushed against the pegs of Paul's Gibson.

“You and I, we tend to overthink,” the drummer said calmly, “You even more than I.”

“Don't tell me all the things I'm scared of are just in my head,” Richard sighed, his gaze fixed on the street below.

“No,” Christoph answered, “Of course not.” He watched as fingers with chipped nail polish turned one of the pegs in an unconscious attempt to control something related to Paul. “Believe me, the whole situation freaks me out as well. Him hiding the divorce … the attack … yeah, mostly the attack. Him smiling like nothing's happened.” He audibly inhaled through his nose. “But,” and with that word he had Richard turn his head towards him, “freaking out doesn't help me, doesn't help you. So we need a plan.”

“What do you have in mind?” the guitarist asked while leaning his hip against the windowsill and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Establish some rules,” Schneider answered and connected both tips of his forefingers, “First of all, as long as he says he's fine, we play along, period. We know he isn't, but if he has to meet the end of the blind alley to realize, so be it.” Richard inhaled sharply, but the drummer went on, “We can not talk him out of it, you know that. We've tried on different occasions and you sure remember how that went.”

He did and it hadn't been pretty. In fact, it usually lead to Paul being even more determined that he was in the right.
Schneider tipped against his middle finger. “So we save our strength and keep an eye out. The moment he opens up, we'll be there.” He went to the next finger. “The moment we're under the impression it has an impact on his play, we'll intervene.”

“Because then it's technical.”

“Exactly.”

Richard nodded, finally realizing that Schneider must have thought this through quite carefully.

“And lastly,” the drummer went on and tipped against his little finger, “I want you to promise to me that you talk to me the moment you think you might lose it.”

“Chris ...,” the guitarist was at a loss of words, because he was moved by the surprising gesture. He should know better by know, yet he still didn't know how he deserved this.

“Just promise me, 'kay?”

“If you promise me the same, we have a deal.”
“And a plan.” The drummer nodded and stood up. “This is uncharted waters for Paul. He's a good swimmer but even he can't swim on his own forever.”

Richard couldn't help but grin. “Where did that come from?”

“Maybe I just read too much,” Schneider mused and laughed a little.

They decided they were on the same page and would try their best to navigate each other through this unprecedented situation. After giving each other a quick hug they went to join the others for breakfast.

~~~

Schneider was right, Richard had to admit. If Paul had decided to blend out his inner struggles, or at least keep it to himself, it was Paul's business. If that stressed him out, he had to find a way to keep his cool, because he couldn't force Paul to change his behavior.

He'd already smoked the fifth cigarette in a row and still he had no idea how he should manage that. Bottling it all up inside over the day and letting it all out in the evening by screaming into his pillow was his backup plan. Hopefully he would be able to reason with himself instead. He'd have to see.

~~~

It was almost midnight. He sat alone in the seating area of the hotel bar on a couch that was way too soft. The others had just left one by one and gone to bed. Richard needed another couple of minutes, not yet able to face the lonely hotel room. Exchangeable jazz music played in the background. The lighting was dim and soothing. It broke through the white wine in his pristine polished glass. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

I fell right off the stage, he heard Paul say in his memory, luckily after the show. He remembered watching Paul go on lying for quite some time. When they'd entered his hospital room, he'd been on his phone, talking to his daughter as it turned out. Richard understood that Paul didn't want her to know the truth just yet. No one would scare their child if they could avoid it. Still it was strange to watch him lie without hesitation or any kind of struggle.

He took a sip of his wine and listened to the incoherent distant chatter of some other guests sitting a few tables away from him. They sounded like people who just had a good time. He'd been those people two days ago, before everything changed. The wine tasted sweet and almost too heavy.

What really bothered Richard were the lies Paul was telling them. Telling them he was fine obviously wasn't true. That he wasn't in pain wasn't, either. The nurse had been in the room when Paul had said that and the look she'd given Richard secretly had spoken volumes. He lied about being happy for Till, Flake and Ollie returning home to their families. For a few seconds Richard was sure he'd seen the sadness shine through Paul's mask. He'd lied about his wife coming to visit the following week. He'd lied about some more things Richard couldn't remember anymore.

What was even more disturbing to him was how much Paul tried to avoid touches. Usually he didn't have any problem with body contact. But after yesterday Richard noticed how much this suddenly seemed to be an issue.

This wasn't Paul. Not the Paul he knew. He was hiding behind some shadow of himself and Richard asked himself over and over what they'd done wrong that he was hiding from them as well.
Back in the hospital room he'd reached a point where he simply wanted to grab Paul by the collar and shake him. Instead he excused himself for a short cigarette break and went through Schneider's list in his head.

Don't push him.
Save strength and wait.
Intervene if opportunity is occurring.
Ask for help if necessary.

He had to remind himself that maybe he just wanted to see things that weren't there. That maybe, just maybe, he was interpreting more into it than was really happening.

Clinging to this thought he grabbed his phone from the table and checked the time. A quarter past midnight. He should really head upstairs and get some sleep. But then he spotted the small icon in the left corner of the display and opened his messenger.

New message from Paul: Would you do me a favor and put her back in the case?

He stared at it, unable to comprehend what Paul was aiming for. Did he really have a problem with his guitar sitting openly on a chair? Or that it was leaning slightly against Richard's? Or … the more reasons came to Richards mind, the more ridiculous they grew.

He finished his wine, got up and went to bed, doing what he tried to do the whole day: ignoring certain aspects of Paul and forcing himself not to overthink things.

The next morning, after breakfast, he took out his phone and finally knew what to answer.

Why? He wrote back, stuffed the phone into his pocket and went to see the others off.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 06: Curtain

The goodbye had been unexpectedly emotional. There had been long hugs, caring words and earnest promises. They'd be calling and texting every day and if anything would go out of hand, they'd come back or help in any way possible.

Richard knew that they wouldn't be able to fully dive into their family lives. That the whole deeply troublesome situation was traveling with them. At this point they'd grown so tightly together that an escape, even if any of them wanted to, was nearly impossible.

And still Richard already missed the individual influence their presence had on Paul.

Oliver's calm, straightforward and understanding nature. Paul was the most centered when around the bass player. Strangely enough he even deviated from his chatty nature and was able to communicate with a fraction of his usual amount of words when it was just him and Oliver.

Then there was this strange connection between Till and Paul. The younger one was so absolutely unafraid of Till, even if he threw a tantrum because something didn't go as planned. He wouldn't let Till intimidate him, even if he tried. And yet Till had an authoritarian influence on Paul that followed unknown rules. There was that invisible dance between them of having no and the utmost respect for each other at the same time.

Flake and Paul were Flake and Paul. The connection those two had with one another was unique and hard to grasp. Maybe it came closest to two siblings with very opposed characters who knew each other inside out. They cared deeply for each other and knew they could trust one another blindly, yet the way they would talk to each other sometimes appeared unnecessarily harsh to the ears of others. Whenever needed, Flake would be the one telling Paul a painful truth because usually he was the one getting away with it the easiest.

Now it would be just Schneider and him. They would manage, he knew that. But that didn't mean that he had to like it.

They had agreed that Richard should head back to the hospital so that at least one of them would be seeing Paul today. Schneider would stay and at the airport and wait for Paul's sister to arrive. Her flight would land in about one and a half hour. Of course they could have arranged a cab and everything, but Christoph wanted to personally take care of her arrival going smoothly so she could check in at the hotel and then be at the hospital when the afternoon visiting hours started.

They'd talked to her beforehand and they had all agreed it would be best if she'd visit her brother alone. She knew about the divorce and if Schneider and Richard would be in the room at the same time, Paul would either be forced to lie in his sister's present or open up about his personal struggles against his will. None of it sounded appealing. Also his sister could only stay until the evening of the following day, so they wanted her to have as much time as possible with her sibling. She appreciated their thoughtfulness and gratefully agreed to their plan. In return she promised to find out as much as she could so she would be able to tell them why Paul had decided to keep more and more of his problems to himself and away from his friends. They told her that they would respect his decision but she was adamant about finding out what was going on. Richard hadn't met her very often, but one thing he knew about her was that her stubbornness easily matched that of her brother. Maybe that was exactly what they needed.

~~~

Richard looked at his watch. At least one and a half hour was left to visit the other guitarist. Part of him was really happy to see him, but another part didn't want to play along anymore pretending everything was okay. And he hadn't gotten an answer to his last text message yet, meaning the question about why Paul's guitar should be put in the case was still hanging in limbo. He decided on not actively asking about it unless it was unavoidable.

He entered the hospital room after a gentle knock against the door. Thick clouds huddled against each other, blocking out a good portion of the sun and leaving the room with a soft dim natural light.

“Sorry I couldn't be here earlier,” he apologized and walked closer to the bed. To his surprise the mattress was propped up a little, putting Paul in a more upright position. He was also lacking the cooling pack and the oxygen tube. The right side of his face was still heavily swollen and would be for quite some time, but he appeared to be in better shape than yesterday.

Paul mumbled something incomprehensible and rubbed his left eye with his good hand. It looked clumsy, as if he was just waking up.

“Hm?” Richard made and sat in the seat right next to the left side of the bed, “I didn't catch that.”

Paul's head shifted a little towards his visitor and his hand was still busy waking up his eye in a helpless effort. “M'need-a-moment,” he muttered, followed by a labored sigh and some more incoherent words.

Richard couldn't help but chuckle. He reached out without thinking about it and let his fingers graze along Paul's hair in a caring gesture. “You can go back to sleep if you like,” he almost whispered. He felt the other one leaning his head into the touch and heard him take a deep satisfied breath. The hair felt so soft and light.

And for a short minute time stopped for Richard, like it did every now and then when a moment like this happened. A moment of pure affection just between the two of them. Nothing that happened on stage, not for an effect, not for the fans or a camera or provocation or teasing one of the other band members or teasing each other or diffusing any tension or avoiding a fight. Here and now it was just them and it tore at a certain string in Richard's heart that was tightly knotted around a wish he tried over and over to smother until it would finally one day die. He hated that wish. It was an old one. Over a decade old, maybe two. It was a patient wish, luring in the dark and waiting, hoping against all odds that one day it might become reality. Richard stuffed it back into the deepest corner of his mind, went through his well-practiced list of reasons why that wish could never come true and locked it back up so he could hear it no more. It would take some more minutes until he would be able to forget about it, forget about those feelings he shouldn't have. Forget about it before he could give it a name. Forget, like he always did. At least until the next time.

Paul shook his head a little, pressing more into Richard's hand. “N-nhn,” he signaled, obviously determined to wake up. He let his hand fall down on the mattress. “They gave me s'mthing to sleep,” he tried to explain, “T'still working.”

Richard took his hand away for his own good. “Anything I can do?”

Paul nodded. “Keep talking t'me, please,” he answered, blinking against the medically induced tiredness.

He took a moment and started to grin. “But for once you're just so quiet and peaceful. Why would I ruin that?”

He received an outstretched middle finger as an answer and laughed some more.

“Okay, seriously though,” he began anew, “Why did you need sleep medication?”

“B'cause I couldn' sleep,” Paul answered and tried to hold his eye open. Actually he even managed to open the right eye, too, if only a little bit.

“Funny,” Richard stated and cocked a skeptical eyebrow. He shifted a little in his seat and leaned forward, resting an elbow on the mattress and supporting his chin on the heel of his hand. “Is it because of the attack?” He asked gently. He wasn't pushing anything, just asking. He would stick to the rules.

Paul shook his head. “No,” he answered and tried to hold eye contact, “I mean, I should have known better.”

The younger man tilted his head to the side and studied the other's face carefully. “Known what?”

He seemed to at least have won the battle against the medication. “That the interview could have consequences,” he said plainly.

Richard pulled his brows together and tried his best to keep his emotions at bay. “Do you think you're the one to blame for this?” he asked as calmly as possible, sliding in a curious tone. He finally had Paul talking without that stupid smile plastered across his face.

“I know I didn't stick to our rules.”

“Those are for keeping the Rammstein enigma,” Richard contradicted softly.

“And partly for our safety,” Paul replied, “and you know that.”

Richard hummed a grudging approval, which made Paul lift the corner of his mouth for a second or two.

“May I ask you something, though?” the black haired man wanted to know.

“Always,” the brown haired one answered without hesitation.

Richard took a deeper breath and rephrased the question over and over in his head until it seemed innocuous enough. “You don't have to answer, but … how come the attack doesn't affect you?”

Paul broke the eye contact and looked into the distance for a moment. “Because it wasn't the first time, I guess.”

“Are you referring to your squatter times?” He tried so hard to sound nothing but curious and interested.

“Ja,” came the instant reply. And as always when Paul wanted to confirm something from the bottom of his heart, the initial “ja” was said exactly one octave higher than the word that followed. “There's been a brawl every other week. We got our butts kicked more than once by some skinheads.”

“That's not the same,” Richard said.

“'Course it is,” Paul held his ground.

“How so? Back then they went after punks in general. But this time-” he stopped mid-sentence the very moment Paul's eyes stared right back into his. And as much as he tried, he couldn't decipher that look. A mix of a warning and a plea, but there was also fear hidden behind it. He'd never seen this on his face and he didn't know how to react to it.

It was Paul who broke the silence. “See?” he all but whispered, “I caused it. I was naive enough to ignore our rules.”

Richard shook his head adamantly. “They caused it.”

“Can you stop it?” Paul blurted, his voice suddenly sharp and demanding. He closed his eyes and pressed his head back into the pillow, his whole body tense and subtly defensive. “Please?” he added in a whisper.

“O-kay,” Richard reluctantly agreed and made a face that, if the smaller one had seen it, might have caused an argument of its own. Reminding himself of the self-proclaimed rules, he wiped all anger off his features before Paul would open his eyes again. He waited, but his friend wouldn't move. So he finally dared to speak up again. “Wanna change the subject?” he asked carefully.

Paul nodded, but otherwise remained tense.

“Did anything interesting happen since yesterday?” he tried to break the freshly frozen ice, “Or something stupid, or annoying? … Besides me, I mean.” While forcing a small grin on his lips, he observed Paul closely. The tension faded, but he would open his eyes only a little and just stare at the covers. He would blink a few times and swallow audibly. “You're neither stupid nor annoying,” Paul finally said and looked at Richards fingers. “But since you're asking, the cops have been here yesterday afternoon.”

Richard noted the strange shimmer in Paul's eyes. Something he'd barely ever seen. Could it be that Paul was fighting off tears? The thought alone was so uncommon that he dismissed it almost instantly. When had been the last time he'd seen him cry? He couldn't remember.
“Oh,” he reacted instead, “What did they want?”

“Cluing me in on the latest state of investigation,” Paul answered, blinked again and finally looked at Richard. No tears in sight. “They may have found a trace.”

“That's good news!” he responded optimistically, “So they have suspects?”

“Yes, one,” Paul answered, “They'd taken DNA-samples from my ring, because I've fought back. I might have hit one or two of them. Seems they've indeed found a trace and it matched the DNA of an offender from their data bank.” He reached for the cup of water on the nightstand and took a few sips. “That's all they could tell me, at least for now.”

“Sounds promising, if you ask me,” Richard said and smiled. Hopefully that would lead to the whole bunch of assholes.

“Yeah,” was all Paul had to answer. But then a genuine smile spread out across his face, “Oh! They let me talk to one of the first responders who found me and called for help!”

Really?!” he asked and had to smile as well.

The smaller one nodded as enthusiastically as his injuries allowed, “They were so kind and modest! I said I wanted to do more than just say thank you and asked if there was anything I could do to show my gratitude.”

“And they refused?” Richard interrupted with a grin?

“Yes!” Paul answered incredulously.

“So you insisted?”

“Naturally!”

“And they still refused?”

“Yes.”

It made Richard laugh a little. “That's what people feel like when you do this to them.”

“I don't save other people's lives.” It was said with a grin, but as the consequence of these words sunk in inch by inch, both their faces turned serious.

“You know, what I mean,” Richard went on and tilted his head in an understanding gesture. “We'll figure something out so you can say thank you properly. Promised.”

Paul nodded, “Thanks. I really mean it.” And just like that the smile returned. Not the one Richard loved so much. The endearing and contagious smile. No. It was the one that, like a stage curtain, separated the appearance from the truth.

They talked some more about anything and everything, but to Richard it were just hollow words. He wished he knew what he'd done to be able to talk to the real Paul, and what he'd done to lose him again behind that illusion of happiness.

He stayed as long as possible, even if it took a lot of strength to hide what he really felt and wanted to say. As they bid their goodbyes to each other, Paul again inched away from the friendly touch Richard was offering him.

~~~

Since they had agreed that they would stay away from the hospital for the next three rounds of visiting hours, Schneider and Richard had decided to go on some sightseeing instead. Today they just wanted to walk along down town Vienna without a distinct destination. Just have a good coffee and take in the vibe of the city. Their management had allowed them to move freely as long as they would stay in public places. Yet one or two bodyguards would follow them at a distance, making sure no one would be able to hurt them.

Somehow they ended up visiting St. Stephen's Cathedral, presumably the most famous church of the capital. It was Schneider who just wanted to take a look, so he dragged Richard along and soon they meandered along the nave. The building was impressive and filled with an aura of peacefulness despite the amount of tourists crowding the place. The acoustic, as in most churches, was astonishing. Thinking that people in the Middle Ages had been able to build this, frequently blew Richard's mind.

Suddenly Schneider looked at the seat rows next to him and decided to sit down. The guitarist eyed him skeptically, but followed his lead and took a seat as well. They sat next to each other quietly for some long minutes. Richard wanted to give his friend the time he needed for his thoughts.

It was Schneider who finally broke the silence. “How many prayers do you think have ever been spoken in here?” He didn't even turn his head, his eyes fixed on the altar.

“How many have been heard?” Richard asked in return, his gaze turned to the tourists that walked past them in a distance.

The drummer sighed. “How many have been answered?” he replied and then leaned forward, crossing his arms on the backrest of the seat row in front of them, and lay the side of his head above his forearms. Richard mimicked the posture so their eyes met again.

“Do you feel like praying?” the black haired man asked in a whisper.

Schneider shook his head slightly. “Not really,” he answered.

“But?” Richard dug deeper, sensing that there was more the other one wanted to say.

They just looked into each other's eyes for a moment or two, until it felt like it was only them both left in this monumental building.

“Tell me everything is going to be okay again,” Schneider said.

“It will be,” Richard told him. He needed to believe it himself.

~~~

Paul's sister was a marvelous person, Richard mused as they sat together in a small restaurant waiting for their orders. Of course they had insisted on inviting her for dinner and spending the evening together.

He knew she'd always had her reservations towards the band. She knew her brother was happy being a part of the group and playing music he really loved playing. But she'd always had a skeptical view on the constant stream of provocations that seemed to be an inherent part of the band.

So here they were, sitting at an old oak wood table, drinks in front of them and waiting for her to tell about her visit at the hospital. She looked older than Paul. She was older than Paul, but Richard noted that she missed some of the youthful features that never seemed to leave her brother's face. Her voice was softer than his, less demanding, much warmer. She told them about how positively surprised she was that Paul was already in good shape, circumstances considered. That she had expected much, much worse. That Paul had kept asking tons of questions – asking how their parents were, if his children knew of if they could both be kept in the dark for as long as possible, if anything had gotten out, how her flight had been, how her family was, how she liked the hotel, if it had been a lot of trouble to get some days off. He kept apologizing, she told them. And how he avoided talking about himself and how he felt. How he evaded every question about his wellbeing. How he made all those stupid little jokes just to make her laugh.

She stopped and took a sip from her glass, while her eyes where fixed on the candle in the middle of their table. Out of nowhere her fingers started to tremble. Shakily she put the glass down, but held tight on to it nonetheless. She shook her head a few times in disbelief, as tears formed in her eyes and ran freely down her cheeks. Schneider instantly wrapped his hand around hers, showing her that she wasn't alone. “Why would anyone want to kill my little brother?!” she asked with a haunted voice and started to cry as quietly as possible. But she wasn't hiding her feelings and to Schneider and Richard it felt freeing. For a moment they were allowed to just delve into the horror that had happened without pulling themselves together just to pretend that they were fine. They weren't fine. Nothing was fine.

~~~

It was late at night when Richard finally slipped under the covers of his bed. He'd been on the phone with Till until half an hour earlier. Before that he'd been texting with Ollie. They really tried to make up for the fact that they weren't here in person and he was grateful for that.

He switched off the small lamp on his nightstand and made himself comfortable. The fabric rustled against his ear, as he turned to the side and closed his eyes. He really hoped the nightmares would leave him alone tonight. Small snippets of memories of today floated by. The group hug at the airport car park, Flakes guilty expression as he looked over his shoulder before walking to his flight, Paul pressing his head into his hand, the look on Schneider's face in the cathedral, the trembling finger's of Paul's sister as she put down her glass, the tears falling from her eyes, the utter disbelief on her features that someone had tried to kill her brother. He took a deep breath and blinked against the darkness. The whole situation was a nightmare all by itself.

It was then that his phone buzzed. He dismissed the initial impulse to ignore it and rolled around, fishing it from the nightstand. He let out a frustrated grunt as he found another already deleted message by Paul, put the phone back where it came from and turned around to his previous position.

Paul had always been exhausting to a certain degree, but this was different. At least usually he talked. Usually shutting him up was the problem. This sudden change of behavior, the hiding away was truly alarming.

Richard sighed after a couple of minutes and turned around once more. He took the phone in his hand and wrote a simple: What's up?

He waited for a response. None came.

Can't sleep? - he asked.

A few seconds later a simple No popped up on his screen.

Anything I can do? - Richard wrote and saw Paul typing for quite a while.

Finally just four words appeared. Never mind. Good night. And a smiling emoji.

“Cut that shit, Landers!” Richard hissed into the quiet room.

Against better judgment he called him. Part of him expected him to ignore the call, so to his surprise a few moments later he heard a soft and wondering “Hi” at the other side of the line.

“Hey,” he greeted back.

After a few moments Paul found his voice, “Can't sleep either?”

“Nope,” Richard answered and switched on the small light again. His eyes fell on the armchair. “And I have a confession to make.”

There was a heavy silence on the other side, before he heard a somewhat shy “What is it?”.

He sat up and moved his free hand over his face. “I haven't put your guitar back in the case yet.” He waited for a reaction, but it didn't come. So he went on. “Somehow it feels wrong, you know?”

“Hmm,” Paul made on his side of the line, taking his time to think about it. “To me it feel's wrong that … no, it's stupid, never mind,” he trailed off.

“That she's out here and you're stuck in the hospital?” Richard mused.

“No,” came the instant reply, “That's not it.”

“Okay,” he nodded and pushed the covers away so he could turn around and sit on the edge of the bed, looking right at the two guitars, “You don't have to tell me. I just don't think there's a reason I wouldn't understand.” He said it so gently that he hoped he'd given Paul every opportunity to opt out of answering.

He listened to Paul's breathing and waited. Again it took a while until the smaller one found his voice. “It's really stupid … I just … ,” another pause, “I don't want her to feel neglected when you play your guitar and she remains silent.”

“Paul, that's-” Richard began.

“- stupid, I know,” Paul finished the sentence.

“- nothing we can't fix,” Richard corrected him. “First of all, I understand what you feel.” He heard the other swallow. “I can either put her in the case, or I just play her. If that's okay for you, I mean. She will know it's not you, though.” He looked at the two instruments and imagined playing the Les Paul. They all had a strange connection to their instruments and he felt he would betray his own guitar. Then he felt stupid for having that feeling. Yes, he absolutely could understand the man he was talking to.

“Why would you do that?” Paul asked with a strange tone in his voice.”You have the most perfect guitar right there!”

He was right, Richard had to admit. Without a real purpose to it, he wouldn't exactly enjoy it very much. Not something they both ever wanted to happen. They both had chosen their guitar models because it resembled their individual characters and preferences perfectly. But then Richard had an idea and he anxiously switched the phone to his other ear. “How about that: I'll play for you. Right now. That way I have a solid reason and you two are connected - somehow. … If you can put up with my shitty playing, that is.” He grinned a little and hoped for a positive reaction.

“I'd like that very much,” Paul answered after some thinking about it. By the sound of it he really meant it.

Richard smiled warmly. “Okay, then … plug in your earphones if you haven't already and wait a moment. I'll set everything up.”

He put the phone on top of his pillow and started to collect the necessary equipment to run the guitar sound through the fly rig and then into the mic input of his phone. When everything was ready, he made himself comfortable on the bed again, lifted the black guitar on his lap and took the phone to his ear. “You still there?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” Paul answered.

“Good, he said and hoped it was the right decision to do this, “I will plug in the guitar to the phone in a minute and play for as long as I see fit. And then I'll just hang up. If you fall asleep in the meantime, all the better. That okay with you?”

“Yeah,” Paul barely more than whispered.

“Well then … good night, Paul,” he said and waited, until he heard the “Good night, Richard”. Then he inserted the plug in his phone, switched off the light and started playing, listening to it through his own headphones as well.

It felt strange and sounded even stranger. Not like him playing, but not like Paul either. The strings, thicker than his own, felt foreign against his fingers. He tried his best and just played the melodies that came to mind, weaving them into one another. It was odd not to look at the face of the person he was playing for, not to read their reaction. He closed his eyes and imagined they would both be here in this room together. He wouldn't see him due to the darkness anyway, but it would make it easier nonetheless. He needed a while to ease into it and finally play directly from his feelings.

He didn't know how long he'd played. At a certain point he didn't want to stop anymore. But tiredness came over him and so, after listening to the last chord fading, he stopped. He took off the headphones and gently unplugged the instrument from his phone. Slowly he lifted the device to his ear and listened. The connection was still holding and he could hear deep and regular breathing on the other side. For a moment he listened to it and smiled to himself. Then he hung up and, without caring to put the equipment away, slid under the covers and fell asleep immediately.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 07: Illusion – Part 1

It took him all of his strength to say it.

He knew it would hurt him.

He hated himself for it.

But what else could he do?

“I'm already back in Berlin.”

~~~

Three days earlier:

It was a rainy Tuesday. They had started it together – Schneider, Richard, and Paul's sister. They've had breakfast together and after that both men were adamant to escort her to the hospital. Of course she would be spending both the morning and afternoon visiting hours alone with her brother. She would be on the plane back home this evening, so every minute with her little brother was valuable.

In the meantime Richard and Schneider had planned to visit the Naschmarkt and after that either meet with Paul's sister for lunch – if she felt up to it – or otherwise go see some other tourist attraction.

When it was around noon, she called them telling them that she was so incredibly mad at her brother that, no, she wasn't hungry and would rather spent some time walking along a nearby park and clear her head. She was straightforward with her wish and didn't even attempt to apologize. In Schneider's and Richard's eyes she wouldn't have had to, anyway. Still they asked if there was anything she wanted to get off her chest right away, but she refused to. She simply wanted to calm down and get herself ready for the afternoon visiting hours.

This left the two musicians to some more free time, which they filled with a visit at a nice traditional restaurant and after that, by accident, they found a blacksmith shop in a side street. As if on silent agreement they both stopped and just listened. It was something they did almost automatically whenever the opportunity occurred. Listening to mechanic sounds, to sharp metallic rhythms. To each of them it was inspirational in their own way.

Richard dug deep into his current feelings – mostly frustration, tension and anxiety – and connected them to the rhythmical tones emanating from the blacksmith shop. He closed his eyes and pulled his brows together in concentration. Almost instantly a base idea for a new song formed and his mind was eagerly making mental notes. His nose took in the different layers of scents and he tried to memorize all of it. How perfect would it be if the final song could represent the smells and textures he was tasting on his tongue right now? It felt like a solid baseline to a new Rammstein song.

He opened his eyes again and found Schneider's gaze fixed upon him. “Got everything you need?” he was asked by the taller man.

“Ja,” he answered and wondered, how much time had passed, “You, too?”

“Yup,” the drummer replied with a satisfied smile and pushed himself from the wall he had been leaning against.

They went on strolling along the downtown area, talking about anything and everything. Yet part of Richard wanted to just sit down, take his guitar and compose. Part of him yearned for it and he loved the feeling. He relished the hunger and motivation to write new pieces and he couldn't wait to start working again. Finally something other besides all that worry that could occupy his mind.

~~~

Richard and Schneider both waited next to their rental car in the parking lot by the hospital. It was only logical not to call for a taxi. They wanted to talk openly about Paul with his sister, so no-one was allowed to hear anything. They had been lucky that nothing had come out to the public and they would do anything to keep it that way.

They could see her coming towards them. She was taking long purposeful strides, pulling her small suitcase behind her and it seemed like it had trouble keeping up with her. The look on her face was that of a woman who wasn't taking any shit anymore. It didn't change a bit once she came to a halt in front of the two musicians.

Schneider was the first to react. He greeted her, to which she barely responded. Then he offered to put her baggage in the trunk, which at least she accepted with a short nod.

“Want to get it out in the open? Or just get in the car and hit the road?” Richard asked her with his head tilted forward and slightly to the side.

Her jaw was clenched and she simply pointed at the car.

He understood and opened the passenger door for her. He stubbed out his cigarette, nodded at Schneider who had just closed the tailgate, and went to take his seat in front of the steering wheel. While waiting for his friend to make himself comfortable in the middle of the back seat, Richard wondered what must have happened in the past few hours. Of course he knew Paul could be a handful at times, but it would be a strange thing if his family didn't know how to handle him. He started the engine and moved the car into the evening traffic of the city. It took three red lights for Paul's sister to finally bury her face in her palms and let out a deep sigh of frustration. Richard averted his gaze from the red light and looked at her instead, waiting patiently for any reaction that might follow.

“In case you might want to strangle him with your bare hands,” she muttered into her hands, “you have my blessing.”

“That bad?” Schneider asked from behind them and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

She nodded and massaged her forehead with her fingertips.

“Can we use a rope instead?” Richard tried to joke, but her “You can throw him out of the window for all I care” wasn't exactly the response he had expected. So he raised a brow and kept looking at her expectantly. She took a deep breath, finally leaned her head against the headrest and placed her wrists against her forehead as if trying to further calm herself. She kept her eyes closed and shook her head thoughtfully.

“No,” she finally said, her voice sounding defeated and airy, “of course not. It's just---”

They were interrupted by an aggressive honking from the car behind him. Richard looked at the traffic lights again, realizing he must have missed the change to green, and set the car in motion immediately.

She took her hands in her lap and opened her eyes, staring at the road ahead.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It's just …?” Schneider picked up her last words to invite her to go on.

“I … I know that he's hurting,” she started, obviously searching for the right words, “And all this is fresh and a lot to digest … but he is such an idiot! … I mean,” with that she turned around in her seat so she was able to look at both Schneider and Richard, “how is it that when it comes to describing sounds for example, he even comes up with new words to be as accurate as possible. But when it comes to talking about his feelings, he has the vocabulary of an ogre.” Richard had to involuntarily grin about the description, even though he thought it was painfully on point.

“Because his attention is always turned to the outside,” Schneider mused, “never to the inside.”

She nodded, “And if he finds himself in a really painful situation he simply tries to find something positive in it and focuses solely on that.”

“Which is a quality,” Richard chimed in, before entering a roundabout.

“Yes,” she agreed, “At least it would be if he would still at least deal with the shitty things, too. Otherwise it is just an avoidance strategy.”

Richard remembered several times at their group sessions Paul had to be pushed to talk about what was bothering him. It always felt like he had no interest explaining his feelings to the rest of the group. Was it possible that in fact he didn't know how to? It seemed unlikely. Paul could describe anything to the smallest detail if he wanted to.

She took the silence in the car as an invitation to go on. “Apropos avoiding: That's exactly what he's doing with you guys. He isn't talking to you about his divorce, for example, because he doesn't want to answer any uncomfortable questions that might come up.”

“Such as?” Schneider asked, his voice barely able to hide the underlying hurt.

She sighed thoughtfully and looked at Richard's profile for a moment. “Probably anything involving the reasons why or if he was in pain or what you could do to help.”

The last bit had the guitarist pull his brows together. “Why would offering help be a problem?”

“He doesn't want to bother anyone,” she explained, “You know him. He will help anyone around him. But when was the last time he had specifically asked for help on his behalf?”

“Not on a bigger scale,” Richard mused and behind him, Schneider nodded in agreement. “He always has a plan. And if its not working out, he readjusts and tells us about it.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Okay, but when was the last time, he was stuck. Like, really stuck and needed advice how to deal with a certain thing?”

“Like I said,” Richard shrugged, “he always has a plan.”

“He thinks he has one,” she interjected.

“Doesn't he?” the drummer asked skeptically.

“One that works?” she asked him and met his eyes. “No. Not all the time.”

“I wonder how many times we have failed to notice?” Schneider asked and Richard immediately felt him making self-reproaches.

“And back we go to focusing on the good things and evading the shitty ones,” she told him with a do-you-get-it-now-expression on her face, “That's the strategy he has learned and that's what has worked for almost his whole life. If you ask him about his feelings he gives you just enough so you think he has told you the truth.”

“But it's just bait so you think he's fine,” Richard concluded.

She nodded and turned around again, facing the traffic ahead of them. “Exactly.”

“Hm,” the guitarist made, “He likes to be in control as well. Asking for help would mean he'd give up control. At least partially.”

“I see, you know my brother well enough.”

Richard looked into the rear mirror and saw Schneider lean back, cross his arms and stare out of the right window.

“He has learned how to ask for help without actually asking for help,” she went on, “You are supposed to help him cope his way with his actual problems, but god forbid you want to dig were he doesn't want you to. So … just to give you two a heads-up: The situation right now is a minefield. My advice is: Don't dig until you are ready to take the blow.”

“Okay,” Richard said quietly, “Is that why you were so pissed of earlier?”

“Yeah,” she answered ever so softly.

“Do you think he's stuck?” Schneider wanted to know.

“Absolutely,” she said without any hesitation.

For a moment they all fell silent, each of them needing some time to collect their thoughts.

Richard scraped his fingernails a few times against the steering wheel as he went through the four rules Schneider and he had established. Those rules didn't include the possibility Paul wouldn't open up at all. Maybe the don't-push-him-rule had to be rephrased. They would have to discuss this. Later.

“Do you know the reason behind the divorce?” the drummer asked after a while.

“Reasons. Yes.” She turned around in her seat again, a sad look on her face, “I hope you understand that I wont tell you about it though. That's his decision to make.”

“Of course,” Schneider replied instantly, “I just want to know your opinion: Is there anything we could have done differently to make him open up to us about it?”

Her eyes lingered on the drummer's face for a moment, then switched to Richard's. “I don't know,” she finally answered. “All I can tell is that his strategy of keeping everything to himself isn't working anymore, as you must have noticed as well.” They both voiced their agreement. “If you ask me, he needs to realize he can't deal with this on his own.”

“And if – against all odds - he can?” Richard asked her, his eyes meeting hers for a brief second.

“Trust me, he can't,” she told him with a tone that left no space for doubt.

~~~

They said goodbye to each other at the airport and both musicians watched her walk off to her gate. She promised to write them once she was back home so they could be sure she had a safe journey.

On the way back to the hotel Schneider and Richard remained silent most of the time. They knew they didn't have to talk. They simply knew they thought about the same things anyway. They skipped through all the events in the past that indicated Paul might be in need of help and what had happened in return.

They both remembered numerous events where the man in question convinced them that everything was fine. Where – after any doubts were settled - they had believed him. Where partly they had convinced themselves that if he said so, it must be the truth. After all, if he always was so blatantly honest with everything and everyone else, they didn't want to believe he would be lying to them when it was concerning himself. Maybe they should have asked more, should have been more persistent. But there had always been something they had to do. A photo shooting, rehearsals, a tour, an album production, own personal struggles – something always begged for their attention. And if they were honest, they were glad he told them that he was fine.

~~~

It was late. Close to midnight even. Richard had his phone in his hand and pressed send.

If you have trouble sleeping, I can play for you again he had written.

On one hand he wished that Paul wouldn't write back which would mean that he was asleep as he should be. On the other hand he wished to be able to do something that was actually helping, that he was useful, and of course that Paul would open up at least a tiny bit. Yet, even if Paul would ask him to play, it could still be the bait his sister had talked about earlier.

Don't want to keep you from your beauty sleep appeared on the display.

Richard smiled and shook his head. Not tired he answered.

Sure?

Sure. Would be playing anyway.

Some time passed before Paul texted back. Getting my earphones.

'kay. Give me a moment. Most of the setup was still plugged together, so he was ready in no time.

Sleep tight he wrote and read the You too on his display, before connecting the rig to his phone and calling his friend. He waited for the other one to pick up the call, then he switched off the light and played the black guitar until he finally fell asleep.

~~~

He was up early. To his surprise Schneider was, too, and so they decided to have their breakfast at one of the bakeries closest to the hotel. One of the great things about Christoph was that he could sit at a table with him without having to talk to him all the time. There was a very comfortable silence between them, without the pressure of having to say anything.

Of course he wanted to say a lot of things but at the same time he wasn't ready to. A lot of what Paul's sister had told them had been putting a few things into a different perspective. He still didn't know what to make out of it.

“Earth to Richard?” he heard Schneider say and looked up from his empty coffee mug.

“Sorry, you were saying?” the man with the black hair asked and raised his brows.

The drummer just smiled in return and started anew. “What do you think. Should we bring him a piece of one of those cakes over there?” And with that he pointed at the small but fully stacked counter. “I mean … he's allowed to eat again.”

Richard returned the smile and nodded, “That's a great idea. As long as he doesn't get to eat the whole thing.”

“Of course not,” Schneider grinned.

~~~

A little later they both walked along the hospital corridor towards Paul's room. Richard was immensely exited to see him again. Of course he was nervous, too, after everything that had come to light the previous day. Yet there was a small bounce in his steps and he held the cake he'd chosen from the bakery display like a little treasure between his hands. Besides all the possible fights he might have with Paul in the near future, he was hopeful. Anxious, but hopeful. At least the other guitarist wanted him to play for him to help him sleep. It was a way to connect without having to talk. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Schneider knocked and then opened the door for them. They found Paul wide awake in his bed, the upper part of the bed propped up so he was halfway sitting. He had his phone at his ear, waved at them with his bandaged hand and smiled. Whoever was on the other side draw his attention back to the conversation and he rolled his eyes.

“Ick hab 'n Schlauch in meinem Schwanz, wat denkste denn?!” he said in his Berlin dialect, obviously a little annoyed, but also amused. - I have a tube in my dick, so what do you think?!

Schneider and Richard both looked at each other questioningly at that. When their eyes met Paul's, he just shook his head in a please-ignore-that-manner. They both grinned and took a seat next to each other at the left side of the bed. As if it had become an unwritten rule, Richard sat closest to Paul's head. And it still felt awkward to not hug him as a greeting. They always did that. Strong heartfelt hugs. He dearly missed that but didn't dare to even make an attempt. Too big was the fear and possibility to hurt Paul. Besides that, there were those small but unambiguous indications that the other one didn't want much body contact at the moment. So Richard did nothing of the kind and instead placed the paper bag with the cake on the nightstand. There was an empty cup and a bottle of water. He used the time to refill the cup.

“Nee, jetzt pass' du ma' auf! Ick hab hier grad bess'res zu tun als übers Ficken nachzudenken. Dit iss'n Krankenhaus, keen Pornoset.” - No, you listen to me now. I have better things to do than to think about fucking. This is a hospital, not a porn set.

“Till?” Richard asked softly as soon as he knew he had part of Paul's attention.

The smaller man nodded at him and then stared at the covers. “Weeß ick doch. Ick bin nur noch nich' an dem Punkt. Is' nich' bös' jemeint.” - I know. I've just not reached that point yet. No offense.

He listened and nodded. After a moment he smiled widely. “Danke, dit weeß ick zu schätzen.” - Thanks, I really appreciate that. - His eyes switched to his guests and he smiled at them, too. “Du? Richard und Schneider sind grad' rinjekomm'n. Könn'n wa später nochma' reden?” - Hey, Richard and Schneider have just arrived. Can we talk again later?

“Say hi from us!” Schneider demanded.

Paul did as he was told, then said goodbye to Till, hung up and rested his head against the pillow with an exhausted groan, closing his eyes.

“Hi,” Richard said clearly amused.

“Hi,” Paul answered but didn't move.

“Hi,” Schneider chimed in.

“Soooo,” Richard started and made a small pause before he went on, “let me guess. He wanted to know if you had an eye on one of the nurses?”

Paul nodded slowly and looked back at him. Richard was really glad to see that the swelling on his right eye had gone down a little and that he was able to open it much better than the last time he'd seen him. “Yeah, he thought sharing his fantasies would cheer me up.”

“You know how he is,” Schneider half smiled, half grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

“I do,” Paul answered with a lopsided grin of his own, “And I know he just wants to help.”

They nodded their agreement, but Richard silently wondered if Paul was even able to accept that kind of help even if it would be more appropriate.

“Okay,” Schneider used the short silence, “so, what's new, besides you still having a tube in your dick?”

They grinned at each other and Paul lifted a brow. “Really now?”

“Sorry, if you're so casually sharing that information, you don't get to complain,” the drummer responded.

“Fair point,” Paul agreed and and shook his head again, still grinning. Almost absentmindedly he tried to shove his phone on top of the nightstand. Richard helped him and their fingers brushed against each other. Their eyes met and the grin on Paul's lips faltered.

“Thanks” the smaller man said and pulled his hand away.

Still waiting for an answer, Schneider made a new attempt. “Did you enjoy the time with your sister?”

Immediately, as if the last few seconds didn't happen, a wide smile spread out across Paul's face. He told them about how happy he was that she could manage to visit him. That she had arranged a video call with his parents and with his wife and also with his children. That his family wanted to come and visit, too. And that he and his sister had a great time, all circumstances considered. That he'd made sure she didn't need to worry about him because he was okay and everything was about to be just fine.

Richard watched Paul weave lies into truth so effortlessly that it scared him. He didn't know this side of his friend even existed. And it made him angrier by the minute to know that he was being lied to. But then his eyes fixed on the bruises on Paul's arms and face and he forced himself to remember that most likely he was at one of the most vulnerable points in his entire life. He didn't do that to hurt them but to protect himself. For Richard it still hurt that Paul was probably trying to protect himself from them, too. He simply couldn't ignore that and judging by the uptight posture Schneider was sitting in, the drummer didn't feel much different.

He has to realize he can't deal with this on his own. The words echoed in Richard's head. And he wondered how the fuck they should manage that without driving him into a corner. He watched the other two man talk to each other and stopped listening. For a moment it felt like he wasn't part of the whole scenery. This was surreal. It wasn't … them .

“We've brought you something,” he heard Schneider say and snapped out of it just to see Paul's face light up. “See, we've been at this amazing bakery this morning and since you are allowed to eat again … .” Richard took the hint and reached for the paper wrapped piece of cake.

“Oh, you shouldn't have,” Paul said and tilted his head to the side, smiling gently.

While Richard started to unwrap the cake, the drummer went on. “But you love the local cuisine and it's just something small---”
A bruised hand was placed on top of the wrapping paper right before it was fully unfolded. “Christoph?” Paul's voice was suddenly sharp and clear. Their eyes met and the voice went soft again. “I'm not allowed to eat that. … Not yet. But I love the gesture!”

Richard didn't need to turn his head to know that Schneider wouldn't be able to hide the disappointment on his face. At least not fast enough for Paul to notice. And he knew the drummer was already asking himself why they hadn't thought of that. He asked himself the same question. Ollie would have thought of it for sure. He cursed inwardly. “Shit,” he said out loud, “We're so sorry.”

“Oh come on, please!” the smallest of them replied with a heartwarming smile, “It's just cake.”

It wasn't just cake.

“You're right,” Richard said against his will and returned the smile. And he asked if they could bring some more the next day or the day after. And Paul smiled and proposed they could all have some the day he would be able to get out of bed.

Everything they kept talking about the rest of the day was so fucking petty and shallow Richard wanted to vomit. He watched them tiptoe around each other like any of them could break at any moment. What he hated most was that he seemed to have no control over anything. And he had no energy left. So he decided to endure it.

~~~

The door to his hotel room was locked. He'd checked twice. He sat in the darkness, the fingers of one hand holding and releasing the strings of the black guitar, the fingers of the other stroking the plectrum against them. He knew Paul was listening on the other side of the phone connection again. But it didn't take long for him to forget about certain melodies or songs he was playing. Instead he started to improvise and let his mind wander.

His gaze shifted to the window. A short flashback memory of his dream passed his thoughts. He remembered the blood on the cobblestone pavement. The fear that he'd felt the moment he realized his friend was driven away be the ambulance rose up again and made his fingers tremble against the sturdy strings. He kept playing and forced himself to think about the before. He remembered their performance earlier that cursed day. The all too familiar smell of burned gas, the intense heat of the flames, the overwhelming energy that tied the six of them together. He remembered the pure and utter joy on Paul's face as they stood right next to each other in the middle of the stage, the way they both were so in tune with each other. He'd been so fucking happy in that moment. And of course he'd had every reason to be happy. He'd been in their self-made little world where he could pretend to be as tough and strong as he wanted to be and he had tens of thousands of people who were playing along.

And now? Now Paul kept pretending because maybe he didn't know how to stop. Which meant Richard was damned to pretend along with him.

He threw his head back against the backrest of the bed and closed his eyes. His fingers automatically played a little more aggressively, but he couldn't help it. He wanted to freak out. Every fiber of him screamed for release. He didn't allow himself to. He couldn't. If that barrier would breach he wasn't sure if he would be able to contain his emotions to function the way he was expected to. But he wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to beat the living shit out of those fuckers who were still at large.

But instead he would smile and wait in a pretend world he had no say in.
He would be playing along. For now.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 08: Illusion – Part 2

A feeling woke him up. His eyes blinked slowly against the darkness. Warm sheets enveloped him, as he lay sprawled out on his stomach. His fingers touched something hard and smooth next to him on the bed. He vaguely remembered the guitar.

For a moment he listened into the pitch-black silence and tried to remember what he had dreamed of. But the memory of it had already escaped. Now he lay there with the feeling of having lost something that had always belonged to him, and didn't know what or why or how.

He felt hollow and void of any hope.

Having no idea what else to do, he closed his eyes again and tried to fall back into sleep.

~~~

A knock on the door pulled his consciousness out of another exhausting dream. His brain was still fuzzy as he pealed himself out from under the sheets. Another knock followed, but he couldn't quicken his feet. It felt like he couldn't wake up completely.

The sun was already shining through his window.

“Who's there?” he asked through the closed door and barely recognized his own voice.

“It's me. Chris.”

He fumbled with the lock and opened the door to let his friend in.

A surprised “Whoa!” slipped from Schneider's tongue.

“Hm?” Richard made as he felt the other's eyes linger on his face.

“I'm so sorry,” the drummer said and softened his gaze, “That shouldn't have come out.” He stepped inside and turned around, waiting for the other man to close the door and face him. “Have I woken you up?”

“You have,” he answered and rubbed some sleep from his eye with one finger. “What time is it?”

“Eight thirty. I thought you wanted to have breakfast together.”

“I did,” Richard replied and headed back to his bed to pick up his phone. “But I didn't hear my alarm.”

“No big deal,” Schneider said and followed him further into the room.

The guitarist checked his phone and made an annoyed sound. “Shit, the battery died.” He instantly pulled the charger from the nightstand and plugged it in. “But, to be honest, I'm really not that hungry anyway.” He turned around to find the drummer standing in the middle of the room and scan the bed. Paul's guitar still lay on the vacant side of the mattress, halfway entangled in cables and partly covered by the pushed-aside sheets. He expected Schneider to comment on the sight, but to his surprise he didn't. Instead he turned his head and looked at him keenly.

“That's okay,” Schneider said, “But as your friend I feel obliged to tell you that I am worried about you.” Richard didn't answer that and simply pulled up his brows apologetically. So the drummer went on. “If it's all the same to you, I'd like to order room service. Just a simple breakfast.”

Richard knew very well what was going on. He knew he probably looked like a mess. He sure as hell felt like one. And his friend wanted to make sure he was having some routine and structure in his day to keep him from slipping into any close proximity of his patiently waiting depression. He himself wanted nothing more than to be alone. Which meant that the depression was already on the hunt. And he was self-reflective enough to understand what that meant. And so, with utmost gratitude, he nodded at his friend.
Schneider in response simply closed the distance between them and wordlessly hugged him as closely as possible. Richard returned the gesture. They didn't have to say anything. They knew each other long enough to blindly understand.

After a moment Christoph found his voice and gently slapped the other's shoulder blade. “How about you hit the bathroom and transform yourself into a human being, and I take care of our order?”

Richard cleared his throat, nodded, and wordlessly did as he was asked.

His vanity begged him to take a look at the bathroom mirror, but when he did, he instantly regretted it. The dark circles around his eyes at least matched the sunken colorless skin and diverted the gaze from whatever his hair was doing on his head. Years ago he might have turned around, crawled back into his bed and hidden from the world. But today he was able to accept help without thinking twice. And that was something to be proud of.

With that pride in mind he nodded at his face in the mirror and went for a shower. After having a shave, too, he returned to Schneider who was just about to arrange the food and dishes on the table between the two armchairs.

He put on some fresh clothes and took his guitar from the chair, gently placing it on the bed instead. A soft breeze hit the side of his head and he realized distant chatter. Schneider must have opened one of the windows.

He took a seat while watching his friend pour coffee into their cups and finally sit down as well. “Thank you,” he said to the drummer, of course meaning more than the meal.

Schneider just nodded in understanding and tilted his head down a little, holding the gaze. “I'm doing this for my own good as well, you know?” he answered with a toothy grin which made Richard smile.

“You're a great friend, you know that?” the guitarist replied.

“Yeah,” Schneider nodded and grabbed himself a bread roll, “But it's always nice to have someone notice it.” The grin stayed plastered on his face and Richard couldn't help but start to laugh in a goodhearted manner.

For a moment they both sat together in peaceful silence, simply enjoying the food. Of course Richard's body craved for nicotine, but he would be able to hold out a while longer. This here, this was more important.

“May I ask?” Christoph suddenly said and pointed at the black guitar on his bed.

“Sure,” Richard followed his gaze and shrugged his shoulders. Luckily after that many years together as a band, barely anything would be considered strange anymore. “He couldn't sleep, so I played for him last night.”

The drummer blew out some air through his nose, leaned back in his chair and smiled to himself.

The guitarist looked at him and waited. When nothing came, he couldn't help but ask. “What?”

“Nothing,” Schneider replied and lifted one half of his jam covered bread roll to his mouth and took a bite.

“But?” Richard eyed him closely.

The drummer just shook his head and chewed a little, until he was ready to speak, smiling widely. “You two just have such a unique connection.”

Unique definitely hit the nail on the head, Richard mused.

“Did I ever tell you,” Schneider thought out loud, “That you two do something really interesting on stage sometimes?”

“What do you mean?” Richard curiously asked and took a few sips from his coffee.

“Sometimes,” the drummer started, just to lick some jam from his fingers before he went on, “you look at him across the whole stage. And just when you look away again, he looks at you. Sometimes it's the other way around. As if on silent cue.” He took another bite. “It's weird.”

“You make that up to mess with me,” Richard laughed.

The drummer shook his head. “I'm not!” His gaze fell upon both guitars on the bed for a brief moment, before returning to his friend, “There's a special bond between you two.” he leaned back, the rest of his bread roll in his hand. “Maybe it's a guitarist-thing.” He shoved the rest in his mouth and let the indicated Maybe not dangle unspoken in the air.

Richard didn't know what to make of it, so he dropped the issue. Instead he enjoyed the small moment of normality.

~~~

When they arrived at the hospital, Paul had just ended his session with the ergo-therapist, a fresh bandage protecting his right hand and wrist. He appeared to be contemplative, the facade of happiness and carefree smiles clearly missing.

They greeted each other and the strange feeling of walking on eggshells crawled back into Richard's consciousness but he tried to blend it out. They had been friends and colleagues for decades now. He wasn't willing to give in to it so easily. Especially not after this morning.

Instead of the chair he chose to sit halfway on the edge of the bed. Schneider took the opportunity to sit in the chair closest to Paul and put the coffee cups he'd brought with them on top of the night stand.

“How is your hand?” Richard asked while hoping Paul was okay with the closeness.

The man in question didn't seem to have heard the question, his eyes scanning every new detail around him as if having a secret agenda. They landed on Richard's hands, the small black backpack sitting on the remaining chair, the folds of the jacket being thrown over it, Schneider's shirt, Schneider's hair, The coffee cups, the brand name on one of the cups, the curtains, the single cloud in the sky, his own bruised left hand, Richard's face, his bandaged right hand.

“Paul?”

“Sorry,” he finally responded and looked back at Richard, who's eyes were fixed on him expectantly, “Yeah, it'll take a while but it will fully heal.” As if wanting to prove it, Paul lifted the hand in question up a little and moved his fingers as far as the bandage allowed.

“That's good news!” Christoph said and joyfully leaned forward a little.

Richard still missed the smile on the other guitarist's face, mainly because right now it would actually fit the statement.

“It is,” Paul answered and kept staring at his hand absentmindedly.

“Hey,” the black haired man made and gently nudged Paul's thigh through the covers, “What's the matter?” He exchanged a quick glance with Schneider before drawing his full attention to the man lying in the bed.

Instead of answering, Paul turned his right hand so its back was turned upside. He slowly closed his fingers as if trying to hold something that wasn't there. Very abruptly he stopped, closed his eyelids tightly and relaxed his fingers. The hand was slowly rested on the mattress again.

The two others just watched and waited patiently. Something was obviously going on and they both wanted to give their friend all the time in the world.

Paul swallowed. It took a moment until the creases on his forehead faded. His mouth opened a little, but he couldn't find the right words so he simply exhaled. He opened his eyes as well and glued his gaze to his bandaged hand. Every now and then he either blinked or swallowed. Richard didn't know what was going on until a quiet tear ran down Paul's cheek and was wiped away almost instantly by his good hand.

The sight tugged at Richard's heart. Paul barely ever cried. He couldn't remember any recent concrete event, but whenever it might have occurred it had either been out of joy or out of fury in a heated argument. But this right now, this was pain. And obviously Paul's guard was down, which probably meant that – at least right in that moment - he had no strength left for it. And just as he had this thought, he could see a vague attempt to pull up a smile on those lips, but it faltered and vanished as quickly as it had come. Paul sniffed as quietly as possible and finally looked up at them through slightly watery eyes.

“Don't worry,” he told them, “I'm okay.”

Schneider immediately leaned back and crossed his arms. Richard stayed in exactly the same position and was about to reply, when he saw that Paul's lips moved to say something more.

“Something just happened, a-and I … ,” he seemed to struggle, “I wasn't … expecting it.”

“What,” the drummer asked plainly, yet still with all his typical empathy.

As if needing it to help his memory, Paul underlined his narration by moving his right had with what he was about to tell them. “The therapist,” he began, paused, took another deep breath, and continued, “he let me do some exercises. Which was fine.” He closed his eyes. “He had this plastic staff thing I was supposed to grab as tightly as possible. But when I did it from this angle,” and again he turned his hand with the back upside so he could grab the now imaginary staff from above, “I felt the knife cut in my hand again.” He didn't move his fingers closer together though. Like a child who had just learned a hot stove could burn and was now standing close enough to feel the radiating heat but didn't dare get any closer. His breathing quickened and slowed down again. He opened his eyes, a strange and puzzled expression on his face that he tried to cover up with a faint smile.

Schneider uncrossed his arms and leaned his elbows on his knees instead. “It's called trauma,” he stated.

“No, it's called body memory,” Paul replied.

Know-it-all, Richard thought. “Does it hurt for long?” he asked instead, steering the conversation to the real issue.

Paul seemed to actually listen to his body for a second as if trying to hear if a chord had faded out. “Not if I try not to concentrate on it, I think.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Christoph asked, his brows lifted, showing he deeply cared.

Richard could already predict what Paul would answer. And he was proven right, when the other guitarist indeed declined the offer with a smile-carried “No. Don't worry. I got this.”

“Okay,” the drummer answered with an underlying tone of resignation. “You know you can always change your mind in case you need someone.”

“I know,” Paul answered.

“We haven't asked before but did they provide a psychiatrist for you?” Richard tried to sound as casual as possible. The truth was that they didn't know when or how to ask. This seemed the best chance the'd have.

“They wanted to,” the guitarist replied. He had smiled away the water in his eyes. Richard's and his gaze met and they had a silent exchange. After a couple of seconds he went on. “I'll ask for a session tomorrow, if you want me to.”

“Yes, please,” the black haired man answered and swallowed down the response he really wanted to give.

“Fine,” the smallest of them sighed, “Although … going to a psychiatrist in Vienna really is cliché overload, don't you think?” He started to grin and, after trying to resist, Schneider and Richard both chuckled as well.

The drummer was about to give comment on that, but was interrupted by the door being opened. All eyes turned to the nurse who entered with a trolley. It was the same woman who'd been here the first night, and then the day after, again. Her shoulder-long hair was held by bobby pins, supporting her stern appearance.

“Mrs. Huber, I've missed you!” Paul greeted her cheerfully and it seemed like he'd wiped away his earlier mood.

“I wish I could say the same, Mr. Landers,” she responded with a sigh, closing the door behind her and shoving the trolley to the end of the bed. When she finally looked up again, she wore a small grin on her lips.

“Hello gentlemen,” she said to the other two band members who stood up out of reflex and greeted her back.

“Has he been rude to you?” Schneider asked her, obviously wondering about the strange welcome exchange.

“He tries to be,” she answered and walked closer to check the IV and the attached fluid bag. “I know he has a plan,” she went on as she did her tasks, “Pissing me and everyone else off so we let you out of bed sooner.” She stopped her motions and simply looked down at him. “Isn't that right?”

Ah, come on,” he tilted his head to the side a little and met her gaze, “you all know that it's just meant to be funny.”

“True,” she answered, still not moving, “that's why I play along.”

It made Paul smile and if Richard wasn't mistaken, the nurse was close to smiling as well. She walked back to the trolley and fished out some larger plastic-wrapped equipment from one of the drawers and placed it on top. “Today's the day,” she went on and looked him with a suddenly stern expression. “Are you feeling up to it?”

“Getting out of bed?” Paul asked excitedly and waited until she nodded. “Of course I do!”

Richard glanced at Schneider and he was relieved that he wasn't the only one who seemed a little worried that this might come too early.

“In that case I'd like the two of you to leave the room until I ask you to come back in,” she said to the visitors.

They both hesitated. “Can't we stay and … “, Schneider's voice trailed off as he saw her shook her head.

“You can be here when he leaves the bed,” she explained, “But it's best to give him some privacy when I remove the catheter, don't you think?”

It took a second, maybe two, to understand what kind of catheter she meant. They both nodded, took their coffees with them and left for the hall. Of course they'd all seen each other naked and in one or the other more compromising situation, but they'd grown up to a certain degree and knew where to draw a line. At least most of the time.

So they took a seat around the corner at a small table with a faded artificial flower on top of it. They turned their heads so that others wouldn't be able to recognize them, and for a while they silently drank their beverages.

“Do you think it's a good thing or a bad one? Him taking his first steps,” Richard asked against the brim of his cup, the steam gently grazing his nose and lashes.

When he didn't receive an answer he turned his head to look at the drummer. He had his cup in his left hand and stared at the opened palm of his right one. His eyes were shining suspiciously. Believing nurse Huber might need some time, Richard made a suggestion: “Want to come outside for a moment? I'd like to have a smoke anyway.”

Schneider instantly agreed with a relieved nod.

~~~

Three cigarettes and a lot of careful encouraging words later, both men were back in the hallway, arriving just in time to watch the nurse bring a single crutch to Paul's room. They both followed her and reached her before she opened the door.

“Sorry,” Schneider said to her, “we were outside for a minute.” They both hoped she hadn't been looking for them.

“Perfect timing,” she responded, even giving them the hint of a smile, “Follow me.” Richard liked her a lot. She clearly didn't give a damn about who they were.

She walked over to Paul's left, indicating to the other two to wait on the other side of the bed, or at least at the end of it. They both were to anxious to sit. So Schneider leaned against the wall while Richard grasped the footboard.

Paul briefly looked and smiled at them, but otherwise said nothing. Within an instant his eyes were fixed on the nurse. Mrs. Huber was focused on her patient as well, as she stoically began to guide him through what was about to happen.
“Before we start, I'd like to know how you want to do this. Do you want to do this mostly on your own or do you like a little more support?” She asked him.

Richard knew the answer before the question had even ended. “I'd like to do this by myself,” Paul answered. Interestingly enough the excitement from earlier was gone and Richard wondered what these two had talked about in their absence.

“Very well,” she accepted his decision, “I'll step in anyway if I think I have to. Understood?”

Their eyes met and he nodded.

“Alright. First I'd like you to sit up on your own. Push yourself up from here,” she leaned closer and showed him exactly where to put which hand, “and here. Use the side of your right hand, or, better, your elbow. Keep your back as straight as possible.”

Paul followed the instructions closely and pushed his body up. His face immediately contorted with pain, but other than a labored sigh no noise escaped him.

Richard watched with compassion, his brows pulled upward in deep concern.

“You okay?” nurse Huber asked.

“I am,” Paul answered while his face relaxed again. “What now?”

“Scoot a little closer to the edge, but gently.”

He used his good hand and foot to support his weight and shifted closer to the edge of the bed. Again, a wave of pain shot through his body.

“When you're ready, push away the covers,” the nurse instructed calmly.

Richard watched his friend closely. It was terrifying to see him struggle with such a simple task. Instinctively Paul wanted to grab the covers with his right hand, but the injury and the bandage made it difficult. It took a few attempts to succeed and reveal the also bandaged left ankle and foot.

“Now I want you to move your left leg over the edge, push your calf against the bed, follow with your other leg and in the same motion turn towards me. Got it?” He looked up at her and nodded again.

Involuntarily Richard dug his fingernails into the footboard. He knew that expression on Paul's face. It was the one of utter concentration, the one he wore when he was practicing with his guitar and thought no-one was watching him. Under normal circumstances he would have loved to watch him for as long as possible, trying to hide that he was looking at him. He would love to marvel at every little detail on the other's features, none of them covered up by a fake smile or an angry frown. The focus in his eyes, the shadows that his lashes would cast, how he would tilt his head either to the side or down, how his bottom lip would sometimes twitch a little.

But this were no normal circumstances. And Richard knew another rise of pain would wash the sight away, which indeed it did until Paul was finally sitting on the edge of the bed, his feed dangling a few centimeters from the floor, his back straight, his head bent down, his eyes staring at the floor and his breathing heavy.

“Okay,” he asked, “What's next?”

“You just sit,” the nurse answered calmly and she very deliberately took a long audible breath. “You have been in bed for almost a week and you've lost a lot of blood. Let your circulation get used to it.” For a while she let him sit there in his white shirt and cream colored sweat pants.

Eventually she took the crutch and leaned against the side of the nightstand, where Paul could reach it. “Now,” she began, “take the IV-stand and bring it to your right.” The item in question had been standing right next to Paul's bed, so he reached out with his left arm and rolled the thing to his other side.

“Take the crutch,” she ordered and watched him do it, “And now very carefully let yourself slide from the bed. Put your weight on your right foot. Keep your back straight. If you need to support your balance, use the bed or my hand or shoulder. Just not the IV pole.”

Paul's eyes fell on the wheels of the pole and then the nurse's face. “'kay,” he said.

He hesitated a few seconds, before following the instructions by the word. A pain-filled hiss escaped him, as he finally stood on his feet and crutch. His right hand rested on nurse Huber's shoulder, his back was tensed up and his head tilted down.

“Breathe,” she told him.

He did that and exhaled audibly through his mouth a couple of times.

“If you feel like passing out, you say so, okay?”

He nodded.

“Alright.” She cocked her head to the side. “Where does it hurt right now?”

He took his hand from her shoulder and carefully pointed at both sides of his ribs.

“On a scale of one to ten?”

“I'm okay,” he answered, his voice telling otherwise. “Let's go on.”

“Fine,” she said, giving the other two men in the room a quick reassuring look. “Have a try and take a few steps. Let's see if you can make it to the bathroom.”

He nodded again, took a few breaths and then shoved the IV-stand a little, before following it with small hobbling steps. It took a while for him to reach the bathroom door. He didn't look to his friends nor to the nurse. Instead he slid the door open and kept moving inside.

When the door closed, both Richard and Schneider turned their heads to the nurse, who at the same time already walked towards them.

“I couldn't tell you earlier,” she began in a hushed voice, as she saw the questioning looks on their faces, “Mr. Landers and I have agreed that if he could make it to the bathroom, he of course can use it.”

“And if he falls?” Schneider asked.

The nurse nodded, closing her eyes for a second. “I know that's a concern. But first of all: The door can't be locked. Second: There's an alarm button in there.” Richard immediately wondered how Paul could reach that if he was lying on the floor, but she already went on. “Third: We constantly check if he's okay and he has agreed that, at least for now, he'll always tell us if he wants to leave the bed. Except for when you are there.” She clearly indicated that in that case they should keep an eye on him, which of course they would do. “And lastly: He is supposed to get on his feet again. We can't eliminate every risk. But he has promised to be careful.”

They could hear some muffled noises from inside the bathroom, but nothing indicated any troubles.

“Let's hope so,” Richard mused in barely more than a whisper, “He has a very high pain tolerance.”

Nurse Huber shrugged her shoulders and tilted her head to the side. “I know. He has requested a lower pain medication.” She turned her head to the door, listened for a few seconds and looked back at the two men. “I bet he's already regretting that decision.”

Richard knew what she meant. It was painful just to watch Paul walk the few meters. The image had erased the illusion he had in his mind that the other guitarist would be able to easily get up from the bed and walk almost normally. Now he wondered how long it would take for his body to heal.

“Is there anything he shouldn't do?” Schneider liked to know.

Huber nodded again, “Yes. Obviously he shouldn't lift anything or bent his body in any direction except for when he is sitting.” Richard and Schneider listened very carefully. “He shouldn't put weight on his left foot for the next couple of days, but that's a given. No showering, and he has to take care not to get the bandages wet. No sleeping on either side of his body to protect both the healing incision as well as his fractured cheekbone.”

She was about to say something else, when the bathroom door opened and Paul took another step and stopped, leaning against the doorframe. His face looked tired, but content.

“Everything alright?” the nurse asked.

“Yeah,” he answered, his voice sounding suspiciously thin, “Just one question. When do I get rid of this?” He pointed at the IV-stand.

“In a few days,” she answered purposely vague, “Now get back into your bed.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied with a grin and indeed followed her order. Again she advised him how to move so he wouldn't risk injuring himself. It went smoothly, except for the occasional signs of physical pain. Until it was time to pull the covers back over his legs. He wanted to grab the edge of the blanket with his right hand. He was about to hold it from above. His fingers only moved an inch and then froze. Richard watched the fingers tremble before trying again. And again they failed. He looked at Paul's obstinate expression. The hand tried a third time and a fourth. Finally his left hand came to the rescue and pulled the covers where they belonged, even if it meant extra pain on the chest.

With a final heavy sigh Paul let himself sink back into the propped up pillow and closed his eyes for a moment. The room was filled by his heavy breathing.

“How does it feel?” the nurse asked gently while checking if the IV was still in place and had survived the small excursion.

Paul left his eyes shut and pulled his brows together. Then he slowly nodded and relaxed his face again. Bit by bit a smile found his way on his lips – first small, then broad. His eyes opened and found hers. “Like a victory,” he answered.

Richard wanted to believe his friend but at the same time it looked like a strength-sapping ordeal. Maybe it was both.

“This is good to hear,” the nurse answered while making sure the bandage on his side still in place and that he hadn't accidentally injured himself. When she was done, a satisfied smile appeared on her face. “You've done well, Mr. Landers. Now rest. You can try again this afternoon, okay?”

Their eyes met and Paul nodded at her, thanking her for her amazing help. She in return said she'd only do her job, unceremoniously excused herself and left the room to the three men.

Schneider and Richard both took their previous seats again, congratulating Paul for this huge step, even if it was made of tiny ones. The guitarist in question thanked them, grinned and carefully shrugged his shoulder. “Piece of cake,” he casually uttered.

“Looked kind of hard to me,” Schneider objected softly and hoped, he hadn't spoiled the mood.

But Paul kept grinning and shook his head one time. “Not, what I meant.” He chuckled and looked at the drummer with his head tilted sideways. “This has been exhausting, yes. But if I remember correctly, you wanted to bring me another piece of cake the day I make it out of bed.”

“So here we are,” Richard nodded thoughtfully.

“Here we are indeed,” Paul responded.

“And your wish shall be granted,” Schneider decided.

They laughed. It brought some lightness into the room, something to distract them from what was happening to them.

~~~

When they returned for the afternoon visit, they found Paul sleeping soundly. They had brought some fresh clothes for him and as quietly as possible put them in the small wardrobe. Then they sat down next to their friend and, after some talking about a song they'd heard on the radio on the way back to the hospital, they decided to wake him up.

Richard, again sitting on the side of the mattress, gently put his hand on Paul's and rubbed his thumb over the other's knuckles. Schneider in the meantime fished out a package from his bag and placed it on the window sill.

Dark blue-gray eyes opened slowly and they looked around aimlessly for a moment until Richard took his hand away. The gazes of both guitarists met and for a moment they stayed like this. It was like both of them wanted to say something but didn't know how. To Richard it felt like their old connection was back and he could say anything free and openly. But after all the tiptoeing around he wasn't ready. And when he realized it the moment was already gone.

They greeted each other, asked each other how they were, lied to each other that they were fine, inwardly convinced themselves that they did the right thing, and then stumbled into some meaningless chitchat they were all tired of.

Eventually they addressed the promise to bring some cake and Paul showed honest joy that he could try some. He expressed his wish to go to the bathroom first and while he was at it, put on a fresh shirt, too. Schneider volunteered to organize plates, forks and some fresh tea. Meanwhile Paul climbed out of bed under Richard's watchful eyes.

He still didn't want any help. He followed the nurse's instructions by the book. Richard's heart bled as he saw the suppressed pain on Paul's face as he walked past him like ninety-year-old. He watched the door slide open and then shut. He looked at the ceiling and fought off the rising moisture in his eyes with a heavy sigh.

After a while he heard his name through the closed door.

“Yeah?” he asked back loud enough.

“Can you hand me one of my shirts, please?” Paul asked back.

“Sure,” he answered, went to the wardrobe and picked a black one at random. Sliding open the door a little, he peeked inside. Paul was sitting on top of the closed toilet, fidgeting with the slim tube connected to his IV. “This one okay for you?” Richard asked and held the shirt up.

“Ja, thanks,” the smaller man replied and looked up at the other guitarist. He hesitated, but then went on. “I think I might need some help here.”

Richard pushed the door open further and stepped in, placing the shirt on top of a small cabinet. “Sure. What do you need me to do?”

Paul sighed in a way he usually did when he couldn't manage to play a certain sequence of chords. Besides that he remained silent. So Richard squatted down in front of his friend and waited until they had eye contact. “How can I help?”

“First of all promise me to not freak out, okay?” Paul asked and waited until the other man nodded. “Okay,” he went on and looked up to the IV-stand and back down to Richard's face. “I need help getting the IV-bag through the shirt sleeve. … And my shirt off. … And reverse.”

“Of course,” Richard replied. “But why would I freak out?”

Paul looked down at the tiles for a moment, before he blinked and looked back into Richard's eyes. “Never mind.”

Richard accepted the answer and rose to his feet. He concentrated on the task at hand since it was the only thing to do anyway. “How do you want this to go? First take off the shirt and I'll take care of the bag afterwards?”

“Might be best,” Paul answered.

“Okay,” the dark-haired man nodded and helped his friend to remove the shirt from his body step by step, trying to keep the painful movements to a minimum. When that was accomplished, he unhooked the IV-bag from the pole and pulled it through the sleeve, before placing the shirt over the edge of the sink. His eyes fell on a wash cloth and he looked at Paul through the mirror above the sink. “Do you want to refresh yourself a little?” Their eyes met.

“Do I stink?” the smaller guitarist asked with a concerned expression.

“No!” Richard replied honestly and with a helpless chuckle, “But I thought it might make you feel better.”

“Thank you,” Paul said, clearly relieved, “But that's been taken care of this morning.”

“Alright,” the taller one nodded and smiled, receiving a smile in return. He took the clean shirt in his hand, unfolded it and started fumbling the bag through the garment before hooking it on the IV-stand again. He turned to Paul and saw the reason why he'd asked to not freak out.

From this angle he was able to see a huge part of Paul's back. The view made him freeze. It was covered in so many heavy bruises that it was hard to find a patch of unharmed skin. There were bruises on his chest as well, but not as many, not as big, not as dark. And despite his promise, a part of him freaked out. He remembered what had happened that night. He imagined the number and force of those kicks and blows responsible for the injuries he now saw for the first time. He felt his vision start swimming and helplessly tried to stop the water from filling his eyes, but to no avail.

“You promised,” he heard Paul say.

“I know,” he forced out. “Sorry.” Hastily he wiped his eyes with his own sleeve and went on helping his friend into the fresh shirt.

It appeared Paul was extra careful now not to make a sound that would give away any pain. Instead, when they were done and he was dressed again, he smiled back up to his friend. “It looks worse than it is, believe me.”

Richard didn't believe any of it, but played along and let Paul head back to his bed.

Schneider had already arranged the tea and cake and they all went to have the small meal together, again without addressing the elephant in the room, which day by day grew larger.

Paul complimented them both on the choice of the cake and how good it was to finally be able to eat something, and yes, that he still had to be cautious but, yes, this was worth it. He asked if they liked it as well and told them he was sorry that they had to make do with the simple hospital tea.

Without a warning Richard stood up, excused himself and left the room.

The two others looked at each other for a moment.

“Is it okay if I - ?” the drummer asked and pointed at the door.

“Ja, of course!” Paul responded without any hesitation.

He rose from his chair, put the cake aside and went outside the room, just to find Richard leaning against a wall right around the corner. The guitarist looked at the ceiling and water stood in his eyes. The drummer didn't say anything. Instead he leaned his back against the wall himself, stared at his feet and waited.

It felt good to be outside that room and he didn't want to be in there again. He knew he shouldn't feel that way but he couldn't ignore it. “I'm so sorry,” Richard muttered, “I just had to leave.”

The other nodded. “It's not about the stupid tea, is it?” he asked, indicating he already knew the answer.

“Of course not!” he replied. “Tell me how you do it? How do you bear with all the lies.”

Schneider lifted his head to lean it against the wall as well. “I … I don't.”

For a moment they stood there in silence.

“His back is completely black and blue. All colors of the rainbow, to be honest.” Richard had to tell him. He needed him to know this, too.

Schneider turned his head and looked at him, telling him with one look that he understood everything that lay between those words.

After a while they both went back inside and acted as though nothing had happened. And so did Paul.

~~~

They had asked if by any chance they could use the hotel gym just for themselves this evening and thankfully this was no big deal. They'd both been given the key and in return were asked to return it at the front desk when they were done.

So now, both Richard and Schneider stood in the middle of the small but high-quality gym and looked around. They had both decided enough was enough. They had to channel the frustration or otherwise would suffocate.

They decided on the punchbag and alternately let out their aggression verbally and physically until they both were unable to do anything else but sit on the floor sweating, panting and crying.

~~~

Of course Richard played for Paul again. This night he'd chosen to play some of his own favorite songs. He needed to do this for his own good and after the first two pieces he felt a soothing effect on his mind. The guitar had become less foreign to his fingers. If he would be honest to himself, she felt even familiar. It was the same with this room. He'd gotten used to it. It had become his little haven. In these late hours, with someone else's instrument in his hands, enveloped in the night's darkness, connected to the person he secretly cared more for than he would ever admit, in there hours despite all the fear and doubts, for a short amount of time he felt safe.

~~~

At this point it was almost routine. Wake up. Brush off the nightmares. Get up. Have breakfast somewhere. Get in the car. Quietly listen to the radio. Having three cigarettes at the parking area. Containing most of his feelings. Walking into the hospital building. Bracing himself for the fake facade Paul was showing them. Entering the room. Circuiting every sensible topic. Smiling along.

Today it changed.

Without a warning Paul looked at them with all seriousness and said: “I think it's best if you stop visiting.”

Schneider almost dropped the cup of coffee he was holding.

Richard didn't know what to do at all. He'd heard the words and knew their meaning, but they made no sense to him. “Why?” he asked in a quiet breathy voice.

“I have to concentrate on getting better. I can't take care of you, too,” Paul stated almost coldly.

“Wh-what are you saying here?!” Richard wanted to know, still trying to comprehend.

“And where is this coming from?!” Schneider spoke up, equally perplexed.

Paul's gaze fell on his lap, where his good hand fumbled with the bandage on the other one. Then he looked back up and into the two sets of expectant eyes. “I don't want to hurt you,” he began.

“You don't!” Richard interrupted him. He was in shock and his pulse was rising. This came out of the blue. Why the hell were they been pushed away?

“You've been crying yesterday just because you looked at me!” Paul blurted.

“Is it my fault then?” He knew he shouldn't say another word. He should take a moment and catch up with the whole situation. But he couldn't stop himself.

“No, it's mine!” the smallest of them shot back, “All of this is my fault. Why don't you get it! But it's not my fault you can't deal with this!”

Richard didn't know what to make of this, let alone know what to answer.

“We can,” Schneider spoke up. “You can't!”

“I sure as hell can!” Paul defended himself, “I just can't deal with you two being all emotional. Don't you think I don't see it?” He crossed his wrists on top of his head. “It would have been easier if Till would be here.”

“Till would have cried, too,” Schneider replied in a rigorous tone. “They all would have! Do you think we don't care? We don't cry because it hurts us but because we know you are hurting!”

“But that's not helping me!” Despair started to seep through his voice and he put his hands back in his lap.

“You don't let us help you!” the drummer copied the tone of the expression.

“Because there's nothing you can do except act normal!” Paul replied even louder this time.

“Playing for you each night isn't helping then?” It was Richard who'd spoken up now. He didn't want to show it but the remark had hurt him.

Their eyes met and both guitarists stared at each other for a long tense moment.

Paul's voice was calm, when he finally spoke up. It was clear, almost sharp, and void of any warmth. “Actually no, it isn't. I do this for you, Richard. It gives you something to do so you have the feeling you help me.”

“For me?” he asked in utter disbelief.

“Ja,” the other insisted, “You suggested it, remember? Not me. You.”

“So you just … what?! Endured it?” Richard asked and didn't know what was happening. This was a cruel joke, right? Was this even their Paul?

“I didn't even listen to it.”

“Pardon, what?!”

“I decreased the volume and put the phone aside.”

Richard's mouth opened a bit, but he uttered no sound. The words stung in his heart like a blunt knife. He could only stare back and tried to keep up with what was said. Yet his mind wasn't willing to accept any of it.

“What are you doing!?” Schneider asked, obviously realizing that Richard needed support.

“Asking you to not visit anymore,” Paul repeated his earlier request.

Schneider stepped closer to the bed. “So you'd rather be alone?”

“No, I won't be,” he answered and still looked at Richard's face. “My family will come visit.”

The drummer narrowed his eyes. “Which family?”

“My children,” Paul answered, “and my wife.”

“The wife you got divorced from?” Schneider asked before he could stop himself.

Richard heard the words and his blood froze in his veins. He wanted to shake Christoph for this rash action. They had no idea how Paul would react. Then again the smaller guitarist himself had just revealed something so hurtful he didn't know how to handle it. And part of him was relieved, so deeply relieved that the fact that they knew about the divorce was out in the open. But it was a fucked up timing.

Paul's eyes switched to the drummer. He looked at him with a murderous glare.

None of the other two dared to say a word.

It took a while for Paul's gaze to soften a little. It dropped down to Schneider's shirt and then to his own hands. His brows were still pulled together a little. His nostrils moved a little and his bottom lip began to tremble. He started to chew on it for a moment, before a whisper escaped his lips. “Get out.”

“Paul?” Schneider tried in a soothing tone.

“Get out!” Paul immediately yelled back at him and instantly had to hold his chest from the pain.

The drummer stood up and grabbed Richard by the shoulder. “Okay,” he muttered defeated, “We'll go.” He pulled the other man with him.

When Richard closed the door behind them, he felt awful and like the worst friend in the world. By the looks of it, Schneider felt the same.

~~~

The ride back to the hotel was quiet. They both had to sort their thoughts.

When Schneider had found a place in the underground garage, he turned of the engine. Yet none of them moved.

“You can be honest. Are you mad at me?” the drummer wanted to know and turned his head to the passenger side.

“No,” Richard sighed, “No, I'm not mad at you. I'm even glad you said it. I'm mad at him.”

“Thanks,” Schneider replied in relief.

“You blew our plan, though. You pushed him.”

“Yeah... I did.”

For a short moment they both chuckled, but the sadness caught up with them within seconds.

Schneider studied the guitarist's face for a moment. “Do you want to know what I think?”

Richard closed his eyes, slowly nodded and then looked at the other man. “Sure.”

“I think this is the first time that he's in a crisis of these dimensions. He doesn't yet know how to deal with it and he has no plan of his own. Sure as hell didn't see my outburst coming.”

Richard blew some air out of his nose. “And how are we supposed to deal with it?”

Schneider sighed long and heavy. “I guess we give him space and wait.”

“Wait?” he repeated, “Still? Even after he is biting us away?”

“Ja,” said the man in the driver's seat.

Richard wasn't convinced. “But he's never been like this. Fighting? Yes. But always in a challenge-me kind of way, not like this.”

“What would you like to do then?” Schneider asked, giving his friend a serious look. “Drive back and go back in there?”

Taking a deep breath, Richard pressed his head against the headrest. He knew Schneider was right but he wasn't willing to accept it. And right now his body demanded a smoke. Maybe this would calm his nerves. He opened the passenger door and left the car.

He heard the other door open as well. “Richard,” Schneider said to him, “Wait.”

“Sorry,” the guitarist replied, “I just need to think about it, okay? I mean … you're basically asking me to leave him alone.”

“No,” the drummer said with a pacifying gesture. He locked the car and walked to his friend. “I'm asking you do give him a chance to come to us.”

~~~

Self-worth. A simple word. To Richard it meant work. In more meaning than one. He saw his worth grow and embedded in his work. More of one meant more of the other. But he knew this wasn't exactly a healthy point of view, so he'd persistently worked on finding his self-worth in himself. It was an uphill-battle he had to fight with himself over and over again. He'd made small steps over the years. He'd learned that it was okay to put himself first. For years he didn't know why though. He just tried to learn step by step that he didn't have to do something to be worth something. That he had to apply the same rules to himself that he used on everyone else: Have respect for others from the get-go and therefore see worth in them. They wouldn't have to work or fight to be respected by him, but they could do things, say things, to lose or regain respect. It was an easy rule. But then why was it so hard to treat himself that way?

He knew the answer of course. Years of therapy had given him a good grasp on why he was struggling so damn hard. And he also knew his job wasn't exactly helping to break some of his patterns. Thousands of people cheering and celebrating when he was on stage, rewarding him for the work he was doing, was a perfect reinforcer for seeing his worth in his doing, not his being. Especially since he was playing a role.

But he loved his job. He loved writing and playing music and wouldn't have it any other way. So, in a way, it maybe always would be a never ending balancing act.

He had learned some ground rules when it came to self-worth. Paul had violated one of those rules today. Maybe he'd done it out of relatable reasons from his perspective, but that wouldn't diminish the impact it had on Richard.

He felt like shit. Worse even. Everything he'd done in the past week was meant to help, stabilize and support his injured friend. And there were small signals that at least here and there it was working. He couldn't just have imagined it, right? If only Paul had told him from the beginning that he didn't need their nightly session. Instead he had lied to him. Or … just hadn't said anything at all. What had he done to be treated with this kind of disrespect?

He had to think. And he had to take care of himself, too. If he wanted to be there for Paul, he needed to stabilize himself, too.

~~~

It was early in the evening. After dinner Richard had excused himself and retreated to his room. He needed time to himself.

After changing into something more comfortable he had a look at his phone. Eight missed calls. All from Paul.

He put the device down on his bed and paced around the room for a moment, not knowing what to do. Paul knew he liked to keep his phone on mute. He knew Paul would only try to reach him that many times if it was urgent. But after thinking about it and talking to Schneider again, he was convinced that some time apart might be the better option for all of them, as hard as that may seem. It had worked in the past.

So what could he possibly want to talk about that it couldn't wait?

He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers and sat on his bed with a deep sigh. Hesitantly he picked the phone back up, just to see that Paul was calling again.

His thumb hovered over the green button before he forced himself to accept the call.

“Hi,” he said.

For a while he listened to the silence on the other side.

“Paul?” Richard asked gently.

“I-I'm sorry,” the other guitarist finally said.

“For what?” he wanted to know.

Again silence. Then a soft “I didn't want to hurt you.” followed.

Richard stood up and walked to the window. “Is it true, though?” He watched the people outside.

“Yes,” Paul answered on the other side as if he was carrying a heavy burden.

He looked at the two guitars that since this morning both lay on top of his bed. It hurt. And he knew what he had to do to make it easier for himself. So he walked back to the bed and started to unplug everything with his free hand.

“Richard?” Paul asked into the other's silence.

“Hm?” he made without stopping his actions.

“You … you weren't here this afternoon.” The voice of the smaller guitarist sounded thin and a little shaky.

Richard started to worry but – no! He had to worry about himself first. And he wasn't okay, too. “You didn't want me to, remember?” He walked to the guitar case, lifted it up and put it on his bed.

“Yeah,” Paul said quietly. “Maybe … maybe I might have … changed my mind?” Richard rolled his eyes over the helplessness seeping through that sentence.

He lifted the black guitar up and placed her gently inside the case. “Paul?” He closed the lid and locked the fastening. “I don't want much, really. But a maybe isn't good enough right now. I need to know what you need.”

He heard the other man breathe a couple of times. “I … I really don't know.” He swallowed.

For a moment they both waited for the other to say something.

It was Paul who finally broke the silence. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

Richard wanted to. But he knew the chances were way too high that everything would escalate even further. Especially since Paul didn't know what he wanted and needed. It was the minefield his sister had spoken about. So he had just one option left.

It took him all of his strength to say it.

He knew it would hurt him.

He hated himself for it.

But what else could he do?

“I'm already back in Berlin.”

On the other side of the line he believed to have heard a sniff. Then nothing for a long time. He sat down next to the case on his bed and waited.

Richard was about to address Paul by his name, when at the same time the other man had found his voice – but it was breaking. “Oh … o-okay,” was all he could say.

“How about we-” Richard started but Paul had already ended the call.

He looked at the phone in his hand and saw Paul's name vanish from his display. His eyes fell on the case beside him. “Fuck!”

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 09: Deconstruction

“What if I fucked up?” Richard asked, the phone pressed to his ear and a glass of red whine from the mini bar next to him. He sat on the floor of his hotel room below the wide opened window. It was dark outside, the street lamps casting patterns on the ceiling above him. Every now and then he heard footsteps outside echoing through the streets. Mild air fell into his room, pleasantly cooling it down.

“You didn't. Trust me,” the man on the other side reassured him with a deep calm baritone voice.

Richard's eyes had already gotten used to the dark and made out the contours of Paul's guitar case. He sighed audibly. “I wish I could.”

“Hey,” Till started, “you just told me you are taking care of yourself, right?” He sounded so gentle it was hard to believe who he could be on stage.

“Right,” he replied, “Or … at least I try to.”

“Then that's the opposite of fucking up.”

“I lied to him,” the guitarist stated.

“So?” Till asked innocently.

“Kinda hypocritical, don't you think?” his hand traveled to the glass, picked it up and lifted it to his lips. The whine tasted too sour for his liking.

There was a long pause before the singer reacted. “You could come back home for real. Would make it less of a lie,” he chuckled.

Richard rolled his eyes, not finding it funny in the slightest. He couldn't blame Till. He didn't know how important the relationship to Paul was to Richard and that his feelings went way deeper than that of an almost quarter-century-long friendship. And even if those feelings weren't there, Paul had always gotten him in a way no one else had. He in return had always understood a side of Paul no-one else ever had. They had seen the best and worse of each other. But never until now had he seen Paul hurting his friends on purpose.

“Sorry,” Till said on the other side of the line, interpreting the silence. “Let's be serious. … Tell me what choice you had.”

Richard sighed and against better judgment took another sip. “I could have told him the truth. That I'm staying here and wait for him to ask for help.”

“Mhm,” the other made, before a plopping sound followed. He'd probably opened himself a beer, “And you think that would have made it better in any way?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head no. “Probably would have put him under more pressure,” he said.

Suddenly a siren blasted through the streets and blue flickering light crossed the room as the ambulance drove by. A sudden fear clasped Richard's heart. He held his breath and froze. He followed the light with his eyes and the siren with his ears. It was gone within seconds but his body remained stuck in a state of shock. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. There was just the overshadowing feeling of something terrible happening.

“Richard?” Till asked gently after a few more moments had passed, “That siren has nothing to do with you.”

He didn't know why it was that Till in those moments knew exactly what to say. Those were the perfect words do disconnect him from the claws the fear had dug into his mind as well. He couldn't shake it of completely, but he was able to gain control. “Keep talking, please,” he asked as the unpleasant prickling sensation ran through his very core.

“No,” Till replied, his voice steady as a rock, “You start talking. We have an agreement.” Indeed they had. The lead singer loved to tab every resource of human mind's darkest corners. And he was an excellent listener. To Richard this was equally helpful since his therapy had led him to finding it healing to open up about whatever was troubling him. “So, pour it out.”

“I'll try,” he started. Indeed, he always started with those exact words. His fingers brushed against the glass of whine, but he decided against it. It were the small rules that made the difference. No more alcohol when in crisis mode was one of them. “I could see the taillight of the ambulance again. And I could see Schneider's eyes. The fear in them.” With his free hand he wiped over his face to calm himself. “I didn't really get it until I saw the remains of Paul's clothes on the ground. It's not the blood that's haunting me. I thought it would be the blood. But it's the clothes.” An involuntary shiver ran through him. “I didn't know if I would see him again. There were blue flickering lights and a dark red pavement and he was gone.” He led out a long shaky breath. “All I could think about was th-that ... what if that had been the last moment I'd seen him? Leaving him behind in the hallway of the hotel. What if … what if the last I'd seen him was the moment I left him behind?” It felt good to let it out. It didn't feel good to dig in those thoughts. But it was such a release. “He wasn't there, you know? Everyone else was. You weren't, but I'm used to you not being there. Because you are you. But he … he's always there. And suddenly he wasn't. Just the scraps of his clothes on the ground.” The image was clear before his eyes. He tried to blink it away and felt deep into the relief that spread out in his heart. It was the first time he had put his fear into words. Hearing himself say them helped to get control over it. And someone he trusted knew about it now, too.

He stood up from the floor, lifted the whine glass up and put it on the window sill. He walked over to the sideboard and took the pack of cigarettes in his hand.

Meanwhile Till seemed to think about what to answer. After a moment he seemed to know. It was a question. “If you could make a wish, what would you like to have that you haven't? More control over what's happening?”

Richard put a cigarette between his lips and lit it up. He leaned out of the window to keep as much of the smell out of the room. It was a non-smoking room, but he had bigger problems on his hand. He took a long drag. “Safety,” he answered and blew the smoke out through his nose.

“In what way?” the singer wanted to know.

Another drag. “I want to be sure that we can go back to how it was.” He watched the smoke curl up into the night sky. “That this is just a phase. Because it doesn't feel like it.”

“I'll promise you,” Till said in all confidence, “I'll do everything in my power to make that happen.”
He didn't know what to say. He was grateful. He was relieved. Till was a man of his word and if he promised something he kept it. Always.

“It's always been like that with the little shithead,” the lead singer went on and took a quick sip from his supposed beer, “Ask him for help: He bends backwards to to everything you need. Ask him if he needs help: He gives you crap.”

Richard could only laugh bitterly at that and tapped the ash of his cigarette into the whine glass. He wasn't going to drink more of it anyway.

“I know which Paul we're talking about,” Till went on calmly, “And yes, such an attack is unprecedented. But we won't let those fuckers reach their goal. So personally I'll give him two months to open up, counting from today. We'll have our first band practice in three weeks. He has already reassured me that he will be there.”

“He has?” Richard asked curiously. He didn't know that and both wondered why Paul hadn't told him himself and yet felt relieved to know all six of them would start working together again so soon. Usually he would have preferred a little more vacation, but he wasn't able to relax anyway.

“Yes. He has promised me he'll join us as soon as practice starts.”

“Was that before or after this morning?”

“After.”

This was surprising. “And if after two months nothing changes. Or what if he won't come to the rehearsals despite his promise?” Richard needed to know.

“Then we will force him out of his shell,” Till answered matter-of-factly, “I don't care how. But we will. For his own good.” It was a resoluteness only their lead singer could deliver.

They kept on talking until several cigarette-buds swam in red whine and Richard's heart was a whole lot lighter.

~~~

He decided to stay in Vienna for a little longer. Although he had led Paul to believe he was already out of town, he was unable to bring himself to leave.

Yet he had convinced Schneider that it was perfectly okay for the drummer to travel back home and finally be with his family. Schneider in return, always the most loyal friend, found a hundred reasons why he couldn't leave Richard alone. The discussion went back and forth until the guitarist could convince his friend that he was a grown man who could take care of himself, even if he wasn't alright. He told him that he'd already organized a session with his psychotherapist via telephone and that of course he would stay in close contact with Christoph. He reassured him that in his opinion the drummer was now most needed back at home and that, should anything change and he was needed here, he would tell him.

Schneider still apologized again and again, even as they hugged each other for a long time before the drummer left for his flight at the airport.

Amidst all the other people there, luckily unrecognized, Richard came to a halt and looked up at the destination board. He'd been to most of the cities. If he wanted to, he could just fly there. Leave, too. He had the money to make it happen. Gray eyes read the letters over and over until they stopped making any sense.

Of course he couldn't leave. He didn't want to. He wanted to stay and wait for Paul to make up his mind.

~~~

He'd spent the whole weekend waiting for Paul to reach out to him. But there was nothing. No call, no message. Till had still been in contact with the smaller guitarist, but even to him Paul hadn't mentioned anything remotely connected to Richard.

Richard could understand that from Paul's perspective he might feel left behind. So in a spur of a moment thinking he'd driven to the hospital on Tuesday morning. Maybe Paul would be pleasantly surprised? Maybe they could have a talk, just the two of them. And yes, he still was convinced this was a minefield, but with each day of radio silence he felt guiltier. He'd thought making a cut would help him take care of himself, but it didn't feel that way anymore. He had tried to distract himself in any way possible but nothing had done the trick. Even his psychotherapist couldn't help. He needed to talk it out. Or at least make sure the other man knew he wasn't as alone here as he might think. At the same time he needed Paul to make up his mind on what he needed. Maybe he'd even done that already and just hadn't reached out jet, waiting for them to meet when he was back in Berlin himself.

Unsure of what to do, Richard had walked up and down the nearby park, smoking one cigarette after the other. He recognized he was clearly smoking too much, even for his standards. The stress was killing him. He decided to go inside and just tell Paul the truth. Tell him that he was still here and that he was there for him if he needed someone. That there was no pressure. That anything would be okay as long as Paul would be honest, even if it hurt. He wanted to be fair and show him that the proverbial door stood open.

He walked along the corridors, took the elevator, turned around the corner, made his way to the door to Paul's room, hesitated, shoved his doubts aside, and finally opened the door.

He found the bed empty.

The crutch was leaning against the nightstand. The IV-stand wasn't there. A book lay next to a white cup and a bottle of water.

Richard went a little further, hoping Paul might be in the bathroom but he found the door slightly ajar and could see that no-one was inside.

He made a small disappointed sound and left the room. His eyes searched for a familiar face and in the distance he spotted one. It was the nurse who helped Paul make his first steps. She looked busy. But he needed do know. So he swiftly made his way over to her.

“Hi,” he greeted her whole she was about to carry a blanket into a room.

She looked up, clearly not happy about being interrupted. “How can I help you?” she asked.

“Do you know where Paul went?” he asked back.

“Who?” her face shifted from being annoyed to being puzzled.

“Mr. Landers,” Richard clarified.

She pulled her brows together until finally it seemed to click. “Oh,” she made, “That Paul.” Her eyes narrowed a little as she seemed to try and remember. “He has an appointment with one of our psychologists. And after that ergotherapy, if I remember correctly. I'd recommend coming back in the afternoon if you want to visit.”

Richard nodded, thanked her and left her to her duties.

As he made his way back to the car, sadness sprawled out in his heart. He'd wished to see him again. He'd wished to replace the rising emptiness with hope.

While driving back to the hotel he slowly realized that there was still hope to be found. If he were honest, he hadn't believed that Paul would actually go seek psychological help. But he had kept his promise. Maybe the whole give-him-time-stuff seemed to actually work. Best case scenario was that the therapist with their outside perspective could bring some motion into the situation and make Paul realize he shouldn't deal with all of it all by himself.

Which also meant that today Richard would definitely not come back to visit in the later hours. He knew how those days with a freshly started therapy felt like. The mind needed time to work through so many memories, possibilities and realizations. A surprise visit would be the last thing Paul needed on his plate.

Maybe Paul would try and contact him now. Maybe he would want to tell him that he'd kept his promise. Richard forced himself to some more patience and prepared himself to wait.

~~~

There was no call. No message either.

Richard had asked Till if he was still in touch with Paul, to which he said yes. He asked if there was any mention of Paul wanting but not knowing how to talk to Richard, to which he said no. All Till could get out of Paul was that he said he'd wanted both Schneider an Richard to stop visiting and that he looked forward to meeting them all again in a few weeks. No word about the apology and the change of heart later that evening on the phone some days ago. No word of seeing a therapist either. Nor if he needed anything to make the situation easier.

Friday evening Till called Richard and told him that he started to seriously worry about Paul. That there was something in his voice that he didn't like. That the other man had become more and more reticent and unapproachable. That he was thinking about taking a flight and checking on him himself. If Richard was willing to go visit the next day.

Of course Richard would go and look after his friend, not only to do his other friend a favor. And so, with only coffee and a few cigarettes for breakfast, he made his way to the hospital on a cloudy Saturday.

Since it was a weekend, there shouldn't be any therapy sessions scheduled. The corridors looked almost vacant. He could spot one nurse in the distance, but besides that it was quiet. His steps echoed on the linoleum floor. It felt peaceful here and helped his racing heart to calm down.

Carefully he pressed down the handle and opened the door. It was quiet inside, besides some birds chirping through the open window. His eyes fell on the bed. It wasn't empty this time.

“Hey,” he said so softly he could barely hear it himself.

There was no response, no movement either.

He gently closed the door and came a little closer to the bed.

“Paul?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Nothing.

He looked at the other man while his feet dragged him closer.

Paul seemed to be fast asleep. He lay on his back, yet turned a little to his left and his ear pressed against the pillow. His left knee was bent and his good hand clasped his phone, to which earphones were connected. He seemed to have listened to them before dozing off.

Richard sat down next to his friend and just kept looking at him. He had instantly decided against waking him up. He needed time to see Paul without one of his masks and without having to fight.

He looked better and worse at the same time. The IV was gone. The right side of his face looked a lot better. The swelling had gone down and the discoloration around the broken cheekbone had faded by a few nuances. It was still clearly visible, but the progress was impressive. The bandage on the right hand was gone as well. Richard could only see a few centimeters of the bright red scar snaking it's way from the palm to the wrist. A horrific view, especially for a guitarist, and yet it was good to see it heal.

Richard's eyes switched to Paul's face. Someone had shaven off all of his beard. But at least his lashes were back to full length. He remembered the concert about four weeks ago when at some point Paul had gotten too careless and had come a little too close to the fire. Among their band rules there was one that had grown out of Till's concern for the other's safety and Paul's mischievous mind. Whoever had some of their facial hair burned off, had to be made fun of at least once a day, until the next of them would get too close to the fire. Other body hair didn't count because that constantly happened. But if intense heat would hit the face, that meant potential danger. Four weeks ago a burst of fire took Paul's lashes and Flake was released from the curse of being made fun of.

Suddenly Richard felt bad. Paul was going through a divorce and they had made the stupidest jokes about him. They didn't know. But still. How must that have felt for Paul?

He watched him breathe in and out peacefully. His lips were parted just the tiniest bit. He had always been a quiet sleeper, only softly snoring if sick or drunk. His hair stood in every direction, also not an uncommon view to Richard. What was uncommon and deeply unsettling was how sunken his skin was. Paul definitely didn't look as exhausted a week ago. It seemed he was losing strength. And that practically never happened.

You're supposed to get better, Richard thought to himself. A second later Paul took an exceptionally deep breath through his nose and moved a little. The display on his phone lit up as his fingers brushed over it. Richard could see that there was still a track running. Titel – Unbekannt. Titel – Unknown. Whatever it was, it was long. Almost an hour, if he wasn't mistaken. It made him curious. As Paul's body went calm again, Richard wondered if the therapist had recommended some kind of relaxation exercise. But even with his wide range of imagination he couldn't picture his friend relax to some meditation music.

He leaned back and just watched him sleep. He wanted him to wake up and at the same time he didn't. Till was probably right. Something must have changed within the last days. He looked the least Paul he'd ever seen him. The worries seemed justified. Or maybe he interpreted more into it than was actually there? He felt he couldn't trust his guts anymore.

He heard the door open behind him and turned his head to see who it was. A nurse looked at him and ushered him to come to her immediately. Richard furrowed his brow, stood up carefully so he wouldn't disturb his friend, and made his way to the door. The nurse tilted her head to the corridor as if to signal him to follow her outside, which he did.

“What's up?” he asked once the door was closed. His eyes first looked at her hand, which still held the door handle firmly, and then they came to rest at her very determined face.

“You can't be in there,” she told him with a strict tone.

“Pardon?” he replied immediately.

“No visitors are allowed in his room,” she insisted and stared at him challengingly.

Bullshit! He couldn't believe his ears. “Since when?!”

“Since Wednesday. Mr. Landers wanted it that way,” she explained.

“Paul decided that?” Richard pulled his brows together, not understanding what was happening. A week ago he wanted him to come. Had Richard not refused, they would have seen each other. Had his lie evoked this? It felt like a huge mistake to tell him he'd already gone back to Berlin.

The nurse nodded, her hand still around the handle as if protecting it. “He did. He was adamant about it.”

“You're joking.”

“I'm sorry, but I am most definitely not.”

Richard made a step back. There was no use in arguing with her. She left no doubt about what the was doing. Making a scene wouldn't help make her let him back inside.

He nodded as well, resigned and defeated.

He slowly turned around and started to walk away.

After a few steps he stopped and turned around again. The nurse was still standing there and watched him with pity in her eyes. “Why?” he asked hoarsely.

She shook her head slowly. “I'm not allowed to tell you.” She sighed off the burden of denying a man to see his injured friend. “You're not next of kin.”

He nodded again, this time in frustration. “Of course,” he replied. The nodding changed into a shaking of the head, as he couldn't manage to fully comprehend the decision. Then he went still, closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose and finally looked back at her. “Can you at least tell me if he has a good reason?”

She hesitated to answer and crossed her arms in front of her. “He has,” she finally told him.

For a moment they just looked at each other, until Richard's eyes glanced at the door and then back at her. “Thank you,” he said.

Then he left.

~~~

“You are coming back home.” It wasn't a question.

The band minus Paul had a conference call the very same afternoon. Richard had told them what had happened at the hospital. Told them about his impression of Paul. Told them how worried and powerless he felt.

They immediately had responded by showing him that he wasn't alone. With that they rewarded him for sharing his fears and he was grateful for his second family.

“You have tried everything,” they told him. “Don't blame yourself.” - “Give him time.” - “You've needed time, too, remember?” - “We can't afford to have you break down, too.” - “There is nothing left to do.” - “Come back home.”

If Paul had shut himself off from the world, they couldn't do anything as long as he was in that hospital. And the others were possibly right. Staying here wouldn't help anyone. Still, it was a hard decision.

The next day he checked out of the hotel and stuffed his baggage and equipment inside a rental car. Usually he would have taken a flight, but he couldn't stand being around other people. He needed time to be alone.

So he gently lifted the guitar cases in the car and took his seat behind the steering wheel. For a short moment he pictured sharing this ride back home with Paul in the passenger seat. A happily smiling Paul who enjoyed being out of the hospital and who would chat nonstop, switching randomly between the most meaningful and the most trivial subjects. Instead the seat remained empty and he would leave Paul behind a second time. First that night at the hotel before the attack happened. And now again.

And with each kilometer Richard brought between himself and Vienna, his sense of guilt grew.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Rehearsals

The following two weeks seemed to stretch into forever. Richard met with his band colleagues, with friends, went to see and spent time with his daughter, spent time writing on songs he wanted to refine, talked to the management, one time even talked to the police, since they were further investigating, went to his psychotherapist, talked to a producer, went to his hair stylist, had two meetings with his stage technician, met some more with his friends. In short: He tried to keep himself busy.

Every free minute he would look at his phone hoping for something that wouldn't happen. He felt so fucking stupid he wanted to laugh at himself. Of course the most annoying person in the band had to be the one he liked the most. So much so that even after that many years he still couldn't find a way to stuff every emotion that went beyond liking him in a box and seal it off forever.

Thankfully no one knew. And thankfully he was in contact with so many people that even his closest friends didn't wonder why he was constantly checking his phone.

Paul had eventually stopped talking to Till, too. He was still writing, though. Short formal messages. Nothing more. The other five tried to see the positive side of it. He didn't go completely silent on them. He could have, had he wanted to.

From their management they knew that Paul had safely arrived in Berlin after three weeks he'd spent in the hospital. They were told that he was okay, circumstances considered. That he explicitly asked to be left alone.

From Paul's sister they knew that at least towards his children, as grown up as they were, he still gave his best to not show what was really going on. She told them that she had seen him when they all visited their parents. That usually he wasn't late, but this time he was. That he looked much better than back at the hospital, but that he appeared thinner and “not really like himself”. His family didn't expect him to be after what had happened, but still it had them worried.

“So what do we do?” Schneider asked two days before their fist day of rehearsals, “Throw a small welcome-back-party? Or act as if nothing has happened?”

“Middleground would be nice,” Olli answered from behind the amplifier setup where he was plugging in some cables.

Richard knelt down in front of a small refrigerator with a glass door and filled it with a small variety of drinks. “Personal opinion? No party. Not if we don't know what's going on.”

The three of them were in their rehearsal room, preparing everything so they could get started whenever they wanted to. The ventilation system was softly humming above their heads. After such a long time the air got stifling down here in the basement. There was another larger room on the second floor, but they still liked to practice below the city of Berlin. So the other room was mostly for storing stuff they didn't need very often and sitting down on one of the couches to brainstorm over possible stage performances and whatnot. And of course for enjoying some daylight.

“Not even something small?” Olli asked as he rose to his feet. He leaned against the setup trolley, three ends of cables in his hand, and expectantly looked at Richard. “Come on. Usually he loves that kind of thing. And he hasn't become a different person.” Behind him Schneider shuffled the cymbals around.

Richard wasn't convinced. Part of him still didn't believe Paul would actually show up. He kept on stacking bottles and cans into the fridge, filling it to the brim. “Do what you have to do,” he said more to himself than anyone else.

“I might have an idea,” Christoph chimed in as he was happy with the arrangement of his drum set. He sat down on his stool and took the sticks in his hand. Without thinking about it he started playing a calm and rather quiet rhythm on the snares. “We'll just have band practice. No big fuss. And afterwards we go upstairs and have a look at the photos Jens has promised to sent us tomorrow. We can have something to eat, maybe toast ourselves with champagne. Just sit together and talk.”

The guitarist closed the glass door and got up from the floor. “He's already done editing them?” Their tour photographer really lived for his work.

“Seems so,” Schneider shrugged and worked his sticks over the whole drum setup to see if the distances were comfortable. With a satisfied smile he silenced the cymbals with his hands and put the drum sticks aside. “So, what do you think?”

Olli hooked the ends of his cables around the backrest of a chair and nodded. “I like it. I mean, it's the first time we're all together again since the last concert. The six of us.” He turned to look at Richard. “We can't do nothing.”

Their eyes met and the guitarist folded his arms in front of him. A second later one corner of his mouth moved upwards. “I can't talk you out of it anyway.”

The other two smiled in return and they walked towards the stairs together. It was Schneider who for a few seconds put his hands on each of their shoulders. “It will be exactly what he needs. You'll see!”

~~~

It was now end of September and summer was definitely over. A chilly breeze went through Richard's hair as he stood outside at the rear entrance of their rehearsal location and leaned against his car. He was the first one to arrive, so he used the opportunity to take a smoke and listen to the wind go through the dying leaves of the two trees growing in the backyard.

A look at his watch told him he was here way too early. He had waited for this day with such anticipation. This band meant everything to him. His friends did. Paul did. And in a way it would mean some kind of salvation seeing Paul show up here. He still blamed himself for lying to him. Right after that Paul had started isolating himself completely. Hopefully that would stop today.

He heard a faint rustling to his right, where some planks were piled up against an old brick wall, which divided one property from the next. Some fallen leaves lay scattered around and glistened from last night's rain. Richard searched for the source of the rustling with his eyes, when a gray rat emerged from behind the planks, casually strolled across the small parking area and vanished beneath the shrubs. He looked at his freshly painted nails and smiled to himself.

Only a few minutes later a car pulled into the driveway and with a short maneuver came to a halt right next to Richard's. It was Paul. Against his will Richard's heart-rate went up and he couldn't help it but smile. He was here. He actually came.

The car door opened and the smaller guitarist stepped out of his vehicle. He already wore a cap and a scarf. Richard pushed himself off his own car and made a few steps towards the other man. Then he waited.

Paul fished his backpack from the passenger seat and then closed the door. His eyes looked around for a second before they fixed on the dark haired man.

They just looked at each other. Dark blue-gray eyes meeting gray ones. They seemed to test each other. Seemed to wait for something. Anything. After a moment that felt like forever Paul began to smile. It wasn't one of his fake ones. At least it seemed to be honest. Seemed to come from his heart. Richard's smile widened in return.

They walked towards each other and came to a halt right in front of each other. Richard could smell Paul's scent. He must have showered right before he came here.

“It's so good to see you,” Richard said with utter relief in his voice.

“You too,” Paul answered with the same expression.

His face had healed, the taller of them noticed. From what he could see, he looked like he always did. A little thinner in his face and a little tired, too, but otherwise he looked like his Paul. It was almost like the last couple of weeks hadn't happened. But they had. He remembered the fear, the bruises, the anger, the hurt, the fake smiles and the silence.

“Can I give you a hug?” Paul quietly asked as if he wasn't sure if he was asking too much.

The smile on Richard's face vanished and made place for something else. Astonishment. “Yes,” he nodded, “Of course.”

And then there were arms around his chest and his arms around the other man's shoulders. Richard closed his eyes and felt the weight of the other body lean against his own. They stayed like this for quite some time. This was their way to talk about things they had no words for. Or no words for yet.

To Richard's surprise Paul still found something he wanted to say. “I'm sorry,” the smaller man muttered against his shoulder.

“Sorry for what?” he asked in return. He didn't care for any apologies. He didn't need any. All he needed was an explanation.

He felt the other man take in some air, possibly to answer, when another car pulled up and honked loudly several times. Richard opened his eyes and looked over Paul's shoulder while the smaller man pulled back from the embrace. It was definitely Flakes car, but the honking wasn't exactly what the keyboarder would usually do. The car was sloppily parked and once it came to a halt, the passenger door flung open to release a joyful looking Till. Explains who honked, Richard thought to himself and cursed inwardly. Finally after weeks he had been so damn close to a possible answer.

“Hey Kleener!” Till shouted in his well-adapted Berlin dialect as he made his way swiftly to the smaller of the two guitarists. - Hey small one!

“Hey Jroßer!” Paul replied and let himself be pulled into another hug. - Hey big one!

“Jut schauste aus!” the singer said after he released him from his arms and looked down at him. - You look good.

Behind them Flake and Oliver peeled themselves out of the car and fished their bags from the backseats.

“Du och,” Paul answered a little reserved. His gaze drifted from Till to Richard and then to the other band members. - You too.

“Jetz' zerquetsch' den doch nich' gleich!” Flake complained playfully to Till before he, too, went to hug Paul. It was a gentle hug, brotherly and protective. “Mach' dit nie wieder, hörste?!” the keyboarder mumbled into the other's scarf before he made room for Olli to do the same. - Now don't immediately crush him! / Don't ever do this again, you hear me?!

The moment he was able to, Paul made a small step backwards. The others didn't seem to notice, but Richard did. Maybe he was overly cautious, but the mood-swings in the last few weeks had taught him to watch out for the tiniest details.

“Paul?” the younger guitarist said and immediately drew his attention, “Kommste kurz mal her? Ich hab hier noch was, das dir gehört.” - Would you come here for a second? I have something that belongs to you.

And with that he went back to his car and opened the trunk. There, on a thick blanket, two guitar cases lay next to each other. He lifted up the one that contained Paul's instrument and turned around. His friend already stood right behind him so without hesitation he released the case into Paul's waiting hands. The moment he let go it felt like he was losing something. He wanted to laugh at himself over that ridiculous emotion, but he couldn't shake it off, either.

The smallest of them thanked him and again there was a genuine smile on his lips. In his mind Richard savored the sight.

They all exchanged some more pleasantries until the last one of them arrived. As soon as he got out of his car, he was greeted by a cheerful group. In their middle stood Paul and behind him Till, who had one hand on Paul's shoulder. With the other hand he pointed at him. “Schau, wer wieder bei uns is'! Kann wieder gradeaus kieken und vermisst noch 'ne Umarmung!” he almost shouted over to Schneider. - Look who's back with us! Can look straight again and is short of one hug.

The drummer slowly walked closer. First he looked at Paul who just smiled at him. Then to Richard, who helplessly shrugged his shoulders. Then at Till who simply grinned. And then his arms were already around Paul's shoulders and the hug was returned. When they released each other, Schneider's eyes were filled with water. “I'm so sorry I said---,” he started, but was interrupted immediately by Paul with a sharp “Hn-hn.” He stopped, even though everyone knew exactly what the drummer meant.

“To be clear,” Paul stated to all of them, “I'm not going to talk about any of it. Today is just about having fun and getting back in the saddle.” He patted Schneider on his upper arm and nodded at him. “Can we head inside? It's chilly.”

They went inside the house, got rid of their jackets and coats and went straight downstairs to make themselves comfortable in their working space. To Richard it felt awkward to be here again and act as if nothing had happened. He plugged in his guitar, sat it down on one o the chairs and then positioned his pedal and the microphone. Over his shoulder he observed Paul, who seemed to be completely at ease and did what he always did before they got started.

“Has anyone any wishes?” Oliver asked while he took of his scarf and cap.

“Seems like you do,” Till answered with a grin.

Indeed there were several songs that had evolved within the last months of live performances and since the band used every bit of creative space the tightly scheduled show gave them, some arrangements should be thought over. Some new found variations were truly brilliant. That was what Olli proposed and the group was all for it. They went over the set list and discussed which songs had the potential to some new fine-tuning. Of course there were different opinions and even open questions on whether or not a song would even stay on the list. It took them about an hour. As annoying as it was, it was a welcome habit they had learned to laugh about.

With a cigarette between his lips, Richard balanced his cup from the coffee machine to his place and finally took his guitar in his hands. While he pulled out the plectrum, he looked around. Flake adjusted the settings of his keyboards to fit the chosen song. Schneider was warming up his wrists. Olli was already playing a jazzy tune as he waited for everyone else. Paul was also ready to go and let his palm glide over the body of his guitar. Richard grinned as he watched musician and instrument have one of their special moments.

He played a few chords and stopped again. That didn't sound right. His cigarette landed in the ash tray and he went to check the settings on his amps.

Within seconds he had Paul breathe over his shoulder. “What's the matter?” the smaller man asked.

“Listen,” he answered and played the same chords again.

Paul closed his eyes, pulled his brows together and listened very carefully, while he held his own guitar firmly pressed against his chest. When the last notes faded away, he opened his eyes and met Richard's expectant gaze. He didn't say anything for another few seconds. His face gave away that he was still analyzing what he'd heard. “Sounds exactly like last time we've been here,” he finally concluded.

“Absolutely not!” Richard protested and repeated a certain chord that bothered him the most.

Paul took a look at the settings on the large array of buttons and controls. “No one is fucking around with this. If you haven't changed anything, it's precisely how you've left it.”

Richard looked at him with a blank expression. “Go over there and listen again. I tell you, it's off.” He pointed at his own position for the rehearsals.

“Do you really have to do this right now?” their singer complained and most likely said what the rest of the band was thinking. “You know that's absolutely unimportant.”

“We only need five minutes,” Paul answered and walked over to the spot Richard wanted him to be.

“We know what five minutes mean,” Schneider said and went to the coffee machine.

“I'll go take a shit,” Till stated and left the room.

~~~

They practiced and worked with each other for over five hours. None of them had expected it, but they soon fell into a flow and everything went so smoothly that none of them wanted to stop. Most of all they had fun. Tremendous fun. There was lighthearted banter, silly jokes and of course the occasional well-meant mocking. They discussed the different versions of certain parts of the songs in question and recorded everything for later.

Paul made it easy for them to ignore the last weeks for now. He was in his element and seemed to celebrate it with every fiber of his body. Even Richard stopped worrying after a while, against better judgment. Part of him knew there was a lot that waited to be fixed. But maybe in this little bubble, down here in the basement or maybe when together with the whole group, Paul was okay.

They agreed that they wanted to meet again the following day. There was so much they hadn't even touched yet. And the energy between them was perfect. They knew that could fade, so they all wanted to get the most out of it while it lasted.

As Paul put his guitar back in the case, the band told him about the photos they wanted to look through together. He smiled from ear to ear and said he'd be happy to stay a little longer with them. The others supported his decision and promised it would be great and that they could all delve back into the different performances. They were eager to have a look at the unique perspectives on- and off-stage which their photographer provided. He nodded yes and asked them to get everything ready.

Pleased with the answer Flake, Olli, Schneider and Till headed upstairs and along the way talked about what they expected to see. Richard closed his case, lifted it up and turned to look at the other guitarist.

Paul stood rooted to the spot and looked at his right palm.

“Everything alright?” Richard asked. Did the scar hurt?

Again a smile crossed the smaller man's face. “Yeah,” he nodded, “I'm just surprised I could play for that long.”

He returned the smile. “Me too, to be honest.”

They both laughed and then just looked at each other for a while.

Again Richard felt something lingering in the air, though he didn't have the faintest idea what it was.

“Should we head upstairs, too?” he finally asked.

Paul just nodded.

They walked up the stairs next to each other, cases in hand. Then past the small kitchen and the toilets, further to the hallway that connected both the front and the rear entrance. With a small skip in his steps Richard went up the stairs to the next floor, but stopped midway as he realized that he didn't hear a second pair of boots following him. He turned around and found the smaller man stand at the bottom of the stairs.

Paul didn't move. His eyes looked up to from where the distant chatter, laughter and vague music was coming from. He swallowed. Then he blinked a few times and each time his gaze dropped a little until it rested on his jacket that hung right next to the railing.

“Paul?” Richard asked softly and went back down again. “What's going on?”

“Ahm,” he made thoughtfully but didn't say more. Instead he chewed his bottom lip for a moment.

“Hey,” a gentle hand with painted nails was placed on top of the other's shoulder. He could feel that Paul almost shied away from the touch. Almost. “You can tell me. It's okay.”

“I-It's … just a little much. I didn't want to disappoint anyone, but---” he answered as something inside of him seemed to cast a shadow over his mood.

“Hey! What's taking you so long!” Till shouted down from upstairs with an audible smile.

Richard's eyes stayed fixed on Paul as he responded equally loud to their lead singer. “Give us a moment! We'll be right there.” He waited a few seconds and listened. When he was sure Till seemed to be satisfied with the answer, his attention was back on Paul. “What do you mean? Do you want us to dial it down? I'm sure that wouldn't be a-”

“No,” Paul interrupted him and put down his case to take his jacket from the hook. “No, no one has to do anything for me right now.” He just kept the item between his fingers and helplessly looked at Richard. “I thought I was ready to … be me again. ... I guess I'm not. Not yet.”

“What does that mean? You're not joining us?” Somehow he had expected something like this to happen. It had been too perfect.

“Not today … if that's okay,” Paul answered.

Richard rolled his eyes a little at the last part. “I can hardly force you, can I?” he replied with a lopsided grin.

The shorter one shook his head no.

“Did we do something wrong?” Richard wanted to know.

“What?!” Paul made and tilted his head to the side questioningly. “No! Of course not!” He meant it. Richard believed him. And still something was standing in their way. Something still unspoken. “I'm really trying,” Paul reassured him as he now busied himself with his jacket to put it on.

“You don't have to do this all by yourself, you know?” The younger one tried. Maybe he should tell him that over and over again?

The zipper was closed and the case taken up from the floor. “Maybe this time I do.”

Richard finally put down his guitar and leaned it against the wall. He made a few steps so he was blocking the way to the exit. “What's that supposed to mean now?” he asked softly.

Paul tilted his head to the right, his pleading eyes silently asking Richard to step aside. When that didn't happen, he sighed and closed his eyes. “Can you tell the other's I said goodbye? And that I'm sorry?” he forced out and opened his eyes to look right into Richard's while completely evading his question, “We see each other tomorrow.”

Richard understood that here and now there was no way to convince him to explain anything. Paul wanted to leave and maybe there even was a damn good reason why. The prospect of seeing him again the next day helped to let him go. “Promised?” he asked.

“Promised,” Paul answered.

Again they looked at each other for a few seconds, until finally Richard made room for the other man to walk to the backdoor. “Drive safely,” he told him.

“Drink one for me,” Paul responded with a gentle smile. They both touched the other's shoulder as a gesture of goodbye as they walked past each other. And without hesitation Richard walked up the stairs. He needed to be around the rest of them.

With each step he tried to think of all the positive things that had happened today. First and foremost he'd showed up. Definitely the hug. The jokes down in the basement. The technical discussions. The feeling of listening to the sound the six of them made together.

When he reached the second floor, the others were already huddled together on the sofa, a laptop in front of them and several drinks scattered on the dark iron coffee table. They were engaged in a conversation over a certain photo, or so it seemed, and it took a moment for any of them to take notice of the guitarist.

“Don't worry,” Schneider immediately addressed Richard, “We haven't started without you. These are old pictures.” He smiled widely at him. Richard smiled back politely.

It was Oliver who asked the inevitable question after looking behind the guitarist and obviously missing someone he'd expected to be there. “Where's Paul?”

Richard sighed deeply and walked over to the group, sitting down on the edge of the sofa. “He's headed back home.”

“What?” - “Why?” - “Just like that?”

He could understand all of their questions and really didn't like that he now was the messenger. More so that part of him knew this would happen. “He's overwhelmed, I guess. … I told you so,” he muttered.

“You couldn't keep that in, could you?” Olli replied quietly.

“Guys, don't. Just … don't.” Till intervened. “What exactly did he say?” he asked and turned to Richard.

Meanwhile Flake got up and switched off the music.

The guitarist shrugged his shoulders helplessly and alternately looked from one to the next. “He said it would all be just a little much right now. That he's not ready to be himself again. That he tries.” He cleared his throat and got up from the couch. “And that he feels like he needs to do this by himself. And before you ask,” he went on as he protectively raised his hands, “I asked and no, he didn't tell me why or what exactly he meant by that.”

They reacted with understanding and yet with frustration, each of them in their own way. Except for Schneider, who sat up straight and folded his hands in front of him. “Hey! It's okay. We had a great rehearsal. This here, this would have been a great bonus. But he didn't know about it and next time we know better. Okay?”

They agreed. They all had their opinions, but they agreed. Till stood up, too. When his eyes met Richard's, he held his outstretched palm in the air. Five weeks, he mouthed. The guitarist understood immediately. The time Till was giving Paul. He nodded and walked to the window.

While behind him they discussed whether or not they should watch the photos if one of them was missing – of course they wouldn't since it had always been all of them or none of them – Richard leaned against the wall and looked down into the backyard. Suddenly he raised a questioning brow. Paul's car was still there. He didn't see him sitting inside the vehicle, either. Which could only mean that---. He leaned forward and tried to get a look at the back entrance of the building which was a little difficult from this angle. Indeed, there under the small canopy he could see a sleeve, a guitar case and suspiciously familiar boots.

For a moment he thought about going back down and ask if there was anything he could do. A split-second before he was actually ready to go to the stairs, Paul started walking to his car, put the case and backpack on the backseat and drove away.

For a while he stared out into the distance, until Schneider brought him something to drink and asked him to join the others.

They still sat together and talked. But they felt someone was missing. Hopefully the next day would be better.

~~~

It went exactly the same. They met, they had a really great time together and actually got things done. They remembered each others variations. The hard drive filled with recordings of different takes. It was awesome. Richard loved it.

And yet right after they had finished Paul excused himself again and went back home.

So went the next day and the one that followed. Every day he made it clear that all he wanted to do was work as if nothing had happened.

In a way it was really professional. He didn't let anything compromise his work. Their work. Even in their breaks he'd rather sit across from Olli and practice some more with him to be perfectly in tune with the bass player. He didn't hold back with his opinions or constructive criticism either. Inside their rehearsal room he was Paul like he'd always been.

Outside of it … not so much. He was reserved, didn't start a conversation like he usually did and avoided staying for longer than the practices required.

The first days they accepted it as part of his healing process, though it was tough for them not to know what he needed and what might help him and what didn't. After he would have left, the other five would stay a little longer and talk about which specific details about Paul occurred to whom and tried to analyze the bigger picture. But without any insight they usually reached a dead end very quickly.

The other problem was that still Paul barely responded to any messages and almost never answered a call. Approached upon the subject he told them he forgot to check his phone or forgot to answer. It was something that didn't really sound like him either. He promised to do better, but the result stayed the same.

At the beginning of the second week he was almost an hour late. He didn't answer his phone again, so no one knew where he were and if he was okay. When he arrived, he apologized. They let it slide, especially since he looked tired as fuck. He played as precise as ever and gave one hundred percent, as if to make up for the lost hour.

The day after that Paul called in sick for the rest of the week. Just a brief neutral message. Whoever tried to reach him to check if he was okay and if he needed anything, ran against a wall of silence. The following weekend Till called the rest of the band to have a meeting. They knew why and of course they agreed.

~~~

“This has to stop,” Till started.

They all sat on the couches in the second floor of their rehearsal location. If it had been a pleasant occasion, they might have met at someone's home, but for years they would meet on neutral ground if they had to take care of something ugly. It was Sunday morning and heavy rain hit against the windows.

“Agreed,” Flake said and leaned his lanky body into the cushions, “But how?”

“At this point I actually barely care anymore,” Richard stated and used his hands wildly to underline his words, “We've been patient and understanding and everything. And I get it, it's hard. None of us had to through what he had … but it's getting worse! And he can't do this alone. I don't know what we have to do to get that realization into his thick skull, but we have to try!” The others nodded in agreement.

Schneider waited a moment to make sure the guitarist didn't want to say anything else. Then he leaned forward. “The thing is, and I never thought I'd see the day coming to say this but … we need him to talk.”

“Yeah,” Flake mused quietly, “That has worked well in the past weeks.” He wasn't judging, he just stated a fact.

Till stood up and walked around for a moment. Richard followed him with his eyes.

“You know,” Schneider spoke up again, “his family can barely reach him either. His sister told me the other day.” He took a sip from his glass. “He's not sick. There's something else, but he's definitely not sick.”

“I think so, too,” the guitarist said and slid to the edge of his seat, “And in my opinion the longer we wait, the worse it'll get. Till, I don't want to wait for another three weeks to do something. This is affecting the whole band already.” What he didn't say was how much the whole situation was eating away at him. So much so that he had trouble sleeping and concentrating. And if he would be completely honest to himself, he would admit to himself that he was scared.

The lead singer stopped in his tracks and looked at each of them. “Does the rest agree, too?” he asked.

They nodded eagerly.

“Good,” Till stated, “Because I have a plan. Actually I've already made some calls and like to propose something to you. It's a lot to ask but we would do this for one of us.” His eyes fell on Richard and for a moment he looked intensely at him. “I think there's a fair chance you might not like it, though.”

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Tour Bus

Richard yawned for the hundredth time, dragged his feet down the last few steps and walked out into the cold. The weather was clammy and even though there was barely any wind, it still crept underneath his clothes. It was early. Way too early. Pre-coffee-early, to be exact. The street lamps cast orange cones into the damp darkness and onto the silent street.

He looked up at the building to check if he'd switched off his lights. He definitely had locked the door. The alarm system was enabled, too. All his guitars were already on board and so was the sound equipment he needed as well as two suitcases filled to the brim with clothes, laptop and all the things he couldn't be without. The last thing he now carried was his backpack with some snacks, his charger, his private and his business phone, some other small stuff and of course a few packs of cigarettes.

One of the cigarettes had to die immediately, he decided. So he lit it, took a drag and stared up into the dark morning sky. The moon was nowhere in sight, only the stars that shone bright enough to be able to compete with the light pollution of the city.

Another long yawn. He wanted to crawl back into bed again where it was warm and cosy. His watch told him it was three past five in the morning. He cursed himself for having agreed to this endeavor.

Worse than having to be up at this ungodly hour was something else though. He knew where he would be in a few hours. Where he would stay for a yet unforeseeable time. He should have bargained for a different location. Why had he said yes?

He stubbed out his cigarette and went around the second of the two minibuses that parked in front of the house. He opened the passenger door, threw his backpack in the legroom and heaved himself into the seat. The door felt so heavy as he pulled it shut.

Next to him Till yawned loudly as he turned the keys, switched on the headlights and started the engine. It was contagious. He closed the seat belt, wondered if people could yawn themselves to death and tiredly stared out at the empty streets. “Ready,” he said with a raspy voice.

Till just made a low grumbling sound and set the vehicle in motion. He passed the other minibus, which after a few seconds followed behind them.

They drove through the quiet streets of Berlin. Some traffic lights were still in night mode, blinking yellow into the darkness. Neither Till nor Richard said a word. They both were tensed up and Richard was still a little pissed at Till for coming up with such a plan. But he kept it to himself and decided that he would let that anger out when it was most useful. Maybe that was part of the plan, too?

The guitarist looked into the side-view mirror and watched the other bus follow them. Inside was the other half of the band. Schneider was driving, Oliver probably listening to the radio, and Flake most likely sleeping again. Both buses were almost filled to the brim with their instruments, equipment, baggage, electronics and some other stuff. Some of it was tied to the roof rack. They had started loading up the vehicles yesterday so they could at least get a few hours of sleep.

The seat behind Till was still empty and there was still some room left in the bus he was in. If everything would go as planned, that would change within the next hour or two. Richard nervously scratched the stubble on his cheek as they turned into the street they wanted to go to. His eyes found a certain house in the distance and stared at it until Till came to a halt right in front of it, as was the second bus behind them. Next to him he heard the hand break being pulled, before the engine went quiet and the lights went out.

They all got out of the buses. The sound of closing car doors echoed through the street, then, quieter, footsteps on wet pavement. Richard looked at each of his friend's faces. Flake yawned. Olli nodded confidently at him. Schneider looked as anxious as he himself felt. Till looked determined.

Lights were burning in the house they stood in front of. They could see it through the gates. Which meant Paul probably was up or slept with the lights on. Either way he was oblivious to the band in front of his home. No one had told him what they were up to.

Richard pushed every single doubt aside, walked over to the bell and rang it. He could hear the actual melodic bells from inside the house. The others followed him to the gate and waited. But nothing happened.

He rang the bell again. Longer. Then a third time. His eyes looked out for any changes within the house while his ears waited for someone to speak through the intercom. Again nothing.

He saw Till's arm reach around him and press the bell nonstop. It felt harsh to do that, but they had an agenda. For over a minute the bells rang loudly, yet still Paul didn't open the door. Instead suddenly the melodic sound from within the house discontinued, although Till still had his middle finger on the button. Then one by one the lights inside went out.

“I think he knows it's us,” Schneider mumbled and pulled out his phone. He dialed a number and held the device to his ear. They all waited and either looked at the house or the drummer. After a while he hung up. “Voicemail,” was all he needed to say so they knew what had happened.

“Let me try,” Oliver said and did the same. He hung up instantly. “It went directly to voicemail,” he explained and looked at the others. So Paul had switched off his phone.

“And now?” Flake asked as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

None of them had keys to Paul's home and they hadn't asked his family for one of the spares. “I could climb over the fence,” Olli offered with a shrug.

“Not necessary,” Till growled and headed back to the bus. The rest of them waited rooted to the spot. They knew to better leave the singer alone when things didn't go as he wanted them to. The driver's door was opened. For a few seconds nothing happened. Then Till did to the horn what he had done to the bell.

Within seconds dogs started to bark throughout the neighborhood and one by one lights in different houses went on. Richard pitied the poor people who were ripped out of their dreams. It was loud. In contrast to the silence even louder. He looked back at the house. Hopefully no one was calling the police. It felt like it would go on forever. Till was a stubborn man.

“What the fuck are you doing!” Paul's voice shouted against the monotone honking as he emerged from his front door – wet hair, long wool cardigan, barefoot - and hastily walked towards the gate. It gently opened as he must have used the remote control.

“If you don't answer your door bell …?!” Flake replied nonchalantly and walked towards the smaller guitarist.

Till silenced the horn and slowly pulled up into the driveway instead.

“Are you nuts?!” Paul hissed at all of them. “What's gotten into you!? And have you checked your watch? Fucking hell!” It was a long time since Richard had seen him that angry.

“Calm down,” Schneider told him and of course reached the opposite.

“Shut it!” the smallest of them snapped back, before he pushed himself through between Schneider and Olli and came to a stop right in front of Till who just climbed out of the minibus. “I want to kick you in the balls so hard, you asshole!” he spat at the singer.

Till just shrugged his shoulders and stoically looked down at him. “Yeah. And sometimes I want to strangle you.” His voice was impressively calm. “But then I remember that we are friends. So, can we move past our impulse-born wishes, get inside and talk?”

“I don't want to talk,” Paul stated and didn't even flinch as the singer made a small step towards him, their bodies now almost touching.

“The rest of the band wants to talk. Five against one,” Till answered.

Richard looked at the house and saw an opportunity. “Do what you want,” he said loud enough for Paul to hear, “I'm letting myself in. Anyone want to join me?” And with that he walked towards the door that still stood a little ajar.

“I could use a coffee,” Schneider replied and followed him. So, one by one did the rest of them. Behind them Paul hissed a litany of curses.

Richard switched on the lights in the hallway and let his gaze wander while the others steered directly into the kitchen. It looked emptier than he remembered. A few picture frames where missing as well as that one huge plant he always admired. And where was the dog bed? He turned around to find Paul standing behind him glaring at him furiously. In the room next to them the coffee machine started to gurgle.

“Why are you here?” Paul demanded to know in threatening low register.

Richard knew better than to let himself be intimidated. “Because you need us,” he answered calmly and went past Paul to join the rest of them in the kitchen.

“I think I've made myself very clear that I'd like to be left alone,” the other guitarist retorted and positioned himself in the doorway.

“You have,” Oliver nodded and crossed his arms in front of his chest as he leaned against the counter, “And we are here to tell you that doesn't sound like you at all.”

“So?” Paul asked as he pulled his cardigan closer around himself and crossed his arms as well.

“It means we look out for you,” Richard told him and leaned his back against the fridge.

“I didn't ask you to!”

“Yes you did!” Richard retorted, “Just not with words. And it took us a while to understand.”

“I did not!” Paul objected, his voice rising, “I don't.”

“You may need more time to understand it, too,” Schneider replied gently and lifted the coffee mug to his mouth.

Paul just pulled his brows together and gave the drummer a bewildered look.

“It's really not that hard to understand, Paul,” Richard spoke up again, “You call in sick? Fine. If you were indeed sick. Obviously you're not.” He felt bad for pushing the other guitarist but it had to be done. “If you don't want to talk about it? Also fine. But then show up and do your job. You can't have both. And most of all: Don't expect any of us to act as if we don't give a damn! We see what's going on!”

“Do you?” Paul asked provocatively.

“Of course,” Olli spoke up from his corner, “We've seen you struggle to cope with what's happened since day one.” There was so much sympathy in his eyes.

From his perspective Richard could see how Paul dug his nails into the stitches of his cardigan as he was trying desperately to hold himself together. He looked so exhausted and tired. “And how do you think you can help?!” the smaller guitarist wanted to know, “You weren't there! None of you know what it felt like!”

“We know we weren't!” Richard blurted at him, “I don't know about the others but I blame myself every single day for not having waited for you!” Their eyes found each other and Richard could see that Paul wanted to row back as much as he wanted, but neither of them could. “So no, we're not leaving you alone. We will make sure you'll be okay again.” He didn't know if the plan would work, but they had to give it a try. And if it failed, they would come up with another one.

Paul broke their stare by closing his eyes. He pulled his brows together and shook his head defensively. Then his body went still and he opened his eyes again to look at the tiles. “And what if that never happens?” he asked quietly. The question, as soft as it was spoken, filled up the room.

It was an admission.

Flake was about to stand up from his chair, probably to go to Paul, but Till's heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“So we finally agree that you are not okay,” the singer stated and Paul's eyes looked up at him, “Good. Now go pack your stuff. You have thirty minutes.”

The eyes of the smaller guitarist narrowed and he tilted his head to the left. “I have what?!”

“Thirty minutes,” Till repeated and turned to make himself a coffee, too. “Twenty-nine, if you keep talking instead of packing.”

“Like it or not, you are coming with us,” Schneider stated.

“Ahm … No!” Paul refused vehemently.

“Twenty-nine,” Till muttered.

“To where?!”

“You'll see,” Flake answered before he looked at Richard for a short moment.

“Twenty-eight.”

“Bite me!”

“Twenty-five,” the singer said irritated and turned around to look at the guitarist, “and either you start packing immediately or we will do it for you and throw you in the bus!” The expression on Till's face had changed with every word and now his features showed clearly that he was done explaining what he wanted. It was an expression he reserved for very rare occasions, like a powerful weapon. Right now he was aiming it at Paul and was about to pull the trigger.

Richard watched both man glaring at each other for seconds that felt like small eternities. When it looked like Till was about to hit Paul in the face, the smaller man turned on his heals, punched his fist against the door frame and walked up the stairs.

They let some moments pass before Flake spoke up. “Do you think he will actually pack?”

“Fifty-fifty”, Till answered.

“I'll go check,” Olli said and went upstairs as well.

Richard wanted to follow them as well but decided against it. Too many cooks. Instead he decided to walk around downstairs. After a few minutes he was done and went back to the kitchen, where Schneider and Flake were unplugging the coffee machine, probably to load it in one of the buses. It made sense. That thing hands down made the best coffee. He sat down at the kitchen table across from Till.

“Olli is still upstairs,” the singer explained before Richard had to ask.

“Good,” he replied. Since there was no yelling they took it as a good sign. “The house looks … empty. She must have moved out.”

“All the better that we take him out of here, then,” Till mused and took a sip from his mug.

Richard nodded and looked around the kitchen. It was so cosy. Not just a clean sterile place to simply cook. And yet even in here something was missing.

“I guess the dog is not here anymore, either,” he said and took the mug from Till's fingers to drink some as well.

“Fuck,” Schneider sighed as he turned around to look at Richard. They all knew how much the little fur ball meant to Paul.

They did the right thing to get him out of here. They all said that to themselves. And they knew they were right. This might be just the surface. Whatever Paul was carrying around with himself, he shouldn't be shouldering it all by himself.

~~~

Paul's mouth emitted a colorful palette of curses throughout the whole procedure of loading his belongings into the vehicle and finally taking his seat behind the driver. Olli had made sure their rhythm guitarist would pack everything he might need within the next couple of weeks. He also told him that they had already arranged for his family to take care of his plants. What the drummer hadn't told him was what they had planned. So, still oblivious to what all this was about, Paul stared out of the side window as Till moved the bus backwards onto the street.

“Seat belt,” Till reminded the man behind him.

Richard could see Paul roll his eyes before the fastener clicked.

The sun still wasn't up, but it was shining up against the first clouds, painting them grayish-red on dark-blue canvas. It was still early enough to share the road with not as many other cars. They wanted to be out of the city before the daily craziness of rush hour began. Till had decided against taking the route through the inner city and instead headed towards the “Ring”, the autobahn that encircled the capital.

As they drove along one of the main roads towards the autobahn and watched the houses get smaller, Paul remained silent. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest and his face snuggled up to his nose in his scarf. His eyes scanned the world that moved by.

“Would you like to know what's going on?” Richard asked as he turned halfway around in his seat.

“You already told me,” Paul answered evenly without bothering to look at his friend. “You want to force unwanted help upon me.”

“You sound like me back in the days,” Richard grinned.

Paul unfolded his arms for a moment to give him the finger.

“Charming,” the dark haired man commented and shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, suit yourself, then.”

Then it went quiet again inside the bus.

Eventually the sun crawled over the horizon and cast orange light upon the world in front of them. It almost blinded Richard on one eye as it shone through his window.

They hadn't put on music or switched the radio on on purpose. Eventually the silence still became too much for the singer and he started to hum a melody in his deep baritone. For a while Richard closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment. Yes, there was a palpable tension, but underneath it there was also a soothing calm. He had always liked listening to Till's humming, but it had become a rare thing. The sun was gently shining through his right eyelid, coloring it orange-red as well. It flickered, whenever they passed trees or a bridge. The engine droned calm and steady as soon as they entered the Ring.

He still couldn't believe they managed to get Paul out of his home that quick. There was resistance, yes. But thankfully years of being in this band had established to each of them that, if the rest of the group had decided to do something, there was no way out of it anyway. Vetoes where possible, but only under certain circumstances to which this morning definitely didn't count. He knew for now Paul had resigned himself to his fate but he would surely find a way to punish them later, one way or another. But it didn't matter. Right here, right now, he was here with them. He was safe. Richard remembered how he felt the first night at the hospital, sitting at Paul's side and hoping that please, please, please he'd wake up. And that for long hours he didn't. He felt tears well up and all the more left his lids shut. This was not the moment he wanted to cry openly. He wanted to be happy and thankful that it was still the six of them.

His phone buzzed and ripped him out of his thoughts. While fishing it from his pocket, he quickly blinked away the moisture and unlocked the screen.

Everyone still alive? Flake had written.

He smiled to himself. Yes. It's surprisingly peaceful , he replied, Paul is seething quietly between the luggage.

It took a moment until the keyboarder answered. He was probably sharing the info with the others. Enjoy it while it lasts.

Every second, believe me, he typed back. He waited if Flake wanted to say anything else. When that wasn't the case, he put the phone back in his pocket and closed his eyes again. Till was still humming and maneuvered them through the traffic with a content expression.

“Okay,” it suddenly came from the backseat in a very irritated manner, “Where are we headed?”

Richard didn't want to think about their destination until they were there. But now he had to and immediately his mood changed.

“North,” Till answered before he went on humming.

Richard could see the other guitarist close his eyes shut through the rear-view mirror and heard him sigh loudly.

“Where exactly?”

“You will see,” the singer sang.

The smaller guitarist let his forehead fall against the window and rolled his eyes. For a moment he just stared outside, watching the faster cars overtake them. Then he started a new attempt. “Can you tell me what you have planned and why I had to pack as if we were back touring again?”

Richard looked at Till. Just in time to see him answer “Yes.” with a straight face. The lead guitarist had to bite the inside of his lip to keep himself from grinning. Usually this was regular teasing stuff and not even that funny, but in this specific situation it was really mean.

In order to keep the peace Richard turned half way around in his seat and looked at the other guitarist. “Alright, relax, I'll tell you.”

The only reaction he got was one intentionally slow blink from Paul, who still preferred to stare outside. But he knew he listened and so Richard went on. It was time to fill him in anyhow. “Till has rented a house for all of us for the next couple of weeks. We will live and work together. You know the drill.”

“It's a shitty time to do that,” Paul commented dryly.

“No,” Till opposed, “It's the perfect time.”

“I disagree,” the rhythm guitarist countered.

“I agree with Till,” Richard said, “From a musical perspective this is gold. All the stuff that must go on inside your head? If you let that out through your play, we'll have some great recordings.” He provocatively smiled at Paul even though he was still not looking at him.

“So you want to … what? Use me?” Paul asked and pulled his crossed arms closer around himself.

“In a way,” Richard nodded and took a deep breath. “It was Till's idea.”

The smaller man shook his head in disbelief, took a deep breath as well and swallowed. “And there I thought this would be about wanting to help me,” he finally muttered sarcastically.

“It is,” Richard assured him, “But why not have both?” He felt like shit presenting this to the other man. Had Till felt the same when he proposed his idea? Probably not. He remembered their lead singer stand in front of the four of them in the upper rehearsal and meeting area three days ago. How he told them he had managed to find a place on such short notice where they could live and work in a secluded environment. That it was close enough to Berlin so that those of them who needed to spent time with their family could do that. After all, this wasn't one of their scheduled travels and it couldn't be expected of any of them to be away from home for the whole time. The house still was far enough away from the city to make them feel disconnected from their familiar surroundings. Till told them that he thinks Paul would need the group more than ever. That he needed to play and work more then ever. That he had always been the one to struggle the most to talk about his feelings and inner conflicts and that he usually used music to do the talking for him. He could still hear Till's voice. “How many days have you seen him without a guitar in his hands? Vacations excluded. But even then. …. Tell me! Playing that thing is his voice. And if we want him to talk, maybe that's the best we can do.” They had discussed it extensively and finally they came to the conclusion that he was right and that they wanted to give it a try. They hoped that their families would understand, which in the end they did.

But that had been only one part of the plan. Till wanted to tab into the pain, the anger, the fear and the frustration that lay so raw and so close in front of them. From an artist's perspective it was only logical to dig deeper into it.

“Do you remember how great our energy was as we made Herzeleid?” he asked his friend, “How good it was to let out all the pent-up anger?”

Paul again shook his head. “ Herzeleid was a valve, but it didn't dissolve the anger.”

“You are right,” Richard agreed, “Communication did.”

Again the smaller guitarist rolled his eyes and shook his head while sinking a little more into his seat.

“Paul?” Richard turned around a little more and waited. It took a while until finally their eyes met. The first time since they were inside the minibus. So he went on with a more rigorous tone. “You are not communicating with us anymore. You are hiding yourself away more and more. But no matter what you are going through, you are going through this with us. You will live with us, you will play with us, and you will start talking to us.” Paul turned his head and stared out of the window again. “And if you can't talk about it, then let it out by playing.” He felt sorry for pressuring him to where he didn't want to be, but there was no alternative. “But let it out.” he added softly and then turned back around and watched the traffic ahead of them.

Paul didn't speak up again. He kept on looking outside.

“If it's any consolation,” Till said, “I've put Richard in a shitty position as well. So you both have to suffer for the next album.”

Paul didn't ask why. For now he probably didn't care. To Richard it was all the same.

~~~

Eventually they left the autobahn and took the highway leading further to the northwest. It lead through smaller villages and extending agricultural areas. Every now and then they drove through smaller pine forests with their dark green treetops and the reddish barks.

The sun now shone from a slightly higher angle and warmed the air, so that huge delicate wafts of mist hovered close above the ground and floated through the rows of autumn trees that lined the highway. It was a beautiful sight.

Richard had to force his eyes on the screen every now and then to see what Flake had written. Or sometimes Olli since they seemed to hand over the phone to whoever wanted to reply first. He had informed them that Paul now knew what was going on. That, as was expected, he didn't like it. They asked if there was anything they could do. If he had said anything else. If he had been yelling or if he had gone quiet. And of course they asked if Till and he were okay. He answered them with a soft smile and went back to looking at the magical scenery.

“Let me out,” Paul suddenly demanded with a sharp voice. It was so unexpected that even Till was startled for a second.

“Why?” the singer wanted to know. “Do you need to piss?”

Richard looked up into the rear-view mirror to see Paul shake his head once.

“No,” he answered matter-of-factly, “I want to go home. Now.”

“On foot, or what?” Richard asked skeptically and raised a brow, his eyes still glued to the mirror.

“I know you well enough to not turn around,” Paul said and sat up straight, “So I ask you to stop the car and let me out! I'll find a way home.” He seemed dead serious and so Richard looked at Till to try and read what the singer was thinking.

Till must have noticed because in a hushed voice he asked Richard to tell the others to drive ahead, which he did immediately.

“No,” the singer said louder this time so Paul could hear him over the sound of the engine.

“That's basically kidnapping,” the smaller guitarist protested angrily and crossed his arms again.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Till replied and shook his head, “Why don't you want to come with us?”

As a response, Paul glared furiously at the seat in front of him, before shutting his eyes, pulling his brows together even more and then leaning heavily against his own backrest.

The other minibus overtook them and Richard bet the others wanted to know what was going on.

After a while of waiting for an answer Till spoke up again. “Do you not want to talk to us or are you lacking the words to describe what's going on inside that thick skull of yours?”

Richard watched Paul open his eyes and look up to the treetops they were passing by. He opened his mouth, too. It looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn't. Only a sigh escaped him. He looked desperate and the dark-haired man started to worry. Even more so as he watched the other man bow his head down and cradle his face with his open hands. “Just let me out,” Paul pressed out.

“Till?” Richard carefully asked, as his eyes quickly looked at the man driving, before he turned around in his seat to look directly at his friend. He didn't know what to do.

The singer slowed down the bus and came to a halt on the open road right next to the crash barriers. He pushed the button for the hazard lights and turned around, too. “If being around us is really such a pain to you, then … fine. Go.” He wouldn't leave. They were out in the middle of nowhere. He just needed a second to realize what a stupid idea that was. They were sure of it. Almost.

Richard could feel Paul struggle. He hadn't moved except for a barely noticeable shake of his head. There was so much tension in the smaller man's body. He wanted to reach around but feared he would only make it worse.

Then suddenly Paul sat up straight, quickly reached for his jacket, opened the seat belt and left the bus. The door slammed shut and made the whole vehicle shake with it.

Till and Richard both looked at each other and Richard realized that Till hadn't factored in for this to happen. The guitarist didn't know what to do either, but he knew that he had to do something. So he opened his door, made his way between the crash barriers and the bus then followed Paul a little further. The sudden cold matched the situation.

The smaller man kept walking along the thankfully empty road and didn't bother looking back.

A tight knot formed in Richard's stomach. He felt like failing his friend. He wanted to run after him but knew he would only make it worse.

“Is this really what you want!?” he shouted after him. He watched Paul keep walking. He shook his head in disbelief. No, this couldn't happen! “DO YOU REALLY WANT TO GO BACK INTO THAT EMPTY HOUSE AND PRETEND EVERYTHING IS FINE?!” His lungs hurt from the cold air but he had to make sure the other could hear him.

Paul still walked away.

The sight moved a deep and painful emotion inside of him, so Richard involuntarily wrapped his arms around his chest. He felt so lost and he didn't completely understand where the impact was coming from.

Suddenly Paul slowed down.

Then he stopped.

Please turn around, Richard pleaded in his mind and started to shake from the cold.

But Paul didn't. He just stood there for what felt like an eternity.

Richard made a few steps towards him. He instantly stopped again, as the man in the distance turned away from the street, held fast to the barrier and let out a long strangled cry. There was so much pain and distress in his voice that Richard could feel it in his own heart. He'd do anything for Paul to make it all go away, but he couldn't.

The cry died and Paul sank in a squatting position, his fingers still holding onto the metal. He let his head drop and for a moment he remained in this position. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet again, wiped his face and started walking towards the minibus.

Richard closed his eyes in sheer relief and took a deep breath. The feeling of being lost ceased.

From the distance a truck came closer. Paul kept walking. As the truck had to change to the oncoming lane because of him, it blew the horn long and harsh.

“Halt's Maul!” Paul yelled after it. - Shut the fuck up!

He walked past Richard without looking at him and got back in the vehicle.

The lead guitarist allowed himself to smile nonetheless. Paul could be pissed as much as he liked, as long as he would stick around. They would be able to deal with that. They had before.

He went back to the bus as well, nodded at Till and they continued their journey.

No one spoke a single word. None of them was in the mood or felt the need to. They all were busy sorting out their thoughts and emotions.

As they neared their destination, the joy of having been able to convince Paul faded and instead Richard's heart grew heavier by the minute. He could feel the hidden memories in the back of his mind and he knew he wouldn't be able to shut them off. Not here.

“Almost there,” Till muttered to himself.

As they passed the town sign of Wittenberge and the minibus drove slower, Paul furrowed his brows and leaned forward. “Richard?!” he asked softly and full of worry.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Stage Design

There were two poles, two magnets. Two huge metropolises pulling at the large area and people between them. Two mayor cities that once were separated by a deadly border. One city standing for ships and riches, the other for a cultural melting pot and indigence. Two cities after which food was named. Hamburgers and “Berliner”, a jam filled doughnut. Everyone in Germany knew those cities and their character. What most people didn't know was what lay right in the middle in between those metropolises. Of course they didn't.

After the peaceful revolution the border was gone. With it industrial locations shifted or vanished. Jobs were destroyed. People left to work were they could find new jobs. That way Wittenberge had lost the half of its population within the span of 20 years. Under socialism it had been a flourishing small mainly industrial city by one of the countries largest rivers. Now it was a sleepy town that tried to transform into a tourist hotspot.

Richard looked out the window as they turned into one of the quiet streets. It was one of the main roads, and still there was barely any traffic. He let the buildings pass his eyes one by one. Some looked beautifully refurbished, while others appeared like ghosts from the past, colorless and hollow. He hadn't been here for so many years that luckily no memories rose from the grave he had buried them in. Yet. He knew it would only be a matter of time.

In his therapy sessions he had tackled the reasons why he struggled so desperately to find himself worthy of living. In Schwerin, in the city where his adolescent life had been the worst, he had found people to give him some kind of security and he had found ways to experience self-efficacy. But here in Wittenberge lay the source. Here it had all begun. Here he had learned his first lessons that he wasn't worthy of a mother's love.

Much had changed here since his childhood. Even if quiet and drowsy, it had become a modern town. Modern, but boring. At least at first appearance.

He knew Paul had called him by his name and yes, he had heard the concern in his voice. Maybe he should have reacted but he wasn't able to. His eyes wanted to see, wanted to take in every detail, waited to spot something he remembered. But even as they left the town again, no memory had shown it's face. All that there was was the lingering feeling of not wanting to be here.

Till drove further west to a tiny village close by, further along onto a narrow cart track that led to a small farmyard on one side and a single house on the other. The minibus rocked back and forth on the uneven road and disturbed the puddles that reflected the sunlight. There was a pine forest nearby. Besides that, there was nothing. Nothing but plain flat farmland, some single trees scattered here and there, wide meadows and a huge sky.

The minibus turned into the driveway of the farmyard. There was a huge weeping willow in the front yard as well as a fir tree and some huge bushes that hid most of the front building from view. They slowly rolled to the center of the group of buildings where the other bus was already waiting for them. Behind the front house, an old rundown farmhouse that was typical for the area – a rather long building, narrow but high windows, a gray rough plastered facade – there stood an old barn, two outhouses and a beautiful modernized half-timber house. The courtyard itself was cobbled. In it's center, surrounded be all the buildings, there stood a huge walnut tree.

Till parked next to the other vehicle in front of the barn and turned off the engine. He turned around in his seat, one huge hand still holding on to the steering wheel while the other was closed around the car keys. The singer looked at both his guitarists, first one, then the other. “You two alright?” His tone was caring, yet didn't leave much room for compromises either. They both nodded. “Good. Let's find the others.”

They left the minibus and put on their jackets. The air was cold and clear and so very different from the scent of the capital. You can smell the lack of people, Richard remembered Paul describing a similar sensation some years ago. He looked around. The house closest to the street seemed unrenovated and uninhabited, but it shielded the rest of the property from unwanted looks in case anyone other than the neighbors would even happen to find this road.

The half-timbered house stood almost ninety degrees to the empty one and turned out to be the main house. It looked much bigger now at second glance. Across from it the two outhouses closed the west side of the courtyard and leaned against each other like an old married couple, ready to go when the other one did. Finally, to the south and across from the empty house stood the old but sturdy looking brick-build barn. It truly was an eclectic ensemble.

The other half of the band was nowhere to be seen. The second bus was vacant. Richard saw Till pull out his phone and knew they both had the same idea. So he waited, pulled out his cigarettes and secretly watched Paul, who walked over to the empty house. “Hey. Where are you?” he heard the singer talk to his phone behind him. Meanwhile Paul had reached one of the dead looking windows and pulled himself up on tiptoes to have a glance inside. Richard wondered how many ways the other guitarist would find to evade talking to them. “Later. Let's have a look inside first. I have the keys.”

Richard's eyes were drawn to the main house again. It was beautiful. The timber frame was painted in a rich dark brown. The panels between were painted white. It was a two-storied building with new but historically accurate looking windows. Vine tendrils framed the dark wooden door Till walked towards to. “I told you,” the singer said to his phone and seemed to smile, “I'll hang up now.” Paul had given up peering into the strange old building and turned around. He looked at Till and slowly walked towards him, as did Richard.

The singer fished the keys from his pocket. “Not bad for a last-minute solution, don't you think?” he more stated than asked the two men. Paul said nothing. Richard didn't feel like answering either. Luckily he didn't have to, because Oliver, Flake and Schneider were just walking around the corner of the barn and came towards them at a quick pace. The keyboarder waved at them and Schneider greeted them with a loud “Hello!”

“Everything okay?” Olli asked as soon as he reached them. He asked Till and Richard, but his eyes lingered on Paul, who had his hands in his pockets and looked up at the house they were about to enter.

“More or less,” Till answered and turned towards the door, “But that's why we're here, right?” he shoved the key into the lock and opened it with a heavy clicking noise.

“The garden is really nice,” Schneider told Richard as they both followed Till and Flake inside.

Paul stayed rooted to the spot and just turned around to look up at the walnut tree. Someone had build a wooden bench around the trunk.

Olli walked closer to the smaller guitarist. He bent down a little. “You will like it here,” he said to him in a gentle tone, just loud enough to reach his ear. “Come.” Then he walked inside to the other four band members.

They left on their jackets and coats for now. No one had been here for quite some time so it was still cold. After Paul had finally joined them in the hallway, Till suggested they all have a look around the house first before they would sit down and plan the first day. The others agreed. Paul didn't care but at least trotted along.

The place belonged to a certain Jakob, a friend's friend, Till explained to them. He had bought the property three years ago and was slowly but steadily transforming it from the abandoned farm into a nice holiday home for tourists. The empty house would one day become his retirement home if everything would go as planned. The main house was already completely refurbished and modernized. The barn was in the making. The band was allowed to use the whole place as if it was their own and the owner was happy he could help them out.

So they went to explore their new home.

Left to the entrance door there was a spacious bathroom with a shower and two piles of folded towels. The next door to the left led to the stairs down to the cellar. On the door someone had pinned a note. “Downstairs there's the oil tank for the heating system. Tank is full. Further instruction next to the thermostat, if needed.” They left the note where it was and went on exploring the main floor.

The next thing on the left were the stairs to the upper floor. Behind it a door led to the first guest room. Like what they had seen of the house so far, the furniture was made of real wood and the walls were painted in pleasant light colors. The guest room was small with a large single bed. Attached to it was a small conservatory with beautiful high plants in a big planter that sat on the floor and used the full length of the conservatory. And there was a swing chair from which one had a view over the vast area around them. The whole group knew who would probably want to stay here the most, but none of them said anything. They always had a look at everything first. Then they would sit down and discuss it.

The door right across the entrance door led to a small utility room, which also inhabited a washing machine and a dryer.

Then there was only one door left. Opposite of the one to the cellar there was one that led to the kitchen. And what a kitchen it was. The owner obviously wanted to make it a place where people would be able to come together to cook, sit and talk. There were windows on both the east and the west side of the room. The kitchen cabinets were build in a u-shape all around the west side that was directed to the courtyard. There was a huge refrigerator as well as two stoves – a modern electric one as well as an old one that still had to be heated with fire. Large dark wooden beams in the middle of the kitchen functioned both as a partition as well as a load-bearing element to stabilize the house. Attached to it was a bar table. On the other side of the room, to the east windows, was a large seating area with a huge dining table made out of thick wood planks. Even though it was such a big room, it was very cosy, partly thanks to the low hanging ceiling.

Across from the door that led to the hallway was another door. Flake was the first to open it and they followed him to the living room. The ceiling went on staying low for the first half of the room, but then it opened up all the way to the woodwork of the roof. It had a welcoming atmosphere and they instantly walked to the center where a huge l-shaped mustard yellow leather couch and a three-seater stood, to have a better look around. The south wall had no windows. Instead it was made out of big stones and in the middle there was a huge fireplace that looked like it had always been here. Instead of classic windows in the east wall, a considerable part of the filling of the timber frame was replaced by customized windows so that there was an open view to the landscape outside and the room could be flooded with daylight. Next to where the windows ended, a big flatscreen TV was mounted to the wall. Everywhere around them was tasteful furniture and decoration that fitted in with everything else without being corny.

Where the ceiling was still hanging low, there was another small seating group and a long bookcase filled to the brim with books, some board games and even some small instruments. An acoustic guitar leaned against the wall.

On the west wall of the room circular iron stairs led up to the second floor and directly to a small indoor balcony from which they could look down to the couches in the living room. A long straight hall opened up in front of them and ended in the stairs back down to the entrance hall. There were six doors, three to each side. Behind five of them lay small snug rooms with either a single or a double bed, a wardrobe, some small furniture and some decor that followed a certain theme. The middle door to the courtyard side led to another bathroom with both a shower and a bathtub.

Richard had to admit, even though personally he preferred a different taste, that he loved the house. It had a lot of history and personality. None of it's walls were even and everywhere it creaked. He had already chosen a room he liked the most. It had a great view over the meadow landscape with the typical basket willows. He could see the dike from here and even the Elbe.

They all had decided that they had seen enough of the house to sit down in the living room and start planing. Oliver volunteered to make some tea and vanished into the kitchen. Till organized something to write while the rest of them sat down on the l-shaped couch. Paul took off his boots, took one of the blankets and sat down in the corner of the sofa. Richard sat down next to him to his right and forced himself not to watch the other guitarist wrap the blanket around his legs and pull them closer to his body. It was still cold in here, but Flake was already turning on the heaters. Schneider sat down next to Richard and took the small white envelope in his hand that since their arrival waited patiently on the coffee table.

“How do you feel?” the drummer asked the man next to him and their eyes met. They both looked concerned.

“Better than anticipated,” he answered. Twenty-four hours ago he had thought this would all be a big mistake. But now that the whole band was here and Paul sat at his side, he dared to hope for a good outcome.

“And how about you?” Schneider asked as he leaned forward to be able to look at the smaller guitarist. He had made himself comfortable between the cushions. His gaze was directed over his knees to the timber framed windows and the landscape beyond.

“I'm fine,” Paul answered with a sigh.

“Of course,” Schneider responded and leaned back as well.

Till came back into the room with a notepad and pen in hand and sat down on top of a small leather stool across the coffee table. He silently wrote something down and then asked Schneider to open the envelope and give him the letter inside, which he did. Meanwhile Flake helped Olli to serve the tea in large mugs. Richard placed his tea right in front of him on the table. Paul kept his mug between his hands and balanced it on his lower abdomen. The keyboarder sat down next to Schneider and the bass player made himself comfortable right next to Paul's feet.

For a few seconds it was quiet. Their eyes were directed at Till expectantly. Everyone's but Paul's, which still preferred to stare out into the nature.

Till unfolded the letter, silently read the first lines and then nodded to himself. “Alright,” he said and looked up at his friends, “First of all I want to thank all of you for doing this. I mean it.” He leaned forward a little and looked at the man curled up in the sofa corner. “Paul, I know you're mad. I would be, too, if I were you. If you need to take it out on someone, take it out on me. This was my idea.”

Richard wanted to say something but it wasn't the right time. He hated it when Till was putting himself in front of others to protect them. They had all decided to do this. They had all planned the final steps. They were all in on this plan.

Paul didn't react at all. None of them knew what was going on inside his head. From what they could see he merely existed.

“Okay, now that that's settled, let's have a look at what Jakob wants us to know,” Till went on and held the letter a little higher. “Welcome to the quietest place on earth,” he started to read and leaned back a little. “I will be back next year, until then you have the place to yourselves. You can use everything as you see fit: the barn, the tools, the garden. Everything. I don't care. Just don't burn it to the ground.” They had do laugh at that. This Jakob-guy obviously knew exactly who they were. “There's a small path between the two pastures behind the garden. It's the shortest way to the dike. The fireplace is the best way to heat the living room. Feel free to take the fire wood behind the barn. Just stay away from the neighbor.” Till stopped his reading and looked at the others. “The letter doesn't say, why,” he explained.

“Maybe we can call this Jakob,” Flake spoke up, “Or maybe your friend knows.”

“Or maybe we don't need to know and just avoid him,” Oliver said and shrugged his shoulders. The others nodded.

At this moment Till started to grin. “Okay, this is even more interesting. It says: And I apologize for the rooster.”

A smile tugged at Richard's lips. “Let me guess, the letter doesn't explain that either?”

Till nodded.

“There were no chickens in the garden,” Schneider pointed out and tried to sip from his mug. It was still steaming hot.

“I guess we will see, then,” Flake concluded. “Anything else the letter want's to warn us about?”

The singer looked at the piece of paper in his hand and shook his head. “I've put some beer in the fridge for you. Have a great time. P.S. I've left some more notes around the house and extra sets of keys in the upper drawer in the hallway.”

They all waited a couple of seconds for something that wasn't happening. Usually Paul would have gotten up immediately to check for the beer and the keys. The band instantly felt the shift in their group dynamic, the lack of an important force.

“Sounds like a very relaxed person, this Jakob,” Oliver noted and filled the void.

So I've been told,” Till commented and looked at the letter a last time before folding it and carefully putting it back inside the envelope.

To Richard it sounded too good to be true. Was that single letter the only thing there was? Not a nine page long rental contract like the last time? No specific rules about the dos and don'ts? Just a laid-back what's-mine-is-yours-mentality? He always admired people who could be like that.

“Do we want to settle who moves into which room first? Or assign tasks?” Schneider asked the others.

“Rooms,” both Olli and Richard answered almost simultaneously.

“Okay,” Schneider laughed, “Hands up who already has preferences.”

Three hands went up.

“Olli, you were the first,” the drummer moderated the negotiation.

“I'd like to have the one downstairs, with the conservatory,” the largest of them answered and looked at all the other faces, “If that's okay with you?”

The band had already known it would become his room so of course they instantly agreed.

“Perfect,” Schneider commented and Olli leaned back with a pleased expression. “Richard, what's your choice?”

“That one,” the guitarist answered and pointed up the wall right of the indoor balcony.

Again the group agreed.

“Alright, Flake, which do you prefer?” Schneider asked.

“None in particular,” the keyboarder answered, “But I'd like to be as far away from Till's as possible. I don't need to hear his wanking noises again.”

Till just grinned shamelessly and shrugged his shoulders. “I'm not the silent type and I won't apologize for it.”

A short discussion started about who would take which of the remaining rooms. Again one voice was missing. All Paul contributed to the debate was a short “I really don't care.” In the end Flake would move into the room across from Richard's. Next to Richard would be Schneider's place and next to Schneider Paul would move in, which left the last room between the bathroom and the stairs to the hallway to Till.

Where one discussion ended the next started. It had been a while since the last time it had been just the six of them and they had to provide themselves with food and everything. Thankfully they were organized and not above doing everything necessary. Yet Flake wasn't too keen on carrying around all the heavy equipment while Richard didn't want to go grocery shopping if avoidable and Till could do without having to wire the recording equipment and computers. While Paul actually volunteered to deal with the latter, Flake and Oliver were assigned to do the shopping for the next days. The rest of them would unload both buses.

Before they would start their tasks, of course they needed to make a grocery list. Agreeing that they wanted to cook themselves, each of them had to contribute one dish to the list which they would prepare together. Between Olli's pumpkin gratin and Till's goulash Paul was also asked to name a meal.

“Can't one of you name two?” he complained tiredly and let his head fall back into the cushions.

“Nope,” Flake answered politely, “Because chances are that in three days you regret your decision and we have to listen to your complains. No thank you.”

The guitarist only sighed heavily and blinked so slowly Richard was almost sure Paul would leave them closed. But instead after a few seconds their eyes met.

“What are typical local specialties?” the smaller guitarist asked the younger one. His voice sounded painfully exhausted.

Richard tried to act normal, even though he wanted nothing more than to address his worries about Paul's wellbeing. “Hmm, let me think... ,” he tried to remember while trying to not remember anything not-food-related, “There's Knieperkohl, Schichtkohl, basically anything with white asparagus … but it's not in season, so … hm … Tote Oma-”

“Tote Oma! That's the one,” Paul decided. They didn't know if it was because of the name, dead granny, or because he actually chose it because of the taste. One way or the other they had to accept it, even though judging just by its appearance that dish was an insult to food, period.

Eventually they started filling the list with every additional order each of them had on an individual basis, starting with Flake who tried to go through every need he could think of.

The next in line was Schneider, who did the same.

It happened so gently that Richard didn't recognize it at first. His mind was listing groceries he might possibly want to have within the next few days. He wasn't extremely picky but he definitely favored certain brands and flavors. There was that certain yogurt he liked. And oranges. He definitely wanted those. And chocolate. And some cigarettes in case he ran out. Cheese wouldn't hurt either. His train of thought came to an abrupt stop as he became aware of the pressure on his left upper arm. It was barely there. Just enough to be felt and increasing ever so slightly.

He turned his head a little to see what was going on. Paul was still huddled in his corner, bent legs shielding him from the world, steaming mug cradled in his hands. His head though was tilted to the side now and slid even closer.

Could it be, that … ? Richard carefully tried to get a better look. And indeed Paul had been falling asleep, his head now sinking in a relaxed position and leaning against Richard's arm. For a moment all the lead guitarist could do was feel. The weight against his arm. The warmth. The gentle movement through his breathing. The intimacy. The trust.

Surely this was just a short nap and he would wake up again within the next minutes. So Richard savored every second of being close to Paul. He was so sorry for what they had done. What had to be done. Of course they had his best interests at heart, but from Paul's perspective they had acted encroaching and too forceful for sure.

“Richard?” Till's voice said, obviously not for the first time.

The guitarist looked up and at the singer. He had stopped listening. “Ja?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“What do you want to add to the list?” Till asked, but then directed his gaze to where Richard had been looking to before. “Oh!” he made in a quieter voice, obviously realizing as well that Paul had fallen asleep. He raised his index finger in a gesture to signal he had an idea. He handed the notepad to Richard who laid it on his thigh. Then the pen followed. The guitarist understood and smiled gently. While he started to write down what he wanted to have, Till as quietly as possible told the rest of them what was going on. Both Schneider and Flake leaned forward as far as possible to see it with their own eyes. Olli just turned his head and began to smile caringly.

They kept their voices down as they talked to each other. Richard added a section he headlined for Paul and listed some things he thought the other guitarist liked. Then he handed the notepad to Oliver and kept watching the sleeping man to his left.

Despite his expectation Paul didn't wake up again soon after, but kept on leaning against his arm and breathing calm and slowly. After Oliver had finished writing his order down, he slowly stood up and ever so carefully pulled the mug from Paul's fingers. Thankfully he didn't wake him up. He placed the tea on the table and walked behind Till to say something in his ear, to which the singer nodded.

It was odd, Richard noted. He didn't want to be here. He hated Wittenberge. Not for the town that it was, but for the history and memories it meant for him personally. And yet, right here and right know he didn't want to be anywhere else. What a difference one person could make!

He watched Olli slowly make his way around the sofas and come to a halt behind him. The bass player leaned on the backrest and whispered into Richard's ear. “We should let him sleep. Is it okay for you if Schneider and Till unload the buses and you stay here and babysit?”

Richard pulled his brows together thoughtfully and looked up at Oliver. “That's a lot of suitcases and equipment.”

“I know,” the bass player replied, “But he looked really tired and we are not in a rush. You keep an eye on him and we take care of the rest.” He very gently patted Richard's shoulder and straightened his back, signaling him that it was already settled.

“Let us carry the stuff,” Schneider whispered to him, “You have the hardest part anyway. If the little devil wakes up and still is in a mood, you will have to deal with it on your own.” He grinned and stood up slowly, as did the rest of them.

Till handed him the remote control of the TV and one by one they left the living room as quietly as possible.

Richard sighed and didn't know if he liked this. He hated having the others do the work for him. Then again he liked sharing a moment with the man next to him. And he could watch him without having anyone wondering why he was looking at him with that much interest.

Paul's fingers had curled into a more relaxed position without the mug. The hands rose and sank with each deep breath. By the sound of it, Paul was not just napping but was sound asleep. His head was now leaning against Richard's upper arm with it's full weight. The hair, slightly outgrown of his typical haircut, was tousled slightly. It was the first time since what felt like an eternity that the both of them shared such a moment. It was the first time since the attack that Richard felt a physical connection between them, even though Paul was asleep right now.

He liked it. So much so that for more than half an hour he did nothing but sit there and enjoy the quiet company. Every now and then he could hear distant noises that traveled up the stairs on the other side of the house and through the upper corridor. But besides that it was silent and peaceful.

After a while he felt his own eyes close from tiredness and, wanting to avoid falling asleep himself, he decided to switch on the TV. Paul wasn't even disturbed by the sudden noise. He had only started to shiver a little every now and then, possibly from the cold. Richard zapped through the programs and stopped at a documentation about the cooperation of wildlife of different species. It was interesting enough, but his main attention of course was on the other guitarist. He caught himself wondering what his life would be like if he could have this every day. But of course he couldn't.

An hour was gone since the rest of the band had left the room to the both guitarists, as suddenly Paul started stirring, although just a little at first. He made a small sound that Richard couldn't read. But he drew his whole attention to the smaller man and observed him closer.

Then Paul turned to his right side with another noise that sounded as if he wanted to signal that he didn't like something. He had pulled the blanked over his upper body in the movement as well, leaving nothing but his shoulder and the head uncovered. Yet the shivering increased. From the new angle Richard could see that he had pulled his brows together in his sleep, one hand holding fast to the blanket and the other hand gripping Richard's lower left arm.

Other sounds followed, stifling sobs and displeased noises. The breathing quickened. Then Paul drew his legs closer to his body still, his left one trying to cover his arms a little. He dug his head into Richard's side and the shivering turned into a shaking. He tried to make himself smaller and smaller and suddenly Richard understood what was happening.

This most likely was a nightmare in broad daylight. Paul probably was experiencing and processing the attack again in his sleep. The sight was so painful that Richard forgot everything around him and just concentrated on his friend. Without thinking about it he placed his right hand on Paul's trembling shoulder and then on his head, where he left it. “It's alright,” he whispered soothingly, “I'm here. It's just a dream. No one is going to hurt you.” Paul's fingers clawed into his left arm but he ignored the piercing pain. “Shhhhh. I'm here. It's okay.”

He went on whispering calming words until Paul slowly started to relax again until he lay still like before, just breathing.

For a few seconds Richard was reassured that the worst was over, until he realized something. He remembered what had happened that night. Maybe the nightmare wasn't even over yet.

He took a long and deep breath, fought down his own pain and kept on quietly soothing the other man. The realization sunk in that he until now had not understood the true impact of it all.

What he also realized was that they had done the right thing today. And that they should have done it sooner. Paul had been on his own for too long. He looked down at the sleeping face and wanted to apologize for not having seen the obvious.

Paul kept sleeping and he didn't want to wake him up now more than ever. He needed to rest.

Eventually Flake and Oliver were back. Olli just came into the living room to tell him that they would go and help to unload the rest and that he shouldn't worry and just be at Paul's side. Then he pulled down the collar of Richard's shirt to stick a nicotine patch on his right shoulder, before he quietly left again.

Richard hadn't even consciously felt the urge to smoke rise, but now he realized how it decreased slowly to a dull background noise again and he felt himself calm down.

He listened to the narrator of the documentation explaining how animals of different species would protect each other at all cost to fight off life-threatening danger. He absentmindedly combed his fingers through Paul's hair as an ongoing gesture to quietly tell him that he was protected. Until tiredness found him, too, and his eyes fell shut.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Explosion

Someone called his name through the darkness. His consciousness climbed up the walls of deep protective relaxation and forced his eyes to open slowly. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Everything was nice and warm and peaceful and he didn't want it to stop. Sleep. He liked sleep.

As he opened his eyes, he found himself lying on a mustard-yellow surface. He looked right into Schneider's face who smiled back at him. His mind tried to remember where he was and how he'd gotten here. And then it clicked. The farmyard. The sofa. The band. Paul. Paul's nightmare.

He blinked his eyes awake and turned his head to where Paul had been before he had fallen asleep. But the other guitarist was gone and now he must have fallen to the side the other man had occupied earlier.

“We're making brunch,” Schneider said softly, “Wanna join us?”

Someone had turned off the TV and the blanket was draped over his body. He nodded and brought himself to an upright position. Everything seemed so hazy. “Where is he?” he asked with a raspy voice.

The drummer chuckled while he rose to his feet. “He's in the kitchen with the rest of us. Take your time to wake up, 'kay?” He brotherly rumpled up Richard's hair and left to join the others.

This was definitely not an outcome he had wanted and so he cursed inwardly. He remembered the trembling body beside him and how helpless he felt and how ignorant. And now this. He tossed the blanket aside and stood up. His fingers rubbed his eyes while he decided which way to take, because he definitely needed to have a smoke first. He needed fresh air, so ironically smoking was the perfect excuse. Avoiding to have to explain himself he took the route around the kitchen, taking the stairs up instead and then back down again on the other side of the house to get to the front door. On the way along the upper corridor he could see through the opened door that all his luggage was waiting for him in his chosen room.

He put the doorstop against the opened front door, walked a few meters across the courtyard and breathed in the fresh clean autumn air. Some crows were sitting on the roofs around him and the sun was shining down from a clear blue sky. He drew out his pack of cigarettes and lit one up. Slowly he walked around the walnut tree in the center of the courtyard and let his thoughts battle against each other. Because he felt like a failure. His job had been to take care of the person they were here for in the first place. And instead he had fallen asleep. It was like the definition of failing the you-had-one-job-mission. Viewing it on the rational side he knew that it barely even counted as a mistake and that no one got hurt or anything. He knew it was only his ever-demanding tendency to perfectionism that dragged down his thoughts.

The sight of Paul trying to protect himself beside him, covering the best he could, shuddering and silently pleading to stop, slowly crawled over his doubts and eclipsed them. He had never seen him like this. Hurt? Yes. Angry or infuriated? Yes. But never this terrified and … small. And without a visible option. He had always been optimistic. He always had a vision what he wanted to do and were he wanted to go and if that wasn't possible he had instantly found a way to adapt and find an adequate goal he could reach. Or at least he had tried to. His sister had said it perfectly: Right now he was stuck.

Richard wondered how frequently that nightmare had haunted Paul in the last couple of weeks. Maybe this had been the first time, but it was more likely that it had happened on a regular basis. Was this why Paul had looked so tired since they had started practicing again? Was he taking medications to deal with it? Was he continuing therapy?

A walnut fell on the cobblestones as he decided to go back inside the house. Behind him one of the crows landed on the ground to pick up the nut and carry it away.

He closed the door and felt it was time to take off his jacket. The heaters were warming up the house efficiently. He heard distant chatter through the door already and by the sound of it they were in a good mood.

The moment he opened the door to the kitchen he was greeted by the phenomenal smell of freshly baked bread rolls and really good coffee. Till was already sitting at one head of the table. On the bench with their backs to the windows sat Flake and next to him Paul. The seat at the other end of the table was still free and as soon as Richard entered the room, Schneider was already pointing at exactly that spot to have him sit down as well. “Coffee or tea?” he was asked by the drummer who instantly signaled him that everything was fine – circumstances considered.

“Coffee, please,” Richard answered as he took the chair next to the other guitarist.

Paul held out the basket with bread rolls for Richard to chose from. He picked one at random. “Thanks.” He didn't feel like eating. There was so much on his mind that his stomach was busy digesting all the emotions instead of food.

Judging by Paul's empty and immaculate plate the other guitarist seemed to have the same problem.

Next to them Flake and Till were joking around and Till's roaring laughter filled the room. Olli chimed in and soon everyone aside from Paul and Richard was laughing lightheartedly.

Richard smiled politely as Olli came to him with a pan in his hand and shoved some scrambled eggs on his plate. The bass player served everyone and went back to put the pan away. It would have been such a nice moment. The house was so welcoming they instantly felt at home here. And yet … .

Richard looked at the egg on Paul's plate and then at Paul himself. Their eyes met. Neither of them looked away, yet none of them dared to say something. Still there was something in Paul's eyes. It was the same expression he had seen before. There was something beyond words that lingered in his gaze. Something he couldn't decipher.

“Sorry I fell asleep,” Richard said to the other guitarist in a hushed voice.

Paul kept looking at him, blinked, and then those beautiful wrinkles formed around his eyes as his features softened and allowed a small smile. “Are you sure you want to apologize for that to me?”

He was right. Paul had been falling asleep first. So Richard returned the smile. “Ja, I'm sure,” he answered, “We dragged you out of your house in the middle of the night and you have to process a lot anyway. You're allowed to fall asleep.” He wanted to signal him that it was okay to take some time and do whatever was necessary to cope with the trauma. Especially since his mind evidently still needed time to go through the events of that gruesome night. Richard wondered if Paul even remembered the nightmare from earlier or if he was oblivious.

“So are you,” the smaller man replied, before he took a fork in his hand and poked around in his scrambled eggs.

“Fair point,” Richard concluded after some consideration. Their eyes met again and they exchanged another quick smile.

Suddenly a mug was placed in front of him and he looked up at Schneider who was about to take the seat next to him and across from Paul. He thanked him and immediately tried the coffee in hope it would wake him up further. But it didn't. It tasted too delicious to take him out of his still relaxed state. The good company, the smell of good food and the general vibe of the house was doing the rest. If the plan for the whole day would mean curling up on the couch and read a book, he wouldn't complain.

He quietly listened to the others talking and joking about Flake constantly having been afraid of being recognized all the way through the supermarket and how he might have appeared more suspicious by trying to be as unsuspicious as possible. How slow the cashier worked in comparison to the ones in Berlin. How the people seemed to use so little words in comparison and how time here seemed to flow slower. Yes, compared to Berlin, or even to any mayor big city, this was another world.

They had parked the minibuses inside the barn now and used it as a garage. What now also waited inside the barn were their instruments and all of the equipment. Both Schneider and Till told them that there were two larger rooms inside the barn which seemed to be adequate for their band practices.

“Did you already install the alarm system?” Paul asked while absentmindedly rotating his mug on the table with his fingers.

“Not yet,” Till answered and tried not to show his joy over Paul actively participating in the conversation, “We just put everything in there and checked if the acoustics where suitable.”

“Then I'll take care of it later,” the smaller guitarist nodded and leaned back. They had a portable alarm to be on the safe side. No one knew they were here and probably no one would find out, but they had learned the hard way that even if they played it safe, things could get stolen. And over the years their equipment had become worth a small fortune, not to mention the sentimental value.

“Do you need help?” Schneider asked and with that question only referred to technical aspect.

Paul shook his head and checked his watch. “We won't be starting earlier than this afternoon anyway, am I right?”

“Right,” answered Olli and took a big bite out of his bread roll.

“Then I can do this by myself,” the guitarist answered and took the first sip of his coffee. A few seconds of silence followed, but neither of them wanted to say something out loud. They were used to Paul taking care of the wiring and stuff on his own, but now it was layered with a different context.

“Speaking of doing something by oneself,” Flake finally broke the quiet, “I'd like to go on a walk later. When shall I be back?” They appreciated that he asked. They knew that even if they gave him a time, it didn't mean he would be punctual. They loosely agreed on three p.m., giving everyone else time to explore the properties, unpack everything and in Schneider's case build up his drum set.

Meanwhile Till had pulled out one of those simple calendars that usually were hung on a wall. He quietly pulled out his phone and seemed to write down certain dates onto the paper. Richard remembered Till asking everyone bar Paul a while ago about certain doctor's appointments, family celebrations and other important dates that they should take into consideration in order to plan who would have to temporarily leave – and for how long.

While he didn't really listen to the others talking for a moment, Richard's eyes wandered around the kitchen. Several packed and unpacked fruits and vegetables waited on the counter on the other side of the room. On top of the fridge a few bottles of hard liquor stood on display. The bar table was filled with non-alcoholic beverages, some milk cartons and an impressive selection of snacks. Some apples were arrayed on the crossbeam right above that table and judging by the different sizes they most likely came from the garden and weren't store-bought.

“Paul?” he heard Till ask, which immediately drew his attention back to his friends, “Do you have any scheduled appointments within the next couple of weeks?”

The smaller of the two guitarists seemed to think about it for a moment, before shaking his head. “No, none.” He rubbed some sleep out of his eye with his little finger. “There's one thing on the fifth that I can manage over the phone, which actually comes in useful to me.”

“Mhmmm,” Till hummed discontented and stared down at the calendar. He took a deep breath and put the pen aside. “So you're not continuing your therapy sessions?”

Paul didn't answer, but instead stared at Till and waited until they had eye contact. His gray-blue eyes searched for something in the singer's features and when they didn't find it, his eyes narrowed a little. The table kept quiet as Paul looked from one musician to the next, asking a silent question. With bewilderment in his face he sat up straight and raised his voice. “Are you the Stasi now or what?!”

Richard put his mug down and looked at Paul. He seemed seriously angry and tired at the same time. All the gentleness from minutes ago was gone.

“You didn't answer my question,” Till stated calmly.

“Because that's none of your business,” Paul replied sharply, “How come you know about the therapy, that's what I want to know!”

“Your sister-,” Schneider started, but was immediately interrupted by Paul. “I didn't tell my sister. I didn't tell anyone!”

Richard sighed heavily and leaned against the backrest. “A nurse told me,” he told him and waited for their eyes to meet. “I wanted to visit you, but you had a session with the therapist.”

Paul opened his mouth to say something, but he seemed at a loss of words. Instead he pulled his brows together and shook his head in disbelief.

“Is it so bad that we know that?” he continued, “You had promised us anyway.”

“You were there?” Paul asked back almost voicelessly and ignoring the question. His gaze was piercing and to Richard it was obvious that the news hurt his friend deeply.

“I was,” he answered honestly. They were here to work, yes, but mainly they were here to talk openly. And if he demanded honesty he should start with it himself. “Twice.”

“And you couldn't tell me?!”

“You had shut yourself off!” Richard tried to explain. “You had asked us not to visit anymore!”

“And I had called later that day!” Paul retorted instantly.

“That's why I tried to visit!”

“Without telling me! You told me you'd gone back to Berlin! You lied to me!”

“Yes! I lied!”

“Why?!”

If it would go on like this, they would get close to yelling at each other, but now Richard didn't know how to answer that question and remained silent. How could he tell his friend that he lied to protect himself. That although he wanted to be there, it was so emotionally draining and demanding that all he could do was lie himself out of that situation? Even if it was the truth, it wasn't the time to say it out loud. So instead he turned the tables. “I could ask you the same question.”

Now it was Paul who kept quiet. His whole body language told them that in his eyes Richard had crossed a line.

Flake took the opportunity to be heard. “Can we stop blaming each other?” he asked in a desperate attempt to stop the argument.

“Unbelievable!” Paul hissed and stood up to pace around in the kitchen.

“What is?” Richard asked as he turned around on his chair to face the other guitarist. “That I lied? That I call you out on doing the same thing?”

“This degree of meddling!” Paul answered and kept walking around like a caged tiger, “Since when do we have to tell each other every fucking little detail of our lives at all time!” His hands underlined every syllable.

“I wasn't talking about the divorce – which by the way is not a little detail,” Richard stood his ground, “Since day one after the attack you kept telling us everything was fine. That you were okay. That you got this. That you didn't need help. That we shouldn't worry.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, “I don't give a shit about you not telling us about your private life. But lying to yourself and forcing us to watch you suffer? Sorry, no. If you expect us to look away then you've picked the wrong band.”

“Exactly,” Olli chimed in, “we won't let you do this to yourself any longer.”

Paul came to a halt at the point furthest away from them, leaned his back against the counter and crossed his arms in front of him. “This is all about what you want! What about what I want?!”

It was Till who answered. His voice was calm and yet it had a sharp undertone. “We have done what you wanted for weeks. Has it helped you? Tell me, Paul! Has it helped!? Do you feel better in any way?!”

“And be honest this time,” Schneider added, “We deserve that much.”

The smaller guitarist let his head fall back, took a deep long breath and stared at the low ceiling for a moment. “Fine,” he said after a long pause and looked back at them, “You want honest? Here's honest: I'm not okay. I feel like shit. My life is a pile of shit for almost a year now. Every time I tried to fix it, it only got worse.” His voice was low, dangerous, like a wounded animal in a corner. “The only reason you didn't notice anything was because I put on a happy face. Which I needed to do for me, for you, for each and every one of our employees. Because otherwise I might have fallen apart. And then what?!” They all knew what he meant. The responsibility for so many other people sometimes weighed too heavy. “So, in all honesty, sorry if after months of being rewarded for pretending to be fine I couldn't switch my behavior to your wishes in the last couple of weeks.” He shoved himself off the counter and walked over to the table to grab his set of keys that still lay at his spot. “And sorry but no, I don't want to fix this, because I'll just fuck this up, too.” He made his way to the door and still no one dared to say a word. “This band is the only thing I've got left and I can't take another loss.” He pressed down the handle. “I'm in the barn if anyone needs me,” he told them before entering the hallway and letting the door fall shut.

The remaining five band members looked at each other for a moment, while Paul's words still echoed through their minds.

“Almost a year?” Schneider repeated against the rim of his mug.

Richard's eyes fell on the scrambled eggs on Paul's plate. He hadn't eaten one bite.

“I haven't noticed anything either,” Olli tried to reassure the drummer.

“At least it seemed as if he was telling the truth,” Flake stated and tried to relax again.

“Progress,” Till commented in a low voice and drank the rest of his coffee.

“But he said he doesn't want to talk about it,” the keyboarder shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

The singer put his empty mug back on the table. “And yet he opened up.”

They all knew this wouldn't be one of their regular pre-production times away from home, no matter how much they would plan it that way. This time their top priority wasn't their music but the wellbeing of one of their band members. They didn't feel like one unit. It was five against one or five trying to help one, depending on the respective perspective.

The other four decided on leaving Paul alone for the moment, not wanting to push him further for the moment. Richard looked at Paul's plate again and his almost full mug. While the others kept taking, he quietly stood up and went to look through the cupboards until he found a middle-sized thermos. Perfect, he thought and started to fill it with freshly brewed coffee. He also filled a small bowl with some fruits and excused himself to the others, wanting to bring it to Paul, because if sunken in work the smaller guitarist always forgot to eat and drink.

In the hallway he found a set of keys and a small note next to it with his name written in a neat handwriting. He put on his jacket, finally remembered the nicotine patch and pulled it off – he rather wanted to actively smoke – took the thermos and bowl back in his hands and opened the front door.

To his astonishment he found Paul standing on the doorstep. He was rooted to the spot, but at the sound of the door opening, he turned around in surprise and their eyes met. For a fraction of a second Richard thought he'd seen panic in the other man's eyes. Then relief. Then again Paul had a lot on his mind and who knew what was really going on in his head. Still, it was strange that he was still standing here.

“You alright?” Richard asked him carefully.

Paul looked at him for a moment until he simply nodded. “Of course,” he answered, “Just thinking about something.”

Something told Richard that the smaller man was lying. “About what?” he asked.

“Not important,” Paul replied and instantly started walking towards the barn.

It was such a strange interaction with the other guitarist that Richard couldn't move for a moment as his brain was busy comprehending. It didn't sound like Paul at all. He usually liked thinking about stuff while moving – preferably doing some kind of sport or crafting.

“Wait,” Richard called after him and got his legs to move.

The other man turned around and now continued his way to the barn backwards. “What is it?”

Again Richard had to force himself to not visibly pull his brows together. It was a small thing. A tiny detail. But whenever asked to wait, Paul had done exactly that. Even closed the distance again. Continuing his way was not typical, not even in times they had been mad at each other. So he quickened his pace to catch up with the other man. “I have something for you,” he told him as soon as he had reached him.

Paul looked at the thermos and the bowl and finally stopped in his tracks. The side door to the barn was almost right behind him. A crow called from the roof and soft wind was grazing through the leaves.

“Thank you,” he finally said to Richard and took the offered items in his hands.

Their eyes met and they looked at each other like that day they had seen each other the first time after they had been back in Berlin. Before they hugged each other in the parking lot. There was so much Richard felt and that he knew he couldn't say. Some of it not after the confrontation in the kitchen. Some of it never. He wanted to tell him that they were there for him. That he was there for him. That there was nothing he could do or say to drive him away. That he was loved on so many levels. That he should stop and try shouldering everything alone. That he had helped each and every band member and now his time had come to receive help in return. That all he had to do was stop retreating in that shell of his. Stop running away from them. Stop isolating. That they could go from there. Right now Richard wanted to at least give him a hug. A hug that at least would carry a fraction of all the things he couldn't say.

“Can't you all just leave me alone?” Paul whispered hoarsely into the silent moment.

Richard took a deep and heavy breath and slightly shook his head. “You know we can't,” he answered ever so softly and tilted his head to the left in a silent plea for understanding.

Paul sulkily looked to the side, gave a quick nod and then turned around without another word to vanish behind the door.

~~~

Rejection. That's what Richard felt for the rest of the day.

Of course he hadn't followed Paul inside the barn. Instead he had gone to check out the garden the others had talked about. Since it was already autumn most of the flowers had wilted away. But there were still some vegetables growing next to some apple trees and common hazels. A wooden fence with thick crossbars surrounded the garden. All around was open land. Just meadows, some single trees in the distance, and the dike further away in the south.

Richard could barely make out the small path which was leading to the dike and wondered what pastures Jakob, the guy who owned this place, had spoken about in his letter. It took a while to make out the thin electric fences that passed through the high grass. They consisted of nothing but a single silver-gray wire. But there were no animals in sight.

His eyes went back to the dike and and followed it as it snaked it's way to the east where it protected Wittenberge from high water. This sight and the feeling of rejection was an unfortunate combination. Vague memories flashed up in his mind. A hand letting go. His child voice calling a name. Voices arguing above his head at a sidewalk in the dark. Richard involuntarily shuddered to shake off those pictures. He wasn't ready yet.

For a moment he allowed himself to stand there and let his body calm him down. Above his head a flock of geese flew south. He listened to their calls and looked up through his tears. The crying helped a little. He wanted to run away from here, too. It was something he had often done, whenever he felt powerless for too long. It was in his blood. But he couldn't. He wouldn't abandon Paul, even if it meant enduring this place and all the cursed memories that came with it.

After a while he went back inside the house to unpack his stuff. He let his door stand open wide do listen to Oliver playing an acoustic guitar downstairs in the living room. It didn't take long to fill up the wardrobe and place all his other private belongings in drawers or on a shelf. He could even fit both suitcases inside the wardrobe, so those were out of sight and left more space to move around. The room was small enough as it was. In the corner right to the door stood the large wooden wardrobe. Against the wall to the left stood a simple dresser. On the east wall there were two beautiful small windows and between those windows stood a cosy large bed. Framed photos of willow trees hung on the walls. There were moss green curtains and a matching knitted blanket. The most interesting asset was the ceiling lamp. A wooden branch seemed to grow out of the ceiling and bent in three directions. At every end a green lampshade dangled from the branch, each in a slightly different tone and size. He liked it a lot.

The day went by differently than expected. Flake had gone out for a walk as he had announced earlier. Paul was busy setting up the whole technical equipment by himself and still refused any help. He had made that point very clear a second time when Schneider came to him to bring him some more food and a bottle of water. The others sat together in the living room and talked about what they had done in the last couple of weeks that didn't involve work or taking care of Paul. They talked about small things, everyday-things, things that had nothing to do with the Rammstein world. After all they were still normal people.

Around half past three they all received a message in their group chat. Flake wanted them to know that he was about to come back when he had run into Paul at the dike. That Paul was adamant to take a walk and didn't feel like practicing today and that they now were both taking a longer walk together. That he didn't know when they would be back.

The rest of them agreed that in that case they would officially start tomorrow and that today would solely be used for relaxation. The following days would be challenging enough. So they talked some more, switched on a movie that in the end they didn't watch because they weren't done taking, and then made dinner. It was then that Flake and Paul returned. The sun had sunken below the horizon already. Paul excused himself and directly went up to his room.

They had a bad feeling about it and even more so after Flake told them that Paul had barely spoken a word as they had walked side by side. The relief came later. While both Olli and Schneider attached their gaming consoles to the flatscreen, Paul messaged them that tomorrow he would be ready for band practice.

With that positive prospect in mind, they enjoyed the evening together and hoped for a fresh start in the morning.

Richard went to bed early. He took out his laptop and wrote down his thoughts with the intention to maybe use it for a song or two. Till was right: Digging in personal pain always brought up good song material. Every few minutes though he checked his phone. He secretly hoped for a message from Paul. Just a small sign. But there was none.

~~~

He woke up in the middle of the night. He didn't even know from what. It was incredibly quiet, and dark. No distant traffic noises, no street lights, no nothing. Just night.

A quick glance to his phone told him it was seven past three in the morning. He didn't feel like having had a nightmare. So why was he up?

A moment later he heard a door squeak outside in the hallway. Then silent footsteps walking away. Then another door closing. Then quiet.

His curiousness got the better of him, so Richard silently opened his door to have a look. Outside his room everything was dark as well. Only a soft light shone from under the door to Paul's room. He listened closely, but all he could hear was the soft snoring coming from Flake's room. When nothing else happened we closed his door and went back to bed again.

~~~

As they sat together for breakfast, Paul had joined them. He barely ate anything but at least he finished his coffee. Still Richard was worried. So much was off with his friend and now that they would live together, it was obvious how much Paul was not himself. Again he looked tired, even more so than yesterday.

But at least he was here and had decided to participate. At least physically. He barely said anything, just answered, if he was asked something. He looked small in the thick pullover he was wearing.

When everyone was done eating they decided to go over to the barn and have a first jam session to get a feeling for the atmosphere and acoustics. So they cleared the table, started the dish washer and put on their jackets and boots.

Paul was the one closest to the exit and so he opened the front door, made a step outside and waited. Behind him the band was joking around and continuing the lighthearted banter they had started at the table. Schneider had a small pack of water bottles under his arm and Till held tight onto the notebook he always carried with him whenever he sniffed the chance to get new song writing material. Cool air fell through the open door as Richard rose up after binding his boots.

“Let's go!” Till said with a certain joy in his voice and playfully pushed Paul forward so he would move away from the door and out into the open.

It happened fast and without warning.

Clothes rustling.

A fist.

A jaw.

A mean clacking noise.

Till's voice signaling pain and surprise.

The black notebook hitting the floor.

For a short moment everything went quiet, before everyone moved and tried to find out what had happened. From his angle Richard could see how Till straightened up his posture again and behind him Paul slowly sank his fist down with a terrified look on his face. The band members all walked outside and both surrounded Till and Paul.

“I---I-I'm … so s-sorry... ,” the smaller guitarist whispered. He seemed to be in shock.

Till held his left jaw with his right hand. His eyes were locked on Paul, his expression a mixture of anger and puzzlement. His tongue seemed to check the inside of his mouth.

“What's gotten into you!” Oliver asked, one of his hands already on Paul's shoulder to get his attention. The man in question just shook his head slowly, signaling that he didn't know.

“You okay?” Richard addressed Till. By the sound of it Paul hadn't held back.

The singer closed his eyes for a moment and pulled his brows together. Then he, too, shook his head, opened his eyes and made step aside. He spat out some blood. A tooth went down with it and jumped off the cobblestones with a clicking sound.

Paul started to tremble and judging by the look on his face he was scared by his own actions. There was no doubt about it that he didn't mean to punch Till in the face.

Flake fished a pack of tissues from his pocket and handed it to Till who gratefully took it and started cleaning his mouth.

Schneider picked up the tooth and quietly went inside.

“Till, I'm sorry,” Paul tried again, his voice still shaking.

“Not now,” the singer answered this time, turned around and pulled his phone from his pocket. He searched for a certain contact and dialed the number while slowly walking away from the group.

“I'm sorry,” Richard heard the other guitarist say once more, but his eyes were fixed on the blood on the cobblestones. He needed to focus. He needed to block out the memories of the night Paul had been attacked. He needed to block out the memories of his stepfather raising his fists. He needed to function. As he walked over to Paul, he could hear Till greeting someone and quickly describing his loss of his tooth and asking for a time-slot. He was obviously contacting his dentist.

“Can you get the bus?” he asked Flake who nodded instantly. Then Richard turned his attention to Paul. He said his name and their eyes met. “Come. I want you to sit down,” he told him and led him to the bench under the walnut tree. Without resistance Paul let himself be guided and sat down.

Schneider joined them again, in his hand a small plastic bag with the tooth inside. He walked over to Till.

Richard sat down on Paul's one side and Olli on the other. They wanted to show him that they wouldn't leave his side, no matter what. Paul held his right hand with his left one. His eyes were glued to Till, waiting for any kind of reaction.

One of their minibuses emerged from the barn and Flake stopped it a few meters away from them.

Till nodded to the keyboarder but didn't immediately join him. Instead he walked in front of Paul and stared down at him. “We talk when I'm back.”

Paul looked up at him and nodded. “Okay,” he said, defeated.

The singer turned around and walked towards the bus.

“Till?” the smaller guitarist called after him.

“Yes?” the larger man asked over his shoulder.

“I didn't mean to.”

“I know.”

A moment later the passenger door was closed and both Flake and Till drove away.

Schneider walked over to them and squatted down right in front of Paul. He crossed his arms and looked him straight in the eyes. “Do you still think you don't want to fix this?”

Paul swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he shook his head. He helplessly pulled up his shoulders and opened his eyes. “But I don't know how,” he whispered.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Freestyle

For a moment they stayed under the walnut tree. Olli silently placed a hand on Paul's back. Richard slowly smoked one of his cigarettes. Schneider told Paul that he should take some time and just breathe. That it wasn't as bad as it looked and that they would figure something out to help him, because they always had.

Paul's eyes looked at everything but his friends. He seemed too ashamed because of what he had done. But he felt one of them, smelled one of them, and listened to one of them. They were still here with him.

“I know what we'll do,” Oliver suddenly stated, carefully lifted his hand off Paul's back and stood up. “Schneider, follow me.” And just like that he turned around and walked off in the direction around the barn towards the garden.

Christoph rose from his position in front of Paul and looked down at both guitarists. “I hope I can leave you alone for a moment?”

Richard gave a short nod and then focused his attention on the smaller man. He didn't move at all.

Reluctantly Schneider turned around, too and walked behind Oliver. “Manche führen, manche folgen …,” he sang and quickened his steps to catch up to him.

When both of them were out of sight, Richard lit himself another cigarette and placed an arm around Paul's shoulders. The other man let it happen. Above them clouds were gathering.

A few minutes later Both Oliver and Schneider appeared with three buckets full of firewood. Schneider held some additional logs in his free hand.
It became clear what Olli had in mind. Rather than sit right next to the location Paul had been obviously triggered and had injured a band member, they could sit in front of their favorite element. It had long become more than an effect in their shows. Fire had connected them wherever they were. Even if apart from one another, each of them just had to look at an open flame to think of the rest of the group. Fire meant danger, yes, but calculated danger and even more so warmth, trust and company.

~~~

A few moments later the four of them were gathered around the fireplace. Both Paul and Richard had been issued with starting the fire, while Oliver and Christoph took care of providing sustenance.

It didn't matter that they've had breakfast less than an hour ago. It was rather likely that they would sit together for quite some time.

As they were all drawn to fire by nature, they had taken some blankets and cushions and now sat in a semi circle directly on the floor and close to the slowly growing flames instead of on the more comfortable sofas. In their middle some plates with snacks were arranged as well as some beverages.

Paul sat closest to the fire on the left side. He had one of the logs on his crossed legs and slowly moved his fingernails along the rills of the age rings. His whole posture let him appear like a beaten dog. Richard, who sat on on the other side of the fire, watched him with raised brows and hoped silently that this would now mark a turning point. He hated to see Paul like this. But knowing the other man well enough he understood that they probably needed to reach that point in order to crack him.

Oliver was the last to take his seat between Schneider and Richard, crossed his long legs in front of him and quietly started cutting an apple into slices.

“Does anyone want to start?” Richard wanted to know and looked into each of the other's faces. They all shook their heads and Paul quickly looked back down on the log in his lap.

Over the years the group had learned to appreciate each member's different talents and traits. They knew who was best at something, or who showed major deficits in certain areas. And thus it was no secret that Richard was the best at addressing everything that had to do with mental health and mental struggles, since he openly fought his ongoing battle against his own demons and was well-spoken when it came to talking about it. It was silently agreed that he would moderate the talk they were about to have. He took a deep breath. “Paul?” he asked gently.

Their eyes met.

“Can you promise to try and talk openly?”

Paul nodded carefully.

“No pretending.”

Another nod.

“Okay,” Richard said and gave him a reassuring smile. Then he addressed all of them. “Is it okay if we treat it like one of our group therapy sessions?”

“Makes sense,” Schneider answered for the rest.

Again Richard took a deep breath to bring himself in the right mindset. “Good,” he agreed, “Then, as usual, the ground rules are clear: no one judges, no one interrupts, all questions are allowed, and answers can be postponed, but must be answered at some point.” Those rules had worked for many years now and they all knew them by heart. Yet they always repeated them at the beginning of a session as a reminder and, to a certain degree, as a ritual.

They all voiced their agreement.

“Is it okay to start with the elephant in the room?” Richard asked bluntly.

Paul inhaled, as if wanting to say something. Instead he cleared his throat, hesitated for a moment and then looked up to meet the waiting set of gray eyes. “You mean … what happened earlier?”

“Mhm,” he affirmed, “You said you didn't mean to. And yet you've hit Till in the face. Can you explain why?”

Paul's eyes quickly fixed on the flames next to him while the fingers of his left hand quickly but quietly tapped a rhythm against the log. “It was a reflex,” he answered after a moment. Then he sighed heavily and looked back at Richard. “I know that's not good enough as an answer.”

“What exactly has Till done to trigger that reflex?” Olli wanted to know.

Again Paul hesitated and seemed to search for something to say. After a while he helplessly shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know.” As if to underline he was saying the truth, he held eye contact with the bassist.

“Because you don't know if it were his words or … ,” Oliver tried to understand.

“No,” Paul answered and shook his head, “I … ,” his gaze fell on his own hands, “I-I wasn't … there. I mean, I was. … But … somehow not.”

“Care to elaborate on the somehow-not-part?” the tallest of them asked.

Gray-blue eyes looked back at the flames. The gears inside Paul's head visibly turned. “It's hard to explain,” he finally replied, but didn't say anything else. They were used to Paul not being able to describe what was going on inside of him. Since most of the time they had been taking care of someone else's problem within the band, he had never seen the relevance of learning to express his feelings and emotional stress properly. He had been the one to be there for others and on the rare occasion he needed some support they made do with the little words he had. It had always worked out. Until now.

“Can you at least try?” Olli persisted.

Paul wanted to. His whole body language told them that he was trying to find a way to explain what had happened. But it was like throwing a fish into the desert and expecting it to walk.

“Is it okay if I make a proposal?” Richard asked into the silence.

“Sure,” said Olli, while Schneider added a soft “Please.” The smallest of them just looked at him.

“Would it help you if we would ask you yes-or-no-questions?” the younger guitarist addressed the older one.

Again their eyes met. Paul nodded carefully. “Ja, let's try that.”

Richard didn't know if it was something in the other man's eyes or in the way he agreed that told him that part of Paul actually wanted to tell them what was going on. A part that was tired of hiding.

The fire was radiating intense warmth now and crackled gently. It was their element indeed.

“Does any of what happened earlier have to do with the other times I saw you standing in front of a door for no obvious reason?” Richard asked after giving it some thought. When he saw Paul's questioning look, he gave some more context. “For example yesterday, before you went to the barn. Or after our first band practice three weeks ago. You wanted to leave, but instead you just stood there at the exit.”

The flames reflected in Paul's eyes as he slowly nodded.

Richard saw his suspicion confirmed and he didn't seem to be the only one, as Schneider voiced the same question he had in mind. “When you say you are there, but at the same time you are not … is part of your mind back at the exit of the hotel? Before it happened?” The drummer was studying every little detail of the smaller man next to him as he waited for a reaction.

“No,” Paul answered as he tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “My mind is … waiting? Does that make sense?”

“Expecting something to happen?” Richard tried to specify.

“Yes!” the smaller man nodded and their eyes met again. “It doesn't feel good.”

It doesn't feel good, Richard repeated in his head, My god, Paul, use words! You have a trillion adjectives to explain a sound to me! Why do you have such a small connection to your feelings?! He tried his best to hide his frustration. “Was Till something that happened?”

“I guess so,” Paul answered while trying hard to remember, “But I've no idea what happened exactly.”

“He had given you a little push,” Schneider told him, “Since you were blocking the door, you know?”

“He did?” It was obvious that he didn't remember that part at all.

They all nodded.

“Did you want to defend yourself?” Richard asked carefully.

Paul pulled his brows together. “I-I … don't know.” His fingers absentmindedly clawed into the log. “I don't remember anything. I know I wanted to open the door. A-And the next thing I know is the look on Till's face … and my fist in the air.”

“And between that nothing?” Olli wanted to know.

The smaller man cautiously nodded.

“Could it have been any of us? Instead of Till?” It was obvious Schneider wasn't sure he should ask that question, but they needed to understand what was happening.

Again he nodded. “I think so.” He took a deep breath and shut his eyes as soon as he realized something. “What if it had been Flake!” he muttered and started to shake his head as if to try and get rid of the idea.

“Hey,” Schneider intervened and placed a hand on Paul's back, “It hasn't, okay?”

“And Till will survive,” Olli added with a reassuring smile.

“Here,” the drummer reached for a full mug of tea and held it above Paul's hands, “Take a few breaths and drink something.”

The smaller guitarist did as he was told.

“May I ask something else?” Richard dared to break the silence.

Another nod.

“Why don't you continue the therapy?” It was a sensitive question. But from what he knew so far, this needed to be in professional hands.

“I don't see how it should help,” Paul answered in a quiet tone as he stared at the content of his mug.

Schneider, Oliver and Richard all looked at each other, all of them puzzled by the strange statement. “Sometimes it takes time to realize the value of a therapy,” Olli replied.

“Maybe,” Paul answered and drank another sip, “But I already know that it's basically my fault.”

“Wait, what?!” it erupted from Richard.

Both guitarists looked at each other and while Richard's expression clearly stated that something wasn't right, Paul's face showed nothing but a question mark. The younger one was the the first to find his words. “I know you believed that, but … tell me the therapist tried to reason you out of it.”

“No,” the older one answered, “He told me about responsibility as a public figure and that-”

“Stop!” Richard interrupted him while raising his hands to underline his words, “He didn't see you as the private person you are?!”

“I thought we shouldn't interrupt each other?” the smaller guitarist asked instead.

“Paul!” Richard said and leaned forward. Many years ago he had reached out to a therapist himself, who only treated him as a celebrity. Words were said that stuck with him for years. He had a bad feeling, something similar had happened to his friend now. “Who did that man address: stage-you or you-you?” The look he received was enough to have an answer.

“What the fuck is happening?!” Richard sighed out angrily and rose from his place to walk around. One thought after the next begged for his attention as they all connected to the new information. Suddenly a hand landed on his shoulder and he stopped in his tracks.

“Come, have a smoke,” Oliver told him while his intense gaze left no room for another option. And then he realized that he should absolutely leave the room. The interruption was one thing, but getting angry over something someone said while being in their therapy-mode was a rude violation of their rules. So he nodded and followed the bassist wordlessly.

When they reached the courtyard, he immediately pulled out his pack of cigarettes and lifted one of them between his lips. “Thank you,” he said and looked at the taller man, who in return took the package without asking and pulled a cigarette out for himself.

A lighter clicked and tobacco started to smolder.

“I'm sorry,” the guitarist said regretfully before blowing out the smoke through his lips.

“You don't have to apologize to me,” Oliver replied calmly and took a long drag. “You're pissed, am I right?”

“Aren't you?”

A nod. Another drag. Smoke in the air. “I've never seen him like this. He has hit rock bottom and still more shit is happening.”

“If I hadn't lied to him-”

“Don't do this to yourself.”

“But it's true!” Richard insisted. “He wanted me to stay. He basically asked me to. And I was selfish.”

“Responsible, you mean.”

“Not towards him, obviously!” Richard vaguely pointed at the half-timbered house with the hand that held his cigarette.

“No one could have seen this coming.” Oliver's voice was still calm and steady.

The guitarist enthusiastically shook his head. “This has happened to me, too! I of all people should have thought about the possibility! At least I should have called him and checked.” His free hand raked through his hair. “Half an hour, Olli.” He looked him straight in the eyes. “All I should have done was wait for half an hour. I was at the fucking hospital while he had that session!” He turned around and walked a few meters away from his friend, took a deep drag and fought off the knot in his stomach. “I don't recognize that man anymore!” he stated loudly as he turned around again, once more pointing at the building. “And I know that I could- … that I should have done things differently!”

“In hindsight,” Oliver finally intervened and walked closer until he towered over Richard. He knew when to make use of his height. “Scholle. Listen. This has started way earlier. He has shut himself off way earlier. This is not on your shoulders alone. I believe we're all to blame.”

The cascade of ifs and regrets still ran through his mind, but the words of the bassist slowed it down significantly. Richard was deeply grateful as he quietly looked up at the other man.

“What we need to do now is understand what we should do differently from now on. So we need him to talk,” Olli's gaze intensified, “Without interrupting him.” A hint of a grin appeared. “Can you do that?”

Richard lowered his gaze, took a last drag from his cigarette and flipped the stub away. Then he allowed himself a small grin, too, and nodded. “I think I can.”

They both stayed outside for another minute, both preparing for the situation that waited inside. It was the strangest mix of relaxation and tension they were facing since the moment they'd arrived here. It felt like it wouldn't fade anytime soon.

“Hey,” Schneider greeted them as they walked back into the living room. Next to him Paul chewed on one of the apple slices, his left arm outstretched to the fire. He occasionally let his fingers glide through the outer flames.

After he'd sat down, Richard inhaled to start and apologize, but Paul was faster. “No need to say sorry, if that's what you wanna do,” the smaller guitarist said. For a split-second their eyes met, before Paul directed his attention back on the flames, “Just keep asking questions.” He said it in his it's-okay-voice. The one that signaled openness. The one that since the hospital visits Richard didn't trust anymore. But Schneider nodded towards him encouragingly.

Still having Olli's words in his mind, Richard asked the most obvious. “What can we do to help you?”

Paul pulled his hand away from the fire and instead reached for some more apple slices. “If I knew that I would have told you. Can we stick to the yes-or-no-questions?”

“If you want to sit here all day, sure,” Schneider said lightheartedly, as if wanting to diffuse the tension, and helped himself to some biscuits, “You are the impatient one after all.”

“Let's go back to earlier, okay?” Richard spoke up again, “You didn't punch me yesterday, right? Because you heard me open the door?”

Paul narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and it was the first time that Richard saw the other man actively analyze what might have been the differences between both scenarios. “Yes,” he finally concluded and absentmindedly placed the apple pieces in a row on the log on his lap, keeping one between his fingers, “That, and that I already stood there long enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“That after a while I realize that I've … zoned out or whatever. And then I can move.” He ate another bite.

“Do you have any idea what helps you get out of that state?” Richard tried to understand.

“I wish I knew,” Paul answered with a helpless shrug. “Touching has proven to be a bad idea.” Judging by his serious expression he didn't intent to be funny, yet the other three had to bite back a grin. “I'd rather not get into that state in the first place.”

“Does it only happen when you exit a building?” Oliver wanted to know.

Again the smaller man seemed to think about it, before answering. He hesitated and it seemed like it took him a lot of effort to say the next words. “Sometimes inside my home, too.” His eyes stared at the flames once more. “When I was walking into a dark room at night. When all was quiet.” His voice trailed off and he shuddered involuntarily as if to shake off a haunting memory.

“And you were alone,” Richard added gently.

Paul simply nodded and shoved another slice into his mouth.

“How about,” Schneider started before clearing his throat, “whenever we find you standing around motionlessly, we will address you by your name? And all you have to do is react. Preferably non-violent.”

As an answer he received a middle-finger first, before Paul gave him a small grin. “I'd like to try that.”

Richard watched the other guitarist over the rim of his mug and quietly drank some tea while enjoying the feeling of relief. It was the first time Paul actively accepted help and tried to work with them instead of against them. It were baby steps, but at least in the right direction. “Do you know about any other things that trigger you?” he asked the man in question, “Sounds? Situations? Anything besides the thing with your hand?” He mimicked the movement Paul had done with his right hand to stop the knife.

Out of reflex Paul winced at the sight but quickly regained his composure. “That has gotten better,” he answered and looked at the scar of his right hand, before turning his hand and noticing the slight bruising that seemed to form around his knuckles, as did the other three musicians. None of them commented on it though. “Other triggers?” He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

The moment Richard wanted to reply to that statement, Schneider's phone buzzed several times. He apologized for not having the device on mute, but Paul immediately insisted that he should check if it was something important. So he did.

“Oh,” Christoph made, as he read the lines. Then he smiled. “Till wants you to know that he's not mad at you,” he told Paul, before he addressed everyone in the room, “And that Flake had a great idea that we should try out. Wait. That they should try out, it says. … Now I'm confused.” He lifted a brow.

“Then ask,” Olli suggested.

Schneider typed and waited. The phone buzzed again. “It's not a typo. We'll explain later,” he read out loud. “Hmmm.”

“I wish he would stop doing that,” Richard sighed, “Announcing ideas and then letting people hang in the air.”

“Afraid you are meant by they?” Schneider asked.

The younger guitarist shrugged his shoulders. He wasn't sure. At least it was Flakes idea, the band member who knew Paul the longest and who had a unique view on the people around them – and people in general. Maybe it was a good idea. They would see.

His eyes fell on Paul, who had gone quiet. His head was bent down, his fingers again grazing against the texture of the log. The apple pieces were gone. Richard was sure that Paul knew that, whatever that idea was, it would definitely involve him, since he was the main reason they were all here. So he didn't have to ask him directly about it. Instead there was another question he wanted to ask. Just an easy question, but an important one, since it seemed that now the smaller man for once wasn't hiding.

“Paul?” Richard began and waited for a sign that he was heard.

His friend didn't raise his head, but at least he made a short low humming sound.

“Out of curiosity I have two short questions. You can give me a one-word-answer and I won't ask for an explanation, no matter what. Is that okay?” Especially since his body language had changed over the last two minutes, he hoped that Paul would agree.

Indeed the other guitarist nodded.

“Thank you,” Richard replied with a soft smile. “First: What's the strongest emotion you feel right now?”

Paul's fingers stilled. He breathed in and out a couple of times. “Gratitude,” he finally answered, his tone unusually soft.

It was something Richard hadn't expected. And it was an honest response, he was sure of it. He looked at both Oliver and Schneider and those two as well seemed to feel worry and relief at the same time – but most of all they felt for the smallest of them.

“Okay,” Richard found his voice again, “And what is the most pressing need you feel right now?” Maybe they had no plan yet how to help him in the long run, but maybe there was something they could do to make him feel better at this very moment.

Again the other man didn't answer right away. Instead Richard watched a drop form at the end of Paul's lashes. It clung there for a couple of seconds, before the guitarist blinked. Not one, but two drops fell down on the log. The piece of wood was immediately lifted from the lap and put into the fire. Paul watched it be embraced by the flames, before shoving the mug in front of him further away and then bending his body forward until he could lay his head on his crossed arms. “I'm so tired,” he sighed.

Schneider place his hand on top of Paul's shoulder and tilted his head to the right. “Do you want to lie down and sleep?”

“I can't,” the oldest of them mumbled into his sleeve.

Richard sensed that Paul meant more than his current state. He remembered the nightmare Paul had had while napping beside him. He remembered him walking around last night. The fully illuminated house yesterday morning at a time Paul would usually still be sound asleep. The constantly tired look on his face. The sleep medication he had gotten at the hospital. He made a mental note to talk to him about it later.

Suddenly Paul inhaled deeply and got himself back to an upright position. “I know what I want right now,” he stated. His fingers fumbled with one of his rings. “If that's okay with you, I'd like to go and play on the guitar for a little while.”

They nodded. Of course it was okay. After all they knew that playing was his safe space, his haven.

“Do you want to be alone or would you like company?” Oliver asked.

“Just playing for myself would be nice,” Paul answered with slightly raised eyebrows.

And so they agreed that Oliver and Schneider would stay and keep an eye on the fire, while Richard would escort Paul to the door to have another smoke. No one mentioned that he might be coming with him to prevent a trigger event, but of course that was his plan.

In the hallway they both put on their boots quietly. Then they gave each other a hug. It was a brief one, but long enough to feel how their bodies both were significantly hotter on one side, due to the fire. Long enough to feel each others body fill with air and relax again. Long enough to say thank you without a single word. Then they let go of each other. Paul shoved a small water bottle into the pocket of his jacket, opened the door and stepped outside without hesitation. Richard closed it behind them and they both walked to the barn.

“Don't worry, I'll leave you alone,” the taller of them said, “I just want to have a look inside.”

“Right!” Paul replied, sounding much more like himself now, “You haven't seen it yet.”

Above them the clouds thickened and darkened. It felt like it could start raining any minute now.

The heavy wooden side door was pushed open and Richard followed Paul inside the old barn. They entered a rather small room filled with racks and shelves full of any tools and equipment a farm would need. There was a workbench under the two small iron-framed half-blind windows to the left. The walls were cobwebbed and dirty. Right across from the entrance was another door. It's green paint was peeling off at every corner. Next to it stood a rather new looking wooden table and on top of it a small transportable heater, an ash tray and a soldering iron. A strange combination that Richard didn't want to question.

Paul seemed to ignore the first room completely and went right through the door into the room behind it, switching the lights on in the process. “The microphones are not adjusted yet,” Paul said over his shoulder as he walked straight to a chair on the left and fetched the bottle from his pocket to place it on the floor.

Richard took in the sight for a moment. The room was significantly larger than the first one. Aside from all their equipment and instruments it was quite empty. The air tasted fresh and yet earthy. Interestingly in the back of the room stood an old Kremserwagen, a long open carriage with a long table between two equally long benches. It was used for public transportation back in the days before buses were a thing. In front of it Schneider's drum set stood in it's full beauty. To the left of it there was first Olli's equipment and then the ridiculously few things Paul needed to make music. To the right of the drums someone had placed Flake's keyboards on a hay bale. And then there was the rather elaborate arrangement of devices Richard had brought along. Everything they needed to record, store and edit was build up upon some planks that lay above what seemed to be brick fodder racks. From the laptops to the last microphone everything was wired and ready to go. It looked like adjusting the microphone stands was the only job left to do. Paul had been diligent.

“This is definitely different from every other location we've been at,” Richard commented. In his opinion it needed some personal touch, but knowing the band that would come within the next couple of days.

Paul lifted his guitar from it's case and fastened the strap. “It is,” he agreed, “And I'm curious what we'll sound like in here.”

“Me too,” Richard nodded and took a final look around. He wanted to join in and play, too, but he knew Paul needed room for himself at the moment. So he headed back for the door. “Hey,” he called out to the other guitarist who was about to hang his instrument around his shoulder, “Whatever you do: Record it, please.”

“I don't want to,” Paul replied as he switched on some of the equipment.

“Do whatever you want, but you might regret it,” Richard answered, shrugged his shoulders, smiled and closed the door.

As he was about to step out into the open, heavy raindrops fell down on him and he instantly retreated back into the small room of the barn. The door fell shut in front of him. His fingers brushed against the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. There was no question. He needed to smoke. His body demanded it. And yet it felt wrong to stay here, if Paul wanted to play just for himself.

Then again part of him was curious. It had been quite some time since the last time he had accidentally listened to the other guitarist's private play. And here was the perfect excuse. He could at least smoke one cigarette and then see if he dared to stay and listen. So he sat down on top of the wooden table and leaned against the wall behind which Paul was. He pulled the pack out and lifted one cigarette between his lips. The lighter was kept on just long enough to make the tobacco burn. He took a long deep drag and kept the smoke inside for as long as possible. Behind him in the next room Paul seemed to shuffle around an item or two. If he listened closely he could even hear his footsteps on the bare concrete floor. He exhaled slowly and watched the smoke move through the poorly lit room. There was definitely a draft.

Then there was sound. And vibration. Richard's eyes opened wide as he felt the impact. Paul didn't start gentle. He wasn't shy to turn the controls to the max, that he knew about him. And today the smaller guitarist seemed to want to let it all out and be enveloped in the sound.

Richard just sat there and listened. It was a constant stream of rhythm and melodies. Strong. Aggressive. Hard. Violent. Unrelenting. Fast. It was like an undertow that dragged him deeper and deeper into Paul's play. He wondered where the man that was so tired drew all that energy from. A second cigarette followed and then a third. There where so many intense variations in that music that he had to stay and listen and admire Paul's talent. He didn't play pretty, because he never aimed for that. He played to transport feelings, a certain energy. His play was raw, free, unfiltered and straight from the heart.

Richard wished he could hear it directly. No wall between them. But then again he wished he could show his own feelings openly and knew that would never happen.

For a long while he just sat there, his head leaned against the slightly vibrating wall, his eyes closed. The emotions seeped through the wall and he let them in his heart. It began to hurt when he realized that a significant part was missing. There was no fun to hear, no joy. It had always been such an essential part of Paul's play whenever it was just him. Not all the time, not through every song. But it was a consequent subtle baseline. Not so today.

It hurt even more when the music started to shift between slower heavier parts and sections that seemed to carry utter desperation and agony. Just by the length, tempo and exchange of notes he could tell that by now Paul's fingers must be hurting. Before he knew it tears were running down his face and he let it happen. Another cigarette was burning and the tears dried. Still he couldn't bring himself to move away from here.

He startled as the door to the courtyard opened and more light fell into the small room.

“Here you are,” Till said loud enough to be heard over the guitar riffs. Behind him Flake squeezed through the door to get out of the rain and pulled down the hood of his coat.

“Hey,” Richard greeted them and scooted off the table to get closer to the singer and have a better look at his face. “How are you?” The jaw looked a little swollen and reddish.

“Quite okay,” Till answered shortly before lifting his head a little to signal that he was listening to the the guitar play. Then his eyes fell back down on Richard. “For how long is it going like this?”

Richard looked at his watch and made a surprised face. “Almost two hours,” he answered. It didn't feel like it.

“Does he know you are here?” the singer wanted to know.

The guitarist shook his head. “Don't think so,” he admitted.

“Then let's keep it that way.” A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “Come, I don't want to tell everything a third time.” That said, Till walked past Richard and opened the door to the larger room. The guitar riffs now surrounded them without any barrier.

Paul was completely sunken into the music that flowed out of him. His eyes were shut tightly, his legs, torso and head moving to the rhythm. Sweat ran from his forehead and drenched his long-sleeved shirt.

“Paul!” Till yelled as loud as he could.

It was enough to make him stop in an instant. For a moment Paul just stood there, panting and holding tight to his guitar. He seemed to need a few seconds to arrive in the here and now. Then he quickly lifted his instrument off his shoulder and, since no surface was close enough, he lay it on the floor and quickly walked closer to the other three men.

“I can not say how sorry I am!” he began to explain, still out of breath. “I think I know why it happened … and it won't again, but … I didn't mea-”

“Paul,” Till interrupted him calmly and made a dramatic pause as soon as he knew he had his attention, “I know. Olli and Schneider already told me.” He looked around. “Can we sit down for a moment and have a talk?”

Richard collected two chairs and placed them next to the one Paul's jacket and sweater were draped over. Paul himself went for the pragmatic solution and grabbed a nearby bucket, turned it around and used it as a seat for himself. Flake put the jacket over Paul's shoulders and was the last to sit down.

“You knocked out my tooth,” Till stated right to the point while casually leaning back in his chair and stoically looking into Paul's eyes.

“I know,” the smaller of the two guitarists replied while trying his best to not avert his gaze.

“And loosened my bridge,” the singer went on.

“Oh,” was all Paul could bring out.

“What I'm saying here, is,” Till went on in a manner that as calmly as possible cemented that they had to draw a line, “I'm down four teeth right now and I kindly ask you to not repeat that shit. I want to be able to chew stuff.”

Richard got a little nervous. The scolding tone was directed at Paul numerous times before, but he wondered in what state of mind the other guitarist was right now after what he had played on his instrument. Yet Flake seemed to be relaxed and looked calmly from one person to the next and back. He was a good indicator if tensions got too high. Right now it didn't seem the case.

Paul nodded. “I promise.”

Till gave a nod in return. “Good. Because if the happens again, to me or anyone in this band, I don't know what I will do. We can't tolerate violence among us.”

“He knows that,” Richard spoke up before he could think twice.

“We can't have you retreat from us either,” the singer went on and cocked his head to the side.

“Understood,” Paul replied and took a deep breath. “I can't have you pushing me … or stuff like that.”

“Understood,” Till answered.

The two of them held silent eye contact for a moment until they gave each other a short nod.

“How is your hand?” Till suddenly asked, and at the very same second Paul spoke up: “Which teeth exactly?”

“You guys are killing me!” Flake sighed loudly and lay one arm over his stomach to rest the other elbow on his wrist and cover half of his face with his free hand.

“What!?!” Till wanted to know.

“For almost half of the drive you've been swearing like a sailor,” the keyboarder explained willingly, “That you are never going to talk to him again. That you want to kill him. How you want to kill him. What would happen if he would do that to anyone else in our group. I had to ask you to stop yelling to stop you from spreading your blood everywhere. That was so nasty.” He made a disgusted face. “And now … that's it?”

“Would you rather have me yell at him for an hour?” Till asked back.

Richard started grinning secretly. Flake obviously had fun on their ride. It was also a strangely amusing aspect that they were talking about Paul as if he wasn't there.

“No,” Flake shifted his hand a little more to the side of his face, “I would have been perfectly happy without any yelling, is what I'm saying.”

“You know why I had to, though,” the singer replied and turned a little more towards the keyboarder.

“Because you are you,” Flake commented in a way that left a lot room for interpretation.

Till just hummed at that, before meaningfully drawing air through his nose. “How about instead of complaining about spilled milk we rather concentrate on how we get Paul to use more elaborate words than a three-year-old to express his emotions?”

“Hey!” Paul protested.

“They are not wrong about that,” Richard chimed in and shrugged his shoulders.

Till lifted his index finger against his own nose before pointing it at Richard with a wave of his hand. “And that's exactly where you come into play.” The man in question raised his eyebrows and waited for some more explanation. “Flake, do you want to go on?” the singer asked, “After all it's your idea.”

The lanky man took his hand from his face and alternately looked at Richard and Paul. “It's quite simple, actually. Paul, you're only learning what you think you have to know, no matter what anyone tells you. And you learn everything by watching someone else do it.”

The smaller guitarist crossed his arms in front of him.

It dawned on Richard where this was going and he didn't like it.

“That, or you experiment and try out things by yourself. But we know how that went lately,” Flake went on. “Coincidentally we have the perfect example in our group.”

“I go to a professional,” Richard spoke up and crossed his arms as well, “Do you expect me to take him with me?”

“No, that would be really stupid,” the keyboarder answered. “Just talk about your own stuff like you do sometimes when you pour your heart out.”

The taller guitarist silently shook his head and thoughtfully stared at the floor for a moment. He wanted to avoid any unnecessary encounters with his past, not dive head first into it. “And then?”

“He learns from you,” Till answered that question.

“That's still therapy then and that doesn't belong solely in a friendship,” Richard opposed.

“We can't put him in a support group for obvious reasons,” Till retorted.

“And even if we find a suitable therap-” Flake started, but was interrupted by Paul. “Can you stop talking over my head?!” the guitarist said a little too loud. “I am right here!”

They all looked at him. The creases between his brows showed clearly that he was angry.

“It's good to know that you finally are,” Till said meaningfully, “Okay. What do you want, Paul?”

Richard watched his friend think about it. The anger faded away and made room for indecision. What Flake had said was true as far as he could tell. Paul needed to first absolutely want to know something, to learn a certain something. And then with surgical precision he extracted the knowledge he required. Not more, not less. Either by asking, by observation, or by trial and error. Thinking about it even the best therapist would have his or her limits working with him if he wasn't able to talk about what was happening inside his head first. Still, what Till and Flake were asking of Richard was … a lot, to say the least.

He looked into Paul's eyes and was met by a silent question.

His own head gave him a thousand reasons why this was a bad idea, what could go wrong, how he could mess up, how he could fail. At the same time he could never turn his back on him. “I'd give it a try if you want to.”

Paul just nodded quietly.

~~~

So it was settled. They all had to digest the new situation and all needed a moment to themselves. Paul had to say goodbye to his habit of keeping his problems to himself. Richard braced himself for more inner struggles. Till wrote the next dentist appointment on the calendar on the wall. Flake wondered if he was asking too much of his friends. Olli and Schneider both made individual plans on how to look out for their two guitarists.

~~~

They came together for a small jam session in the afternoon. Not much, just wanting to feel the company of the others and having a little fun. Till was the only one to not actively participating in the music, but instead he wrote into his notebook. So they played, finally adjusted the microphones, exchanged their opinions on the acoustics in that room and what could be done to improve it. And for a short moment everything else was forgotten.

~~~

After dinner - they had gone for pumpkin soup in order to let Till enjoy it as well - Richard had gone outside to have another smoke. He would have liked it if he could smoke inside as well but he respected the owner's intent to keep the house smoke free.

It was still raining slightly, but not enough to get instantly wet. The sun had sunken below the horizon and only one single light tried his best to illuminate part of the courtyard as it clung to the wall of the half-timbered house and valiantly fought off the rising darkness.

As Richard went back inside, Paul awaited him in the hallway. He sat on the first step of the stairs and looked at him expectantly.

He pealed himself out of his jacket and put his boots next to the others.

“Do you have a moment?” Paul asked.

“Of course,” Richard replied, “Do you want to talk?”

The other man simply nodded.

He didn't know why it was making him nervous. They knew each other for decades now. Maybe it was because they were expected to talk to each other in a way they never had before. Maybe because he was supposed to be good at something while he was more and more convinced he would fail them all. “Is it okay if we go upstairs?”

“That's what I had in mind anyway,” Paul answered and rose to his feet.

So they walked up the stairs wordlessly.

“Your place or mine,” Richard asked with a helpless grin as they had both reached the top.

At least it made Paul laugh a little. “Mine, if you want to.”

“Sure.”

The smaller man opened the door and let Richard enter first. The room was a little bigger than his and had one window to the east as well as the north. There was a double bed standing diagonally in the north-east corner. The space behind it was closed and where the headboard ended there was a triangular shelf space that to no surprise was already inhabited by Paul's guitar, laptop and cables. One of the cables lead to some headphones that lay on the nightstand. The two suitcases still lay on the floor, one wide open, the other still closed. Besides that and some other personal belongings the room didn't distinguish much from his own. Instead of green the main color was a matte blue that had Scandinavian vibes. Instead of basket willows deer were shown in the pictures on the walls. And here instead of a huge branch it was white-colored antlers that hung from the ceiling to hold the blue lampshades.

“Take a seat,” Paul invited him, closed the door and shut off the sound of distant chatter in the process.

Richard sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at Paul until he had sat down beside him. For a moment they both waited. Usually Paul would have already started to chat away without any hesitation. But nothing was normal right now.

“This is awkward,” Paul stated and made them both laugh. After a moment he let himself fall backwards, turned on his stomach and stretched his arm out as far as he could until he reached the switch for the small night lamp, turning it on. Then he simply rolled on his back and stayed there. “I wish we had a couch,” he said towards the ceiling.

“Paul!” Richard laughed again and let himself fall backwards on the mattress, too, “I'm not a shrink!”

“Thankfully!” the smaller man grinned, but soon went serious again. “Okay, I'm sorry. I just don't know how to do this.”

“Me neither,” Richard admitted and turned his head to the side to look at his friend. “Maybe we just talk like we usually do. You ask something, I ask something. That shouldn't be so hard.”

Paul kept staring at the ceiling and just blinked occasionally. “Or,” he eventually said, “I get to ask you questions until you say stop. And then we do it the other way around.”

“Any questions concerning our personal struggles?” Richard wanted to know and reached around to switch on the night lamp on the other side of the bed, too.

“Yes.”

“Anything off limits?”

“Nothing.”

“Alright,” Richard agreed to the conditions and made himself a little more comfortable on the bed. “Ask away!” The good thing about this was that he wasn't hiding anything. Except that one thing he knew Paul wouldn't even consider possible.

For a moment the room went quiet. It was a good silence though. One that was meaningful and was already part of the conversation. The smaller man folded his hands on his stomach.

“How did you feel,” Paul started with a careful undertone, “once it was clear that Till had rented a place so close to Wittenberge?”

Richard took a long audible breath before he answered. His eyes fixed on the antlers above them. “There were different waves of emotions, one following the next. At first I felt betrayed by Till. He knows me and I thought he should have known that this wouldn't be an option, so why was he proposing it anyway?” The words came willingly. “After he told me how hard it was to find a suitable location I tried to accept it and lied to myself that it wouldn't bother me to be here. That I was stronger than I thought I was. And I reminded myself that we did that for the band and most of all for you. ... After having a really bad day I just wanted to bail out because I was shit-scared of what this place could potentially do to me. My mind was circling around every possible excuse to not come here, I even thought about lying to everyone and fly to the States to be as far away as possible. But then I felt lousy even considering that. What kind of friend would I be? I couldn't walk out on you after everything you had done for me.” He paused. There was more he could say, but he thought it was enough for now.

Suddenly there was a hand on his forearm. “I didn't know … ,” Paul said quietly.

“You couldn't have,” Richard replied and turned his head towards the other man. “But that's why people talk to each other. So … next question, come on!” He smiled encouragingly.

Paul's face told him that the other guitarist was still analyzing both what he had said and how he had said it. So there was another short silence before he found his voice again. “When we passed the town sign yesterday, I said your name. Did you even hear that?”

“Yes,” Richard replied.

Paul rolled on his stomach, propped himself up on his elbows and looked at the dark haired man. “Why didn't you answer?”

“Ohhh,” the taller of them made, his eyes still fixed on the antlers on the ceiling, “Good question.” He realized that Paul seemed to have a good sense for where to look for stronger feelings. “Part of me couldn't deal with you suddenly showing interest in someone and actually wanting to connect after you had pushed me- … us away for weeks. Part of me knew I should react.” He sighed, closed his eyes and slightly shook his head. “But mostly I was petrified. My mind was so consumed by expecting some flashback to happen that the expectation felt worse than the idea of the flashback itself. So I just looked around and wanted it to happen to get it over with.” He shrugged and opened his eyes to look into Paul's. “It didn't happen though, which is really frustrating, I can tell you that.” He watched his friend study him quietly for a moment, until it became a little unnerving. “What?” he asked.

“I wish I knew how you do that,” he answered softly.

“Do what?” Richard raised both eyebrows, not knowing where that was going.

“Describe what happened inside your head,” Paul replied.

“I was there,” the younger man shrugged, “All I have to do is remember and feel into it.”

“You make it sound so easy,” the smaller man sighed. He folded his arms and rested his head on them.

“If it helps,” Richard said, “It's not as easy as it sounds.” He rolled to his side and propped his head on one hand. “Is it okay if I asked you a question?” He didn't want to pressure Paul, but he felt like today they would test if the concept of this exchange would work for them. It was time to see what the other half of it felt like.

“Mhmm,” Paul nodded and looked at him expectantly.

Richard was glad they knew each other for so long already. It still felt awkward to do this with Paul, but they had build up such a great connection over the years that they trusted each other on a very deep level, even if Paul had retreated into his shell in the past couple of month. It also wasn't a strange feeling to lie together in one bed and talk. They had done that on countless occasions while they had been on tour or had been somewhere to produce new songs.

“Back in the hospital,” he started and immediately felt Paul tense up, “You told us repeatedly that you were fine. You smiled and joked. How did you really feel?”

“Not so good,” the older one answered. Then, after a short pause in which he seemed to realize that that might not remotely sufficed as an answer, he went on. “I don't know how to say this. I just wanted to go home and I couldn't. There was so much to take care of already and I couldn't take care of all the stuff related to the incident, too.”

“Why didn't you say that?” Richard needed to know. He might have been able to help if he'd only known.

“I didn't know how,” Paul replied helplessly, “It sure sounds stupid, but I would have needed someone to tell me what to do. But of course no one could do that.”

“That's why you couldn't say that you are not okay?” Richard dug deeper. “I mean, that would have been the ideal situation to say something like that.”

“It wasn't,” the smaller man shook his head. “But I remembered a man I met as a child back in Ukraine. He had been injured badly when he was younger. Since then he wasn't able to properly walk again. It was very bad. But he always smiled and joked and never complained. It was so impressive back then and the image stuck with me. So I thought I could do that, too.”

Richard took a deep breath through his nose. He remembered Flakes words of Paul learning by watching others. Maybe that man had found a good way for himself to cope with his fate. Maybe it was just what he wanted to let others see. One way or the other it wasn't a healthy example for Paul.

“When did you realize that you couldn't do what he did?” Richard wanted to know.

Paul opened his mouth and was about to answer, but something inside him stopped him. He looked at Richard and then the covers. It was silent again for a moment, until the smaller of them found his voice again. “Can we stop here for today?” He looked back at Richard and there was a quiet plea in his eyes.

The younger man nodded and feared he had fucked up, even though he didn't know precisely how. But he knew as soon as he left the room his mind would give him a hundred reasons. He was right about that one.

~~~

He woke up in the middle of the night again. A door was squeaking, probably the one to the bathroom again. In his opinion it could use some oil. He pulled his covers a little tighter and tried to get back to sleep. His brain didn't let him though. He needed to know if his suspicions were right.

So he opened his door and looked along the corridor. It was dark and quiet. The door to Paul's room stood slightly ajar and soft light fell into the darkness. He leaned against the doorframe and listened. For a few minutes nothing happened. Richard already wondered if he had misinterpreted the noises and if no one was in the bathroom after all. But then without warning the door opened and the light inside was switched off.

As soon as Paul caught sight of Richard, it frightened the hell out of him.

“Sorry,” Richard whispered and held his hands up reassuringly, as he watched Paul take a step back into the bathroom and grip the front of his shirt, “It's just me. I didn't mean to startle you.”

“Fucking hell!” Paul pressed out while visually calming himself down. “Why are you standing there!?”

“I woke up because I heard something,” the taller man whispered and walked a little closer. “I thought you were so tired. Why aren't you asleep?”

“I'm trying to,” Paul sighed. He sounded resigned.

Richard pulled his brows together. “I don't understand.”

Paul closed his eyes for a second and let the side of his head fall against the doorframe. He took a deep breath to calm himself further and then a quiet desperate sound escaped him. “Come,” he finally said and walked towards his room.

Richard hadn't expected to be invited back into that room so shortly after he must have said something to make the other man close himself off again. He left his own room open and followed Paul quietly.

“I don't want to wake the others,” the smaller man said after closing his door behind them.

“Okay,” Richard nodded and scanned the room quickly. Both night lamps were still on and the covers showed that Paul had definitely been in his bed earlier. His laptop lay on one side of the bed as well as his headphones and a notebook. It reminded him of himself and those nights when sleep just wouldn't come and he tried to keep himself busy somehow in order to not get crazy.

Paul didn't say anything, but sighed heavily and fetched something small from the pocket of his sweatpants.

Richard just cocked his head to the left and looked at the other man leaning his back against the door. It was so silent he could hear Till snore through the wall.

Their eyes met. Paul's eyes looked bigger now than in daylight. They were shining from a little too much moisture.

“What's the best way to say that you are afraid of something?” the smaller man asked.

Richard pulled his brows up in sympathy. “Straightforward, I think. You just say that you are afraid of something,” he answered softly, “and you give that something a name.”

Paul took a slow breath. He looked down into his opened palm. There was hesitation in his eyes. “I am afraid of sleep,” he whispered.

The taller man studied his friend for a moment and tried his best to slow down his own thoughts. “What is that?” he asked and made a step towards the other man.

Gray-blue eyes kept staring down at the small object. “A sleeping pill.”

“So … you want to take it, but can't?”

“I have to take it. I need to sleep.”

“What happens if you fall asleep?” Richard hoped he was asking the right questions.

Paul shrugged his shoulders but remained silent.

“Nightmares?”

A nod. “That, too.”

“What else?”

Hesitation. “I'm afraid that I won't wake up again,” he whispered.

Fear was as powerful as it was irrational, Richard knew that first hand, so he took Paul's words seriously. He watched the other man stand there, cornered in his own mind. He realized that he might have gone through that moment for many nights now. Maybe there was a reason why he wanted Richard to know. Maybe that was his way of trying to ask for help.

“May I?” the taller of them asked gently and offered to give him a hug. Paul shied away and shook his head. His hand closed around the medication and his eyes fell to the floor. Then he nodded.

Richard quietly closed his arms around the other body and just held him.

Paul didn't cry. He seemed to try and keep most of his emotions to himself. But he let himself be held and slightly leaned against the other man.

“Would it help if I stayed here tonight?” Richard offered against a warm shoulder. It took a while until he felt Paul nod.

“Okay,” Richard whispered and slowly let go to give him some room. “Come. Let's try and get some rest.” He walked to the bed, closed the laptop and put it on the floor.

On the other side of the mattress Paul slowly sat down and then pushed his legs under the covers. Richard did the same on his side and looked at the other man again. “Do you want to take the pill?” he asked carefully. “You don't have to, but maybe you should. I'll stay no matter what.”

For a while Paul stared at the small thing in his palm. It seemed the longer he looked at it, the bigger his fear grew. “Why is this all so hard,” he muttered to himself before taking the medication in his mouth. It took him a lot of effort to finally swallow it down.

“How long until it takes effect?” Richard gently asked.

“Ten to fifteen minutes,” Paul answered as his hands started to shake.

“Do you want me to talk about it with you?” A quiet question.

“No,” a whispered sigh.

Paul lay down, turned on his side so he could see his friend and fought hard to keep his breath calm.

Richard lay down, too, pulled the covers over his shoulder and looked back at the other man. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Paul shook his head slightly. “Just stay.”

Richard nodded. “Promise.”

They just lay there, left the lights on and waited for the inevitable. Every now and then Paul's body tensed up and his breathing quickened, but he managed to find a way to relax again.

After a while his eyelids grew heavier. The medication started to work. He tried his best to fight against it and Richard just let him try.

Paul's hand grabbed Richard's arm and he dug his fingers into the other man's skin. The taller man let it happen as well. It was only some pain. Nothing in comparison to what Paul was going through. “It's okay,” was all he said in a whisper, “I'll stay here with you.”

The fight went on for another two minutes or three.

In the end sleep won.

The fingers released the skin.

The breathing went calm and even.

Richard watched him sleep for quite some time while thinking about what he had witnessed today.

Then sleep came for him, too.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Small Stage

His sleeve was yanked away from his body, ripping his arm with him.

Richard's eyes shot open. His mind needed a moment longer to realize what was going on.

Someone had a tight hold on his sleeve.

That someone's hand trembled.

His body felt numb. His brain even more so. As if he was only half there.

He had been fast asleep. He still wanted to be.

His eyes saw light. A small bedside lamp. Night sky behind the window glass.

Richard's gaze focused on the hand on his sleeve. Fingers that weren't his had the fabric in a grip so tight the knuckles turned white.

It took another second to remember that the hand belonged to Paul.

His consciousness fought off his body's wish to fall back into sleeps waiting embrace.

His eyes searched for more of Paul. There was graying hair that stood in every direction. Everything else was hidden beneath the folds of the blanket.

The shivering and trembling increased.

He was forced to wake up from the deepest state of sleep, so his brain only sluggishly connected the dots.

“Paul?” he tiredly mumbled into the quiet room.

His free hand carefully lifted the other's blanket. Just enough to see his face.

Paul seemed asleep. His features showed fear and pain. He was captured inside a nightmare again. The grip tightened even more and his breathing went quick and shallow.

The sight of his suffering friend woke Richard up instantly. He watched him intently and propped up his head on his elbow. There was an instinct to protect him from any harm, even if it was imaginary, as it was right now.

And yet something inside him stopped him from waking Paul up. Maybe he should do it, but instead he wanted to see what happened if he let him go through the nightmare. Maybe he needed to see some part of Paul's struggle when he couldn't hide it. He needed to know as much as possible in order to understand and – hopefully – to help.

A small jolt went through Paul's body and he pulled his legs even closer to his chest than before. The quietest whimpering sound escaped his mouth as he unconsciously tried to hide himself back under the covers. One hand still clung on Richard's sleeve while the other was wrapped around his chest and shakily held his side where the stab wound had been.

It was no wonder Paul feared falling asleep, Richard mused. If the nightmares came every time his body went to sleep, this was a nightmare in itself. If. He didn't know for sure, yet. What he knew now was that Paul definitely remembered having them. And Richard knew that if he had to go through something like this himself, he would be equally scared at this point.

He wondered when they had started. He'd seen Paul sleep at the hospital and at least there he never witnessed an obvious nightmare. He remembered the sleep medication Paul had received there. He remembered the late texting and the call that led to him playing songs for his friend.

Another jolt shot through Paul and his hand pulled forcefully on the sleeve, pulling it towards him and this causing a yank at Richard's body, too. More small sounds of agony left his lips and he trembled so much that Richard thought Paul would wake up any second now.

It was so painful to watch. More so because something so horrible had happened that it had thrown this man off the track in his mid-fifties. He knew Paul had seen a lot in his life. He wasn't easily shaken. He had illegally lived in a squat for years, had run away from military service for years, lived a partially vagabond life at the side of an alcoholic for years, slept in a moldy sleeping bag between shrubs or in a rundown van for weeks in a row, he had been robbed, he had experienced violence, he had experienced hate, he had experienced financial poverty, and still: he had always found the good in it and used it to his advantage. None of it had brought him down, ever. After all this time it seemed unimaginable that there might be something Paul couldn't handle.

But here they were.

Richard stopped his train of thoughts as the smaller man next to him tried to take a deep breath. And then a second. And a third and a fourth. More and more it seemed like he tried desperately to fill his lungs with air. Richard started to worry even more. He wished for Paul to finally wake up. He wanted to know what was going on and if he was still okay or if it would be best if he would try to wake him up himself and get him out of wherever his mind had chained him. But still he wanted to know what was going to happen if he not intervened.

It didn't take long until Paul's breathing calmed down and his body slowly relaxed. The hand released the fabric and the fingers remained slightly curled around it. The trembling subsided and within a few minutes Paul looked as if he was just peacefully sleeping.

Richard allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. He hadn't even realized how tense he had become. Still he waited some more and didn't dare to move. He wanted to be absolutely sure that the nightmare was over.

When nothing more happened, he reached over his own shoulder to switch off the light on his side of the bed. The one on Paul's side would stay on, he decided. But he wanted to have it a little darker in the room.

Richard finally put his head back on the pillow. He wasn't tired enough to instantly fall asleep. So for a while he just looked at Paul's sleeping face.

It was the strangest thing. Even now Paul looked tired. His skin didn't have it's usual vivid color but was a little ashen instead. The wrinkles that adorned the side of his eyes and went all the way to his ears seemed to haven't been used in a long time. Richard blinked and wondered when had been the last time he had seen Paul smile so wide that even his nose wrinkled. It felt like ages ago. He loved that kind of smile on the other man's face. He loved it even more if he was the one causing that smile. It was dangerous, too. Dangerous in two directions. One was, that he had to be careful not to show what that smile did to him. How happy it made him. He had to control his reaction. Keep it to a certain level. Smile back, maybe laugh a little. Or even a lot, if the situation allowed it. But never too flirty, always with the right amount of eye contact – not looking away instantly, but not holding eye contact too long either - , never advert his gaze to the small details of Paul's face for longer than a split second, no matter how much he wanted to enjoy the sight. No one could ever know about his feelings for the other guitarist. And that's where the second danger lay. Every time he made Paul smile like that, he was reminded that there was a happiness he could never have in his life. He knew there would never be a time he could just take the other man in his arms and kiss that smile and be just as happy with him. On a bad day such a smile could drag him down, and again no one could ever know about it.

And yet he would gladly go through all the pain just to see Paul smile that way again. He didn't know if he was able to help him. But he would try. And he certainly knew he had to ask Paul about whether he wanted to be pulled out of his nightmares or not. Richard needed to know what he was supposed to do. Especially the last part, the strange gasping for breath, had him worried. Maybe he should use their next asking session for it?

He used the time to think about good ways to ask Paul without giving him the feeling of being pressured. Meanwhile he let his eyes linger on all the little beautiful features of the other man's face while he had the chance to do so unobserved. Some moments later he fell asleep as well.

~~~

Richard's eyes shot open. It was still dark outside and his first impulse was to be thoroughly annoyed. It was the third time he had been pulled from his sleep and he instantly felt his body hating everything about it.

His attention got caught by someone trembling next to him. His brain needed a few seconds to remember who it was. Paul had his blanked pulled up all over his head and his legs pulled up to his chest. Richard could hear muffled familiar sounds. It barely left any doubt that he had another nightmare.

“Again?” Richard muttered under his breath and slowly sat up before slightly turning more towards the other man. He rubbed the tiredness from his eyes with his fingertips and uttered a small groan. The anger vanished with every second he watched the quivering heap next to him. His hand carefully folded back a corner of the blanket. Paul had put one hand protectively over his head to shield it from whatever his nightmare had served him. His fingers were clawing into his own hair. The breathing was shallow again, fast and constantly interrupted by the heavy shaking.

Richard stretched out his own hand, but stopped his movement again. He remembered the fist that had met Till's jaw. What if he did something that would trigger some unwanted reaction as well and make it worse instead of better? Then again, he needed to do something. So he prepared himself for any violent defense mechanism on Paul's side before gently, carefully and very slowly put his hand on top of Paul's above his head.

It was warm under his touch. The hair pleasantly soft. The trembling was so forceful that Richard wondered if it was eating away all the energy Paul was trying to regain in his sleep. No wonder he was so tired and exhausted. The smaller guitarist was running a metaphorical marathon for weeks – mentally and physically. “Hey,” Richard said softly and found his voice too loud for the quiet room.

The other man didn't seem to hear him.

“Paul,” he tried and curiously cocked his head to the left, “It's alright.”

He watched Paul pull his brows together even more. The nightmare had him in tight shackles.

Richard sighed quietly and felt so helpless it hurt. He knew how hard it was to fight an enemy that had no body. He knew it first hand.

He started running his thumb over the back of Paul's hand. “I'm here,” he whispered, “You are not alone.” Instantly his own mind reminded him that he hadn't been there the night it had happened. That he should have been. It was impossible to not feel guilty about that. He remembered having such a great time, having a delicious drink and chatting with people he barely knew but whose company he really enjoyed. And at the same time Paul had gone through maybe the worst moment of his life.

Richard swallowed heavily and closed his eyes to forbid any tears to show up. He wouldn't allow them. He had to be strong and collected. He needed to be strong for his friend.

Under the weight of his palm and caress of his thumb he felt the trembling decrease. It made him open his eyes and look down at the sleeping man. His face showed that he was still in pain. He had his lips pressed tightly together so the sounds were held back even more. And yet it seemed that Paul was calming down.

With all the guilt and helplessness in his heart Richard didn't know what to say other than sorry, but he felt that would he say that out loud, he might break down. Those hours before dawn had always been the hardest. The darkest.

And so he started humming. Just a random melody in a warm low register to calm himself down and to signal Paul that he was there.

Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe not. But with every note the trembling subsided a little more. Soon enough it was not much more than a shivering. Paul's hand, the one that had such a tight grip on his own hair, relaxed bit by bit until the fingers were unfolded and just rested on his head. The breathing became deeper and slower.

Eventually the body next to him lay still and calm. Paul breathed evenly and his face relaxed.

A small victorious smile tugged at the corners of Richard's lips. Relief washed over him that at least this time he didn't fuck it up. That maybe he had done something right. He stopped his humming and a moment later the caress with his thumb as well. Yet he couldn't bring himself to lift his hand from the other man's. It made him feel like he was protecting him from the world, even if he knew very well that he didn't have that power.

For a moment Richard closed his eyes and just listened. It was peacefully quiet. For the first time that night, it felt like. He realized that it was the first moment the thoughts and doubts in his head left him alone and he was able to truly listen to the silence in the room.

He heard them both breathe.

He heard the soft ticking of Paul's wristwatch on the bedside table.

He heard the distant singing of a few early birds through the closed windows.

He heard a little rustling of fabric right beside him and felt his hand slide down Paul's hair together with the other man's hand.

So he opened his eyes and looked down. Paul was looking back at him with an unfocused gaze and an unreadable expression. The seconds ticked by quietly, but neither of them broke the eye contact.

“You've had a nightmare,” Richard whispered eventually.

Paul blinked slowly, but said nothing. He just stared upwards at his friend.

It was a little unsettling to Richard that there was no further reaction. Just like Paul wasn't really there. His gaze was hollow and yet piercing. Part of him was relieved when Paul adverted his eyes and instead started to slowly look around in the room. He turned his head as far as his position allowed to see what was behind him.

Richard took the opportunity to take his fingers off the other man's hand, thinking that now that they both were awake it might be an awkward thing to keep them there. But as soon as the skin contact was broken, out of reflex Paul's hand grabbed Richard's wrist and held it tightly. The smaller man kept looking at the room, before turning his gaze at the ceiling.

His wrist was clasped by strong fingers, so Richard relaxed his arm and didn't try to pull away. Instead he looked down and observed his friend closely. He still lay there, his body compressed into a tight ball, only his head and eyes moving to take in the small world around him. The hand that held Richard's wrist was strong and warm.

“Where am I?” Paul asked in a hushed voice.

“Don't you remember?” Richard answered softly, “We're at the farm Till rented.”

Their eyes met and Paul wore a disoriented expression on his face. “Right,” he answered slowly and with an uncertain undertone.

Richard smiled down at him reassuringly. “You've taken sleep medication. Don't worry, it's probably making your brain foggy. That's normal.”

The smaller man seemed to think about it for a second, before nodding. Then he slowly blinked and turned his head to the side again so his cheek was resting on the pillow. He tried to take a deep breath and, realizing that it wasn't possible in that position, began to unfold his legs and straighten his body a little. “Nghh,” Paul uttered as pain seemed to rush through him. His muscles were sore after holding his body in this protective position for such a long time and twice in a row that night. The grip on Richard's wrist increased for a moment before going back to the previous state. Paul pulled his other hand out from under the blanket. It had been covering the area were the stab wound had been. He held it in front of his face and stared at his palm as if to prove to himself that there was no blood.

Richard couldn't decipher the reaction. Was it relief? Was it puzzlement? Was it disbelief? “You okay?” he asked his friend and instantly regretted going for a closed question.

To his amazement Paul didn't just nod and say yes. Instead he sighed heavily and pulled the blanket closer to his body with his free hand. The sleep medication forced his eyelids to close and he fought them open again. “I don't want to go back there,” Paul muttered quietly against his pillow.

“Back to where?” Richard asked although he was sure he already knew.

Paul's eyelids closed again and almost stayed shut. “Back to that evening.”

That's what Richard had expected. But there was no way out of this. He couldn't stop the medication from working, he couldn't stop the nightmares, and he couldn't join the nightmare to at least be at Paul's side while he was going through them. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Gray-blue eyes fell shut and the smaller guitarist took some deep breaths. “Don't leave me alone,” he begged in a whisper, before sleep came for him and his grip relaxed on Richard's wrist.

The sight hurt, more so the desperation in his plea. Richard knew Paul was at the mercy of his own mind there was no easy fix for that. “Of course I won't leave you,” he answered gently even though he was sure the other man couldn't hear him anymore.

He wanted to pull him closer and hold him in his arms. Maybe that way he could signal Paul's unconscious mind that he wasn't alone. But after weeks of Paul allowing only a certain amount of closeness and body contact, he wasn't sure if he would do more harm than good if he would cross a line he eventually didn't know of. If anything, the last 24 hours had revealed that there was so much more going on inside Paul's head than any of them had thought.

Outside the sky had changed from black to a deep and dark blue. Richard lay back down on his side and watched Paul sleep again. He couldn't help but feel pity for the other man. He didn't want to, because pity had never helped anyone. Since his wrist was free again, he reached out a little and gently caressed Paul's hair with his fingers. Just a small gesture to show that he was there. It calmed himself down a little, too. Made him feel just a little less helpless.

He stayed awake for as long as his own body allowed. But after a while his fingers came to a halt on Paul's head and he fell back into sleep's embrace himself.

~~~

“Richard?”

The voice did not come from next to him. It was the first thing he realized as he woke up for what felt like the hundredth time this night. He heard soft deep breathing close to his ear. He opened his eyes and saw Paul's sleeping face right were he had left him before falling asleep himself. He saw his own fingers between the tousled hair of the other man. The bedside lamp was still switched on. Daylight fell through the windows. It sounded like it was windy.

Richard turned his head to where the voice had come from. The door stood open and Schneider leaned against the doorframe with his shoulder. “Here you are!” the drummer stated happily and came a little closer.

The black haired man signaled him to be a little more quiet so Paul could get some more sleep. He carefully rolled on his back.

“Have you been here all night?” Schneider asked in a hushed voice while taking in the sight in front of him.

Richard nodded. “He has really bad nightmares.” He rubbed some sleep from his eye took a deep breath. “I don't know how to do this without him getting professional help,” he sighed and looked up at Christoph who had sat down on the side of the mattress right next to Richard.

“One step at a time I guess,” he answered and lay his head to the left. “How are you?”

There was something Richard knew he could always count on. His friends were always there for him and made sure he was okay. And he knew this was only possible because they all knew about his mental issues.

“I feel like I haven't slept at all,” he replied with a small smile and a shake of his head. Then Richard grew serious. “And I don't know when was the last time I've felt so helpless.” He looked at Paul for a moment, before his gaze fell on Schneider again.

The drummer nodded, understanding what the guitarist meant. And yet he had his own view. “Did he ask you to stay here for the night?” he wanted to know.

Richard thought about it. Paul had openly told him about the medication, wanted to express his fear, and he more than once asked Richard to stay. “Yes,” he answered and raised his brows.

“If he wants you to stay close to him after weeks of pushing everyone away,” Schneider concluded and put a hand on Richard's shoulder, “you can be sure you are helping him more than you realize.”

The guitarist looked up at him for a moment. “Thank you,” was all he could say. It was exactly what he needed to hear.

Schneider shook his head. “No,” he replied softly, “Thank you.” With his eyes he pointed at Paul, who was still sleeping peacefully.

For a moment they went comfortably quiet and looked at the smallest of them.

“What time is it?” Richard wanted to know eventually.

“Half past eight,” Schneider answered, “The others are already up and I wanted to know if you want to join Olli and me for a small round of yoga before breakfast.”

Usually he gladly would have said yes. It greatly helped with his back pain and it was one of the group sport activities he felt actually comfortable with. “Not today, if it's alright,” he replied.

“I thought so,” Schneider nodded and smiled, “But I wanted to ask anyway.”

“Appreciated,” Richard smiled back, “It's just that I promised him to stay.”

“Do that,” the drummer reassured him, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

The guitarist thought about it. He didn't know for how long the medication would work. In any case he wanted to stay awake now and be there when Paul woke up. “Could you bring me a coffee?”

“Sure,” Schneider grinned and stood up. “I'll be right back.”

For a couple of minutes it was just Paul and him in an unfamiliar bed under an unfamiliar roof with a door wide open because Schneider didn't think about closing it. Richard scooted up a little so his back was resting against the headboard. The man next to him didn't seem to notice. He was just sleeping as if nothing had happened. Richard reached out and continued the caress of Paul's hair. He liked doing that.

After a while he heard a door open, then distant chatter, then a door close, footsteps on the stairs, and then Schneider appeared in the doorway. The steaming mug was quietly placed on the bed table and the pleasant smell of coffee filled the room.

“I've been asked to tell you thank you and that there's no fixed schedule for today,” Schneider told him, “We will take it easy, okay?”

“Okay,” Richard answered and smiled back. He was grateful that they had learned that they worked best if they took the pressure out of their creative process. There were times coming to rehearsals was mandatory, but especially when they were in a situation like this they tended to keep the practice times open to those who felt like working. Which now meant that he wouldn't have to feel guilty if instead of practicing with the band and composing new songs he rather wanted to take care of Paul. The thought caught him by surprise. Usually he was the first to want to work on new stuff of improve older material. Usually the first thing in the morning he wanted to have was a cigarette, too. He wanted both right now, there was no doubt about that, but even more than that he wanted to stay right here next to the smaller man and wait for him to wake up.

Schneider left him alone again, this time even closing the door, and went back downstairs.

Richard let out a deep sigh and let his head fall back as far as possible. The back of his head rested on the shelf behind the bed, where Paul's guitar lay next to some other stuff. Absentmindedly his fingers kept stroking along Paul's hair. Finally his body was ready to stay awake and the promising scent of freshly brewed coffee did the rest. He wondered how long it would take for the medication to wear of. From his own experience seven to eight hours were a common range. But even if Paul would sleep for the rest of the day Richard would be fine with it. He wanted the other man to rest and find some peace.

He turned his head far enough to see where the tiny pile of books lay. He reached around with his free hand and picked up the book on top. Careful not to wake Paul he lifted it on his lap and studied the cover. It showed a man looking intently over the rim of his glasses at a beetle that sat on his outstretched middle finger. Aus der Dunkelkammer des Bösen it read. - From the darkroom of evil. It was written by a criminal biologist and a criminal psychologist. Richard took a sip from his coffee before flipping through the pages. There were chapters about necrophilia, pedophilia, murder, sex killing, and many more. The topics where written about from a very analytic standpoint, not a hint of sensationalism. It wasn't a book he would have chosen for himself, but now that he had the chance he was drawn into it. It was a little morbid for a morning reading material, but he didn't care.

He liked starting the day this slowly with Paul at his side, a good coffee and reading something the other had intentionally taken with him. And he had Schneider's words on his mind which reassured him that he was not as useless as he thought.

Time went by page by page, until suddenly Paul stirred under his touch and opened his eyes.

Richard looked up from his book and watched the other man closely. He stopped his fingers and took them off the others head to rest them on the opened book instead.

Paul made a small discontent sound.

“Good morning,” Richard greeted him with a smile.

The smaller man stared into the distance for a moment and didn't move at all. Then he rolled on his back, stretched his body the best he could and uttered a sigh that carried all of his exhaustion. “Good morning,” Paul greeted back without a smile. Instead he rubbed his eyes with the back of his fingers.

Richard closed the book and put it back on the pile. “How do you feel?” he wanted to know.

“Tired,” Paul answered and stretched once more, “But less tired than last night.”

“That's something,” the taller man replied, still smiling, before turning serious. “You remember having a nightmare, don't you?”

Their eyes met. “I do.” And just like that something in Paul's expression shifted. Richard couldn't tell what it was exactly but even before Paul would say another word, Richard felt pushed away. “Thank you for having stayed with me.”

“Of course,” the black haired man answered.

“Don't worry,” Paul went on, “It was an exception.”

“Paul-” Richard started but was interrupted by his friend immediately.

“No,” he said and sat up as well, “I know that my fear is irrational. I'll just take the medication sooner and the nightmares will go away eventually, too.” He looked at Richard for a moment. “I got this.” A reassuring nod.

It was a slap in Richard's face and he didn't know how to respond. It felt like everything he had build within the last couple of hours had caved in. He knew it was stupid to believe Paul could break his patterns so easily. Of course he would try to hide away again. But as exhausting as it was he had already hoped that spending the night together and keeping Paul company would become some kind of routine.

“Okay,” was all Richard could say.

Paul nodded and pushed the covers off his body. “I'll go take a shower,” he stated and got up. Before he pushed down the handle, he turned his head to look at Richard. There was some hesitation in his eyes. “Can we,” he started. His eyes switched to one of the windows behind which a strong wind was blowing. “Can we take our … I don't know what to call it … our daily session outside today?” He looked at the floor for a moment before meeting Richard's eyes. “Go for a walk or something?”

If the earlier statement had pushed Richard down, the last request picked him up again. Paul wanted to talk. He wanted to get help. He wanted to spent time with him. Maybe he didn't want to push him away at all but had a very good reason to try and sleep alone like a normal human being should be able to.

Maybe, and that was what Richard had to remind himself of, he should be very careful not to mix his false hopes with what he should do to help a friend.

“I'd like that,” he answered with a small smile.

Paul smiled in return, if only just a little.

Then the door fell shut and Paul had left the room.

Richard looked at the empty side of the mattress and let his hand fall flat on the spot where Paul had been sleeping. It was still warm under his touch.

For a moment he watched his own hand and sorted his thoughts. Then he got up as well.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Testing - Part 1

He gave his reflection a final look before stepping away from the mirror and putting on fresh clothes. His hair was only towel dry and his original color growing out a little. The lower part of his face was showing a seven-day stubble and, like the last days before, he today again decided against shaving it off. The same went for his chest hair. He liked looking different. He liked looking like his private self and not like stage Richard who always had to maintain a certain appearance. The eyeliner was the only thing he had added to divert the looks away from the shadows under his eyes.

After stuffing the black and red nail polish in his pocket, he made his way down the stairs and out into the open to have his first smoke. A strong wind stroked through his wet strands and shoved against his hoodie as soon as he left the house. He had to turn his back against the wind to get the lighter on long enough.

He took a deep long drag and felt the craving of his addiction feast on the nicotine and calm him down.

Behind him a door fell in its lock and he heard heavy footsteps near. “Morg'n,” Till grumbled in his deep voice as he came closer, “Kann ick mir eene schnorr'n?” - Morning. / Can I mooch one?

“Morgen,” Richard greeted back as he turned around to his friend. As soon as he saw his face his eyes widened. His cheek and jaw had swollen even more and were colored in different shades of red and green. Richard knew smoking would slow the healing process but who was he to lift a warning finger. So he silently fetched the pack from his pocket while keeping his own cigarette between his lips. Till helped himself and Richard cupped the flame of the lighter with his hands to shield it from the wind until the second cigarette was burning.

“Du siehst aus als hättste nich' viel geschlafen,” Richard commented after blowing out the smoke through his nose. - You look like you haven't gotten much sleep last night.

“Dann sind wa wohl zwee,” Till gave back dryly. - That makes two of us.

The guitarist just nodded plainly.

For a moment Till studied the other man quietly, before asking, “Darf ick fragen?” - May I ask?

“Du meinst, wieso ich die Nacht bei ihm verbracht hab'?” Richard wanted to know. - You mean, why I have spent the night with him?

The singer nodded and blew the smoke to the side to not hit Richard's face with it. “Mhm,” he hummed, “Paule is jetz' zweemal neben dir injeschlaf'n.” He lifted two fingers to underline his statement. “Is' irjendwie auffällig.” - Paule has fallen asleep next to you two times now. It's a little conspicuous.

“Zufall,” was all the younger of them could answer. - Coincidence.

“Na ick weeß nich',” Till replied with a shrug of his shoulders. - Well, I don't know.

Richard lifted a brow. “Was willste denn damit jetzt andeuten?” - What do you want to hint at, now?

“Nichts,” the singer shrugged his shoulders again, “Ich glaub' nur, der Kleene fühlt sich bei dir sicher.” Then he stubbed out his cigarette on the cobblestones and gave him a reassuring smile. “Hab ick dir doch jesagt, dass du's nich' verkackt hast.” - Nothing. / I believe the small one feels safe around you. / I told you you haven't fucked it up.

Richard instantly knew that Till referred to the conversation they had over the phone after he had lied to Paul. He was probably right but it was hard for Richard to accept that all this was a positive development. It didn't feel like it, but looking at everything from a bigger scale … maybe it was? “Ich hab ihm nur geholfen einzuschlafen,” he answered and flicked the ash off. - I only helped him fall asleep.

Till looked at him, then lay his head to the side and started to grin despite the pain it was obviously causing him.

Richard rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth curled up a little. “Will ich wissen, was für Bilder dir durch den Kopf gehen?” - Do I want to know what kind of pictures run through your head?

“Als ob du das nich' wüsstest,” Till replied with a small laugh. - As if you wouldn't know.

“Jaja, ich hab ihm dreimal einen geblasen, weil er so ein Nimmersatt ist. Aber dann war er endlich müde,” Richard commented dryly. - Yes yes, I've sucked him off three times in a row because he's hard to satisfy. But he finally tired out.

“Als ob. Ick hätt' euch jehört,” Till joked but quickly grew serious again. “Aber im Ernst: Schneider meinte, du hättest watt von Albträumen jesagt?” - As if. I would have heard you two. / But seriously: Schneider said you mentioned something about nightmares?

So that's what he really wanted to talk about, Richard pondered and nodded. “Ja. Sein Unterbewusstsein scheint den Angriff wieder und wieder durchzuspielen.” He took a last drag from his cigarette. “Logisch eigentlich. Macht's aber nicht weniger scheiße.” - Yes. His subconscious mind seems to replay the attack over and over. / Naturally so. But doesn't make it less shitty.

The singer nodded to signal that he understood and sighed deeply. “Hast du letzte Nacht Hilfe anjeboten oder is' er auf dich zujegangen?” he wanted to know. - Have you offered your help last night or did he ask for it?

It started to get colder with the wind blowing so hard. He should have put on his jacket. “Er hat um Hilfe gefragt. Auf seine Weise. Aber immerhin.” - He has asked for help. In his way. But still.

“Hätt' ick nich' erwartet,” Till replied with a proud look on his face. - I wouldn't have expected that.

“Und er will unsere Zweiersitzung heute mit 'nem Spaziergang verbinden,” Richard added while still beeing unsure of what to make of the situation earlier this morning. - And he wants to combine our talking session with going on a walk.

“Is' dat erste Mal, dass er selbst um Jesellschaft bittet, oder?” - It's the first time he actively asked for company, isn't it?

“Isses.” Richard let his fingers comb through his almost dry hair. “Neue Chance es zu versauen.” - It is. / New chance to blow it.

Till but an arm around Richard's shoulders and started guiding them both towards the entrance of the house. “Ich sag's dir noch tausend weitere Male, wenn's sein muss: Deine innere,” and since Richard new what words would follow he joined in, “Versagerstimme kann gepflegt die Fresse halten.” - I will tell you this another thousand times, if need be: Your inner loser voice can kindly shut the fuck up.

Then they nodded at each other, laughed at each other as only close friends did, and went inside.

Richard was glad he had this band. The bond between them had grown so tight it was impossible to imagine a life without the other five. They complemented each other perfectly.

In the hallway Till told him how glad he was that Paul already seemed to open up some more. That it would make it easier to help him. That, on a bigger scale, they as soon as possible needed to know if Paul was able to play the next tour leg. If he was even feeling safe enough to stand in front of a huge crowd. If he was feeling safe enough around their crew. Richard wondered if the attackers had been wearing face masks and if the face masks of their stage crew members would be a trigger in its own. There was so much hanging in the balance and there were only a couple of months to try and fix this. So much they didn't know about yet.

As they opened the door to the kitchen they were greeted by four other faces, three of them sitting around the breakfast table. The room was warmer than any other in the house. It smelled deliciously of freshly warmed up bread rolls, coffee, jam, honey, cold cuts and cheese. The wind was softly whistling against the windows every now and then.

Till immediately joined Flake who stood in front of the old stove. Richard realized the kitchen was this warm because they had obviously made a fire in that thing to cook with it. Olli and Paul were discussing different surf spots while Schneider was quietly reading a newspaper on his tablet. The guitarist greeted everyone, walked over to the coffee machine, put a mug under the outlet, pressed a button and waited for his morning beverage while taking in the peaceful atmosphere. It was such a strange thing, Richard mused. The band was in crisis mode. And still – still! - they managed to do their best to not add any pressure if it wasn't necessary. Each of them knew how to help Paul feel comfortable around them. Whoever decided on the old stove served Paul's preference for warmth and fire. Olli had offered an innocuous topic to talk about which made their smallest band member actually say more than five sentences in a row. Schneider pretended to be full and offered the lower half of his cream cheese covered bread roll to Paul who, if his empty plate was any indication, hadn't eaten anything yet. It worked. Paul took a bite. From the corner of his eyes Richard saw that Flake let out a silent sigh of relief as he turned his head back to the cooking pot he was guarding.

They were the best family he could wish for.

With a small smile on his lips he took his coffee with him and sat down at the head of the table next to the other guitarist. There was a quick exchange of glances between Paul and him, but nothing more. Oliver was quick to ask Paul another question and Schneider held some food under Richard's nose before asking him about a certain band he was reading an article about in his newspaper. So two independent conversations happened simultaneously and Richard was glad it went that way. No awkward silence, no strange questions. Just a very relaxed and very long breakfast time.

Eventually though the last of them had finished their meal. Till, Schneider and Oliver instantly opted to go and spent time making and writing music. Flake wanted to go on preparing their dinner first – obviously something that needed some time and attendance – and would join them as soon as he could.

Richard felt a pair of eyes on him and looked at Paul who looked right back at him. There was a silent question on his features. If only he could read his mind. “I think I might go for a walk first. Need to clear my head,” he told the others before meeting Paul's gaze again, “Wanna tag along?” Hopefully it came across as the gentle offer it was and not a hidden demand.

At the other end of the table he could see Oliver start to respond. He was inhaling and moving his hand, as if to signal that he had changed his mind and would want to come as well. Till's hand landed on Olli's forearm, drawing the bass player's attention. Their singer shook his head almost invisibly, but it was enough to make Olli understand that the question wasn't meant for him. Luckily none of this was noticed by Paul who still looked at Richard. “Are you sure you don't want to head over to the barn? You haven't played since we arrived.” The smallest of them rested his elbows on the table, laced his fingers together and rested his cheek on them to eye his fellow guitarist with a tilted head.

Richard understood what this meant. Paul was looking out for him, too. He wanted to hug him and thank him and at the same time tell him that what he needed most was for Paul to look out for himself. “I'm very sure,” was all he answered before smiling and mimicking the other's posture.

For a moment they quietly looked at each other. Again Richard felt that Paul wanted to say something with his eyes. He wished he knew if he was only imagining this or if he was right. But it wasn't the moment to ask.

“Then … yes. Very much so.” The smaller guitarist gave him a quick smile before sitting up straight again and breaking eye contact. Instead he turned around in his seat and looked out of the window. “I need a moment to fetch some appropriate clothes, though.”

“Take your time,” Richard responded, fetched the nail polish from his pants and placed them in front of him.

And so the table emptied and each of them did their part to clear it of the food and dishes as well. Soon only Flake and Richard occupied the kitchen. The guitarist skillfully put the polish on one fingernail after the other.

The keyboarder sat down on the chair closest to him and waited until Richard looked up. “I'm worried.”

“That he isn't eating enough?” the guitarist asked softly.

The blond man nodded, his eyes restlessly scanning the polish flasks, Richard's nails, the table and Richard's face. “Usually he would have already cleared half of what we bought for him.”

“I know.” For a brief moment their eyes met.

“He has never been like this.” Fear was seeping through his voice.

“I know.” The guitarist tried his best not to let it affect him.

“I've never seen him so quiet. So mirthless.”

“Flake?” He placed a hand on the other's shoulder and squeezed it gently. “I promise you I'll do my best. And so does he.”

Their eyes met again, this time much longer. Flake's were shining with too much moisture. “I know,” the keyboarder said and smiled bravely before standing up again and attending to his cooking.

A few minutes later Paul appeared in the door and expectantly looked at Richard who stood up immediately.

“Ready?” the younger one asked.

“Ready,” the older answered.

Richard nodded at him, left the flasks on the table, quickly went to the snack assortment to fetch two chocolate bars, and then followed Paul into the hallway.

“After you,” Richard said after opening the front door for Paul.

The smaller man looked at him reproachfully for a second before making his way outside. There was a short hesitation in his steps. They both noticed it and looked at each other after Richard had closed the door. “You okay?” he asked.

Paul nodded but didn't say anything. His jaw seemed to be clenched.

Silently they both kept walking around the barn. They could hear the others play music, but most of it was swallowed by the thickness of the walls and of course the wind. In front of them lay the garden and open land. The grass blades were combed to the side and trees were dancing in the wind that tried to rip the yellowish leaves from them.

Both men quietly walked along the small trail through the garden until they reached the far end of the sturdy chest-high wooden fence. There was a small gate, just wide enough to fit one, maybe two people at once. They went through and followed the trail further along through the waving meadows until they reached the dike. There were no stairs or anything, just a small path almost hidden in the grass.

With some quick steps they reached the top of the dike and instantly came to a halt side by side to take in the sight. The whole area was so flat that they could see earth's curvature on the horizon. The sky above them was wide, high and open. Thick clouds hurried through the air far above them, driven by a strong south-east wind that seemed to blow even harder now that they stood here on top of the dike.

Richard watched Paul turn up his collar and adjust his scarf and smiled to himself. It was such a familiar gesture.

For a moment he closed his eyes, tilted his head back, took a few deep breaths and just listened. The air smelled clean and a little bit of rain on dark earth. The wind was rustling against his ears in ongoing waves of crescendos and decrescendos. He heard the calls of gray geese in the distance and the soft murmur of the Elbe in front of them.

Suddenly a memory hit him. It wasn't a picture or a sound, neither a smell nor a taste. It was a feeling – deep-rooted and tied to his most inner core. Loss. He didn't know why that feeling was there now and he tried to get rid of it. It was the wrong moment and the feeling was unwanted in general. He wanted and needed to be there for Paul. So he pushed it away with all his might.

“I'd like to make a proposal,” Paul suddenly offered and looked intently cross at Richard.

The taller man tried not to look back, but instead kept his eyes directed at the graveled path. “I'm listening.”

“We will go this way,” the smaller man said and pointed at the direction towards Wittenberge, “And you get to ask me any question you like.”

Richard's gaze met Paul's.

“As long as I answer, we will keep walking,” he went on, “If I stop, we turn around and I get to ask you questions in return.”

They kept looking at each other for a moment, as the wind pushed against their bodies. Paul seemed to be determined. Richard doubted that they would be on a long walk. Any question he liked? Where should he start? He watched Paul shove his hands in his pockets and tilt his head to the left. Beautiful gray-blue eyes expecting him to agree. They made the feeling of loss disappear.

It was then that Richard realized what Paul was doing, whether he did it intentionally or not. He was pushing them both into action, as it was in his nature. He knew Richard didn't want to set foot into that town. He himself didn't want to speak about his feelings. But they wanted each other to because they both knew it was necessary to get a chance to heal. So they both had to do something they didn't want to do in order to help the other one.

The taller man tilted his head to the side as well, mirroring his friend. “Are you sure?” he wanted to know. He saw it as a big step for Paul after all the shutting down on everyone.

“I am,” the shorter one responded and gave him a small reassuring grin.

The gravel crunched under their boots as they both broke eye contact and started walking along the path on top of the dike. The wind was hitting them in the face. It felt pleasant after that restless night.

For a moment they just kept walking quietly next to each other. Paul still had his hands in his pockets and had his head turned to the meadows to his left. Next to him on his right Richard stared at the huge river and tried to think of a good question to start while simultaneously blocking out the thought of where they were headed. The farmyard grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

“Alright,” Richard sighed finally, “Any question?”

Paul turned his head and nodded at him. “That's what I said.”

“But if I cross a line-”

“Richard!” for a second Paul's face went stern. “No need to tiptoe around. If you want to know something, ask.”

“Okay,” the taller man said almost voicelessly and waited until the other's face looked relaxed again. “Do you have any memories of last night?”

“Aside from the nightmare?”

“Nightmares. But yes.”

Their eyes met. The plural seemed to irritate Paul.

“Everything after taking the pill is a haze.”

“Do you remember waking up in the middle of the night?”

The smaller man thought about it for a moment. “I'm not sure. Why do you ask? Did I do something silly?”

“No,” Richard answered immediately and shook his head. Did he really not remember clinging to his wrist for dear life? His plea not to be left alone? The fear of his mind going back to that cursed night? “No, definitely not silly.”

“What did I do?” Paul looked at him curiously and a little worried.

“It's my turn to ask the questions,” Richard stared.

“Pfffff,” his friend made and playfully shook his head.

“There's something I'd like to understand,” Richard went on, ignoring Paul's curiosity, “You told me you are afraid of not waking up again. Can you explain that to me?”

“Do I have to?”

“No,” he stopped in his tracks, “We can turn around and walk back instead.”

There was hesitation in Paul's eyes as he, too, came to a halt and they looked at each other. “This was such a stupid idea,” he muttered under his breath before continuing to walk along the gravel path. Richard followed him and listened. “In my dreams I relive that night. And … ,” Paul clearly seemed to struggle to put his thoughts into words. “I … ,” he stopped walking and tried to take deep breath but his body seemed to refuse. Then there was an involuntary small shake as if to brush off a memory. Then he started walking again. He took several deep breaths before continuing to talk. “I was conscious the whole time, you know? I knew I was losing blood. I felt it running through my fingers.” A pause between every sentence. “There were voices. They tried to calm me, but I could hear the panic.” Richard's eyes were glued to the other's face while Paul stared into the distance ahead. “I remember my body wanting to give in and go unconscious. I remember the face of one of the paramedics. Try to stay awake, he told me. So I tried. And I listened to them talking about how bad it was. It became so hard to breathe. And then everything faded into darkness and I didn't know if I would wake up again.” Another shudder ran through Paul's body. “I didn't know if I would see my children again. My family. The band.”

“And that's the fear you go through every night?” Richard asked as soon as he found his voice again.

Paul just nodded and gave him a quick glance before staring into the distance again.

“Now I see why you did that in your sleep,” the taller man thought out loud.

“Did what?”

“At what I suppose was the end of your nightmare,” Richard answered carefully, “you struggled for air.”

Paul just looked at him questioningly, before adverting his eyes once more, appearing almost embarrassed.

“You didn't want me to know about that, did you?”

“No.” The word was almost swallowed by the wind.

“Why?”

Paul just shrugged his shoulders before quickly remembering that he was supposed to actually answer the questions. “I didn't want you to worry.”

Richard looked at him in disbelief for a moment before shaking his head and letting out a heavy sigh. He silently reached for his pack of cigarettes and lit one up before shaking his head again and staring at the river.

“What did I say?!” Paul eventually asked in a tone that equally contained anger and insecurity.

Pondering where to start, Richard blew out the smoke through his lips just to take another drag. “Are you that naive?” he asked the smaller man and saw him stop in his tracks for a second before continuing to walk.

“Maybe,” Paul responded and stared at him. “You tell me!” He sounded hurt.

Since Paul had earlier demanded they shouldn't walk on egg shells around each other, Richard gave in to his urge to get some things off his chest. The lying didn't help, the smiling and playing along didn't help, the waiting for the other one to open up didn't help – so maybe blunt honesty would get them somewhere. “Paul,” he said his name with so much emphasis he made sure he had every ounce of the other man's attention, “I worry all the time.” He saw something change on Paul's features. “You have been attacked. You've spent almost a month in a hospital. I've seen you right after the surgery and you looked more dead than alive.” He felt his voice begin to shake and hoped his friend wouldn't notice. “I've seen the wounds on your body and how you tried to make us believe it wasn't that bad. And all I wished for was for you to tell us the truth. But you didn't.” He took another drag. “So I worried what I might have done wrong in the past to lose your trust. The more you retreated from us the more I worried that there wasn't anything I could do for you. I worry about your mental health, about you not getting enough sleep, about you not eating properly. I worry about you as the friend I thought I was for you. I … ,” he helplessly made a gesture with his hands that signaled that he didn't know what to do anymore.

The wind had increased the speed of his cigarette burning down so he could only take a small last drag before putting it out on the gravel with his boot. When he was done, a hand landed on his left forearm and held it in a firm grip. Their eyes met and as if on silent command they both stopped walking.

There were so many emotions on display on Paul's face that Richard didn't know what to do or say. Then the smaller man shook his head once and closed his eyes. He tilted his head down and pulled his brows together. And then suddenly in a swift movement Paul stood in front of him and Richard felt arms around him and a chin on his right shoulder. He instinctively hugged the other man back by wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pulling him as close as he could. He felt Paul do the same.

“I'm sorry,” he heard Paul say. He didn't know why the apology pulled so much at his heart, but it did. So he increased the hug even more and instantly felt Paul do the same.

None of them gave any signal to break the hug. Instead they leaned more into each other. Richard felt Paul swallow and then turn his head so his cheek was resting against Richard's shoulder. He wished he knew if Paul wanted the hug to console him or because he needed some kind of support for himself. But what he knew was that this was the first time since the attack none of them asked for permission to hug the other one. So he closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment despite the pain it carried with it. He felt Paul's fingers almost clawing into the fabric of his jacket, felt the body in his arms take deliberate deep breaths as if to calm itself, he smelled shampoo and aftershave and listened to the wind singing songs against his ears. A tear escaped under his closed eyelids and tried to run down his face. He wiped it off by nuzzling his cheek against Paul's beanie.

They stood there for minutes, that felt too long and too short at the same time.

“There's a gray heron,” Paul eventually mumbled.

Richard opened his eyes. The gravel path he could see over Paul's shoulder was still vacant. He looked around but didn't see the bird. “Where?” he asked.

“On the bank of the river,” the man in his arms replied.

Reluctantly, slowly, Richard let go of Paul. He didn't want to. Seemingly Paul didn't either. But they couldn't stand here like this forever. So instead he looked out for the heron until he could see it as well, standing there calmly in the water. It made him smile.

Eventually their eyes met again. Paul stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned to continue their walk along the path. Richard put his hands in his jacket as well, feeling the chocolate bars in one of the pockets, and followed the other man. For a while they just kept on walking side by side.

“You are the friend to me you think you are,” Paul said eventually. After a small pause he added, “More, even.”

Richard was moved by the words as well as the way they were spoken. “How so?” he asked.

For a moment the smaller man looked at the clouds and thoughtfully took a deep breath. “I … I feel like you get me more than any of the others.” He tilted his head to the side and pulled his brows together, his gaze now directed to the path. “You look out for me and push me at the same time. Like earlier. You say the things I need to hear even if I won't like to hear them. Somehow you seem to know. I need that.”

“Lately I don't feel like I get you at all.”

“You do, believe me.”

“In that case,” the taller of them shrugged and smiled, “you're welcome.”

They looked at each other and grinned before growing serious again.

“I wish I would have known that sooner,” Richard said, shook his head twice and let out a humorless laugh. “The things I wanted to say to you in that hospital … .”

“For example?” Paul asked, sounding truly curious.

“That constant smiling!” it erupted from Richard's mouth so fast that it caught him by surprise. He almost absentmindedly took out another cigarette. “That stupid smile all the time. It was maddening. It was so fake and I thought: Why is he even trying to fool us?!” He took a quick drag. “I mean, after what you've told us in the kitchen I understood. But back in the hospital I wanted to hit you in the face.”

“Yeah, people tend to have that wish,” Paul mused and Richard instantly regretted saying the last part. “I'm sorry!” the younger hurried to say.

“Don't be,” the older of them replied and half smiled, half grinned. “It's the humor I need, too.”

Then, two of them were grinning.

The river bent in a wide curve. On the land side a small forest swayed in the wind, leaves colored from green to yellow, orange, red and brown, loudly rustling into their ears.

“On a more serious note,” Richard went on, “If the attack hadn't happened, would you have opened up to us?”

“Probably not.”

“Not even if we would have pushed you more?”

“Have you noticed anything in the past year?”

“No.”

“Then there was no reason to push me, right?”

It was a rhetorical question. So Richard responded with a question of his own. “Would you have wanted to talk about it if you would have known how to?”

At that Paul let out a heavy sigh, thinking about it. Then he shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?” Richard dug deeper, “What had happened in that past year? And,” he made a hand gesture to underline the next words, “No more one word answers.”

Paul nodded, acknowledging the added rule. Yet another sigh and his features openly told that he greatly disliked the question. “Has to do with how my marriage went to pieces.” He shrugged his shoulders dismissively and stared into the distance before turning his head and looking intently at Richard. “One thing though: If you want to go into detail about that, we can instantly turn around and walk back.”

“Will you tell me about it eventually?” The taller one asked.

“Very unlikely,” the smaller answered.

“That bad?”

“No, just … ,” Paul let his fingers run over the beard on his chin, “ … just very private.”

“Okay,” Richard responded and of course he would respect Paul's wish. Yes, it would have been easy to go on and ask anyway, especially since he knew they weren't far away from the destination he had no intention to go to. But they were talking in a way that two days ago he wouldn't have thought possible in the situation they were in. “But just so you know: In case you change your mind, I'm there for you.”

Paul looked at him for a moment and it seemed he wanted to say something else, but held it back with all his strength. “Thanks,” he replied instead.

The small forest to their left ended and the river followed the curve further to the left as well, revealing a town not very far from them. There were many small two- and one-story houses with mostly red tiled roofs and lush gardens. Of course there was the obligatory church tower in red bricks and a verdigris roof. What really stood out at first glance were two things. One were the two long bridges that went all the way from one dike over the floodplain and river to the dike far on the other side. The second interesting sight was that of the red brick industrial looking buildings close to the waterfront. There was a prominent warehouse that particularly stood out.

Richard needed to distract himself from the sight. And he knew the one thing that would help was to make Paul keep talking. “How about you tell me which topic feels like the easiest for you to talk about,” he challenged his friend.

The smaller guitarist took a moment to think about it. Richard watched him make that little gesture where he crinkled his nose just on one side. “That would be food, I guess.”

“Okay,” Richard nodded, “Then forward question: How do we get you to eat more?”

Their eyes met, before Paul looked back at the town in the distance. “I don't know,” he said.

“I won't let that count as an answer,” Richard replied and felt bad for saying that. But since Paul had signaled that indeed some pressure was wanted, he tried to provide it.

A small shadow of anger hushed over Paul's features before it dissolved into an expression of utter concentration. Richard knew where he had seen that happening a million times. It happened whenever someone, mostly he himself, was criticizing Paul's guitar play. “But I really don't know,” the smaller man finally answered with a helpless undertone. “I know I eat too little. And I know I'm not a stress eater. I wish I was.”

“But you've eaten normal in the past year,” Richard mused, “Even though it had been so stressful for you. It changed only after the attack. So, what happened?”

“The attack,” Paul answered dryly and instantly received a very plain and empty look from Richard.

“Paul, I know that,” he replied, “What I want to know from you is what has changed for you since then and what we can do to support you. You know it's important. So what can we do? Force you to? Just offer it? Remind you? Go to a-”

“Make me feel safe!” Paul blurted. They both stopped and looked at each other, both of them surprised by Paul's answer.

“You don't feel safe in that house?” Richard carefully asked.

Paul instantly shook his head and absentmindedly put his hand on his chest where his heart lay underneath. “I don't feel safe anywhere.”

“Because?”

“No one-word questions either,” Paul requested.

“Okay, fair,” Richard nodded while appreciating that in his way Paul signaled that he needed help to find a better answer. That he didn't shut down even though he could easily do that. “What do you fear might happen?”

Gray-blue eyes looked to where they were coming from and lingered on the path. Richard felt that part of Paul wanted to turn around. “Do you fear something like that might happen again?” he tried to help.

“Sometimes,” the smaller guitarist answered after a long pause. Then he took a deep breath, looked at Richard for a moment, before continuing to walk towards the buildings. A second pair of boots followed. “It's the memories,” Paul tried to explain, “I don't want to go through them anymore. Or at least have some kind of control.”

“Are we talking about the nightmares?”

“No. Yes. Those, too.” Paul was wiping something from his left eye. “I mean all those small fractions of memories. They come completely at random, I believe. Sometimes I feel my cheekbone break. Sometimes I hear them laugh. Sometimes the cobblestones pop up in front of my eyes. Stuff like that.”

Richard didn't know what to say. He felt for the other man. If he could protect him from those memories he would do everything in his power.

“If I have enough distraction, I think they don't come. But there hasn't been much of that lately.” Paul shrugged his shoulders.

“What kind of distractions work?” the taller of them asked. He could relate.

They came close to the first bridge. It was just a simple straight but extremely long bridge out of pale concrete and a light blue railing. Every now and then a car passed by above them.

“Playing my guitar works,” Paul replied after some thinking, “And oddly enough talking about it seems to help, too, now that I think of it.”

“What else?” This couldn't be all of it.

“I haven't done much in the past couple of weeks, you know?” Again they looked at each other for a moment.

“Would you be on board if we try some things to keep your head busy?” Richard suggested.

Paul nodded eagerly. “Yes. Please.”

“Alright. But just to make that clear. Distraction is not the main goal. I still need you to talk.”

“Understood,” the smaller of them agreed. His answer was almost swallowed by the truck driving over the bridge right above their heads. They kept walking further and the first houses came nearer and nearer.

Richard could already see the small harbor in the distance. Further away was the beautiful iron railway bridge. The path changed from gravel to asphalt. His feet moved on autopilot and his eyes scanned every little detail. The houses in the first row at the foot of the dike had beautiful colored facades and neat little front gardens. Some were half-timbered houses, some typical plain houses from the 1920s. A group of elderly people on bicycles drove by. By the amount of saddlebags they were on a tour. They greeted them with a smile and a quick nod like they probably greeted everyone they would pass today. The two musicians greeted back.

Grey eyes kept on looking around. Richard remembered being here countless times. The scenery looked different. He remembered it with way less colors, more run down, less tidy and with way more people. And still it was the same place and he knew he had been here with his brother, his mother. With his real dad. He remembered the recognition he had gotten from him.

“You've stopped asking questions,” Paul noted as they reached a small parking area which was occupied only by a single camper van.

“Yes,” Richard answered and shook off the pictures of the past.

“Do you want to go back?” the smaller man asked.

“Yes,” the taller replied, but he kept walking.

Houses passed them by and so did some people.

“Do you want to go further?” Richard heard Paul ask.

“Yes,” he answered as his feet dragged him forward.

They both remained silent until they reached the touristy area where dyke and town center melted together. Freshly build modern row homes stood right next to single houses that seemed to have been here since the middle ages. There was a new red paved promenade all the way along the waterfront. It was the perfect panorama view over a seemingly endless open land. To someone else's eyes this might appear quaint and beautiful, but to Richard's it felt off. Foreign. Disturbing even. It felt like someone had painted over part of his childhood without asking him. Something about it frustrated him and he couldn't pinpoint what it was.

Then there was a hand on his wrist, holding him and pulling until he came to a halt. He looked into Paul's worried eyes. “Are you okay?”

Richard wanted to tell him that he was fine. He didn't want him to worry. But his brain saw the irony and forced him to accept that people worried because they cared about him and that, yes, even he deserved to be cared about. So instead he shook his head slowly. “No, I'm not.”

He watched Paul analyze his own thoughts, before tilting his head to the side. “What do you need right now?”

“I don't know,” Richard replied.

A grin spread out over Paul's face. “I won't let that count as an answer,” he gently mocked.

Despite his own expectations it made Richard smile as well. “Fucker,” he shot back.

“What?!” Paul asked and shrugged his shoulders innocently, “Same rules for everyone, right?” Then he balanced himself on one leg to bump his shoulder into Richard's. “Come on, what can I do for you? Ignore my problems for a moment and let me feel useful.”

“I can't,” the taller of them sighed and briefly looked at the clouds rushing past.

“Do you want me to get out my phone, call Flake and tell him you preach water and drink wine?” the other teased.

“You wouldn't!”

“Watch me.” And with that Paul pulled his phone out, unlocking the screen in a swift movement.

“Why do I get punished for not asking something of you that you can't do right now?!” he wanted to know while trying to keep the shorter man from dialing the number.

“You haven't even asked me yet!” Paul complained and held his phone behind him with an outstretched arm, leaving his fingers off the display. “I can still say no. But of the two of us you are not the only grown up. Let me decide for myself.” He still grinned, but some hurt shone through as well.

Richard let out a frustrated grunt. “Fine,” he muttered and watched Paul take the phone down. “What I would like to have,” he said reluctantly, “is the old Paul. For you to act like your usual self. Which is something I don't want to ask of you because I don't want you to pretend.”

“Why?” Paul asked, referring to he first part.

Instead of answering Richard shrugged his shoulders looked up to the clouds and swallowed.

“Would make all this,” as he said it, the smaller guitarist quickly looked around, “a little easier, hm?”

“Probably,” the taller of them replied.

For a moment Paul remained silent, his face showing that he was weighing the pros and cons in all seriousness. But suddenly his face lit up. “You don't want me to act as if everything is okay if it isn't, right?”

“Yes,” Richard answered carefully, not sure where this was going.

“But if I act like this for the purpose of helping you and distracting myself by doing so at the same time … doesn't that help us both?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked at Richard expectantly.

“Sounds stupid,” Richard remarked.

“But not stupid enough to not try it,” Paul replied and lay his head to the side. “Look, we've already established I'm not okay. Really stupid would be if I would still try to hide that. Which I'm not.”

For a moment the taller man looked at the other's face and admired how willingly he was ready to adjust to the new situation. And yet it was so hard to accept Paul's help while knowing he was fighting his own struggles. “Will you promise me to say if it's too much for you?” Richard asked him.

“Yes,” Paul replied, slightly rolling his eyes. “I'll just do what you did.”

Richard raised an eye brow in a silent question.

“You put your problems aside to be there for me, too. For as long as you could.” He stuffed his phone back into his pocket. “Alright then, where do you want to go?”

Having Paul around when he was analyzing everything was brutal, Richard mused. Great, but brutal. It felt like he had to be the perfect example of what to do and how to handle one's own mental issues, where in fact he was still busy sorting out why he suddenly felt so detached from so many memories and feelings. Now on top of if he cursed himself for not having clearly communicated to Paul that he needed a moment to attend to his own psychological needs. After all it was Paul who recognized the change in Richard's behavior. Additional to that it frustrated him that he needed help from his friend. He hated to be a burden on his shoulders.

“Let's stay close to the Elbe,” he answered. It would be enough for today. “Maybe find somewhere to get a coffee.”

“Okay,” Paul said and smiled at him. It was one of those smiles that was carried more by his eyes than his mouth.

So they walked a couple of meters quietly side by side, the wind hitting them strong from the water side. It was a very familiar feeling to Richard. This land gave the wind room to take a run-up.

“What's that?” the smaller man asked and pointed at a strange sculpture standing in the middle of the promenade. It was some kind of a ship in the form of a shield or emblem. The small lower tip of the ship stood on a red brick socket. It was made out of bronze and had a green patina, typical for this alloy.

They walked closer and looked at it. The ship was made out of tiny houses and there were eight figures on board of it. “Here's Till,” Paul remarked.

Richard followed his gaze and then he, too, saw the devilish looking figure tongue-kissing a female character while holding her boob. He grinned and looked around. A little further away there were two solitary sockets, each having a bronze figure on top. They definitely belonged to the whole ensemble. One of them was sitting on his socket, one leg balancing over the other, and happily playing a cross flute. The other stood, sunken in his play, with a contrabass as tall as itself. He had little devil horns on his forehead. Someone had knitted a small yellow hat, scarf and socks for the flute player and a red socket was put on top of the bass. The wind was playing with it and let the sculptures look a little alive.

“Then that's you for sure!” Richard stated and pointed at the sitting figure. “Not a clarinet, but the rest fits.”

“Only if we agree that that's you,” Paul pointed at the other figure. “Although … they should switch stage places.”

For a few seconds they smiled at each other. It felt good to be like this without having anyone judging that this was childish. And of course now they both wanted to find the other band members, too.

“The one with the binoculars is Schneider,” Richard declared.

“Definitely,” Paul agreed and walked around the ship. “Oh,” he said and stopped, “I found Olli!”

Richard came next to him and looked up at the grim looking figure with the stern and strangely inhuman and intimidating mask on it.

Something caught his eye and Richard walked further around the ship to look at a jester, the ends of his bonnet flying in the wind. Three figures had long paddles to row towards the Elbe. The jester was one of them, but happily rowed in the wrong direction. “And if this isn't Flake, I don't know.”

With a curious expression Paul hurried to him, his fingers getting a hold on the rear of the boat. It gave way and started to rock back and forth, taking the both men by surprise. After the initial shock he might have broken it, Paul made it sway even higher and giggled a little.

They looked at the boat rocking back and forth for a moment until they felt their curiosity was sated. So they started to walk side by side again.

“See?” Paul said, “You're not alone. The whole band is here as well.” He smiled, looked over his shoulder and back at the sculpture, and then back at Richard who couldn't help but smile as well. The thought was comforting.

A moment later they passed a small café, but it was closed. “It's not even that early anymore,” Paul mused with a gaze at his watch and seemed a little disappointed.

“It's not Berlin,” Richard replied and looked at the sign with the opening hours. Only three hours a day. It seemed ridiculous but they probably had their reasons. “Come, we'll find something else.”

Not far away they found a beautiful red brick house right on the dike and almost hanging over the water. By it's appearance it was a restaurant. On second glance they saw that it was permanently closed.

So they continued following the promenade. Soon enough the buildings changed and opened up to an open field with just a single large old brick house in the middle. Further in the distance was the small group of warehouses they had already seen earlier. So that was it. They had already passed the city center and were on their way to the other end of the town. Richard remembered that there was a shopping street and a market place and everything, but he didn't want to see that today. He was busy enough taking in all the changes the town had gone through – for the better, it seemed – and he felt it did something with him. He didn't know yet what it was.

“Can we go a little further?” Paul asked, his eyes fixed on the warehouses.

They looked interesting enough. Richard remembered them in a much, much worse state. Now they had a fresh tiled roof and stood in the middle of an open area, like a sleeping red giant right next to the large river. “Of course,” he responded.

As they got closer, Paul sighed deeply.

“What's up?” Richard asked.

“I should have packed my camera,” the smaller man replied as he looked up the tall buildings. There was a metal framework coming out of one of the higher levels of one of the warehouses. It reached high over the promenade and was meant to unload the top part of bigger ships. “Imagine: You and your guitar up there!” Paul pointed up to the framework.

Before Richard could even respond, Paul was already looking around, searching for something on the pavement. While watching him, Richard couldn't help but feel gratitude. They both loved their work, but he loved being in the spotlight way more than Paul, while the smaller man enjoyed finding ways to provide that spotlight – be it for himself or for anyone around him.

“Shit,” he heard him say after a moment, “No lighting anywhere. But I have portable ones with batteries.”

“Paul, we can't go up there,” Richard said, smiling.

“There's a ladder,” the smaller man retorted.

“Three meters off the ground,” he shook his head as he saw where the ladder started, “No, thank you.”

“Don't dismiss my ideas!” Paul playfully protested.

“I don't dismiss them,” Richard laughed, “I just think about our safety.”

“Hmm,” the smaller man made and kept looking up to the framework, folding his arms in front of his chest.

Richard's eyes wandered over the water. With the clouds rushing in the same direction as the river, they made the stream appear even faster than it already was. Then he turned back to his friend, who hadn't moved. So he let his hand fall gently on top of Paul's beanie. “What's going on in your head?”

“Just an idea,” he answered.

“Wanna share?”

“Sure,” Paul nodded, “I just think it would be great to take pictures of you high above the town, you know.” Finally gray-blue eyes looked into gray ones. “Have you stand above it all instead of the town making you smaller than you are. Or the memories you have of it.”

Richard was moved and felt his eyes starting to water. Paul's remark came out of the blue and caught him off guard. “Thank you,” he whispered and didn't know if it was swallowed by the wind.

Paul turned around to keep walking along the promenade. “I'll keep thinking how to put that idea into action.”

For a moment Richard stayed rooted to the spot and wiped his eyes dry with the back of his hand and watched the other musician. He was exactly the friend he needed right now and a friend he didn't truly feel he deserved. With all the shit going on in his life Paul still found the strength to look out for the needs of others.

“What's that over there?” Paul shouted at him from a few meters away, pointing at a red brick tower-like building further down the promenade not very far away.

“An old tower,” Richard answered and caught up to the other man.

Paul looked at him expectantly.

“You want to have a look at it, too, am I right?” he grinned and received a happy smile. “Alright. Last stop before we head back?”

“Sounds fine,” Paul replied.

Richard knew there wasn't much coming now anyway. This had been the industrial part back in the old GDR times. There had been an oil mill, a manufacturer for spun rayon, a manufacturer for sewing machines, and some more. They had all been liquidated after the German reunification.

To their surprise the four-story tower wasn't abandoned as expected, as they walked around it. Strandbar & Café it read in big letters above the entrance. - Beach Bar & Café. The door stood open. Parts of the facade was patched up with new bricks. An old ugly GDR street lamp was mounted up on one of the corners of the building. Next to the tower there was an artificial beach area with straw parasols, wooden deck chairs and canopied beach chairs.

Paul felt invited by the open door and went inside without any hesitation, leaving Richard no choice but to follow him. Inside there were red bricks as well and there were old black and white photos of how the area looked in the past. The place was small, the whole bar-space was crammed into one corner with a simple l-shaped brick counter around it. Shelves were fitted into the windows to make room for all the glasses and liqueur.

Surprisingly there was no staff around. Paul shrugged his shoulders and rang the little desk bell, yet nobody answered. Next to the bell lay a fresh folded apron. Their eyes went to the stairs.

“Do you think they're upstairs?” Richard asked.

“Only one way to find out,” Paul answered and so they climbed up the stairs up to the top level. Each floor had it's own little theme, but all of them were vacant. “That's a pity,” the taller of them stated, while following Paul back down.

The smaller man didn't answer.

When they reached the still empty main floor, Paul headed for the door, but didn't walk through it. Richard was alarmed instantly. What the smaller man did instead, was peek outside and then head behind the counter and grab two glasses from the shelves. He placed them in front of himself and then turned to Richard who looked at him blankly. “What would you like to drink?”

“What are you doing?” the taller man asked back instead.

“You are right!” Paul replied with a lifted index finger. “Right now it would be stealing.” Then he fished out his wallet from one of his pockets and pulled out a banknote, placing it right next to the cash register. “Now it's self-service.”

“Paul?” Richard knew his friend long enough to expect something like this of him, but it still caught him by surprise. And he absolutely had no intention of getting in any trouble even though he knew Paul was able to charm himself out of a lot of it.

“What!?” the smaller man asked and bent down to have a look inside the fridge.

“Get out of there!” Richard hissed.

“Ah, perfect!” he heard Paul say and come back up again with two juice bottles while the door of the fridge fell shut. “In a minute,” he told Richard. “First: With alcohol or without?”

“Paul, please,” he didn't need those kind of shenanigans at the moment.

“You're right!” the man behind the counter said and completely ignored that Richard positioned himself closer to the door to see if someone was coming. “You shouldn't have alc right now. Me neither.”

“Exactly,” the taller man commented and was glad that still no one seemed to be around. “Now come and let's leave.”

But Paul was determined to finish his task and mixed them both drinks out of different juices and syrups, decorating it with little cocktail umbrellas and held one of the glasses right under Richard's nose. “Here, for you,” he offered it to him with the widest smile he could fit in his face.

The other man just looked down at it.

“Come on, I left them a huge tip.”

Fingers closed around the glass. “Thanks … I guess,” Richard mumbled, “Now let's get away from here.”

“Fine,” Paul replied while rolling his eyes, “But can we sit down in a Strandkorb for a moment?” - typical german canopied beach chair

Richard looked over to the artificial beach area. The chairs were all positioned towards the river so no one could tell if they were occupied or not. “Okay,” he decided, well knowing that otherwise he would have to tell Paul no, which right now seemed to be a battle he couldn't win. So he followed the smaller man and noticed the happy little skip in his steps. Something he hadn't seen in a very long time. He couldn't help but smile.

They both sat down next to each other in the Strandkorb Paul had chosen for them. Instantly the world felt calmer. The wind seemed to flow around them now and in the distance warm rays of sunlight broke through the clouds. The river was rushing by in front of them.

“I love these,” Paul sighed and let his free hand run along the blue and white striped fabric of the interior trim.

“Me too,” Richard agreed. He always fell asleep in those chairs if he stayed in them for too long.

“Cheers,” the older one raised his glass.

“Cheers, you thief,” the younger grinned and clinked his glass against Paul's.

“I didn't steal,” he replied, his lips already around the straw before drinking a sip.

Richard just shook his head in amusement and tried the drink as well. It tasted delicious.

Then they both fell silent, leaned back and stared out into the landscape while every now and then taking another sip. It was a little peaceful moment that they shared with each other. Richard was glad that Paul got his way, otherwise this moment wouldn't have happened.

And then he realized something. Somewhere along the way he had lost his fear of this town and the memories it contained. At least for now. He was certain it would come back, but right now he felt its absence. He knew in great parts it had to do with the man sitting next to him. Who, despite his own inner battles, had distracted him perfectly as he had promised him. And it had worked. He wanted to know if all this had been okay with Paul. If he felt alright. If pretending to be this carefree was hard. Would he stop if he couldn't do it anymore like he promised he would? He wanted to ask him all this and he would. Later. Right now he wanted to give them both this moment of peace.

“I know where I want to take those photos with you!” Paul suddenly exclaimed in excitement. He looked at Richard for a moment, smiling widely, before looking back at the river and sipping through his straw. Then, with a calmer voice, he went on talking to himself. “Of course I need to get my camera … and the right lenses. And I hope you are even in for this. … But I think it will look great.”

Without warning Richard's sight started to swim. He felt sadness flood his heart and run over through his eyes and he didn't know why or how. He tried to stop it by closing his eyes but he was without a chance. The tears kept running down and soon he let out the first choked breath. It caught Paul's attention and Richard quickly looked away from him. He had no power over this and no understanding of it either. He was at a mercy of a feeling. He wanted to tell Paul he shouldn't worry but they had both closed that door earlier. He couldn't say he was okay either because he clearly wasn't. He couldn't stop it or explain it and felt like he was putting Paul in a terrible place, which only made it worse. So anger over that helplessness joined in, making it worse even more.

Slowly Paul rested his head against Richard's shoulder and quietly stayed like this while breathing calmly.

“It's alright,” the smaller man eventually said with a voice as warm and soft as possible. “Let it out.”

And so Richard did that. He kept his head turned away, but he barely tried to hold back his tears anymore.

Countless clouds had passed by before the sadness had finally run dry. Still Richard didn't know where it had come from.

“Shall we head home?” Paul asked him carefully and lifted his head.

When their eyes finally met, Richard noticed that the other man must have cried himself. It made him feel horrible.

“Yes, let's go back,” he answered.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Testing – Part 2

The empty glasses had secretly been placed back on the counter in the small beach bar.

The wind was still blowing, but there were less and less clouds. Every now and then sunlight had a chance to reach the paved promenade Richard and Paul were walking along side by side. None of them had said a word and they both remained silent as they passed the warehouses and the closed restaurant.

From the moment they decided to head back, Richard felt awful. He still had no idea why he had suddenly been overwhelmed by that sadness, nor where it had come from. But that wasn't what bothered him the most. He would analyze it later. No, what occupied his mind was why Paul had cried, too. Some reasons came to mind, but he didn't know which it actually was.

He would like to have asked, but he couldn't. Within the last half hour more and more people were around walking, standing, talking to each other and making photos of the landscape. The chances grew that they got recognized. It wasn't the moment to pick up a sensitive topic such as this.

And just by Paul's body language, a language he believed to understand in almost every nuance, he could tell that the other man had shut himself off again, making himself unapproachable. His friend had his hands dug deep in his pockets, the elbows stood out a little too much, the shoulders were hunched just a tiny bit but enough to signal that he wanted to make himself smaller. His eyes were fixed on the path just a small distance ahead of where his feet landed. Every now and then he would look up for a second or two, scanning the area around him without lifting his bent down head. He let Paul set the pace. It resulted in them both walking a little bit faster than earlier, just like someone who wanted to run away and tried to appear as calm as possible. Or maybe it was just the wind that was now shoving them from behind.

As they walked past the boat sculpture, Richard gave it a small nudge to make it rock back and forth, just because he could. Whether Paul found it funny, annoying, or didn't even notice it, he didn't know. His features stayed unchanged.

The longer the silence continued, the longer they walked, the more Richard feared he had made a fundamental mistake by letting Paul pretend everything was fine. He was almost sure he'd asked too much of the other man. He shouldn't have uttered his wish in the first place. What was he thinking, putting his own needs over Paul's in a time like this? He should have known better.

They had to walk past the bridge to finally have some peace and quiet around them, leaving the tourists behind that invisible barrier the bridge seemed to be. Where were all those people coming from with their inconvenient timing?

“Paul?” Richard asked carefully and looked to his right where the other guitarist was walking beside him. He didn't respond. It seemed he hadn't heard him at all. So the taller of them pulled his brows together a little and tried again. “Paul?”

The smaller man seemed to be startled by his own name and looked back at Richard as if he had woken up from dream.

“Everything alright?” Richard asked.

Paul nodded. “Yes,” he answered. His eyes told a different story.

It felt like a huge setback and the younger of them bit the inner part of his lower lip to keep himself from showing his disappointment. Instead he made a mental note to think of a different question than Are you okay or Everything alright. One that would force the other man to a more elaborate answer. One that he couldn't evade so easily.

“Richard?” Paul suddenly asked while his gaze was now fixed on the trees in the distance. His voice was cracking a little on the i.

“M-hm?” he responded while eyeing the man next to him closely. The shoulders were straightened again.

“I don't want to ask you anything right now.” It sounded like a reluctant confession.

Richard knew what Paul referred to. The agreement was that all the way back to the farm Paul was supposed to ask the other man anything he wanted to know in order to learn how to express feelings with words. When they started this walk Richard thought this would be the easiest part. He didn't particularly liked digging in his emotions in such a way, but he didn't find it exceptionally hard either. What he hadn't taken into account earlier was in what state of mind they both could have maneuvered themselves into. Right now he was actually glad Paul didn't want to ask him anything. And yet he needed to be sure. “That's okay,” he told him, “May I ask why, though?”

Paul shrugged his shoulders while clearly searching for the right words. “There's just …,” he paused and sighed. “There's so much inside of here,” and while saying that he pulled one hand from his pocket and tipped against his own forehead with all five fingertips, “that I need to get out before I can put anything new in.” He let his hand drop to his bottom lip and held it between his thump and middle finger for a moment, before looking at Richard. “Does that sound stupid?”

Richard could relate so much it made him smile in sympathy. “No,” he told him, “I know what you mean.”

The smaller man stuffed his hands back into his pocket and quietly nodded to himself.

“Any plan on how to get it out?” Richard spoke up again. “Playing your guitar?”

“Yes,” Paul answered with an eager nod. It seemed he couldn't wait to start.

A small bicycle bell rang behind them and made them jump a little. They made room for a group of cyclists to pass them by. They watched them vanish in the distance while silently walking side by side further up the stream.

The silence between them was an uneasy one. Richard's mind was occupied by the thought of having failed his friend. He wanted to talk it out but at the same time knew he could only push Paul so much and right now definitely wasn't the right time. And he could literally feel Paul think beside him. He could tell from his features and the movement of his eyes that every gear in the other man's head was in motion. Sometimes he would inhale in a certain way as if wanting to say something to Richard, but he didn't.

Then it hit him. Richard knew why he had broken out into tears. Why he had been this sad. It was because of what Paul had said to him, because of the idea behind what he had said. The intention. The fact that even on his worst days Paul was able to see so much good in Richard while his own mother wasn't able to do this on her best days. It drove a hot needle into his deepest pain.

Richard pulled out a cigarette and smoked it as slowly as possible. It kept his fingers busy and his mind from delving into that abyss of self doubt. Instead he tried to concentrate on the smoke fumes being blown away by the wind. But he felt it all boil inside of him and he, too, had to let it out.

Paul stopped.

It took Richard a moment to realize the other man was no longer walking next to him. When he did, he stopped, too, and turned around.

Their eyes met.

Slowly Richard tilted his head to the side. He saw how Paul was studying him. It was a little unnerving, especially since he was used to the other man not holding back if he wanted to say something. “What?” he asked gently.

Paul took one deep breath through his nose. “Can we play the guitar together?” He asked.

Richard nodded before he had even consciously made a decision. Of course they could. He watched relief spread out on Paul's features before the smaller man started walking again. Without saying another word he did the same.

~~~

There was no need for words as they headed back to the farm. For the moment being they both knew enough. They knew they weren't mad at each other. They knew they still wanted each other's company. It wasn't much, but it was the essential part.

So they closed the wooden gate behind them, walked through the garden and around the barn, over the cobbled courtyard, through the wooden door under the wine tendrils, into the hallway and up the stairs until they reached Paul's door. As if on silent agreement they didn't split up to getting their guitars simultaneously. No, they first got Paul's before heading to Richard's room to get his. They made a stop at the kitchen to get something to drink and to properly fasten the strap on Richard's guitar.

It was a strange quiet between them. Just as if words weren't what they needed to talk to each other.

When they crossed the yard again, the sun was shining down on them while the walnut tree was rustling loudly. They didn't hear any music, though.

As they opened the door to the barn, there was distant chatter. It smelled of old wood, dust and cigarettes. The second door was opened and they found the rest of the band huddled around an improvised table with a laptop, a second screen and a set of speakers. There was a plate with some slices of bread with cheese on it as well as some mugs and bottles. The screen showed a sound editing software and the four man were in the middle of a discussion about a certain arrangement it seemed. They didn't take notice of their two guitarists until the door was falling in its lock behind them.

“Hey, you're back,” Schneider greeted them with a smile and let go of the mouse to lift his hand. Flake just nodded at them, while his eyes were constantly switching between their two faces. Oliver waved at them as well and turned towards them in his seat. Till watched them expectantly. “Had a nice walk?” he asked.

Instead of answering directly, Richard looked at Paul first. He found the other man looking back at him with an almost pleading expression. He understood and signaled him to go ahead with a small nod towards their equipment.

While Paul wordlessly made his way to plug in his instrument, Richard walked over to their recording system to check if it was running. “We ...---” he started but didn't know how to explain this without inviting them to ask any questions. He turned his head towards his friends and found them looking back at him. “Actually … ,” he sighed and made another small pause, “ … do you mind if we were just playing a little?” He threw a quick glance at Paul who had put his guitar down get out of his jacket. When he turned his head back again he saw Till smirk a little.

“Of course not,” the singer answered before any of the other men could say anything, “That's why we're here after all, aren't we?”

They exchanged a knowing look and Richard swore under his breath. Of course he remembered. And of course Till loved to be proven right.

Going back to his mental state in which words weren't necessary, Richard turned around and walked over to his equipment, holding his guitar by its neck and pulling down the zipper of his jacket with the other hand. Behind him the room was filled by a single chord Paul had played on his guitar, probably to test the settings and volume. He vaguely heard the others talk to each other, too, but didn't understand what they were saying. It didn't interest him right now, anyway. What mattered was that both Paul and he were able to get out those pent up emotions. He didn't care that the others were in the room. They all felt comfortable enough to play in front of each other most of the time. There were exceptions of course. Moments that were supposed to be private. Moments like yesterday when Paul believed to have played his guitar alone and solely for himself.

Richard tried to shrug his arm out of his jacket when a second hand with a skull ring on one finger wrapped around the neck of his guitar to hold it for him. Their eyes met and they silently thanked each other. Soon the jacket was hung over a chair, every electronic device switched on and plugged in.

And just like at the beginning of a difficult conversation it was hard to find a way to start.

For a moment they just stood in front of each other and concentrated on themselves. He watched Paul close his eyes and his fingers decide on which strings to hold down where. Richard did the same and closed his lids.

The world went dark and he concentrated on his other senses. He smelled the oil and polish on their guitars. He felt the familiar weight pull down the strap on his left shoulder. Felt the smooth strings against his fingertips and the cool plec warm up between his fingers. Felt the strings give in to the pressure between the frets. He listened to the quiet that built up between them both. He heard them both breathe in the same rhythm.

Richard decided he didn't want to start. It had been Paul's request to do this. He was merely invited to join. So he and his guitar waited for the other two to find their voice. He wondered in which way Paul would initiate the play.

Eventually a few notes dripped from the speakers. The short melody tried to test the room like a question. They were just single notes, plucked by fingers instead of a plectrum.

The dark haired man let his eyes stay shut and answered by playing back a slow made up melody without his plec as well.

It went back and forth this way for a while, the notes more and more fusing together until they joined each other's melody by complementing it with chords of their own while switching to the plec. It happened so gently, so fluently, that Richard didn't have to think about how he wanted or needed to play. All he needed to do was listen and answer. His breathing was still calm and steady, matching their melody. A melody he could get lost in as they played it, constantly adding variations and picking up on each others ideas. He felt his body go with the rhythm and his fingers blindly find the right tabs.

Aside from the sound quality itself it didn't sound rammsteiny at all. It was a fusion of both their individual styles and it had taken them years to be able to let them melt together into this unique combination almost instantly.

The world had narrowed down to the small dark area where it was only Paul and him and their two guitars. If it weren't for all the circumstances, he could be happy.

Then the melody on Paul's side shifted as well as the tempo, throwing Richard almost off track. He didn't know where Paul was going with this and after a few missed fingerings he stopped playing.

His eyes opened. The other guitarist was still standing in front of him, his eyelids closed and his brows pulled together in utmost concentration. Paul's lips were moving. He was whispering something, it seemed, but his voice was missing. Richard quietly looked at him and, more importantly, he listened. And he tried to listen inside himself, too, wanted to see what the notes were making him feel. He stepped closer to Paul, invading his personal space, and closed his eyes again. He had expected to feel a lot after knowing what Paul's life had been like the last couple of weeks, or months even. He had expected pain. Fear. Despair. Sorrow. But that wasn't what this was. He felt something else. Anger. And to his surprise he could instantly connect to that feeling.

Richard opened his eyes again and looked down at Paul's right hand strumming the strings. He watched his movements, predicting the rhythm and melody. His heart beat faster and he wanted to ball his hands into fists as his own anger boiled up.

He let it happen and felt right into it.

He hated that Till had brought them here. Hated that he didn't feel worthy of love like he hadn't in a long time. Hated to feel left behind by the father he thought loved him. Hated to see his close friend suffer. Hated that he had left him behind in that hotel. Hated that he couldn't protect him that night. Hated that he couldn't protect him now. Hated to feel like a failure. Hated that the attackers still weren't behind bars. Hated the therapist that fucked up on a big scale. Hated to not know what Paul really needed. Hated to always have to hide a part of his feelings. Hated that he wanted Paul to open up and be honest while not being able to open up himself. Hated to see Paul change so much. Feared a part of Paul would be lost forever. Hated that fear. He hated that fear the most. And so he started to hit his plec against the strings of his guitar.

He joined Paul's play so effortlessly it caught them both by surprise. He wanted to scream and smash things, but couldn't, so he had to let it out by playing his instrument and it felt like Paul wanted exactly the same. And it felt good to let it out as much as it hurt to feel all this.

He looked at Paul's face and saw him look back at him, before the smaller man watched Richard's hands. So he did the same. They had done this a thousand times – playing guitar and looking at the other man's fingers moving. And yet this time it felt different. Richard felt Paul's temple lean against his. And so they stood and played and let it all out.

After what felt like a small eternity they both found a way to end. The final tones died slowly and both men made a step backwards, looking at each other. Their heartbeats were slowing down and it was Paul who was the first to nod a silent thank you. Behind them the door fell shut, indicating that the other band members had left the room to give them both some privacy.

“Want to play some more?” Richard asked.

“Yes,” Paul answered and went to turn up the volume.

~~~

Eventually they felt it was time to stop. The strain had dimmed down to a level that made it able to ignore it for a little while. Both of them felt much better, but agreed that they still weren't ready to talk about it.

So they unplugged their instruments and switched off every electric device while a peaceful silence hung between them, when suddenly the door was pushed open.

“You should see this,” Schneider told them and held the door open as a silent invitation to follow him outside. They looked at each other questioningly, before putting their instruments aside and did as they were asked.

Outside in the courtyard the rest of the band stood together, laughing and shaking their heads in disbelief and amusement. Richard didn't know what was going on and looked from one face to the next. “What's so funny?” he asked.

“Wait for it,” Olli answered and directed his eyes on the bench around the walnut tree.

The moment Richard's eyes found the interesting part in this whole scenery, his ears heard it as well. There, in all his glory, a rooster was standing on the backrest of the bench, half hidden behind the tree trunk, and was crowing his lungs out. But that wasn't the strangest part. The fact that the bird clearly had no sense of time, wasn't either. No, it was the sound the animal made. If someone would ask Richard, it sounded like a dying wet rooster on an electric fence. The crowing was equally wretchedly as it was comical. And loud. When the bird was done with its absurd call, it strutted further around the trunk and started anew, causing one human after the other to laugh out loud.

Next to Richard even Paul started to giggle and, after a moment, laughed with everyone else. The eyes of both guitarists met and they enjoyed the carefree moment together.

After a few minutes the rooster was finally done screaming with its broken voice and hopped down the bench to stride back along the driveway.

“What was that?!” Richard asked, still grinning.

“And more importantly,” Schneider giggled, “Why!?”

“Has anyone seen where it had come from?” Flake wanted to know.

Paul shrugged and followed the rooster, keeping a few meters between them. “I'll find out where it's headed.”

Flake shook his head no. “Paul, leave that thing alone. At worst it'll come back.” This made Schneider almost snort in amusement.

Curiosity got the better of both Richard and Olli. They both walked towards the driveway as well.

The rooster went across the cart track and slipped through the fence of the neighbor's house as if it was the most obvious thing to do.

Richard, who together with Oliver had walked in a little distance behind Paul, saw the other guitarist quicken his steps and almost run across the cart track as well. At first he thought the smaller man once again was back to his old self, even if it was only for a moment, and wanted to check out where the bird would go next. But then he heard the bassist mutter a low “Oh no”.
“What?” Richard made and looked at the taller man at his side.

“Look,” Oliver answered and pointed at the entrance of the other house, where an old man in blue workwear was walking towards Paul. Both Richard and Olli came to a halt and watched as their smallest band member held up his hand to greet the old man.

“They are just talking to each other,” Richard commented as he watched the interaction between the other guitarist and the old guy with the strong grandpa-vibes. The neighbor was smiling friendly and pointed somewhere behind his house, obviously making Paul laugh about whatever was said. He watched Paul nod and a moment later the old man was laughing as well. He looked nice and friendly.

Next to him Olli crossed his arms in front of his chest and made a skeptical noise.

A few minutes later Paul bid goodbye to the other man and turned to walk back to his friends. He wore a smile on his face, but didn't say anything like he usually would. Richard still enjoyed seeing that smile, while the bassist looked at the ground and narrowed his eyes.

~~~

After the rooster incident they decided it was time to have dinner. Till and Schneider had already pealed the potatoes and Flake was heating up the pots on the stove – this time the modern one. The whole preparation went like a well oiled machine.

Soon enough two big pots were placed on the dinner table. Everyone was seated in front of their plates. They had goulash. Flake had done his best to make it taste delicious. And it was. The sauce was rich in flavor and the meat so tender it almost fell apart on its own. The radio was on and was running in the background.

There still seemed to be an unresolved discussion that had been picked up again now. It was about a certain text passage Till must have proposed to the others while Paul and Richard had still been on their walk. There were clearly two opposite opinions about whether or not it was tasteful enough.

“It's too much on the nose.”

“That's the point.”

“I miss the double meaning.”

“What if there is none?”

“There is one.”

“Sure? Then I don't hear it either.”

“How about you write the texts then?”

All the while Richard enjoyed his meal and secretly watched Paul empty his plate as well. His eyes wandered to Flake, waiting until their gazes met. He smiled at him and waited until the keyboarder understood. The genuine smile that spread out on Flake's face warmed his heart.

“Paul?” Till asked across the table, “What do you think?”

“About the text passage?” The last piece of potato vanished between his teeth.

“M-hm,” Till nodded.

“Too tame,” Paul answered while chewing, “Too nice.”

“See?!” the singer pointed his fork at Schneider, finally feeling understood.

The drummer rolled his eyes. “Were you expecting him to say anything different?”

“Apropos too nice,” Oliver spoke up and let the cutlery rest on his plate while looking at Paul, “Could you please stay away from the neighbor?”

The smallest of them looked back at him questioningly.

“You know,” the bassist went on explaining, “Like Jakob had asked us to in his letter?”

Richard watched Paul tilt his head to the side a little. There was a small smile, but there was a layer of defiance hidden beneath it. “It's just an old man,” Paul answered with a shrug, “And by the way: Jakob apologized for the rooster, too, and he didn't need to. That bird is fun!”

“That bird is dead,” Flake commented dryly, “It just doesn't know it yet.”

“Paul?” Olli leaned forward a little, “Please. He will have a reason to warn us.”

“Then he could have explained it.” Paul took a sip from his glass. “Believe me, he's really sweet. He told me he had rescued the rooster and that it was a little damaged up here from the beginning.” He tipped his finger against his forehead.

Oliver just shook his head, not changing his opinion. But he as well as everyone else at this table knew how hard it was to tell Paul he wasn't supposed do something without being able to give him a proper reason why.

“I'll try and reach Jakob,” Till spoke up, “See, what he has to tell us about that guy, okay?”

The others nodded, glad that this could soon be settled.

Meanwhile Paul promised Olli to not talk to the man again.

They found a different topic and soon they were engaged in another discussion. It was one of those evenings that ended at the dining table. Eventually the dishes were put in the dish washer, the pots stowed away, several drinks and snacks were put on the table. Only the lamp above the table was illuminating the room. They talked for hours. Paul barely participated. Sometimes he leaned back and just stared at his glass or his hands. But every now and then he smiled or joined in laughing. Sometimes he added his opinion.

And Richard? Richard watched him closely as best as it was possible without anyone noticing. He was worried and he knew he would be worried for a long time. But he was glad as well. Glad that Paul was here and stayed with the group. It was a success worth recognizing.

~~~

They went to bed late, leaving only Till and Schneider behind who still weren't done talking to each other. It had been a nice evening, Richard mused. He knew how much value lay in the fact that after all that time they still had so much to say to each other. It was a treasure that kept growing.

After Oliver and Flake had both said good night, it was only Paul and Richard standing in the small upstairs hallway.

“Good night,” the smaller man said to the taller and smiled at him.

Richard looked back at him, not sure what to do. “Are you sure?” he asked, well knowing that Paul would understand what he meant.

“I am,” he nodded. The smile remained.

“Paul?”

“Don't worry,” he told him, “I can deal with this on my own.”

For a moment they looked at each other. Then Richard nodded. What else could he do? “If you change your mind, I'm right here, okay?” he said and with his thumb he pointed at the door behind him.

“Okay,” Paul replied softly.

It felt wrong. “Good night,” Richard said.

After closing the door behind him, he changed into something more comfortable and let himself fall on his bed. He still felt connected to Paul and expected him to open the door any second. But it didn't happen.

He crawled under the covers and switched off the lights, staring into the darkness. He was so damn tired and still his mind wouldn't let him rest. Don't worry … my ass, he thought. Of course he worried. Hadn't the man listened? He thought about everything Paul had told him today. It still needed time to sink in. He needed to know when those memories hit. They had to work out a plan for that, he decided.

His phone buzzed and the display lit up on the beside table.

He reached for it, the sheets rustling against the quiet as he moved. He found a new message. “Pill is inside. I got this. Sweet dreams.”

For a moment he stared at the words. He remembered Paul trembling with fear last night after taking the sleep medication. His eyes were glued to the last two words and he thought about how cynical it would be to answer with a You too .

Richard wanted to get up and walk over to the other room. At least stay long enough until the other man was asleep. But if he would do that, he would ignore what Paul wanted and would damage the trust he was building.

“Proud of you,” he wrote against his will, “Sleep tight.”

Then he rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling. In his head he heard them both play again, moving his hands and fingers along in the darkness. It was barely enough to release the freshly formed anger, but it helped. And after a while he fell asleep.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: Break

On his way from his room to the bathroom Richard's eyes went to the door to the right next to the stairs. It stood wide open. From this angle he could see one of the windows had been opened as well. So Paul was already up.

He had slept like a log and couldn't remember if he had dreamed. Still he felt tired. It if hadn't been for the occasional voices outside his door he wouldn't have been awake at this hour. He yawned and closed the door to the bathroom behind him.

A little later he joined the rest of the band in the kitchen. Schneider was the only one missing. They were sitting around the dining table quietly. Paul was standing next to the coffee machine, his back turned towards everyone while he was busy doing something on the counter. The news were running on the radio and they were listening to what the newscaster was saying.

Richard quietly greeted them, not wanting to disturb the situation. They smiled back at him before putting on serious faces again. Till even got up to pull him into a quick hug. Richard smelled a faint hint of alcohol on him and had a suspicion that Schneider might still be in bed. He wondered how long the two had been sitting and talking last night.

He went to greet Paul as well, but stopped halfway as he registered what was presented on the news. Apparently there had been an attack on a synagogue yesterday in a bigger German city. The attacker couldn't get inside the building, so he shot two other random people instead and later severely injured others while streaming everything live on the internet. The newscaster said the police now confirmed that he was driven by extreme far-right motives and called it a terrorist attack.

Richard swallowed and tried to wrap his head around it. Usually he would have read it yesterday already on his news feed in his phone, but, like everyone else in the band, he had it disabled since the start of their creative vacation. The person on the radio went into more details and announced they would get into an interview with a police spokesperson in a few minutes. His eyes traveled to Paul's back. The smaller man hadn't moved. So Richard walked closer until he stood next to him, leaving a little bit of distance between them.

A full coffee mug was standing right in front of Paul. In his fingers he held a teaspoon as if he had been stopped stirring his beverage. He looked down at his hand.

For a moment Richard watched him, expecting him to react, but he didn't. Usually he would have made himself known by touching the other man by the shoulder. But after what had happened to Till's jaw he decided on another approach. “Hey, Paule,” he said gently.

Paul startled and involuntarily gave his mug a small push, spilling coffee over the counter. Out of reflex he lifted his hands up a little and his body froze for a second or two, before he realized there was no danger.

Their eyes met. Richard saw fear in the other man's eyes. And a question. And then he saw a wall build up. “Sorry,” the smaller man said as he found his voice, quickly reaching for the paper towel to take care of the small mess.

“Don't be,” Richard answered and held Paul's mug in the air so his friend could wipe everything up. He received a quick stern glance for that sentence, yet Paul didn't say anything else.

He looked even more tired than yesterday, Richard mused as he studied the other man. What had happened last night? Had he even taken the medication or had he been lying? Or was it because of the horrific news? What was it doing with Paul since this attack, too, came out of the far-right spectrum. He watched him throw the soaked paper towels into the bin. “Is there anything you need right now?” he asked softly, his head tilted to the side.

In the background the police spokesperson started to answer questions. He sounded profoundly touched by the recent events.

Paul took the mug from Richard's fingers and looked up at him. “I … ,” he started, but stopped himself. His eyes turned to the window to look outside the open landscape. It was still a bit windy. Before he had a chance to continue the sentence, Paul's phone rang in his pocket. He sighed and shut his eyes for a second as if expecting something bad. Then, with a swift movement, he pulled out the device, looked at the number and took the call. “Landers?” he said.

Richard could hear a male voice speaking on the other end of the line.

Paul nodded, took a quick sip from his coffee and put the mug back down. “Can we do this another time?” he asked while looking at the kitchen herbs on the window sill.

Richard heard footsteps and turned around to see Till decrease the volume of the radio.

“Fine,” Paul sighed and turned around as well, “Just give me a minute.” He quickly excused himself with a short nod and walked out into the hallway. “I would have if I had known. But you didn't tell me, did you?!” they heard him say in an annoyed tone before he closed the door behind him.

The four remaining friends looked at each other. “Could you hear who that was?” Till asked.

Richard shook his head. “No idea,” he answered, “Some dude.”

A heavy silence hung in the air as Till sat down again. Oliver let his face fall into his palms. “What's happening in this world?!” he muttered.

“Idiots,” Flake mumbled to himself, “Too many fanatic idiots.”

Richard turned around again, pulled a mug from the cupboard and pushed a button on the coffee machine before supporting himself on the counter with both hands. “Fuck,” he swore to himself and let his head sink down. A moment later he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Come, sit with us,” Till said to him before turning back to the table.

As soon as his coffee was ready, Richard joined the others. They heard the front door fall into its lock. Seconds later they saw Paul walk across the courtyard with his phone against his ear. Flake turned around in his seat to watch his friend through the window for a little bit.

None of them felt like talking about the horrible news. They all new how dreadful it was. They knew there was nothing to debate about. They felt for the victims and their families and friends. They hoped the perpetrator would get the highest sentence possible. There was one thing they would never understand. Where was all this hate coming from? There were human abysses they found fascinating. This wasn't one of them.

Paul was gesturing with his free hand as he walked around the walnut tree. Sometimes he let his hand run through his hair, sometimes he pressed it against his chest, sometimes he moved it wildly through the air as he spoke.

“Can we please talk about something,” Flake suddenly muttered as he turned around. Richard understood that the uneasy silence was getting to the keyboarder.

Yet it remained for a little longer, until finally Till spoke up. “There's something I wanted to ask you.” He looked at Richard and waited until he had his undivided attention. “Could you go through yesterday's jam-material sometime today? What we've heard seemed to have some potential.” Olli and Flake both nodded. Obviously they meant the part where he and Paul had played together.

If he was honest to himself, he didn't really listen to what they had been playing exactly while they were doing it. He had been busy feeling into himself and stay in rhythm and harmony with Paul. He remembered more of his emotions than the actual notes. That was new. “I think I'll find the time for it,” he answered with a nod.

“Good,” the singer replied, “Tell me if there's something useful in there, because I believe it is.”

That sounded promising, Richard thought. And for the first time since they had arrived here he felt the urge to go and work on new riffs. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to start right away.

“Richard?” Olli spoke to him, “What happened on that walk yesterday?”

“Do you mean anything in particular?” the guitarist asked back. “Because I don't know what he wants to stay between him and me and what he would like you to know as well.”

“So he opened up?” the bass player leaned forward. There was hope in his eyes.

“He did,” Richard answered. Going by Olli's face this was what he needed to hear.

“Anything we should definitely know?” Till asked and lifted his coffee to his lips.

Richard sighed and leaned against the backrest. For a moment he watched Paul talk on the phone. It seemed whoever was on the other end was giving him a hard time. “He told me to not beat around the bush. If I want to say something to him I should just do it, even if he doesn't like it. But …,” he hesitated and wrapped his fingers around his mug, “I don't know if that goes for all of us.”

“That's good to know,” Till nodded.

“And he doesn't just have nightmares,” the guitarist went on after having a sip of coffee, “He has flashback memories throughout the day as well. I won't go into detail … but it's bad.” He remembered how Paul's voice sounded when he told him about it. “There's something you can actually do,” he then said and sat up straight again, “He told me that if he's distracted, there would be less of those flashbacks if any at all. So … ,” his voice trailed off as his eyes met Flake's.

The keyboarder nodded once. “... we find ways to distract him from his thoughts.”

“Yes,” Richard confirmed, “His mind needs some peace from all those memories.”

“There are some bicycles in the barn,” Olli chimed in and lay his head to the side, “I can ask him to come on a small tour.”

The other's smiled. “Sounds like something he would like to do,” Till answered.

“Where has he gone?” Richard asked as he looked out on the window again and couldn't see Paul anymore. They all turned to the window but none of them could catch a glimpse of him.

“Maybe he just needs a moment to himself,” the bass player mused and took a deep breath, “Who knows who he's talking to.”

So they tried their best not to worry about their troubled band member and instead talked about how they could offer him distractions without making it too obvious that that was their intention. They considered possible triggers as well. If they would go to the movies for example, should it contain physical violence or not. There was so much they didn't know yet and Richard knew he still had a lot to find out about.

The door to the kitchen opened and Schneider entered the room. He looked ten years older than usually.

“Good morning,” Flake greeted with a small grin, “Who are you?”

“Funny,” Schneider answered, followed by a huge yawn.

“No, really,” Olli looked up at him, “We miss our drummer. Do you have a younger brother?”

Schneider just rolled his eyes. “You can do better than that,” he replied. His voice sounded husky.

Till had risen from his chair. “Sit down,” he told him, “Do you want coffee or tea?”

“Can I trust you?” the drummer asked back after falling down on an empty chair next to Richard.

“I don't know,” the singer shrugged and fetched a mug from the cupboard, “Do you, old man that remotely resembles Schneider?”

“Coffee,” Schneider sighed while rubbing his eyes and ignoring the teasing.

“What happened after we went to bed?” Richard asked the drummer and shoved the basket with the bread rolls closer to the man.

“Just a schnapps Till wanted me to try,” Schneider muttered as he grabbed a roll and placed it on his plate.

“You should have known better,” Flake commented.

“I should have known better,” the drummer agreed.

Till came back to the table and placed a fresh coffee in front of Schneider. His hand landed on the drummer's shoulder. “All those years and none the wiser,” he grinned.

Schneider was about to answer to that, but then he quickly looked around the room. “Where is Paul?”

Richard's eyes instantly scanned the area outside that he was able to see from his place. No one was there.

“He's talking to someone on the phone,” Olli explained, “Seemed to be something serious. It's all we know.”

“There's something else you should know,” Till started and sat down again.

Then he told Schneider about the terrorist attack that happened yesterday and how it may affect Paul in particular. They told him about their plan to find distractions for Paul, too, and why this was important. Schneider quietly listened and nodded every now and then, understanding the gravity of it all. “Hopefully he plays along,” he commented eventually and drank his coffee.

Paul still was nowhere to be seen and against his own plan to give him space Richard started to worry. Judging by everything he knew so far the other guitarist wasn't in the most stable condition. After scanning the courtyard for what felt like the hundredth time, his eyes met Till's, who looked at him intently before giving him a short nod.

“I'm having a smoke,” the singer stated and stood up, his gaze still directed at Richard, “How about you?”

The guitarist rose to his feet, too. “Of course,” he answered. They both excused themselves from the table, put their jackets on and headed outside.

The lighter clicked and within no time two cigarettes where burning.

They inhaled the first two drags in silence and just stood next to each other. Richard assumed Till got a little worried himself and used his smoking habit as an excuse to go outside and have a look where Paul had gone. The wind was playing with the leafs of the huge walnut tree and a crow cawed from one of the roofs. A few lazy raindrops fell from the clouds but it didn't look like it would really start to rain.

“You haven't heard him walk back inside either, have you?” Till asked him.

“No,” Richard answered and looked at the door to their makeshift rehearsal room. “Maybe he went playing again?”

“Do you hear anything?” the singer wanted to know.

“Headphones?” the guitarist guessed.

Smoke followed them as they made their way to the barn.

“I'll wait here in case he's not inside,” the guitarist said.

“Hold that for me,” Till requested and held his cigarette in front of him.

Richard took the item between his index finger and thumb and watched the singer vanish behind the wooden door. He smoked his own cigarette and stared down at the cobblestones under his boots.

Cobblestones.

For a split second he saw blood on them. He blinked and the image was gone. His eyes wandered to the spot Till had spat blood out after Paul had hit him in the face. The rain had washed it away two days ago. He took a deep breath and looked up at the sky. A raindrop hit him on his cheek.

“He's not here,” Till said the moment he had shoved the door open with a disappointed expression on his face.

Richard held Till's cigarette up for him to take and raised a brow. “Maybe he has walked off to the dike again,” he suggested.

“Hmm,” Till half hummed, half growled, while holding the cigarette between his lips. He fished his phone from his pockets. “I wish he would let us know,” he grumbled and held the device to his ear.

Silently Richard wanted Paul to do the same, but he wouldn't ask it of him. He was a grown man, not a small child. There was no reason for a 24/7 surveillance.

“Fuck,” Till swore in a harsh tone.

“What?”

“He has switched off his phone.”

They looked at each other for a moment and Richard was sure he saw worry in Till's eyes, which made it harder to stay calm.

“Let's have a look behind the barn then. It he went to the dike, we should still see him,” the guitarist suggested,”Okay?”

The singer nodded. His eyes searched the courtyard once again before they both went to have a look at the garden and the land beyond.

The moment they came near the first corner of the barn, they heard a sharp sound, like some hard material being hit against another one. Two seconds passed. Then they heard it again. It wasn't loud, and yet distinct. They walked further and they heard it again, louder this time. The singer was the first to quicken his steps.

Richard followed Till further around the barn, where the noise was coming from.

They found Paul wielding an axe and chop wood. He had his jacket thrown over the pile of bigger logs, his phone lay stuck between two pieces of wood. He stood turned towards them, but he didn't look up. Instead he positioned a large log on the chopping block and brought the axe down with a big swing. The blade went right into the wood and was stuck there. As if expecting this, Paul wielded the axe over his head again, this time with the log clinging to the blade, and brought it back down on the block with as much force as possible, splitting the log into two pieces.

To Richard Paul looked like he needed some time alone. But Till had other plans. “Paul?” He asked to try and get the other man's attention. The smaller man didn't react and instead positioned one half of the log on the block and raised his axe again, chopping it in two and throwing it onto the small pile to his left.

“Paul,” Till tried again and walked closer. He got ignored again and the second half was lifted on the block instead. The singer took the piece of wood in one swift movement before the axe went down, driving the blade deep into the chopping block instead.

Richard let out the breath he was holding.

“Switch on your phone,” Till commanded in a low voice.

Paul ignored the other man again. He pulled out the axe and then tried to grab the log from Till's grasp, but the singer made a step backwards to prevent that from happening. Only now their eyes met as Paul glared up at him. “Give me that.”

“No,” Till replied, his voice a little softer now.

Without hesitation the smaller guitarist turned around to take a log from the stack and placed it on the block. The moment he lifted the axe over his head, Till had placed his free hand on top of the log. In his mind Richard could already see the blade go through flesh and bones, but Paul stopped his movement, realizing Till was serious. He watched him lower the tool until his arm hang loosely down, his hand holding tight on the handle.

“What's going on?” Till asked, while one by one throwing the two logs to the side into the damp grass.

For a moment Paul looked at them both. “None of your business,” he decided to answer, before tilting his head in a way that showed his unwillingness to talk.

“Has it to do with the call you received?” the singer dug deeper nonetheless.

“No,” Paul replied. Richard couldn't decipher if it was the truth.

“With what was said on the news, then?” Till asked.

“No,” the guitarist answered.

“Then-”

“I said it's none of your business!” Paul all but yelled into Till's face. This barely ever happened. Richard could recall too many incidences to count when Paul and he himself had raised their voices against each other. But Till? Why did he feel the need to defend himself against the singer?

“Paul?” Richard asked as softly as he could.

“Not you, too,” the other guitarist sighed, clearly wanting to be left alone.

“Not me what?” he wanted to know.

For a short moment it seemed Paul was about to actually answer, but then he bent down instead to pick up one of the thrown away logs and placed it back on the block.

Without hesitation Till kicked it away with the tip of his boot. “Put that axe down and let's talk,” Till demanded.

Maybe the singer hadn't noticed, but Richard had. A shudder went through Paul's body as the log was kicked away with quite a lot of force. The grip in the handle hardened. “No,” Paul whispered hoarsely.

“Okay,” Richard answered and made a few steps towards Till to pull him backwards by his sleeve. If the kick had been a trigger, he should get some distance between n them. The singer looked at him questioningly but luckily let it happen. “For all I care, go on, but I would like you to talk, too,” he said to his fellow guitarist.

“I don't want to talk,” Paul replied and placed one of the logs on the block. His finger's were shaking.

“Later then?” Richard asked.

“No.” The axe hit the log and split it.

“We have to.”

“We don't.” The wood pieces landed on the pile.

“We have an agreement.”

The other log was lifted off the ground and placed on the block before it was hit by the blade.

“I really don't want to talk today,” Paul replied as he went on chopping wood, “Is that too much to ask?” His hand's were still shaking.

“Alright,” Richard said and exchanged a quick look with Till, “We leave you alone if you explain to us why you can't talk today.” He hated pushing him. He had every right say stop. But they had every right to ask for the reason, too. After all they just wanted to help and by the looks of it Paul was in the process of shutting himself off completely.

Paul shook his head and another log was split. “Just leave me alone.”

“Not without a reason, no,” the taller guitarist denied the request. A few minutes ago he had been relieved to find him here and would have gladly left him alone without any explanation. But the longer the conversation went, the more suspicious his unwillingness to communicate became.

Paul's face turned into a smiling grimace as he walked a few meters away from them and then came back. “Of course,” he said and gave a short bitter laugh.

“Of course what?” Till asked, sounding unnerved.

“Another thing I have to do your way,” Paul snapped without hesitation, “I had to come here against my will. I have to talk about it-”

“You need to talk about it,” Till interrupted and received a harsh glare from Paul.

“No, you need me to talk about it,” the smaller man went on, “I don't. Actually you know what?!” he asked and looked at Till, “I feel worse since I started talking about it. I feel like an open nerve! And all the while I have to sleep more so you don't worry, eat more so you don't worry, I'm not allowed to talk to that sweet old man across the street, I have to keep my phone on, too, I suppose, and I probably shouldn't chop wood either because in my state I can't be trusted with an axe, right? … And I have to work with the band so we get some good material out of this, because someone decided to make that a priority.” He went back to the stack and heaved a bigger log on the block. “It's all just a little much right now, so ... no, I don't want to talk today. Does that suffice as a reason?” Paul asked and now his eyes met Richard's.

The taller of the two guitarists was still stuck on the image of that of an open nerve. He knew the feeling. And he should have warned Paul that this could come with opening up. Part of him was proud the other man could voice that feeling, but what that little outbreak meant more than anything was that Paul was retreating. They couldn't let that happen and yet, there was no way to force him. Not in this moment. If anything, it would make it even worse. They still had little to no idea what else was happening in Paul's life. He didn't dare to ask with whom he had been talking on the phone earlier.

“Absolutely,” Richard said and nodded once. Till's body language told him that the singer was about to protest, so he just went on talking so the singer had no chance to speak up. “We will be practicing later. It would be nice if you would join us.” Paul's stare didn't soften. He seemed to be in full defense mode. “You wouldn't have to talk at all. Just play.”

Richard looked at Till and signaled him with a nod of his head that they should leave. It took a moment until the singer, though hesitantly, nodded back silently and turned to walk back to the courtyard.

“Think about it, okay?” Richard asked the smaller man before walking away, too. His heart felt heavy as he heard the axe hit the log several times as his feet followed the path back around the barn, where Till waited for him.

“So we just let him have his will again?” Till hissed at him the moment they could see the entrance of the main house.

“Do you think I like it?” Richard replied and pulled out the pack of cigarettes. “What would you like me to do?! Force him to talk?”

Till silently took a cigarette for himself and held it over Richard's burning lighter. They both took a long slow drag and kept the smoke in for as long as possible. “I don't know,” Till finally answered. He sounded defeated. “Maybe we shouldn't expect miracles.”

Richard swayed his head. “At least he explained how he felt. It's something.”

“Mhm,” Till just grumbled, not really convinced.

“And he is letting out his anger instead of dulling it, like I did.”

“But you still talked about it.”

“That's not true. There were times I didn't.”

Their eyes met for a silent stare.

“You're right,” Till finally said. He took another long drag and looked at the barn. “Maybe I should let off some steam, too,” he mused. “Wanna join?”

Richard took a deep breath. They were all on edge and the whole situation was testing them. “In a minute,” he said. “I'll just tell the others so they don't worry.” He gave Till a little smile, which the other man returned.

“See you inside then,” the singer answered, before dropping the rest of his cigarette down and stepping it out.

They parted for a short time. Richard found the others in the kitchen and told them what had happened. Of course none of them liked hearing Paul was alone with an axe and that much anger on his mind. But Flake pointed out that none of them knew what he had been doing the last couple of weeks when he was alone, so the only difference was that now they would have a better chance to intervene if he would be doing anything stupid or dangerous. In the end they talked for almost half an hour about what there was to do and what might make the situation better or worse. Richard had no idea if anything would help, but at least it gave him the feeling of being less alone in this whole mess.

When they finally decided to head to the barn, they could hear the drums loud and clear as soon as they left the main house. Olli tilted his head to the side. “Till or Paul?” he mused.

Schneider closed his eyes and listened. “Till,” he decided after a couple of seconds.

The drummer was proven to be right after they entered their temporary rehearsal room. Till was working the drum kit like a madman. It didn't sound bad, but of course he was no match to Schneider and obviously he didn't want to be. He was letting out his pent up aggression. Luckily the drums were used to some heavy play.

Christoph didn't complain. He greeted the singer by lifting his hand and directly headed for the laptops to switch them on and start all necessary software. Flake and Richard both joined him to look over his shoulder and discuss what song they should be working on, even if it meant shouting against the rhythmic noise. Olli quietly got to his bass and joined Till's play, minute by minute calming him down without having to use a single word. He knew how to subtly lead others into his direction with his instrument, if he wanted to.

Eventually an unfinished song was chosen and the drumsticks and bass strings rested. Till rose from the stool, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Better?” Richard asked and looked over at the singer who in return nodded shortly.

“A little.” Till walked over to the group in front of the screens, as did Olli who followed him with his bass guitar hanging from his shoulder. “I've reached Jakob earlier by the way.”

“Oh,” Schneider made, “And? Any reasonable concerns?”

“That's the problem,” Till answered while grabbing a nearby chair and sitting down next to Flake. “He wouldn't tell me.” He looked at all the confused faces and went on before anyone had to ask. “He told me he couldn't give me the reason because if anything of what he would tell me got out he would be sued for defamation or calumny. So I asked him if – without telling me, what it was – if he was sure that the man across the street meant trouble. He told me yes. I asked him again if he could tell me what it was and offered him all I could so he would just give us an idea what this was all about.”

“He didn't?” Olli assumed.

“No,” Till confirmed.

“If anything that makes it more suspicious,” Richard said and pulled his brows together.

“And he's not just playing the mysterious card to add to the atmosphere of his property?” Flake asked in a tone that clearly begged for relief.

“Sorry, but I don't think so,” the singer replied, “He was adamant that we should steer clear of that man no matter what, though.”

“Without an explanation?” Richard sighed, “Is that what we should tell Paul?”

“We can't lie to him,” Schneider said and shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

“I sure hope so,” Paul commented, while standing in the barely opened door. None of them had heard or seen him come in.

“Hey,” Schneider was the first to greet him, “Did you hear what this is about?”

“The old neighbor I guess?” the guitarist mused in a flat tone after he closed the door behind him and walked to his band mates. Some of them nodded as a silent answer.

Richard quietly watched Paul's mimic and movements. He appeared unapproachable. His guard seemed to be up and all joy was missing. But at least he was here. Still it felt like they were back to square one.

“Can you accept that there's no-” Schneider wanted to know, but Paul interrupted him with a quick shrug of his shoulders and a cold “I don't really care.”

Maybe that was true for the moment, Richard thought, but it didn't sound like Paul. Anything outside of his own mind he liked to analyze to the core. Usually at least.

“What are we working on?” the smaller guitarist asked into the small silence as he folded his arms in front of his chest and leaned forward to have a better look at one of the screens.

It was one of their unfinished songs. The only part more or less finished was the hook. But the lyrics didn't fit just yet. There were constant discussions about the tempo, the melodies, about when which instrument should play and if, then how loud and if in a leading or supporting role, what which setting of which instrument would most contribute to the song, how the song itself wanted to sound, which musical influences they should try out to see if that would bring them forward, and, which was always a huge factor: personal taste. They were brooding over and working on that song off and on for over a year now.

The good thing about it was that as soon it was brought up again, they all were engaged in their work almost instantly. To each of them it meant a lot and to Richard it had always been clear that if that song would ever be finished, they would all vote for it to be on the next album. But at this point that goal seemed miles away.

Even Paul, as pissed as he was, joined the discussion that started instantly and threw in his ideas about what would work and what in his eyes wouldn't. Almost all of his ideas clashed with the ideas Richard had. They had grown used to the fact that they had polar opposite opinions on what would work and what wouldn't. It had taken them years and years to appreciate the fact that it was that way. It made them better and brought them further, even though it sometimes was exhausting to fight over the right sound, the best melody, the ideal arrangement.

They agreed to work on a certain passage of the song, which was only played by the drums, bass, and both guitars. Since Flake wasn't needed, he volunteered to discuss the lyrics with Till.

“How about Schneider leads and we follow?” Olli suggested as he sat down on a chair and adjusted his instrument on his leg.

Next to him Paul sat down and across from him Richard. They both agreed and pulled out their plectrums. They had turned down the volume to an acceptable level and Schneider started to play the drums as softly as possible to protect their hearings. The recording was running.

Of course they weren't satisfied with the current state of said section.

“Can you make an eighth note rest on-,” Olli hummed the melody they had been playing and paused where he thought it would be worth testing. His eyes switched from Richard to Paul. Schneider just kept on holding the rhythm.

They tried that and it had a nice touch, Richard noted.

“Because we have the full melody in our head,” Paul contradicted, “The audience hasn't. For them something's missing.”

“And if the bass is playing the eighth note?”

“We can try but I still think it's just ripping out an important part.”

“Let's try it out in different variations.”

“Sure.”

The mood was tense and to Richard it felt that most of the time they were working against each other rather than with each other. Yet it suited the song. It needed this kind of energy. And time flew by.

Then there was a sound that wasn't meant to be played, sharp and distorted.

Just one chord followed, before a flat hand silenced the strings on the rhythm guitar.

A note was missing.

It took a while longer before every other instrument stilled.

Richard looked over to Paul who was the one who had stopped playing. The other man stared down at his guitar, his hand slowly moving away from the strings and hovering slightly above them. One of the strings was torn, both ends now hanging down loosely and still swinging around.

Of course it wasn't a big deal. They had spare strings with them and restringing was done within no time.

Yet Paul didn't move.

He just sat there and stared at the five lines where there should be six.

Richard lifted his instrument from his lap, got up and leaned it against his chair. He walked over to Paul's equipment to get everything the other man would need. As far as he knew Paul had only brought this one e-guitar and one acoustic, so without a quick repair they couldn't go on.

When he turned back around he saw Paul stare at Olli. His brows were pulled up in a silent request for help, it seemed. The bass player looked back at the smaller man and gave a short nod.

Richard stayed rooted to the spot, the small case with the different strings in one hand and the little toolbox in the other, and watched both Oliver and Paul stand up, lay their instruments aside and quietly leave the room.

Schneider got up, too. “Everything alright?” he asked.

“Ja,” Olli answered as he slowed down and turned around, “We just need a short break.” Behind him Paul had already reached the door and left the room.

“What's going on?” Richard needed to know.

“Don't worry,” the bass player replied to him, “Probably just a small outburst. I don't know yet, either.” With that he left the room as well.

Schneider went to the laptop to stop the recording, while his attention lingered on Richard. “He has been on edge the whole time,” the drummer said, “Maybe this has been the final straw to make him flip. You know how he is if things don't go as they should.”

“I don't know,” the guitarist answered, although he was grateful that Schneider cared, “That's not what his face looked like.”

“Cigarette break?” Till's voice rang from the other corner of the room.

Schneider took the items from Richard's hands and with a nod of his head he signaled to the door. “Go,” he ordered and gave him a quick smile.

He sighed and followed Till outside as well. Hopefully they would run into Olli and Paul and he would be able to find out what was going on. They passed the empty tool store room and went outside to the courtyard, where fresh cold air hit them. Richard already had one hand in his pocket to pull out the pack of cigarettes, but he stilled his motion the moment he saw Oliver and Paul sit on the bench under the walnut tree. The distance was big enough to not be able to hear what they were saying. But he could see the body language and it spoke volumes.

Paul looked devastated and Richard couldn't figure out why. It had only been a torn string. Olli sat next next to him and turned towards the smaller man. Every now and then he was saying something to Paul. Just a few words each time, it seemed. The guitarist reacted with a short answer each time, before falling silent again.

“You're staring,” Till said and held a freshly lit cigarette in front of his face. Richard took it and lifted it between his lips. He said nothing in return and instead kept looking at the two band members under the tree. Paul was burying his face in his palms and shook his head at something Olli was saying.

“By the way, those were really interesting variations you played there,” the singer tried again to get the guitarist's attention, but Richard only listened with one ear. “Thank you,” he replied, while watching Oliver nod at Paul. He saw Paul hesitate and then say a few words. He saw the shock on Olli's face, the utter disbelief. He watched both men hold eye contact for a long moment. He saw Olli say something and then Paul nod. He watched them both get up and walk towards the main house and vanish behind the door.

His eyes met Till's. Concern was written all over his features. For a while they waited and debated on whether or not they should follow them. How long they should give them time to come back. When both their phones buzzed and a message appeared with Olli telling them to go on working without them, it was clear that whatever was going on was more serious than they had expected.

They went back into the barn and met with Schneider and Flake who had gotten the message as well.

“There's no point in guessing,” Flake stated after some back and forth, “They will tell us later.”

Richard knew the keyboarder was right. Still it bugged him that he had no idea what had gone wrong. And so it was hard for him to go on working. He couldn't concentrate. His eyes constantly went to the two silent instruments. To the torn string.

Less than an hour later he gave up and excused himself. He wanted to retreat to his room and go through the new recording material. His mind felt more comfortable to analyze things than to try and work with others at the moment. The others knew him well enough to let him go and work on his own.

When he entered the main house, he walked right into Olli releasing Paul from a hug before the smaller man looked at Richard for a short second and went up the stairs. The sight hurt and he knew it shouldn't. “Hey,” he greeted the bass player, while Paul's footsteps echoed through the hallway and faded away.

“Hey,” Oliver replied and stuffed his hands in his pockets, “Sorry we left you alone.”

“It's fine,” the guitarist lied. “It was important, I guess?”

The tall man nodded quietly. For a moment he simply looked at Richard as if to try and see something.

“Any chance you might tell me what was going on with Paul?”

“I'm sorry,” Olli said, “I promised not to tell anyone.”

“Can you at least say if it is something we have to worry or take care about?” he tried.

“No.”

“No you can't say or no it's not-”

“That's not fair and you know that,” Oliver intervened and crossed his arms in front of his chest, “I promised to take it to my grave if I have to. If anyone is telling you anything then it's Paul.” He took a deep breath through his nose. “Can you accept that?”

It was hard to argue with the bass player. He was right of course, but Richard was curious and, if he was honest to himself, he was jealous that Olli seemed to know a secret. He kept his emotions at bay nonetheless and forced himself to smile at his band mate and friend. “Of course,” he replied and then excused himself so he could hide himself in his room and find a way to let it all out.

~~~

Richard sat on the floor in front of his bed, the laptop open with the sound edit software running. He had his headphones on and went through the recordings they had collected so far. He had his small notebook open as well and every now and then he scribbled down notes. One of his guitars lay next to him and his small keyboard waited on the bed. He had comfortable sweatpants on, a thick hoodie, and a fuck-you-all-mood in his head.

It didn't feel fair. He was trying his best to help Paul and find a way to make him talk. And who did the little shit-head open up to? Olli. Of course it he was glad that Paul had been able to obviously get something off his chest, but Richard didn't understand why it hadn't been him who Paul had chosen to reach out to. Was it because he had pressured him earlier behind the barn? Was it because Paul and Olli had become even closer friends? But what was the whole you get me more than any of the others talk about, then? And why didn't he deserve to know what was troubling Paul?

He dove into his feelings. It was painful as hell but since the feelings were there anyway, he could at least use them, channel them and let them be the fuel to his creative work.

He let the recording of Paul's and his duet play and closed his eyes. He could see Paul's fingers before his eyes, the concentration on his face, feel the connection they had in that moment. It felt like an illusion, if now Paul was rather sharing his troubles with Olli.

Richard shook his head and laughed about his own thoughts. Was he constructing drama again? Maybe. Probably. But unless he would be given a good reason why Paul hadn't chosen him instead to talk to, he felt like he had a right to be hurt.

His fingers took the pen and he started to write it all off his chest. Of course, even here he had to be cautious. His notebook could get into other's fingers. He couldn't write openly. But he could write it all down nonetheless. No names. Metaphors.

Every now and then he opened the window to have a smoke. His gaze fell on the meadows and the dike in the distance. It was disgustingly peaceful outside.

~~~

The sun was already vanishing behind the horizon as someone knocked on his door. He was about to listen to the recordings of Paul's solo which he actually taped even though initially he didn't want to. His finger hovered over the play button.
“Come in.” He let his hand rest on his lap instead.

Schneider opened the door and picked up a tray from the floor. “Just go on,” the drummer said and walked into the room, “I know you're in your own world. We just don't want you to starve.” And with that he looked for a free spot on the bed to place the tray. It had plenty of food on it – dinner, a small salad, fruits, dessert.

“Thank you,” Richard said gratefully and pulled his headphones down.

“Nah, of course,” the drummer replied and was about to leave again. But then he stopped and turned towards Richard again. He got a little closer and crouched down to be at eye level with his friend. His eyes scanned Richard's face and all the equipment and stuff that lay scattered around him in a circle. “Are you okay?” It was a soft question.

Yes, Richard wanted to say, but he knew better. He knew he could be honest with Schneider. “Not really,” he answered, “But working helps a lot.”

“Anything you need?”

“Not really, no.”

“Okay.” The taller man got back up again. “If you need to talk or anything, you know were to find me.”

“You're the best,” Richard replied and managed a smile.

“Sometimes,” Schneider answered and then left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

He wished he could talk about what really bothered him. He wanted someone to know about his biggest secret. But it was impossible.

And he couldn't make the decades old feeling stop, so he drowned it in work instead. He pulled the headphones back up and pressed play.

~~~

It was way past midnight when he finally lay his head on the pillow. He stared into the darkness and the music was still filling every corner of his mind. Till was right. The new material had so much potential and it felt like he was still just scratching the surface. He had played Paul's solo by a quarter of the original tempo and tried some variations. There was definitely potential for a new riff or two. He had yet to reverse it and see how that would sound.

A yawn escaped his mouth and he turned on his side. His hand fished his phone from the nightstand and he went through the new messages. There was one from his little daughter that he instantly replied to. He would call her tomorrow, he promised her and smiled.

He went through all the good night wishes in the group chat and he added his.

When he was about to put the device away, he saw Paul was typing in their private conversation. He stared at the three moving dots for minutes. His eyes went to the clock. Why wasn't he asleep?

Then the dots vanished. No message appeared. “Fuck you,” Richard grumbled against better judgment. Of course he cared for the other man, but all the caring came with so much pain. If he wanted to tell him something, then why didn't he?

For a moment he thought about walking over to Paul's room. But instead he turned on his other side and tried to sleep.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Safety Check

He could still taste the tequila in his mouth as he went to his entry position behind the stage. He could hear the crowd chant their band name and felt the pre-concert nervousness creep up his spine. He needed the show to start and release this paralyzing tension.

Suddenly his guitar was hanging over his shoulder and his left hand automatically held it by the neck. The cheers grew louder outside, while he was still running around to find the exit to the stage. The first notes of the song were starting, the drums were hammering in his ears, yet no one in the dark catacombs behind and below the stage helped him find his way to the stage. Why didn't he know were it was? Why did they start without him? Why did no-one else recognize he was missing?

After more running around and more searching he stopped in his tracks, realizing he wasn't meant to be on that stage. He felt the vibration of the music and the heat of the fire, but it was too far away and the distance made him feel hollow and small. He looked down to see his boots and feet fused with the grating as if the floor was starting to make him become part of the stage.

His eyes flew open and he looked at the ceiling. The sun was already up and someone was saying his name in a way that indicated it wasn't the first time. “Richard?”

Without really knowing where he was, he tried to focus his gaze on the person in the room. He saw Till stand in the doorway. As soon as their eyes met he received an invitation to their breakfast.

He nodded and divided the nightmare from reality.

He got up and stuffed the feeling of being unworthy to participate in the band deep inside a dark corner of his mind where it instantly lay itself to rest to refuel its energy for its next attack on him.

~~~

When he was finally at the breakfast table, both Olli and Paul weren't there. They had both already finished their meal and had left the table early, he was told. He didn't ask where they had gone. It wasn't his business anyway.

He excused himself as soon as he could and told them that they would have to practice without him. It felt like they didn't believe him when he told them he was going through some of the new material and needed some time to write on his own. He couldn't care less as long as they would stay off his back and would leave him alone.

It was his way of dealing with his own mind. He knew staying around the others would be the better option. But he would feed his inner craving for self-worth with some creative work. Just enough to still it and be able to see clearer. That way he would be more bearable for everyone around him.

~~~

They came back together for lunch. It seemed the meals were necessary to all tie them together and check on one another. Paul was quietly eating next to him, while across the table a heated discussion was going on between Till, Flake and Schneider. After all those years it was still a miracle to him how their singer could eat this much and this fast while talking. It was fascinating and to a certain degree a little disgusting.

Olli's eyes observed everything and every now and then he looked at Paul who seemed to force down his food. When his eyes met Richard's, the dark haired guitarist saw nothing but worry in them. It made him angry and he looked away, silently participating at the discussion instead. If Paul didn't want to talk to him and Oliver didn't as well, then they could keep him out of it for the time being. What good was it if he knew something was wrong but neither knew what it was nor how he could help.

He was relieved when they finally cleared the table and headed back up to his room instantly.

~~~

One idea after the next came as he sat on the floor in his room and played on his guitar. He was in his own world with his headphones on. Every note was recorded, even as every now and then he switched to his keyboard and repeated certain melodies or played around with them, sometimes adding counter melodies. It was cruel that in those times he felt the loneliest, he seemed to be the most productive. It was a hate-love with music he couldn't escape. It was the most consistent love he ever had. And it was one he was allowed to have.

~~~

After dinner he had retreated to his room again. There was something he had been looking forward to. In about an hour he would be able to talk to his little daughter. When he opened his phone in anticipation he found a message from her mom asking for postponing the call to tomorrow because there had been an invitation and of course she wanted to take their daughter along. He stared at the letters.

Of course it was okay. What else was he supposed to say? He wished them a lot of fun and told his daughter that he was looking forward to their call tomorrow.

It was bad timing. On any regular day it wouldn't have bothered him that much. But now it felt like another rejection.

~~~

Later that evening he bumped into Till as he wanted to head down for a smoke outside and stretch his legs. The singer just came out of his room, a book in hand and a preoccupied expression on his features.

Richard asked him what was on his mind and Till elaborated on the content of the book, and how, if the view on the story would shift in a certain direction, the story would be – to put it mildly – concerning.

More concerning than that was something Richard's eyes caught a glimpse of while every now and then casting a look inside Till's room. He nodded at what he was told and occasionally responded to it with his own point of view, but part of his mind couldn't let go of his discovery.

After a couple of minutes they walked down the stairs together to have a smoke outside. The guitarist knew the singer well enough not to confront him about what he had seen. He knew the answer. And he trusted Till with his life that he knew what he was doing and that he would never put any of them in serious danger. Most likely he had done it in case the danger would come to them.

Still, later when he was back in his room again, his thoughts wandered back to the rifle case under Till's bed.

~~~

The night went quiet despite the lingering feeling of guilt that he hadn't approached Paul and at least offered another of their sessions. Then again the other man had made it clear yesterday that he didn't want to talk and nothing had changed till then. It was a good enough excuse to let some of the guilt go.

As he checked his phone one last time he wasn't sure if he had seen Paul type again. One way or another no new message appeared.

Sleep came, this time without the heavy baggage of fresh nightmares.

~~~

The following day went exactly the same. It was mostly Richard by himself, alone in his room, his only company being his work. As blissful as it was, he knew he had to leave his mind-made island or his band mates would force him out of it sooner than later. But for as long as he could, he would hide in his little cocoon.

~~~

Richard pulled the headphones down and placed them on the bed. He closed his laptop and for a moment he closed his eyes and listened into the silence. After hours and hours of writing and experimenting with different arrangements he finally felt sated creativity-wise. He was finally at the point where he craved for new input. He knew it wouldn't last long, but this inner peace was heavenly.

He sighed deeply, got up and stretched his body. His stomach was growling a little and he decided he could go for a snack before they would have dinner later. So he quietly left his room and went to the stairs, but a sound made him stop before his foot met the first stair down.

There was guitar play behind Paul's closed door. Despite the strong feeling of rejection Richard decided to stay and listen. It sounded like Paul was practicing a new song. It was a melody that didn't sound like something he would usually play. It was a song Richard knew by heart, but it was a strange version of it. Vaguely familiar, but he couldn't tell why. It made him lean against the wall, close his eyes and stuff his hands in his pocket. Paul was playing the refrain and went over to the bridge, but at a certain point his fingers stumbled and missed the right chords, so he started again from the refrain. It went on like this several times with him playing the wrong note every time.

Richard wondered why Paul was trying to learn this song, but even more than that there was another thing that was bothering him. Why was he playing the acoustic guitar? Usually if playing on his own, Paul would use his Les Paul and some headphones. Something in this picture didn't fit.

He pushed himself off the wall and went down the stairs to go to the kitchen. As he browsed through the content of the fridge, he heard someone else enter the room. Taking out a cup of yogurt, he closed the fridge and turned around. It was Olli who gave him a small smile and walked closer.

“Good to see you out in the open again,” the bass player said.

Richard instantly felt a little guilty because he didn't show up to the band practices and had barely left his room for the past 48 hours. He knew they all were used to him suddenly disappearing and retreating in his writing cave and he knew they would pull him out of there if it would take too long. But now the circumstances were different. “Tomorrow I will be back with the group. Promised.”

“What about today?” Olli asked and took an apple from the wooden crossbeam.

The guitarist looked at his watch. It was half past four in the afternoon. He didn't feel like he was able to engage into a practice session after all this writing and composing, so he shook his head. “No. I think I will get to bed early. Haven't slept much last night.”

The taller man huffed through his nose. His face showed that he was displeased with the answer.

“What?!” Richard wanted to know after waiting for an explanation that didn't come.

“Can you at least talk to Paul later?”

“That can wait until tomorrow, too.”

Olli looked down at him sternly. “Where's that coming from now?”

“What do you mean?” Richard asked irritated.

The bass player took a very deep breath and stuffed the apple in his pocket to have both hands free to underline his words. “You've been the one who stuck around in the hospital the longest. Whom he opened up to the most. And most of all the way you two have been playing together … I don't know what happened that day and how you did it but if there had ever been a duet between you two, this has been it. And that in a situation like this. … And now you don't want to talk to him the second day in a row? Why? What happened?”

Richard knew he couldn't tell the real reason. He knew it was immature and a selfish jealousy. And after all it would be unfair towards Oliver – it wasn't his fault that Paul wanted to open up towards him. If anything it was a good thing that the other guitarist was opening up at all. But it still hurt. Maybe it would hurt less if he knew the reason why, but he couldn't ask either. “He told me to,” the dark haired man explained and went to the drawer to get a spoon. “He said he didn't want to talk that day. So I left him alone.” He opened the lid of his yogurt and licked the foil clean before putting it in the bin. “I mean, he went to talk to you instead, so obviously it doesn't have to be me if he wants to get something off his chest.” He tried to make it sound like it wasn't such a big deal.

Oliver sighed heavily and leaned back against the counter. “Listen,” he said and the following words had a grave tone that Richard didn't fully understand, “He needed to tell me something he wanted to tell me for a while now, but he never knew how. It's something that probably took him years. And if you ask me, there's a reason why he was able to do it now. So,” he pushed himself off the counter again and walked to the door to the living room, “please do me the favor and go talk to him. As far as I know it's really important to him.” Without waiting for an answer Olli went to the next room and closed the door behind him.

Richard hated it whenever the bassist did that. It was his way of showing that he didn't allow a discussion about it and more or less pressured the other person into doing something. After wrapping himself into that feeling of rejection the guitarist had no intention to pull himself out of it and make the first step towards Paul. Even though Paul had done nothing wrong.

He growled quietly to himself, put the spoon in the dishwasher and the empty cup in the bin, and headed outside for a quick smoke.

For a while he stood under the tree outside, cigarette between his lips and his gaze directed to the clouds. Then a thought hit him.

He headed inside the barn to check something. The rest of the band wasn't here, either, and for a moment he wondered where they were, but then his eyes caught something of more importance. There, on a chair, lay the Les Paul, one string still torn and hanging down uselessly. The sight made Richard angry. More than anything the neglect it showed. Since when did Paul not care for his favorite guitar?

He went to the instrument, grabbed it by its neck and then picked up the set of spare strings and tools to carry them under his arm. If he had to talk to the other guitarist, then it might as well be now. At least now he had something to talk about.

His feet carried him swiftly over the cobblestones outside. He pushed his boots off with them and went up the stairs on socks. As he got closer to his destination, he again heard a guitar playing. It was still the same song from earlier and still the same passage was repeated that the person inside seemed to be struggling with.

For a moment he hesitated. What if Paul would kick him out immediately. Would he be able to deal with another rejection? And how could he justify his sudden wish to talk? Would the broken guitar be enough? He could still say Olli had made him come here. And they had their agreement after all. An agreement he himself had neglected. He stopped his inner debate and simply pushed down the handle while forgetting about knocking as politeness demanded.

Paul sat on his bed – cross-legged, back resting against the headboard, guitar on his thigh. He instantly stopped playing and looked up at the intruder. He seemed so surprised to see Richard that it left him speechless. Not something that happened often.

The taller man used the momentum of his entrance, closed the door behind him, quickly scanned the room and took a seat at the end of the bed. He placed the Gibson next to him on the mattress as well as the small toolkit. “Play it again,” he demanded.

Paul's eyes were fixed on his e-guitar for a long moment. The expression on his face changed from confusion to half-hidden pain paired with guilt.

Richard snapped his fingers in front of the other man's face before pointing at the instrument in Paul's lap. “Come on,” he said, “I want to hear what you got here.”

Their eyes met for a moment.

Defiance met assertiveness.

Richard forced himself to hold the stare and not blink once.

“Aren't you going through the new material?” Paul asked in a low voice.

“I was,” the taller man answered in an equally testing tone, “I will, later. Now I'm here.”

“Go.”

“Not a chance.”

“Richard... .”

“Play.”

A desperate sigh.

Grey-blue eyes broke the stare and looked down instead.

Silence.

Then fingertips pressed down the strings and the other hand plucked chords from the instrument.

It was the same song from earlier, Richard recognized it immediately. It was from a repertoire he himself would chose from. It definitely wasn't something very Paul-like. It seemed the smaller man was also copying Richard's style. That wasn't uncommon. It was something he did every now and then to get a better understanding of how the man on the other side of the stage ticked music-wise. Yet it was strange to see him do it right here, right now, and on an acoustic guitar for that matter.

Paul reached the bit were, again, he struggled to get through. He played a wrong chord, corrected it, tried again, and again failed.

“May I?” Richard asked and stretched out his open hand, ready to take the instrument from Paul's lap if the other man was willing to let go of it. To his surprise he was. And he did.

The dark haired man positioned the guitar in front of him and started playing the refrain to get to the bridge, the part that was giving Paul a hard time. He felt those gray-blue eyes analyze every tiny movement of his fingers.

“Again?” he asked the shorter man after he played the bit with ease.

Their eyes met for a brief moment, before Paul looked at Richard's fingers again and nodded.

The taller of the two hesitated for a moment. He was taken aback by the undefined emotion he believed to have seen in Paul's eyes. He couldn't even begin to pinpoint what it was, but it seemed strong. Very strong.

He blinked and focused on the task again. He played the melody effortlessly and repeated it a third time. As far as he knew him, the other man must have picked up how to play the part the right way, so he handed the guitar over to him again.

He was proven to be right. Paul played just the few notes he had been struggling with and practiced them a couple of times. Then he began playing the song from the start as if Richard wasn't there.

The taller man was fine with it and quietly took the e-guitar to place it in front of him, right between Paul and him. He opened the toolkit and busied himself with taking off the torn string. Usually he would have asked if it was okay for the other man. It wasn't his own guitar after all. But Paul needed help on more than one level, so he thought it okay to help with this, too. Luckily the smaller man let it happen without any discussion.

So they sat together without saying anything to each other. One was playing one song after the next, while the other was gently and meticulously repairing the guitar, while listening to the music. Every now and then he secretly cast a look at Paul's face, hair, neck or fingers. He tried to take in as many details as possible. The concentrated expression, the tired shadows under his eyes, the small crease between his brows, the slightly parted lips, the soft movement of his head as he followed the rhythm, the skilled strong fingers dancing over the wood and strings.

He bet Paul tried to block out the knowledge that someone was listening to him playing. They were different in many things. Richard played best when he had an audience to play for. Paul played best when he was fully concentrating on the music. When he was in his own little world and the notes fell into place. That was what it sounded like now. The longer he played, the more perfectly it became. Richard paused screwing up the string and just listened.

And then he realized, what he was listening to.

The songs had been familiar. Too familiar. The way Paul had played them was too familiar as well. He didn't understand it at first, because they knew each other for decades and almost everything they did around each other was something they already knew about one another. There were little surprises left.

He looked up from his task and blankly stared at Paul.

It wasn't just the songs. It was the order in which he played them. He was reminded of sitting on the hotel bed in Vienna, fresh memories of hospital smells, exhausting meaningless conversations and the sight of a bruise-covered back running through his head. Of playing the guitar he was repairing right now. Of despair and the fear that nothing might ever be okay again. He remembered playing exactly those songs for Paul through the phone. He remembered how much more meaning those songs carried because they were supposed to help a friend who seemed to be unreachable otherwise. Who seemed to shield himself off from anyone. Who the very next day told him that he not once had listened to Richard's play all those nights he had given him a private concert. He remembered how much it had hurt. He remembered the pain and desperation he had felt when Paul had thrown them out of his hospital room. How helpless they all were and how little they had understood at that point.

Slowly, very slowly, he realized what it meant that Paul was playing those songs right now.

Richard wanted to say something, even opened his mouth. But his mind was too busy putting the pieces together and so he remained silent.

He had been listening to him after all.

Which meant that he had lied to him. Again.

To hurt him.

Or was hurting him just a side-effect as he tried to shut himself off? Probably.

It sounded more like the Paul he knew.

The right order of the songs meant something else, though. Paul hadn't just been listening that night. Yes, he had a good memory, but it wasn't that good. It was more likely that he had recorded everything. He must have listened to the material again and again. He must have practiced playing all those songs. All that was more or less obvious. But the question remained: Why.

And another question followed. Because Paul would know that Richard would sooner or later come to the conclusion that these were the songs from that one night. From the last night Richard had played for him. So … why did he want him to know? After all he could have played anything. But he had made this deliberate choice.

“I'm sorry.” The apology fell from Paul's lips and fitted perfectly into the melody he was playing.

Carefully Richard's fingers started screwing up the string again. “Are you talking to your guitar or to me?” he asked just loud enough to be heard over the song. He looked up at the other man who instantly evaded his gaze after their eyes met for a brief moment.

This was uncharacteristic for Paul, Richard noted. Normally his eyes were challenging and fearless.

“Both, in a way,” the smaller man answered eventually, “But mostly to you.”

The only sign that he was listening was the way Richard lay his head to the right side. He intently looked at the other man, waiting for what was to come. His fingers came to a halt as he felt that the peg was holding the string perfectly. Paul would have to do the tuning himself later.

Another short glance from blue-gray eyes.

Richard was reminded of the day of their first rehearsal after everything had changed. The hug in the parking lot, when it was just the both of them. He remembered Paul had been wanting to apologize back then, too. This time no one would interrupt them.

“I'm sorry for pushing you away repeatedly.” He took a deep breath.

“Even if you have to lie,” Richard replied and pointed at the guitar in Paul's lap.

The smaller man sighed in remorse and stopped playing a specific song. Instead he plugged at the strings at random. It was still melodic.

“Do I get to know why?” Richard already regretted coming into this room. He still felt pressured by Olli to have this conversation.

“I tried to explain that already,” Paul started hesitantly, “I didn't know how to keep up the facade without---”

“Not that,” Richard interrupted and shoved the toolkit aside. “Why do you know how to play all those songs?”

The fingers stopped playing and Paul finally looked up, but didn't answer. Instead his eyes shifted to his e-guitar, the instrument the songs were originally played on. Slowly his expression changed and showed suppressed pain.

“Paul?” Richard drew his attention back to him. “It's not a hard question.” He added a small smile to lighten the mood.

It didn't work. “It's not so easy to answer.”

“How so?”

Paul scooted a little more against the backrest and pulled his legs as close to his chest as the guitar in his lap would allow. “Because of what you've told me on our walk,” the smaller man started and looked up for a second before staring down at the folds of the blanket between them. “You said you wanted me to tell the truth. And that you worry all the time that I'm okay.”

Richard nodded.

“And I want to be honest. But I don't want you to worry, because …,” Paul's voice faded as he didn't seem to find the right words.

Against his will Richard let out an exhausted groan. He wasn't in the right mood to have such a conversation again. For almost the last two days he had allowed his emotions to run freely. It was the best way to work. Unfortunately his filter wasn't back on and so chances were high that he would say something he wouldn't usually say out loud – or at least rephrase it. “I thought we were past the whole holding-back-shit.”

“I thought so, too,” Paul replied carefully.

“Then why have you stopped talking to me, again?” the lead-guitarist asked without stopping his frustration from shining through his words, “And why can't you answer a simple question?”

To that Paul gave a short laugh of disbelief. “You're one to talk!” Their eyes met for short stare and this time Paul didn't look away. “You were the one who locked himself in his room all day yesterday and today until now. You didn't want to talk to anyone and didn't have to explain it. Imagine I would have done that! But for you it's okay because you've always done that, right?”

As much as he hated it, Richard could see that Paul had a point.

The smaller man wasn't finished, though. “And how am I supposed to speak openly if I don't know if or if not you can take it?”

“Pardon?” Richard asked, now completely taken aback.

“There were lots of moments I wish I hadn't caused,” Paul explained. “Back in the hospital I tried to be open without any words and after seeing the bruises on my back you cried and later had to leave the room. After trying to tell you how hard it was to get through those visiting hours because I felt like the whole situation was hurting you, you lied to me about having traveled back to Berlin-”

“You've lied first!”

“That's not the point.”

“Paul-”

“When I told you about what the shrink had said to me, you started to yell and Olli had to take you outside. When we were on that walk and I had answered all of your questions, you went silent and started crying. You! Not me. After I told Till and you how I felt and why I didn't want to talk that day, you vanished after band practice and basically weren't around at all anymore.” He wrapped his hands a little more around his guitar. “Shall I go on?!”

Richard didn't know where to start, most of all because he had absolutely no idea where all this was coming from all of a sudden. His mind went into defense mode before he had a chance to think it through. “On that walk you have cried, too. And why haven't you asked me about what had made me sad?” The moment he had said it he knew it was a low blow. He could see it in Paul's eyes.

“Because,” Paul started, his voice suddenly hoarse, “I'm not good with words and I didn't want to fuck things up even more than I already had.”

The last part of the sentence really hit home and Richard felt like a bucket of cold water was emptied over him. Suddenly he remembered what Paul had told them all in the kitchen the day they had arrived here. He remembered that day Paul had told him about his sudden insecurities. It was something that sounded so far off that his mind didn't want to believe it. All those years he knew this man, Paul had been so sure about everything. And now they shared the same fear.

If he would be honest with himself, Richard had been holding back questions himself because he didn't want to damage the connection with Paul any further. He had no right to blame his friend. “You haven't fucked up anything,” he told him.

“Yeah, sure,” Paul laughed humorlessly.

“Do you want to know why I cried? I can give you the answer right now,” Richard replied instantly to show that he was serious.

“And I can't be sure if it's a lie,” the smaller man replied.

Richard had to close his eyes for a second to stop himself from another rash answer. Instead he took a deep breath before he spoke up. Still, angry at the situation itself, he slapped his palm on the mattress at the last word. “And again you push me away!”

Paul flinched, stared at the hand and held his breath.

It took two seconds for Richard to realize his mistake. “I'm sorry!” he said and every anger vanished from his body. “Paul, that was stupid of me. I didn't mean to.”

“It's alright,” the other guitarist replied after a long and quiet moment. An involuntary shake went through his body to get rid of the effects of the trigger. “We can't even fight without this shit getting in the way,” he muttered as he placed one hand over his forehead and eyes.

“Still I should have known better. I'll try and not do that anymore.” He was worried and it didn't help that he knew that that was something Paul didn't want to happen.

“But you are right, though,” Paul said. He sounded so exhausted by it all. “I want to push you away. I want to tell you to get out.” He tilted his head until he could look at Richard.

“Because it's easier than having to talk about it?”

A nod. “I guess. Not healthy for the band in the long run though.”

A nod in return.

“What can I do to make you stop pushing me away?” Richard wanted to know. “Because I get it. I really do. But it's so draining.”

“And pointless,” Paul added, “I know.” He went back to staring at the blanket.

“So?”

All Paul did was shrug his shoulders. Most likely he had no idea.

“What's it that you fear could happen?” the lead-guitarist helped him find an answer, “How exactly could you possibly fuck up?”

There was this expression on Paul's features that pleaded to not have been asked that question. But Richard insisted quietly. The smaller man closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the backrest. His hands where clinging to the guitar he held tight to his chest.

“Being a constant burden for everyone,” Paul sighed. He opened his eyes again and stared at the ceiling. “Being a burden for you. Drag you down and … ,” he took a deep breath, “You are so strong and at the same time you react to the smallest things an a way that … ,” again he paused and didn't know how to say it. He pushed his head back against the board. “We've almost lost you before.”

So many thoughts and emotions rivaled in Richard's head that for a moment he didn't know what to say first. He tried to get some order in them and as soon as he had done that he realized that he didn't want the first response to be words. Instead he got up and sat down right next to his friend, their shoulders almost touching. He lay his head back as well.

“You know,” Richard started, “when you talked about how you wanted to take pictures of me and not wanting this town to make me smaller than I am … do you remember that?”

“Of course.”

“When I cried it was because I realized how you see me – in contrast to my mother. In a good way. Painful, but good.” Their eyes met. “It had nothing to do with what you've told me on the way there.”

“I thought … ,” Paul tried, but didn't finish the sentence.

He didn't have to. Richard shook his head no. “You've said something that meant a lot to me.” He turned his head so he could look at the ceiling again. “And in the hospital I cried because I was so angry, because I felt like I couldn't help you. I couldn't play it down the way you may have needed it. Probably I should have gotten a sharpie and drawn smileys on the bruises, but that's more something you would do, not me.”

At that Paul had to grin involuntarily, if only for a few seconds.

Meanwhile Richard went on. “And when I got angry about what you told us about the psychologist, it was because I was so mad about myself for lying to you a few days earlier. Because if I hadn't, I might have been there that day and tell you to not believe a word he had said. I was mad because it was another moment I could have been there to protect you from something and I wasn't.”

“Richard...”

“What I'm trying to tell you is that none of the things you've said or done had been a burden or dragged me down the way you think it had. What's dragging me down though,” and now their eyes met again, “Is when you're shutting yourself off completely and I don't know why. That's not … you.” He watched his friend look down at the guitar. “I need to know what's going on.”

For a while Paul seemed to ponder over what Richard had said.

“When you had played for me the first night,” the smaller man finally responded, carefully choosing the right words, “It was like you knew what I needed. I didn't understand how you could know while I didn't. And I still don't know why the gesture became so important to me, but it did. As long as I could listen to you play, I could forget about all the shit that was going on.” He casually stretched out his legs, his body language opening up. “After you did it the next day again, I wondered if I could record it. So after a failed attempt I managed to tape at least the last time you had played.” He plugged a few notes from the strings. “I was so relieved,” he said with a short sad smile. He went on playing ever so softly and let his head rest back against the board. “The recording was just enough to get me through the next weeks without you having to stick around.” A knot formed in Richards stomach. “It was my pain, not yours, I thought. I could push you away and at least make it easier for you.”

Richard turned his head so he could directly look at Paul's profile. “And you thought lying to me was better than to let me be there for you?” He watched him nod. “You're so stupid sometimes.”

“I know,” Paul agreed.

They both fell silent and only the calm melody, that the smaller man played, filled the room. It was a rare sight that was offered to Richard. He was able to see the tame and introverted side of his friend. It showed in the way he played the guitar. He had heard him play like this before – years ago through the open balcony doors when Paul was in the room next door and thought no one listened.

“What do I have to do to make you stop push---” Richard's phone rang and he stopped mid-sentence. He had a hunch who it was and pulled the device out of his pocket. “My little one,” he stated.

He looked at Paul who gave him an encouraging nod. “What are you waiting for?” he asked him with a smile that Richard didn't trust anymore. “We can talk more, later.”

He looked at the display and back to the other guitarist, shaking his head. “I don't want to leave you in the middle of a conversation like this.”

To his surprise Paul just shrugged. “I don't mind if you want to stay,” he said and then scooted a little lower until he was almost lying flat. He went on playing as if nothing had happened. When the phone kept ringing he looked up at Richard. “Will you answer already?” Another encouraging smile.

He promised to himself that he would pick up their conversation later. He would ask his question again and insist on an answer.

The phone rang one more time before he took the call and the face of his little daughter appeared on the display. Instantly the widest smile spread out on his face. She was his light. They greeted each other with sweet words and smiles and giggles. He asked her about his day and what had happened over the week and she would tell him all the little details she found important and talk and talk like a sparkling fountain of happiness.

Eventually she asked about what music was playing in the background and Richard turned his phone so the camera would show Paul playing the guitar next to him and giving his child a broad smile. They exchanged a few words, until Richard held the phone in front of his own face again and went on talking to his child.

Time passed by without any of them noticing, until his daughter asked why the music had stopped. Now he noticed it, too, and so Richard looked at his side and found Paul asleep next to him, his hands still holding the guitar on his stomach. He showed the sight to his daughter and she laughed quietly to not disturb uncle Paul.

When they finally said goodbye to each other, it was already dinner time. Richard gently shook Paul by his shoulder and woke him up. The smaller man looked up at him sleepily.

“Hungry?” Richard asked him.

“Ja,” Paul lied.

~~~

Richard wanted to talk to Paul again after dinner. He wanted to pick up their conversation. After all it had gone surprisingly well. Before he could ask the other guitarist, Schneider and Olli already proposed a movie night, most likely an attempt to distract Paul from his problems. Till suggested combining it with a drinking game of sorts.

To their disappointment Paul excused himself and told them that he would have to call someone and would join them later in case he could keep the call short. In the end he didn't show up at all and went to bed without telling them good night.

As much as he tried not to be disappointed, Richard couldn't help it.

~~~

“What is your problem?” Richard whispered into the darkness after once again seeing Paul type a message in the middle of the night that wasn't sent. He didn't want to get up and ask but he couldn't stand the status quo either. This night though he would once again leave it be. If it would happen again tomorrow, he would walk over to the other room and ask what was going on every night.

~~~

He woke up from a sound. His mind had just drifted off into sleeps waiting embrace, as his ears signaled that someone had opened the door to his room. He opened his eyes, but didn't move.

There were soft footsteps.

Fabric rustling in the dark.

The door was closed again.

Then it was quiet.

Richard took a deep breath and lifted his head high enough to be able to look around. He couldn't see much, only the contours of a round figure standing in front of the now closed door. Who was that? He squinted his eyes a little until he realized who had come to his room. He let his head fall back on the pillow.

“What do you want?” he sleep-drunkenly asked into the darkness.

The footsteps, most likely barefoot, drew closer until they stopped at the end of the bed.

Richard could feel the hesitation lingering in the air as the other man struggled for the right words.

Then, after a long moment of nothing, Paul pulled the blanket from his shoulders, in which he had enveloped himself. He took it with him as he crawled onto the empty side of the mattress next to his fellow guitarist and covered himself with the blanket. “Please don't kick me out,” he whispered as if he was scared of anything that lay outside the door.

With a puzzled frown Richard turned around until he was facing the smaller man. They lay face to face, although Paul had pulled up the blanket almost to his nose.

“Why would I?” he replied in a soft whisper.

He didn't get an answer. Instead he listened to both their quiet breathing and stared into the darkness.

There was barely any light. Every now and then the moonlight shone through the clouds and made it possible for Richard to see that even after the minutes passed by, Paul forced his eyes to stay open and looked at him. Ever so often he heard the other man utter a small strained sigh. He seemed to fight off the grasp of sleep.

Richard knew Paul was tired. He had been for the last couple of weeks.

“Did you take your medication?” he eventually asked. Even his whisper still seemed too loud.

“No,” the smaller man replied carefully, “It just makes everything worse than it already is.”

“Okay,” he answered and fell silent again. He didn't need more than that to understand what it meant. He had seen the effect first hand. He had witnessed Paul being forced by the drug to fall back into sleep even though he had experienced a horrible nightmare and feared to have to go back there. And he knew Paul well enough that if he hadn't taken the medication now, it meant that he wasn't going to ever again. He had made a decision for himself. Quietly and by himself. He looked for a different solution. The nightmares were still there. Was that what he was doing the past couple of nights when he was texting him but didn't press send?

For a while Richard listened into the darkness. It was so quiet, even with the open window, that it gravitated between being calm and being eerie. There was no distraction from the thoughts in his head and he bet for Paul it was even worse. For a moment he thought about picking up his guitar and play for him, but he needed to sleep so badly himself.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered to the other man, “It'll help you fall asleep.”

“Can't,” Paul mumbled into the blanket.

He lifted his brows. “Why not?”

There was a heavy sigh.

Then a heavier silence.

Then, finally, words.

“If I do, you're gone and I'm alone.”

Richard immediately understood what Paul meant.

“Turn around,” he told the shorter man after some thinking.

He felt eyes staring directly at his face. He felt the question in them.

When nothing else happened, he repeated his request. “Turn around. Trust me.”

He heard them both breathe a couple of times, before Paul finally did what he was asked. The sheets rustled and the mattress shifted, until the other man finally lay with the back to him.

Richard scooted closer until, divided by two blankets, he was right behind his friend. He put one arm under his own head and the other he gently placed over Paul's arm and chest. He could feel the tension in the other body. He could feel what his scared thoughts were doing to him.

“You're not alone, okay?” he said gently, “You're safe here.” If only he knew what his subconscious mind needed to hear to stop those nightmares.

He felt a hand wrap around his wrist. It was warm and strong and shaking a little. Paul seemed to wait if Richard would pull his arm away again. When the dark haired man did no such thing, Paul pulled his legs a little closer to his body.

Richard felt the other man relax more and more. It was as if the tension was escaping from his hold.

“Thank you,” Paul whispered. So much relief in two words.

The room fell silent again and Richard listened to the other man's breathing. More than that he felt it in his arm. He measured the rhythm to know at what beat Paul was awake.

Body contact wasn't uncommon between them. But lying in bed like this was. It wouldn't matter, though. They were only friends after all and this was nothing but support given from one friend to the other in desperate times.

Of course his mind tried to get a hold of everything that would go beyond that. Richard tried to block it out. It didn't belong here and wouldn't make anything easier. He tried to blocked out the wonderful feeling of being able to hold him. Of his own arm being held in place by Paul's hand. Of feeling every movement under his touch. Of taking in the scent of his hair and skin so close in front of him.

He was able to get himself to the point where he was able to ignore the pain and just enjoy the moment, as he felt Paul fall asleep in his arms. The grip on his wrist loosened and the frequency of his breathing slowed down. Suddenly everything went peaceful.

He knew this was a once in a lifetime moment. It wouldn't happen again. Just a chance to dream while he was awake.

Richard allowed himself to smile and closed his eyes as well, trying to stay awake for as long as his body allowed it.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: Resonance

The clicking noise of a door being gently closed was enough to reach through the depth of his sleep-embraced mind and lured Richard's consciousness to the here and now. He lifted his head and opened his eyes to look over his shoulder and to the door, but no one was there. He turned back around to lay his head back onto the pillow. His body felt too damn relaxed to be able to even think about getting up just yet.

When the side of his face hit the fabric, his eyes realized the messy gray-brown hair in front of him. Suddenly the events of last night rushed back to his memory. How Paul sneaked into his room, stated that he had stopped taking the sleep medication and more or less – in his own ways – confessed that he didn't want to sleep alone. How he calmed down in his arm and fell asleep.

His body was so relaxed that he had to feel into his limbs to know where they were. His left arm was stretched out in front of him and somehow had found it's way under Paul's head and neck. His other arm lay around the other musician's waist. His right leg was pulled up as far as the other body allowed while the other was stretched out.

The air coming through the tilted window was cold and had been even colder through the night. But here under the blanket and emanating from the body in front of him there was nothing but warmth.

He listened to Paul's breathing and felt it brush over the skin of his forearm. It was calm, deep, slow. He seemed to be fast asleep still. For a moment Richard closed his eyes and simply enjoyed the peacefulness of the moment. It felt perfect to wake up like this, snuggled close to the man he had too many feelings for.

Then he furrowed his brows as he remembered why he had woken up. Someone had entered or at least peeked into the room. Someone must have seen them both lying together like this. He was sure, no matter who it had been, questions would be raised which he would sooner or later have to answer. But it was a problem he could deal with once he was outside this room. Now he was still here and a more urgent question demanded a decision: Should he wake Paul up or should he let him sleep.

The last time they had shared a bed Paul more or less got up as soon as he could, clearly showing that he regretted the situation. What if, now that daylight was here, he would see last night's decision with more clarity? What if he would regret it once more? He would have every right to. Would he be angry at Richard if he didn't wake him up once he had the chance? Maybe. It was so hard to predict what the other man wanted. He could ask him but that would mean waking him up first.

Richard lifted his free arm a little from Paul's waist and let it hover over the other man's body, ready to grip his shoulder and gently wake him up. But his heart screamed at him to please stop and just leave this moment alone. To not stir time and remind it to move forward. His heart wished for the cold air to grow even colder until the world would be frozen over and nothing could move.

So he carefully put his arm back down and let it rest on Paul's side, once again being able to feel the other man's breathing movement. For a while he closed his eyes again, concentrated on all his other senses and resisted the urge to just wrap his arms around Paul to pull him closer. Inwardly he laughed at his own weakness. Why couldn't he once and for all accept reality and let go of his feelings? Why were humans built that way - clinging to the smallest hope?

There was a tiny change in Paul's breathing. A small pause. Then it went on, but a little quicker.

Richard looked at the gray-brown strands of hair, expecting nothing but another nightmare. He prepared himself for it and picked out words he could soothingly whisper should they be necessary. Within seconds his face became an open display of compassion and worry.

And then Paul simply turned around. He shifted a little on the mattress in order to keep some distance between their faces. His eyes were open, but not much. The world seemed too bright for them after being shut for so long.

“Morgen,” Richard greeted him and tried to calm himself. He was awake. No nightmare. No crisis. - Morning.

Paul slowly raised his hand to rub his eyes with the back of his curled fingers. Then he looked around quietly to scan the room around him. When he was done, he closed his lids again.

Richard raised a brow, not really understanding what was happening. Usually Paul was awake in no time and if he felt like it, he could jump out of bed and be ready to take over the world.

“Möchtest du weiterschlafen?” he asked with a soft voice. He wouldn't mind staying in bed. - Would you like to sleep some more?

The smaller man shook his head slowly, before taking a deep breath and stretching his whole body the best he could while making a tiny unusual sound that Richard instantly treasured in his mind.

“Morgen,” Paul greeted back and once more opened his eyes, this time really looking at the younger man.

“Gut geschlafen?” - Slept well?

“Ja.” Then, after a little hesitation, “Und du?” - Yes. You too?

“Wie ein Stein.” - Like a log.

Paul gave a short nod and fell silent for a moment. Then he lifted his head a little. “Willste deinen Arm wiederhab'n?” - Do you want to have your arm back?

Richard understood the invitation and pulled his arm away from under Paul's neck. It felt a little numb around the shoulder and he was glad to be able to move it freely again despite the fact that the longest body contact he had ever had with the other man had now ended.

“Paul?” he asked into the rising silence.

“Hm?” the other man made, his gaze again focusing on Richard.

“Du hast durchgeschlafen, oder?” he wanted to know, as the thought hit him. He hasn't been woken up by a shivering body next to him. “Keine schlechten Träume?” - You've slept through, haven't you? No bad dreams?

The other guitarist pulled his brows together as he tried to remember what he could. “Ick glob' nich'.” he mumbled and turned on his back to stare at the ceiling. - ”I don't think so.”

Richard could literally watch the other man think and feared that once again everything he thought they both had established between them would crumble within seconds. It was rather obvious that Paul was making quiet decisions in his head. “Das ist doch großartig, oder?” he tried to pull the other man from his thoughts. - But that's amazing, isn't it?

To his disappointment Paul got up almost immediately. For a moment he just stood there with his back to the bed. He looked too small for the hoodie he was wearing. Not again, Richard thought. He feared Paul would retreat from the situation again like he had done before. The whole back and forth was destroying him.

What he didn't expect was for the other guitarist to walk to the window and change its position from tilted to wide open. He pushed himself on tiptoes and leaned forward so he could stick his head out into the fresh morning air outside. Richard kept looking at him and how those perfectly straight legs vanished into a pair of dark shorts and then into the hoodie. He was about to ask if the other man was alright, but first of all he knew that he wasn't and he sure as hell wasn't going to give him another chance to lie to him if he could avoid it. So he just waited for the inevitable and braced himself for another rejection.

Eventually Paul straightened himself up again and finally turned to look at Richard. His features were hard to read. There was determination for sure, but also a trace of sadness he tried to hide under a small smile. “Ick muss zurück nach Hause,” he stated. - I have to go back home.

Richard's heart sunk instantly. He knew something hurtful would happen but this was too much. He sat up to make the sudden knot in his stomach more bearable and looked down at his fingers on the blanket. His blood started rushing in his ears as the feeling of failure and the question of what had gone wrong rivaled for his attention. Why did Paul want to leave? And how should he explain this to the others?

Suddenly a hand was on his shoulder. He looked up to see Paul had somehow sat down on the side of the bed. “Allet jut?” he was asked with a worried expression, “Haste meene Frage nich' jehört?” - Everything alright? / Didn't you hear my question?

A question? There had been a question? It felt like he was missing some valuable seconds that his mind rather wanted to spend in its self-made abyss. “Tut mir leid,” he muttered and let his palm run over his face, “Scheinbar nicht.” - I'm sorry. Seemingly not.

“Ob du mitkommen magst,” Paul tried again. - If you wanted to come with me.

Richard blinked and looked at the other man's face. Nothing seemed to fit together. “Warum?” - Why?

“Naja,” Paul started and lay his head to the side before shrugging his shoulders once, “Du hast jesacht, dit mit den Bildern bedeutet dir wat. Und da da hab ick jedacht, ick hol ma' besser meene Kamera. Sonst wird dit ja nüscht, weeßte?” - Well, you've said the whole thing about taking those pictures meant something to you. So I thought it would be best to get my camera. Otherwise I can't make it happen, you know?

The gears in Richard's head turned too slow to follow properly. “Also … willste nicht abhauen?” he asked to be absolutely sure. - So … you don't want to leave?

“Nee!” the smaller man shook his head, “Warum sollte ick'n---” Suddenly he seemed to understand. “Oh! Nee, mach dir keen' Kopp! Dit war allet okay so. Wirklich!” He gestured at the bed, making sure he meant last night's situation. - Noo! Why would I--- / Oh, noo, don't worry! This has all been fine. Really!

The whole contrast of his thoughts, feelings and reality was a little much and it took all his strength not to show any of it. He should be relieved. Not only wasn't Paul leaving, but he wanted him to come with him. He even wanted to take those pictures, even though for Richard the pure thought would have been enough. And on top Paul seemed to have realized that he'd given the wrong signal and instantly showed that he wasn't about to push him away. And still something was off. But Richard couldn't tell, what. Maybe it was just the adrenaline still running through his body. Maybe it was the lack of joy on Paul's side that usually would always be there whenever he proposed to go on a trip. And maybe that was because Paul, too, feared to be rejected? Richard sighed inwardly. Maybe he was overthinking everything. Again.

“Und?” his friend asked carefully, “Kommste mit? - So? Do you come with me?

~~~

They had decided to use the bathroom together like they had done since the beginning of this band. Since there was barely anything they hadn't seen or done in front of another, there was little to nothing to be ashamed of. And it saved time.

Richard had taken a quick shower first. Now Paul was taking his sweet time, alternately taking cold and hot showers, a habit Richard would never understand.

He pressed the flush and headed to the sink to wash his hands, before taking his shaving gear from the shelf. As he prepared his stubble with shaving foam he looked at himself in the mirror and wondered how long the day appeared despite it just yet having started. He had had a small inner meltdown just after being able to wake up cuddling with his band mate. And of course he had said yes to coming with him. So now they had both decided to drive to Berlin this afternoon to get Paul's camera equipment. It was Sunday after all. The streets were empty since it was the one day of the week the whole country took a break and finally came to rest.

He could still hear Paul's apology in his ears after the other man had realized how wrong his initial statement had come across. How he more than once tried to make clear that he didn't push Richard away and that he would be more careful next time.

A small smile formed on Richard's lips. Yes, he knew there was more to it. He knew there must have been a reason why Paul wasn't happy about the lack of nightmares and why he had the need to get fresh air. Plus there was a lot they had to find out about each other and a whole lot more to talk about. They hadn't really finished their talk yesterday and there where another billion questions on his mind that begged for answers. - Still, it felt good be around him. For the time being it felt like they had made a huge step forward.

Behind him he heard the water being turned off and the shower door being opened. He tried his best to keep his eyes on the task of shaving his beard, but he couldn't help but at least get one small peek as the other man dried himself off.

“Oh,” Paul said behind him, “that's a shame.”

“What is?” Richard wanted to know.

“That you shave it off,” the smaller man stated while wrapping the towel around his hips. “Suits you.”

“I look like a hermit,” Richard retorted and pulled the razor over his cheek before rinsing it under the faucet.

“Not my impression,” Paul responded as he came closer and reached around the taller man to put his toothbrush back into the cup. He had the habit to brush his teeth under the shower. “But do what you must.”

Their eyes met in the mirror and they smiled at each other.

“I'll get dressed,” the smaller man said. “See you downstairs?”

“Can you make me a coffee?” the taller asked in return.

“Sure.”

The door was opened and closed and then he was alone. He looked at his own eyes for a moment. A week ago all this would have been unimaginable. He knew it was a fragile situation. He knew it could be easily broken by one single word.

And yet he smiled and closed his eyes, for a short moment bathing in the happiness.

~~~

Fresh bread rolls, boiled eggs, coffee, tea, jam, cheese, fruits, cereals, orange juice, pleasant chatter, a fair hint of shampoo in the air, smiles, silly jokes, kind gestures. For the first time since they got here, Richard could relax. Next to him Paul was actually eating more than the bare minimum. He was actively participating in the conversation the group was having. The others seemed to notice but luckily didn't say anything. It seemed like a normal morning. It was almost perfect, weren't it for the obvious struggle they all and most of all Paul still had to deal with.

Paul told the rest of the band that Richard and he needed to drive to Berlin later and received a joyful reaction from both Olli and Schneider. A little irritated Paul asked why they were so happy about it and was asked in return if he hadn't checked the calendar on the wall. Richard was honest that he hadn't either. So none of the guitarists had known that both the drummer and the bassist had planned on staying with their families until Wednesday and were about to head to the capital today anyway. Richard was a little embarrassed that he was so busy with his own problems that this had slipped his attention.

So plans were made to have a practice session with all six of them right after breakfast, so they could use the time together the best they could, before they would spent some time apart. They decided to take one minibus together. The vehicle would stay with Schneider, while Richard and Paul could drive back here with Paul's car this afternoon.

Schneider and Richard were the first to walk over to the barn and seemingly out of nowhere the drummer pulled his friend into a strong hug. “Thank you,” he whispered into his shoulder. Nothing more. But it said everything.

After breakfast Paul had excused himself for a short phone call, but this time he was back with the band in no time and, more importantly, he was still in a good mood. And he had brought his Gibson.

The band practice was perfect in the way that there was the right amount of tension and blunt openness towards each other to work on a song they hadn't touched in months, and for good reasons. Till couldn't be bothered to deviate from the text he had originally written, which resulted in snarky comments from Flake's side, which again made Paul giggle and Till mad. Richard and Schneider both tried to concentrate on the arrangement while Olli calmly held the whole chaos together, just to add fuel to the fire with an opinion of his own whenever he felt like it. It was a beautiful dance that brought them and the song forwards. They each criticized the next person, driving them to be better or challenging them to prove why they played the way they played. When it came to work, they had grown thick-skinned towards each other and they knew there was no place on earth were they could find more honesty.

Richard didn't yet show the others what riffs he was working on. They didn't seem polished enough and he needed to experiment some more with them. But he planned to play them in front of Paul and maybe Olli, once he would be back from Berlin, since they both understood the instrument best.

For the moment he relished the atmosphere of harsh banter, concentration and determination. Everything seemed normal for a change. He knew it was an illusion, but he liked to be deceived.

~~~

Paul's backpack was already leaning against the wall in the hallway. His boots where gone and so was his jacket. “Where is he?” Schneider asked Olli and Richard, who both had just left the kitchen after packing some snacks. It was early afternoon and time to head to Berlin.

“Probably shooed away the rooster,” Oliver answered with a shrug of his shoulders.

Richard thought that to be a possibility. He had heard the awful crowing a couple of minutes earlier and had simply rolled his eyes, seeing it as an unavoidable inconvenience that came with this place. Eventually it had faded away and he didn't thought about it anymore, believing the rooster had just wandered off. Now that Olli mentioned his suspicion, something in fact had been different this time. Usually the bird, which now visited once or twice a day, screamed under the walnut tree for about ten minutes, then shut up and quietly walked away. This time it had went on screaming as it had vanished.

“I'll check,” Richard proposed while already pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He would have liked to have a smoke or two anyway before they would get in the bus. He walked out into the sunlight that let the air appear warmer than it actually was. While inhaling the first drag of the cigarette, he looked around. Paul definitely wasn't within eyesight. So Richard walked along the partly moss covered cobble stones that led up the driveway.

Something about the quiet atmosphere reminded him of his childhood. The strange silence that sometimes crawled over this patch of land. When there was no wind and the sun made the colors appear even brighter. When the birds stopped singing for no reason. He listened to his own footsteps that seemed to echo in his ears. There was a strange feeling of loneliness that could arise from this atmosphere.

When he suddenly heard a voices, he was relieved and irritated at the same time. He walked a little further until he could peak through the bushes. He recognized one voice. It was Paul's. He sounded cheerful and relaxed. Then there was the other voice – soothing, calm, cracking a little every now and then.

He saw his friend stand at the open fence gate across the small wannabe street. Paul was lightheartedly talking with the old neighbor and Richard cursed under his breath. What was he doing there? He watched Paul bend down a little and realized why he couldn't resist going over to the place they had been warned about. A shaggy gray dog, almost knee high, danced around Paul's legs and begged for attention while it wagged its tail nonstop. They seemed to talk about the dog while every now and then the guitarist petted it and it pressed its side against his shin.

He didn't need to see Paul's face to know that he was happy. He knew his body language well enough and of course he knew how much of a dog person Paul was. If he was honest he had forgotten about how much his friend probably missed his own dog. He hadn't even asked where the small furball was now. He was too scared to open up another wound.

In a way the neighbor's dog resembled the rooster. It looked unkempt, haggard and way past its best years. But it was in good spirits and relentlessly circled Paul's legs.

Richard couldn't understand what they were talking about, but at least he was able to take a closer look at the old man. Obviously the two were so engaged in their conversation they they didn't notice him standing half way behind one of the bigger bushes.

The neighbor looked like an ordinary old man. He wore dark green cord pants and a light brown sweater. The top of his head was almost bold and he had some longer strands combed from one side of his head to the other in a poor attempt to cover it up. He wore small round glasses with a metal frame. The old man wasn't exactly thin, but not overweight either. Most recognizable about him was the warm smile he seemed to wear all of the time. It was welcoming and bright. Nothing about him seemed strange or alarming, so Richard wondered if Jakob's warning was nothing but an exaggeration or misunderstanding.

Paul checked his watch to give a nonverbal sign that he had to go. Both men shook hands and said goodbye to each other. Paul gave the dog a last scratch behind the ear before heading back to the farm yard.

When he caught sight of Richard waiting for him in the driveway, he slowed down a little, his eyes waiting for any sign of disapproval. When there was none, his face relaxed and a wide smile spread out across his face. It was a sight Richard had missed so much his heart melted.

“I couldn't resist,” Paul told him as soon as he had reached him, joyfully going up and down on his toes, “He has a dog. Have you seen it?”

“Yes,” Richard answered as his eyes studied those beautiful crow's feet drawing this amazing pattern from his eyes to his ears.

“It's so cute!”

“I see.”

“Don't tell the others.”

Sometimes Paul was a child in the body of a grown up, Richard thought. They all were, in a way. But the way he had said it was exceptionally childlike and stood in such a contrast to the last couple of weeks.

“Of course not,” the taller of them smiled warmly. What else was he supposed to say?

They both started walking back to the others. As he looked to the side, he caught Paul smelling at his own hand with which he had petted the dog and smile even wider. It wasn't fair but he still had the warning words in his head and his gut told him to take it seriously, so Richard found his voice once more. “Just promise me to not go over there again, okay?”

The smile vanished within a second and was exchanged with defiance. “Oh, come on! Have you seen him?” Paul asked and stopped in his tracks, “He's just an ordinary old man.”

Richard didn't know what to say, so he just said his friend's name in a pleading manner.

“What?!” Paul made a helpless gesture, “It's just so absurd. Do we have any evidence that that man is dangerous? No. Just a rumor. Since when do we give a shit about that?” He looked up at Richard with big eyes. “His name is Winfried. He's a former teacher. His wife died about two years ago. He has rescued the rooster from bad husbandry. The dog is a rescue, too. Doesn't sound like a bad person to me.”

“People usually don't tell others about their dark side,” Richard commented, but knew he had a weak point. He had to admit he solely built his mistrust towards the neighbor on the words of a man he hadn't even seen once.

“He's over eighty, with a broken dog and a broken rooster in the middle of nowhere,” the smaller man replied, “Please, tell me, what could possibly happen?! All I do is have a talk with him over the fence.” He turned to walk towards the main building. “This is really ridiculous.”

Richard blew air through his nose and then set himself into motion, too. He didn't see any sense in having this discussion, so he didn't say anything. The way Paul put it made sense. And yet he believed that the warning was given out of good reason. But what was he supposed to say that could convince Paul?

He lit another cigarette and looked over his shoulder, staring at the house across the street. Maybe he had to see for himself. He didn't want to be the guy that would want to take away joy from Paul for no reason. Maybe he should have a talk with the neighbor and form his own opinion.

Silently making plans about the how and when, he joined the rest of the group.

Hoping he wouldn't regret that decision, he grabbed his own backpack and got into the driver's seat of the minibus.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: Berlin

His hand went to the rear view mirror to adjust it. His eyes checked if they were able to see everything they needed to. Then they watched both Olli and Paul fasten their seat belts. He wished Paul would sit next to him instead. Especially after last night he wanted to be able to see him. Now he sat behind him and it felt like he was a mile away.

He turned his head to the side and received a smile from Schneider, which he returned immediately. There was so much joy in the drummer's face. He probably couldn't wait to be reunited with his family and as much as he knew how important it was what the band was doing for Paul, it was hard to sacrifice the precious time he now didn't spend with his loved ones. He didn't show it, because he knew it wouldn't help and maybe even make Paul feel guilty. But he showed his happiness and anticipation with his beaming smile and a silent impatient drumming with his fingers on his thighs.

Richard knew Olli felt the same. It didn't show on his features, aside from maybe the slightly lifted corners of his mouth. The bass player seemed reserved and looked out of the window as if saying a temporary goodbye to the farmyard. But inside he couldn't wait to be home, either.

Personally Richard didn't look forward to driving to Berlin as much as he was simply happy to drive away from this place, even if it was only for a couple of hours. He engaged first gear, eased off the clutch and his foot gently pressed down on the accelerator. The vehicle slowly rocked over the cobble stones towards the driveway.

Schneider switched on the GPS on silent mode to let it warn them in case of any traffic jams or roadworks. He knew Richard wouldn't need it for other navigation purposes. None of them would. They all knew their way around the eastern part of the republic since the time they had been touring around with their first bands. The world had been smaller back then and very different, but the roads, aside from their condition, hadn't changed much. Especially in this area they were still waiting for a proper access to the autobahn.

Richard steered the minibus onto the cart track that led to the small village. He saw another car drive towards them and maneuvered the bus a little more to the right so both vehicles would fit next to each other on the narrow road. It was a dark blue car and a man in his thirties sat behind the wheel. Wondering where he was headed Richard looked at the license plate. It seemed to be someone from around this area. He watched the other car in the rear view mirror to see where it would go. When it finally turned into the driveway of their neighbor he let out a quiet relieved sigh. He looked back at the road ahead. Next to him he saw Schneider relax in his seat. Obviously he had observed the other car with caution as well. It was strange what the whole situation did to them. Only small things had to happen and they could be on edge. He remembered management calling Schneider two days ago while they were having dinner. He didn't answer with his usual what's-up-guys-attitude. He was cautious, almost scared. He, as much as everyone else at the table, hoped and prayed that no information about the attack had reached the tabloids, that there was no hate mail related to it, that police hadn't called with bad news. All management wanted to do was check on them and inform them that the preparations for the next tour leg went smoothly.

For a moment they all were quiet and looked out of the windows, each of them dwelling on their individual thoughts. When they left the village and drove towards Wittenberge, Olli was the first to break the silence. “Is it the right moment to tell you I told you so?” he asked the man next to him.

“Ahm …,” Paul made, obviously confused. “What? Why?”

Richard watched Olli smirk slightly through the mirror. “I told you to pack your camera. But you didn't listen,” the bass player stated and after receiving no answer, his grin widened a bit.

“Is he rolling his eyes at you?” the lead guitarist wanted to know as he tried to keep his eyes on the street ahead.

“You're so stupid,” Paul sighed playfully annoyed.

“What do you want to take picture of anyway?” Schneider chimed in as he turned around in his seat to look at the back seat.

There was no answer and for a moment Richard wondered if Paul had simply pointed at him, but the reaction of the other two indicated that there was no answer at all. While the drummer still expectantly looked behind him, Olli crossed his arms and raised his brows at the man next to him. “You've told me you wouldn't want to bring it because there wouldn't be anything worth a closer look, worth the trouble.”

Richard read a street sign and realized he wouldn't have to drive through Wittenberge but could drive around it, so he did that while listening to the conversation the others were having.

“That's what I've said, yes,” Paul replied.

“And that has changed?” Schneider wanted to know.

“Obviously.”

“When?”

They were clearly teasing Paul, but they also were curious because they knew that whenever he was making pictures he put a lot of dedication into the whole process, very much like he did into every creative aspect of his life. As because of the lack of an answer silence started to linger in the air, Richard understood that he was meant. He held tighter onto the steering wheel and tried to not show any of the emotions that began to rise from his heart.

“Doesn't matter,” Paul eventually muttered to get his nosy band mates to stop staring at him expectantly, “I just changed my mind, is all.”

“Okay,” the drummer nodded, accepting the answer for now.

They drove by some smaller houses and shops. Most traffic lights at the interceptions where offline. There was barely another car on the streets anyway.

“By the way,” Schneider went on, “Can you pack some sportswear, too?”

“Sure,” Paul answered, “But do I get to know why?” That's what Richard wanted to know, too.

“No,” Christoph replied.

“It's a surprise,” Olli added, “You'll see.”

“Did you pack some?” Schneider asked Richard and looked at his profile.

He nodded while still dealing with fighting off the fuzzy feeling in his stomach. “Do I get to know what you have planned, though?”

“Nope,” Olli told him and when their eyes met in the mirror for a second, he could watch the bassist grin devilishly.

“Why the secretiveness?” Paul asked. His voice sounded a little thin.

“Because,” Schneider stated and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly before grinning as well.

“Besides,” Olli added, “You are the last person who gets to complain about it.”

Obviously Paul didn't dignify that with an answer. Most likely he pouted or folded his arms in front of his chest. When Schneider uttered a small happy laugh, Richard was sure that Paul was still in a good mood despite the small teasing.

“So,” the taller guitarist filled the rising silence, “What are your plans for the next few days?” He wanted to take the target off Paul and of course he, too, was sincerely interested in Olli's and Schneider's lives. Behind him he heard some fabric rustling and could see Olli smile at Paul for a moment.

It was Schneider who started to share his plans first, then the bass player chimed in as well. A really relaxed conversation started and the vehicle filled with the joy of two man who couldn't wait to just be dads and husbands and escape into an everyday life, while two other men sat and listened and asked and who couldn't be happier for their friends.

The world moved by fast. Long straight streets, trees on each side. Plain land. Fields. Pine forests. Old small villages. Sunshine. Slowly it felt like a normal road trip. Richard didn't even notice that after some time Paul had grown quiet.

Suddenly Olli scooted forward as much as his seat belt allowed and lay his arms over Schneider's backrest which made the drummer turn around slightly to see what the man behind him was up to. “He's fallen asleep,” he told Richard and Schneider with a voice just loud enough to be heard over the droning engine.

The comment made the drummer bend his neck and have a look at the smallest of them as well. The sight made him smile.

“He's still so exhausted,” the bass player sighed.

“No wonder,” Richard replied, “If I'm not mistaken, last night might have been the first time he has slept through since … .” He didn't have to end the sentence. They all knew what was meant.

Schneider guided his attention back to the lead guitarist. “So … if he would do nothing else but sleep as much as he can for a couple of days, that would be perfect, am I right?” He stopped as he saw Richard shake his head.

“The thing is: He's so afraid of those nightmares,” the guitarist responded, “And rightfully so, if you ask me.” He slowed down the vehicle as they drove through another village. “The moment he can get up he gets up. There's no way he would stay in bed and freely try to get some more sleep.” It felt strange to talk about the other guitarist while he was right behind him.

Olli lay his head against his left wrist so he could have an eye on Paul and at the same time listen to the conversation in front of him.

“I would wish for him to sleep for a whole month,” Richard went on, “But I can't make that happen.”

“Maybe not,” Schneider replied and smiled a little, “But it appears you've made him sleep through last night.” Behind him Olli nodded silently.

For a moment they stopped talking, giving Richard all the focus to overtake two tractors at once. When the street in front of them was clear and the minibus had reached the allowed speed limit, Schneider spoke up again. “May I ask?”

“About?” Richard felt an expectant gaze on him.

“We've seen you lie together,” Olli replied, as he now, too, looked at the driver.

“If we consider that for two whole days you've barely exchanged a word with each other, the sight was more than a little surprising,” the drummer added.

“We've talked to each other yesterday,” Richard contradicted.

“Oh,” Schneider smiled some more, “I didn't know. Must have been a good talk.”

“It was,” Richard answered and silently thanked Olli for convincing him the Riedel-way to make the first step. “We've cleared out some misunderstandings.”

“Doesn't quite explain the cuddling yet.”

“I don't see why I have to explain it.”

“Imagine seeing Olli and me lying in bed like this.”

Richard blinked and tried not to dive too deep into his imagination. He instantly got Schneider's point and sighed as a sign of resignation and understanding.

“To keep it short and simple,” he said, “He thought he would burden me with his problems and I made it clear that it wasn't the case.” He looked out for the street sign announcing the autobahn access. “Rather the opposite.” He remembered how Paul climbed into his bed silently. “So he told me that it was easier for him to fall asleep if he knew he wasn't alone. And so I did what I could do.” With a helpless shrug of his shoulders he quickly looked at both Olli and Schneider before directing his attention back on the traffic. Hopefully he wasn't telling the others something Paul didn't want them to know and kept it as vague as possible.

Schneider offered him a genuine smile. “That's one of the most adorable things that ever happened in this band,” he commented.

“So,” Olli made and propped his chin on his wrist, “We might see this more often from now on?”

“That's his choice to make,” Richard replied. God, he wished he could look at Paul right now. Was he really asleep or was he secretly listening? What would he say if he knew they had seen them? Was it all the same to him? And did he already understand that of course he was welcome every night from now on if it would help him. Or should he tell him later when they were alone, just to be sure?

Schneider quickly looked over his shoulder and then back to the front again. “If today was any indication, last night did him good.” Then he turned around and he took a closer look at something on the back seat.

“What is it?” Richard asked as he obviously couldn't turn around himself.

“Nothing,” Schneider replied and turned around in his seat, obviously trying to keep a wide smile from spreading out on his lips. It made the guitarist only more curious and he at least looked at Oliver who, too, smiled a little more than he usually would after having a look at what Schneider had observed.

“Come on, what is it?! I could use some cheering up, too,” he complained, but they left him in the dark. So he shook his head with a mumbled I hate you and turned on the radio just before he steered the minibus onto the autobahn access.

They went to talk about other topics. As the news were presented on the radio, the recent terror attack of course was one of the headlines again. They listened carefully and they exchanged their thoughts and feelings about it. Eventually they switched to other events that had happened in the world and then to some random topics to lighten the mood.

Richard decided to drive at a moderate tempo and mostly stay in the right lane. There were enough idiots on the streets who seemed to feel the crying need to test if their car could fly if they would just drive fast enough. The guitarist was very aware of his precious cargo and tried to avoid any unnecessary risk.

When suddenly they heard a loud siren behind them, Paul woke up from the sound. But it was the other three who immediately startled and who, each in their own way, tried to calm themselves. Part of the horrible feeling came back to Richard - the feeling he'd had when he realized Paul had been injured and had been in a serious condition. He felt the adrenaline shoot through his body and his heart pump faster. He wondered if Olli and Schneider felt the same.

He slowed the bus a little and made room for the ambulance behind them to let it through. For a short moment he looked into Schneider's eyes and knew that he wasn't alone.

~~~

They drove along the autobahn around and through the outskirts of Berlin and then further into the city. None of them had told Paul that they, too, had carried scars from that night – tiny in comparison to his, but they were there nonetheless. None of them told him and none of them intended to.

Instead they commented on the most recent changes of the city which was a constant and ongoing gigantic construction site. They commented on smart and not so smart decisions when it came to planing said constructions. It was fun to laugh at the expanse of those who were responsible for the disaster that would one day be the new airport. At least for Richard it was less fun when the others once again ridiculed his decision to build a swimming pool above his studio. He endured it and wondered how many more years they would bring it up.

The closer they got to Paul's home, the more silent the man behind him went. He didn't have to see him to know that the tension inside him was growing. Luckily they would just have to pick up the few items and then they could be on their way back. They didn't even have to stop at his place since he actually managed to think of everything he would need beforehand.

They stopped in front of Paul's house and everyone got out of the minibus. Both Paul and Richard took their jackets from the pile in the middle of the back seat and put them on. Richard instantly pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket. When he found it all crumpled up, he looked at it and lifted a brow. He peeled the lid open and saw that most of his cigarettes were damaged in one way or the other. Before he could complain, Schneider was at his side. “Don't get mad,” he said close to his ear so only he could hear him, “Paul was holding onto your jacket while he was sleeping. Must have happened by accident.”

Their eyes met and Richard did his best to play it off, saying thank you for the information and showing that it wasn't bothering him. Schneider seemed to buy it. Richard's eyes fell on the smaller guitarist who was listening to something Olli was telling him in a hushed voice. Absentmindedly his fingers closed around the pack the same way Paul's must have done earlier.

After a few minutes they said heartfelt goodbyes to each other. There were hugs and kind wishes. And of course promises. Richard stood next to Paul as they both watched Olli and Schneider drive off.

Then it was just them.

Paul quietly, like on auto-pilot, opened the gate, walked to the front door, pushed the key into the lock of the front door and turned it around. He hesitated to open the door and Richard watched his posture tense up slightly, as if Paul was preparing himself before entering the house. This didn't look like someone was coming home.

Eventually he opened the door, made a few steps inside and held it open for Richard to follow. It smelled like a house that stood abandoned for some time. It didn't smell exceptionally bad or good, the air was just a little to stuffy and dry and there was a certain lack of scent of living beings.

Richard watched Paul drop his backpack in the hallway and did the same.

“You can leave your shoes on,” the smaller man said as he dropped his keys on the sideboard and slowly made his way towards the living room.

Richard understood it as an indirect invitation to follow him. For a second though he hesitated. He remembered the last time he'd been here. How the whole band had forced Paul out of his shell and out of his house. He had known back then that it was for the better. He had been proven right. Now he wondered what might have happened if they hadn't intervened. After what Paul had told him in the meantime, he could only imagine what it must have felt like being stuck here alone in this house with all those haunting memories and nightmares in his head. No one he could go to, no one to protect him and tell him that it would one day be okay again.

He knew this house in many facets. Filled up with many people having a party. Filled up with fewer people having some kind of celebration. Filled up with few people having a pleasant get-together. Meeting just with Paul here to have a conversation, every once in a while a fight and then a reconciliation. He had witnessed how the interior had changed over the years and how some props from their video shoots had found their way into each of the rooms here.

When he entered the bright and open living room, Paul was already crouching in front of an old metal cabinet that looked like it came out of a hospital from the 1920^th. He was searching through its contents. Richard let his eyes wander through the room while he waited for his friend. He spotted an open whine bottle on the coffee table. Having nothing better to do he walked over, picked it up and smelled at it. He instantly wrinkled his nose. The wine had definitely gone off.

“Do you mind if I take care of this?” he asked and held the bottle high enough for Paul to see.

The smaller man turned his head, looked at Richard and nodded. “Not at all. … Thanks.”

He gave him a quick smile and then left for the kitchen to pour the liquid into the sink. After putting the empty bottle on the counter, his curiosity got the better of him and he opened the fridge. It was almost empty. He knew Paul's sister was supposed to come here once a week to take care of the remaining plants and the mail. So he didn't know if she had also taken out the remaining food. But if she hadn't, like she hadn't taken care of the wine bottle, it meant that the fridge had been this empty before. And if Paul's eating habits lately had been any indication, something was really wrong with his appetite. No wonder with all the things going on in his life and in his head, but it was far from healthy and it needed to change for his own good.

Richard heard some noises coming from the living room and then footsteps in the hallway. He gently closed the fridge and walked back to find Paul place his camera and some equipment next to his keys on the sideboard. It made him wonder what his friend had chosen as a location to take those pictures.

It was strange that Paul was so quiet. Most of the time since the attack Paul tended to talk less or not at all. But in the context of this house it seemed such an exceptional contrast to all the other times. Like if he would be on stage and wouldn't move an inch.

The smaller man turned and headed for the stairs. When Richard made a move to follow him, Paul turned around. “Would you mind waiting here? I'll just get some clothes.”

Richard was a little confused as to why Paul's voice sounded so thin. Being here seemed to have a much bigger impact on him than any of them had foreseen. He nodded and made a step backwards.

The older of the two quietly went upstairs and soon there were no footsteps to be heard.

Since he had nothing better to do, Richard decided to use the small bathroom downstairs. When he got out again, he just leaned against the wall and listened into the silence. He let his head fall against the surface and closed his eyes. There was nothing but his own breathing, the distant humming of the fridge and the occasional car driving by outside. If he wouldn't know better, he could think that he was alone here.

And then a thought hit him.

He pushed himself off the wall. Carefully he made his way up the stairs. Every few steps he listened but still there wasn't any other sound except for those he was making himself. When he reached the upper floor he looked around and took a deep breath. It seemed he was right.

“Paul?” he asked softly as his feet carried him closer to the open bedroom door. He could see his friend stand motionlessly in the doorframe. He didn't seem to have heard him.

“Paul,” Richard tried again.

Nothing.

“Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

He was close enough now to see that no light was coming through the windows of the bedroom. It was almost pitch black inside and only the sparse light of the hallway fell into the room where it could find a way past Paul's body and the doorframe.

Richard knew he couldn't touch his friend by the shoulders and turn him around to face him. Not if he wanted to evade Till's fate. Maybe he could block Paul's fist would he try and hit him, but he didn't want to hurt him and he didn't want to scare him. But he didn't want to leave him in this state either.

His eyes searched for an option and landed on the light switch. His fingers brushed over it and the hallway was illuminated. The ceiling lamp fended off the darkness in the bedroom where it could reach it and Paul inhaled sharply.

Richard observed the other man closely. He watched him break free from this rigid state and slowly turn around.

“Paul?”

“J-Ja?”

They just looked into each other's face.

“Thank you,”Paul said after a moment and forced a quick smile on his features.

It was the all-clear signal Richard needed. He walked closer, but was stopped by the the other man who lifted a hand. “Wait.”

“Why,” the taller one asked, new worries rising in his heart. “You alright?” Again that stupid question he wished he could stop asking.

Paul nodded a little too hasty. “I'm fine.” He obviously wasn't. “Just … don't come in here.”

Richard didn't know why he saw this as an invitation to come closer. Maybe his subconscious mind didn't accept this new attempt of blocking him off from whatever lay behind that door. “When we dragged you out of here I told you we would look out for you.” He made a few more steps until his chest pushed against Paul's hand. He saw and felt that the other man was still trembling from the adrenaline. “But I need to know what we're dealing with. So … please stop hiding stuff from me.”

They stared at each other and Richard felt Paul's resistance falter. Those gray-blue eyes begged him to please stop pushing, to let it slide and leave him alone, to please please please give up, to go back downstairs. It was because of this look in those eyes that he knew how important it was to persist.

Eventually Paul swallowed and looked to the side. He let his arm drop and took a deep breath. “Don't say a word.” It was an order spoken in the softest voice.

Then he made a step backwards into the room.

Then another one.

And one more.

He turned around to walk to the windows and pushed the button to open the shutters. Slowly light from outside fell into the room. Richard waited at the doorstep. It felt so wrong to demand this kind of insight, yet he knew there was little choice if he wanted to understand.

He knew what Paul's bedroom looked like. He knew the layout, the furniture, the color of the drapes, that there was an adjoined bathroom. What the light revealed though wasn't the room he was used to. His gaze wandered from his friend to the tossed bed sheets, over to the bedside table with the bottles of alcohol on it, over to the many letters on the floor, some of them crinkled or torn, over to the clothes on the ground, over to the shards of mirror glass in front of the wardrobe, some of them covered by more clothes, over to the wardrobe doors loosely hanging in their angles, over to the partly broken shelves.

“Paul,” he whispered breathlessly. His eyes moved to the smaller man who quietly fetched a small bag out of this chaos and collected some sportswear from a drawer. It seemed he very deliberately didn't react to Richard in any way. He seemed to just wanting to get it over with and get out of here.

Richard slowly walked into the room. His mind was hunting for details to fill the holes in the grand picture. Most letters weren't handwritten. They looked official, from a lawyer's office maybe. Part of him wanted to pick one up at random and read, but it felt like that would be a step over the line. So he looked around some more. Something caught his attention and made him pull his brows together. He walked past Paul and to the bedside table. Between the bottles lay a small package. It was medicine. He picked it up and realized it were the sleeping pills. There was no need to read the instruction leaflet to know that this combination was dangerous.

Paul quickly pulled the zipper of the bag shut and made his way to the hallway. In the doorframe he paused. “Let's go,” he said to Richard without daring to look at him. Then he went for the stairs.

For a moment Richard just stood there and felt the atmosphere of the room. So desolate. So stifling.

He wanted to leave so badly, and yet his eyes kept searching. But there was such a chaos that with everything that was wrong in this picture, it was hard to tell what was wrong the most.

While hearing Paul's footsteps walk down the stairs, Richard made his way to the bathroom door and opened it. It was a hunch, but he'd had bad days as well and knew how his own bathroom had suffered during that kind of time.

The broken mirror over the sink was the first oddity he noticed. The second one was the bathtub that was still filled with water. He remembered that Paul's hair had been wet the morning they had forced him out of this house. The rest of the room looked normal, even though a little sterile since a lot of personal items were gone.

Richard took a deep breath, quickly went to the tub to open the drain and let the water out. Then he, too, made his way downstairs where Paul was already waiting for him. The other guitarist still seemed to evade eye contact and simply opened the door for Richard to walk through, before closing and locking it. Wordlessly he opened the garage, unlocked the car and put the bag and backpack behind the driver's seat.

It didn't feel good to step into the car as long as Paul was like this. It wasn't that Richard didn't trust him. He knew Paul was a good driver, even though he could swear like sailor at others if they didn't drive the way he wanted them to. What didn't feel okay though was the silence between them, all the things that needed to be addressed and now heavily hung in the air between them.

He placed his backpack between his feet and put the seat belt on nonetheless. But when Paul was about to start the engine, Richard lay his own hand on Paul's to stop him. “Wait,” he told him and looked at the profile of his friend.

The smaller man hesitated, then tried to evade the other hand with his own, but got stopped again. He slowly let his head fall against the headrest. His shirt audibly rustled against the leather seat due to the silence. Paul placed his hands on the steering wheel and took a couple of deep breaths while his eyes stared at the sunny world behind the windshield.

Richard waited for a signal that his friend was open for any kind of exchange, but this was all the indication he got. So after a moment he just started to speak. Carefully. A deliberate intonation. “I'd like to ask you three questions before we leave. Is that okay?”

The fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel. Then there was a nod.

It was enough for Richard to turn towards Paul a little bit. “You asked me to come here with you,” he started and wondered what the other man felt like right now. Was he ashamed? Still shaken by the after effects of the trigger? Was he grieving? “So … you wanted me to see this. You wanted me to know.” He watched Paul's gaze drop down to the dashboard. “Am I right that you wanted to tell me without having to tell me?”

Paul swallowed and closed his eyes for a few seconds, before he answered with the tiniest nod.

Richard realized how close the man next to him was to running. How much he wanted to step out of this car and walk away if he had to. “I'm glad that you did,” he replied and waited to see if there was any reaction, but there was none. So he dared to ask the second question. “The state your bedroom is in … was that you?”

Paul's posture didn't change and again he took a few seconds until he responded with a nod, this time a little stronger.

He didn't know what other answer he was hoping for. And yet having this certainty now pulled heavy on Richard's heart. He had never seen Paul being that destructive. Angry? Yes. Furious? Yes. He had seen him slam doors, yell or hit his fist on a table. This, this was different.

Again he remembered the day they got him out of here. Olli had been with him when he packed his stuff. Hadn't he seen this mess? Why hadn't he said anything? Had he promised to keep it to himself, too? Had he waited outside the door? Richard didn't know what to make of it, so he let the thought alone and instead asked his third question. He had so many more, but they all had to wait for the right moment. “Have you been alone when you smashed all those things in there?”

This time Paul instantly turned his head and glared at him as if wanting to warn him to not say a single wrong word. “Are you implying---?”

“I want to know if someone was there for you,” Richard clarified to make sure this didn't go in the wrong direction. Yet, if he was honest, part of him at least wondered if this has happened while Paul was letting off steam or if it happened while he had fought with someone, although the latter didn't sound like him at all.

Paul's features softened slowly. One hand let go off the steering wheel and pressed the button for the remote that opened the gate. “I've been alone here since I came back home,” he finally answered. This time Richard didn't stop him when he tried to start the engine. The car rolled out of the garage and onto the street and behind them everything shut tight. Richard couldn't help but notice how much it resembled its owner. No one on the outside could ever imagine how broken and hollow it was inside.

“We should have gotten you out of there sooner,” the taller of them said as he looked at the house one last time. He didn't expect a response and wasn't disappointed when none came.

They drove through street after street. Richard looked out of the side window and watched the people on the sidewalks, the house facades, the half naked trees, the autumn leaves on the ground, the yellow public buses, the blue metro signs, the graffiti everywhere. It was quiet in the car. The engine was humming and every now and then there was the rhythmic sound of the indicator. There was the rustling of fabric whenever Paul had to move a little to observe the traffic. Richard could hear him breathe when they were waiting at a red light. He could hear the world outside as well but it was muffled, distant, as if it was unreachable.

Then his eyes read a street sign and he pulled his brows together. “Shouldn't we have turned right?” he asked and for the first time looked at Paul again, who shook his head.

“Nope,” he answered, “I need to pick something up first.”

“Hmm,” was all Richard replied and leaned back again. He knew Paul well enough that if he wanted him to know what it was he would have told him instantly.

The further they drove through the city, the more Richard was sure where they were headed. When he saw the familiar buildings in the distance, it was clear Paul intended to visit their storehouses. When he steered into the driveway he was greeted by their security. After some small talk they were let through and Paul parked his car right in front of the rear entrance.

Richard remembered how they had driven by here many years ago. How Flake and Till complained that beautiful red brick buildings like these were left to rod. How someone else simply stated that it didn't have to be that way. Another voice added that this could become a great storing place for all their equipment. It was what they always did: Someone mentioned a problem and together they found a solution.

“Do you want to wait here or rather come inside for a minute?” It was so unexpected to hear Paul ask him a normal question in a normal voice, so Richard couldn't answer immediately. The smaller guitarist obviously had stuffed his troubled and vulnerable side back into a corner of his mind and appeared normal and almost carefree to the unobservant eye.

“I'll have a smoke,” the taller of them answered as he opened his seat belt and stepped out of the car. The typical industrial smell of this place hit him and he felt instantly at home.

“I'll be right back,” Paul excused himself and vanished behind the heavy metal door.

Richard fished the wrinkled pack from his pocket. With a sigh he placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. As he watched the smoke rise into the sunlight, he tried to grasp what it all meant. All those years he had known Paul the other man had been honest and open and straight forward whenever he was asked what was going on. Yes, there had been times they hadn't talked to each other, but there had been reasons they had long since overcome. Besides that he had always known what was going on in the life of the other guitarist. He knew what the other man wanted and not wanted and cared for and disliked. He knew how to understand how Paul felt, even if he described it with his limited set of words. At least he thought he did. But this new and heavy silence was so hard to decipher. It felt like the closest Paul had come to talk about what must have happened in his house was when he stood on the side of the road and so desperately screamed.

There was something he needed to know and he didn't want to wait three days for an answer. So he pulled out his phone and sent a text to Olli, asking if he'd seen what Paul's bedroom looked like the day of their intervention. Then he locked the screen again.

The first stub landed inside the outdoor ashtray and his fingers automatically went for a second cigarette, but for once his curiosity was stronger than his addiction. He stuffed the package back into his pocket and went to head inside the large building instead. He heaved the door open and slid inside the storehouse.

High brick walls went up all the way to the glass ceiling which was carried by black steel beams. There where high-level racks everywhere, carrying all sorts of boxes, containers, cable reels and whatnot. Everything seemed to be back in place. It looked so different in here when they were on tour. And it smelled different, too.

He knew what all this was worth, ideationally and financially. He until now had taken the liberty to only care for the former and ignore the latter. They had the money to maintain all this and if everything would go as planned, none of them would have to worry.

But what if it didn't?

Paul had voiced it in the kitchen a few days ago. He knew about the huge responsibility to somehow function because otherwise---. Richard stopped his thought and looked at the huge room again. He could put a number on most of this equipment. He still remembered the long discussions about the dimensions of their new stage and if they could afford it, what the risks were, how much the staff, logistics, inspections, permits, insurances and all other additional costs would pile up to financially. Suddenly he felt the responsibility weigh on his shoulders. There were only a few months left and he still didn't fully understand what Paul was dealing with aside from the attack. His band mate wasn't able to sleep on his own, let alone eat properly. What if it wouldn't get better in time and they had to decide if they would rather have to make Paul function and go out on that stage no matter what, or if they would sacrifice their shows for the sake of their friend, who in return would drown in self-reproaches. They would have to choose between the devil and the deep blue sea.

He didn't know how, but they would have to find a way out of this dilemma. They had always found a way and they would again. He closed his eyes for a moment and wished himself back to this morning when he could hold Paul in his arm and wanted time to stop. He would give up all his riches for that super power.

“Paul?” Richard called out for the man that was nowhere to be seen while pulling his thoughts to the here and now.

“Coming!” he heard the smaller man shout back from the other end of the hall where a door led to the adjoined workshop. A few moments later he emerged from that door, carrying two aluminum suitcases and a larger bag that hung from his shoulder. It seemed to be quite heavy by the way it weighed down on Paul's side.

Richard walked towards him to help him carry the stuff. “What is that?” he asked with a suspicious undertone.

“A surprise,” was all he received as a reply. That, and something that made his heart skip and then sink a second later. Paul's face had started to light up like it always did when he was about to broadly smile. To Richard it was a mesmerizing sight that he was spellbound by. But the smile wouldn't come. Instead Paul quickly looked at the floor and then at the exit and his expression went neutral instead. He heaved the suitcases and bag all by himself as he made his way to the door.

Richard shook off the disappointment. “What kind of surprise,” he asked while he caught up with the other guitarist. Apparently planning surprises seemed to be a thing that happened more within the band lately.

“You will see,” Paul answered vaguely and after placing all the equipment on the ground at the rear end of his car, he threw his key ring towards Richard. “Would you lock the door please?”

The taller man fetched it and did as he was told. “Are any of those part of my equipment?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Maybe,” Paul replied as he lifted everything in the trunk and closed the lid.

“What if I don't want you to take it?” Richard lay his head to the side curiously.

“Then I would have to go all the way back inside there,” Paul answered while pointing at the storehouse, “And I would be really sad about it.”

Their eyes met and Richard wondered if the irony of his words was lost on Paul or if he'd said it on purpose. But one way or the other something good had happened. They were talking to each other despite the trigger, despite what had happened in the house, despite Richard right afterwards forcing answers out of Paul. Paul, who this time didn't shut himself off and who hadn't run.

He handed him back his keys. “Do you need it for taking those pictures?”

“Nope.” Paul shook his head and walked around the car to open his door. He placed his arms on top of the roof and looked at Richard who hadn't moved. Their eyes met.

“Fine,” he grumbled in jest, “Keep it to yourself.” He waited until he could see the slightest smile on Paul's lips before he headed for the passenger door.

They both took their seats and then the engine was running again.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: Bridge

They drove in silence for quite some time. Richard was glad that the friendship he had established with Paul was able to bear those moments of not talking to each other with ease. There was an unspoken rule, too. If any of them wanted to end the silence, they would look at the other person. A quick glance would be enough. They both were able to notice.

Grey eyes stared out of the windows, but he no longer really looked at the world outside. Not at the houses that seemed to turn smaller the further they got away from the city, nor at the people enjoying their relaxed Sunday. Instead his mind went through all the images he had collected inside Paul's home. Seeing all the destruction was painful. The emptiness was one thing, yet it usually came whenever there was a breakup. But destroyed furniture? Smashed mirrors? The worrisome amounts of alcohol? He wanted to ask the other man, but knew it wasn't the right time.

He also knew that he should be glad. He was trusted enough the be allowed to see all this. And he felt that Paul wanted him to know for a reason. He had opened up to him bit by bit. Now this had been the next step. Part of him wondered when Paul had decided to let him see the mess inside his home. Was it a spontaneous decision after they had entered the house? Had he decided after waking up in his arms? Earlier even? Richard wished he knew what he was supposed to do now that he knew. Did Paul actually want to talk about it but needed him to start? Did he hope Richard would know how to ask the right questions? Or did he just want him to look behind the curtain without any further comment? If the moment in the garage had been any indication Paul wasn't completely blocking off questions. He would have to find out when the time was right.

The image of the heavy medication between the bottles came back to his mind. Paul could be careless in certain aspects, but taking the pills with alcohol didn't sound like him at all. Had he been this desperate? At least he hadn't been drinking since they were at the farm as far as Richard knew. He would have smelled it on him and seen it in the way he behaved. Still it had him worried.

Then there were the letters. Part of Richard regretted that he didn't pick one up at random. It would have been wrong, and yet Paul had left him alone in the bedroom well aware that he could have snooped around had he wanted to. Had he wanted him to? Were they about the divorce or something else? If he was right and at least some of them contained legal stuff, he couldn't imagine it had to do with his now ex-wife. She had always been kind and reasonable. Strong and yet gentle. Smart. Loving. They had been perfect together. Richard remembered Paul blaming himself. Had the other guitarist done something to end this perfect marriage? If yes, what could have been worse enough to break their strong bond?

He took a deep breath and looked at the sky through the side window. The sun was sitting on the horizon. It felt so different from the last time they were driving to the farmyard, and so similar at the same time. With a little difficulty he fished his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and let the window down. The cold airstream instantly hit him in the face. He knew Paul wouldn't mind, and so he lit one of the cigarettes, inhaled deeply and after a moment blew the smoke out of the window. It calmed his nerves and gave him something to do besides thinking too much.

As if knowing when it was time, Paul reached down between the seats to open the build-in ashtray. His eyes stayed on the road. Richard stubbed out the cigarette in the perfectly clean tray and tried not to feel bad about it.

While the window slid close, he finally couldn't resist any longer and cast a short glance at Paul. It had been quiet for too long.

As if waiting for it, the other man looked back at him for two seconds. Richard wasn't sure because it was a rare sight. Yet he believed to have seen insecurity in Paul's eyes. Every question to start a conversation died on his lips. He felt like a damn coward but the insecurity was contagious.

“Is it okay if I …,” he said instead and let his finger brush over the play button, ready to listen to whatever Paul had on his playlist. It definitely wasn't set on any radio channel because the constant commercials were driving Paul mad almost as much as the custom to never play a song until the end but rather talk over it or fade one song into the next.

“Sure,” the smaller man answered.

So Richard pressed the button, listened, raised his brows in surprise and then leaned back smiling. He had expected a lot of things, but that had not been on his list. He instantly recognized the voice of the audio book reader who at the same time happened to be the author. Richard remembered Flake telling everyone about the first book of the later series when it came out, then about the other three that followed. “The Kangaroo Chronicles” it was called. He liked it a lot, but not as much as Paul who soon enough could speak along all the memorable parts. It was about an anarchistic smaller scale performer who suddenly happened to live with a talking communist kangaroo in modern Berlin. It was socially critical, clever and hilarious at the same time. Each chapter was a small story of its own so it didn't matter that currently they listened to a chapter somewhere from the middle of the second book. It didn't take longer than a minute to draw the first chuckle from both men. Many others followed as the narrator kept reading.

For a moment Richard wondered why this was the last thing Paul must have listened to while he had been driving his car alone. Maybe it was the strange comfort one gets from watching old sitcom episodes, too. Whatever the reason, it also didn't fail to defuse the strange subtle tension in the car. Laughing together made them both feel safe again and opened them up.

Richard knew for sure that Paul was more his old self when he started to comment the first person on their driving skills. It wasn't much. Just the car standing in front of them at a traffic light that had switched to green several seconds ago.

“Are you expecting a different color?” he muttered while they waited for the other person to realize their mistake.

“Paul?” Richard dared to address while in the background the kangaroo tried to explain its idea of creating an antisocial network.

“Hm?” the smaller man responded.

“What's in the suitcases?”

The driver rolled his eyes playfully and grinned. “You will see.”

“I want to know now!” He smiled.

“It would spoil the surprise.”

“I hate surprises.”

For a brief moment their eyes met.

“No you don't.”

“I hate most surprises.”

“You'll like this one.”

Richard admired the confidence Paul could have.

“Give me a hint!”

“No.”

“Ah... go fuck yourself.” He gave up and shook his head in feigned resignation before grinning to himself.

“Can't,” Paul shrugged with a deadpan expression on his face, “It sure is long enough but too big to fit inside.”

For a moment Richard did nothing but stare blankly at the other guitarist. “You can be such a giant asshole sometimes, I bet you can manage,” he finally replied equally stoic.

Then they both started laughing. “Touché!” Paul brought out in between giggles.

It was the first time since the attack that they both could be like this with each other. Just them. No rehearsal situation or anything else work related. Just them as friends. Richard realized Paul didn't drive as fast as he usually would. Did he want to have this drive go on forever as much as he himself did?

They kept listening to the audio book where the kangaroo and the artist were walking around the nightly streets and the kangaroo was correcting some graffiti's spelling and content with red spray paint. Much to Richard's surprise Paul still kept laughing after the protagonists were confronted by a group of nazis whose graffito had just been corrected. The smaller guitarist didn't seem triggered in the slightest. Although Richard stood alert that the mood could shift at any given moment, he still tried to relax and just enjoy the brilliant humor.

The sun had already sunken below the horizon, painting the atmosphere in beautiful colors. Richard craved for another cigarette, but he knew deep down inside Paul disliked his smoking habit. He had no problem with the smell, but he knew what it was doing to Richard's health. And so the black haired man decided that the undisturbed happiness of his friend was more important than his own addiction.

When they reached the first street sign that announced Wittenberge – it was still a twenty-minute drive – Paul inhaled deeply. Of course it caught Richard's attention. “What's up?” the taller man asked.

Paul let his fingertips drum against the steering wheel for a moment. Then he took another deep breath and thoughtfully pulled his brows together. “How do you feel about taking those pictures tonight?”

Their short eye contact was enough to convince Richard that Paul really wanted to do this. Still he needed to ask. “Are you sure? On a day like this?”

“A day like … ?” Paul replied with a raised brow.

Richard wasn't sure how to put this without destroying the mood. “It has been a rough day for you, hasn't it?”

For a moment it was quiet in the car, except for the audio book. In the distance streetlamps revealed that there was another village hidden in the rising darkness. Paul didn't say anything until they were outside that village again, as if what he wanted to say should only be heard by Richard.

“This day has been the best since … ,” at first it seemed Paul tried to scan his memories. But moment by passing moment Richard realized that his friend simply couldn't say another word.

The taller man took the liberty to stop the audio book and leaned back in his seat. “It's not a strength to hold back tears, you know?” he stated gently.

“I'm driving,” Paul replied.

“You can pull over,” Richard shrugged.

Paul kept driving and fought down the lump in his throat. “I was able to sleep through for the first time thanks to you,” he started eventually. “And we had a normal day with the band.” Richard quietly listened, his head now turned to his friend. Every now and again their eyes met for a brief moment. Paul seemed to want to be sure that the other man understood his seriousness. “I had a normal day with the band. Not once did I feel like … ,” he chewed on his bottom lip to search for the right words, “... like any of you were going easy on me at any point. You know what I mean?”

Eye contact again.

And the insecurity from earlier. Richard nodded and made it vanish.

“Going back inside my home has been bad, yes.” Paul's voice had suddenly changed. Only by a nuance. Maybe only someone with trained ears like Richard 's would be able to notice. But it was there and the dark haired man listened carefully. He also noticed that his friend switched back to even simpler descriptions. “I didn't like being there, especially upstairs. I've made some really bad memories up there.” Richard could only imagine. “But,” Paul started, only to pause and take another deep breath, “I wasn't alone.” The sentence hung in the air and both men understood the layers of meaning behind it.

Richard wished for Paul to stop with the stubbornness for once, to stop the car and let his emotions take over. Keeping it all locked up inside wasn't helping.

“And you still treat me like before,” the smaller added.

“Of course I do,” Richard replied a little taken aback, “Why wouldn't I?”

Paul didn't answer. Maybe he didn't know how to put his fears into words. A helpless shrug was all Richard got as a reply. He didn't feel the need to dig deeper and let the silence rest between them for a while. At least until he remembered that he still hadn't answered Paul's question.

He let himself sink a little deeper into the seat and kindly smiled to himself. “That's nice,” he sighed happily.

“What is?” Paul asked. Richard's sudden change in behavior obviously made him curious.

“That this has been your best day so far,” the taller replied and his smile only grew. “Are you sure you want to ruin it with taking photos of this old sack?” He lazily pointed at himself with his thumb.

“Yes!” Paul answered with conviction. “And don't call yourself that.”

“Because that makes you feel even older?” Richard joked.

“Yes,” Paul rolled his eyes playfully, “That's the problem I have with that.”

They drove by the town sign of Wittenberge and much to Richard's surprise he didn't mind at all. The knowledge that he was back here didn't do anything with him and he wondered why.

“Can you have a look inside the glove compartment for me?”

“Sure,” Richard leaned forward and opened it, “What do you need?” Or was Paul just trying to keep him occupied with something other than his thoughts.

“Is there something edible inside?” the driver wanted to know, “A chocolate bar or biscuits or something?”

The taller man dutifully searched the little space but only found a fun size pack of hardened gummy bears. He held it up anyway for Paul to see but threw it back where it came from and closed the compartment.

“Ey!” Paul protested.

“Believe me, you don't want those,” Richard explained nonchalantly. “We're almost back anyway.” He received a reluctant grumble from the driver's seat and responded with an amused chuckle. What he didn't comment on but with utmost relief registered was that Paul for the first time since the cake in the hospital had actively asked for something to eat.

~~~

The small road to the farmyard was only illuminated by the headlights of Paul's car. In the distance they could see that the light was on in their living room. Otherwise the buildings as well as the whole area around was wrapped in darkness. Paul was evading the potholes the best he could and maneuvered the vehicle into the driveway, just to drive around the walnut tree and come to a halt close to the entrance of the main building.

The moment the engine went dormant, Richard turned around in his seat. “What's the plan? Grab something to eat and then … ?”

Paul let his eyes wander over Richard's clothes. “You need to change. And then we head to the place I chose.”

“And you're not telling me where you want to go?”

“Nope.” With that the smaller of the two opened his seat belt and stepped out of the car.

The taller followed and together they unloaded everything and carried it into Paul's room. Paul was adamant to carry all of the ominous equipment himself and stuffed it into his wardrobe and partly under his bed. Richard had to swear to not try and find out what was inside the bag or suitcases.

Then they headed back down and first of all visited the living room. They found both Flake and Till sitting on the large sofa in front of the lit fire place, each of them reading a book. One of Flake's keyboards had found its way inside the large room, too.

“Now look at the pensioners society,” Paul commented.

Till didn't dignify that with an answer, but he looked up at the two guitarists.

“There are people who actually prefer some quiet from time to time, you know?” Flake replied dryly without lifting his head.

“Lucky for you we will be on our way again,” Richard replied and shot a quick smile at Paul.

“Didn't you just arrive?” Till asked and closed his book on his lap with one finger kept between the pages. The keyboarder looked up as well.

“Yeah,” Paul nodded and nudged Richard against his upper arm, “And we just wanted to let you know that we'll be back in a few hours so the old folks don't start to worry.” With his body language he signaled that he wanted to leave now and not lose precious time.

Till just shook his head and smiled mildly. “Have fun,” he said.

Flake turned his head to his book, but Richard didn't missed the rolled eyes. “Stay away from trouble, no drugs, and don't get into stranger's cars,” he tallest of them muttered.

“Yes, mother,” the rhythm guitarist replied before vanishing into the kitchen.

Richard's eyes locked with Till's to have a small nonverbal exchange. The singer's eyes asked if everything was okay, circumstances considered. The guitarist replied with a reassuring smile. The singer thanked him from the bottom of his heart. The guitarist responded with a gentle silent it's the least I can do.

Then Richard lifted his hand to wave his goodbye and followed Paul.

He found his friend looking at the contents of the fridge. “Do you want me to cook something for you?” he offered because he could already tell that his friend hadn't found anything he liked right away.

The smaller man shook his head and closed the door, before pulling out his phone and checking something. Richard silently watched him while silently hoping that Paul's appetite hadn't disappeared.

“I want a döner,” he stated while still looking up something on his phone.

“Then let's get you one,” the taller man replied with a winning smile. If it meant Paul would finally eat a proper portion he would do almost anything. And now that döner was an option, he would fancy one himself.

“There's a snack bar at the station.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

They headed upstairs to get everything they needed. Paul let Richard choose his own outfit, only setting the limits to no Camp David kind of stuff and no weirdly clashing colors. Meanwhile he wanted to have a look at the guitars Richard had brought along. He wanted to take one with them but didn't say what for. His eyes lit up at the sight of the RZK 600 and he placed the instrument – well protected in its case – against the wall next to the door. Richard was used to Paul sometimes forgetting about asking for permission and just using items as if they were his own. Instead he held up a red and a midnight-blue shirt and let the other man chose. After all he seemed to have a specific idea in mind and maybe the colors were important.

He remembered it being a last minute decision to bring this specific guitar as well. A gut feeling. He had thought that maybe he would want to use its specific sound. What a strange coincidence.

Clad all in black except for the blue shirt Richard carried the guitar case downstairs and lifted it in the trunk of the car, before lighting a cigarette and waiting for Paul to join him. He had exchanged his jacket with a long coat because he felt like it, and had put on thin eyeliner and a beanie because he was told the wind would destroy his hairdo anyway. He really wished he knew where they were going.

A few minutes later Paul appeared and threw his backpack in the trunk as well. Richard followed him with his eyes while his hand already lingered on the door handle, ready to enter the car. The smaller man had changed as well. A little more stylish, but still comfortable. He seemed to have put some last minute effort in his outer appearance and had transformed from someone visibly battling a traumatic experience to someone ready to go to a movie premiere. It reminded Richard how easy inner struggles could be overlooked.

The moment they both sat next to each other, Richard could smell the other's perfume. It suited him so well. And then he saw him smile at him and had to remind himself to smile back, but he counted the seconds in his head and broke the eye contact before it got too long and could mean more than friendship. He knew why he oftentimes said no when he was asked to do something only with Paul. He knew it was dangerous. Paul was a keen observer and to keep a secret from him left little room for errors. But damn, it never felt better to be around him than at this very moment.

So Richard looked to the front instead, hiding his worries under a smile and waited for the car to move.

~~~

The station didn't look like he remembered it. In his memories it was a dark place, rundown like a lot of buildings in the GDR. He remembered the smell of diesel in the air and the vague chemical scents from the industrial buildings around the station. Now it's outside appearence looked clean, renovated, with a large welcoming parking area at the front.

Paul steered the car slowly along the many cars, while humming to himself and looking out for the döner stand. When he finally found it, he parked close by.

Richard wasn't sure if the man who prepared the food for them recognized them or not. But even if he had become suspicious, he would probably brush it off because it was too unlikely that two Rammstein members would come to a place like this.

The two musicians decided to eat while walking around a little bit. There were barely any people in sight and Richard had the idea to have a look around and see if the place would evoke some memories. Since Paul himself had opened up and it seemed to do him good, he found the courage to go a step further himself. It didn't feel like anything was about to hurt him.

So he let his teeth sink deep into the bread, kebap and vegetables all at once and relished the taste. Next to him Paul did the same. He watched the smaller man and enjoyed the sight of round full cheeks and sauce dripping down the corner of his mouth which he instantly wiped away with his fingers and licked them clean as soon as he could. He really appeared to be hungry. It was such a difference to the Paul he had seen in the hospital and then back in Berlin. The hollow shell had come back to life bit by bit.

As they walked through the empty station – a yellowish three-story building with an exceptionally ugly interior color choice which was absolutely oversized for the provincial town – Richard commented on how he remembered it and that the main entry had been hidden somewhere else back in the days. People had to drive a really stupid route to enter the station. Paul being the curious creature that he was wanted to see it and so, with their meal almost finished they reached the door on the far end of the empty building and walked outside.

They looked at a long narrow cobbled street that led around a turnaround loop right in front of the door and around a group of old crooked trees, just to then lead away far into the distance. Old lanterns cast sparse orange light onto the otherwise dark street. To the right a brick and iron wall lined the way. Several dark and gloomy red brick buildings stood to the left and seemed to watch them out of hollow eyes from the distance. The place still felt as oppressive as Richard remembered. He ate the last bit of his döner and then went to throw away the wrapper and napkin into the bin right by the street.

The moment he let go of the items, his mind froze. A memory rushed through his brain as if he had been pulled back in time. He heard his parents shout at each other. He didn't hear the words. Just that it was an ugly argument. He felt small, so very very small. He remembered his father wanting to get to a train and how he let go of Richard's hand. How small child-Richard wanted to be held by the hand a little longer, but the adults were so engaged in fighting with each other that he didn't feel there was any room for his needs so he just waited. It had happened right here. It had been dark as well. The walls seemed higher and the darkness more powerful. He remembered how the station door swallowed his father and how his mother turned to walk the other way along the endless orange-black street. How there were stones beneath him and towering over him from the sides and everything seemed so cold. He remembered how his feet wouldn't move and how his little heart craved for comfort. How his voice worked its way through his constricted throat and he called out for his mom. How he called Mama again and again. He remembered that he knew she must have heard him. He remembered that she didn't turn around. He remembered the painfully piercing question that never stopped haunting him. Why did she leave him behind?

Then there was a warm palm on the back of his hand. Fingers carefully closed around it. The touch didn't belong to his memory. He blinked and turned his head to find Paul standing right next to him and he looked at him with an intense expression on his face. “What's going on?” the smaller man asked.

Richard's brain needed time to process. He wasn't five anymore. Or had he been older? Younger? It must have been one of the many fights his parents had. The feeling of not deserving love crept under his skin. It was a feeling that for centuries had carved perfect caves into his soul were it could hide, linger, attack. It seemed an endless struggle to peel that feeling out of cave after cave and then fill the empty places with something better. It was scary how easy the feeling found its way back in again.

The impact was too strong to find words to explain it to Paul. He wanted to, but all he was able to was to look back at his friend who patiently waited and didn't let go. The thought alone that his hand wasn't held by a person who should love him by default, but was now held without being asked to - by a person he shouldn't love the way he did – was another added pain. And all Richard wanted was to get the hell out of here.

“Let's go, please,” he said with a hoarse voice. He swallowed down the waves of pain. They'd had a good day so far. He didn't want to have his pain ruin that as well. He didn't want to allow that to happen.

In Paul's eyes lay wariness. He knew there was something going on. Richard could see the inner debate Paul was having on whether or not to press the issue. Luckily after a few seconds the smaller man just nodded yes and led them both back inside the station building, all the way through the depressing void hallway and back outside to the car. The air seemed to taste better on this side of the station.

Richard noted that Paul only now let go of his hand to walk around and get in the driver's seat. He wished he knew what to say other than thank you, but it wasn't enough. Paul had an incredible instinct for doing things that would either deeply comfort the people around him - or annoy the hell out of them.

“Still in the mood?” Paul asked and waited for an answer before he would start the car.

“Absolutely,” Richard answered and tried to smile. He was glad his face could hold it and this small accomplishment made him feel better.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Paul reached out with his words like he had earlier done with his hand.

“Not right now,” Richard replied softly.

“Later, then?”

“Tomorrow, maybe.”

Finally Paul returned the smile and set the car into motion.

For a while Richard stared blankly into the distance, his gaze unfocused and his attention directed at his feelings. He tried to get rid of the memories and everything that came with them. And he tried not to get angry at Till. Because this was what he had feared. That he could feel like this again. So small and worthless and undeserving. Luckily he wasn't alone right now. Still the feeling clung to him like water after someone had emptied a full bucket over his head. He couldn't make it dry by willpower alone. The vanishing had its own pace and he was bound to it.

Next to him Paul had a close eye on the street names and tried to find his way to the mysterious location he'd picked. Every now and then though he looked at his friend and checked for any signs he should react to. But it seemed Richard was as okay as he could be at this point.

When Paul turned into a narrow street where there were no more houses, just street lamps, high bushes and trees and the railway tracks to the right, Richard pulled his brows together. The moment he saw the first of the two large iron railway bridges he knew exactly were they were. But there was practically nothing ahead of them. Just a road that led to more tiny villages. What was Paul planning?

They drove across the small side bridge and followed the railway tracks. Paul started to hum a small melody in a low register. It signaled that he was relaxed and it had a soothing effect on Richard as well. When the larger and way longer bridge came into view, Paul weaved a small excited “Mh-hm!” into his humming while driving into the small path that lead directly under the bridge and a little further down. Where the car came to a halt, they could look at the small piece of land that reached far into the water. There was the smaller river to their right, which entered the large Elbe to their left. In the distance they could see the illuminated skyline of Wittenberge. The town was peacefully sitting in the middle of the darkness around them, only accompanied by the moonlight.

The engine was silenced and Paul uttered a satisfied sigh before exiting the car. He bent down to look at Richard who hadn't moved. “Comin'?” Their eyes met. The taller was still processing what they were doing out here in the middle of nowhere. He had secretly expected one of the abandoned industrial buildings, but not the riverside. The view was quite nice, he had to give him that, but not that special either. He forced himself out of the car and they almost simultaneously shut the doors.

Paul swung the camera bag over one shoulder and his backpack over the other, while silently asking Richard to carry the guitar.

The rivers where so loud that their murmur muffled the footsteps of the two men. Much to Richard's surprise Paul didn't head down to the water but instead followed a small beaten track up to the large iron bridge. They walked slowly since neither could see more than the moonlight was revealing. When they safely reached the top Richard stopped and looked around, while Paul was already walking around the first large iron beam to get to the railing on the right side of the bridge. The lead guitarist looked at the warning sign that made it crystal clear that no one was supposed to be where Paul was headed. The supposed path for pedestrians was on the other side of the bridge.

“What are you doing?” Richard asked.

“What does it look like?” Paul asked back, his voice halfway carried away by the wind that was blowing up here through the airflow the river caused. He didn't stop but walked further along the railing.

Richard cursed under his breath. He knew that if his friend had his mind set on a certain idea it was impossible to stop him. So he balanced over the stones on the track bed, found his way around the iron beam as well and came to a halt once his hand found the railing. They were quite high above the black water. There were two railway tracks leading over the bridge. V-shaped iron beams supported the upper part of the bridge. Between the beams and the railing wasn't much space. A meter, maybe a little more. On the other side there was an extra fence that made sure no one could accidentally fall on the tracks. Not so on their side. Richard looked down and found himself standing on a steel grating surface so he could see right through at what lay below.

He looked up and watched Paul walk further away from him along the bridge that seemed to have no end. He took a deep breath and followed him despite his doubts that this was safe. The grid plates where rattling a little under his boots. In front of him Paul kept walking. Every now and then the smaller man looked at the town in the distance as if he was waiting for something.

The further they went, the windier it became. At least there was some light now. There were a few white lamps shining against the gray iron beams and a few yellow-orange lights illuminated the concrete pillars that held the bridge up high above the water. Paul turned around, now walking backwards, to give Richard a wide smile. He slowed down a little to give the other man a chance to catch up with him. “We're almost there,” he told him once he knew Richard could hear him.

“Have you been here before?” the taller man mused, wondering why Paul was so sure about what he was doing.

“No,” the smaller man answered, “You?” When Richard simply shook his head, Paul just laughed happily before turning around again.

There was one thing he absolutely had to give Paul credit for: The man knew how to make him stop thinking about his problems. At least the ones haunting him from the past. He might get a knew problem once a train would rush over the bridge.

They left the illuminated part far behind them and went further until they were over the flood basin of the Elbe. It was needed for springtime when the river carried so much water that it was easily a kilometer wider than usual. Here the wind was even rougher but the noise of the river quieter. Paul finally slowed down and came to a halt right next to one of the v-shaped iron beams. For a moment he looked around and then turned to Richard to give him the widest smile.

The lead guitarist stopped as well and looked around. “This is where you wanted to go?” He asked skeptically. The wind tried to creep under his clothes.

Paul set his backpack down and walked to the railing. He let his forearms rest on the metal and stared out into the distance where the river wound itself into the horizon and the town was the only source of light, sitting there with its bright dome above itself.

Richard rested the guitar case on the floor and mimicked Paul's posture. He let the atmosphere sink in and slowly began to understand. They were so far away that the river appeared like a barrier between Richard and Wittenberge. They were so high up that in the otherwise flat area they were located above the town as well. The moon stood high above, illuminating them in a soft blue light. Quite the contrast to the orange lights on the other side of the river. Richard remembered Paul had chosen the blue shirt. Had he planned it on purpose? It sounded like him. If he would ask him about it Paul would probably play clueless like he often did, telling him it was a coincidence. But Richard knew better. He knew the other man was calculating a lot more than he would ever admit, because if it didn't work he would at least not have to acknowledge a mistake, and if it worked his plans would appear even more brilliant.

Suddenly Paul turned his head and looked at him. “Can you get your guitar? I'd like to test something.” At the same time he reached for the small bag and took out his camera as well as a specific lens.

“Of course,” Richard complied and went to open his case. The silver guitar waited to be picked up. He liked how the moon reflected on the polish and smiled at it for a moment, before finally taking the instrument out of its case and fastening the strap. When he was done, he rose to his feet. It felt strange to have a guitar around his shoulder that he wasn't about to play. “Where do you want me?” he asked, well aware that he was giving Paul the perfect opportunity for a tongue in cheek comment.

The smaller man took the bite. He barely looked up from his camera where he was trying to find the right settings for a night shooting. “Against the beam, ass stretched out towards me and a cocky grin over your shoulder, if you'd be so kind,” he said and tried to stay serious. Yet a small grin was already tugging on his lips.

Richard was about to reject the request, obviously, but instead he thought it would be even funnier if he would do exactly what Paul was asking. First of all he would rather lean into this stupid humor than give his mind a chance to go back to any depressing thoughts. And second, for years he tried to do something that would leave the other man startled, something he really wasn't ready for. Every now and then he succeeded. So he went to position himself exactly like his friend had suggested and threw his long coat to one side so at least one butt cheek wasn't hidden by the heavy fabric.

The moment he looked over his shoulder, he could see Paul's face in the moonlight. There was surprise in his eyes. And something he couldn't quite grasp. And then he heard a soft and yet sharp click. His finger was pressing the release button without him looking through the ocular. Richard's eyes fell on the lens which stared back at him soullessly. He instantly rose to an upright position again and turned around.

“Blackmail material,” Paul began to grin.

“Keep it for your lonely nights,” Richard shot back jokingly in a generous manner. They occasionally did joke around like this. The whole band did. It would be suspicious not to do so just with Paul. Sometimes it was hard for him, sometimes it was a good tension relief. Right now it was the latter.

Suddenly the grin on Paul's face vanished. He tried to keep it on, but he lost the fight and it slid off his lips.

It took Richard a few heartbeats to realize, why. “Shit,” he said while holding his hands up in a calming gesture and made a step towards the smaller man, “That was a stupid thing to say.”

“It's okay,” Paul tried to brush it off. “I'm fine.”

Richard didn't need much light to see that the smile was fake. “You're not. And I'm sorry.”

The smile was exchanged with a frown. “Why can't we just have a good time together?” Paul didn't seem ready to start a serious discussion.

“Is it a good time if you fake a smile?” the taller man wanted to know and took a deep breath. “I have the best time when we don't hide things from each other.” He knew he was a hypocrite. Not hiding anything would mean confessing his feelings, wouldn't it?

“Fine,” Paul pressed out quietly. “What do you want to hear?!”

His friend was on the brink of shutting down, Richard feared. He knew all those small lighthearted moments had to be fought hard for and they were so easily broken. Still, after the last thirty hours or so his confidence had strengthened. He knew Paul didn't want to retreat in his shell – not really. All he needed was help. “Anything,” he answered and shrugged his shoulders. “A reproachful Richard, too early! would be okay. I had enough of those would be, too. Tell me the joke was over the line, or---”

“Can I … ?” Paul began, but his voice faded. He dropped his gaze.

Richard wished the moon was shining brighter, but it seemed the other man was … scared? He walked a little closer. Waited.

“Paul?” he tried.

Nothing but a deep breath through the nose.

“Hey,” the taller man said after tilting his head to the side, “You can say whatever you like.” He offered a gentle lopsided grin. “You have that photo to blackmail me, remember? So it'll stay between us no matter what.”

Paul closed his eyes. “Can I not stay alone tonight?” he asked. Hesitated. “Please?”

“Of course,” Richard replied gently. Deep inside he was starting to feel utmost joy. Most of all because this was the first time after the shirt incident in the hospital that Paul had asked for help. But also because maybe sleeping in one bed would happen again. It was such a selfish joy but he couldn't help it.

“Okay,” the smaller man mumbled. He sounded relieved.

“Okay,” Richard smiled at him. He watched him fiddle with the settings some more and maybe evade eye contact. Being in this vulnerable state in front of a friend still was new to Paul.
“You can still keep the picture,” Richard grinned to lighten the mood.

It had the wanted effect and the smaller man finally looked up from his task. “You might regret that,” the replied after a moment.

“I know,” the black haired man shrugged nonchalantly. Then he looked around once more. “Alright, now tell me where I have to stand. Or sit. Or whatever you've come up with.” He wanted to direct their conversation back to what they were here for.

Paul closed his eyes for a few seconds, his expression concentrated as if he was pushing a thought aside. Then he nodded, smiled and opened his eyes to point at the beam again. “Can you lean against it? Put a leg against the other one, if you like,” he meant the other iron beam of the v-shaped construction, “First of all I need to see if we have to position the guitar in a certain way.”

Richard did as he was told. He wished he knew what Paul was aiming for. Instead he tried to find a way to lean against the sharp edge of the beam without it hurting his back too much. It helped to support himself with one leg against the other iron beam and rest the guitar on his leg. Paul was walking back and forth, searching for the right angle. Every now and then he came back to Richard and tilted and shifted the instrument a little bit and asked the taller man to keep holding the guitar exactly like that.

While Paul was taking some photos, looked at the results and adjusted either the settings on his camera or Richard's position, the taller man observed him with a curious eye. It was the strangest thing to watch him switch from insecure and shy to fully engulfed in his work and in command within seconds. Paul was telling stories in his own way. The camera was his second voice of art. A silent voice. And yet, every time Richard looked at Paul's photos, he thought he could hear them as well.

“Yes!” Paul exclaimed from a little distance and stared at the display of his camera. With quick steps he walked up to Richard, who rose from his position. They both came to halt right next to each other, their shoulders touching because they both had to look at the tiny screen. Paul zoomed in to show what he was so happy about.

Richard raised a brow. He saw himself, leaning casually against the dark iron beam. The whole photo was drowned in cold clear colors. The guitar was matching his eyes in the moonlight. What caught his attention though was the reflection of the skyline on the body of his instrument. The color contrast between the silver-blue and the orange shades was remarkable.

Of course he would love to offer better poses and there was definitely room for some editing. But even with this test shot Paul had managed to tell the story that Wittenberge wasn't a part of him anymore. That it was over there, and he was here. And all that it was was something that could reflect in his music – if he wanted it to.

“I wasn't sure if I would be able to catch the reflection,” the smaller man started and quickly looked up at him, his smile so wide that the crow's feet reached his ears again. “I'm not happy though with the lighting. And the shadow here leaves too much empty space.” He pointed at the area on the display he was referring to. He went on and Richard tried to listen, but it was hard to concentrate while he realized with how much thought Paul was looking at him. That he tried to tell part of Richard's story. That he cared more than Richard ever gave him credit for.

“Hold this.” Suddenly he had the camera in his hand. The smaller man went to his backpack to get some other items.

“Is there anything I can do?” the lead guitarist asked.

“In a minute, yes,” the other musician replied and went back to Richard. It turned out the items were two portable lights that Paul was now clipping on either side of the iron beam Richard had put his foot against. They were dimmable and the smaller man turned them on just enough to make the picture appear less grainy and have a little more contrast on Richard.

“Go back into position,” Paul told him while he took his camera again. He helped Richard find the right angle to get the reflection back onto his guitar. “Lean your head back against the beam and look at the moon.”

Richard did as he was told, wondering if it wasn't too cheesy.

“Now think of everything you want to say to this place, as if it were a person.”

The moon was so bright it was almost hurting his eyes. He tried to do what Paul was asking of him. Even though it felt strange. He knew he wanted to evoke a certain expression. And it wasn't hard at all to come up with something he would want to say. His mind filled with anger and rage and resentment that it was hard to keep up and even harder to keep his thoughts at bay. He felt his breathing go faster and he felt the muscles in his face tense up.

“Hold that thought,” he heard Paul say, “And look at the town.”

The moment his eyes dropped to the orange line of light at the river, he heard Paul take a chain of pictures. When the clicking noises stopped, Richard let out the air he was suddenly holding. “Can I let go of those thoughts?” he asked.

“Yes,” the smaller man nodded.

“Do we have to do that again?” Richard wanted to know.

Paul quickly looked through the new pictures, obviously scanning more than one detail. Then he smiled. “No,” he answered, “Unless you want to.”

“Hell no!” Richard responded, followed by a quick laugh to signal that he was still okay. “Can I see?”

“Later,” Paul smiled. “On a larger screen.”

He smiled back and understood.

Then Richard's eyes fell on the railroad tracks and a thought hit him. “Paul?”

“Hm?”

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Always.”

It was such a genuine reply Richard could melt. “Would you take a photo of me walking along the tracks?”

Of course he did that. They made sure to have a look every now and then that no train would come. And then Paul would give Richard small directions on how he had to walk along the planks to make the best pictures he could. The taller man walked into the darkness, his guitar on his back, and the long straight rails and bridge leading into infinity.

He didn't even try to ask to have a look this time. He trusted Paul with this. And Paul trusted him, he noted, when he again had the camera in his hands. “Can you take a picture of me?” the smaller man asked.

“Sure,” Richard responded even though he only had a limited understanding of what to do with the device in his hand. “Anything in particular?”

“Yes,” Paul nodded and guided them both to the side of the bridge. Then he took Richard's free hand and held it as tight as he could, while pushing himself up with his legs and his other hand until he was sitting on the railing. He entwined his feet with the iron bars so it was impossible for him to fall. Still Richard hesitated to let go. “Get down!” he told his friend.

“First take the pictures,” Paul begged.

“I don't want you to fall.”

“I know what I'm doing.”

“Famous last words.”

Their eyes met for a small staring contest. Richard couldn't believe it when the smaller man leaned back more and more until he was more or less hanging with his body upside down, his abs still creating the right body tension to stay halfway up.

“Paul, please, come back down!” the lead guitarist asked a second time even though he knew the answer.

“Take the pictures and I will,” the rhythm guitarist grinned, obviously enjoying the situation far too much. Maybe because he could be solely in the moment, his mind unable to think about anything else. Maybe because this was a situation he had complete control over.

Paul stretched both his arms out towards the town in the distance and gave it two middle fingers. Richard lifted the camera up and tried to find a good angle and hit the release several times. He thought they were done now but then Paul formed a heart with his hands and held it towards the skyline of Wittenberge as well. He had a warm smile on his face. It took a moment until Richard was able to take photos of this scene as well.

Only now that he got what he wanted, Paul was willing to pull himself up again and reached for Richard's outstretched hand to jump back down on the grating. The taller man handed him back the camera and sighed. “Why are you doing this to me?” he asked.

“Ah, come on,” Paul tried to calm him down, “I couldn't have fallen down if I wanted to. It's much safer than a lot of stuff we do on stage.”

He should be used to it, Richard told himself. When it came to climbing around, Paul was the smaller version of Olli. He shook his head and once again rested his arms on the railing. He quietly looked down for a while and then into the distance at the skyline. Paul leaned against it with his back and looked up at the sky.

“Why the heart?” Richard asked after a while.

Paul didn't move. The only thing that changed about him was the smile that formed on his lips. “Because of you,” the smaller man responded. “As fucked up as it must have been growing up here, it's still the place that made you you.”

Richard pulled his brows together. His eyes followed every movement on the other man's face.

“Of course I wished for you to have better parents, an easier childhood, all those things. But you're one of the strongest people I know. If you'd had a picture perfect family, you would have turned out differently. And I know, you would have deserved it. But you wouldn't be where you are now. We all wouldn't be.” Paul took a deep breath and then simply went on, “You were the only one who would fight to the blood with me over one single note, over which key to chose, over the tiniest variations. You would never back down because life has taught you so. Because no matter how often you say you believe you're not worth anything, you still fight. Which means that you believe you are worth something. At least some part of you does. Otherwise why would you pick up the fight in the first place.”

Richard's eyes started to water. He didn't know what was happening. Paul was so casually saying this about him, like he was sharing another of his opinions. Did he really think this way about him? Richard was programmed to disagree to most of the things the other man said. But right now he could just stand there and listen. His eyes searched for the town in the distance and he let its lights shimmer through the liquid curtain.

“As your friend I loyally hate this town with you,” the smaller man went on, still smiling gently, “But I wouldn't ever want to change anything about you and since it's a part of you … ,” his voice trailed off for a moment, but Richard could finish the sentence himself. He waited and tried to stop the tears from filling his eyes.

“And I still don't know how to say thank you for the last couple of weeks.” Another small pause. It felt like Paul was summoning all his courage to say this. “I know that you could only be there for me the way you did because you've been through so much yourself. And I'm sorry it took me so long to understand how hard it must have been for you.”

“You don't have to be,” Richard answered although his voice was breaking.

It made Paul turn his head towards him. For a moment they looked at each other. Richard could only see him vaguely. His eyes were swimming and he didn't dare blink. He didn't want the tears to run down.

“It's not a strength to hold back tears, you know?” Paul cited him, but his voice lacked any mocking tone.

The taller man wordlessly lifted his hand to show his friend his outstretched middle finger.

“Stay like this,” Paul whispered.

And Richard did.

The moment he saw the lens of the camera, the maybe visible anger on his features vanished. He let his hand drop and looked at the town in the distance. Everything was a blur. He trusted Paul that he knew why he wanted to take pictures of this moment. Although Richard had no idea how he deserved this. He felt seen. Yes, he, too, didn't ask for this shitty childhood. But in this very moment he felt like all the suffering was worth it. Like it had a purpose. And he didn't need a Thank you from Paul. All he needed was right here.

His gaze found the lens, was reflected in it, and he heard the camera click a last time before Paul slowly lowered the device.

Their eyes met.

Richard felt like he could stare down into Paul's soul.

Did Paul feel the same?

Could he see what Richard was hiding in the deepest corner of his heart?

“Thank you,” Paul finally whispered. Richard didn't know what for. It didn't matter though.

He smiled and Paul smiled back at him. Finally a tear escaped and he quickly caught it with his sleeve.

In the distance the horn of a train echoed through the darkness. It ripped them both out of the strange moment they had together. Paul's eyes lit up and he ran closer to the tracks to have a look where the train was coming from.

Richard watched him check his surroundings and then quickly change the settings on his camera again. “Quick!” Paul told him, “Come over!”

The lead guitarist did as he was told although his mind was still processing Paul's words and his emotions. He couldn't keep track with what was happening. How could Paul?

Maybe because the other man was so different. Because he was able to absolutely exist in the moment. Richard wished he could be like this as well.

Paul positioned them both parallel to the railway tracks almost between the v-shaped beams. He watched the smaller man hold tight to the beam with one arm and did the same. In the distance they could hear the train come closer.

“When I say now, look at me any way you like, but hold still, okay?” Paul said loud enough to be heard.

Richard nodded. From the corner of his eye he saw that the smaller man was holding up his camera. If he was right, he wanted to take a portrait photo of them both, probably with the train in the background.

The train got louder. It was almost there. The railroad tracks started making a whirring sound. And then the horn blew again, loud and almost deafening. It made them laugh from the anticipation.

First came the pressure wave and then the noise, and then, barely audible, Paul's “Now!”

Richard looked into Paul's face which was filled with utter joy and all he could do was laugh as well. He felt his hand hold tight onto the beam and he tried to hold still the best he could. It was so loud and wind was coming from every side and the light from the wagons illuminated their faces and he could hear and see Paul laugh so wholeheartedly. It was so liberating.

And then the train was gone and rattled on towards the town. Richard's face hurt. He felt like he hadn't smiled and laughed like this in a long time.

“And now we should go,” Paul stated with a grin and quickly started to pack his stuff.

“Why?” Richard asked, irritated by the sudden hurry.

“You've heard the train blow the horn a second time?” the smaller man answered and shoved the camera equipment into his backpack as well.

“Yes.”

“That's because they've seen us.” He hoisted the backpack on his shoulders. “And we aren't allowed to be here.”

“You mean … ,” Richard had an idea but hoped he was wrong.

“Police,” Paul replied.

He was right.

“Please don't tell me we have to run,” the black haired man chuckled, not believing all this was happening.

“We don't have to,” Paul replied and closed the empty guitar case before picking it up. The instrument itself was still hanging from Richard's shoulder. “But we should.” Then he laughed and started to run.

“You are kidding me!” Richard laughed and didn't know if Paul was about to prank him or if he was serious. Not wanting to take any risks he followed the smaller man as fast as he could.

They ran and laughed and giggled until they reached the car. Richard climbed into the passenger seat and hugged his guitar because he didn't want to waste time finding a safe place for it. After throwing everything in the trunk, Paul jumped behind the steering wheel and started the engine. He left the lights off and quickly drove the car back up the small path and onto the street. Only now he switched on the headlights and cast a quick glance at Richard. They both were still catching their breath while smiling from ear to ear.

“You've done this before, haven't you,” the taller asked.

Paul just grinned. “Haven't you?” He asked back.

When they reached the smaller bridge, a police car with the emergency lights switched on drove towards and then past them. Again they looked at each other.

“Good that we ran,” Paul said dryly before grinning again.

For a moment Richard just closed his eyes and smiled and shook his head. So much had happened in the last three hours and his mind was unable to process all of it. He decided it didn't have to. What mattered for now was that they had an amazing time together.

~~~

On their way home they exchanged a few words. Not much. They didn't feel the need to.

Paul wanted to edit the photos the next day and then show them to Richard. And they planned to have another one of their talking sessions as well.

Each of them realized how much had happened today and they both craved sleep more than anything.

Only one of them was scared to close his eyes.

~~~

The house was quiet when they got back. It seemed both Flake and Till had already gone to bed or at least retreated in their rooms. So the guitarists tried to make as little noise as possible when they headed upstairs as well.

Richard stuck his head into the bathroom where Paul was busy brushing his teeth while sitting on the rim of the bathtub. “I've already put your blanket on my bed again,” he stated and quickly walked away before Paul could argue against it in any way. To Richard it was clear that it was in his friend's best interest to grant his earlier wish without having him ask a second time.

A few minutes later the smaller man stood in the door.

Hesitated.

Looked at the blanket, then over his shoulder and out to the lightless hallway, then back at the bed.

Then the door was closed. The mattress shifted. And then Richard heard a heavy sigh next to him.

“Still weird for you to be here?” he asked the man to his left.

“I can't sleep alone,” Paul replied with a small smile, “What do you think?”

“At least you can say it straight away,” Richard stated the progress his friend had made. “How about we pretend you just came here to tell me about how you came up with the idea of letting the skyline reflect on my guitar?” he suggested. He really wanted to know.

For a moment Paul looked at him. Seemed to analyze if the other man showed real interest or if he was messing with him. Then he started to explain. And Richard asked questions which Paul willfully answered.

Soon his hands were gesturing vividly and he was telling him all he wanted to know about choosing the right angle and colors and lighting and how there were so many similarities to composing.

And Richard watched those hands dance in the air and listened to that beautiful voice until his eyes grew heavy. He couldn't stop himself from falling into sleep's embrace, leaving Paul behind.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: Rearrangements

Half of his brain woke up.

He was too tired for the other half.

He felt another body lying pressed firmly against his side.

His brain didn't fully comprehend, who it was or why.

All he was able to realize was that he liked the feeling of it.

He wanted to bring his arm up and hold the body against his own, but before he could, exhaustion had made him drift off into unconsciousness once more.

~~~

Richard's ears registered birds singing. It took him a moment to open his eyes. It was so god damn cosy in this bed, warm and soft. His blanket was pulled up halfway over his face and his head lay gently bedded on the pillow. The temptation to try and go back to sleep was almost irresistible.

He closed his eyes again and listened to his own breathing and the birds for a minute. Then he gave a huge yawn and stretched his body, kicking down the blanket in the process. When his arms came to rest at his sides again, he opened his lids once more and looked to the side.

The mattress next to him was empty.

Paul's blanket was lying at the edge of the bed in huge folds.

Richard let his palm glide over the sheets next to him. They were cold. Paul must have gotten up a while ago.

He sat up and looked at his watch. It was too early for him to get up, considering that there wasn't any schedule to follow. But he wished he knew where Paul was.

So he got out of bed, went to the hallway and carefully knocked on Paul's door. When no one answered, he opened it, but the room was empty.

Flake's door stood wide open, but the keyboarder wasn't around either. So Richard assumed that the two most likely sat in the kitchen together. He tried to calm himself and reminded himself that yesterday had been such a great day. That he couldn't possibly have an eye on the smaller guitarist at all times. Paul had probably woken up even earlier and fled the bed like he was doing lately. No need to worry.

With that in mind he went to the bathroom and started his usual morning routine. When he checked his reflection he was surprised how well rested he looked. It made him smile.

He remembered what had happened yesterday. The bad things, but more than that the good. Oh, all those good things. The growing trust, the loving words, the silent gestures. Hearing Paul laugh like this again. He knew it was only a short moment of light in Paul's darkness. Barely more than a lit matchstick burning against the pitch-black nothing. He knew the smaller man was trying his best to cope. And fight.

With his toothbrush in mouth he looked out of the window into the courtyard. It looked like it must have been raining earlier. The cobblestones glistened a little against the early light. Now the sun was climbing over the horizon and slowly flooded the land with a soft orange light. He turned around and let his gaze wander over to the many different towels, then to the pyramid someone had stacked with their toilet paper, over to the rubber duck in a rocker outfit, the shelves with all their toiletries, until his gaze came to a halt looking at the cups for their toothbrushes where he now placed his as well. It was funny that he could easily tell which item belonged to whom, except for the rubber duck, that had suddenly appeared and no one had admitted to be the owner.

He went back to his room and changed into some comfortable clothes, when a thought hit him. He hasted back into the bathroom and looked out of the window again. But even after pushing himself on his tiptoes he didn't see what he was looking for.

His heart began beating faster and he turned on his heels, hurried along the hallway, down the stairs and out into the open. He didn't even feel the wet stones against his bare feet. “No!” he whispered, turned around as if by some miracle the car that he was looking for would appear again. He knew Paul had parked it right in front of the door.

Not sure what to make of it, he went back inside. Paul's boots were gone. So was his jacket.

Richard took a deep breath and tried not to think the worst had happened, but it was hard. The house was so silent. His fear didn't have to be loud to be heard in his head.

He went to the kitchen door and pressed down the handle. Hopefully someone was there.

“Morgen,” Till greeted him. He was sitting on the bench, casually leaning back. The greeting was melodic, the Mor- deep and rumbling, the -gen in a soft higher baritone. The singer was all by himself in the large room, only accompanied by a cup of tea and a simple roll.

Richard looked into his huge eyes and was glad that he'd found at least someone. “Paul's car is gone,” he got right to the point. He felt his heart beat in his chest.

“I know,” Till replied and nodded once. He didn't seem fazed by it.

Richard shook his head, not understanding what was going on. “Where has he gone?”

“Who?”

“What do you mean, who? Paul.” his voice was still surprisingly quiet.

“He went playing his guitar,” the singer shrugged and offered Richard a gentle smile. “I'm asking, because Flake has taken Paul's car and is on his way home to see his family.”

“ … Pardon?” The relief over the first information was instantly overshadowed by the second one.

Till pushed the closest chair a little further away from the table with his foot. “Why don't you sit down for a minute? You're making me nervous, standing there all fidgety.”

Richard didn't do him the favor. Instead he intently looked at him, took a deep breath, and pulled his brows together for a heartbeat or two. “So, Paul is still here?” he asked.

“Yes,” Till answered slowly, stating the obvious. He tilted his head to the side and waited expectantly.

It was strange how one word was enough to make his fear disappear. Richard blinked, looked at the chair that waited for him, and then turned around to get a mug from the cupboard to place it under the coffee machine. It was one of those moments where caffeine was actually soothing. Both men stayed quiet until Richard was finally sitting down.

The singer still remained silent and watched his long time friend patiently. He knew Richard usually wasn't talkative in the morning. Neither was he. But right now it seemed there was something to be discussed. “Why did you think Paul might have left?” Till asked in a calm voice.

Their eyes met and Richard instantly regretted sitting down. Every time Till looked at him like this and asked questions in such a direct way, he felt like the other man knew everything already. He stared out of the window for moment. “Just a feeling,” he mumbled eventually. Luckily the answer seemed to be enough. For now.

They fell quiet again. Every now and then someone sipped on their beverage and Till went back to reading something in the notebook that was waiting patiently on the table.

Richard wondered if Paul could sleep well last night, too. He remembered a body close to his, but couldn't be sure if it had just been a dream or not. He didn't wake up by one of Paul's nightmares. Did that mean there was none? Or did he just not notice?

Then a realization hit him. “Flake went home?” He asked, as if hearing it the first time wasn't enough.

The singer nodded, looked up and drank some more tea. “Just for today.”

“Why?”

“Longing to see his family, I guess. Or some other spontaneous feeling.” The older man shrugged. “You know him,” he said as if that would explain everything. Strangely enough it oftentimes did. “And he knows Paul is well looked after so he dared to escape for one day.” Another sip from the cup, before a broad index finger was pointed at Richard. “Point proven, by the way.”

Richard quickly calculated which response would be least suspicious since he indeed seemed to be under observation of some kind. “Flake and you practically pressured me into this position, remember?” Offense is the best defense, or how did the proverb go?

“Into showing him how to express his feelings, yes, maybe,” the singer responded.

“Definitely!” Richard corrected.

“But yesterday you two were attached to the hip. And not for the first time,” Till went on casually.

The guitarist decided to let out a low unnerved “M-hm.” The rest of the answer would the quiet do for him.

The singer simply smiled to himself and looked down at his book again to make some notes. Richard followed the lines of the pen. How words appeared on the paper and some were crossed out immediately, how others were written above them or below. Too sad he couldn't read it from here.

“And Paul approved Flake driving his car?” he asked, both curious about the decision and at the same time trying to move the conversation into a different direction.

Till kept writing, but a smirk crossed his lips. “He doesn't know yet.”

It made the guitarist put down his mug immediately. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” Their eyes met once more. “Saw the keys on the table and used the opportunity.”

“Couldn't he wait until Paul was up?” Richard replied and tried not to role his eyes. Flake just disappearing as he liked would never change, it seemed.

“Paul was up before everyone else,” Till said, “I found him standing in the doorway on his way to the barn. We've barely exchanged more than a couple of words.” He took his half eaten roll into his hand. “Told me he needed to play for a while. So when Flake came down later and asked where Paul was, I told him he seemed to need time for himself.” The singer shrugged. “Soon after he just drove away.”

All Richard could do was sigh. He was glad he wasn't involved in this and could watch from the sideline. He drank the last of his coffee and stood up. “I'll check if he needs anything.” He said to Till who nodded at him.

“Do that,” the singer replied and turned to his notebook once more.

~~~

With a cigarette between his lips Richard walked over to the barn. He needed to see that Paul was alright. With all of yesterday's events he had thought the other guitarist would need to sleep more than a few hours. And if he understood correctly Paul hadn't eaten breakfast and had another flashback at the door. He had an uneasy feeling and dearly wished he interpreted more into this than there actually was.

When he entered the small room with all the shelves and tools, he waited and listened for a moment. But it stayed silent and made him wonder. He put out his cigarette in the ashtray on the wooden table and entered their makeshift rehearsal room.

It was empty.

All their equipment lay dormant. Richard let his eyes scan everything for any signs of someone being here recently. But there was nothing. No blinking lights, no running screen, no soft humming coming from a speaker, no jacket over the back of a chair. Even Paul's guitar lay gently placed on a hay bale.

He took a deep breath to push away his frustration.

On his way out he lit another cigarette and went to the driveway. In case Paul might have had a bad start of the day, maybe he had looked for an opportunity to spend time with the neighbor's dog again. But outside the house across the road there was no one. The gate was closed as well. For a moment Richard's eyes lingered on the pallets with orderly stacked gray bricks. He wondered if they had already been there yesterday.

He made his way back to the barn to open the bigger door and check if at least the second minibus was still there. He was relieved that it was.

Before he would alert Till, he would give it a shot and check the garden first. He remembered Paul chopping wood the other day.

When he walked around the barn it was still quiet. Only some birds were singing. But there was no wind and a soft hint of fog lingered in the air. The sun was still slowly rising in the east, spreading a warm orange light over the cold morning and drawing long shadows on the with morning dew glistening grass. Richard took a moment to breathe the fresh air and take in the atmosphere.

In the distance his eyes caught the silhouette of someone sitting on the wooden fence. He walked closer. Slowly. Carefully. He felt the damp meadows slowly soak the lower part of his pants.

The person on the fence was definitely Paul. He could recognize him almost immediately. He was playing his acoustic guitar, it seemed. The closer he got, the better he could hear him play. A few meters away on the other side of the fence stood a small group of cows on their pasture. They seemed interested in what the human was doing and listened, while their breath formed small clouds in the chilly air.

The sight made Richard smile and immediately lifted his mood. Paul probably grinned from ear to ear because he had found such an unexpected audience. But then again there were the little signs that seemed off. No gentle bobbing of the head. No moving the foot to the beat. The way Paul plugged the strings. There was an audible difference.

Even though he must have heard Richard approach, Paul didn't stop. And so the taller guitarist came to a halt to the right of him and leaned against the fence. He rested his arms on the wood and entwined his fingers. His eyes focused on the animals and the scattered trees in the distance. “Here you are,” he finally said.

Paul didn't respond and acted as if Richard wasn't there. It fueled the feeling that something wasn't right.

“Seems like you've found yourself an audience?” the taller man tried again. He push himself to smile so his friend could hear it.

Still no reaction. Just a calm melody in a peaceful scenery.

“Do you want me to leave you...” Richard asked and while he said it, he finally turned his head to look at Paul. He had to force himself to finish the sentence, “... alone?” The smaller man looked like the day they had made him leave his home. Tired, with ashen skin and shadows under his eyes. Worst of all was his expression. The hollow stare into the distance.

He instantly knew it had been the wrong question.

Paul nodded and closed his eyes.

As much as he tried, Richard didn't understand. Paul had told him that yesterday had been such a good day for him. What had happened in the last couple of hours?

He ignored Paul's wish to be left alone and instead climbed up the fence to sit next to his friend. The melody kept playing and the cows seemed amused to have not one but two humans to stare at. “What's wrong?” he asked carefully.

The smaller man didn't react for a while. He left his eyes closed and eventually shook his head.

“Have I done something wrong?” Richard wanted to know.

Again Paul shook his head.

It was tough for the lead guitarist to stay calm. He needed answers. Anything to understand why it felt like they were back to square one all of a sudden. Paul had clearly retreated in his shell and no one but he himself could give him a reason why. If he was honest to himself part of why it was secretly driving him mad was because Paul did something that Richard usually would do himself every once in a while. He had shut the others off so many times because he didn't want to talk, didn't want to explain himself, didn't want anyone around. Paul unintentionally giving him a taste of his own medicine stung.

But it usually wasn't in Paul's nature to refuse to talk. That was the difference.

“Then why the silent treatment?”

Another shake of the head, this time as if wanting to signal that he couldn't say.

Richard wanted to scream at him. Rip him out of this state. It was the hospital situation all over again. Only one difference left him with a thin string of hope: He had managed to get him out of this state before. He could again. And it helped to remind himself of what Paul's sister had said. That she believed that her brother was stuck. He needed help even though he didn't know how to ask for it. Especially since he didn't know how to ask for it.

“You look tired.”

One of the cows started ripping some grass from the ground.

Paul kept playing and this time acted as if Richard wasn't there. The taller man took as a sign to dig deeper.

“Did you sleep at all?”

He didn't get an answer to that either. There was only a melody that was so unlike Paul as was his behavior.

He listened for a while and waited. Then, Richard reached out with his hand. “Paul,” he asked as gently as he could, “What happened between yesterday and now?” The moment he touched the other man's shoulder, Paul stopped his play and shied away from the hand. He looked up at the sky as if pleading for whatever it was that he wanted. Then his lips parted as if he was about to say something. They trembled. He closed his eyes. The words wouldn't come and he bit down on his bottom lip. Slowly his face contorted in a display of agony and he bent down as far as the instrument on his lap allowed. His hand let go of the neck of the guitar. He balled it into a fist and hammered it on the wood plank they were sitting on. It startled the cows and they moved away a bit. He slammed the fist down again and again and again and a fourth time and a fifth.

Richard let him. He watched Paul press his guitar against his chest and try to calm his breathing. He just sat at Paul's side. Waited. Didn't know what to ask and wanted to give him the space he needed. He watched him slowly open his eyes and blankly stare at the damp grass. His features relaxed until there was only sadness left.

“I was alone,” Paul suddenly whispered. It sounded like he was dragging the words out into the open against their will. “And I don't know how … .” His voice stopped. He shook his head. And then he lost the battle against everything inside him that wanted to escape from the situation. He climbed down from the fence and quickly walked away towards the farmyard.

Richard held tight to the fence and turned around the best he could to follow Paul with his eyes. His heart beat fast in his chest and he only realized it now that he, too, was alone. The slamming on the wood, he analyzed quickly. A memory of the violent beats of his stepfather. And of course the fear of having hurt Paul. A strange mix. Unpleasant.

He shoved the feelings aside the best he could while Paul walked past the hazelnut bushes, his guitar held by the neck. He wanted to call him back, but knew it would be futile. “But I was with you,” he whispered to himself in a thoughtful question. Paul was referring to last night, that much he knew. He made him stay in his bed again. He did what Paul had asked for on the bridge, didn't he?

He went through all the things Paul had told him about his fear to fall asleep, what awaited him there, how much he dreaded the nightmares, how he was scared to the bones of not waking up again. He knew all that. That's why he didn't have to think twice about doing everything to be there for him.

And then he realized the missing part. Paul had told him that, too.

He remembered the night he had asked the smaller guitarist to close his eyes. That it would make it easier to fall asleep.

If I do, you're gone and I'm alone, Paul had said.

He remembered the body contact he had provided for the other man so he would know that he was there and he wouldn't go anywhere. He showed him something Paul could see without his eyes.

And then the dots connected.

Paul had held tight to him when he had fallen asleep on the sofa the first day they had arrived. He had clung to his wrist while laying in bed together after Paul had taken the sleeping pill. He had calmed down from the one nightmare after Richard had started touching his hand. He had reached out like a reflex when Richard tried to take his hand away. Had made a discontent sound when Richard had stopped stroking Paul's hair while he was asleep. He had slept through in the gentle embrace. He had slept in the car while holding tight to Richard's jacket as a proxy for his arm.

And last night?

He didn't remember holding him.

“Fuck.”

Such a stupid detail!

Did Paul know that he needed the body contact? Was this what he didn't know how …. what? How to ask for? How to tell Richard? How to find the words for?

Now that he thought of it it was obvious. Paul's body language was saying what his voice couldn't.

Talking made him feel like an open nerve, that's what he had said himself. And asking for being held as a grown man was hard. Even Richard would have struggled.

Yet the talking through his body seemed to work for Paul without him realizing it and Richard was so focused on the spoken word that he had left the obvious alternative out of sight. He promised himself to listen closer to everything the smaller guitarist was saying without his voice.

Paul needed to feel safe more than anything. He said, that most of the time he didn't. Said that playing his guitar helped. Was that why he had been playing out here? To give himself some small share of safety that Richard missed to offer him?

Paul had long vanished out of sight. And Richard finally climbed down from the fence and followed him. It wasn't his fault and yet he felt guilty.

~~~

He did some yoga for himself to release some tension and find some inner focus again. He wished he could have gone for a swim instead and really let it all out, but there was no option here. So instead he chose yoga exercises that were really hard to hold and left no room for other thoughts than keeping the balance and body tension.

After a short shower he felt centered again and tried his luck approaching Paul again. He knocked on his door and after a moment it was answered by a cautious “Come in.”

He found him sitting on the window sill by the wide open window, one leg bent and the other dangling down above the floor. He was wearing the black knitted cardigan. The one with holes and loose threads. The one he loved so much and seemed to want to wear to death. While looking expectantly at Richard he took out the second ear bud before wrapping the cable around his phone and placing the device on the window sill.

Outside the clouds gathered in the sky, bit by bit drawing the world in darker, colder colors.

Richard walked a few steps towards the other man. It was hard to believe this was the same man he'd been running with along the bridge last night. “I,” he began, but instead of another word a soft sigh followed. It was so hard to talk to this new side of Paul. “I just want you to know, that I'm here whenever you want to talk about it.” He didn't mean just words, but knew that was the only thing his friend expected.

Paul just turned his head and looked out of the window.

“I want you to know that whatever it is, I can handle it, okay?” the lead guitarist went on.

He watched the other man blink slowly and stay silent.

“You're not alone,” Richard told him.

It seemed to have hit a nerve as Paul pulled his brows together.

For a while they both endured the silence.

To Richard's surprise it was Paul who broke it. “It doesn't have anything to do with you,” the smaller man said.

I don't believe that's true, Richard thought. “Does that matter?” he asked instead. “I'm here no matter what.” Tentatively he made another step towards Paul. He wanted to try and see if he could offer body contact. A hand on the shoulder. Anything. But the moment he came closer, Paul's shoulders tensed up as if he was bracing himself for something unpleasant. So Richard stopped. Recalculated. Breathed. “All I'm asking is that you don't retreat completely, okay? Don't hide in that shell of yours.”

The smaller man blinked again and then nodded slowly. “I promise I'll try.”

“Just be there with us,” Richard replied.

They'd had such a great connection yesterday. Where has it gone? Why couldn't he get it back? What happened to Paul every time he vanished as if being behind bulletproof glass.

The rhythm guitarist nodded again. “Okay,” he whispered and picked up his phone again. He fiddled with the earphones to take them back into his ears. I non-verbal sign that he wanted to end the conversation.

Richard didn't know what to say, anyway. He needed Paul to make the next step and now wasn't the right time. So he turned and walked towards the door. Then a thought hit him and he looked over his shoulder. “Do you know Flake has taken your car?” he asked.

Paul nodded. “He confessed it to me in a message,” he replied and lifted his phone up a little.

“I hope you're not mad at him.”

The smaller man shrugged his shoulders. And then, barely there, was a small smile. “I know who I'm friends with.”

Their eyes met and Richard felt like Paul didn't only mean Flake. He returned the smile and left the room, closing the door behind him.

~~~

It happened without having to talk about it.

Outside the weather had changed for the worse over the last hour. Dark clouds had been spreading out across the sky and soon enough it was pouring down so heavily that it felt like night was on the rise.

Till had made himself comfortable in the living room after starting a nice cosy fire in the fire place. He was reading something on his tablet and again made notes in his book that he carried around half of the time.

A while later Richard joined him with his guitar, keyboard and laptop under his arm. After making sure he wouldn't disturb the older man, he got the rest of his most basic equipment and sat down by the coffee table to go on composing and writing with his headphones on. Before he started working, he went to make some tea and placed a mug in front of Till as well. He also told him about the current situation with Paul. Not much though, since he didn't know much himself.

Another half an hour later Paul came down the circular stairs with his own laptop and quietly sat down on the floor right next to the window that faced to the meadows. The rain was running down the smooth surface. He balanced his laptop on his crossed legs. His mouse was gliding over the wooden floor and soon enough every now and then a soft click filled the air.

From his spot Richard could only look at Paul if he turned his head a little – a movement too obvious to do it too often. But he tried to check if the other man was as okay as he could be. It was a good sign that he showed up after all. Paul didn't really want to cut himself off from the others. He didn't want to feel this way. He took the help that was offered, although on his own terms. And if that meant sitting huddled in a corner, it was still better than the alternative.

It was a good atmosphere. They all where focused on their tasks. It was quiet among them. Each of them existed in his own little world, feeling safe enough to be creative in each other's company, but respected the respective privacy all the same. Richard had no idea what Paul was working on until he went for a smoke and took it as an excuse to walk past the smaller man and try to get a glimpse at his screen. He was editing the photos from the day before it seemed like.

At some point Till got up and returned with a plate full of sandwiches for each of them. After placing one of them next to Richard's keyboard, he leaned closer and waited for the lead guitarist to get the hint and pull his headset from one ear. “Get out your phone,” the singer whispered before sitting back down on his side of the sofa.

Richard raised a questioning brow but nonetheless did as he was asked. He watched Till lean back and skip through his notes in his book. Nothing else happened.

So eventually Richard put the phone next to his keyboard, put the headphones back on properly and turned his attention to the harmonies he needed to polish. It was maddening. They didn't have the bite he was looking for an he was glad he was the only one who was able to hear what he was playing.

A few minutes later the display on his phone lit up. He took the device in his hand and read the new message. He looks at you every now and then Till had written.

Richard stared at the words for a moment. Reproachfully? he typed and pressed send.

The singer shook his head. Expectantly.

Great. What am I supposed to do?

Till pulled up one corner of his mouth for a second. I'm the wrong person to ask that.

Richard didn't know what to make of this and he couldn't just ask Paul, either. So he decided to leave his work on the harmonies be for now and opened a completely knew recording session to play freestyle and let out all his confusion and frustration on his keyboard. He didn't know why he didn't want to play on his guitar instead. Maybe because he didn't want to be heard by the others but still wanted to do this in both their presence.

Every now and then Till sent him a message, asking him about yesterday.

Every now and then he answered but only gave him small breadcrumbs. He wanted yesterday to be a time that in a way only belonged to Paul and him. Richard wasn't sure if Till noticed. But, as inconvenient as it could be for everyone around him, Till was remarkable in reading other people.

When they least expected it, Paul's phone rang.

The rhythm guitarist pulled it out of his pocket and stared at the display. It rang again. And a third time.

Richard watched him and wondered what might be going through his head right now. Who was calling him? Usually he answered the thing almost instantly. Why was he hesitating?

It rang a fourth time.

Didn't he want to answer it? Did he fear it?

A fifth time.

Was he triggered? Was his mind frozen?

A sixth time.

When Richard was about to look at Till for an exchange by eye contact, with the seventh ringing Paul finally used the right button.

“Landers?” he spoke.

Richard heard Till put his book down on the table. His eyes where glued on Paul, who listened carefully, his back straight and his gaze staring at his laptop display.

“Yes, I remember,” the other guitarist said.

“---” Sadly Richard couldn't hear anything that was said on the phone. So he just tried as inconspicuously as possible to observe the smaller man.

“How sure are you?” Paul asked. He absentmindedly clicked around on his mouse a couple of times and listened patiently to whatever the other person was telling him.

“---”

“Okay. And … that happened yesterday, you said?”

“---”

But-”

“---”

“Yes, that's what I was going to ask.”

“---” This time the person on the other end of the line was talking even more than they already did.

Till got up from his seat and collected all their empty mugs, probably taking care of a refill. After picking up the mug at Paul's side, he walked to the kitchen with a small smile on his lips and Richard wondered why.

“I understand,” Paul said. His voice was starting to shake a little. “And now?”

“---”

The smaller guitarist shook his head no, but didn't say anything.

“---”

“And what if the others find out and-”

“---”

Paul took a deep audible breath. Then he looked out of the window, out into the rain. “Do I have a choice?”

“---”

“That's even worse.”

“---”

“Okay.” He leaned his temple against the glass. “When do I have to be there?”

“---”

Till came back with the mugs and placed them down on the coffee table before bringing the last one to Paul.

“Can I call you back? I'll have to arrange the flight and everything first.” He sounded devastated and still collected.

“---”

Till squatted down next to Paul and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, to which he guitarist turned his head and looked back at him. “Okay, I'll call you as soon as I can.” He nodded. “Bye.”

“Who was that?” the singer asked instantly.

“Vienna police,” Paul replied after he had hung up.

Richard sat up straight instantly.

“What did they want?” Till wanted to know.

Instead of answering, Paul looked at his phone, dialed a number and held the device to his ear. Till wasn't offended. Especially not when it became clear that Paul was calling their management and had to explain everything anyway.

Yesterday they had finally been able to arrest two suspects. It were only two of the five or six or more attackers, but it was a start. Now they invited Paul to a police lineup which meant that he had to travel to Vienna. Of course he didn't want to go on his own. Too high were the chances that whoever planned the attack a few weeks ago would now wait for him. So he asked if any of their bodyguards were available and when. That of course none of the other band members should come with him because as long as they couldn't be sure all the attackers were locked up for good and the investigation was still ongoing, it wasn't safe and he wouldn't drag anyone else into this.

Richard and Till both wanted to protest, but they spared him the unnecessary discussion.

When management put Paul on hold to reach their security staff, Till took the liberty to ruffle through Paul's hair like a big brother would do. “You can come sit on the couch, if you like,” he told him and got up. He fed the fire with two more logs and sat down in his spot on the sofa again.

Paul stayed where he was and waited patiently, his eyes every now and again switching between the rain outside and the display of his laptop.

Eventually management told him what they could make possible and Paul agreed. Then he hung up and called the police again.

“You said Sunday would be possible as well?” he asked after the obligatory greetings.

“---”

“Alright, then let's do this next Sunday. How long will it take?” He probably needed to know if he could fly back on the same day, Richard mused.

“---”

They talked some more on the phone until finally Paul said goodbye and hung up. He sent a text message to someone and then closed his eyes to take a few deep breaths. Then he got up and walked to the kitchen.

Till and Richard used the moment to look at each other and agreed they would wait if the other man would return or if they would need to check on him. But only a minute later Paul was in the living room again and sat down on the floor by the window. Richard was disappointed he still didn't join them but kept his distance.

“Why Sunday?” the singer wanted to know.

“Less people at the police station, management had hinted to me,” Paul answered before drinking some of his tea.

“Makes sense,” Till replied. He hesitated for a moment. “If you change your mind, we'll gladly join you-”

“No,” Paul interrupted him immediately, but didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. The tone had ended the discussion. He simply went back to work.

Push him and he'll retreat even further Richard messaged the singer. And he watched him make a face that showed how much he wanted to strangle Paul right now.

Eventually Till seemed to remind himself that this wasn't the Paul he was used to and that he should trust Richard on this one. I really wish they would have attacked me instead he wrote after a while.

~~~

They kept spending the day together by the fire. Till and Richard eventually found a way to work together for some time and then switched to some non-work-related entertainment. Paul however did his own stuff and couldn't be moved to participate in anything else.

When Richard went outside for the umpteenth time to have a smoke and keep himself from screaming in frustration, he found the rain had stopped. He also was met by the rooster and, a little further down the driveway, also the shaggy dog. The neighbor really had an issue with keeping his animals inside his premises. While the fowl was searching for the perfect spot to start its anguished serenade, the dog slowly trotted towards Richard.

He liked dogs, but not nearly as much as Paul did. While smoking his cigarette slowly, he scratched the animal behind the ear a couple of times, before he had an idea. He went back inside with the cigarette still burning, and called out as loud as he could for the whole house to hear: “PAUL!” Having a singer's voice definitely had its advantages.

He left the door open and went back outside to keep the dog some company. It was such a friendly animal. Quite dirty, but he didn't care. Clothes could be washed. He just hoped the other man had heard him.

Two minutes later Paul stood at the entrance and gave Richard an irritated look. Yet the moment the dog saw the smaller guitarist, it went to greet him with all the unconditional love only such an animal could offer. Richard smiled to himself as Paul's mood lightened second by second until he smiled as well and talked to the dog with a soft voice and even softer words.

Behind them the rooster neared and, only two meters behind Richard, started its daily routine of noise pollution. It hurt in both guitarist's ears. So much so that Paul even had do stop petting the dog and looked at Richard with a tormented expression.

The lead guitarist tilted his head to the side. “Shall we bring them back?” he shouted.

Paul just nodded, before they both made their way along the driveway. The dog happily encircled both of them, while the rooster followed slower, but louder. This is a circus, Richard thought to himself.

They wordlessly walked side by side, only chuckling to themselves because of the unique entourage. When they reached the neighbor's fence, Paul rang the bell at the low wooden gate. It took a while until the old man appeared at his door, walked down the couple of stairs and came over to them across the small front garden.

“Winfried!” Paul greeted him in an put-on joyfulness for which Richard would smack him right across the face if he'd ever try to deceive him like this. Or had he done it before and Richard hadn't noticed?
“Paul!” the old man replied and they both shook their hands. “And who's this nice young man?”
Richard had to try his best not to snort at the remark. Young? Maybe from the old man's perspective he was. “Richard,” he introduced himself and stretched his hand out.

Behind them the rooster was about to cross the small road with a last attempt to scream. Then it went silent.

“Your dog escaped,” Paul explained their visit. He didn't seem to feel the need to mention the fowl as well.

“I'm so sorry!” Winfried replied and opened the gate to let the animals in. The rooster chose to slip through the fence instead. “I hope they didn't bother you too much?”

If he could cage in the rooster and lend them the dog, he might actually help them, Richard thought to himself. But of course he couldn't say that.

It was Paul who told him that he believed the bird had a death wish and Winfried laughed wholeheartedly at that before agreeing. He had some hens as well and every time the rooster tried to start his calls, they would bully him. So the rooster escaped and sang his ill- tuned songs elsewhere. The neighbor told them that with so much charm that Richard noted how much he liked to listen to that man.

Paul asked him about the pallets of bricks in his driveway and Winfried told him how he planned to gradually exchange the fence with a real wall. Mostly as a protection against the wind. And of course safety. And it would make it harder for the animals to escape.

The safety aspect had Richard wondering, since he didn't believe anyone would find their way out here. The neighbor's answer remained vague, but he told them it was a pity that as much as he tried, he wasn't able to train the dog to become fierce and protective of its home. So instead he needed to secure his house in other ways. He wanted to repair the fence in the next days, too, so the dog wouldn't get out so easily. Paul instantly volunteered to help. Richard wanted to stop him but it was too late.

They talked some more about anything and everything. And as much as he tried, Richard couldn't find anything suspicious or alarming about the old man. Not at all peculiar. Just an old nice man who despite his age wasn't satisfied with staying in an armchair in front of the television. Who kept himself busy and seemed funny and eloquent. The lead guitarist could understand Paul's view, now. He didn't understand the warning.

And that was what he told Paul on their way back to the house.

“Told you,” the smaller man replied with a shrug.

~~~

Paul only joined them in the kitchen for a small dinner. He was back to forcing the food down. Richard acknowledged that he at least tried.

After that the smallest of them excused himself that he wanted to go upstairs to spent some time alone and said his early good night.

While Till was filling the dish washer, Richard went to the calendar on the wall and wrote down Flake's name in the field for the following day. The keyboarder had excused himself and written in their group chat that he liked to stay at home at least another day do to unforeseeable events. They mocked him a little, but since two other band members weren't around as well, there was no harm in him returning a day or two later.

Richard's eyes scanned the calendar. Paul had put down his absence from Saturday to Sunday with a maybe to Monday. Still four more days to make him change his mind and accept company aside from a bodyguard. He had no idea how big of a deal such a police lineup was for the smaller man.

His eyes switched to Till's name entry for tomorrow. It was his dentist appointment. Richard was sure Till had mentioned it before but his mind was so busy, he might have forgotten about it. It meant for at least a few hours tomorrow he would be alone here with Paul.

~~~

When nighttime came, Richard went to bed but let his door open. He hadn't tried to approach Paul about sleeping in one bed again. He didn't lack the courage. He simply lacked the energy to go through another setback today.

He knew no one was angry at him, he hadn't done anything wrong yesterday. Falling asleep if deadly tired isn't wrong. And yet he knew he had done something, or rather hadn't done something, and it had erased so much of the progress Paul had made. At least that's what it felt like.

For a while he actively tried to stay awake by recording a small loving voice message for each of his children to listen to whenever they would have time for it. After that he read some pages in the book he had brought along. Eventually he put the book aside, switched off the bedside lamp and turned around to close his eyes.

His mind had other plans. It didn't want him to come to rest. It kept going through all the little details of today, overanalyzing them, overthinking again.

Then he heard a loud sharp noise coming from one of the other rooms. As if something heavy had fallen on the floor or against the wall. He sat up, but before he could even think about getting up, he already heard a door open. Then another door. Then there was some light falling into the part of the hallway that he could see from his bed. He listened closely.

He heard Till's voice. He didn't understand what he was saying, but it sounded caring.

Then he could hear Paul talk as well. His voice seemed colder than usual. Distant.

The light in the hallway faded and then he heard a door close. Then it was almost quiet.

He got up and walked to his doorframe and peeked around the corner. Till's room stood wide open but the lights were out. The singer had clearly walked into Paul's room. He could see shadows move through the gap under his door. He wished he could understand what they were saying to each other.

Then the door opened quite forcefully and Till came out. Richard quickly pulled his head back so he wouldn't be seen.

“Suit yourself,” the singer sighed frustrated, “But think about how you'll feel in the morning.”

He heard a door slam shut and with it the light was gone again. So it was Paul's.

Then there were heavy footsteps until Till had retreated into his own room.

Richard waited if the silence would be disturbed again, but it wasn't. He wondered what had happened. He didn't like the slightly scolding undertone in Till's last words. Neither the door being slammed shut. For a moment he thought about going to Paul's room and ask what's going on, but his gut told him to leave him alone.

So he let his door open and went to bed again. He definitely wouldn't be able to go to sleep, though. Not right now. He worried what the loud noise had been.

For a long time he listened to the quiet of the darkness, telling himself with every passing minute that the silence was a good thing.

Then there was a soft click in the distance. Then bare feet on the floor. He immediately knew who it was.

A door was opened. Bare feet on tiles. A door was shut. Then silence again. Water running. Silence again. A door opened. Bare feet on wood, coming closer. Then a shadow in his doorway.

Richard reached around to switch on his bedside lamp and looked at Paul who stood rooted to the spot with his blanket over his shoulders. He looked like shit.

For a long minute they stared at each other, each of them waiting for the other one to make the first move. Richard waited for a question and Paul probably for permission.

In the end Richard's impatience won. “Come here and lay down already,” he muttered.

Paul did as he was told and turned his back towards the other guitarist.

Richard shook his head with a small smile and switched off the lights again. He scooted closer until he could easily place his arm around Paul's waist. He instinctively stretched his palm and covered as much of the other man's belly and chest as he could, giving him the feeling of being held. It was all he could do at this point. It was all that he wanted to do. Both for Paul and for himself. He wanted to comfort him, yet didn't want to give him more comfort than this. Not without having him finally talk or ask or even demand if he would dare to. If only the reoccurring silence would end. Yet part of him yearned for body contact. He wished there was more of it and feared it at the same time. But it felt so good. The warmth. The movements he felt under his fingertips. The scent. He wanted to press his nose into the nape right in front of him. He knew it was one of Paul's most sensitive spots. Of course he didn't. He left it to his imagination and instead enjoyed feeling how the other body slowly relaxed in his arms.

“Paul?” he eventually asked.

The other man reacted slowly. “M-hm?”

“I have a request,” he started, barely louder than a whisper.

The smaller man turned around as far as was needed to be able to look over his shoulder.

The eye contact, even in the darkness, made it harder for Richard to go on, but he needed to get it off his chest. “You said you can't sleep alone, right?”

A soft sigh. “Ja.”

“Then please don't wait an hour to come over,” he went on and left aside the small dispute Till and Paul must have had earlier, “Just come here.”

He watched Paul stare at him in the darkness, before he nodded. His hair rustled softly against the pillow.

“And if you don't feel safe enough, tell me what you need. Or that you don't feel safe and we figure it out together.”

Another nod.

“And if I fall asleep before you do and---”

“I'll wake you up,” Paul whispered.

“Please,” Richard replied and smiled. “Anything so you know you're not alone.”

The smaller man turned back around and pulled his legs closer to his chest.

“Good night,” Paul softly spoke into the darkness.

“Sleep well,” Richard answered and closed his eyes.

He listened to the other man's breathing. It was so calming that he slowly felt himself drifting off. An idea shot in his head and he hoped he would remember it in the morning.
He felt a warm hand wrap around his wrist and almost unconsciously pulled Paul closer.

Then he fell into a dreamless sleep.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 24: Lycopodium

He couldn't move.

This wasn't just one step over the line. It felt like ten.

But he couldn't move.

His chest was pressed tightly against Paul's back. His nose touched his hair. His arm held the other body close to his own. Paul's hand was loosely holding Richard's right forearm. Richard's hand was closed around Paul's left in return.

It didn't feel right and it felt so right all at once.

He had just opened his eyes and had found himself in this position. In the mindless state of waking up he simply enjoyed the warmth, the presence of another body, the intimate smell of the man he desired so much. He bathed in the blissful illusion before the first warning voice rose in his mind and told him that this was forbidden territory.

But he couldn't move.

He remembered last night. The words they had exchanged. His own request and Paul's promise. More than that he remembered how willfully Paul had excepted his arm around him. How he had made sure Richard couldn't let go.

He had been right. The body contact had been the missing part. He didn't need to see Paul's face to know that the smaller man was sound asleep. He felt the other chest slowly rise and fall. He listened to Paul's deep breathing while trying to make his own soundless. He knew they were lying in bed like a couple and it felt wrong.

Yet he couldn't move, because he knew Paul needed this to find rest, needed it to know he wasn't alone. Needed this to feel safe enough to trust and fall asleep. There was a good chance the other guitarist hadn't slept at all last night, which now made every minute count.

Richard didn't dare to turn around and look at his watch. By the amount of light coming through the windows the sun had already climbed above the horizon. He felt well rested. No need to close his eyes again. Not that he thought about wasting a single precious second of this moment. But it made him wonder how late it was and for how long Paul might have slept.

And since there was no one else but himself to judge him, he wondered how much longer he would be able to enjoy lying this close to the other man.

No, he couldn't move. He feared he might end this dream. He didn't want to wake up from this moment. He didn't want Paul to wake up for such a selfish reason.

He knew he shouldn't do this. He shouldn't, out of moral reasons, respect and self-protection. But he was no saint and prone to listen to the wrong wishes in his mind every once in a while. So he closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like if this was more than what it was. If Paul was his.

For a while he just lay there and did nothing but hold and feel and enjoy. Until he felt Paul's breath quicken and his body stir the tiniest bit.

It was a split-second decision to pretend to be asleep in order to be able to observe whatever would happen next. Richard tried to slow down his breathing and make it audible in the way it would sound if his airway was most relaxed. He knew he was breathing down Paul's neck quite literally. But it was too late to move his head without giving away he was awake.

The smaller man took a deeper breath. His fingers flexed a bit and then closed around Richard's arm again. For a while he lay still. Maybe he tried to figure out how he got in that position? Did he try to figure out if Richard was asleep? Did he think about what to do? How to get out of this situation?

Suddenly the rib-cage under Richard's arm filled with air and held it until he heard his friend yawn wholeheartedly and quietly at the same time. Then Paul relaxed against his chest again and Richard wanted to melt.

Some more minutes passed by peacefully. Then, slowly, gently, Paul let go with his one hand and carefully wrapped the other around Richard's wrist to gingerly lift the arm off his chest and slip out from under it. The taller man went on playing at sleep and listened.

When Paul scooted forward on the mattress, he let out a little pained hiss which he instantly suppressed. Then he sneaked out of the room.

Richard waited a moment to open his eyes. He didn't know what to think. At least Paul stayed for a while and didn't flee the first minute he was awake. He didn't understand why the smaller man kept holding onto his arm, but it was a nice feeling. A little too nice, maybe. What had him worried was the sound he had made.

The door stood wide open, probably since last night. Paul hadn't closed it either. So it was easy to hear what was going on outside. He waited until Paul got out of the bathroom and walked down the stairs before he got up himself.

~~~

After his first cigarette he went back inside and was about to press down the door handle to the kitchen. In a moment like this he hated his addiction more than ever. The ruined taste of freshly brushed teeth. Not instantly being able to join his friend but follow this stupid need first. And of course he knew they all worried for his health. He quickly shoved those thoughts aside before they had a chance to ruin his morning.

He was positively surprised to find Paul at the kitchen table. There was a small arrangement of food and a steaming hot mug of coffee waiting for Richard at his spot. Paul must have made it while he was outside for a smoke. It was a silent invitation to sit with him. An invitation Richard gladly accepted.

He offered a kind smile to the smaller man which he returned instantly. “Hey,” Richard said.

“Hi. Did I wake you?” Paul asked while he watched him take a seat across from him.

“Not at all.” His fingers reached for the mug. It was way too hot to drink. “When did you get up?”

“Shortly before you,” the older guitarist replied and picked up a piece of paper that was lying in the middle of the table. He held it up so Richard could read the handwritten note:

I'll be back this afternoon.
Washing machine is running. Please put the clothes in the dryer later.

P.S: Paul, I told you so.

Richard nodded as a sign that he was done reading. “What did he tell you?”

Paul put the paper down again and lifted his coffee to his lips. “Doesn't matter,” he mumbled against the brim of his mug before taking a few sips.

They fell silent again, which, for this constellation was very unusual. When it was just the two of them, Paul had grown used to the fact that Richard didn't want to talk much. Or not at all. Somehow they developed the custom that Paul would either read a magazine or talk about something in a manner that didn't necessarily need any response which left Richard with his own personal radio which he could turn off or change the subject with only a few words. He liked this so much. Liked to listen to Paul's unique point of view as much as his voice. Liked the passion with which the smaller man thought about the things he had an interest in. Liked the strong opinion on certain issues, the fearlessness of any backlash. A lot had changed throughout the many years they'd known each other now, but this hadn't.

Yet now Paul silently sat on the bench and put the mug down. His eyes stared a hole through the table.

“Can I ask you something?” Richard wanted to know.

Paul looked up from the table and surprise lay in his eyes. “Sure.”

Did I...,” the taller hesitated, “... Did I just rip you from a thought?”

“Yes, but … it's better that way.” His fingers turned the mug around for a moment. “What is it?”

Another layer. Another secret Paul wanted to keep to himself. Richard didn't know what to make of this. “You could sleep through again, couldn't you?”

A small nod. “Yeah. Thank you.”

“So … it helps you feel not alone?”

Richard saw Paul form an l with his mouth, but before he added sound to the word, he changed it to “Yes.”

The interaction felt strange. Like Paul was here but part of him wasn't.

But then Richard recognized something else that was missing. And this detail made him mad.

He got up with a little too much energy, startling Paul in the process, and went to one of the cupboards. He opened the door, grabbed a fresh plate from the stack, closed the door, went to a drawer, fetched a knife, pushed the drawer shut with his hip and went back to the table. Both the plate and knife landed right under Paul's nose where up until now no other dishes besides the mug had been. Richard grabbed two bread rolls from the basket and placed one on Paul's and one on his own plate before he sat down.

From the corner of his eye he saw Paul was observing every movement, but didn't move an inch.

Without another word Richard cut his roll in two and smeared one half with honey and the other with something hearty. When he saw that Paul hadn't taken the hint, he exchanged their plates and started to cut open the other piece of bread. The quick eye contact was all he needed. “Eat,” he told the smaller man and pointed at the deliciously prepared roll before taking care of his own.

When he was done and had taken his first bite, Paul still hadn't touched his breakfast. With a sigh he put his roll down and tilted his head to the right. “Paul, we've talked about this. You need to eat something.”

The other guitarist leaned backwards, his eyes closed and his palms pressed on the table.

“Come on.” He felt like Paul was shutting him out yet again but this time he wouldn't allow it. “Paul!”

“Richard!” the smaller man finally pressed out but didn't move.

He knew he was supposed to stop but he couldn't. “Landers!”

“Kruspe.”

“Heiko.”

“Sven.”

In every other situation this would have made them both grin, but now it did barely more than at least make them look at each other. “Nervensäge.” - pain in the ass

He watched Paul's nails dig into the wooden surface, his left hand more than his right. The smaller man remained silent, his lips pressed together as if he was trying to hold back something he might regret. It didn't go unnoticed by Richard either and he wondered if Paul wanted to run from the situation but forced himself to stay. If he wanted to push him away with words but held back. He wondered if Paul tried as best as he could.

There was something he needed to know. Richard reached out across the table and placed his left hand on top of Paul's right one, holding if firmly. This time there was no resistance and no pulling back. He turned the other hand around and gently cradled it in his palm. He stared at those blue-gray eyes for a couple of seconds, before his gaze dropped to the scar. It was a lot paler now than back in the hospital. And it was the first time Richard dared to have a proper look at it. It seemed to have taken Paul aback. He let it happen and watched. And Richard wondered if this was what had to happen in order to have Paul open up?

Almost every time he revealed something it happened because of some kind of pressure from outside. He never shared anything on his own accord since the attack had happened. Did he need to be shoved in the right direction right now? Was that what had happened yesterday, too, when Till was in Paul's room? Paul had said it himself, hadn't he? He needed to be looked after and he needed to be told the things he needed to hear whether he liked it or not.

Richard let his thumb run over the scar a couple of times. He could easily feel it and it was clear that it would stay forever. It made him so angry that it was hard not to show it. He wanted to ask if it still hurt but knew it wouldn't help Paul. He had to look beyond such things. The next question on his mind was if the scar was bothering him. But he didn't need to ask that either because there was nothing he could change about it – so he couldn't help, either -, and Paul was equally great in adapting to new physical conditions as Flake was with his partial loss of hearing. There was one question though that might be worth asking. “Would you like us to be more careful with the knifes?” he carefully said and again their eyes met. Paul didn't fully understand, so Richard clarified his question. “You know … not have them lie around so openly and---”

Paul pulled his hand away. “I don't have a problem with the knifes.” And as if to demonstrate it he took the clean one in his right hand and closed the fingers around the blade before putting it down again. “See?”

“Okay,” Richard replied and tried not to think about whether or not he found that to be a healthy reaction or not. “But then what is it?”

“What's what?”

“You told me you need to feel safe to eat properly,” he answered and shrugged his shoulders. “What's the reason?”

Paul remained silent and dropped his hands in his lap as if physically retreating a little further.

Richard knew he couldn't give up now. And he wouldn't. “It's just us. There's no one else around. You've slept in my bed so I'm sure you're not scared of me, either.”

The smaller man shook his head signaling that of course it had nothing to do with his friend.

“Would you like me to put some music on so it isn't that quiet?” he offered.

“That won't help,” Paul whispered and wrapped his arms around his torso like he had done when they had invaded his kitchen and pulled him out of his house.

“Then what would?”

Paul's fingers clawed into his side for a moment until they suddenly stopped and the tiniest shudder ran through his body. His eyes dropped to the prepared roll on his plate. For a moment he did nothing but stare. Then there was a small sigh. And slowly one arm stretched out and grabbed one half, lifted it to his mouth and he took a bite.

Richard shook his head. “That's not an answer,” he said. Having Paul do something against his will really wasn't his goal. He needed a long-term success.

“Can't you take the win?” the smaller man replied defeated.

The taller shook his head a second time. “This is not a fight,” he answered, before taking one of his own roll halves between his teeth and Paul's nearly empty mug in his hand. He stood up and walked to the coffee machine to get his friend a refill. While waiting for the freshly brewed beverage, he chewed on his breakfast and did his best not to look at the other man to give him some space.

When he got back to the table, he put down the mug first and then instead of his current place chose to sit on the chair closest to his friend. He wanted the old Paul back so badly. The one who had been shining through while stealing drinks from the bar or running along the iron bridge. He needed to dig him out from under all that sadness. “I won't leave you alone until you tell me what's going on,” he told the other man. His hand reached for his own coffee. “Especially since I feel like it's gotten worse.”

He drank some and waited. Watched Paul force down some more food and look at anything but his fellow guitarist.

When he realized he was still standing in front of a wall of silence, he tried again. “You've told me it has nothing to do with me. But I feel like it has.”

To that Paul vehemently shook his head, closed his eyes and pulled his brows together.

“Then what is it?”

At that Paul tossed he half eaten roll across the table and balled his hands into tight fists, pressing his wrists together in front of his forehead. His hands started to tremble and his mouth opened, but, like yesterday on the fence, no words found their way out.

Richard feared that the other guitarist would slam his fists on the table, so he came a little closer and wrapped his hands around Paul's. “Ey ey ey, shhhhhh,” he tried to calm him down. Again waited until the trembling ceased and the fingers relaxed. He guided the fists down until both their elbows rested on the table. Then he let go. “Talk to me,” he gently demanded.

Paul let his forehead fall against his loose fists and breathed a couple of times through his open mouth. He opened his hands and pressed his eyes against his palms, while shaking his head just the tiniest bit. Then he went still, where it not for the heavy sigh that he pressed out of his chest. He tried to say something, but again nothing came out and he shook his head once more while raking his fingers through his hair in frustration and leaving it standing up in every direction. He leaned back against the backrest and his hands fell onto his stomach is if it was aching. Only now he opened his eyes that searched the ceiling for something that wasn't there. “I wish I knew how,” he finally answered in a hoarse voice.

Richard could tell how hard his friend tried. And yet he didn't understand. “But you already did,” he replied softly. “You've talked about quite a bit already, haven't you?”

Again Paul shook his head. “That was different.”

“How so?”

Another sigh. “There were words for it.”

“And now?”

Paul let his head fall back so he could look at the ceiling more easily. “Pictures.” He blinked. “Just … pictures.”

Richard pulled his brows together thoughtfully. “Can you describe them?”

“I want to. But … the moment I try to look at them,” his eyes found Richard's, “they disappear.”

“Do you know what they are about?”

“The night.”

The younger man instantly knew which night Paul meant. It were flashbacks for sure. Again he seriously believed this to be given into professional hands would be the best decision, but he knew Paul would reject that idea at this point.

“It's like,” Paul closed his eyes to better concentrate, “my mind wants to process everything that has happened … but at the same time it shuts me out.”

“You told me there are glimpses that pop up,” Richard remembered.

Paul nodded. “Since the night before last it has gotten more.” His eyes dropped to the table. “A lot more.”

“Any idea why?”

“No.” Another shake of the head. “Maybe the memories need to get out, but I don't know.” He reached for his mug and took a sip.

For a moment Richard studied Paul's face. Tried to find clues on how to move forward from here. “Have you ever tried to let them out? Like … really tried to remember?”

“Once.”

“In the hospital?”

Paul nodded.

This time Richard sighed. And he hated to be the one to spell it out for the other man. “No wonder.” Their eyes met again. “That's far from enough.”

“I know.”

“Then---”

“I don't want to talk ab---”

“Paul!”

Silence.

“I know you hate to hear this but---”

“Then don't say it!”

“---if your memories want to come out---”

“I said don't say it!”

“---they'll come out no matter what so you better come up with a plan on---”

“Shut up!!!”

“---the how, so you start to get back some kind of control. … And don't tell me to shut up. We agreed not to talk like that to each other anymore.”

For a moment Paul glared at Richard, who in return just looked back at him expectantly. He knew he was right and the glare was nothing but a defense mechanism that bought Paul some time to come to terms with what was said. Then the smaller man got up and walked up and down along the kitchen counter. Again a good sign in Richard's eyes. He didn't leave the room – yet.

“Sorry,” Paul muttered eventually.

“Already forgotten,” Richard replied.

“But I don't want to talk about the memories,” he added. It sounded painful.

Richard turned around in his chair to better look at him. “I didn't say anything about talking specifically, did I?”

This made Paul stop in his tracks. “Then … what else did you mean?”

The younger man shrugged and tilted his head to the right. “Anything, really.” He made a small pause. “But knowing you I'd suggest you play your guitar.”

“And let those memories come?”

“Yes.”

“No.” Paul went back to pacing around. “No-no-no-no-no.”

“Why not?!” Richard lifted his hands to underline his question.

“Because then Till gets what he wanted all along.”

“Ah, come on, that's one lousy excuse!” Half of Richard's talking was done by his hands now like it usually was when he was fully engaged in a conversation. And as hard as this was, it was the first time they talked to each other gloves off. Open. Honest. Even more honest than their conversation on Paul's bed. “And since when do you care about something like that?!”

“Since when don't you!?”

“This is not about me.”

“If it were about you, though,” Paul again came to a halt to look at Richard, “If it had happened to you and not to me – and I'd never wish that upon you, to make that clear – would you willfully go back to that moment? Would you want to remember what happened? Work your mind through every fucking detail!?”

“I have done that,” he answered. “Exactly that. And it has helped me process a lot. As has therapy,” he added, “but I know you're not there yet.”

Paul seemed to actually think about it. Maybe because the learning by example kicked in. “What if it gets worse?” he asked after giving it some consideration.

“Counter question: Can it get much worse?”

“I don't know. You tell me.”

“It's your head, not mine.” Richard reached for his mug and drank some coffee, hoping that the gesture would calm down Paul some more. “From what I can tell, you're at a point where you can't eat or sleep on your own anymore. Do you feel like it'll get better on its own?”

The lack of words was answer enough.

“I think the only thing keeping you from trying is that you are scared.” He emptied his mug and placed it back on the table.

“Of course I'm scared!” the smaller man replied and started pacing again.

“Of what?” Richard asked and received a disbelieving glare in return. “Think about it rationally for a second. It has already happened. Nothing's going to harm you. All you do is give your mind a chance to catch up with what has happened. A chance to process all of it.”

“It's painful nonetheless.”

“Yes. Yes, it definitely is.” He nodded. “And it will be painful no matter what you do. But at least you can learn to decide when it'll hurt and when it won't.” He took a deep breath and saw Paul do the same.

“Like that moment at the train station?” the other guitarist asked quietly.

He was right. Sometimes a trigger could find you unprepared. “For moments like those I have good friends. And so do you.”

Richard knew there was little room for Paul to argue against it. The whole band had come together to help him through this crisis. He watched the smaller man come to a halt, lean his back against the counter and cross his arms. He seemed to weigh the pros and cons in his head.

A minute went by, but Paul remained silent. He was sunken in his thoughts and Richard felt the need to reach out for him in the way he learned helped most to tell him he is not alone in this. So he slowly got up from his chair and walked over until he stood right in front of Paul. The other man just kept staring to the side. “I'm sorry you have to go through all this,” Richard said softly, before pulling his friend in a gently hug. There was no resistance. Paul let it happen. Eventually even dropped his head against Richard's shoulder, who in return let one hand circle repeatedly over the other's back.

“Can you promise me it'll help?” Paul eventually mumbled against Richard's hoodie.

“No,” the taller man replied. He knew his friend deserved complete honesty. “But from my experience everything is better than running away from whatever is haunting you. If it doesn't help we'll find something else.”

Paul unfolded his arms without lifting his head and wrapped them around Richard. “Okay,” he sighed.

It was one of those hugs that were meant to last. Those that were a conversation of its own.

“And by the way,” Richard spoke up after a while, “Since when are you one to run away from something, anyway.” Paul just kept breathing against his shoulder. “I remember you having trouble with a certain movement concerning the knife, back in the hospital. You seem to have faced that head-on, too.”

“Held a kitchen knife around the blade for almost three whole days,” the smaller man muttered.

Not the explanation Richard had expected and definitely not what had he wanted to hear. But it seemed to have worked. “Okay,” was all he could reply.

They stayed like this for a little longer, until Paul eventually started to let go, and so did Richard. He looked down at his friend.

“Can you show me how to do this?” Paul asked before looking back up at him.

“Sure,” Richard answered. Those eyes kept staring at him expectantly until he understood why. “Now?”

The other guitarist nodded. “Ja.”

The taller man pulled his brows together and then shook his head. “That's not a good idea. You're not in the most stable position.”

At that Paul lay his head to the side. “That's not going to change anytime soon.”

He had to admit, Paul wasn't wrong about that. “True.”

“And you probably have a point,” the smaller man argued, “It's better to take action now than wait.” With that he slipped past the younger man and went for the door.

“I didn't say anything about now, though,” Richard replied as he turned around and followed his friend. He cursed under his breath, because he should have seen this coming. Decades of knowing Paul wouldn't waste a minute trying something new out and face his fears if only the possible outcome looked tempting enough – and for a split-second Richard had forgotten about it. Hopefully this would work out.

On their way to the barn Richard used the moment for a quick smoke. Half of the cigarette was pressed out in the ashtray. But Paul seemed to give himself no time to think about what he was about to do. Probably to give his mind no room for doubts.

Richard watched him get to his guitar and pick it up from the hay bale. Maybe Paul was right and this moment was as good as any. Maybe the real problem was that Richard wasn't prepared for this to happen now. And the biggest problem of it all, the real elephant in the room, was, that all this absolutely had nothing to do in a friendship. They were too close. There was no distance. If he fucked this up, the damage would be so much bigger than with any professional therapist. He wasn't trained to see possible warning signals, he had no plan on how to do this. All he had was his personal experience and his gut. Yes, Paul was scared. But so was he.

When he snapped out of his thoughts, Paul was already sitting on the hay bale, his feet dangling over the edge, and he had his instrument in his lap. Richard could vaguely hear the speakers hum and wait for some actual notes. Everything seemed plugged in and ready.

“And now?” the man at the guitar asked, “Do I just … play?”

Richard shrugged helplessly. “That's what I usually do, yes.” How was he supposed to explain that he needed to open his mind without sounding like one of those cuckoo gurus? “Do you mind if I …,” he pointed at a chair, “Or would you rather be for yourself and try?”

“No,” Paul answered immediately, “Please. Stay.” Then he looked at the strings before eliciting the first sounds from them.

Although it was quite melodic, Richard was surprised by the settings Paul had chosen. His instrument sounded blunt, harsh and unrelenting. Even for a Rammstein song this would have been considered too much. The volume was moderate, almost too low, and yet the notes pinned his attention to the here and now. He took a chair and placed it a little sideways to the hay bale, with the backrest turned towards Paul. He swung his leg over the seat and sat down, before crossing his arms casually over the backrest and lying his chin on his wrists. For a while he just watched him play and listened. It sounded very uniquely Paul-ish, but at the same time he knew that it was just him warming up. The smaller man sat untypically still. Only his arms and hands were moving. The eyes were glued to his instrument and he seemed to carefully listen to what he was doing. Until he stopped.

“I feel stupid,” he concluded and looked at Richard.

“I can still leave.” He lay his head to the side a little. “Maybe it's easier to concentr---”

He stopped as a strong shudder went through Paul's body and made him shut his eyes. His fingers hovered over the strings as if they had burned him.

“What's going on?” Richard asked immediately and sat up straight. His gut told him this was a mistake.

Paul's jaw was clenched, his brows pulled tightly together. Just bit by bit he was able to relax. “I don't know,” he whispered.

“Did you remember something?”

The smaller man shook his head. “No.” He opened his eyes and stared at the floor. “My head blocked something off, I believe.”

“What did you think about before it happened?” the taller man wanted to know.

“That I want to remember what happened that night,” Paul replied. Then he looked up at his friend. “But part of me doesn't.”

“That's why I told you, you don't have to do it right now.”

“But I want to get it over with.” There was an underlying desperation in his voice.

Richard just looked up at him but didn't say anything.

“If there's a chance to get back control over this, like you said, I have to try.”

The dark haired man still didn't respond.

“I'll just do it like I did this with the knife.”

He hated Paul's approaches almost as much as he hated Till's. But who was he to judge with all his trials and errors to deal with his own trauma.

“Richard?” Paul said his name and connected with him with big pleading eyes. “Help me. Please.”

How could he say no to him?

“You were the one who suggested it,” the smaller man kept pushing him further.

“Fine,” Richard groaned. In a way he admired how quick Paul was able to make up his mind about something and how relentless he could be in order to get his will, even if it meant asking for help to dive into deep pain. “Okay … Do you remember the last moment you have a clear memory of? Before they attacked you?”

Paul seemed to think about it. Then he nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “The elevator.” again he pulled his brows together a little. “I was taking the elevator. … I remember putting my keycard in my left pocket.”

“You don't have to tell me,” Richard encouraged him, “Just remember that moment and then go from there. Slowly.”

The smaller of the two guitarists closed his eyes and took a deep breath. For some seconds he hesitated.

Richard felt it quickly become such a private moment that he looked away and lay his cheek on his wrist. He remembered the elevator, too. Pictured Paul standing in it.

Then notes dropped from the speakers. Gentler this time, even with the current settings. He shot a quick glance at Paul before looking away again. He still had his eyes closed. The melody stayed in a loop for several minutes, as if it was taking a run-up for a jump that wouldn't come.

Then it stopped abruptly.

When turned his head to see what's up, Richard found Paul sitting with his hand holding the plec midair, about to play another chord. But he didn't. He didn't move at all, his eyes still closed.

He stood up slowly and came closer to Paul. His hand found the other's shoulder. “Hey,” he tried, “You okay?”

Within the blink of an eye Paul's fingers wrapped around Richard's wrist while still holding on to the plectrum. The grip was strong, almost painful. The taller man started to understand, even before he heard Paul's haunted “I'm scared.”

“I know,” Richard whispered.

“I can't go through that door.”

Was he talking about a metaphorical door or a real one? “What door?”

Paul pulled his brows together some more. “I need to leave the hotel.”

It wasn't hard to put two and two together at this point. And Richard remembered a detail he had been thinking about just yesterday. Hoping he didn't draw the wrong conclusions, he carefully squeezed Paul's shoulder before letting go of it and winding his wrist out of Paul's grip. “Okay, then stay were you are. I'll try and help you.” He saw the other body tense up, but stay put.

Being well aware that at this point there was no turning back anymore, he wanted to support Paul the best he possibly could. He climbed up the hay bale and sat down right behind his friend, his legs dangling over the edge right next to Paul's at each side. He placed his hands on the other man's shoulders and instantly felt the other body relax. “Is this okay for you?” he needed to know.

Paul nodded a couple of times. “Yes.” It sounded like relief.

“Good,” Richard replied and nodded to himself. He took a deep breath and felt Paul mimicking it. “Do you remember the moment you got interviewed by the police?” he gently asked.

“I do,” Paul answered. “I told them what I remembered. That I---”

“You don't have to go through this,” Richard politely interrupted him. “Do you remember what you did when you told them what you knew?”

Paul thought about it for a moment. “I … I had my eyes closed. Like I have now.”

“What else?”

Another moment passed by, before Paul turned around the best he could to open his eyes and look into Richard's. “I don't know what you mean.”

Did he really do this subconsciously, Richard wondered? “Your hand played chords on the mattress.”

The smaller man kept looking at him as if analyzing if he was telling the truth. His gaze kept switching from one eye to the other. “I don't recall doing that,” he finally muttered.

“I do.” He pulled up his brows a little. “Could it have been a song that you hear to calm you down?”

Paul looked at the side before finding Richard's eyes again. “I-I don't know. … But it doesn't sound like me.”

“You played it for the whole time you spoke,” the taller man told him.

“From what point on?” Paul wanted to know.

Basically when you started your statement about the course of events. From the moment you left the door---”

“---to the left.”

They silently looked at each other and Richard saw that something in Paul's mind started to connect some dots.

The smaller man turned back around. “I left the door to the left,” he repeated in a whisper. His body tensed. “The call … I thought about the call,” he went on. Richard felt a small shudder run through Paul. Listened to his breathing. How it quickened a little. “I checked for my keys again and tried to remember the way to the venue. I didn't want to go and---”

Instead of another word a full-blown chord echoed through the barn. It startled Richard and it took him a moment to realize Paul was so tensed up he wasn't able to move or silence the strings. “It's alright,” he said, trying to soothe his friend, “You're safe.”

It took a moment before Paul nodded. “I know,” he answered.

“You can stop,” Richard needed him to know.

But Paul just shook his head. He leaned a bit more against the taller man's chest and Richard took the hint. He reached around Paul's shoulder with one arm and placed his hand above his collarbone, while his other arm sneaked between his stomach and guitar. He felt so thin. Where did he draw all this strength from? “Okay, I got you.”

The plectrum connected with the strings again and this time the melody kept going. Paul kept silent this time. His instrument started to be his voice.

The melody was rich with contrasts, harsh short notes, a fast paced rhythm. It sounded as brutal as Richard imagined the attack must have felt. In a way he now could feel it himself as the body he was more and more pressing against his own kept twitching from short muscle spasms, probably evoked by the memories of all the hits and kicks. Paul kept on playing nonetheless. His left hand danced up and down the frets and the plec tormented the strings as if there was no tomorrow. Maybe because his memories told him that there wouldn't be one.

What he was hearing was equally scary as it was impressive. Richard could easily tell just how much skill was shown here and no matter how often Paul would tell anyone that he couldn't play properly, this right now told another story. What was scary though was what Richard felt while listening to his friend. The picture in his head about what had happened that night had been nothing but a rough sketch. Until now. Some outlines, nothing more. But with every note Paul played, the picture was filled with details, light, shadows, texture, color, dynamic, impact. He heard and felt Paul wince, but go on no matter what.

“Take a break,” he suggested against Paul's ear, but the other man, again, shook his head.

It had him worried. For how long was he playing now? Too long for what it was for sure. And still Paul's body was equally leaning into him as much as it was testing Richard's strength to hold him. If it started to hurt him, what was it doing to Paul?

“Paul,” he pleaded, “Stop.”

He was ignored.

Richard didn't know if Paul didn't want to stop or if he couldn't. All he knew was that he had to be here so the other man wouldn't have to through this alone. Although, in a way, he was.

Minute by minute the melody shifted.

Bit by bit he stripped it from variations. Left higher notes aside. Searched, until only one note, one chord remained.

He slowed down the tempo. Made it easier to follow. But at the same time made each strike more impactful.

He fell into something close to a marching rhythm, and yet it quite wasn't.

Richard's shoulders grew sore.

But Paul kept going. The muscle spasms ceased the moment he broke the rhythm in a way that sounded like holding a stick between the feet of those marching along and making them stumble repeatedly, thus creating a new rhythm. Richard didn't know what he was listening to, but it was captivating. It was equally strong and powerful as it was eerie. It sounded like Paul had deprived the melody of almost everything that made it music, leaving only a crippled skeleton behind.

“Make it stop,” Paul begged between those haunting notes.

And Richard felt him start to lean away from him.

He still kept playing.

Why couldn't he stop on his own, the dark haired man wondered.

“Please!”

Richard felt that suddenly not a second could be wasted. He held the body in front of him pressed against his chest as tightly as he could while pulling his one hand out from under the guitar and letting it glide along Paul's arm until he was able to catch his hand mid-motion, pressing it firmly against the stings of the guitar. The plectrum fell to the ground, accompanied by the last dying notes.

Paul was still fighting him by trying to move away from him. “Make it stop!” he demanded again.

“It has stopped,” Richard replied, trying to not show the fear he was feeling. Didn't Paul recognize?

The smaller man shook his head vehemently. And it got clear that he didn't mean the play.

Richard had a bad feeling. A really bad one. “Okay, listen,” he spoke to Paul as softly as he could, “I'll let go of you first, okay? And then we'll make it stop. Alright?”

Paul didn't answer, but at least he stopped pushing away from him.

Richard slowly let go of Paul and got a hold on the guitar instead. He carefully lifted it over both their heads. The moment the smaller man had a chance he moved from the hay bale, stumbled, caught himself, turned around and walked backwards to bring some distance between them. He was completely out of breath, his eyes were looking at something that didn't seem to exist. He held his arms up protectively.

“Paul?” Richard asked the moment his feet hit the ground. He moved towards his friend but with each step he made Paul made two backwards. “Paul, what's going on?”

Only now gray-blue eyes seem to be able to focus on his gray ones. “You said this might give me back some control!” he replied with a desperate undertone. “This is the opposite of control!”

“I told you there's a chance. Paul, what is going on!?” He knew already.

“Don't make this my fault!” the smaller man voiced while trying to get air in his lungs.

“I don't.” If anything, it was his fault. “Tell me what's happening! Please!” Again he tried to get closer. Again his friend moved away, getting nearer and nearer to the door.

“It won't stop!” Paul all but yelled at him and hit his fingertips against his temple. “That's what happening!”

It was exactly what Richard had feared. “Okay,” he nodded and lifted his hands as well in a calming gesture. “Sit down for a moment. Try to just breathe.”

“I shouldn't have listened to you!” Paul shot back. He was in no condition to calm down. “I trusted you!”

“That's not fair!” Richard replied before he could think it through.

“NONE OF THIS IS FAIR!” the smaller man screamed at him before he doubled over and wrapped an arm around his stomach while painfully sucking in air.

It stung in Richard's heart to see Paul like this. To have misjudged how dangerous this could become. The self-hate grew over his incapability to say no to his friend. He should have known better. He should have just let him force down his breakfast. Or not mention it at all. Everything but this. Anything.

“You're right,” he tried. He wanted to make this right. He wanted to fix this mess.

He made a step towards Paul. Then another one. Two more.

Paul lifted his head with a pain-filled expression on his features. It took him a second to see Richard was about to reach out for him. He made another step backwards and looked at the taller man like he may never have before. “Leave me alone!” he growled at Richard. “I mean it!!!”

The order was so definitive that Richard didn't dare to move. The words cut so deep that he, too, didn't know how to breathe in. He was damned to just stand there and watch Paul leave the barn. His vision watered as his desperation seeped out of his eyes. It stung and he blinked, but it only got worse. Everything only got worse.

~~~

He went back inside the main house and searched for Paul. He knew there was no vehicle left so he had to be around somewhere. The boots weren't in the hallway where they belonged, but his jacket was sleeping on the hook.

He found Paul's room closed.

The knock on the door remained unanswered.

He tried again with equally little success.

His hand found the door handle but it wouldn't open. It was locked.

“Paul?” he tried to reach out with words. “Please. Let me---”

Something heavy collided with the door from the inside and it made Richard jump backwards.

It made his heart clench to walk the stairs back down again and accept his worst fear had come true. He just wanted to help.

His hands both held tight to the banister as his legs gave in and he sank down on the lowest stair.

He couldn't move. His body was unable to do anything except holding him together.

A small spark in his heart hoped that if he waited long enough, Paul would open the door and come to him. Eventually it died.

Richard wanted to wake up from this nightmare. But he couldn't move.

Hours passed until he heard a key turn in a lock.

He heard a door open.

Heard a voice. A Question.

“What happened?”

It was Till's.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 25: Paul

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

With a deep sigh he blinked and regretted a lot of yesterday's decisions. He wouldn't have been able to make them differently would he have the chance to do so. Still he wished today would have started less … alone.

He let his hand glide over the empty part of the mattress. Every part of him missed the other body next to him. He had grown used to it way too quickly.

The words that had left his mouth came back to his mind. He knew why he had to say them. And yet he felt awful.

He reached around to pull his phone from the nightstand. The movement caused enough stress on his ribs to make them hurt again. His body wasn't able to heal as fast as predicted with all the lack of sleep. He made a small wincing sound. It was a luxury he allowed himself whenever he was alone. The others mustn't know that he was still in pain sometimes. They already worried more than enough.

His eyes looked at the display. At least three hours of sleep with only one nightmare. He'd had worse.

He ignored the 247 unread messages knowing he ignored family, friends and lawyers alike. But his strength was limited. And after his band had made him realize that he had to deal with his problems instead of fooling everyone including himself that everything was fine, he found himself in a spot he'd never been in.

He'd never been the most independent person to begin with. First his parents had looked out for him. Then Aljoscha. Then a whole band. Even Flake from time to time. Then his partner. There was always someone at his side. He could draw a lot of confidence from that. And the usual stuff he had been dealing with could at times be tough, but it had always been manageable. But now, now he felt alone. Even with the band at his side he felt like as much as they tried to be there for him, he had to fight them and push them away. It was all too much. He couldn't be the person they deserved and they were used to. If only his head had an off switch.

He wanted to cry. He really did. The last time was in his hotel room in Vienna, before the attack. But after that it was like a barrier kept him from letting it out. Every now and then he got close. A few tears would leave his eyes, but then it just stopped. The closest he ever got to letting some of it out was when he sat next to Richard in that strandkorb. But even then he didn't cry because of what had happened to him. He had cried because of the pain Richard carried around for all those years.

The second closest was yesterday.

Richard had warned him but he wouldn't listen. He barely ever did and never learned. Richard had known that it wasn't the right time. Maybe he wanted to prepare for this, or maybe stall time. But he himself just wanted to dive in head first after his resistance had fallen. He should have listened. His locked up memories had run through his mind like through an open sluice gate and there was nothing to hold them back once the way was open. He had tried to shut them off but instead he had shut off the world around him.

With a pain-filled groan he turned on his right side. His left hand automatically checked for the scar right below his ribs. It was there. But it was okay. No blood. No threat. Hopefully one day he would get used to it.

His gaze fell on the dirt stain and dent his boot had left on the door. He remembered how yesterday Richard had come after him and tried to talk to him. He had thrown the boot against the door and hoped he would get the message. He had heard him walk away and it added an extra layer of pain.

Of course he had still wanted him close. More than ever, even. He always felt safe around Richard. But he knew that Richard had made it his duty to help him and forget about his own needs. And it was impossible for anyone to stop thoughts in someone else's head. So he had to protect Richard from a fight he couldn't win, and if he had to hurt him like he had done yesterday, so be it. It was the lesser of two evils, he decided.

Taking a step back from all that closeness was a good thing for another reason, too. A reason he didn't dare think about.

He remembered how after he had thrown the boot one pain had fused with another and how all he could do was lie still. He had stared at the furniture, because he hadn't dared close his eyes. The images would become even stronger if he did.

But even then he had been able to hear them laugh and cheer each other on. He had heard their words and the hate and how nothing they did satisfied their fury. He had felt his bones start to hurt, his ankle burn, his cheekbone break. He had felt like a bystander and a participant all at once. He had been lying in this bed and on the cobblestones at the same time. The sweat on his palms had felt like blood. He had heard his heart beat in his ears and in the distance he had heard the insults they threw at him.

It had went on for so long that he had wished it was real. At least he would have been unconscious by then. But he had been very awake and still his senses had worked perfectly.

Eventually, despite the flashbacks, he had tried to get up to go to the bathroom. Every muscle had protested as he had walked across the room. He had limped a little and his head ached. His mind really had tried to convince him that the attack was real again. His fingers had found the key. He had switched to the left hand before unlocking the door. The right wouldn't close enough to hold anything. He had looked at his fingers and the scar and had wanted to laugh bitterly. Two days ago he had felt more or less fine. Now he had been a wreck.

When he had opened the door, he had found a tray with something to eat and drink right in front of him on the floor. He had stepped over it and the movement had made his body hurt even more. The moment he had reached the bathroom door, Flake had come out of his room. So he had been back. When their eyes had met, something in the taller man's face changed. It had filled up with compassion and this suffocated Paul. He hadn't been able to interact. He had known he would hurt him and he couldn't allow that to happen.

“Paul?” Flake had asked. He had asked it in a way someone would ask a person on the street if they weren't sure if they had mistaken a stranger for a friend.

Paul had broken the eye contact and vanished inside the bathroom as quickly as he could, leaning against the door from the inside. Nine point seven seconds later another flashback had hit him right in the face and he felt his cheekbone break anew. He had quickly turned around and muffled his voiceless scream with one of the bathrobes, just to be sure.

He needed to be silent. He needed to hide all this. If he didn't, he knew how the band would react. They would worry even more and feel helpless and still try to help with all their different approaches and he would be pressured to either say no, to which he barely had the strength, or let them try and watch them all fail. He had been right earlier. None of this was fair. They sacrificed their precious free time to be here for him and he couldn't offer them anything in return. He had tried. He really had. But he was ready to give up.

Around him the voices had kept yelling down on him and began to sound more and more distinct. Why couldn't they have beaten him up quietly?

After using the toilet he had been standing at the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. He had wondered if his mother would even recognize him like this. He looked as defeated as he felt. At least he had visual confirmation that his cheekbone was still intact and the blood running down his face was just his imagination.

He had needed to lie down again and went back to bed.

He had heard Till and Richard fight through the wall later. Till only raised his voice when something was extraordinarily important to him. Richard, when he felt like he had to defend himself or someone else. He had instantly known it was about him. He had wanted to get up from his bed and make them stop. He had wanted to defend Richard and his idea. It had been a good idea. Just a fucked-up outcome. He had wanted to get up but he couldn't move. The memories had kept coming at a merciless speed.

He didn't want them to yell at each other. Not over this. Too much had been destroyed already. He needed this band to survive this. And he wanted to run from it all.

At three in the morning the memories had stopped coming. They just had stopped. He hadn't known if they were just tired, too, and had gone to sleep without him to gather some energy and attack again in the morning – or if they were gone for good. The silence in his head had been deafening. Instead of a long-wanted peace he had been facing a brutal void. And the wish to run had been the only thing he could listen to.

He remembered walking out into the hallway. He desperately needed someone. But as much as he loved Flake and Till, he didn't feel they could even remotely understand without an explanation. An explanation he couldn't offer. So for minutes he stood in front of Richard's door, his hand on the handle. But after what had happened earlier, he felt he had no right to ask any more help of his friend. He had put him through so much throughout the last couple of weeks. Richard's ways to adapt to all his moods and insecurities, his ways to help him was more he could have ever hoped for. He didn't want to ask for one more thing. Richard deserved some distance to all those problems. For the sake of their friendship Paul decided that he needed to protect Richard from all of this. Even though it would hurt himself so deeply, in more than just one way.

He remembered walking back into his room and stuffing the most important items in his backpack, before sneaking down the stairs and putting on his boots and jacket. He remembered grabbing his car keys and leave the house. He remembered standing in the doorframe for minutes while staring into the pitch black courtyard. He remembered walking through the damp starless night until he reached his car. He remembered throwing the backpack onto the passenger seat and sit behind the steering wheel. He remembered how much he wanted to run. He remembered starting the engine and switching on the headlights. Remembered how he stared at the cobblestones. How, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't avert his eyes. Kept staring for minutes. Then remembered Richard's voice appearing in his head, telling him that running from what's haunting him was pointless. Remembered his wish to run from it all fade with each repetition of that sentence. Remembered turning off the lights again, turn off the engine and get out of the car. He remembered putting the backpack on the ground and slowly sit down. He remembered the darkness, the silence, the wet stones, the cold, the rough hard surface. He remembered lying down on the cobblestones, curled into a ball. He didn't know why, just that he had to do this. Like a missing puzzle piece. He remembered how vulnerable he felt, how small. How the memories came back. One by one they had come hurtling down on him like the kicks and beatings. He remembered how he clung to Richard's words again. It has already happened. Nothing's going to harm you. His body tried to protect him and reminded him of every kind of pain he had gone through. His muscles and bones would never forget. But moment by moment he realized he was still alone here. No one was attacking him. It was all in his head. He pressed his hand against his side. It was dry. Pressed it against the cobblestones. Wet. Licked his fingers. Just water. No blood. Scratched his nails against the stone to lure his hearing to reality and away from the yelling of his memories. Silence. He was alone. And this time it was good.

He remembered starting to shiver. The chilly damp air was creeping under his clothes. He was getting cold. It hadn't been cold on the day of the attack. He didn't have any memory of the temperature. This was different. Pleasantly unpleasantly different.

He remembered returning to the house again and quietly find his way back to his room. He remembered being completely overwhelmed by all those emotions over what had just happened. He remembered needing Richard. He could have helped him decipher those feelings. Could have---. He remembered promising himself to stick to his plan to leave him in peace before falling asleep in complete exhaustion.

Now he was awake again.

His gaze let go of the dirt stain on the door. He needed to get up. Carefully he pushed himself in an upright position. His whole torso hurt so bad. He remembered how tightly Richard had held him yesterday. Why did something so good have to cost him so much added pain?

He stood up and went to the window to open it wide. The sun was shining brightly.

His thoughts went back to what had happened in the barn.

It hadn't been Richard's fault. They were different people with different ways to look at things. Richard was able to look at things bit by bit and change the angles of perspective. He himself was more a dive-in-head-first kind of person who liked to analyze anything in it's full experience first, before he started to care about how it worked in detail. First the what-it-does, then the how-it-does-it. His brain wasn't used to take in small portions or to stop while in experience-mode. Somehow it was amazing that it had been able to shield him from the onslaught of memories for such a long time.

As if it had waited for the right moment, another flashback hit him. Just a quick call from one of the attackers. One word, maybe two. Unintelligible, but it was one of their voices.

He clawed his fingernails into the windowsill and bent his head down as far as possible, letting out a tortured grumble. Not again, he thought. He couldn't take another round of this, but he braced himself anyway. To his surprise his head stayed silent after this.

He slowly lifted his head and sat back down on the bed. Waited. He didn't trust this peace. Not after the last few days. Especially not after yesterday. But the fragile peace kept holding, at least for the time being.

So he put on some fresh clothes and the tattered cardigan. Enough layers to warm his sore body.

He went to the bathroom and went through a quick morning routine.

When he was done he thought about crawling back into his bed again. He was so damn drained and he had no idea for how long this would have to go on. He'd do almost anything to end this situation.

Going back on tour in a few month became an impossible thing to even imagine.

But did he even have a choice?

Back in the hallway his eyes switched back and forth between his door and the stairs. He didn't know what to say or what to do, but he had also learned that it was best to at least show up after a conflict. Anything else would make it worse.

He just didn't know how to resolve this. He wanted so badly to apologize to Richard. He probably felt like shit thinking he had failed. He wanted to apologize for having pushed him into trying it out immediately. Wanted to apologize for not having thought this through. For not being able to say no to his own impulses. For not being able to listen to the one with the bigger experience. For not being able to explain what was going on.

Then again, he knew that if he did that, if he apologized, Richard would go on trying to fix him. And he wasn't ready for another step, even though he needed a way out more than anything. But thanks to the flashbacks he didn't feel safe anywhere, not even at the kitchen table. He didn't want to fear being pressured into eating, too.

He dragged himself down the stairs and listened into the silence. No voices. Not inside his head and not inside the house.

He summoned his courage and opened the kitchen door. He found a teapot, a cup and a small pile of magazines on the otherwise empty table. This definitely wasn't Richard's.

When he had closed the door behind him, he turned around to see Flake appear from behind the open fridge door. “Oh,” the keyboarder made and just looked back at him, waiting for a reaction.

Paul pulled his sleeves over his fingers. After last night's events he wished Flake would just come over and hug him and tell him that everything would be alright soon. But how should the other man know? “Morg'n,” he greeted instead. - Morning.

“Jut'n Morg'n,” Flake replied. For a moment they just looked at each other. Then the taller man seemed to remember what he had been doing and grabbed two yogurt pots from the fridge. “Willste ooch?” he asked him and held the items up in front of him. - Good morning. / Do you want one, too?

Paul shook his head no. His body felt almost as worse as the day he had made his first steps in the hospital. The force with which his own mind had attacked him didn't make him feel safe and he was numb to the feeling of hunger. Maybe subconsciously part of him wanted to weaken his body further until his head would have no energy left to remember anything.

Flake still carried both cups and two spoons to the table, before getting a second tea cup from out of the dish washer. The thing was standing open, packed with clean dishes. No one seemed to have wanted to clear it out and Flake would be the last person to do it anyway.

“Kannste dich ma' setzen?” the taller man asked. - Can you sit down for a moment?

Paul hesitate, but then walked around the table to sit at his usual spot on the bench. Something smelled very earthy and a little acidic. But he brushed it off as he watched his friend sit down right next to him and instantly pour tea into both cups.

“Hier, probier' dit mal,” Flake ordered nonchalantly as if nothing had happened. One of the cups was placed tight under Paul's nose. - Here, try this.

He was indeed thirsty. One of the reasons he'd come to the kitchen anyway. He sniffed at the content first and immediately knew where the weird smell was coming from. He watched Flake drink and tried it himself. “Irgh!” he made and almost spat it out. It was incredible bitter with a very disgusting aftertaste. “Wat is' dit'n?!” - What is that?!

“Hatte ick letztens bei nem Kumpel jetrunk'n,” the keyboarder explained and shot him a quick grin. “Dit hat so unfassbar scheiße jeschmeckt, dass ick dit hab'n musste.” - I've had this at a friend's recently. / It had tasted so incredibly shitty, that I had to have it.

Paul knew what Flake was doing. There was no chance that he didn't know what had happened yesterday. That he had retreated again. He knew Flake wouldn't confront him. He offered him a moment of distraction. He gladly took it. It helped him make his mind focus on something other than his own problems. “Wo jibt's 'n so wat Widerliches?!” He smelled the tea once more, just to be sure, and crinkled his nose. “Sicher, dass de nich' im Baumarkt inner Düngerabteilung warst?” - Were can you get something that nasty?! / Sure you haven't been in the fertilizer section at a hardware store?

“Nee.” The taller man leaned forward and turned the tea pot so he could point at the two threads hanging down from under the lid with small paper labels at their ends. “Kiekste, dit sind Teebeutel.” - No. / Look, these are tea bags.

Paul still made a face, while his tongue tried to get rid of the taste. “Wat is'n da drin?” - What is in there?

Flake just shrugged his shoulders. “Weeß ick nich'. Müsst' ick uff de Packung kiek'n aber dafür steh' ick' jetz' nich' extra uff.” - I don't know. / I would have to look at the packaging but I won't get up just for that.

The guitarist shoved the cup away from him. He didn't know why stuff like this even existed. He compressed that question in a simple “Warum?!” - Why?!

“Ick find's zum Piepen,” his friend replied and grinned again. “Is wie Zijarett'n und Kaffe und so … dit schmeckt allet beschiss'n hoch zehn und man merkt: dit is nüscht Jutet. Aber sobald wer nen Preis dran macht, koofen's die Leute.” - I think it's too funny. / It's like with cigarettes and coffee and so … it all tastes as disgusting as it can get and you know: it can't be good. But as soon as someone puts a price on it, people buy it.”

“Und da jeh'ste los und koofst dit ooch.” Paul turned his head to stare at Flake in disbelief. He knew him for so long and shouldn't be surprised. Still he was. - And then you go and buy it, too.

“Aber ick lach' halt drüber.” - But I laugh about it.

He took a deep breath. “Flake, ooch wenn de dit ironisch jekoof hast. Jekooft haste't trotzdem.” - Flake, even if you may have bought it in an ironical way. You still have bought it.

“Mag sein,” the taller man nodded and a winning smile spread out on his face, “Aber zum Reden jebracht hab ick dich ooch. Und dit war'et wert.” - That may be so. But I've also made you talk. And that has been worth it.

Flake was right, Paul realized. It puzzled him how well he seemed to know him to pull it off and distract him so easily, if only for a short moment. It was pure gold.

The smaller man looked at the tea cup again and took a deep breath. Then he leaned his head against Flakes shoulder for a short moment. Took another few deep breaths. Relaxed bit by bit. Leaned forward, folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them while looking at the yogurt in front of Flake.

The keyboarder lifted his hand and placed it between Paul's shoulder blades for a while. A silent attempt to comfort him.

“Wo sind'n Till und Richard?” Paul asked, mumbling the words against the folds of his cardigan. - Where are Till and Richard?

“Inkoof'n.” Flake replied softly. - Grocery-shopping.

They fell into a comfortable silence again.

And yet Paul felt awful. He was well aware such a situation meant stress for a person like Flake. He turned his head and lay it back down, now facing the opposite direction.

He felt the hand be slowly lifted off his back.

“Machste dir wegen Wien Sorg'n?” the taller man asked eventually. - Do you worry about Vienna?

“Dit ooch,” he sighed. - That, too.

“Soll ick mitkomm'n?” Flake offered. - Want me to tag along?

Paul shook his head. He wanted to do this alone and the last person he would want to ask, if anyone, would be Flake. Hopefully he had just asked out of courtesy.

“Willste den Tee mitnehm'n?” the taller man offered immediately. - Wanna take that tea with you?

It was such an unexpected response that Paul had to laugh through his nose.

Next to him he heard his friend chuckle as well.

“Flake?” he asked after they both had calmed down again. “Ick tu', wat ick kann. Tut mir leid wejen jestern. Und überhaupt.” - Flake? / I do what I can. I'm sorry about yesterday. And everything else.

For a quick moment the hand was being placed between his shoulders again. “Mach' dir da ma' nich' so ne Platte deswegen.” There was more confidence in Flake's voice than he expected. “Globste, ick weeß nich', dass dit dauert? Kiek dir an, wie lange dit mit Richard jedauert hat. Und von Till fang' ick ja nich' erst an!” It made Paul turn his head again and look up at his friend. “Ick will nur, dass de nich' einknickst. Weil, dit biste eenfach nich'.” - Don't break your head over this. / Do you think I don't know how long this stuff takes? Look at how long the thing with Richard had taken. And I won't even start with Till! / All I want is that you don't give in. Because, that's just not who you are.

With that said, Flake started pealing off the lids of both yogurt cups and shoved one gently against Paul's fingers. The guitarist took it and kept staring at it. Watched how his friend placed a spoon in it and tipped his own cup against it as if saying cheers.

Paul took another deep breath and then sat up. His free hand found the spoon and he started eating. He could feel Flake's relief and tried to block off the pressure.

When they were both done – and after the tea, despite the taste, had been emptied – Paul slowly got up again. “Ick' geh ma' ne Runde durch's Dorf. Is' dit okay, wenn ick dich wieder alleen lass'?” - I'm going for a walk around the village. Is it okay if I leave you alone.

“Versprichste mir, dass wa nachher zusamm'n Mittag kochen?” Flake asked and looked up at him with big eyes. It seemed he didn't really want him to be unattended. - Promise me we'll cook something for lunch together later?

“Abjemacht.” - Promised.

~~~

He walked along the driveway and planned on exploring the village nearby. Maybe walk to the small forest or see where his feet would carry him. He needed something to do. Playing his guitar was out of the question right now due to what had happened yesterday. He feared it evoke another wave of flashbacks. For over an hour now he didn't have any and he tried to do anything to stretch this phase of inner silence.

He was so glad Flake had been there for him in his unobtrusive Flake-way. That he had even made him laugh. He hadn't laughed once in the past two days.

Getting closer to the small road, he was about to pull out his earphones and maybe listen to some music while walking around, when he got aware of some movement on the neighbor's property. A moment later he heard a loud bark and then the gray shaggy dog slip through a larger hole in the fence. Two of the pickets where missing and for the animal it was the perfect opportunity to come and greet one of it's new neighbors.

It felt so good to stick his fingers into the fur and interact with the dog while watching it wag it's tail and dance around his legs. It made him miss his own dog, but at least he knew she was well taken care of. Maybe much better than he could offer her at this point. Still, he missed her dearly.

He squatted down and the dog pressed his side against his knees, begging for even more pets, before turning around and starting to try and lick his face.

“Wolf, no!” he heard the neighbor call out from his open garage, as he made his way to the fence, “Not again!”

“Hey, Winfried,” Paul smiled and rose to his feet. “Don't worry, it's fine.”

The old man shook his head. “Maybe for you. But he shouldn't do that.” He really looked unhappy. After brushing off his hands on his blue overalls, he opened the small gate and shooed the dog back on the property. “Sorry. Good morning to you, too.” He returned the smile, “I'd like to give you a handshake, but I'm all dirty.” Indeed his palms where covered in some dark greasy stuff.

Paul wanted to tell him that he wouldn't mind at all and that he was used to it anyway, but since he didn't want to give away what he was doing for a living, he kept it to himself. “Don't worry about that, either,” he told him. “What are you doing right now?”

“Fixing an old motorbike for my grandson,” Winfried laughed. “Got it from an old colleague last month. For free. By now I know why.” He laughed even louder and Paul couldn't help but grin as well.

“Do you need help?” the younger of the two offered. He meant it. Actually doing anything that would have real result sounded like the distraction he was secretly looking for.

“That's really kind of you,” Winfried said, “But I couldn't possibly accept your offer.”

“Why not?”

“You'd get all dirty and it really isn't a two-man-job,” the older one answered.

“What a pity,” Paul sighed.

“You really mean it, do you?” Winfried's eyes looked at him closely. They had something calming about them.

“I do,” the guitarist replied, “But it's fine. I'll be on my way then and get out of your hair.” He turned to leave again, when he heard the other man speak up again.

“Would you mind helping me with something else?”

Paul looked at him expectantly. “What do you have in mind?”

“Help me repair the fence?” the neighbor asked with his brows raised.

He didn't need to think twice what to answer. “Sure!” he replied.

“Really?”

“Really!”

“I'll pay you, of course.”

Paul closed his eyes and shook his head, while quietly trying to hide every other reaction. “Please don't. I'm grateful I can do something useful. That's reward enough.”

Somehow that seemed to put a dent in Winfried's pride, but he swallowed it down. “We'll see about that,” he answered.

Paul just shook his head again, smiled to himself and followed the other man inside the large garage.

“I have everything right here,” the old man said while heading towards the area with the large workbench and old kitchen cupboard he used to store all his tools, nails, screws and whatnot. Fresh pickets, already varnished and ready, leaned against the wall. A little further away the motorbike, an old Simson, stood on a plastic sheet and was surrounded by more tools.

Paul took the wooden pickets under his arm and waited for Winfried to find the right screws and a cordless screwdriver. He knew this wouldn't take long. If he was lucky they would find something else to help with.

His eyes looked around. A strange collection of older things inhabited the garage. An old folding boat hung from the ceiling and welder's goggles, a rusty sable, a saddle, some leather bags, even a Wehrmacht helmet hang next to each other on the wall. They've had a similar helmet in their rehearsal room for a while and had used it as an ashtray.

“Here,” Winfried said and held up all the necessary items. Paul took the screws and shoved them in the pocket of his pants, before taking the screwdriver and check if it was fully loaded. “You have no idea how much you help me.”

“And you have no idea how much you help me,” Paul responded.

They smiled at each other and then he went to work.

It was really an easy fix. The dog followed him and sat at his side while watching him screw by screw close the whole in the fence. Now the gaps where only wide enough for Wolf to fit its snout through. Paul felt a little sorry for the dog. He wondered if anyone ever took a walk with it or if it only lived here on the property.

He stood up and looked at his work. Good as new. For a moment he looked up at the sky and blinked against the sun. More than one and a half hour without flashbacks.

He wanted to do more and so he went back into the garage. “Winfried?” As soon as he had his attention, he waved at him. “Sure you don't have anything else I might help you with? The fence is fixed.” He placed the remaining screws and the tool on the workbench.

The old man shook his head and laughed. “I'm sorry, no.” Then he stood up and walked outside, probably to check the handiwork. Paul followed him and grinned as he saw the satisfied look on Winfried's face. “Really good,” he stated. “Are you a craftsman?”

“Nope,” Paul laughed, “Tax advisor.” Every time someone asked him what his profession was and he didn't want to tell the truth, he came up with another job. Interestingly enough they always believed him. “But I started as a mechanic for telecommunications.”

“You don't say,” Winfried said and smiled wider. Then a thought seemed to come to his mind and he looked at Paul a little more intently. “Are you by any chance able to make an old Bakelite telephone work again?”

“Pfffffph,” the guitarist made, stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. “Hard to tell, really. Probably not. How old is it?”

“I don't know,” the other replied, “Probably from the fifties, maybe older.” Then he looked over the rim of his glasses. “Want to have a look? You said you needed something to do anyway.”

It sounded tempting. And a look wouldn't hurt. After all he still liked to tinker and he wasn't half way bad at it either. “Why not,” he answered.

“Then come this way,” the neighbor laughed, “And I still have to give you the money.”

Paul just rolled his eyes and smiled. He followed him up the few stairs and into the house. Wolf, the dog, followed suit through the open door.

It smelled a little like an old person's house, but not bad in any way. Pictures where hanging on each wall and covered up the wallpaper that somehow seemed to have been there since the late GDR-times. The furniture was a funny mix of old and new styles that came from all decades of the last century. Still it felt cosy.

Winfried guided him through the hallway, past the kitchen, and then into the living room. “Can you wait here?” the old man asked with a kind smile and Paul returned it with a nod.

“I don't know where I've put that thing, give me a moment and I'll find it.” With that, the neighbor walked up the stairs to the upper floor, leaving the musician standing next to the dining table.

The dog had walked off to the kitchen and soon enough Paul could hear it drink from a bowl.

It was such a vacation for his mind to be here. So many new impressions that for a short amount of time he had little to no chance to think about his problems. He was so thankful that this happened. He listened to the birds singing through the opened windows and the open front door. Watched Wolf slowly trot back outside and probably check the fence again. He smiled. His ears faintly heard Winfried rummage through some stuff upstairs.

Paul turned around and did what he usually did when he was in another person's home. He looked around and tried to find out more about the other's life. A house or apartment often revealed much more than a person would tell about themselves. Here it was family pictures, typical glass vases from the GDR, a collection of textbooks, more books that seemed to be really old, dust on the shelves, but no dust around the picture frame that most likely showed his late wife. The daily newspaper lay on the table, under it a magazine of which he could only read part of the name. Sezess--- something-something. Never heard of it. A bowl of fresh apples next to it, probably from his own garden.

There was a door right next to him that led to an adjoined room. The door stood slightly ajar and was moved by the wind ever to gently. The curiosity got the better of him, so Paul took the liberty to peek inside. There was a huge dark wooden desk right in the middle of the room. The back wall was completely covered by book and folders. It definitely was the old man's study. He remembered that he had told him that he had been a teacher.

He was about to close the door again, when a metal figurine caught his eye. It seemed to be a paper weight of sorts. A an eagle with spread wings was sitting on a sphere. When he looked closer, he saw a swastika on the sphere.

His ears instantly checked for any noises. He looked over his shoulder, but Winfried was still upstairs. So Paul looked around some more, although every cell inside him asked him to please leave. His hand was clawed around the door handle so he could get out of there the moment he heard the man come down the stairs. He didn't understand himself, but he needed more proof, even though he knew deep inside that it shouldn't matter. The paper weight should be reason enough.

His eyes found an iron cross on the wall. Between nature photographs there was a picture frame with an old world map showing the borders of Germany from before '45. A faint picture of Hitler hanging from the inside of the door. He heard the dog bark outside and quickly went back to his place right next to the dinner table.

His heart was racing.

He needed to leave.

Immediately.

But if he did, it would raise questions. He needed to get out of here without making the neighbor suspicious. He couldn't give him a reason to come over.

Suddenly he heard a dog run up at him at full speed and when he turned his head to the hallway, he expected Wolf, but it was another dog. It looked fierce, huge. It came to a halt right in front of him and sniffed at his pants and boots. The tail was cropped and the fur so short that he couldn't tell if it was friendly or not. He heard more barking outside and then a man appear in the doorframe.

“Who are you?” a deep male voice asked him.

Wolf squeezed through and walked right into the living room to wander around the table with a wagging tail. The whole situation made Paul intensely nervous and he wanted to get out even more than before.

The new dog pressed his nose against his leg and kept checking him out. He realized how strong that animal was. And against all odds he tried to suppress his fear the best he could.

“Winfried invited me,” he answered, his voice as steady as he could make it sound, and watched the other man come closer.

He heard the old man come down the stairs and didn't know if he should be relieved about it or not.

“Already here?” the old man greeted the visitor. “You are quick, if you want something.”

“Whatever,” the younger replied, “Why do you let strangers inside the house, grandpa? I told you to be careful.”

The larger dog finally let Paul be and instead greeted the old man, who scratched him behind the ear.

“He helped me fix the fence,” the neighbor replied, “Something you couldn't be bothered to do for weeks.”

This made the visitor glare at Paul for a moment.

“I'll better leave you two alone,” the guitarist said, hoping this gave him a chance to get out of the door.

“I'm sorry,” the old man said to Paul, “I couldn't find it.” He probably meant the telephone. “How about you stop by in a few days and then we both have a look at it? Would that be alright?”

The large dog was at Paul's side again. He was a dog person, he truly was. But this animal scared him. Everything about this situation scared him. It felt impossible not to show it. Could the dog smell the fear on him? He didn't trust his voice anymore. His heart was beating in his chest. So he just nodded.

“Wonderful,” Winfried said.

“Have a nice day,” the younger man said in a stern voice.

When he walked past him, it was the first time Paul even looked at him. Taller than him, broad shoulders, side parting, undercut, clean-shaven.

He just kept walking.

He passed the front door.

He heard paws walk behind him.

He didn't dare turn around to see which dog it was.

With shaking fingers he closed the garden fence behind him.

He didn't feel his legs.

Every movement was happening on autopilot.

He felt the fear take over.

He knew this wasn't about the fact who those people most likely were. What they were.

It was about the connection that there could be.

What if they knew who he was?

What if anyone knew?

His hand trembled when he tried to get the key into the lock and open the door to their house.

He needed someone.

But all shoes were gone. Even Flake's. His jacket, too.

He was on a walk himself, he guessed.

So Paul sat down at the kitchen table and looked at his trembling fingers.

He didn't know what to do. Should he tell them? What would happen then? What would they do? What if he was wrong? If there was a reasonable explanation after all? But could there even be one? Why hadn't he listened to them?

He looked out of the window.

Where were they?

He felt his mind start to protect him. This time he felt it happen.

He needed someone to be here.

Where was everyone?

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 26: Statics

Richard's phone rang just in time as he was about to place their order at the small bakery they'd found on their way back. They had been grocery shopping since they were running low on supplies. There had been an impressive waiting line in front of the bakery, usually a sign that the products were good.

It had been Richard who had asked Till to find somewhere to park the minibus and join the line of waiting people. Later today Olli and Schneider would be back and in order to get himself a moment to look forward to, he wanted to have a nice afternoon coffee with some good cake together with the rest of the band, as it was custom in this country. And of course he hoped Paul would join them, if only for a small amount of time. Maybe any of the others could convince him.

As soon as he caught a glimpse of the different cakes on display below the counter, he started his list of what he wanted to buy. The waiting line was moving slowly but constantly and they had just managed to step inside. There where still four other customers in front of them. Judging by the scent they where baking everything themselves – no warming up frozen pre-baked shit. His mouth was watering instantly. “What do you want?” he asked Till who stood right at his side, his beanie pulled down over his eyebrows.

“Pick something for me,” the singer answered with a quiet voice, “I trust you.”

Richard smiled back at him and nodded. He knew the trust that Till was speaking about only partly meant the choice on cakes. Mostly it was a result of the talks they'd had since yesterday.

Yesterday the singer had found him sitting at the bottom end of the stairs in a cloud of feelings mixed of misery, guilt and despair. He had sat down next to him without another word and then placed his arm around Richard's shoulder. It had been enough to make him release a few tears.

Till had asked him to take a small walk outside then, to which he had gladly agreed.

As they had walked along the driveway, they had done nothing but smoke next to each other in silence. They had greeted the neighbor as he was about to open his garage. When they had walked along the dirt track, Richard had finally started to tell what had happened.

Till had let him pour it all out without interrupting him. The words came flowing out as he remembered all the little details, remembered, how he felt, remembered what was said. He hadn't left out the growing intimacy between Paul and him. He knew Till was well aware that both guitarists shared a bed at the moment. So of course he had told him about the importance of physical contact for Paul and that he had used it to help Paul put his memories into music. What he had left out were his own feelings. Those, that went too deep to find room in this band. But he told him about how he convinced Paul to play, how Paul convinced Richard to try it out instantly, and how it all went downhill from there. The singer had let him talk and only here and there asked for one or the other detail, mainly to encourage Richard to keep talking.

When they had walked back, just by lucky coincidence Flake had been driving by and had picked them both up to get back to their temporary band house sooner. It had been strange to sit in Paul's car without him. Of course they had explained the current situation to Flake, too. The keyboarder had instantly blamed himself for coming up with the whole idea, to which Richard had chimed in with blaming himself for agreeing to all of it. Only Till had still been convinced that, all circumstances considered, they were on the right path.

He remembered that Till and he got in a fight while next door Paul had locked himself in his room. He remembered Flake helplessly placing a tray of food in front of Paul's room and then trying to call him a few times. He remembered how the keyboarder didn't want to knock because he knew it was pointless. He remembered how for the rest of the day he buried himself in the task of song writing and making notes of how he felt. He remembered taking an eternity to fall asleep and that he woke up several times because he thought he heard something.

The next morning they had breakfast together, all three of them. They had waited for Paul to join them but he didn't. Flake had volunteered to stay in the kitchen and listen if something happened upstairs so Till and Richard could take care of refilling their supplies. He remembered standing in the cereals aisle when he received a message from Flake that Paul was up, that they had talked and that they would now separately take a walk and cook together later. He'd read the message several times to believe it. He remembered how the feeling of relief rushed through his body.

It was because of the relief that his mood started to brighten and the reason why he had decided for a stop at the bakery. There was hope that they would be able and sit together, all six of them.

He didn't know why. Maybe because he was so focused on the prospect of a pleasant afternoon, maybe because he didn't want to forget anything, or maybe because he had just started the conversation with the elderly saleswoman at the bakery. He didn't know why, but when his phone rang while he stood at the counter in front of the wide display of bread, rolls and cake, he handed his phone to Till for him to take the call.

“Hey, what's up?” the singer said into the phone.

Richard watched him from the corner of his eye while going through his order. He saw Till turn away from him and walk towards the window.

“Anything else?” the saleswoman asked him while already wrapping the cake he had chosen so far and with that pulled his attention towards her.

“Yes, two of the Apfel mit Decke and two pieces of the Donauwelle, please. And an onion bread.” he replied and watched her pack the rest. In total it was enough cake to feed them for at least two days, but he wanted to offer something for every taste.

The moment he pulled out his wallet, he felt Till's hand on his shoulder. “Hurry up,” the singer whispered in his ear before holding the phone back against his ear and walk outside.

A bad feeling crept up Richard's spine. He placed a banknote on the counter, grabbed the heavy filled plastic bag and left the bakery without waiting for the change. He looked around to find Till and saw him walking towards the minibus while still talking on the phone. Richard hurried to catch up with him. As soon as he did, Till looked at him and held the phone out to him. “Take this and give me that,” he told him and pulled the bag from Richard's fingers.

“Hello?” the guitarist asked into the device and listened. When he didn't hear anyone speak, he threw a quick glance at the display and read Paul's name.

While he quickly put the device back against his ear, his eyes watched Till stow the cake on one of the back seats and pull out his own phone.

“Paul, can you hear me? Are you still there?” Richard asked.

He heard a faint “Mhm” on the other side.

“Hey, where are you?” Till asked into his own phone while gesturing for Richard to sit in the passenger seat.

The guitarist opened the door and climbed into the minibus. “What's going on?” He was worried.

“Okay,” he heard the singer talk outside, while getting to the driver side. “Hurry up, please. He's at the house and needs someone there.” He opened the door and sat down behind the wheel. “He didn't say.” He took the car keys that Richard silently handed him. “Thank you. We're on our way, too.” He hung up and placed his phone in the center console before starting the engine. “Flake will be with him in a few minutes,” Till told Richard.

“Have you heard that?” Richard asked Paul who hadn't responded. He still didn't. He heard him breathe, though.

“I'll stay on the phone with you, okay?” the guitarist said while closing the seat belt.

Still there was no response.

He regretted their decision to go grocery shopping in another nearby town. They should have gone to a supermarket in Wittenberge despite the risk of being recognized and followed.

“I'm here, you hear me? Take a deep breath,” he kept talking. He didn't know why Paul had called but it was obvious that he needed someone. “Just tell me if you're hurt.”

“No,” Paul answered. His voice sounded distant.

“Alright,” he replied. At least one less thing to worry about. “Listen, we're on our way back to you and Flake will be with you any moment now.” He looked out of the side window as Till had passed a traffic light that just went red. “If you find words to say what's going on, just say them. If not, I'll just stay on the phone with you, okay?”

He imagined Paul nodding quietly while it remained silent on the other side of the line.

Outside the buildings, trees and clouds hasted by.

Then he heard Paul. “I need help.”

He should be glad to finally hear those words, but all he felt was pain because he was so far away from him.

“Everything you need,” he answered and hoped his words could built a bridge across the distance.

He saw Till cast a short glance at him.

At the other end of the phone he heard noises. A voice.

“I'm here.” It was Flake's voice. “Paul? Till called me.” He sounded so profoundly worried. Richard couldn't remember a time he had heard him speak like this. “Look at me.” There was some rustling. “It's alright, Paul. Look at me. What happened?”

“Paul? Can you hand the phone to Flake?” Richard asked softly.

Again some rustling.

“Yes?” Only one syllable and yet the Berlin dialect was as distinct as the voice it belonged to.

“Is he okay?” Richard asked.

“I don't think so.”

“We're on our way.”

“I know.” The keyboarder took a deep breath. “I'll hang up now and take care of him, okay? If anything happens, I'll call you.”

Richard didn't want to hang up but knew that was a selfish wish. “Okay. Thank you!”

He heard the call end and then there was only quiet in his ears and a million deafening thoughts on his mind.

~~~

Till was driving too fast. The beverage crates were loudly bumping into each other in the trunk whenever there was a narrow bend or a pothole.

Richard's hands were still cradling his phone. He stared at it, ready to answer any incoming call.

He still heard Paul's voice echo in his mind. I need help. It was the first time he had heard him say something like this. Not so much the choice of words. But it was the tone that had him deeply worried. This was completely new to him. Paul had sounded thoroughly scared. He had never heard his voice tremble like this. This had not been a simple request. It had been a deep rooted cry for help.

When the farmyard came into view in the distance, Richard already opened his seat belt. His head went through all possible and impossible scenarios about what might await them in that house. Good and bad reasons why Flake hadn't called again. He hoped this was a false alarm. But deep inside he knew it wasn't. Something must have happened to Paul to say those words.

Till steered into the driveway and came to a halt right in front of the door to the main house. “Go,” he told Richard.

It was all the guitarist needed to hear to rip open the door and rush towards the door. Without taking off his boots or jacket, he entered the kitchen and took in the scene.

He found Flake and Paul sit across from each other at the large kitchen table. Flake was peeling vegetables and handed them over to Paul who cut them into pieces. Between them stood a large pot in which the smaller man threw in the cut vegetables. Flake threw a quick glance at Richard before he went back to his task, while he constantly observed the man across the table.

Paul's eyes where fixed on the pieces he was cutting. And yet his gaze was empty. His mind seemed to be somewhere far away.

“Good, you're here,” the keyboarder said without looking up again. “Would you be so kind and help us?”

Richard instantly felt how off the whole situation was. Flake was too calm, Paul too much on autopilot, and nothing of what he saw matched the call he'd had or what had happened yesterday. “Sure,” he nodded and shrugged off his jacket before hanging it over the stool at his place. He went to wash his hands, got a knife and a cutting board and sat down.

“One by one centimeter, these are too big,” Flake said to Paul, who in return nodded and corrected the size of the pieces.

“What are we doing?” Richard asked carefully.

“Preparing the soup,” the tallest of them answered.

Their eyes met, and while Flake put two carrots in front of him, he mouthed a question. Where's Till?

As if he had waited for it, the singer entered the room with some of their groceries and put them down on the kitchen counter. He acted as if everything was normal, but they all knew he was observing the scene as closely as he could.

Richard started cutting the carrots, but his eyes, too, lingered on Paul who seemed to exist in his own world. It didn't feel safe to have him hold a knife. Why did he have a knife?

Till slowly walked over to Flake, placed his hands on his shoulders and bent down. “Shall I take over?” he whispered in his ear.

The keyboarder nodded. “Yes.” For a moment his eyes left Paul unattended to look at Till. “Make sure he keeps cutting everything into small pieces.”

The singer nodded and they swapped places.

Flake signaled Richard to get up and walk out into the hallway.

Everything inside him wanted to stay, but he also needed to know what all this meant. So he stood up and followed bis band member out of the room again, while casting a final glance over his shoulder.

“What's going on?” he whispered as soon as they were standing next to the front door.

Instead of answering immediately, Flake closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. “Thank god you're here,” he let out the pent up tension.

Richard placed a hand on the other man's shoulder to comfort him, but also to get him to talk. “Do you know what happened?”

The keyboarder shook his head and opened his eyes. “No.” He combed his fingers through his hair to calm himself. “We've had an okay-ish conversation earlier. And then he went for a walk. Then Till called. And when I came back here, I found him sitting at the table, leg trembling, arm around his body … the look in his eyes when he saw me. Like I would hurt him. He could barely hold the phone.”

The guitarist just looked up at Flake and waited for him to go on. And he did.

“I started talking to him until I had the feeling he really listened. But he wouldn't say what was going on. It felt like he just … couldn't.” He swallowed. “Then he asked me if we should cook lunch together. We had planned to do that, but … ,” his voice trailed off and his eyes switched to the kitchen door for a moment, before looking at Richard's again. “I didn't know what to do other than prepare the food with him. It calmed him down a little. And I made him cut everything in tiny pieces so he would take longer and do it more carefully. But he hasn't said another word and-”

“Flake?”

“---I shouldn't have given him a knife but-”

“Flake, listen to me.”

The taller man looked from one eye to the other.

“Thank you!” Richard meant it from the bottom of his heart. And he had a vague idea what might have happened. He gave Flake a short hug. “You did great, don't worry.”

The keyboarder slowly nodded and let out a sigh of relief.

“Wait here, okay? I'll sent Till so you can explain him everything as well and I'll take over, alright?”

Again Flake nodded and they exchanged a quick smile.

Richard took a deep breath and went back into the kitchen where both his band mates stoically prepared the food. He tapped on Till's shoulder. “Can you unload the rest of the items? Flake will help you,” he said and hoped the singer would get the hint.

With a nod Till but the peeler down and slowly rose to his feet.

They silently squeezed each others shoulder as a sign of comfort and then Richard sat down across from Paul, who's eyes were glued to the potato he was cutting.

“Can you cut them a little more even?” he asked him gently.

Paul nodded once and did as he was told.

And so they sat together. Every now and then Richard would try and ask a question, but Paul wouldn't answer. Just nod or shake his head, if he wanted to respond at all. Every now and then Richard saw Paul's hands tremble a bit and was relieved to see the other man would pause cutting until he gained control again. Sometimes he felt how the other man was releasing stress by bobbing his knee up and down fast. After a minute or two it would stop again. What was most unsettling was that not once Paul questioned his task. He usually would ask why there had to be so small pieces and why they had to be even if it was soup they were preparing. And he would have been right. But Richard had learned that at the moment nothing was as it usually was. He had a hunch that the memories and flashbacks were back like they had been when Paul had fled the barn yesterday. It would explain the tension, the nervousness, the lack of communication, the fear. What if those flashbacks had pulled him right back to that night and wouldn't let go of him? What if some of the suppressed emotions had found a way to the surface and he was struggling to handle them? It would also explain why he wasn't able to talk about it. He still fought so hard to find the right words for what happened inside of him.

After stacking the beverage crates in the utility room, Till and Flake carried the rest of the groceries into the kitchen and emptied the shopping bags.

“Can one of you roast some garlic?” Richard asked over his shoulder while trying to keep his eyes on Paul and peeling the last potato blindly.

He heard how a pan was placed on the stove and turned his attention back to the table. He knew Paul loved garlic. Hopefully they would still get him to eat with them.

While handing the potato over to Paul, he shoved the remaining peels in the plastic bowl to the rest of them and put it down on the table next to him. He felt horrible. He should never have brought up the idea in the first place. Or at least he should have said no yesterday. He should have picked another time and prepared Paul for what might happen. All this was on him and he wished he could go back in time and decide differently.

No one said anything, but he wondered if anyone was mad at him.

Suddenly there was a long rhythmic honking outside. It made them all flinch and Paul almost cut himself.

Richard looked out of the window right behind Paul and saw their second minibus come to a halt in the center of the courtyard. Schneider was smiling happily as he emerged behind the driver's door and soon after Olli stepped out of the vehicle as well.

His eyes went back to Paul who just clung to the shaking knife and stared down into an invisible abyss. “Give me that,” Richard said to him and reached around the pot and over the table to take the knife from his fingers. “Come on, let go,” he begged him. “It's alright. Look, it's just the rest of the bunch.” With that he gently pulled the knife away and pointed at the window.

Till went towards the front door. For a short moment he could hear Olli and Schneider laugh at each other and shout their greetings at Till. Then they went silent.

Richard gestured for Flake to sit down. He had the feeling it would be best if Paul's oldest friend was at his side. The keyboarder had proven to have the best connection to Paul at the moment and so Richard put the knife far away before taking care of the food. In a minute the others would be here and then they all could be there for their smallest band member. The truth was that most of all he feared to do another wrong thing, say another word that might make the situation worse than it already was. Flake had the better instinct.

When Olli and Schneider finally entered the kitchen, they found Flake sitting on the bench next to Paul, his hand soothingly placed on the guitarist's back. The smallest of them looked up for moment and tried to smile, but couldn't. Till busied himself with putting something to drink on the table while Richard stood at the kitchen counter next to the stove to cut the herbs for the soup and pulled the pan from the hotplate.

He heard footsteps behind him. Then he was turned around by the shoulder before first the bass player and then the drummer gave him a strong hug. “Hey, how are you?” Schneider asked.

Richard opened his mouth but couldn't say a word. He realized he couldn't say what he felt without having to fear he might break down. His eyes looked over Schneider's shoulder. Paul was drinking something. He felt Olli's arm around his shoulder for a gentle half-hug before the tallest of them turned to get some soup bowls from the cupboard and walk towards the table. Then there were Schneider's hand on his shoulder and he was drawn into another long hug. “We shouldn't have left,” Christoph said quietly against his ear. “I'm so sorry.”

“Oh please,” Richard replied, although he instantly wondered how the last days would have went with the whole band still here. “No one could have seen this coming.” He didn't believe himself.

They broke the hug.

It was sad that both Olli and Schneider didn't get the warm and joyful welcome back they deserved.

“Can I lend you a hand there?” the drummer asked.

Richard shook his head. “No, just sit down. I got this.”

He needed a moment to himself. Needed to take a step back and let the others take over. Needed to sort his thoughts. He could cook the soup, add the garlic, the spices, the herbs. He could do all that while watching the rest of the band gather around the table and try to start a conversation despite the fact that Paul sat there like a shadow of himself. They didn't try to ask him what was going on anymore. They knew he wouldn't answer. Instead there were small gestures. A tiny yes-or-no-question in his direction to coax a small interaction out of him. A glass of water accidentally finding it's way in front of him. Some comforting body contact. They kept their voices down a little, but tried to lighten the mood with a good reason to laugh here and there. Richard watched all this and even felt himself relax. It seemed to be the strange energy they had when it was all six of them. He felt the presence of each of them and wondered if they felt it as well. He wondered if it had an impact on Paul. If it made him feel better now that they all were here. Did it make the flashbacks disappear? Make him feel safer?

He remained standing next to the cooking pot and stirred it every now and then. He listened to them talking about Berlin and their families and how Olli, Schneider and Flake had spent their time there. They all wanted to talk about something else, but they had to wait until Paul was ready. They faked the carefree mood although they knew one of them was hurt in a way only he knew.

Somehow it was like in the hospital, just in reverse. Now they were the ones with the mask.

As soon as the soup was ready, Richard switched off the stove and carried the pot to the middle of the dining table. Olli stood up and dutifully filled one bowl after the other. Once everyone had taken their seat, they wished each other Guten Appetit and started eating.

Under normal circumstances Richard would have been happy with the result. The different root vegetables complemented each other well. But his every attention was directed at Paul who fought the food down the best he could.

The conversation continued. It was mostly Schneider, Olli and Till talking. Richard looked at Flake and the keyboarder looked back at him. It seemed they felt equally helpless.

Then a jolt went through Paul's body. His spoon clattered against the rim of the bowl and further down on the table. His nails dug into the wooden table and he froze.

“I'm sorry,” Schneider said tentatively and moved a little in his chair.

Richard watched Paul take only short shallow breaths. He reached out with his hand to try and hold Paul's, but the smaller guitarist pulled it away in a hasty movement.

“What happened?” Olli asked.

“I've touched his leg with my shoe, I think,” the drummer mused in an unusually insecure tone. He let go of his own spoon. “Paul?”

The man in question closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. He seemed to concentrate on something.

The table went completely quiet. No one dared to move or to say something. They waited.

Then Paul moved his lips.

He seemed to want to say something, but his voice got stuck in his throat.

Richard carefully leaned closer. His best guess was that Paul was fighting a trigger moment. Maybe memories of the kicks?

Paul tried again.

Still nothing.

Another try. And one more.

He took a deep breath through his nose.

His fingernails scraped along the table top.

“No dog,” Richard heard him whisper.

“No dog?” the lead guitarist repeated just to be sure.

Paul nodded. “Just Schneider.”

Different sets of eyes looked at each other and signaled that they were equally confused.

“You just wanted to walk around the village,” Flake asked gently, “Where have you been?”

A violent shudder went through the small body as Paul tried to shake off something from his mind. It made the remaining soup move in the bowls. One of them was still almost full.

Eventually Paul turned towards Flake. They looked at each other for a long time.

“I've made a stupid mistake,” Paul said with a hoarse voice.

It was the second time today Richard heard him say a sentence that would normally not cross his lips. And again there was this tone in his voice. It didn't seem to belong to Paul and yet there it was. What was it rooted in? Fear?

It was Till who asked what they all wanted to know. “What did you do?”

Paul shoved his bowl away from him. He took a few deep breaths as if to tell his lungs what they had to do. He let go of the wood. Folded his arms on the table and rested his forehead on his wrists.

Richard wondered why. Couldn't he look them in the eye? Was he too exhausted to sit upright? Did he need comfort? And what was that about the dog? It didn't fit into the picture he had prepared as an explanation.

Before the lead guitarist could make any assumptions, Paul started to talk. Not just a few words. He told them every detail of how he wanted to get some fresh air and how there was the neighbor's dog and how much he enjoyed its presence. How he had some small talk with the old man and how good it felt to do something other than focus on what had happened. How nice the man was and how disappointed the dog after the fence was fixed. How he went through the model names of all the old Bakelite telephones he knew about and wondered which one the neighbor might have in possession. What the house looked like. What it smelled like. How he was too curious and entered the study. What he saw there. That he wished he would have listened. How there was this huge fighting dog and how he couldn't read the body language. How it felt so threatening to feel its snout against his leg. How there was the grandson who looked like a poster boy for the New Right. How none of the two would call off the dog. How he tried not to feel fear. How he tried to get out of there. How he since then prays that they didn't recognize him. How he hopes that they are not connected to the ones from Vienna. That he might have put them all in danger. That Vienna didn't happen by accident and---.

Both Olli and Flake reached over, one placing a hand on Paul's back, the other on his head. “Shhhhhhhh,” the bass player made, “Take a breath.”

Richard wanted to join in, but didn't dare another attempt on body contact. Paul was in good hands. They got this.

It gave him time to process what had happened. He needed to sort his thoughts.

“How are you feeling?” Schneider asked even he himself somehow knew it was the wrong question.

Paul just weakly shrugged his shoulders.

Flake was the one to speak out a truth Richard wouldn't have dared to voice out loud. “They haven't recognized you,” the keyboarder told Paul. “You look like some tramp from the Kotti.” - infamous place in Berlin

It seemed to be a smart move not to focus on the dog-part of the event or what the neighbor was, but to try and find reasons as to why there was no reason to fear for the worst. At least for now.

“He has a point,” Olli pondered while he tugged a little at Paul's hair, “This is almost long enough to braid it.”

“Did you give him your name?” Schneider asked a little more serious.

The smallest among them nodded.

“Your last name, too?”

He shook his head.

“Anything else? Your profession? Why we're here? Who we are?”

“'m no' tha' stupi',” Paul mumbled into his sleeve.

While the other three tried to calm their friend, Richard's eyes connected with Till's. There was a strange glint in them. He knew the singer was anything but stupid. But he was also protective and sometimes he made unhealthy and rash decisions. Richard didn't know if anyone else knew about the ominous case under Till's bed. Didn't know if he should tell anyone. What he knew was that he needed to have a close eye on his friend across the table.

Olli let his hand glide off Paul's head and over his arm before leaning back against his chair. “No, you're not stupid at all,” he stated reassuringly. “And just judging by what you say, there's basically no chance they know who you are.”

“Oh!” Schneider suddenly made and leaned a little forward towards the smaller guitarist, “Did it feel like the dog when I--”

Paul instantly nodded and then sat up straight, too. He absentmindedly reached out and put his spoon in his bowl as if to try and get back some order in his life. His fingers were shaking again. He pulled his sleeves over his fingers and wrapped his arms around himself. It wasn't just his fingers, the whole body was shaking.

Richard's eyes wandered back from his fellow guitarist to the singer at the other side of the table. Till had a grim look on his face and he seemed to be brooding over something. There was something about his body tension that left Richard cautious. He needed them to look at it with a cool head. He needed them all to take a deep breath.

“Are you cold?” He heard Flake ask.

From the corner of his eye he saw Paul nod.

“I'll make you tea,” Olli was the first to react and stand up from the table.

Richard's mind focused on Paul's needs. Imagined what he might need if he wouldn't be able to force down the tea. Most of all he needed safety. So Richard tried to provide that and orchestrate the band. “Till?” he asked for the singer's attention, “Can you make a fire in the living room?”

He watched Till's face go through several phases. He had other plans, but after a few seconds he agreed with a short “Or course.” and got up as well. This way he could keep the singer busy as well.

Then his eyes wandered to Flake. “How about you two,” and with that he gave Paul a quick look, “head over to the sofa?” He turned his head towards Schneider. “And we to get all the vehicles out of sight. Just in case?” After all the neighbor or anyone else needed to be able to know their license plates, while they were here.

Flake gave Paul a small nudge against his shoulder to get up from the bench while he stood up himself and went around the table go to open the door to the living room for them.

While Richard rose to his feet, Schneider waited and observed each of Paul's movements.

Till left the room to get some more fire wood from outside. Richard hoped that he wouldn't do anything else, apart from maybe have a smoke. His eyes were glued to the window and he waited until he would see the singer walk in the right direction. Was that his inner urge to control everything? Maybe.

Suddenly there was a loud noise next to him and a sharp pain in his right leg.

“Paul!” someone exclaimed.

Richard turned around to find the smaller guitarist kneel on the floor, one hand still clinging to the window sill, the other around the backrest of Richard's chair, which he had knocked over with his fall and which had hit Richard hard against his shin. There would be a bruise for sure, but he couldn't care less.

They all rushed to Paul's aid, pulled the chair aside, checked on him, helped him up.

“I'm okay,” Paul whispered, while he held himself up on Flake's shoulder.

“You're not,” the keyboarder responded softly.

“Can you stand?” Olli wanted to know.

Paul nodded, but at the same time closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose.

Flake wrapped an arm around the smaller man's waist to support him. “I got you,” he said.

Richard watched him guide his friend slowly to the sofa.

“Circulation?” he heard Flake ask.

Saw Paul nod.

“Okay. Take it slow.”

“We got this,” Olli told Schneider and Richard while following the other two, “Take care of the cars and then come back as soon as you can.”

They did as they were told, although both Christoph and Richard both exchanged worried glances while they went outside.

The sun was shining so fucking happily and warmed this grim day in such a pleasant way that it seemed almost unbearable. The fallen leaves shimmered golden amidst the courtyard, leaving the tree stand on a yellow carpet, with more golden patches still swaying gently high up in the soft autumn breeze. Richard felt his mind escape reality and pictured how Olli would take off his shoes and climb up that tree. How Paul would rush to get his camera and follow him. How they would explore the tree like never-aging children. How Schneider would look up and beg them to come down because what if one of them fell. How Till would shrug his shoulders and tell Schneider that they knew what they were doing. How Flake would use the opportunity to remind them all how he had to do so-and-so-many shows with this and that injury. How they would laugh together and life would be easy for a little while.

“I wondered when it would happen,” Schneider thought out loud as they walked towards the barn to open the wide two-winged door.

“Hm?” was all Richard could respond. Every meter he was further away from Paul was more painful than the other and now that he was ripped out of his reverie, he was feeling it.

“That he would break down like that.”

Richard silently opened one of the doors while Schneider took care of the second one.

“I mean,” the drummer went on, “He has barely eaten. Slept. All the stress. Now this. I bet if it wasn't for you it would have happened sooner.”

“Me?” the guitarist asked while fishing a set of car-keys from his pocket. He watched Christoph do the same and push the button to see to which minibus it belonged.

“You help him cope with his nightmares, or am I mistaken?” He gave him a lopsided smile before climbing behind the wheel and close the door. The question was more of a statement anyway.

Richard sighed. Maybe his friend was right. But recently he had been fueling them by accident.

He went to Paul's car and sat in the driver's seat. He had to move the seat back a little, which took him by surprise. Hadn't Flake been the last person to drive the car?
While he waited for Schneider to park his bus as close to the left wall as possible so they could fit all three vehicles inside, he listened to his own breathing and felt his leg hurt. His thoughts went to the dog and what it must have felt like for Paul. How he had tried not to be afraid. After everything that had happened and after all he'd been through. Schneider was right, it had been a matter of time until Paul would break. I need help. God, why was this sentence haunting him so much?!

Schneider signaled him to go ahead and fit the car inside and he started the engine. He maneuvered it in backwards in no time and went outside, just to watch Till walk by with as many logs as the singer could carry. He seemed to be in his own world and Richard left him alone. They all needed a short moment to sort their own thoughts before, and he could count on it, they would talk about it as a group.

He waited until Schneider positioned the other minibus inside to barn and used the moment to have a quick smoke and also have a look around. The whole place somewhat shielded and yet still absolutely open. If anyone knew they were here, it wouldn't be much of a challenge to get to the house. He'd never believed to get to the point where he'd have such thoughts. Especially not in a secluded area such as this. Fucking hell.

It was Schneider who convinced him to have another cigarette. That he appeared nervous and that he should take another couple of minutes to try and calm his nerves. Maybe he needed a short moment to take some deep breaths himself. So they quietly stood side by side as the smoke rose up to the bright sky.

~~~

When he came back into the living room, he was greeted by a cozy atmosphere. The fire was pleasantly warming the place and a subtle scent of different tea flavors lingered in the air. It could have been such a nice afternoon, were it not for the gloomy mood they all were in.

They had made Paul lie down in the middle of the long section of the main L-shaped sofa. They had placed a blanket over him. He had his legs pulled up close to his body, like he always seemed to do when he needed comfort.

Flake sat next to Paul's feet and next to Flake Till was leaning against the cushions while quietly talking to the keyboarder. As Richard walked closer, he got aware of Olli crouching in front Paul, a hand placed gently on his shoulder while the smallest of them lay still on his side. They were whispering to each other. Judging by Olli's expression it was important. Richard kept a little distance and waited. It seemed to be a private conversation and he didn't want to interrupt them. He saw Olli shake his head, then tilt it to the side and respond something to Paul.

“... a break from all of this,” Richard heard the other guitarist say despite the distance.

For a split-second his eyes met Olli's. Then the bass player took his large hand off Paul's shoulder and ruffled through his hair instead. “How about he decides that for himself?” He gave Paul a small lopsided smile. “And while you think about that, I'll make the decision for you.” With that he stood up and gestured at Richard to come closer, which he did.

He wondered what this was about and walked around the sofa. Paul looked across the tea-cup covered coffee table and at the slowly growing flames. He had stopped shivering. One arm was folded under his head and used as a pillow. Richard wished he knew what was going on inside his head.

“Take that seat, please,” Olli told Richard and pointed at the place next to Paul's head.

The lead guitarist looked back at him questioningly. He had barely exchanged a word with Paul since yesterday – the phone call excluded. Since then Paul had made it very clear that he didn't want to have any more of Richard's close company. He was about to open his mouth to ask why, when from the other side of the sofa Till's voice directed a calm yet very uncompromising “Just sit down” at him.

It felt strange to be so close to Paul without the smaller man choosing his presence or at least signaling that it was okay. He'd flinched from his hand at the table just a few moments ago. The last thing he wanted was for Paul to want to run away. There was so little space between them that he didn't know what to do with his left arm so he wouldn't accidentally hit Paul against the head. In the end he lay it across the backrest. The smaller man at his side didn't seem to mind.

Olli shoved a stool between the coffee table and the fireplace and sat down, partly blocking Paul's view at the fire. He busied himself with pouring drinks for everyone and then made room for Schneider to pass through and sit down across from Till.

There was a feeling in the air that they were about to talk about something important, a subtle tension and gravity. Yet, before anyone could raise their voice, Flake suddenly turned to his right and folded his arms on top of Paul's hip and thigh and leaned down to get his attention. “If you want to stretch out your legs, just tell me, okay? I can make room for you.”

Paul looked up at him before silently shaking his head and staring at the fire again.

Flake sat back up again, sighed quietly and left his right arm lying casually on top of Paul.

Richard admired how comfortable those two were around each other. Especially now. And he knew that Flake more by instinct than anything else knew what Paul needed.

“Alright, I'll start,” Till spoke up and thus made the first step into a conversation they knew they had to have. “I think I speak for all of us that what has happened in the neighbor's house leaves us no choice but to talk about whether or not we will stay.” He looked around and everyone nodded their agreement. Only Paul remained motionless.

“If I may,” Schneider said after seemingly no one else wanted to reply. He waited. None of the others objected, so he went on. “Personally I think Paul is the only one who should decide that.”

“Why would he be the only one?” Richard uttered his opinion, “This affects all of us.” He saw the question in Schneider's eyes and shrugged his shoulders. “What? If I think it might not be in the best interest for some of us to stay here, I'd like to be heard, too.”

“So, is that what you think?” the drummer asked.

“Yes. I believe it's not making Paul's situation any easier.”

“That's not your decision to make,” Olli spoke up and leaned his elbows on his knees.

“Like it has not been our decision to make to get him out of his home?” Richard asked back.

Neither Olli nor Schneider knew how to reply.

It was Till who slowly bent forward to get closer to Paul. “What do you want to do? Leave? Or stay?”

After a few seconds Flake gave Paul a small shake with his arm to signal him that he was supposed to react.

The smallest of them took a deep breath and sighed. “I don't know,” he mumbled.

The answer didn't make anything easier. Usually Paul was the one with a strong opinion and almost all the time his opinion contradicted Richard's. They were the two poles of the band. Now the important counterweight was missing and others had to fill the empty spot.

It still took Richard a lot of effort to talk to Paul. Too big was his fear he might do something wrong. He'd yet again learned that it could be the smallest and most insignificant things that might make the difference. “Would you like us to talk it out? As a group? Maybe it helps to listen to all the different views.”

It seemed the other guitarist wanted to make himself even smaller. “'m too tired,” he whispered.

The other band members exchanged looks and it was obvious that they all thought the same. They knew it was a warning sign that their bundle of energy was openly admitting that for once he wasn't able to push through. He wasn't able to force a smile on his face or find it in him to simply listen and then form an opinion. He wasn't able to lie to them, either. At this point everything was too much and all he could do was breathe and endure. It felt like no matter how they would decide, he would accept it. There was no resistance left. Nothing. Richard assumed that if – if – they would ask him to tell him about everything else in his life, everything that had gone wrong, he might tell them without any resistance, too. None if them would do that to him. Each of them knew how wrong that would be. That the moment was tempting, but nothing would be worth taking advantage of Paul's weakest moment. Richard wondered if there even was a mask left or if this was it and the last of them had finally fallen off.

He tentatively pulled the blanket a little more over Paul's shoulder to see if there was any reaction. But the other guitarist didn't respond at all.

“I would like to stay,” Till stated and ended the silence.

“Of course you would,” Richard replied instantly. Probably Till still wanted to use their emotions and the tension to write songs.

“Yes. We came here for a reason.”

“I think it's the wrong approach.”

“So for you it is okay to create songs out of pain, but if he gets a chance to let it out,” and he pointed at Paul, “You indicate it's wrong?”

“I chose it!” Richard defended his point, “And we tried two days ago. We failed.” He bit down the I failed he wanted to add.

“How can you tell after such a short time? After one attempt?”

“Because there's a difference between creating music out of pain and creating it out of trauma.” Richard's eyes stared at Till's and he knew their singer was painfully reminded of the difference, because he knew both sources. “And I'm not---,” Richard added, paused, swallowed, blinked, looked at Paul for a second and then back up at Till, “I'm not losing a friend over this.”

“As if this could break you two apart!”

“I don't want this pressure on him! Or on me. We've discussed that at great length yesterday!” They had indeed. He had told Till that he felt it had been a huge mistake. He had told him that he was sure he had ruined everything and that Paul needed to be in professional hands, period. Till had strongly argued against it and insisted that they should handle it within their own group until Paul would signal that he was ready to seek other help. They had yelled at each other and said things to each other only they allowed the other in heated moments. They knew they could let steam off without taking it personal.

“I'd like to stay,” Olli suddenly stated. His calm words were a strong contrast to the echo of the slightly raised voices.

All eyes turned to the bass player who waited until he could be sure they wanted him to explain his decision. And even then for a short moment his gaze lingered on Paul. Then he looked up again at the others. “I'd fly to the other side of the world with all of you if it would change anything, but I believe it won't. If we'd go back to Berlin, we'd still face the same problem.”

“But here we have a huge problem only a hundred meters away,” Schneider opposed.

“He was there before any of us knew and it didn't matter,” Olli replied.

“We can't un-know it, can we?” the drummer muttered.

“If we run from every Nazi shithead, we can't go anywhere,” Till threw in.

“That's not the issue,” Richard said, “The thing is that Paul needs to feel safe to open up. That's not really the case right now.” It was strange to talk about their rhythm guitarist as if he wasn't there while he was listening to them.

“That reminds me,” Till grumbled and shifted in his seat to pull his phone from his pocket. He unlocked the display and dialed a number.

The other band members except from Paul looked at him and waited, curious about whom he wanted to speak.

“Hey,” the singer greeted the person on the phone, “Till here.”

“---”

“Great so far. The place is just as you've described it.”

“---”

“Yeah.”

“---”

“I'd really like to talk to you about that some other time. I'm calling because---”

“---”

“Nope. Listen. I'm calling because I need an honest answer this time.”

“---”

“I don't care.”

“---”

“Stop with the bullshit.”

“---”

“Please listen very carefully,” he lowered his voice to a dangerous tone, “There's a lot at stake here. So tell me everything you know about the neighbor or I swear I'll---”

“---”

“Yes.” Till leaned forward.

“---”

“Yes.” He nodded. His face remained stern.

“---”

“Okay.”

“---”

“How so?”

“---”

He shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “Doesn't matter. I've lawyers.”

“---”

“Absolutely. You can count on that.” He stood up and walked around, his phone pressed tightly to his ear, “What I need to know is if he's dangerous.”

“---”

“What kind of question is that?”

“---”

“Is he connected to some larger network or is he just an old loner?”

“---”

“JAKOB!”

Richard felt Paul wince next to him.

“---”

“Alright.”

“---”

“I see. And the grandson?”

“---”

“Okay.” Till came to a halt at one of the windows. “Anything else we should know?”

“---”

“Okay, thank you.” He let out a small sigh. “Sorry I yelled at you.”

“---”

“Thanks. And … Jakob?”

“---”

“Call me if you remember anything else.”

“---”

“Promise me.”

“---”

“Thanks a lot.”

“---”

“You, too. Bye.” He hung up and went back to his spot on the sofa. He let himself fall into the cushions, combed his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. There was a long pause and since he wasn't someone for over-dramatic moments, it meant he had to do some thinking.

“Alright,” the singer eventually said before making eye contact with all of them, “There's stuff Jakob know and stuff that he doesn't. He knows that the neighbor is one of those die-hard Nazis. The reason he didn't tell us is that he had warned some other vacationers in the past and they had talked about it to the neighbor. He'd then sued Jakob's ass off.”

“Die-hard and a coward,” Olli muttered and grabbed his mug of tea, “My favorite combo.”

Till nodded. “As far as Jakob knows he lives in his own little bubble. No computer, no smartphone, just books and newspapers and his TV. Almost never leaves his properties. The grandson and the daughter visit sometimes.”

“Sounds like he isn't a threat in any way,” Schneider concluded, to which the others hummed their agreement.

“What about the grandson?” It was Richard who needed to know. After all he'd had a good look at Paul. Could he have recognized him? But how, if even Paul's long-time friends had their difficulty recognizing him?

“He doesn't know much about him. Said, he appears to be a little aggressive. That his dog almost bit him once and that the grandson beat the dog for it.”

At his side Richard felt Paul tense up. Flake seemed to sense it, too. Their eyes met briefly before they both went back to listening to Till.

“And he couldn't tell us that before?” Schneider grumbled. “It's not like we would have went over there and-”

“How should he have known why we needed to know this?” Olli asked and drank another sip before putting the mug down again while Schneider just gave him an understanding nod.

“Anything else?” Again it was Richard who wanted to know every detail there was.

“There were some arguments after Jakob had bought the place,” Till went on while also reaching for his tea, “Small things about what he had planned with the farmyard and stuff. A lot of hate and tea-bagging, just because he wasn't from here. But nothing beyond that.”

They looked at each other and this time it was Flake who spoke up. “So … the key question remains: Did they recognize him and if yes, is anyone connected to the ones from Vienna?”

“Basically it is a lot of guessing,” Richard nodded, “It's not like we have a chance to find out.”

They all fell silent for a while and listened to the crackling fire and their own thoughts.

At his side Paul had relaxed again. Richard wanted to reach out, but it felt almost like the night when they both stood in Paul's room and the smaller man had taken the sleeping pill. Such helplessness. Such fear to do the wrong thing. Such an urge to make all the bad things disappear.

“I'd like to make a suggestion.” Olli looked at them and crossed his long legs on the stool. “Can we all take a moment and think about what we want the most? Because …,” he took a deep breath and looked at Paul for a moment, before he went on, “I believe it's easier to know how to approach something if we know what we want to achieve.”

Richard nodded. “No way without a destination, right?”

The bass player gave him a warm smile.

Schneider leaned forward a little. Sucked in some air. Was about to say something, but stopped again. Then shook his head.

“Just spit it out,” Till encouraged him.

The drummer shook his head again. “I want everything like it had been before, but that's impossible,” he said. Paused a moment and then went on. “And I just want us to be back on tour next year, but it feels so selfish to even say it out loud.”

“I bet we all have that wish,” the singer mused.

They all nodded.

Even Paul, Richard noted. So he was actively listening.

“How about we keep it to a more personal level,” the black haired guitarist suggested, “Nothing work related.” He looked down at the man at his side and took a deep heavy breath. “For example, I just want him to be happy again. That's all that matters to me.” He felt Paul move a little although his position didn't change.

It was enough though to make Flake feel to urge to add his opinion. “A very basic thing: I want him---,” he turned his head to look directly at Paul, “---you to eat again. And sleep properly.” Turning his attention back to the other men, he went on. “Look how thin he has become. This can't go on any longer.”

“I miss his energy,” Olli chimed in, “He has always been our driving force.” Then he lay his head to the side and from Richard's perspective as if he tried without success to make eye contact with Paul. After a few seconds he gave up. “And I don't remember the last time I've heard him laugh.”

They all nodded in unison.

Richard knew that Olli didn't mean the few moments when Paul had been actually joking along with them. It came from a superficial happiness. Maybe the evening on the bridge had been the one time Paul had been able to forget everything for s short moment. He remembered how they laughed at each other from the bottom of their hearts as the train went by right next to him. Had he been the only one of them with the privilege to witness this pure happiness?

“He's in pain. I want that to stop more than anything.” Schneider held his mug with both hands took a deep breath while secretly observing Paul.

“I want those fuckers to go behind bars for a looong time,” Till added his part in a low growl. “And I want other things that are against the law.”
They all knew what he was thinking about. Similar thoughts had crossed each of their minds at least once or twice.

“I hate this tiptoeing around each other,” Flake threw in to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Since when do we have to do this? ... I mean, I know why, but ... we shouldn't have to.”
“You don't have to.” Paul's voice was soft and a little feeble and it was so surprising that he answered that it left them all confused for a moment.

Richard, because he was most used to this new version of Paul, was the first to answer. “Of course we have to,” he stated.

“You don't.” It was such a weak resistance. He knew he was able to break it with ease.

“You're right.” Richard shrugged even though he knew he had to say the next part in order to prove his point and support Flake. “If we don't mind getting yelled at, or like being told to shut up, or ignore feeling bad for asking you simple things like having breakfast. You've thrown food across the table.” He looked down and made his own voice gentler. “And that has only been yesterday.” Again Paul moved and somehow made himself even smaller than before. Richard knew the other guitarist didn't like to hear this, but he needed to. “Listen,” he continued, “We're just saying where we want to be at some point. But we're not there yet. You're not there yet. Or am I wrong?” When he looked up again, he could read the astonishment in his friend's faces. Maybe it was because he had found a way to be forthright about all of it towards Paul. Did they know he was afraid to do this and only found the courage because Paul had once told him that that's what he needed. Blunt openness despite his current state? Hopefully it wasn't the wrong choice.

The smaller man didn't respond. But after a short moment a small smile appeared on Olli's and Till's feature, so there must have been some kind of reaction that Richard couldn't see.

Schneider took a deep breath and sank a little more into the pillows behind him. “So far so true,” he sighed while his hand combed his hair back in place, “But how do we know what to do? How to get there?”

“It's not like there's no progress,” Olli replied. “Remember how bad the situation was when we decided to book this place?”

The drummer nodded.

“But today does feel like a major setback,” Flake threw in. “Actually it has been so hard since I came back yesterday. And,” he looked at his side, first at Paul and then at Richard, “I, too, don't see how he can heal here. So, I'd vote for leaving as well.”

“Why wouldn't he be able to heal here?” the bassist asked, “Look what they,” and he pointed at Richard and Paul, “have accomplished together.” He leaned forward a little more. “Come on. We know each other. Who, if not us, knows if we're moving in the right direction or not?! And we do.”

“But Flake is right about the setbacks,” Richard sighed.

“Fuck the setbacks,” Till responded. “There will be more. So!? Are you telling me you're thinking about giving up? Because that's bullshit.”

“Of course not,” Richard shook his head, “But sometimes I believe I'm not the right guy to---.” He stopped mid-sentence as Paul turned around next to him, until he was facing the backrest and had the blanket pulled up even more.

Instantly all kinds of worries went through his head and the one about doing something wrong vanished behind all the others. Richard turned slightly around and bend down a tiny bit. His right hand moved to gently touch Paul's shoulder, but it hesitated and retreated again. Instead he reached out with words. “Memories? Flashbacks?” he asked softly.

Paul shook his head.

“Anything we said?”

This time it took a few seconds before the smallest of them reacted. Again he shook his head.

“That's what I mean,” Flake sighed.

“Not helping,” Till commented and shot a stern look at the keyboarder.

“Nothing's really helping,” Paul's oldest friend replied, unfazed by the stare. “He's constantly retreating in his shell. And personally I don't think the whole situation is fair towards Richard, either.”

“Huh?” the younger guitarist made out of surprise.

“This is too much weight on your shoulders,” Flake explained. “Especially now.”

An awkward silence spread out across the room. Richard wanted to contradict on the weight part, but if he was honest to himself, the keyboarder was right. Maybe he would have been able to bear it more easily if he wouldn't have to hide his feelings for the other man, but then again it could also be that he was only able to find the strength because of them.

“He's right,” Schneider finally found his voice, “We've left too much of this to you.” His eyes searched for Richard's.

“You're making it sound like it's a burden to me,” the dark-haired guitarist shot back. Somehow it hurt even though he couldn't pinpoint, why.

“It most definitely is,” Till replied. “You know it. We know it.”

“But---,” Richard started, feeling like someone was about to take something away from him.

“You just said so yourself,” Till cut him off, “Sometimes you think you're not the right guy to do this. Your words.” They stared into each other's eyes for a moment. “And I remember the phone call we had after you'd lied to Paul about having left for Berlin. I know you've voiced your doubts to each of us various times.” The singer made a meaningful pause and leaned forward towards Richard. “Let's be clear: We all believe you are the right person for this.” The others nodded. “But we also left too much in your responsibility.”

“It is my responsibility,” Paul said in a defeated tone. “Mine alone.”

“It is not,” Olli replied faster than anyone else.

“It is,” Paul sighed.

“Stop this!”commanded, his voice was raised and it cut sharply through the tense atmosphere. “Once and for all.” He got up from his place and walked around the sofa until he could bow down and cross his arms on the backrest, so he could talk to Paul and look at him. His voice was gentle again, when he did. “This is our responsibility. The whole band.” Richard heard Paul inhale as if to contradict, but the bassist just went on, “Not just yours. Not just Richard's. We all have written that song. We all were invited to that radio interview. We all were grateful when you volunteered to go so none of us others had to. We all have not been there for you as much as you would have needed in the past year or so, or else we would have noticed the change. And quite frankly we're still not doing enough. Which will change from now on.” Olli looked at their drummer for a moment before he drew his attention back to Paul. “Richard has told us that some distraction from all the stuff inside your head would be welcome? Schneider and I have come up with some ideas and hope it'll help.”

Paul just closed his eyes, pulled his brows together and gave them every impression that he tried to block them off.

“Listen,” Olli went on, “This problem is not going away on it's own. We're not leaving your side no matter what you do. Just keep giving us a chance, okay?”

The smallest of them shook his head.

“Why not?” the bass player helplessly looked at Richard who gave him an encouraging nod.

The fire was crackling in the background and emitting an irresistible warmth.

Paul took a deep and long breath before his features let go of any emotion, as if even they had no power left. “I'm so tired of hurting you,” he whispered.

Richard lay his head to the side in sympathy. “I guess I can speak for all of us that pushing us away is hurting more than any insult or knocked out tooth could. How many more times do you need to hear this until you get it?”

Paul said nothing in response.

Olli was the first to understand that the silence itself was the answer they were waiting for. So he smiled, reached out with one hand to brotherly stroke over Paul's hair, and then stood up and walked back to his place in front of the fireplace.

Richard knew Paul and he had had this conversation before. Maybe Paul was going through this in his head again and quietly realized that he had no other option anyway.

“Okay,” Schneider eventually said and clapped his hands together, “Simple yes-or-no question for you, Paul: We provide all the distraction you need. If you need more or different ones, all you have to do is say the word. All of us are here for you to talk to, or just to sit together in silence. If you don't want something, you say so. If you need more, you say so. If it is too much for any of us, we say so. We all know we will hurt each other. It's part of the process and it's necessary. We know all this. But it won't be like this forever. We know this, too. And it doesn't matter if we will do this here or in Berlin or elsewhere. You're not getting rid of us. All we need to learn is how to keep talking with each other despite all of this. So,” he took a long breath, “Do you want to stay here?”

Richard was deeply impressed by both Schneider's and Olli's speeches. The feeling of being robbed of something ceased and was replaced by gratitude and relief.

Paul slowly turned his head until he could look over his shoulder. “Don't you have any reservations about staying here?” he asked.

They shook their heads and uttered their noes. All except for Flake, who plainly stated a “I do. I'm a little afraid of the neighbor.”

It made Paul sigh and he turned his body a little until he could partly lie on his back. For a long moment he stared at the high ceiling. The band waited patiently. He swallowed and eventually closed his eyes. Then he shook his head. “Doesn't count. You're afraid of everything.”

Everyone looked at him, confused and irritated. Paul only looked back at Flake, observing his reaction. Until after what felt like an eternity, a small smile tugged at one corner of his lips.

The keyboarder quickly realized what it meant and hid his smile behind a fake sulkiness. “Just for this I want to stay as well now. Four against two.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest to underline his point.

For a few seconds the strange tension lingered before they both broke into a smile, their gazes still connected. It was one of those weary smiles, comforting, but on the verge making the eyes water.

Paul closed his lids again and took a couple of deep breaths. Richard could see how he was debating with himself. Watched how Paul lifted his right hand and put it over his eyes. Listened how he pressed the air out through his nose.

Then Paul let his hand glide on his stomach. His eyes were still closed. He nodded. Stopped. Then nodded again. “Okay,” he whispered. Nodded again and opened his eyes. He turned his head the best he could to meet Schneider's eyes. “Okay,” he answered.

“We stay?” the drummer asked.

“We stay,” Paul answered.

“Okay,” Schneider nodded.

They fell silent again.

The decision needed a moment to sink in.

To their surprise it was Paul who broke it again. “I'd like to try again,” he stated and turned his head once again to look up at Richard.

“What exactly?” the younger guitarist asked. From this angle Paul's eyes appeared to be almost black with a hint of blue, he noted.

“What we did yesterday.”

“But---”

“I know.”

Why was it always all or nothing with this man?

“You don't have to be there,” Paul went on, “I just want you to know that I still think it's a good idea.”

He knew he wouldn't be able to stop him anyway. “But not right now, I hope?”

“No,” Paul smiled tiredly. It made Richard smile as well. Only slowly he realized what Paul had just said. He thought it was a good idea. Bit by bit another weight fell off his heart.

“I just …,” the smallest of them started before trailing off again as either weariness or his own thoughts made him stop.

“Hm?” Richard made, “What is it?”

With a sigh Paul turned around again and faced the backrest like he had before. “What if there is no melody. What if there's nothing?”

Richard's eyes met Till's for a brief moment. “Has that been your impression?” he asked Paul.

He seemed to think about it but after a while only shrugged his shoulders.

“Don't worry,” Till said, his voice gently and reassuring, “There's always something.”

“Okay,” Paul replied quietly.

The living room went quiet again. All this was new to all of them. It was strange that after so many years they were yet again challenged to find a way to communicate with each other and to strengthen their bond. It felt like they were on the right track even if they had a long way ahead.

“Is there anything you'd like to talk about?” Richard carefully asked after a while, “About what happened in the other house, or … ?”

Paul shook his head. “Not right now, no.”

“Is there anything else you need?”

“Just … be there,” he said almost voicelessly.

“Of course.”

A peaceful silence spread out between them. They were on the same page. And it seemed Paul had agreed to their decision as well. He had nowhere to go. They were all he had and he had finally acknowledged the fact that he was bound to the group no matter what. They would somehow find a way to deal with his fears and flashbacks and all the unwanted baggage.
It was Olli who stood up eventually and switched on the TV screen, before connecting it to his phone. He browsed through his music library before starting a song that now played over the speakers and filled the room. It was an older song by a German band about a person asking another one if they may take some weight off their shoulders for a little while just so they can decide if the help feels good enough or if they want to go back to their lonely suffering.

Richard was sure Olli had chosen this song very specifically, not just because of the very prominent bass playing. When the song had ended, Oliver pressed pause. “This is one of the best songs I know about how I feel right now,” he stated.

“Agreed,” Schneider nodded. As did the others.

And so it started.

They talked about why the song represented their feelings so well and how the choice of words as well as the way the singer used her voice carried the meaning perfectly.

Eventually Flake asked for Olli's phone and chose another song from the same band. It was more cryptic, and yet it resonated with them. It vaguely was about suddenly finding something in the strangest of times and being ready to give everything up, even one's sanity, if only one could keep this new something as one realizes it is the most precious and meaningful thing that could ever exist.

Again they exchanged their perspectives and interpretations. How the song may have come to be, what might have happened to write it.

The phone wandered from hand to hand as they chose other songs from the most different genres, listened to them, listened to their thoughts and feelings, and then talked and talked and talked. Paul just listened. Maybe, Richard thought, he was listening and learning. Maybe he prepared himself for his next guitar therapy session. Maybe he was just too tired. Who knew.

Eventually someone made coffee and brought cake and plates, while someone else was once again searching for a certain song. It was a good atmosphere as they were engulfed in work without noticing it.

At one point Richard needed to get up and have a smoke. The need had grown and the last cigarette had been too long ago. Yet, when he tried to get up, he instantly felt a tug on his sweater, as if it got caught somewhere. When he looked down, he found Paul's hand holding the fabric in a tight fist. He wondered for how long he had been doing this.

He sank back down in his spot. His eyes analyzed the man at his side. He still had his legs folded against the backrest, his chest was rising and falling calmly, and his eyes where almost closed. Every now and then though, he blinked lazily. Richard reached down with his left hand and carefully tried to pull the fabric out of the grip, but Paul wouldn't let go. Was he caught in some kind of memory? he wondered. As if to try and check he reached for the blanket and pulled it all the way over Paul's shoulder. The smaller man didn't even flinch. Instead he breathed in a little deeper as if to signal his approval. So he was very aware of the situation. And it did something to Richard as bit by bit he realized that Paul very deliberately didn't let him go. He wondered what it meant and even though he couldn't find a suitable answer, he understood he wasn't about to go anywhere anytime soon.

After successfully getting Olli's attention, he hand-signaled his need for a nicotine patch. The tallest of them nodded, stood up, and after a minute came back with the requested item. “May I ask why?” he wanted to know from Richard in a quiet voice while he attached the thing to his skin.

“I'm held captive,” the dark-haired man replied helplessly while his eyes pointed at Paul.

“Really?”

Richard just nodded, which made Olli smile gently and shake his head.

“You two,” was all he happily whispered – more to himself than anyone – before he went back to his place and helped himself to another piece of cake.

Before Richard could think about the reaction, the next song started.

It was a song about how in a deep state of depression everything ends in a state of indifference while the world outside is moving on. How after the dragon is slain, it doesn't mean that everything is okay again. It played strongly with double meaning and they wondered if some kind of PTSD was the reason it was written in the first place.

Eventually even Till started to pick a song and instantly went for the longest track they would listen to that day. It was slow and heavy and drew them in bit by bit. Richard found the final lyrics a little unnecessary, but overall it was one of the best songs about fear he had ever listened to. It painted a picture of a man in the middle of a high cathedral, kneeling, bound, forehead on the floor. No windows, no exit, just a candle as company. The lyrics told how this man dreamed to be free. And that the cathedral was built by himself, each stone representing a piece of the fear he had willfully fed for years and only realized it when it was too late.

They sat together for hours and didn't realize how time went by.

When Richard searched for Faber's “Das Boot ist voll”, a song that only come out recently and that he found to be the most eloquent songs about the rising right wing movement in the German speaking countries, the phone was suddenly pulled from his fingers. He was about to comment on the rudeness, but since it was Paul who now held it in his fingers, he just watched him delete the search words and type his own choice instead.

On the screen a live performance started. One singer, his band, a small orchestra in the background, a huge stadium packed with people. They all instantly knew the singer and the song. They all knew the background as well. It was a performance from 2003 when instead of thousands of smartphones thousands of lighters were held up in the air and people where completely in the moment instead of distracting themselves by filming everything. The singer had lost his wife and his brother in the time-span of five days. It was an unimaginable loss, an unfathomable emotional abyss. The song now playing was written as a result of that loss in honor to his late wife. The lyrics were perfect and the voice powerful and yet it matched the words as if no one else could ever sing this song. Richard wondered how that man had found the strength to perform it in front of such an audience. When the applause started though, he felt the support and how much strength the crowd was giving back to him. How it added purpose to go on.

They all were touched by this specific song and swallowed down the lumps in their throats.

When Richard looked down at his side, he could see Paul swallow as well. He blinked a little more than was necessary. Was he crying? He couldn't be sure. Too much of his face was hidden. What he could see though was the small but brave smile that formed on his lips. And then the small nod Paul did to himself. Was this what new found courage looked like?

Without looking up, Paul handed the phone back to Richard and the others started talking about the song. Richard himself remained silent and kept looking at Paul, hoping with every fiber of his being that his friend started to pick himself up and fight back again.

~~~

They kept staying in the living room for the rest of the day. After a while Paul fell asleep and was then resting peacefully at Richard's and Flake's side. They kept talking about songs, bands, music videos, live performances, stories that they'd heard or witnessed about certain artists. It felt rewarding to spent time like this. Together as a band. As friends.

When at one point it seemed like a nightmare was about to start, Richard kept combing his fingertips through Paul's strands and whispered encouraging and caring words until the shivering subsided. He didn't mind the others were watching. They didn't mind him doing this and even thanked him.

Eventually after another few hours, between chords and words and emotions, his eyelids grew heavy and he fell asleep on the sofa as well.

~~~

When he woke up, it was dark outside and only a floor lamp was offering some light in the otherwise dark room. Richard looked around and found himself alone on the sofa. The blanket that had held Paul warm was now draped over his own body. He stretched himself and got up, wondering why no one had woken him up.

He saw the door to the kitchen was standing open and there was more light coming from there. He rubbed his eyes and yawned as he went to see if anyone was in the other room.

He announced himself by gently knocking against the doorframe and found Paul standing by the kitchen counter all by himself. At the sound of the knocking he turned around and the sight made Richard smile. The smaller man was holding a piece of cake in his hand and was chewing. A few crumbs where clinging to his beard.

“Hey,” Richard greeted softly.

“Hey,” Paul replied after swallowing. “Did I wake you up?”

Richard shook his head no.

“Do you want some?” Paul offered and pointed at the other pieces of cake.

“No, thank you,” he smiled. It was so good to see Paul eat something.

For a moment they just stood there. Richard bathed in a deep feeling of gratitude and he was almost certain Paul felt the same.

“Do you want to go back to sleep afterwards? Or do you think you won't be able to?” the taller of them asked eventually.

“I'm still tired as hell,” Paul replied and as if to underline it he halfheartedly hid a yawn.

“Same,” Richard nodded. He shifted from one leg to the other. “Back to the sofa? Or bed?”

With a sugar-covered finger Paul pointed at the ceiling.

Richard nodded. “Then I'll have a quick smoke and be there right after.” It was a statement, not a question. He was past questions when it came to their current sleeping arrangement, if he ignored last night. If anything, Paul had clearly signaled earlier how much he relied on Richard's presence.

When he was done with his cigarette, he went upstairs and crawled into his bed. Minutes later Paul joined him without another word, switched off the light and came to rest under the covers. His back was turned towards Richard, who in return wrapped his arm around Paul's chest like he had done before. Soon enough he felt a hand grab his wrist and hold it in place.

“Good night,” Paul whispered into the darkness.

“Sleep tight,” Richard answered gently.

They seemed to have accepted that – whatever this was – felt right.

And they both fell asleep within a few heartbeats.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 27: Sparks

Not again.

His arms were empty and the bedside cold.

He closed his eyes and wanted to go back to sleep while hoping to wake up to a better reality.

But sleep had other plans and so Richard was damned to stay awake.

He rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling while trying not to be too harsh with himself.

But he knew deep inside he was feeding his hope. Against every common sense he fed it like the man in Till's song had been feeding his fear. He knew he was doing this to himself. This wasn't Paul's fault. Paul thought this was just an act of kindness, of friendship. And Richard let Paul decide when and where the body contact, the closeness happened. Let him decide when it ended and how. Paul didn't know better. And he never ever was supposed to. Richard very well knew why he allowed this. He knew his selfish reasons. Maybe that's why it felt twice as good when it happened and hurt twice as much when it ended.

This had to stop, but he didn't know how. The only chance he saw was that Paul would get better soon and this strange arrangement would come to a natural ending. Part of him wished for this to happen. For Paul's sake and for his. He knew it would mean suffering, but he asked himself if he was happy now. And of course he wasn't. It was a dream, nothing more. It had risen from Paul's very real nightmare.

He sighed and let his hands glide over his face.

Why had life to be so cruel?

~~~

He followed his morning routine down to the first smoke of the day, just to find Till and Olli standing right outside the door, talking to each other while facing the driveway.

“Mornin',” he greeted them with the cigarette already between his lips.

They turned around and greeted him back. The bass player pulled out his lighter and offered the flame to Richard who nodded his thanks and leaned closer.

“What are we looking at?” the guitarist asked after a first long drag. It was cold today.

“We're wondering if we can make this place a little safer,” Olli replied and then they both introduced their ideas to him. They all knew that if anything would happen, there would be little to nothing they could do. So deterrence was what they were aiming for. Maybe cameras or motion sensors that could set off an alarm or switch on lights. The usual stuff. All of it would be easy to install while Paul was away. They could surprise him with it and at the same time wouldn't have him around with his know-it-all attitude while they were putting everything in place. They also mused if all this was even necessary at all or if it would make the situation worse. They would have to discuss it with the rest of the band.

When they came back inside and entered the kitchen, they were greeted by a beautifully covered breakfast table and a heavenly smell that made their mouths water.

“Yes, thank you.” It was Paul's voice coming from the other side of the kitchen. He was on the phone. The moment he got aware of his friends, he motioned them to sit down.

“What's going on?” Richard asked the others as he went to his place.

They seemed equally clueless. So Paul must have done all this by himself then?

“I'll have everything packed and ready,” the older guitarist said to the person on the other side of the line.

There were footsteps in the upper hallway, which meant the rest of the band would join any minute.

“Yeah, I'm fine with that. Thanks a lot.” Paul pressed a button on his coffee machine and it started buzzing.

“You too. Bye.” The smaller guitarist put his phone aside and finally turned to the table. “Sorry about that. Good morning.”

They greeted him as well.

He looked a lot better than yesterday, Richard thought. A lot more rested. He still lacked his natural energy. But compared to yesterday after they'd found him sitting with Flake cutting vegetables, this was a big step forward.

“Who was that?” Till asked Paul.

“Theo,” the smallest of them replied, “He'll pick me up and drive me to the airport.”

“And come with you?”

“Yes. Everything's taken care of.” For a moment he stared at the floor, as if a thought had his mind captured. Then he shook his head and looked at them, while offering them a small smile. “Alright, make yourself comfortable, I'm almost finished.” Then he turned around again and attended to his coffee machine.

“What is all this?” Olli asked just in time as both Flake and Schneider came through the door.

“Breakfast,” Paul answered over his shoulder and took something from the machine.

“I can see that,” the bass player answered in a way that, just by the tone of it, made clear he needed more info. But Paul didn't give him any and instead did something that from Richard's angle looked a lot like pouring frothy milk into cups.

“Wow, that looks good!” Schneider commented as he sat down next to Richard, his eyes looking at the table. Paul had really outdone himself this time. Everything was arranged by color. The jam was put in tiny bowls, the cheese slices were folded and arranged in an interesting pattern, the fruits were cut into decorative forms. This was definitely not a normal band breakfast. And it left them waiting for an explanation. There had to be one.

Eventually Paul was finished with the hot beverages and served them all a beautifully made coffee in a mug on a saucer. With the frothy milk he had made a unique design for each of them. And what at first Richard had misinterpreted as a small napkin, was indeed a folded piece of paper that was pinned between mug and saucer.

When finally Paul had taken his place, he was met by five expectant sets of eyes. He took a deep breath and scratched the back of his neck. “Umm,” he made and his free hand fidgeted with the knife, “I just wanted to say thank you for yesterday.”

“What for?” - “You'd do that for any of us, too.” - “That's what family does.” - “We should have done it sooner.” - “What else did you expect?”

They all reacted at once and Paul probably couldn't hear each word, but it didn't matter. The message was clear and he swallowed.

“Can we-,” he stopped and looked down at his plate, “Can we not make a big deal out of this? I just wanted to say thank you, so … dig in, okay?”

“Okay,” both Flake and Schneider replied, to do him the favor.

“What's this?” Till asked instead and held up a folded piece of paper between his index and middle finger. So each of them had gotten one, Richard mused.

“Nothing,” Paul answered, quickly looked at Till and averted his eyes just as fast, “Only something I want each of you to know.” He sighed helplessly. “I just feel stupid if I have to say it out loud, so … ,” he let his voice trail off. It was obviously something that left him feel uncomfortable, if not embarrassed.

Richard carefully lifted the coffee mug to not destroy the milk foam flower, and picked up the small note. Before he unfolded it, he cast a glance at Paul and caught him observing him, but he instantly looked away, which made him all the more curious.

His fingers opened the piece of paper and turned it in the right direction so he could read the handwritten lines.

~

I might not be able to show it, but I am happy. I'm happy you help me through this.

You once said I am like sunlight. Right now you are my lighthouse.

Since you are the one showing me how to say things: How can I say “Thank you”, if “Thank you” isn't enough?

~

Richard's eyes went over the lines again and again. He heard Paul's voice saying them in his head. It was obvious Paul was referring to the wish he'd made yesterday. He wanted him to be happy again. And now this? Paul told him he was a reason for a small piece of happiness? That he was a lighthouse? A light in the darkness? Safety?

It took every bit of strength to keep his eyes from watering. He blinked the rising moisture away and rose to his feet, his eyes reading the last line again. “Get up,” he told Paul and motioned him to stand up as well.

The smaller guitarist did as he was asked. The moment he was on both his feet, Richard pulled him close, wrapped his arms around him as tight as he could and lay his chin on Paul's shoulder. “This is, how,” he said. And with that he just held him and let all the gratitude for those words flow into the embrace. He knew Paul had understood what he meant when he, too, closed his arms around Richard and held him like he would never let him go again. Next to them chairs were pushed aside and footsteps came closer. More arms followed. Thank Yous were whispered next to other encouraging words. In all of this both guitarists didn't let go of each other and Richard didn't want to, ever.

Eventually though, the group hug ended and an awkward silence spread out, while they all sat down again.

“That's why I didn't want to say anything out loud,” Paul mumbled.

It was enough to make the others grin or laugh a little.

“They all say something different, don't they?” Till asked and tipped his finger against the paper that he had already neatly folded again.

The smaller guitarist nodded.

“Well, then …,” Flake said, lifted a boiled egg from his eggcup and placed it on Paul's plate with so much force that the shell at the bottom broke and it stood upright on its own. Then he looked at him expectantly. They both started to grin at each other. Whatever was written on Flake's note surely had something to do with this.

When Paul started to peel the egg, the others started to grab some food as well. The mood changed soon and was lighthearted and joyful and everything tasted so much better this morning. Without saying it they all agreed that Paul didn't have to do any of it. Yet it was such an amazing sign that especially after yesterday he'd pulled up all this just to give them something back. They all knew it didn't change anything about the long road they had to go. But it made it all easier.

Richard wondered what the other notes said, but respected that it was meant as words exchanged in privacy. He didn't want any of the others to read his note either. And while around him the small talk started, he remained silent and thought about what the words meant to him. After a while he realized it might take days to find an answer to it.

“Alright,” Schneider started and pulled Richard out of his musing, “Olli and I have found something you might like,” and with that he looked right at Paul who was busy eating a jam covered roll – with small bites, but he tried. “But, after yesterday we're not sure if you're ready for it, yet.” Olli nodded quietly.

“What is it?” Paul asked curiously.

“We want to surprise you,” the drummer replied, “All of you, actually.” He let his gaze meet all of their faces.

“I love surprises,” Till grumbled in fake annoyance.

“Do I get a hint?” Paul tried.

“It's what the sportswear is for,” Olli hinted before Schneider could stop him.

“Are you serious?” Richard asked and pulled his brows together. “He just passed out yesterday.”

“I just fell because I got a little woozy,” the other guitarist contradicted. “I feel okay.”

There was something about it that Richard couldn't trust. It was too much of a change between yesterday and today. But could he blame Paul? All he did was try and pick himself up. He let them help him. He even helped them help him. “Can he injure himself?” he asked Olli and Schneider.

The two looked at each other for a long moment. They were silently debating the potential risks.

“Maybe,” Schneider then answered, “But the chances are small.”

“Like him,” Olli added and pointed at smallest of them.

It took a few seconds before Paul started to snicker. Then Olli chimed in and then the rest of the table.

“Really?” the bass player looked at Paul, ”That's what you want?”

Next to Richard the other guitarist just nodded encouragingly. He didn't know for sure, but he had a feeling that this, too, had something to do with the little notes. Did Paul give all of them a hint on what to do, referring to their wishes?

“Back to the topic though,” the smaller man said while still smiling, “I'd really like to do this today, whatever your surprise is.” Then he looked at Richard. “I can still say if anything is too much.”

“Yeah, right.” The taller man raised a brow. “That sounds exactly like you.” It was impossible to ignore the sarcastic undertone, that he only then defused with a lopsided grin. If Paul wanted to go, he wouldn't stand in the way.

And then the doorbell rang. Richard could feel how every muscle in Paul's body froze instantly. How his smile vanished and and his eyes fearfully looked at the kitchen door. He had been right. It was a thin layer of superficial happiness.

“I'll go,” Till said and got up.

Richard sought eye contact with Flake and when he was sure the keyboarder looked at him, he nodded towards him and rose to his feet as well. He could count on the keyboarder having an eye on his friend. He gave Paul's wrist an encouraging squeeze before he followed Till into the hallway.

On his way he wondered who could possibly want something from them. No one knew they were here besides their families and management, but none of them would visit unannounced. Was Jakob stopping by because of the phone call yesterday?

He closed the kitchen door just in time to see Till open the front door and ask a straightforward “Who are you?”

Richard heard the other's voice respond and instantly knew who it was. He cursed under his breath and came closer until he stood right next to the singer. “Morning, Winfried.” It was hard to stay polite. But he couldn't risk raising any suspicions.

“Richard!” the old man smiled, even though he seemed strangely out of breath. “Is Paul there?”

The guitarist shook his head and made a step towards the visitor, signaling Till that he should stay in the background. He knew the singer would do his part and silently glare down at the old man. “I'm sorry, no. Why? Anything I can pass on to him?”

The neighbor adjusted his glasses and pulled something from his pocket. “Can you give him this?” He held out a folded banknote. “He helped me with my fence and he left so quickly that I couldn't give him that.”

Richard stared at the money and didn't know what to do. But in order to keep everything as unsuspicious as possible he took it and nodded. “I'll make sure he gets it.” He wished he could kick Winfried in the face instead. “Anything else?”

“Yes, actually,” the old man nodded. His eyes darted at Till for a second. Judging by his body language Till really made him nervous. “I found the telephone he wanted to have a look at. Can you tell him that?”

Richard nodded and hoped the man would just leave.

“He can stop by anytime he wants.”

“I'll tell him that,” the guitarist replied, but didn't say anything else so that an uneasy silence purposefully spread out between them.

It took a moment for the neighbor to get the message. “Well then …,” he said and suddenly pressed a hand on his chest for a moment while pulling his brows together. He regained his composure as soon as he had lost it and nodded his goodbye. “Have a good day, then.”

“Good day,” Richard replied and watched him leave. Then he closed the door and let out some air.

“Drop dead,” Till mumbled, his eyes still glued to the door.

The guitarist looked at the money in his hands and then up at Till. “He cannot come over again.”

The singer nodded. “We'll think of something.”

Knowing his friend, he already made plans on how to stop the neighbor from entering the farmyard a second time.

“Okay,” Till said and took a deep breath, “Let's head back inside. I won't let this fucker ruin the good mood.”

“And this?” Richard asked and lifted the banknote between their faces.

“Hm,” the singer grumbled. Then he took it. “Give me that.” He turned around and opened the kitchen door.

Four sets of eyes watched them come back inside and Richard immediately sat back down next to Paul. He seemed a bit more relaxed than before. “It's alright,” he told him.

Till walked up the middle of the table and stood behind Olli and Schneider. “It was the neighbor.” He went straight to the point. “He wanted to give you the money for fixing the fence. Do you want it?”

Paul's eyes met Till's. The guitarist shook his head. His jaw seemed clenched tight. He brought out a “No” nonetheless.

“Okay,” the singer responded and walked to the fridge to pin the banknote under a magnet. “We'll find a good purpose for it.” Then he went back to his seat and drank some coffee. No word was said about the telephone or the invitation. There was no reason for it.

They knew each other too well to have to speak about it. So it was Olli who asked another question instead. “Paul? I suppose you want to get out of here and let off some tension now more than before?”

The smallest of them looked at him from across the table and nodded. “Yes.” For a quick moment he looked at Richard and then back at the bass player. “Yes please.”

They agreed that they would continue their breakfast first. Within a few minutes they had reestablished the joyful mood. There was a hidden underlying tension left, but they knew they were stronger than this. They had decided to stay and they would find a way to make everyone feel safe here. The first jokes were made and when they heard Paul laugh as well they knew he was on the right path as well.

~~~

With a final turn to the right the minibus stopped on the small parking lot of the old oil mill. It was a large building complex build of red bricks, partly up to five stories high. Since the 19^th century until the end of the GDR crude oil was produced here. From where they had come to a halt they could only see a small part of it. One by one they got out of the vehicle, lifted the backpacks over their shoulders and pulled their jackets a little tighter.

Richard looked around. There where four other cars, some trees, a lot of cobblestones and even more brick walls. To the left, next to a smaller house, stood two large round buildings. They looked like bulky octagonal towers which were connected through a smaller segment. Richard believed to remember that those had been silos for oil seeds once. White letters on one of the walls revealed that the whole complex had been transformed into a hotel and spa area.

He lifted a brow and wrapped his lips around a cigarette, wondering what Schneider and Olli had planned. The two initiators of this trip asked the other four to stay close to the minibus and wait a moment. Then they walked around the two silos and vanished behind them.

Till just shrugged his shoulders and lit himself a cigarette, too, and walked towards the taller guitarist. “Let's hope they don't force us to do indoor soccer or something like that,” he sighed.

It made Richard grin. “I think they wouldn't do this to us.” Some smoke rose to from his mouth and his gaze followed it on its way to the clouds. “Can't be swimming either. We don't have swimwear.”

“They definitely said something about doing sport, right?” The singer looked him straight in the eye, “Because I'm not doing a spa-day.”

“Why not?” Richard grinned. “A nice fango pack, a massage, sauna …,” he let his voice trail off and wiggled his eye brows, just to tease Till a little more.

“What about me says spa?” the singer asked with a growl.

“Then tell me, what would you like to do most if you had the chance?” He was curious what kind of activity he would do without them having a discussion.

“They have an open air stage!” Flake exclaimed while he was standing next to the right silo behind which Schneider and Olli had vanished and pointed at that direction. Till and Richard both looked at each other and walked towards their keyboarder, expecting a small stage that would suit the provincial town. To their surprise it wasn't that small at all and had a permanent roof with white canvas spanned above to shield it from any uncomfortable weather. It was flanked by the silos to one side, by a restaurant and brewery to another and by a huge hotel building to a third. The acoustic should be amazing here, Richard thought. While he listened to Till and Flake muse about who would perform here, he enjoyed the aesthetics of the whole ensemble. It had this rough industrial appeal and still it felt inviting. He knew it was just the kind of look Paul usually enjoyed immensely. So his eyes searched for the smaller man, expecting him to wander around and admire the vibrant orange-red walls in the cold autumn air, the faint echo of their footsteps in the empty space between them. He turned on his heels and furrowed his brows. “Where's Paul?”

The other two instantly looked around as well but the smallest band member was nowhere in sight.

“I thought he was with you,” Till said to Flake who in return just lifted his shoulders.

“He was reading the info board,” the keyboarder replied and pointed at a text sign mounted to the wall of the silo.

Under normal circumstances this wouldn't be an issue. Paul was a grown man, he didn't need observation. But with the constant question of safety hanging in the air things had changed. So they walked back the small distance to the parking lot, but Paul wasn't there either. Richard went around the minibus. Nothing. He watched Till walk up the driveway back to the street and look around. But he came back shaking his head.

“He must have passed us,” Flake wondered.

“But would he ignore the stage?” Till asked in return. It would be more likely for Paul to climb up there.

Richard looked around once more and tried to calm himself. There was no danger. Paul was just out of sight. He took a deep breath and scanned the area for the most interesting thing the guitarist could find, keeping in mind that the other man lacked a certain degree of restraint.

His eyes fell on the light turquoise wooden door that let inside the middle section between the two silos. It was closed. Yet he walked closer until he could read the letters on the door. “Eingang – Kletterturm – Tauchturm" – Entrance – Climbing Tower – Diving Tower

His hand reached for the door handle and pulled. The door opened. He looked over his shoulder to make sure at least one of the others saw where he was going. Till nodded at him and so he went inside to look if Paul had gone inside.

While the door behind him fell shut, he found himself inside a really small room that was used as a reception for visitors. There was a counter with some flyers and merch, behind it a cash register, a computer and some smaller piles of paper. It smelled of wood, chlorine and a strange old smell that seemed to seep from the walls. To his disappointment the room was empty as well and it felt like he shouldn't be here. The doors at each side that led to the silos where closed as well. Paul definitely wasn't in here, either. He furrowed his brows and thoughtfully stared at the old diving helmet which sat on a class cabinet to his right.

It was nothing but a hunch. But knowing how curiosity driven Paul could be, he walked towards the black iron door with the inscription Tauchturm and checked if it would open.

It did.

Behind it it was dark, illuminated only by the natural light that fell inside from the reception, and by the artificial blue light coming from the large porthole through which it was possible to look inside the huge diving tank. Behind him the door slowly closed itself and with the natural light fading it more and more felt like going inside one of those aquarium houses in a zoo, where it not for the gentle chlorine smell. They had really built a huge metal cylinder into the silo to make it possible to dive several meters deep in here. From the left he noticed a soft light in the distance further up the wall. It barely illuminated the narrow stairs that went around the tank and led to the top. There were soft voices coming from up there and a large water pump was humming faintly in the background.

And then a sigh of relief left Richard's lungs. In front of the porthole, slightly to the side, crouched on the floor, there was Paul. Dark floor, dark room, dark tank, dark clothes. He wanted to kill him and hug him at the same time.

“What are you doing here?!” he asked him with a soft voice as he got closer. He already knew. It's not like this behavior was anything new.

“Hey,” Paul greeted him and and turned his head. The blue light was reflecting in his big eyes as he looked up at Richard. “You have to see this!” And with that he pointed at the round window and directed his gaze back to whatever he had been watching.

The taller of them crouched down next to his friend and looked at him for a moment. He wanted to scold him for wandering off in times like these without saying anything. But he knew it would be futile. Paul had always been this way, had been encouraged even. If now he behaved like he would do normally, it was actually a reason for joy. As was the expression of utter fascination on his features. So beautiful.

Richard pulled his eyes away and looked up in the same direction as Paul. It seemed a group of people where doing a diving exercise and trained to rescue drowning people. Someone with ordinary street clothes was jumping deep into the water and then remained there, just holding their breath. Then someone else would jump in, either with diving gear or without, and would try to pull the person out. They were also practicing with a dummy, it seemed. Not only was it enthralling to watch all this from far below, but it was also strangely beautiful with all the slowed down movements, the lighting, the water bubbles, the dark meaning behind the exercise.

“It's so sad we can only do fire stuff on stage,” Paul muttered as he tried to tilt his head to have a better angle.

Richard just nodded. It was a captivating view and he bet that both Paul and he had the same feeling that something like this would really go well with their music. “We can't have everything,” he sighed and when he looked back at Paul's face, he realized that this was true for more than one thing.

Their gazes met and Richard believed to see a strange sadness linger in Paul's eyes.

“The others are probably wondering where we are,” the smaller man eventually said.

Richard nodded and wondered how much time had passed. He rose to his feet and stretched his hand out to pull Paul up as well. His skin was warm. Such a contrast to the cold atmosphere.

When they both opened the door to go back to the reception, they were met by the rest of the band just entering through the turquoise door. “There they are!” Schneider exclaimed with a wide smile.

Before anyone else could say something, a friendly looking man emerged from the group. “You've checked out our diving tower?” he asked with a wide smile and went behind the counter and entered his password to unlock the the computer. He had a full beard, a man bun, tattoos up to his neck, painted fingernails. He had such an inviting manner that he was diffusing the rising tension without knowing it was even there. “It's really cool, isn't it? But you're here for our other attraction,” he just rambled on while scanning the screen. “And I guess the group is complete? Or do you have any other people joining? The booking says it's only you six.” He finally looked up.

“It's just us six, yes,” Olli replied with a nod as he pushed himself past behind Till to stand halfway behind Paul. “I hope you'll like this,” he whispered in his ear before resting his hands on his shoulders.

Richard was glad no one commented on the sudden disappearance of both their guitarists. Probably because they could put two and two together as well.

“Climbing, right?” Paul asked as he tried to look up to the bass player.

Oliver nodded in return and made the smaller man smile.

“My boss already told me we'd have VIP guests for the tower today,” the man behind the counter explained to them and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “I'd never have guessed it would be you.” He scratched his neck nervously and went to unlock the other iron door. “Follow me, please.”

Richard smiled to himself. At least he didn't even try and hide the fact that he knew who they were. It made the conversation easier, at least from his experience. People usually didn't take long to more or less treat them like everyone else. This time was no different. They involved the man in some casual small talk. He apologized for being the only one taking care of them because they were horribly understaffed at the moment. They told him they liked it even better that way. He in return gave them a warm smile and showed them where to put their stuff and went to get the climbing harnesses from a rack on the wall.

Richard's eyes scanned the interior of the silo, the climbing tower. There were a few wooden logs that went all the way up from the bottom to the brick-built ceiling. Everywhere were little platforms and between them various ways to get from one platform to the next, getting from one level to the other. There were ropes, corded ladders, swings, loops, vertical hanging rods, and a lot of other things Richard had absolutely no intention to try out. One look at Till's face and he knew that the singer was equally unimpressed. Flake appeared neutral. Only Schneider, Olli and – much to his joy – also Paul showed open excitement.

They were given the security instructions first. Then it was time to put on the harnesses and it was then that the first stupid jokes fell. Richard could count from ten backwards to tell when Till would do the first comment on whose package looked most prominent as the harnesses definitely did their best to highlight that specific body part. It was Paul who in return asked the singer if he by any means had cheated with a pair of socks again.

After reassuring the staff member that they all had done this before and that they absolutely didn't need any help, he sat down at the side and busied himself with some paperwork he needed to do anyway. He wouldn't leave them unsupervised nonetheless, but as the banter between the band members started, he tried not to listen. Just every now and then he would look up if everyone had their hooks connected to the safety rope.

Since it was a surprise mainly for Paul, he was encouraged to be the first to start climbing, followed by Olli who in case of an emergency could intervene the best due to his physical capability.

“You've grown weak,” Richard heard the bass player tease, followed by Paul's “How about you let yourself get stabbed next time”. He heard Schneider hiss a meaningful “Guys!” as a warning that they shouldn't mention this while strangers could hear them. The dark-haired guitarist rolled his eyes as he watched Flake start the climb as well. He himself still stood on the ground with his arms crossed.

Suddenly there was an arm around his shoulders. Just by the weight he could tell it was Till.

“Look at this,” the singer said and watched the rest of the group as well, “Three weeks ago he wasn't communicating at all.”

“True,” Richard replied.

“Take your sausage fingers off my hook!” Paul called out, “I can do this alone!” He received laughter from the others and joined in as well.

“How do you feel?” Till asked his friend and turned all his attention on him.

The question hit him unprepared and off-guard. He knew if Till asked something like this, he really wanted to know. And the way the arm was wrapped around him he felt protected for a moment. He could see with his own eyes that Paul was safe right now and looked after. Richard realized that he had avoided asking himself that question for too long. He feared the answer. Of course he felt relieved that after thinking he had screwed up with letting Paul therapy-play the guitar, it had been a good outcome after all. He was insanely happy how tight the band held together. How they lifted so much weight off his shoulders since yesterday. How Paul showed that he tried. How the goal to be back on tour next year seemed within reach again. How Paul got better despite the setbacks.

But.

There was the pile of feelings he tried to ignore and to shove away as far away as he possibly could. He knew he couldn't ignore them forever. But for now that's what he had to do. He knew the pile would cave in sooner or later, but he hoped he could avoid it as long as Paul needed him.

He knew Till wasn't blind. He could see the pile as well. He knew that's why he asked. He knew there was no use in lying to him. He could see right through him.

Instead of trying to find words that wouldn't fit anyway, he inhaled and let out a shuddering breath.

The arm around his shoulders held him tighter.

“Whenever you feel like you need something to get off your chest, you can come to me, you know that, right?”

Richard nodded and leaned a little against the singer.

“I mean it. Anything.” Till sounded so sincere.

“Thank you,” Richard whispered before giving him a hug.

Above them they heard the voices of the others. “I could do this, too, if I were this long.” It was obviously Paul being too short for something. It made them both chuckle in their embrace.

“That's what you get for your internalized attitude to be against everything,” Olli replied while by the sound of it pulling himself up somewhere, “Your parents said grow up and you were like no.”

“We should get up there before someone starts crying,” Till said against Richard's shoulder.

The guitarist hated and loved how Till managed to weave in those double meanings.

They let go of each other and – with a final reassuring smile at one another – they followed the rest of the group.

Richard remained hesitant about whether or not all this might be too physically demanding for Paul. But aside from that he had to admit that it was fun. They where constantly teasing each other verbally while at the same time they were helping each other tackle every obstacle.

“Come on! Even my grandmother is faster,” Paul spurred on Schneider in his own way, “And she's dead.”

The drummer slowed down on purpose and looked up the net he was supposed to climb upwards. At the top Paul was looking down at him. “You know,” Schneider started, “especially as a man, you should know how to take things slow. Don't rush it. It's not about the finish line, it's about the joy.”

“I'm pretty sure the rope doesn't care if I'm fast or not,” the rhythm guitarist answered despite the chuckles of the others.

A little later Flake got himself entangled in a very compromising position and between fits of laughter from the others all he could do was comment his misery with a resigned “So that's how they'll find me.” They helped him a moment later, but not without further teasing.

It went on like this. Up the corded ladders, along the ropes, through the barrel – and Richard will never be sure if or if not Till was making humping movements behind him while he was crawling inside – and then out the top window along the zip line across the building complex, past the open air stage to the outer wall of the hotel, where the climbing path continued for a good portion o the building.

Richard could see part of the Strandcafé in the distance from the small landing he was standing on. “Paul, look!” He pointed at the building, “There's where you stole the drinks.”

“You what?!” Schneider, who stood between them, asked in partly played shock.

“Stop spreading rumors!” the smaller man complained even though he looked too proud of himself to appear fully trustworthy. Yet, while connecting his hooks to the second zip line, he looked at the tower in the distance for a while as if enjoying a good memory. He was still smiling when he turned his head to get ready to go back to the silo.

While taking the ride back on the zip line himself, Richard felt the cool wind in his hair. He relaxed in the harness that was keeping him safe and took a deep breath. He could feel the past two hours in his hands. The smooth cool surface of the diving tank, the rough ropes, the brittle brick walls, the wood, the metal hooks, the strong hands of his friends, who held him whenever he needed them. Paul's warm hand.

Eventually they all were back on solid ground, laughing, panting, smiling wide. They could see that Paul was exhausted, but it was worth it. He showed them that he had enjoyed himself a lot and rewarded them with a long and heartfelt hug. They kept on talking on their way back to the minibus and on their drive to the farmyard. They were sure they would feel all this in their muscles and bones tomorrow. But in their hearts as well.

~~~

After returning back to the farmyard, they stayed together for the rest of the day. They mostly sat together in the living room and spent the time talking and songwriting. Flake had his keyboard on the sofa, the string instrument faction had their acoustic guitars and Schneider was drumming on everything he could find, table, floor and bottles included. There was constantly food on the table and even Paul was eating quite a lot. Jokes where thrown across the table and laughter filled the room. Richard bathed in the moment. The last 24 hours had brought them closer together and it felt like they could make it work. It tasted like hope.

~~~

“I can't sleep,” Paul stated quietly into the dark room.

Richard opened his eyes again. They had both taken a short shower before going to bed and now the air smelled of toothpaste, shower gel and a hint of tobacco. “What's bothering you?” They had said good night to each other quite a while ago.

Paul took a deep breath and probably blinked into the darkness.

“My stomach hurts,” the smaller man sighed and moved a little in Richard's arm who in return wanted to take the weight off Paul's chest, but, like the nights before, was held firmly in place by the wrist.

“I could make you tea.”

A small rustling sound. Paul was shaking his head, if he interpreted the silhouette correctly.

“Eaten too much today?”

“I guess so.” A sigh. A pain-filled muttering.

Then Paul moved again and turned on his back without letting go of Richard's wrist. The weight of the arm was now pressing down on Paul's belly and Richard wondered how that could be comfortable. Again he tried to lift it and again there was resistance.

After all those weeks of eating only little portions it was no wonder his stomach was protesting now. But it seemed to be a small price to pay if it meant he could soon go back to being their more or less secret fridge looter. He listened to them both breathe in rhythm and wondered since when they had been in sync.

“Richard?” Paul whispered into the silence.

“Mhm?”

Again a deep breath. “I'm scared of the trip to Vienna.”

“Why?” he asked and instantly realized the stupidity of it. There were so many possibilities and to offer a one-word-question wasn't helping. “What do you fear might go wrong?” Better.

“I barely remember a thing,” the smaller man muttered. “What if I point at the wrong person at the line-up?” A heavy pause. “What if I lead them in the wrong direction? Or can't help at all?”

He sounded profoundly worried.

Richard looked at him for a while and despite the darkness he thought he could see him. “You know that they are supposed to help you, don't you?” He gently asked after a while. It made Paul turn his head towards him. “Just wait what they'll ask you. They are the experts. They know what they do.”

Again there was silence. Richard felt an unevenness under his fingertip. Thinking it was a small wrinkle in Paul's shirt, he absentmindedly tried to smooth it. When it wouldn't go away, he realized what he was feeling under the fabric, and he instantly stilled his movements. The scar. It was the first time he'd felt it and it made it so much more real. He searched for his voice and found it before it had a chance to hide in his throat. “Maybe it is easier if you see it as a chance? If you don't try, they might get away with this. In my eyes the only thing you can do wrong is not go.” The fingers around his wrist closed a little tighter. “And I'm still ready to come with you.”

“I know,” the smaller guitarist whispered and took another deep breath. “A chance, you say?” he mused in a low voice.

Richard nodded.

“But what if I don't remember a damn thing?”

Since when was Paul so insecure, Richard wondered. “I know you will have tried your best. That's all that matters to me.” And out of reflex, because that's what they did sometimes, he gave him a small kiss on his temple. He instantly regretted it. Usually they did this with more people in the room, sometimes for an audience. But Paul didn't seem to think anything of it and didn't react at all.

Still, with all the constant hiding of feelings it felt like Richard might have revealed too much. He was only released from his own fear as Paul whispered a “Thank you” that seemed to come from the bottom of his heart.

“Anytime,” the taller of them replied with a smile.

For a while they stayed like this, each of them left to their own thoughts. Richard hoped Paul would ask him to come with him. He made plans to pack his backpack just in case he would be asked last minute. From what he knew his flight would go on Saturday which meant at least one night of trying to sleep in a hotel. The first time in a hotel since … - his finger brushed against the scar again. He had no idea if Paul had thought about that. If he was afraid of staying there. If he had come up with a plan to deal with possible triggers. He didn't want to let him travel alone. Their bodyguards were amazing, no doubt, but none of them knew Paul like the band did. Like he did.

“Paule?” he asked softly.

“Mhm?”

“If I weren't here, what would you do to help yourself fall asleep?”

“Jerk off,” came the dry reply.

He should have known. “Want some me-time?”

“Not in the mood.”

“What else then?”

“Dunno.” Paul shrugged his shoulders. “Listening to a podcast, probably.”

“Then lets do that,” Richard suggested and pulled his arm from the other's belly, this time with success.

“Sure?”

“Ja, why not.” It wasn't like he could instantly fall asleep himself. To many thoughts circled in his head.

Paul turned on his side and he moved away to get his phone from the bedside table. He unlocked the screen and made a displeased sound as the light hit his eyes. A few seconds later he mumbled something to himself that sounded like no Ossi-stuff, before he settled for a certain episode and pressed play. Two interviewers where casually talking to someone they had invited. Richard didn't know the guest, but he knew the podcast.

“Too loud?” Paul asked while he lay down on his side again and placed the phone next to the pillow.

“I barely understand a word,” he replied.

Then, tentatively, he brought his arm back in place. It made Paul lean back a little. Then the hand was back around his wrist. He wanted to pull the other body close against his own. It felt like the right thing to do.

Instead though he distracted himself and listened to the podcast as well. He knew the concept. Liked it a lot. The invited person had to choose a keyword first. The moment they said that word – on purpose or by accident - the interview would end immediately. Until then they were sitting together and talked. He wondered what keyword he would choose. What Paul would do. And would Paul mess with them by saying the word in the first minute? Or keep talking until they would beg him to end it? A wide smile crossed his lips as he imagined Paul driving them crazy. It was the same smile he fell asleep with.

~~~

Trembling.

Fear.

Soothing words.

Calming.

Warmth.

Trust.

Relief.

Sleep.

They had found a good routine and within a few minutes another nightmare was over.

~~~

Richard smelled coffee. It was what made him wake up. Or was it something else? It was strange. He could clearly feel that he was not alone in his bed. He felt another body. He smelled Paul's scent. He heard him breathe calmly next to him.

Then he heard a whisper.

“I wish I could time travel.” It was Olli's voice.

“And then?” Schneider whispered back. They seemed to stand somewhere in the room. How rude.

“I'd go back twenty years and show them this.”

He heard the soft sound of a cup being placed on a wooden surface. He heard some muffled snickering. It was enough to open his eyes.

Till's face was the first he saw. He looked right back at him and slowly put his phone away.

“You must be kidding,” Richard groaned, already sure that Till had made some photos. He turned his head and saw the other two standing at the other end of the bed. Then he discovered Flake, who stood leaning in the doorframe.

“You practically forced us,” the singer replied with a shrug and an innocent look on his face.

“I what?” His befuddled brain couldn't make sense of any of it. Why couldn't they let him sleep?

“We wanted to let you sleep in,” Schneider explained.

“So?”

“But now it's almost twelve.” The drummer walked a little closer to Till. “It is our last day together before he,” and he pointed at the still sleeping Paul right next to Richard, “heads off to Vienna. We thought we'd at least have lunch together? You two already missed breakfast.”

They had a point. And was it really that late? It would mean, that---. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked at the man in front of him. Paul indeed was still sound asleep. This was curious. “It's twelve?” He asked needlessly.

“Almost,” Olli replied.

They gave each other a look.

Till leaned down and carefully shook Paul by the shoulder.

The smallest of them grumbled unintelligibly, before turning around and pulling the covers over his head.

“That's unusual,” Schneider commented.

“What have you two been doing last night?” Till asked and a grin formed on his lips.

Richard ignored him the best he could and instead tried to peel back enough of Paul's blanket to see his face. “Hey,” he said.

“Hhhnnnggghnnn,” the other guitarist made while pressing his eyes shut.

“Can't we let him sleep?” It was Flake who finally chimed in from his position at the door. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“But we've cooked one of his favorite meals,” Schneider threw in.

“Did you hear that?” Richard asked Paul in a gentle tone.

As a result, the smallest of them tried again to get the blanket over his face.

“We can warm it up later,” the keyboarder commented.

Slowly Richard came to a realization. So he sat up and looked at his friends. “Sorry, guys.” While he was glad he could finally get some sleep, this was not the scenario he wanted to wake up to. “There are too many people in this room. Would you please leave and let me take care of this?” He was well aware that after yesterday they surely felt that this was okay. They didn't know about the special mood Paul was in in those minutes before and after being asleep. The vulnerability. The fear. The strength. He himself surely knew only about a fraction of it. But he knew enough.

They left the room under silent well meant comments. But Richard just turned to Paul and again lifted the blanket to see the other man's face. He had his eyes closed. But he was awake.

“Want to sleep a little longer?” he asked him.

A small nod.

“Alright.” For a moment he placed his hand on top of Paul's shoulder and his face relaxed a bit more with every second.

Richard let his eyes wander around the room. They stopped at the cups on each bedside table. He noticed the coffee smell in the room as well as the faint lack of oxygen. “Shall I take the coffee outside again?”

Another small nod.

He got up and tilted the window. The cold air instantly fell into the room. For a moment he kept standing in front of it, picked up the cup of coffee close to him and drank from it while looking at the landscape. He felt how sore his muscles were after yesterday. Did Paul feel the same? Did he feel even worse after having been in the hospital and then not having been able to work out? He assumed that after their climbing session and all the good food his body finally – finally – found a way to really rest. He hoped that's what this was.

He placed the empty cup on the window sill and grabbed some cloths to put on. When he was done, he went back to the bed and leaned over Paul. “Do you need anything?”

“No,” Paul whispered tiredly.

“Want me to stay with you? Because I wouldn't mi-.”

“No.”

“Okay.” It was such a pleasant surprise to see him actually craving sleep. And yet the sight made him sad. “Is there a time you definitely want to get up? Or just sleep.”

“Two hours,” Paul mumbled and opened his eyes to look up at him. “Thank you,” he whispered after a short pause.

Richard answered with a warm smile. He picked up the remaining coffee cup and went to the door.

“Sleep well,” he said before closing the door, only leaving a small crack open.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 28: Improvisation

They ate without Paul, but with the good feeling that he was resting. Something that was overdue.

Every half an hour Richard went upstairs just to peek through the door and check if he was sleeping calmly or if there was a nightmare. Thankfully there was none. Richard found this was actually really nice. It reminded him of those times on tour when Paul had gotten a cold and had been sleeping all day. It had always been a sign that he was about to get better soon. But of course he also knew this – all of this – was different now.

After lunch they had moved back to the living room again and opened the discussion on whether or not more security measures were necessary. Of course the opinions differed. With Paul still sleeping the decision was made based on a majority of three votes on being better safe than sorry.

While they were looking up different models of surveillance cameras, Richard's gaze lost focus on his screen and he started staring right through it into the distance. This was a topic he had not as much knowledge about and he would rather have it installed by a professional. In their case it wouldn't be possible without though another person knowing where they were staying and of course that was to be avoided.

Instead he made himself useful in another way and busied himself thinking about what he could say to Paul today later in the evening. He was almost sure he would have him lying in his arm again while driving himself crazy about the trip to Vienna. He still had no idea if he would be able to come with him, but he knew he had to try and do his best to calm Paul down. He couldn't imagine what it felt like to have gone through such a violent experience and then to have to go back there and help to find those who did this to him, knowing most of them were still at large.

He made plans to proactively talk to him about it. To ask him what he needed. What he feared. How he would cope with it. He wanted to prepare Paul for the next two days. Hopefully that would lead to the question of joining him on his journey.

After all he would have to stay in a hotel again. There could be all kinds of certain triggers. Smells. Sounds. Words. Images. There would be crowds of people. Strangers. He would have to sleep in a bed alone, with none of his friends close by. And, worse than all of this, he would have to actively try and remember every tiny bit of that cursed night. He might be in the same building as one or more of those people who had done this to him.

Richard opened a small memo on his laptop and wrote down everything he might need to hear in a situation as this. He thought about what could work on Paul. What would calm him down and give him courage. What might even make him smile and relax. He started to compose those words – a little bit like lyrics. If he was honest to himself it was a lot like writing lyrics. For Paul of all people. But he really wanted to hit a nerve in the best way possible.

So he leaned back some more and made sure no one could accidentally look at his screen, before he let himself fall into the sea of words that was his mind and started the preparation for the coming evening.

The minutes went by and luckily no one was asking him why he was typing instead of helping with the security problem. The other four were so involved in their discussion they probably didn't even notice.

Then, after a while, he noticed something.

Richard wasn't sure at first. But over the piano playing and over the talking there was an occasional other layer of sound. It was pain-filled and piercing for a few seconds, before it was gone again. Such a strange sound, but too far away to know what it was and where it came from.

After hearing it a couple of times, he stood up and went up the circular staircase to listen to the upper hallway. But it was silent up there. Just to be sure, he went to Paul's room, gently pushed the door open and sneaked closer to the bed. The other guitarist was still fast asleep. The sight made him smile. So peaceful.

He heard footsteps of someone else come up the staircase and then another door was opened. When he looked over his shoulder and at the hallway, he didn't see anyone. He turned back around and watched Paul sleep again. Just a few seconds more. While he tried to concentrate on listening to his breathing, he suddenly heard the sound again. It was clearly coming from outside through the opened window. He went a little closer, closed his eyes and listened into the quiet. When after almost a minute nothing followed, Richard opened his lids with a small disappointed snort. His gaze went back to Paul's face. He was met by a set of gray-blue eyes looking back at him.

“Go back to sleep,” he told his friend with a gentle smile.

Paul took a deep breath and closed his eyes again.

Then there was the sound again. This time Richard was almost sure he knew what it was. It hadn't been there for a while. He hadn't missed it. But now he was almost sure it was the rooster. Just being able to categorize the sound made him lose interest in it.

Paul opened his eyes again.

“Want me to close the window?” he asked. Maybe that's what had him woken up in the first place.

The smaller man shook his head no.

They held eye contact. Richard had the feeling there was more to it, not just Paul waking up. When after a long moment the rhythm guitarist indeed said “Richard?”, he moved closer to the side of the bed and crouched down on the floor to be at eye level with his friend.

“What is it?” he asked softly.

There was a question in Paul's eyes. It lingered – unspoken – between them. Richard waited. Watched how Paul's lips parted slightly. Listened to the silence. To the new distant scream of the rooster. To the quiet again. Then, words.

“Would you---” Paul started. He was interrupted by a door upstairs being closed with too much force. Heavy footsteps again, this time fading away down the staircase. Till's voice from the hallway. “He's pissing against the wrong tree.”

The guitarists both looked at each other. Just by the tone of those words they knew trouble lay ahead of them. They gave a quick nod at each other, silently agreeing that they had to take care of whatever was about to happen first. They both knew Till. Knew him well enough to understand he was beyond furious.

Richard stood up and made his way out of the room and down the stairs. He knew Paul would follow suit.

When he reached the main hallway he found the front door wide open. Next to him Olli emerged from the kitchen. “Till?” he asked and looked around. When his eyes only found Richard, the lead guitarist pointed at the front door.

They both went to the doorframe.

There, next to the bench around the walnut tree, stood the rooster and dauntlessly readied himself for another crowing. A few meters away stood Till with a rifle in his hand. He raised the weapon to his shoulder and aimed at the bird.

Behind them Richard heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

He knew it was too late to stop Till from whatever he was planning. He knew it should shock him to some degree and to a certain level it possibly did. Yet due to his ability to function even in a crisis, his mind seemed to shove the shock aside to deal with it later. Instead he turned around to look at the stairs just in time to see Paul reach the ground floor.

In any other situation he wouldn't need to worry. Paul knew that Till occasionally killed animals, if there was a purpose behind it. He wasn't phased by it, never had been. But what was about to happen had nothing to do with hunting. Nor with providing food. It was just aggression. He was almost sure this wasn't something Paul could deal with well at this point.

“Wait!” he told his fellow guitarist and moved towards him to keep him from coming closer to the door.

“Till?!” he heard Oliver call out, “Don't!”

Richard's eyes connected with Paul's. He looked into those gray-blue pools, saw the questions in them and the lingering tiredness.

There was no chance to prepare him for what was about to happen. Maybe he didn't need any warning. Maybe he did.

They both looked at each other when the shot happened. When it echoed across the courtyard and through the house. When the crows started cawing agitatedly. When Olli let out a breathy “My god!” and walked outside.

Richard had seen a jolt go through Paul's body. Now he stood there as if in shock. He probably was. And only then did Richard realize Paul had no idea who had shot at what or whom!

As he was about to open his mouth and tell his friend what had happened, though, Till already appeared at the front door and rushed inside, rifle casually propped on his shoulder. His gaze was stern and focused. It seemed his mission wasn't over yet. He went straight into the kitchen.

Paul's eyes where still fixed on Richard.

“What did you do?” they heard Schneider's voice from the kitchen.

“What was necessary,” they heard Till answer in a cold tone.

“He shot the rooster,” Richard said to Paul as calmly as he could.

The smaller man only blinked once in return. The first time since the shot.

Then Till walked past by again without taking any notice of them. Richard watched him walk out the front door in long strides. He had a banknote in his free hand. It seemed to be the money they had received from the neighbor yesterday and that they had pinned on the refrigerator.

Suddenly Paul pushed himself away from the banister to follow Till. Richard watched him and walked behind him. Since there was no rooster sounds after the rifle was fired, he was sure the bird was dead.

Carefully he walked down the two stairs from the front door. In front of him he saw Paul move closer to the remains of the rooster. The sight shocked Richard. Till definitely hadn't used buckshot, but rather ammunition meant for larger animals. The rooster had more or less exploded, leaving red blotches, skin and feathers, bone pieces and intestines behind on the cobblestones. The singer picked up some larger parts – the feet, the head and the most part of one wing – and turned to walk towards the driveway.

Paul stopped right in front of the first bloodstains and looked down at the mess.

All this red next to the golden-yellow leaves of the tree.

Richard stopped a meter behind him and waited for any reaction. He saw Olli catch up with Till and for a moment his eyes followed both his friends as they apparently made their way over to the neighbor's house. He vaguely noticed Schneider and Flake coming outside and have a look at the mess as well. But his attention focused solely on Paul. He didn't need to see more of the bloody remains than he already had. He needed to know if the other guitarist could deal with this and he needed to understand why Till had done this!

In front of him Paul's posture appeared surprisingly relaxed. His shoulders were without tension, his arms were hanging loosely down his sides, the hands open, fingers slightly curled. While around them the crows one by one sat down on the roofs again and the occasional caw traveled through the air, Paul eventually lay his head to the right. He still seemed to study the sight. Behind them Flake and Schneider were discussing the situation, but Richard couldn't listen to them. He couldn't listen to his very own feelings either. He needed to be there in case Paul needed him. The longer the moment lasted, the more cautious he became. He had to know what was going on in the smaller man's head. And just when he couldn't take the silence any longer and was about to talk to him, Paul looked to the right from where Till had been shooting. He turned to the right, walked a few meters and looked at the ground as if he was searching for something. After a moment he bent down and picked up the bullet casing. He stared at it for a few seconds. Then he closed his fingers around it and went back inside the house without looking at anyone or saying a single word.

Neither Till nor Olli had come back yet, but Richard didn't want to leave Paul alone either. It felt like two fires had to be put out at the same time. Through all the numbness he started to feel anger.

“We'll make sure he's okay,” Flake said to him as if he was able to read his mind. Schneider was already on his way to the front door. “Can you check where the other two went?”

Richard nodded more out of reflex than anything. He didn't want to walk away from the house. It felt wrong. But then again, all of this felt wrong. He cast a final glance at the mess on the ground before his legs started moving on their own accord. They carried him along the driveway, past the bushes and trees, until he could see Till and Olli in the distance. How they stood at the front door of the older man's house. He walked closer and saw that Till was the only one who seemed to be talking. Oliver just stood at his side. There was barely any movement. The rifle calmly rested on the singer's shoulder like a silent statement.

When Richard had reached their own gate, Till and Olli both turned to leave the neighbor's properties. Winfried still stood in the doorframe, one hand clutching the door handle, the other clinging to the wooden frame. His head was bent. He stared down at the doormat. By the color and shape of it the small reddish heap lying on the mat were the remains of the rooster. When the old man looked up, their eyes met. Richard was sure to see fear in them.

Someone tugged at his sleeve, so he broke the eye contact and turned his head to look at Olli.

“Come,” the bass player said to him in a soft voice, his hand still lingering on his arm.

Richard didn't move. Instead his eyes followed Till who walked past them and towards the courtyard. Then he looked at the neighbor's house again, where the front door was slowly closed. The anger inside him grew without fully understanding why.

He took a deep breath and turned around to follow their singer.

“What the fuck where you thinking?!” Richard asked him in a loud hiss.

Till stopped in his tracks and turned towards the guitarist. He didn't respond though. He just looked at him with his big eyes. They had lost the focus they'd had earlier. Now they appeared calm.

In the distance the first crow had descended from the rooftop and started eating from the rooster's remains.

“All I want to know is where you got that rifle from,” Olli said.

“He had it with him the whole time,” Richard answered that before Till could.

“He--?” the bass player looked at Richard for a moment, but turned to the singer instead, “You what?!”

“For defense,” Till replied matter-of-factly.

“How is this defense?” Olli asked, his voice now showing that Richard wasn't the only one who was upset about the recent events. His hand pointed at the blood and bones on the ground.

“You said,” and with that Till pointed at Richard, “that he,” he pointed at the neighbor's house, “cannot come over again, right?”

“I said that, yes,” Richard replied. He couldn't believe his statement would become the reason for this. “But I didn't ask for a bloodbath!”

“I made sure Paul is safe here,” Till hissed back and tried to keep his voice down.

“Are you sure, yes?!” Richard hissed back, the doubt clearly seeping through every syllable.

“He was very convincing,” Olli commented.

“What do you want me to do, hn?!” Till asked Richard in a sharp tone. “That bastard promised he'll never bother us again, nor anyone or anything else having anything to do with him.” Next to him Oliver nodded silently. “The ends justify the means, don't you think?”

Part of Richard had to agree. And yet he couldn't. All he could think of was the look in Paul's eyes as the shot happened. And then he realized something that made every anger fall from his face and replace it with worry. He turned on his heels and ran towards the house, leaving Olli and Till behind.

He didn't bother taking off his shoes. He just ran up the stairs because somehow he had a feeling Paul had retreated the best he knew how. When he reached the top floor he found his presentiment confirmed. Both Schneider and Flake stood in the hallway in front of Paul's closed door. When their eyes met, they both shook their heads as if to say that they had tried everything, but failed.

“He's not answering,” Schneider said in a hushed voice. He looked as worried as Richard felt.

“And he threw things,” Flake added.

Again , Richard thought while thinking about the day Paul had been therapy-playing guitar and remembered what the bedroom had looked like back in Berlin. Patterns of wordless aggression.

“I see,” he whispered to them both before turning to the door and placing his palm against it.

From what he had learned so far, Paul was almost unable to find words when in a highly emotional state. If he was right, the act of violence and the blood on the cobblestones where a trigger. If it had started a chain of flashbacks, Paul was now under an attack he couldn't escape from. What he might need most would be the sensation of protection. Knowing that someone was there to look out for him. But with the closed door it was impossible to just reach out to him. Richard cursed under his breath. That one of them, one of the closest friends around Paul was the one who had provoked this, made it so much worse than it already was. He was so mad at Till. But it had to wait.

“Paul?” he tried.

Something flew against the door with a loud bang, making it vibrate against his palm.

“It's okay,” Richard went on as calmly as he could and just loud enough to be sure Paul could hear him.

With some delay another item crashed against the door.

“You can let it all out,” he told his friend through the door, “But I'm not leaving.”

There were footsteps coming up the stairs. He took a deep breath and pulled his brows together.

Schneider seemed to understand immediately and walked past him, squeezing his shoulder in the process, and blocked the way to Paul's door behind him.

Another item hit the door.

Behind him Richard heard Till's voice. It was barely more than a whisper. He heard Schneider usher him to his room and then there was another set of footsteps – it could only be Olli's - that followed them both as well. Then the door was shut.

Flake pressed his back against the wall and slid down to the floor before wrapping his arms around his knees. Richard was grateful that the keyboarder intended to stay as well.

“Please open the door,” he begged, “We don't want you to be alone with whatever is going on in your head.” All he needed to do was turn the key. They could take over from there. If only he would let them.

Where the light fell through the small gap under the door, a shadow appeared. Richard stared down and waited. Hoped. Observed every tiny movement. Paul stood at the other side of the door. So close and so far away.

Please open the door. Just open it. Please, please, please!

The door vibrated again as Paul punched against it. Repeated it. Again. And again. And again. And again.

“Stop it!” he pleaded and pressed both hands against the door. He wanted to reach through the thick piece of wood. Hoped Paul would accidentally punch though it but knew no matter how hard he would hit the door it wouldn't give in. “You only hurt yourself!” But Paul didn't stop.

It took a while until the banging against the door subsided. He heard Paul slump against it and slide down to the floor, so he knelt down on the other side. “Open the door, please,” he tried again. “If not for me, then for Flake.” He looked over his shoulder and found the keyboarder look back at him.

The door stayed closed.

Instead the other door behind them opened and Schneider slipped through before closing it again. He shook his head in annoyance and disbelieve and couldn't wash the emotions off his features before turning to the other two. A layer of deep concern joined his face as he saw one of his friends sit on the floor and the other kneel in front of the still locked door. He had probably heard the banging, too. “Has he still locked himself in?”

Richard nodded, Flake probably too.

Schneider combed his fingers through his hair and sat down right next to Flake. It didn't need much for him to read the situation.

“All Till wanted was to ensure everyone is safe,” he sighed.

“Tell that to the rooster,” Flake muttered.

“Wait, you said the thing was dead before it actually was,” Richard replied and sat down so he was leaning against Paul's doorframe.

“It was a joke,” the keyboarder said. “What's not funny is the mess outside. And that there's a rifle in the house.”

“That's what Olli and Till are discussing right now,” Schneider informed them.

“The more pressing matter is what the sight might have done to Paul,” Richard chimed in. “You've all seen what it looked like that night behind the hotel.” He would never forget the torn clothes and all the blood.

Richard heard the key turn in the lock and expectantly looked up to see if the door handle would be pressed down, but it didn't move, nor did the shadow under the door.

Paul . Did it help him to hear them talk about it? It had before, hadn't it?

“Till is the only one who hasn't been there,” Schneider mused, while his eyes, too, observed the door, “Maybe that's why he didn't think that far.”

“Maybe,” Flake shrugged but didn't sound convinced.

“At least he profoundly scared the old man,” Richard sighed as he remembered the shock in Winfried's eyes. “I don't think he'll come near us again.”

“Not the only one he scared, though,” the keyboarder muttered.

The guitarist shifted a little. “Maybe it's not so much the fear but the memories it triggered.”

“Boils down to the same, doesn't it?” Schneider asked.

There was movement behind the door and they fell silent. Then it opened and Paul looked down at them for a moment. His eyes where searching … something. They moved quickly, lingered for a moment, then restlessly tried to look at all at once again.

Richard got up slowly.

Their eyes met.

Richard instantly understood what he was looking at in Paul's face. He didn't like it.

It was another facade. Composure plastered clumsily on top of an inner chaos.

Paul walked past him and went straight to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. A few seconds later they heard water run from the faucet.

He looked inside the room and found a suitcase standing next to the bed and a packed backpack lying on top of it. All books lay on the floor, open with some crinkled pages. They must have been thrown at the door earlier. Some clothes were lying around, a picture frame on the carpet.

Someone rang the door bell.

They froze for a few seconds. Richard's first thought was that this could only be the police. That the neighbor had called them because someone was in possession of a firearm and had entered his property with it. If he was right, they were fucked. Most of all Till.

As if he had waited for this, Till opened his door. “I'll take care of it,” he stated and immediately went down the stairs.

One by one they rose to their feet. Richard's heart started to beat faster.

“Stay here,” Schneider told him and Flake, before he, too, headed down to the front door.

Richard's gaze wandered from the drummer to the keyboarder, to the bathroom door, to Paul's room, to his own feet. He listened into the tension filled air. Heard the door open downstairs. Heard Till say hello. Heard a male voice answer. A question by Till. Footsteps. Soft words.

It didn't sound like police at all.

He heard the bathroom door open and looked up. He saw Paul come out, hair freshly combed. The smaller man looked at Flake first, then at Richard. Finally at Olli who appeared in the door to Till's room. There was a strange expression on his face, Richard thought to himself. It looked like guilt. But why?

Paul went past them on quick feet and straight into his room to sling his backpack over one shoulder and lift up the suitcase. Something in Richard broke as his eyes followed him carry the luggage towards the stairs and down step by step.

“What's going on?” Flake asked and was the first to move. He followed Paul, obviously lacking as much understanding as the rest of them.

Richard's gaze met Olli's who looked as shocked as he himself suddenly felt.

Downstairs a short moment of silence spread out as Paul seemed to have reached the main floor. He hadn't answered Flake. Instead he greeted someone as if they were a good friend. Richard heard Paul laugh a little and then there were other voices again, two of them Till's and Schneider's.

Both the bass player and the lead guitarist made their way downstairs, too. They found Paul putting on his boots, while the rest of the band stood in the hallway and just watched him. In the middle of all this stood one of their bodyguards. Theo.

Richard felt like a bucket of cold water had been emptied over his head. Wasn't he supposed to get Paul tomorrow? What was he doing here today?

Theo said hello to everyone and of course they greeted him back. Schneider managed to ask him how he was and thanked him for helping them out on such short notice. He kept him talking and kept him distracted from the confusion they all felt.

“Are you in a hurry or would you like to have a cup of tea with us?” Olli asked in an attempt to get the opportunity to talk more and find out what this was all about without making Theo suspicious that obviously none of them had been clued in.

The security man shook his head with a gentle smile. “I'd like to but we have to get through the home-going traffic and I don't want us to miss the flight.”

“Understandable,” the tallest of them nodded and hid his disappointment.

Meanwhile Paul quietly, but with a big smile, took his jacket from the hook nodded at Theo. “Ready,” he stated.

It was such an obviously fake expression on Paul's face that Richard could hardly look at it, let alone say a single word. And he knew even if he dared to confront Paul right here and now, he wouldn't get an answer to what all this was about. He could just watch it happen. And he knew the others felt exactly the same.

“Let me get that for you,” Theo offered Paul and picked up the suitcase to carry it to the car that waited right outside.

“Thanks,” the rhythm guitarist replied with a soft smile before readjusting the backpack on his shoulder. Then he hesitantly turned to his band members to say a quick goodbye.

“Can you please take a moment and explain this?” Olli tried.

Paul looked up at him, then looked to the side, then finally up again. “I...,” the smallest of them started, but fell silent again and he closed his eyes for a moment as if he had to block himself off from the world around him. The smile was gone and Richard could watch him fidget with the hem of his sleeve. Then Paul opened his eyes again. “This is the best I can do right now.” His voice was weak when he said it. As if he had taken off his mask for a few seconds to be honest with them. The one sentence didn't explain much, yet he couldn't give them more then that. They could see him put the mask on again. The smile reappeared and he waved a goodbye at them before heading straight to the car and vanish behind the passenger door.

And then Paul was gone.

Just like that.

Richard went outside and watched the car drive out of sight.

He felt as numb as it could get. Something inside his mind and heart dulled every emotion. His thoughts started a sterile analysis of the past few hours. His body took care of him in its own way and lit a cigarette for him. The words he had prepared for Paul to encourage him fell off of him as he slowly walked along the driveway. They were useless now.

Part of him believed to understand. Since Paul had actively craved for more sleep he had finally found a moment of relaxation and safety. And then he was ripped from this safety by the violent death of a bird he liked and which belonged to a person he despised, probably even feared. The deed was done by the person who had promised to protect him. If he was right the image alone had started more flashbacks and every ounce of safety was gone. It had probably been impossible for him to explain any of this to them.

But none of it explained why Paul had chosen to go to Vienna one day early. It only explained why he couldn't tell them a few minutes ago.

Richard took out another cigarette, lit it and blew the smoke through his nose. He remembered that Paul had phoned Theo yesterday morning. It seemed the decision had been made then. But why? Why hadn't he told them? Why did he leave without a fucking explanation?!

And then there it was.

The connection to his emotions.

The anger was back. And a deep stinging pain that hit him in his very core.

An overwhelming sensation of being worthless.

Of being left behind.

The five-year-old inside of him stood at the door to the train station again. The pain from back then connected with the moment right now.

Why couldn't Paul tell him in all those hours within yesterday morning and today? Just one word of warning? Didn't he at least deserve that much?!

He started to become so angry at himself for making himself so vulnerable. For letting Paul this close. For not being able to say no. For letting himself being pushed into this position. … For holding on to every fraction of hope that his feelings could be returned.

Someone said his name.

He couldn't respond. He just stood there and fought against the mental abyss that started to pull him down.

Someone reached for his hand and shook the cigarette from his fingers.

He looked down. There was only the smoldering butt left and slowly died on the cobblestones. He had forgotten to smoke it, hadn't he?

He looked up and found himself staring into Schneider's eyes. His vision was a little blurry. Was he crying?

Schneider said something to him. Something thoughtful and caring. But he couldn't really listen.

All he could do was try and hold himself together as every held-back emotion from all those weeks started to caved in and threatened to bury him underneath.

He knew himself well enough. He knew how he could be to others if he had to deal with a situation like this. There was only one right thing to do. He had to get away from his friends before he would accidentally hurt one of them. In past moments like this he had said the most hurtful things because he couldn't stand being around another soul. He had been so vulnerable he would lash out at anyone like a threatened animal. He wouldn't let that happen now.

Without a single word he turned around and made his way back to the house.

Everything else was blurry, too. He felt something wet in the corner of his eyes.

He just grabbed his coat and left. He couldn't talk to anyone, couldn't explain them why he had to be for himself all of a sudden. He could only trust that they knew him well enough to understand it anyway. He'd been so angry at Paul for keeping his decision and the reason behind it to himself – and now he wasn't able to find words either. It was as if each word he wanted to use was too small for the emotion he wanted it to fit inside.

He needed to break those emotions down first.

Walking usually helped. Solitude definitely did, but it was dangerous as well. Dwelling in loneliness was too much of a familiar feeling and he couldn't allow it to last longer than necessary or he would want it too much and fall back into more destructive habits.

The remains of the rooster still lay scattered on the cobblestones. The soft parts had already been taken by the crows. He wanted to yell at Till.

He quickly turned to the other direction and went past the barn and into the garden. The air was so clear he could see far into the distance. The autumn colors were so vibrant it almost didn't feel real. A soft breeze whispered against his ears. He wished for a storm instead. Something to fight against. Something to distract him from the fight within himself.

He reached the sturdy wooden fence. His hands carried too much anger and the lock almost got jammed when he tried to close it again. A small growl left his mouth.

It was good he had decided to stay away from the others. He could feel the emotions boil up fast. He had them suppressed for too long. And he wouldn't be able to hold them back this time. He just needed to find a place where he could be for himself and let them wash over him.

After climbing up the dike he looked to the left and right. There was no one around. Only in the distance there was someone riding their bike. He thought about taking a walk towards Wittenberge, but in his mind that way was connected with Paul and he didn't feel like getting closer to that town. In the other direction there was a small village in the distance, which also meant other people. It was a little ironic that even in this area it was harder to find a place to be alone with himself than he had ever thought.

His eyes caught the small breakwaters that reached a couple of meters into the river. They were made out of large sharp rocks, but they were partly shielded from view by some low trees. Since he knew he couldn't hold back his emotions much longer, he went down the dike on the waterside and walked through the thigh-high grass over the muddy ground until he reached the trees and the dark rocks. He sat down on the stones. It was uncomfortable but he didn't care. His shoes almost reached the water of the Elbe. The small group of willows perfectly hid his presence. In front of him the large river drifted by fast and calm. Behind him the low-hanging branches of the willows formed some kind of curtain. The Elbe was murmuring gently and the wind made the grass and leaves behind him rustle.

And suddenly he felt as alone as he needed to be.

He took a deep breath and the tears came.

And then the anger made his hands tremble.

He picked up one of the smaller stones and threw it into the water.

He took another one and clawed his fingers around it. God he wanted to punch Till in the face so badly! He threw the rock as far into the water as he could.

The sadness shoved more tears up his eyes and it didn't matter how how much he tried to fill his lungs with air – it didn't seem enough.

Curses left his lips as stone after stone went flying through the air and into the Elbe, until none of the smaller stones were within reach anymore. He leaned forward so his chest lay on his thighs and let out a long desperate cry. His hands cradled his skull. His fingernails dug into his scalp.

He was so angry at everyone. At Till for shooting the rooster, at Olli for being so calm all the time, at Schneider for being too nice, at Flake for being too soft, at Paul for leaving without a warning, at himself for being so unfair to his closest friends.

The pain stung in his heart and spread out through his body and all he could do was cower among the stones and sob like a small child.

He hadn't asked for any of this. He hated the people who had done this to Paul. Hated Paul's decision to refuse going to another professional psychotherapist. Hated agreeing to coming here to help him. Hated to be the one being pushed into first row to talk to Paul and make him open up. Hated how it brought them closer together. Hated how he shoved aside any of his own needs in order to serve Paul's healing process. Hated how much he needed the recognition of his efforts even though all of this dragged him down day after day after day. He had become so fixated on Paul that he had lost focus on the things he needed for himself.

He needed to get out of all of this and knew he couldn't.

He promised himself that he would take the first chance to leave this situation in order to take care of himself. Even if it meant leaving his friends behind. But he was breaking under all of this.

He hated that he wasn't strong enough.

He hated that they didn't see what all of this did to him. Hated that they couldn't fully understand because they didn't know the full picture. Hated that he couldn't tell them.

He hated that even if he would be able to leave, he wouldn't be able to leave. He hated that no matter what he did, he couldn't do anything about this one feeling that just wouldn't go away. The only measure he could take was leave the band for good, but that wasn't an option. He had thought about it again and again. Had even talked about it. But he had never given away the main reason.

There was this pain in his heart whenever he thought about it, a pain like no other. His heart became constricted more and more and pulled at all the connected tissue until everything felt like it was tearing and burning at the same time. The tears were running freely and all he was able to do was endure it.

The pain tore through every thought of all this being unjust, further down through his understanding that most of this was out of his hands, until it reached the very core of all his misery.

It was the first time after more than two decades that that he was too weak to resist.

It was the first time he gave it a name.

Love.

He leaned backwards against the pile of stones. The sharp edges dug deep inside his clothes. Thin shapeless clouds swam by above him. His tears no longer ran down his nose but along the sides of his face. He muffled his helpless sobs with a dirty hand.

A fucked up pitiful unrequited bitter soul-eating love.

Not a small blooming tiny one, like a small spark you could stomp out before it could turn into a huge fire. Not an infatuation for someone he fancied a little too much. No. This was a love who had started in the dark. An invisible flame that started burning in him so gently that at first he didn't realize, didn't truly care, didn't understand. A flame so gentle that it warmed him perfectly when the days got colder and the world rougher. That he only noticed when it burned inside him so brightly that it was almost unbearable and nearly impossible to put out. A fire that dared to ate him alive and that he did his best to suffocate. That then, over the years, kept on smoldering in hidden places in his heart. A fire whose warmth he missed and yearned for. That kept him in pain with or without it's presence. That lashed out at every possibility to burn anew. A touch. A long eye contact. Gently caring remarks. Hours of pleasantly eloquent banter and discussions over which arrangement would serve a song best. --- He had learned to live with the fire. Had learned to manage it. But right now it had grown out of control and his heart was painfully standing ablaze.

It started to help. The crying made him calmer, even though he had no control over his breathing. He barely had any control over anything anyway.

Paul had done something Richard wished he could do himself. Paul had asked for help. He didn't have to hide anything that was going on inside him. He only had to learn to let others help him. But Richard, he couldn't say a word. He couldn't have anyone know and no one could help. Telling anyone would result in awkward conversations, pitiful looks and someone reading things into his body language at all times. A pressure he'd better be without.

Not even his therapist knew. If such a rumor got out … he didn't even want to think about it.

No, looking at it in clear daylight meant understanding that this was something he had to deal with alone.

It was something he had to find some distance from.

If he wouldn't find a way out soon, he would sink and drown like the stones in the river.

He still didn't know how and this wasn't the moment to make plans. But he promised himself that he would find an excuse to put some distance between Paul and himself as soon as the worst was over. That he would find a way to fight against the part of him that had latched on this irrational tiny bit of hope. He readied himself for the pain that it would bring with it but that this pain couldn't be worse than the one he felt right now.

His body shook involuntarily with all the sobs until there were no tears left. Until he felt empty and hollow and strangely at peace. Not a good peace. Rather the one after a battle without a winner.

He kept lying there for quite some time.

~~~

Eventually he had brought himself to function again. He brushed off the dirt and put on his own mask as he walked over the dike and back to the house. It was good he had allowed himself that moment of clarity. He hoped that he would be able to find a way to protect himself and the band alike.

For the moment all he wanted to do was use all the thoughts in his head and do what he could do best: Use them for his work. Create something out of his pain. Get all of it out of his system.

~~~

His hand wasn't fast enough and the paper not hungry enough for all the ink he would need to write down the thoughts that rushed through his mind. He tried to fit as many of them into his notebook but it was frustrating nonetheless. And yet it gave him some kind of relief. He had tried to do this on his laptop for while, thinking that he would be able to type faster than writing everything down with a pen. But it just wasn't the same. The letters had been too clean, spelling mistakes could be so easily erased, the letters didn't change one bit and didn't reflect the anger they were written in. It was too sterile. When he looked at the pages on his notebook, he could see the mood shifts without having to read the words. His handwriting was like a seismograph to his emotions.

He was sitting on the floor sideways to the bed. The book lay on the mattress as he wrote and wrote and wrote, lost in his own empty looking world.

He didn't have to tell the others that he didn't want to be disturbed for the rest of the day. They knew. Every bit of body language and non-communication had been a clear signal that Richard needed time to process today's events. They would try tomorrow. He would, too. But at the moment it felt impossible to talk to any of them without unfairly snapping at them.

The sun had set a while ago. The sky had been colorful for a while. Now it was pitch black outside. It was fitting to his mood.

When his wrist started to hurt and his back needed some stretching, he put the pen down with a sigh, put his reading glasses on the side and stood up. He went through some quick stand-up yoga poses before he took his pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and went around the bed. He switched on the second bedside lamp and opened the window. Walking down to have a smoke wasn't an option right now. He needed solitude.

The air outside was cold and clammy. Unpleasant. After a couple of drags he looked at the bed in order to have some visual comfort. His eyes caught something on the pillow on Paul's side. Paul's side. He wanted to smack himself for calling it that. The something he was looking at was a short light hair. He leaned over, took it and cast it out the window.

He took his sweet time with his cigarette. Used it as an excuse to leave the window open and stand in the cold air. Fighting the urge to shiver was better than to feel into the rising pain.

He pulled out a second cigarette and lit it. There was a jacket hanging over the chair. He decided against it.

His phone rang and cut through the silence.

He blew the smoke out of the window and looked at the device. By the ringtone alone he could tell that it wasn't one of his children or family. He turned back to the dark sky and took another drag while waiting until the person who tried to reach him would give up. It took a while. When it was silent again, he felt a little worse. But he didn't want to talk to anyone. He'd only make an exception right now for the most important people in his life: his kids.

The phone started to ring again.

Richard cursed under his breath, pinned the cigarette between his teeth and angrily walked through the room to reach his phone.

“What is it?!” he growled after taking the call without looking at the display.

There was a short moment of silence on the other end. The person was probably taken aback by his rude greeting.

“I-I've cut myself on a piece of paper.” It was Paul's voice, thin and a little too slow.

He had secretly waited for a life sign of Paul.

A small text message maybe. A short call after he had landed or arrived at the airport.

Instead: nothing.

A painful nothing.

But now he was suddenly good enough to talk to? And about something as unimportant as this? He couldn't deal with this. Not in this moment. - Or he was just begging for an excuse to get the distance he needed.

“Congratulations. Then get a band-aid,” he replied without any emotion while he still held the cigarette between his teeth. He went back to the window. “Good night.” He hung up and threw the device on the mattress before going back to smoking again. He'd probably need a third one. What the fuck was Paul thinking to tell him something like this?

He blew the smoke out and tried his best not to think about the call anymore. It was time to take care of himself for once. He had to put himself first in order to find some kind of peace again. His eyes followed the smoke that soon vanished into the pitch black nothingness. His body started to shiver against his will. And yet he craved for more and his hand picked up the pack of cigarettes. He pulled out another one and his index finger absentmindedly grazed along the sharp edge of the packaging.

Involuntarily he imagined what it would be like if he would cut himself, too. How ironic it would be. What he would do. How he would put the finger in his mouth.

And then he froze in his movements.

He put the lighter down, shoved the cigarette back into the pack and went to his bed to pick up the phone as fast as he could. He dialed Paul's number and listened into the quiet.

It took some time until the other guitarist picked up. Paul didn't say a word. All Richard heard was his breathing. It sounded anything but calm.

“Which finger?” he asked. It didn't matter. What mattered was that he got him to talk to him if happened what he thought had happened.

Silence.

“I'm sorry... ,” Paul pressed out eventually.

“Don't you hang up!” Richard blurted as he detected the resignation in Paul's voice. “I need to know which finger!” His intonation was led by urgency. If Paul would decide to hang up now, he was sure the smaller man would turn his phone off right after.

Silence.

“Paul, please! I'm sorry, I've been an asshole.” He absentmindedly pulled Paul's pillow closer. “But I'm here for you!”

Silence.

He hated this. With one call he was back to focusing on someone else while feeling responsible and useless at the same time. That's why there were professionals doing stuff like this. This could break the strongest friendship.

“On what have you cut yourself?”

He heard glass clink on the other side.

“Paul?” he asked carefully.

“I can still taste it,” the rhythm guitarist answered. His voice was strangely even.

“What can you taste?” Richard responded gently. He was so relieved Paul hadn't hung up. Yet he feared his assumption was right. “The blood?”

Silence. Then the sound of Paul drinking something.

“I've started to write it down,” Paul told him. Richard pulled his brows together. The answer didn't make sense at all. But he waited. Listened to Paul drink some more and hoped he would go on talking. Eventually he did. “The things you might ask me and the things I might answer … and then I cut myself on the page … and then … out of reflex …,” Paul paused and Richard tried to make sense of the fractures of information. Had Paul been simulating one of their talking sessions? “The taste … Suddenly I was on the ground again. My mouth filled with blood … I knew it couldn't be real, but … And then I thought I couldn't breath and I went to the bathroom and … I thought I would spit out blood but I threw up instead … And I still couldn't breathe … As I lay there I did what you told me. Think about it rationally. Right?” Richard nodded involuntarily as he pictured his friend lie on the cold tiles of a random hotel in Vienna, helpless and in fear. “The taste was only a stimulus for a memory, right?” Again Richard nodded. Paul didn't seem to need an answer. He still went on. “My mind is just catching up like you told me. That's what it is, isn't it? This is normal, right?” This time Paul waited and signaled that he actually wanted Richard to respond.

There were so many questions in his head and it was hard to answer first. “It sounds like it, yes,” he said. More than anything he wanted to be there in that hotel room. Wanted to make sure Paul felt safe. Wanted to reassure him. “Where are you right now?”

“Nothing's going to harm me,” Paul mumbled, obviously to himself.

“Paul? Where are you? Still in the bathroom?”

“N-No. On the floor. Next to the mini bar.”

Good. He answered. “That's why I heard you drinking, right? Some water? A coke?”

“A Bloody Mary.”

You can't be serious! “Excuse me?” He knew Paul could have quite the morbid humor. But that it extended to his coping strategies was a little unsuspected.

“And water,” Paul added.

“I---,” Richard started but stopped himself from lecturing the other man, “Can you please go easy on the alcohol?”

There was silence on the other side again.

“Why did you call me?” he asked softly.

He heard him drink again. “I don't know.”

Richard cursed inwardly. The little mess at the end of the line had him in his hand. “If you don't want to be alone I can be on the next flight to Vienna.”

“No,” Paul sighed, yet something in his voice seemed to want to say something else.

“You can change your mind any time, okay?”

“We've had that before,” the smaller man replied, hinting at the moment Richard had lied about being back in Berlin.

“This is different.”

Silence.

Richard let go of the pillow and stood up. He went back to the window, leaned forward and turned his head to the right so he was looking southward. “Hey,” he made and forced himself to smile, “I can look in your direction. If you open your window, too, there's only air between us.” It was something Paul had said to him many years ago, when he was still living in New York and had felt painfully alone one night. Back then he thought it was almost too cheesy coming from someone like Paul. But then again it was matter-of-factly and, more important, it had helped.

For almost a minute he heard nothing at the other end and he had to check the display to be sure that Paul hadn't hung up. But then there was the distinct sound of a window being opened. It made him smile a little.

“I only wanted to write down some thoughts...,” Paul sighed after a while and tried to hide a small sniff from Richard's ear.

“I know...,” the younger one said and stared into the distance. “It would have happened eventually, though.” Paul cut or pricked his fingers with something every other week or two. It was a matter of time.

“I know,” the smaller man answered and drank again. Richard wasn't sure if it was water.

“Promise me to keep writing?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Silence.

“Feeling a little better?”

Paul took a deep breath. “I do.”

Richard didn't know if he could believe him. He'd been through a horrific memory and a strong physical reaction. And Paul had lied to him so many times before.

For a moment a somewhat comfortable silence settled between them. It gave Richard some time to reflect on why despite everything he had been through today, it felt so damn good to talk to the other man. Maybe it was because he himself had an addictive personality. He reacted strongly to drugs. Everything that made him feel better for a short time, no matter the consequences in the long run. It was a crude comparison, but it kept him thinking. Unless he heard something rustle at the other end of the line. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find my cookies,” Paul answered after unsuccessfully hiding another sniff. More rustling. “There!”

Richard went to the chair and picked up his jacket. While holding the phone between shoulder and ear he did his best to put it on. It was getting too cold in the room but he didn't want to close the window. “Did you have dinner after landing at the airport?”

Meaningful silence on the other side of the line.

He knew what it meant and didn't like it. “You could ask for room service.”

“The cookies are fine,” Paul mumbled. “I don't even know if... .”

If he could actually eat any of them, Richard completed the sentence in his head since Paul's voice had trailed off. He could relate. It wouldn't help to burden him with his worries. He wouldn't tell Paul anything he didn't already know. “Give it a try,” he said with a small smile.

Paul was kind enough to hold the phone away so he wouldn't bother Richard with the chewing noises too much. They both were equally sound-sensitive.

“Your verdict?” the younger one asked after a moment.

“Good cookie,” the older replied, “Just not the right day for it.”

“Then there's a new chance tomorrow.” They both were disappointed. Richard had hoped at least some food would land in Paul's stomach. And Paul probably wanted to give him one less reason to worry. But things were as they were.

For a while they said nothing to each other. If it weren't for the distance, there would have been a gaze or a touch. But they were in different countries instead.

“Paul?”

“M-hm?”

“Why did you leave a day early?” He needed to know.

“You're angry because I didn't tell you, aren't you?” Paul's voice went significantly softer.

A small sigh. “A little.”

Paul drank something. “I tried to tell you this morning, you know? But then …,” he took another sip.

Richard remembered. Right before Till went downstairs to shoot the rooster. That's what the look on Paul's face had been. The anger fell from his heart instantly. He went back to the bed and sat on Paul's side. “Do you want to tell me now?”

He heard Paul take a deep breath. “I can try,” he said, but fell silent for a moment and it sounded like he was pacing around his hotel room. “It's … it's the fear. The constant fear. I need to get rid of it.” Richards pulled his brows together as he listened. “I'm afraid of so much right now – of the things my head does with me, of certain people, of going through a door, of being in a public place, of hurting any of you, of ---” Paul's voice broke and he sighed. “I need to move forward. This can't be it. So I needed to come here despite the fear. And because I want to do something that I don't want to tell you right now. I want to try it first.”

Great, another secret. Richard tried to swallow down his curiosity and his need to control things. Instead he focused on an obviously huge achievement. Paul had said what was going on inside his mind. And of course he didn't know what it truly felt like for Paul, but from what he had learned so far, he could absolutely understand that his friend needed to break out of his situation. He didn't like the approach, though. There was a possible trigger around every corner and no one to make him feel safer. Yes, Theo was there, but he wasn't part of Paul's chosen and trusted family. “Okay,” Richard said after a too long moment of silence had passed.

“I need to show myself that nothing bad is going to happen.”

“I understand.” He truly did, the more he thought about it. He just wished he could be there. And at the same time he hated that wish because he needed distance from all of this. He was losing hold on his own needs again. All needs aside from being close to the man he loved and shouldn't. “Is there anything I can do for you?” He mentally cursed himself for offering this. Why couldn't he stop himself from reaching out again and again?

There was some rustling on the other side of the line again.

Then a long silence.

“No,” Paul eventually said. His voice had changed. “I think I'll try to sleep now.” Why did he suddenly sound so sad?

“Are you sure?” Richard asked gently. Something had changed. He could sense it clearly. “I'm here for you.” Why did he get sad himself?

He heard Paul swallow, as if the phone was very close to his mouth now. Then it was quiet.

“Paul?”

“Good night,” the smaller man eventually whispered.

“Good night,” Richard replied, but it was more like a question. He heard Paul hang up instantly and stared at his phone. The last few seconds left him behind with an uneasy feeling of having made a mistake. It felt as if he'd lost something. And there was a faint stinging pain in his heart. But he tried to brush it off.

All was good. Paul had landed safely and he had arrived at the hotel. He had called after cutting his finger and having a flashback moment. He had explained his decision to fly to Vienna so early. He had tried to eat despite this having been a day full of triggers.

He had called and he had talked.

He had asked for help.

All was good, wasn't it?

Richard opened his messenger and texted Paul, asking him to write him in the morning. Just a short note to let him know he was okay. For a while he stared at it and waited for the info that Paul had read it. He stared southward into the sky. Checked his phone again. Went to his notebook and wrote down a few lines. Checked the phone again. When after half an hour the message still was unread, he put the device aside and went to close the window.

Suddenly the anger sneaked back into his consciousness.

Paul didn't do this on purpose, he was sure of that.

And yet this felt like another rejection. And like another moment that was out of his control. Where there was no room for his own needs.

And yes, it was distance. But not the one he wanted. Not the one he controlled, either.

He took the phone back in his hand and opened the messenger. Checked. Still unread. Typed. If I said something wrong, please tell me. And put the phone away.

The feeling of being a failure crept up again. He paced through the room and argued against it with all the power of years of therapy. But it took the last bit of mental strength.

He checked the phone again. Still no change.

Sure that he wouldn't be able to sleep, he left the room, went downstairs, put on his boots and jacket and made his way across the courtyard in the damp quiet darkness. He needed to let off some steam. He lit himself a cigarette and walked around the barn. There wasn't much to do here, but there was one thing he knew he wanted to do. It was the outlet Paul had used before.

His ears knew before his eyes saw that someone else seemed to have the same idea.

After rounding the corner of the building he was met by cold and austere light falling from a simple lamp on the wall. He found Till chopping wood with a cigarette between his teeth and a gloomy expression. It felt like looking into a mirror.

The singer looked up from his work and studied the guitarist.

He stared back, smitten and helpless.

Neither of them said a word because none was necessary.

The axe was passed from one friend to the other and only the splitting of wood disturbed the night.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 29: Smoke

No message from Paul.

He had checked his phone after returning from the nightly wood chopping.

And again as the first thing in the morning.

Then again after visiting the bathroom and getting dressed for breakfast.

He had taken the liberty to contact Theo who answered immediately and told him they were both having breakfast at the hotel and that he would keep him posted if anything of importance happened. It was what Richard needed to stop worrying. It was what helped him concentrate on the problems waiting inside this house. Till hadn't been outside releasing anger by coincidence last night. Doors hadn't been shut with too much force yesterday. Others hadn't been in bed too early or too late without cause. A tension lingered under the roof since the rooster had been shot.

A thick fog had covered the world outside, heavy and endless, it seemed. He couldn't see anything while looking out of his window. Not even the sky.

After having his morning smoke he hung his jacket back on the hook and entered the kitchen. The other four were already there. Till was frying something in a pan. Olli was preparing something on the counter. And Schneider and Flake sat silently at the table. It was quiet among the group.

Richard greeted the others and they mumbled their responses before the heavy silence settled back in. He made his way to the coffee machine, listened to it gurgling and hissing an watched Till out of the corner of his eyes. The singer looked like he had barely slept at all. His jaw seemed clenched and his gaze concentrated too much on the scrambled eggs he was preparing. When Till went to the fridge to get some cheese and herbs to sprinkle on the eggs, it seemed Olli was actively getting out of his way without looking at him.

When his coffee was ready, Richard sat down in his chair. He placed his mug on his plate, knowing he didn't feel like eating anyway. Instead he observed the others. Flake was reading in a magazine while slowly nibbling on a piece of bread. Schneider was looking up something on his phone with a serious look on his face. Only the most basic things stood on the table - butter, marmalade, some cheese and honey.

Olli finally finished preparing his breakfast and went straight to the spot where Paul usually sat in. He put down his bowl of fruits and his tea and started eating. Richard's eyes switched to the empty place next to Till. There must have been an unresolved argument between them if Olli wasn't able to sit close to the singer.

Eventually Till switched off the stove, poured the scrambled eggs on a plate and went to sit down at the other end of table. He didn't look up once. Resignation clearly showed on his features.

Richard took in the scene. It was too quiet. Despite from the occasional turning of a magazine page or cutlery hitting the dishes there was nothing. Olli seemed to try and chew noiselessly, too.

Only the single lamp above the table cast some warm light, making the steam visible that rose from the scrambled eggs and mugs. Outside the cold gray fog shielded them from the sunlight and made the world so much smaller. The minutes ticked by and the uneasy feeling crept under Richard's skin.

“Wie oft muss ich mich noch entschuldigen, dat ick den Hahn abgeknallt hab'?” Till suddenly muttered under his breath. He still didn't look at anyone. - How often do I have to apologize for shooting the rooster?

“Darum geht's nicht,” Olli replied with a reserved tone. - That's not what this is about.

“Doch. Auch,” Schneider contradicted. - It is. Partly.

Flake stoically pretended to concentrate on his reading material.

“Der wär' immer wieder hergekommen und jedetmal hätt' dit Paul dran erinnert, dat der Wichser da drüben wohnt,” Till explained and put his fork down while finally searching for eye contact. - He would have come over here again and again, and every time Paul would have been reminded that this fucker lives right there.

The drummer crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Das ist und bleibt nicht der Grund. Du hast ein Gewehr hergebracht und keinem was gesagt,” Olli said and leaned towards Till to signal that he was ready to argue. - That is not and won't be the point. You've brought a rifle with you and you haven't said anything to anyone.

“Ja,” Till nodded and leaned forward as well, “Hab'n wir gestern lang und breit diskutiert. Dit war falsch. Hab ick verstanden. Ich bring dat Ding gern weg, dit is keen Problem.” - Yes. We've discussed that at great length yesterday. It was wrong. I got that. And I'll gladly get it away from here, that's not a problem.

The bass player shook his head and Schneider put his phone down. “Was ich möchte, ist, dass du das Gewehr zurückbringen willst.” - What I want is for you to want to get the rifle away from here.

“Will ick aber nicht.” Now Till crossed his arms, too. “Aber ich mach's trotzdem.” - But I don't want to. / I'll still do it, though.

Richard noticed that his hands had involuntarily balled into fists. He had a clear position on the if-or-if-not concerning the rifle as well. “Warum nicht?” he challengingly asked across the table and held the stare that followed. - Why not?

After a moment Till sighed in an unnerved way and leaned back while folding his arms in front of his chest. “Weil ick mich so sich'rer fühle.” - Because I feel safer this way.

“Ist ja schön, wenn du das so fühlst. Hast du mal an uns gedacht? Oder die Konsequenzen?” the guitarist wanted to know, “Wenn hier 'n Fascho aufm Hof steht, würdest du den auch erschießen?” - So nice, that you feel like this. Did you ever think about us, though? Or the consequences? / If such a fascist would stand in the courtyard, would you shoot them dead, too?

“Nee, natürlich nicht!” Till instantly replied. - No, of course not.

“Anschießen?” - Injure them?

A pause. “Vielleicht.” - Maybe.

“Till!”

“Man, ich mach's ja nicht! Reg dich ab.” The singer held his palms up for a moment. “Ich red' nur von 'nem Gefühl, das ick hab'.” - I wouldn't do it! Chill! / I'm just talking about a feeling that I have.

“Dann bring die Knarre weg und schreib' 'n Song über deine Gefühle,” Richard said flatly and picked up his coffee mug. “Dafür sind wir ja offenbar hier. Richtig?” he muttered against the brim before taking a sip. - Then get rid of that gun and write a song about your feelings. / That's what we're here for after all. Right?

“Fick dich,” Till replied, but it was spoken soft enough that in a way he agreed with Richard. - Fuck you.

Luckily years of spending so much time together made them able to read the situation. The others at the table seemed to relax one by one. Even Flake finally put the magazine aside and instead tried to eat something. Schneider reached over to hand the butter to Richard, Olli shared some fruit with Flake, who in return passed the salt to Till.

“Außerdem,” the singer broke the silence after he was done with half his plate, “Hab' ich's mir mit Paul schon fast verscherzt.” He picked up his phone and browsed through the menu. “Deswegen,” he leaned forward to give the device to Schneider, “Macht euch keen Kopp. Das Ding kommt weg.” He went on eating while Schneider raised his eyebrows as he read what was on the display. Then the drummer handed it to Richard, who looked at the screen next. - Besides, I almost blew it with Paul anyway. / So, don't worry. I'll make sure to bring it away from here.

There were text messages. Messages between Paul and Till from earlier this morning.
---
Hast du den Hund auch getötet? Paul had written. - Have you killed the dog as well?

Nein Till had answered. - No.

Hast du's vor? - Do you plan on it?

Nein – No.

Ich rede für den Rest meines Lebens kein Wort mehr mit dir, wenn du sowas nochmal machst. - I won't speak a word to you for the rest of my life if you do something like this again.

Verstanden. - Understood.
---
With that the exchange ended.

Richard handed the phone to Olli while looking at Till. Their eyes met and it was clear that the singer had understood that he had crossed a line. It was all he needed. He knew he would keep his promise.

~~~

Richard had volunteered to join Olli and Schneider on their mission to head to one of the local hardware stores and buy a suitable alarm system. It was a pity that Paul wasn't here. He would probably have found the easiest and simultaneously cleverest way to protect their temporary home.

It was still foggy when they entered the minibus and drove along the driveway. They were close to the gate when they found an ambulance stand in front of the neighbor's house. The emergency lights were off, all doors closed and no one to be seen. Still there was a strange feeling forming in Richard's stomach. By the faces of the others he wasn't the only one.

They wordlessly decided to drive away anyway. Schneider informed Till and Flake through a short message, asking them to call him should anything happen. Who knew why the ambulance was there, it was an old man after all. Still, they would all feel better if Till hadn't intimidated the neighbor.

Neither Till nor Flake called while they were away. Still the uneasy feeling didn't fade. Despite it Richard tried to focus on their task.

It was a blessing that not many people lived in this area. There were nearly no customers at the hardware store and they could check out the different models without being disturbed. The customer service in the store was as good as in any other German shop: it was basically non-existent. But it was exactly what they needed. Generic radio music was dropping from the ceiling and an optimistic DIY atmosphere was hanging in the air.

After finding everything they wanted, they stopped at a gas station for refueling and filling up Richard's cigarette supply. On their way back they mimicked how Paul could criticize their handiwork once the security system would be installed. They all have had their fair share of unwanted criticism and opinion-dumping in the past, served in the typical Landers-way. It was easy to imitate his choice of words, his emphasis and sheer amount of words. One by one they gave it a go at impersonating him as he would go around and find flaws and imperfections in the wiring and whatnot of the cameras and motion detectors. So they listened to each other and laughed and applauded and laughed even more. Richard believed they all did it out of the same reason to want to hide the pain of knowing that Paul wouldn't react that way when he was back. At the margins of every joke waited sadness like an ocean around an island. They missed the old Paul. They wanted him back so dearly. They needed to remind themselves how he was … before. And no matter how annoying he could have been back then, now that it was gone, they saw how good it had been.

The laughter only died when they drove along the narrow dirt track and past the neighbor's house to turn into their driveway. Winfried was about to walk into his garage with his shaggy dog at his side. So he was alright.

It still needed the visual proof of both Till and Flake being completely fine for Richard to relax again. Something about the ambulance and basically anything going on at the neighbor's house had him on high alert. Or it was simply the certainty that he would break if one more thing would go wrong.

~~~

They had started installing the alarm system immediately after checking on their other two band members. They were having a deep talk in the kitchen about the whole situation. Till seemed to use it to make notes, probably to understand himself better and try to get some material out of all of this.

Olli, Schneider and Richard needed the rest of the morning to screw cameras and motion sensors to certain structures, adjust them and connect them so the different parts would work as a clever system. It felt rewarding as they were testing it. They made Schneider walk along the driveway and at a certain point the cameras started recording and a short warning sound chimed up from Richard's phone.

They agreed that it made them feel safer. And yet, almost like the fog, had made their world a little smaller.

~~~

After having lunch they came together in the living room again. None of them wanted to be alone. They didn't feel like working, especially with one of them being far away. And yet what they did was part of their work, too. They were tying their bond closer together. They showed forgiveness towards Till. Talked about their fears. Celebrated the growing safety. Made each other seen with their individual needs. Some missed their families. Some needed some kind of vacation. The constant stress and tension wasn't an easy weight for everyone. There were a lot of small things that didn't have much room in the situation they were currently in. But they knew this was bigger. The whole future of the band was tied to Paul's wellbeing right now.

There was one thing though, Richard didn't let the others know. It was a secret he would leave hidden between the willows and the Elbe.

They all checked their phones from time to time. There was no sign from Paul and none from Theo either. They really wanted to know what those two were up to all day long. Hopefully one of them would reach out later.

~~~

“What do you mean, you don't know where he is?!”

Richard looked up from his task to put the plates in the dishwasher. He watched Schneider walk back from the living room into the kitchen with his phone pressed to his ear and stare into the distance. His mind seemed solely focused on the voice at the other end of the line.

Flake shut the fridge door and listened carefully.

“But you've had dinner together, right?” The drummer's free hand held tight onto the backrest of Richard's chair.

Olli and Till where outside having a smoke and checking the alarm system. Richard intended to join them but with every word Schneider said he forget more and more that he needed a cigarette.

“Did he say anything to you?”

“---”

“And you've checked his room?”

“---”

“What's going on?” Richard finally asked as he felt a fear rise in his chest.

“Schneider made a hand gesture asking him to wait. “Please do everything you can and keep us posted. We'll try to reach him, too.”

“---”

“Okay. Thank you.” The drummer hung up and instantly dialed another number. “Theo can't find Paul,” he informed the other two before pressing his phone to his ear again.

“What?!”Flake and Richard both said and came closer to Schneider, who in return pressed his eyes shut and pulled his brows together. A few seconds later he sighed. “Hey Paul,” he said and rubbed his forehead with his free hand, “If you hear this, please give us a call. Theo doesn't know where you are and we need to know you're okay. Please. … I hope you're okay.” He hung up and put the phone on the kitchen table. He'd obviously left a message on Paul's voicemail.

“Maybe he just went for a walk?” Flake tried.

“Hopefully,” Schneider replied, “But they had agreed Paul would inform Theo about his whereabouts. And he told him he would go to his room.” The drummer went to pace around the kitchen. “But he wasn't there. Theo has the second key and checked. Paul wasn't in his room. And not in the fitness room, lobby, bar or anywhere else. No note, nothing.”

“And they've had dinner together?”

“Yes, about an hour ago,” Schneider explained, “Paul wanted to write something, Theo said. And he wanted to rest a little before the big day.”

“He has checked everywhere?” the guitarist asked.

The drummer nodded. “Everywhere.”

Richard instantly pulled out his phone.

“What are you doing?” Schneider asked him with curiosity.

“Checking for flights,” he responded and browsed through the available flights to Vienna.

“I'm worried, too. But there's a reasonable explanation for sure. Don't you think you're overreacting a little bit?” The drummer reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Probably,” Richard sighed, his eyes glued to the screen, “But the last time he would have needed someone, I was there and hesitated to help him. Now I won't hesitate, but for anything to do I have to be there.” He was referring to the day Paul had visited the psychiatrist.

“I wouldn't mind coming with you,” Flake threw in and walked closer.

Richard gratefully smiled at him and nodded. Then he went on reading the website. “Ah fuck!” he muttered.

“What is it?” Schneider asked immediately.

“The next flight will go in less than two hours.” They knew what that meant. Since they were in the middle of nowhere there was no chance to be at the airport in time.

“And the next one?” Flake encouraged him.

“At eight in the morning,” Richard answered and calculated. He would arrive around the time Paul would have to be at the police station. He looked at the available tickets. There was only one spot left. He bought it without thinking about it, already knowing that neither by train nor by car he would be there much faster.

They all knew there wasn't much they could do until then. They were forced to wait for any update from Theo or for a sign of life from Paul.

“There was only one ticket left,” he told Flake and held his phone up for him to see with his own eyes.

The lanky keyboarder read everything he needed and then looked at Richard. “Then you go.” They nodded at each other.

Suddenly there were noises coming from the hallway. Oliver and Till had come back inside, it seemed. A few moments later they entered the kitchen.

“What's up with your faces?” the singer asked while his eyes scanned the three men.

They explained what had just happened and within seconds the good mood fell from both Olli's and Till's features. A stream of curses left the singer's lips.

It took only moments until they all started brainstorming what else they could do. They all supported Richard's decision to fly to Vienna as soon as possible, even if it meant he would only be there to catch Paul after leaving the police station and fly back home with him. They tried to reassure each other that probably everything was fine and that maybe Paul had just gone outside to stretch his legs a little and had forgotten to tell anyone. That he had a spontaneous idea of buying himself a snack in a nearby shop. That maybe he was just wandering around the hotel and Theo had just missed him. But the danger of the wrong people recognizing him and wanting to finish what they had started hung in the air. It was highly unlikely that that had happened, but then again none of them had thought they'd ever find themselves in such a situation.

They discussed the option of chartering a private jet and even asked their management for assistance. But soon enough it was clear that on such short notice none was available. They knew people who owned one, but asking one of them would mean explaining why it was needed or at least raising questions. Since no word could get out, after a heated debate they decided against it.

Every now and then they received a short message from Theo, who still hadn't be successful in finding their sixth band member. They could only guess how nervous their security man must be at the moment. But they also knew if anyone could still stay calm and function, it would be him.

Theo had already contacted the police. Because of the ongoing investigations they promised to have their officers keep an eye out for anyone fitting Paul's appearance around the area, but they would still wait at least 24 hours until he would be reported missing.

Richard went upstairs to start packing and set the alarm.

~~~

Maybe it was because Oliver was the calm center of the group. Maybe they needed a room that was small enough to keep them still. Maybe it was a coincidence. But one by one they found their way into Olli's room. First it was just Flake calling Paul's sister to tell her that her brother had wandered off alone in Vienna and asked her to call him if Paul should get in touch with her. He stood inside the conservatory and looked at the dark world outside while Olli was sitting on his bed and played the guitar to calm himself. Schneider was the next to join as he brought them something to drink, but instead of leaving again he just sat down on the stair that divided the conservatory from the rest of the room. Eventually Till and Richard found them and decided to get something to drink as well and sit down with them.

It was a depressing silence since they all were stuck in the same helplessness. They knew there was a flight one of them could take tomorrow, but until then it was hours and hours of uncertainty and fear.

They had decided they needed all the help they could get to calm themselves. So they only had three candles and the bedside lamp burning. They had tea and they had wine. They had their bond and some gentle words they offered each other to push the worries aside and help each of them to think of a reasonable explanation.

It was almost 11 in the afternoon and still no word from their rhythm guitarist. It was maddening and got harder by the minute not to think that something awful had happened. Theo had also announced that he had asked for support and that in the background they were weighing if it was smarter to send more people from Berlin or hire someone from Vienna while taking a higher risk that information could get out. It wasn't the band's decision so they had to wait until their management would tell them.

Richard sat next to Schneider on the long stair that divided the room and lifted the mug against his lips as his phone started ringing. It lay on the small table next to the swing chair Till was occupying. The singer glanced at the display, raised his brows and leaned forward. The phone wandered from Till's hands to Schneider's and on to Richard's who looked at the screen for a second.

Paul.

He instantly answered the call. “Paul! Where are you?! Are you alright? We were worried about you!” He was so relieved!

For a moment it was quiet on the other side. The moment was long enough to imagine all the different scenarios down to the one where someone else had gotten hold of Paul's phone and was calling him now. But then there was Paul's voice. “I'm in front of the elevator.” He sounded detached from any emotion.

Next to him Olli hastily fished something to write from his bedside table and handed it to him. He understood immediately. “Okay,” he answered although Paul's response was strange. “In the lobby or upstairs on your floor?” Richard asked while he started scribbling down hotel – elevator. Next to him Schneider leaned over to read the notes and pull out his own phone.

There was a distant ding and then a mechanic noise. Probably the doors of the elevator. “The other one.”

Richard pulled his brows together. It was unnerving to talk to Paul when he was so cryptic. “Which other one?” Other elevator? As if there were only two in Vienna. The relief he had felt a moment ago vanished slowly. And while the others still smiled because there finally was a sign that Paul was okay, Richard started to worry.

“I'm---,” Paul started, but stopped himself again. By the way his voice sounded he definitely stood inside the elevator. He took a deep breath and exhaled long and controlled as if attempting to keep himself calm. Then he started again. “Can you stay with me?”

Richard got more confused by the second. “Of course,” he reassured him, “But where exactly are you right now?”

He heard the elevator doors open and then some cheerful people talking about how excited they were to visit some place so-and-so. They were loud and their voices obtrusive. Paul remained silent until the people had left the elevator. He waited until the small cabin moved again and then the doors opened a third time. This time it seemed he had reached his destination. There was a small echo when he finally answered. “On my way to the back entrance.”

Richard's eyes blinked and then focused on one of the candles. It took a moment to understand.

He crossed out his notes instantly while he shook his head. “Go back to the lobby. We'll have Theo bring you back to your hotel.” What the fuck was going on in Paul's head?!

“I need to do this.” There were footsteps. Paul was going to the door to the driveway. The driveway! Richard could see it in his mind.

“Not alone!” Richard blurted, as he wrote down the name of the hotel they had been staying at at the night of the attack. He gave Schneider the piece of paper before he started concentrating solely on his friend on the other side of the phone. “Paul?” he tried, “Please.”

The footsteps stopped and the echo faded.

Schneider grabbed his own phone from the floor, got up and left the room quickly.

“Why?” Paul asked.

“We don't know what your head will do,” Richard replied.

“I know what my head will do.”

The response took Richard by surprise. “You do?” He couldn't hide his skepticism.

Around him everyone looked at him, listening to his every word, observing every small change on his features.

“All I want to do is leave this place,” Paul said after a long pause. His voice had changed. It became softer with every word. “Right now my head gives me every reason to turn around.”

“Then do that,” Richard suggested. What was he planning?

“I don't want to run away,” Paul stated in barely more than a whisper, “I don't want to get used to that fear.” Then there were footsteps again.

“Paul! Wait.”

Silence.

“I can be on a flight in a few hours. I can be there with you, if you want to do this. But don't do it alone.”

“Tomorrow is too late.”

“Why?” He leaned forward.

“I need to do this today,” Paul explained. “I need to try and remember … today.” Paul fell silent as footsteps came closer. It sounded like more than one person, one of them definitely on heels. Richard listened closely. He heard Paul politely greet someone and they greeted him back. Women's voices. Then the footsteps moved away and seconds later a heavy door fell in a lock. Paul went on as soon as he seemed to be alone again. “I-I … I know I'm scared. But it is just a door. Just a driveway. It already happened---”

“Paul---”

“---and nothing can be as bad as being stuck in this fear all the time.”

“Paul, please.”

“I need to remember.” The voice of the smaller man sounded almost pleading. “If I want to give my best tomorrow, I have to do this right now.”

Richard straightened his back and lay his head to the left. “I don't get it,” he said and stood up. Flake pulled his legs back so Richard could walk to the large window of he conservatory and look outside into the pitch black darkness. “What are you up to exactly?”

He heard Paul take a few deep breaths first. He seemed to struggle with the situation at least as much as Richard himself. “You were right,” Paul then said. “My mind wants to remember. And I need to. I have to.” He cleared his throat. “I talked to my layer today and she said if there would be a trial I would have to testify anyway and the more I remembered the better.”

“Paul... .”

“What... ?”

“Don't do this alone.”

“You're here with me.”

Don't put this weight on my shoulders. “I'm not.”

“I would regret it if I wouldn't do this.” There were footsteps again. His own, it seemed. “Trust me, I got this.”

When he heard the door open and the echo vanish, Richard held his breath. He was so mad at Paul for forcing this situation on him. For the recklessness and shortsightedness. For the lack of communication. And then again he was in awe of his courage. His determination. He pictured Paul holding a knife by the blade. And he remembered that therapy came in the strangest forms. Still, this was the epitome of stupidity and he wanted to yell at Paul so badly. Instead he heard him count.
“... three … four …” The door fell in its lock. “...five … six … seven … eight … nine .. point sev---” his voice stopped and he let out a small gasp.

“What happened?” Richard closed his eyes to concentrate on what he was hearing.

“Nothing,” Paul answered after a moment.

He jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. As he turned around, he looked into Schneider's eyes. Then he saw the note the drummer was holding up. Theo is on his way. 15 Minutes. He read it again while he listened to Paul breathing steadily. He nodded at Schneider. Their gazes kept connected. Then, Schneider held his hand out as a sign to be ready and take over if Richard couldn't handle it. He was deeply grateful for the gesture, yet he declined. He knew there was a reason why Paul had called him and he hated to know that on a certain level he wanted to be the one Paul felt most connected to.

“Can you tell me what you want me to do for you?” he said into the phone and turned around again. Knowing the others were there looking out for him gave him the support he needed.

“Just be there,” Paul replied. He sounded surprisingly calm.

“Okay,” he answered.

The seconds passed by. He could hear him breathe. Could hear him walk around. Heard his clothes rustle every now and then.

“I don't …,” Paul started, then he fell silent again. There was a sigh. Was it disappointment? Wonder? “I don't understand this.”

“What's going on?” Richard pulled his brows up.

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean with nothing?” Next to him he heard Till shift in his seat.

“Nothing.” A pause. “I thought, there would be memories if I came here. But there's just the door. Just the driveway. Back there there are just the trash bins.”

So there were no flashbacks? This was interesting. And amazing. A little worrisome. Maybe a professional should decide what this was. “That's not the worst that could happen.” Was he allowed to be relieved?

“No,” Paul replied in a breathy voice, “No, that's bad.”

“Help me understand. I thought you wanted to prove to yourself that the fear is all in your head. That's what you've told me last night.” He felt his mouth go dry from all the adrenaline and went back to his place on the stair to sit down and drink some tea. “That's not nothing.”

“I'll be empty-handed tomorrow.”

He put the mug down. “At the police station?”

“M-hm.”

He could barely suppress a frustrated groan and placed his free hand over his eyes in disbelief. “Can't you be happy that you can just be there without your brain going nuts? I've expected so much worse. Don't you remember what happened that one time in the barn?”

There was a long silence on the other side and Richard slowly realized that this wasn't the time to debate or question Paul's intentions. He heard some rustling on the other side of the line. He waited until it stopped. Paul was breathing a little quicker now. But he remained quiet.

“Hey,” Richard eventually said as softly as he could. He let his hand fall on his knee. “I'm sorry.” He meant it. “You won't be empty-handed tomorrow. You'll tell them about all the details you remember, as insignificant as they may seem. That's what you're really good at.”

“There's nothing,” Paul whispered. The tone quality had changed. As if he was standing close to a wall. “I remember the pain. The fall. How the knife felt. The taste of my blood. That it all started nine point seven seconds after leaving the hotel. I remember how they laughed and what they said, but---.” A sigh and more rustling. When he went on, the voice sounded different again, as if the wall was gone. “I should remember what they looked like. A haircut. Clothes. Glasses. Anything. Why don't I remember something like this?”

He wanted to reach out. As much as he was mad at him, he knew Paul did this out of desperation and he wanted to show him that he was not alone. “You can't force it,” he replied softly.

“I know,” came the quiet reply.

Neither of them knew what to say next. Richard understood the disappointment and yet he himself was relieved more than anything. Imagining Paul being stuck in a stream of flashbacks without any help was a nightmare. This was better. Safer. Still, on a certain level Paul was right. Without any helpful memories there was little he could tell the police. Richard trusted the investigators to know what they were doing. And at least they had found DNA evidence on Paul's ring because he had fought back. It might not be enough though and thinking those people might not get locked up after all because of lack of evidence was an outcome he didn't want to think about.

“If I ask you how you feel, can you find words to describe it?” Richard asked after a while. His eyes observed how the flame of the candle reflected in Flake's tea glass.

Paul took a deep and shuddering breath. “Scared.” Again some rustling. “My hand is shaking. I'm shaking.” A sigh. “And I'm angry.” More rustling and he sounded like speaking against a wall again, which irritated Richard a lot. “But I made it. This is something, right? I ma---”

“Paul!!!” It was Theo's voice coming through the phone from the distance. Footsteps coming closer fast.

Richard heard Paul inhale sharply.

“We told him where you are,” he explained, glad, that someone was now at Paul's side.

The smaller man said nothing.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Richard pulled his brows together and listened closely. From what he had heard, Paul was just standing in that driveway. Maybe it was just a safety check?

The footsteps came to a halt.“Can you get up?”

He didn't understand that question. Unless... .

More rustling. Definitely clothes.

The puzzle pieces started to connect in Richard's head. “Have you been lying on the ground?” he asked and for the first time his eyes found Till's who looked back at him questioningly.

“Look at me, please.”

Silence. Richard didn't dare break it.

“I got you. Give me your hand, I'll help you up.”

Then the connection was lost.

Richard slowly took the phone away from his ear and looked at the screen. His brain needed visual confirmation that the call had been ended. He felt his heart beat faster.

“What happened?” Schneider asked him.

For a moment Richard let his head hang low. He wanted to scream. He wanted to scream his heart out. Every time he wanted to protect Paul, he couldn't! He should have come with him from the beginning. He should have gotten into that car with them. He should have insisted.

“Theo has found him,” he answered with a calm voice. He was surprised he could keep it this steady. “And then Paul has hung up.”

Suddenly an arm was placed around his shoulders. Schneider. He was supporting him. Richard wished he wouldn't. The body contact was making him weaker. He wanted to lean against his friend and let his emotions run, but he couldn't. He would fall apart.

He felt his phone buzz in his hand and quickly looked at the screen. It was a message from Theo telling them that he would call them in a few minutes. He read it out loud and saw the others nod.

“I need a moment,” Richard told them and stood up hastily, before carefully walking past Schneider and out of the door. With fast steps he walked along the hallway, ripping his jacket from the hook as he passed it. He went outside and stuffed the phone in his one pocket before fumbling the pack of cigarettes from the other. It fell to the ground through hasty fingers and he picked it up again. His hands were shaking as he lit one of the cigarettes. It was freezing cold outside. And silent. Eerily silent. The nicotine did nothing to calm him down this time.

He looked at the ground. He imagined Paul lying there. A few meters away the dark bloodstains of the rooster reached into the sparse light of the single lamp above the door. The images started to fuse and Richard quickly shook his head to get rid of the picture before his eyes. His trembling fingers wiped away the first tears that came to aid and helped him calm down. He just wanted to be there and hold Paul. He wanted to hold him and tell him that everything would be okay again. He wanted to yell at him for being so fucking reckless. Instead he was here and Paul was so far away. He wished the world would be as small as the fog had made it look like this morning.

He went back inside just in time as his phone rang.

With one hand he opened the door to Oliver's room and with the other he took the call, as his band mates stopped their discussion and looked up at him expectantly. He still had his jacket on and it dragged the smell of fresh smoke into the room. “Hey,” he greeted the person on the other side as sat down at the end of Olli's bed. It was a little darker here. He needed this.

On the other side he heard the distinct noise of a motor running. “I'm sorry I had to let you wait,” Theo's voice told him, “It took us a moment to get to the car. … Put your seat belt on, please.”

“Can I put you on speaker?” Richard asked and his eyes looked at his friends. They seemed grateful for the question and eager for news.

“Sure.”

Richard pressed the button and held the phone in front of him. “Is he okay?” he asked. He watched Flake get um from his place at the other side of the room and quietly come to sit next to him on the bed. Till leaned forward as well and his swing chair was creaking a little bit.

“I'm not sure.” The sound of the blinking light started clicking in the background. “He hasn't said a word. But he looks okay.”

“I am okay,” they heard Paul say. He sounded distant, tired and lost in thought.

“Do you have us on speaker?” Olli asked.

“No,” Theo answered, “Do you want me to?”

“No,” the bassist replied. They all nodded to show him they agreed.

“Just make sure he stays with you,” Till added, “Don't leave him alone until you're back here.”

It was a lot to ask of one person. They knew that. But they knew Theo well enough to be sure he wanted to do this anyway and was most likely grateful for the affirmation. “Of course,” the man behind the steering wheel said. Then they heard him address the guitarist in the passenger seat. “Paul, is there anything I shall tell the others?”

For a moment they heard nothing but the engine running.

Then Theo's voice again. Soft. Caring. “For what?”

Again nothing but the engine.

“Okay, I'll do that.” His tone was so consoling that it had the band members in the small room worried. “He said he's sorry,” Theo told them. “That's all. He's sorry.”

They looked at each other and saw that they all felt a certain pain that came with these words.

“Tell him we're here for him,” Olli said, his eyes directed at the phone. “And don't leave his side.”

“Will do,” Theo replied. “I'll hang up now and contact you later.”

They said a quick goodbye for the moment before Richard hung up.

Slowly words filled the room. Tried to build a frame around what had happened. For Richard everything became a blur. He buried his face in his hands and breathed. His ears listened to the others but his brain refused to comprehend. A warm hand rubbed over his back. He sat up straight again and forced a smile on his lips. The hand vanished and he kept his mask on. Just a while longer. He only had to function a while longer. Then he could go upstairs and fall apart.

~~~

Just as promised, Theo was staying with Paul for the night. The rhythm guitarist hadn't shown any resistance and let it happen. After returning to the hotel he had straight gone to bed and according to Theo had been trying to sleep but seemed to have difficulties. So he had gotten out his headphones, had plugged them to his phone and had listened to something until his eyes had finally fallen shut.

He has fallen asleep, Theo wrote them.

They smiled in relief. All but Richard, who took the phone in his hands and started to type. If he has a nightmare, this is what you do, he wrote back, while closing his eyes for a moment and imagining the many times he had learned to help Paul through them. And then he described what to say, what to do, what not to do. He knew Theo would read this carefully. He ignored the strange feeling rising in his chest, that he gave someone else instructions for something only he was supposed to do. It felt like abandoning Paul, even though it was supposed to be the opposite.

They said good night to Theo after thanking him again. And then Richard said good night to the others. He couldn't stay with them. What he wanted most right now was out of reach and he needed a moment to give his pain some room, where no one could witness it. He felt their looks on him and hoped they would leave him alone anyway.

No one followed him as he went upstairs. He switched on the lights in the upper hallway to get to his room, but he stopped midway and turned around. His gaze fell on the open door to Paul's room. Something inside him pulled him closer until he stood in the doorway and looked into the empty place.

Someone had picked up all books Paul had thrown against the door yesterday and had stacked them in a neat pile on the shelf behind the backrest. No clothes were lying around anymore. Some of them surely had been taken to Vienna, others might be downstairs in the basket by the washing machine. Almost nothing hinted at Paul returning to this place. And again the feeling of being left behind filled Richard's heart. He knew better. He trusted Paul to return. And still his recent unpredictable actions fueled this insecurity.

His eyes fell on the black woolen cardigan hanging over the chair in the far corner. He found it strange that Paul hadn't taken it with him. The other guitarist loved that worn out thing.

Without thinking about it he walked closer and picked it up. His fingers dug deep into the stitches and his heart started to contract. He felt himself break.

Somehow his feet carried him across the hallway. One hand reluctantly let go of the cardigan to press down the door handle before grasping the item again. He closed the door by leaning against it with his back and a heavy sob. He didn't bother switching on the light, as he felt his eyes drown. He wouldn't be able to see anyway. Somehow he shrugged off his jacket and climbed into his bed. He cradled the cardigan in his arms and pulled it as tight against his body as he wanted to hold its owner. He muffled his crying as he pressed his face against the wool. He whispered curses against it and clung to it even more.

Deep below all the emotions that rivaled for his attention a decision waited to be recognized. He had already made it, he just didn't know yet.

But when the anger over Paul's actions had passed, the confusion over this recklessness, the mental overload of being pushed into impossible positions against his will, his remorse of not having insisted to fly with him, the disappointment of not being told about his travel plans, the pain of feeling left behind, the hurt of being only contacted when Paul needed something of him, the conclusion that he probably wasn't worth any communication if he himself needed it, the agony of the love for this man that was tight around his heart like a burning shackle … when all this had subsided, he realized he had to keep this one promise he had made to himself. The promise to take care of himself. Which led to the decision that seemed to be the hardest in years.

He reached for his phone and switched off the alarm clock.

He wouldn't take that flight.

It felt like abandoning Paul again. It felt selfish. Cowardly.

A wave of shame washed over him and if there was a stronger version of feeling worthless, he had found it. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't take that flight and be strong for Paul if he felt he had lost his strength. The smallest event was able to make him break. He couldn't do it. He felt so lousy, so small, but he couldn't. His body curled around the cardigan as he craved a warmth he didn't feel he deserved from a body he would never hold like he wanted to.

Under endless sobs he cried himself to sleep.

The only comfort was the knowledge that Paul was safe. That someone else was looking out for him.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 30: Lighting Effect

“You're still here?”

The question was spoken so softly. It carried disbelief and worries in each syllable. It traveled from the door to Richard's ears and woke him up.

He opened his eyes. The tiny salt crystals made them burn. He remembered having fallen asleep crying.

The room was dipped in a velvet blue. The daylight was about to wake up, too.

His hands still pressed the cardigan to his chest as he lay with his back towards the door.

His heart beat faster as he realized the mistake he had made last night!

He heard the door being shut and then footsteps come closer.

Please leave!

“Are you awake?”

Don't come closer!

He couldn't move. The fear made him freeze. No matter what he would do now, it would be too late. Schneider would see!

“I thought you were on your way to the airpor---” the drummer stopped his feet and mouth as soon as he had reached the far side of the bed.

All Richard could do was lay still, his eyes staring into the distance, his fingers clawing into the wool more than ever. It was too late now.

He knew what Schneider could see and what he couldn't. He could see that Richard was awake. Could assume he had heard him. Could deduce he actively chose not to respond. Would conclude something was wrong. He could see what Richard was holding on to under the blanket, since it reached too far up and was visible even in the dark room. Wouldn't be able to see the dried tears in Richard's eyes in the sparse light. Wouldn't need to to connect the dots.

Years and years of having to communicate without words on stage made them masters in reading each other's body language. It was harder to hide anything from the eyes of his band-mates than from anyone else he knew. And he knew when he didn't even have to try anymore. No lie would be strong enough to withstand the doubts.

He fixed his gaze on the spot where the curtain met the floorboards. Breathed. Waited. Listened. His world was tilted 90 degrees and upside down all at once.

The footsteps came closer.

The mattress shifted.

The seconds went by.

Fingers felt the fabric he was clinging to.

A warm hand stretched out through the cold air and found rest on top of the side of his head. It was so gentle. So protective.

He blinked and a small tear ran down the bridge of his nose.

Schneider said his name.

He was scared of the questions he knew would come.

Reluctantly his eyes let go of the view of fabric meeting wood. They moved a little until they found Schneider's knees. Hesitated. Then looked up some more. Then, there in the vague morning light, they found his friend looking back at him. Saw how his lips were pressed together. Saw the pulled up brows. Found so much worry in his eyes that it was impossible to avert his gaze.

He watched Schneider look at the folds of the cardigan for a moment and his features soften even more. When their eyes met again, there was no doubt left.

Christoph knew.

“I don't want to talk about it,” Richard whispered, his voice so weak that he wasn't sure Schneider had heard him.

He listened to the drummer taking a deep breath before leaning down a little. “I know,” Schneider replied as gentle as his voice could get.

They fell silent. None of them knew what to say.

Schneider's hand was slowly lifted from his head to be placed on his shoulder instead. It didn't stay there for long before it started to rub his back in a soothing manner.

Richard wished the cardigan would swallow him. At the same time he wished he had never picked that damn thing up in the first place. He closed his eyes and buried his face in it to make it soak up the next tear. He smelled Paul's scent.

“I'm not leaving you alone now,” Christoph said eventually.

“Please go.” It was nothing but a hoarse whisper against the stitches.

The hand kept on caressing his back. It made him want to tell Schneider everything. To pour it all out and stop the hiding. He pressed his eyes shut as tight as he could. The urge to just tell him everything was replaced by the urge to kick him away.

“I thought I was just imagining things betw---” The drummer stopped as Richard turned around and pulled the covers over his shoulder. Abandoned and still warm from the embrace the cardigan slid to the floor.

“Just go.”

Behind him he heard Schneider breathe calmly a couple of times and stand up. Felt the mattress shift again. Listened to his footsteps walk towards the door slowly. Heard the key being pulled out of the lock. “Stay here. I'll be right back,” he was told before the drummer slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

The side of the bed he had rolled on was so cold that he curled up a little more to keep himself warm. His insides went hot and cold anyways. The thoughts in his mind raced in circles. He pulled the covers closer and prayed Schneider wouldn't tell anyone. He prayed that maybe, just maybe, the drummer hadn't understood the signs. That he was fearing something that hadn't happened yet. But he had heard Schneider's words, too. He wondered what the drummer thought he had imagined. Maybe he didn't get the whole picture. Maybe Richard could keep a part of his secret. Maybe Schneider just meant something he thought he had seen in the past few days?
Did he even want to keep it a secret anymore? What if this was his chance to come clean. Maybe all this hiding had to stop?

What was Schneider doing right now? Tell the others? He wouldn't do that, would he? He wasn't that kind of guy. Richard's limbs felt so hollow he still couldn't move. He couldn't follow him or run away. He was bound to this very place and moment and had to let happen whatever fate would give him. There was no control of anything anymore.

And it was cold. So very cold. The morning air, not yet touched by the sun, climbed into the room and into his lungs. Part of him wished he could move and close the window. And yet it felt like it wouldn't matter anyway. He felt alone and his heart empty. He regretted letting go of the black piece of clothing – although deep down he knew that clinging onto any hope, any wish, meant torturing himself. He knew it was time to let go. Grow up and finally let go. He pulled the blanket a little tighter still and waited for the inevitable.

Someone pressed down the handle and gently opened the door. Richard could hear Schneider's voice from the hallway.

“He doesn't feel good.”

Someone responded from somewhere further away. It sounded vaguely like Till.

“No, I got this. Don't worry.”

The other voice again. So low that it was definitely Till.

“I know.”

Then the door moved some more before it was closed carefully. Then steps. The sound of wood on wood. Liquid being poured. Again steps. Schneider entered his vision as he carefully placed a mug full of hot tea on his bedside table and switched on the small lamp. The soft orange light shone against the blue room.

Then the drummer went to the other side of the bed and by the sound of it put a second mug on the bedside table there.

“I hope you don't mind but it's freezing in here,” Christoph said before the window was shut and the soft noise of the thermostat of the heater grazed against the silence of the room. A moment later a gentle murmur emanated from the device. A flavorful scent reached Richard's nose. His friend had made him his favorite tea.

Inwardly he cursed. He didn't want any of this. While behind him Schneider was climbing into bed and most likely was about to sit right next to him, Richard wanted him out. He didn't want him in Paul's spot. He didn't want the warmth. The small nice gestures. The well-meant company. The kind words he knew would come. He wanted do delve into this feeling of hopelessness because, looking at the facts, there was no hope to be found. Schneider finding out about all this only made it worse, so he didn't see the point in giving him comfort.

It was quiet for a while. Richard lay curled into a ball on one side of the bed. Schneider sat on the other side. After a couple of minutes Richard heard the drummer drape the blanket over his own lower half. Then there was silence again. Richard watched the steam rise from the mug. He didn't intend to start the conversation, no matter how uncomfortable the situation grew.

Schneider eventually took a deep breath through his nose as if to gather all the courage he could muster. “You understand that I can't leave you alone now, don't you?”

Richard didn't bother replying in any way. He knew he was mentally digging a deeper and deeper hole for himself and part of him was adamant to stay in there. Part of him was so accustomed to suffering that he felt weirdly at home.

“I wished you had told me,” the drummer went on with a caring voice, “But I think I get why you didn't.” Again silence followed, only broken by some more rustling of fabric on Schneider's side. Richard wondered what he was doing behind him.

“Did I let you down when I left for Berlin?” Schneider then asked and again took a deep breath. “Because I feel like I did. I didn't know, of course. But it feels like you shouldn't have been alone after Paul had thrown us out of the hospital.”

Fuck! It stung in his heart that Schneider blamed himself. It stung that he didn't feel he deserved this much care. It stung most that yes, yes of course, he would have needed someone. He needed someone right now. And he knew Schneider wouldn't stop digging now until he would help Richard out of this hole. It stung that Richard didn't know how to reach for Schneider's outstretched hand because the first life lesson he'd ever been given was that of not being enough to deserve love. Every time it came back to this and no matter how much he could analyze it from a distance, he was stuck in the same patterns.

“Should I have kept asking about his guitar on your bed?”

Richard kept staring at the steam traveling towards the light bulb.

“Or why you sometimes looked at him like that?”

Like what?

“Is this why you were extra reserved after the shows in which you'd kissed each other?”

He should never have said yes to that idea. He had tried to push the memories to the back of his mind. Thanks for reminding me.

“You've slept in each others arms.” Schneider's voice went even softer. “He doesn't know, does he?”

Richard blinked slowly and a fresh tear slid along his nose before falling onto the pillow.

Behind him, he heard his friend let out a deep voiceless sigh. Heard him breathe a couple of times. This wasn't easy for him, either.

“You know,” the drummer started, “Until now I wasn't completely sure. I think I know you well enough, but even for holding the cardigan you could have given me an explanation and trick me. So … ,” he paused and turned to his side, leaned down and propped himself on his friend's body. Richard felt Schneider's arms cover everything from his hip, along his side and up to his shoulder, and felt the pressure of his weight push him into the mattress. Schneider made sure not to hurt him. No bone pinched him. It was simple body contact - intrusive, disregarding his personal space. But also necessary to reach out to him. “... thank you for not contradicting anything. I think you don't have to. Unless you want to try and tell me I'm wrong.”

You haven't made a guess, yet. He felt Schneider look down at him from such a close distance. He remained silent, knowing it was a wordless confession to an unspoken suspicion.

“Do you have feelings for him?”

There it was.

Richard tried to breathe calmly, but his chest seemed to tighten. He didn't want to answer. He wanted to save this moment of lingering uncertainty. Beyond it lay a new time he was afraid of. A time of someone else knowing.

Schneider waited patiently. Gave him all the time he needed.

He wanted to shake his head no. It would be the easier option. He could tell Schneider he was seeing ghosts. He could at least try to explain the cardigan. Could maybe make him believe that no, he didn't behave differently after the stage kisses. That playing on Paul's guitar was nothing but a friendly gesture. That holding him in his arms at night was either. But he didn't have the strength. Nor had he the willpower.

And he didn't want to lie anymore. Most of all to himself.

“Oww,” Schneider made with a compassionate voice as he reached out to soothingly stroke through the black hair.

Richard hadn't even realized he had nodded. His subconscious mind had decided to answer for him. The nod was a silent scream for help he had kept inside for way too long. And now that he felt that Schneider was there, that he was taking care of him, that the first reaction wasn't contempt or repulsion, but the kind of unconditional love only best friends could give each other, his walls slowly faltered. He felt his face twist and his eyes shut tight. Felt the tears come. Felt his empty hands miss the cardigan to hold on to as the waves of sadness and relief washed over him with such a sudden impact that his rib cage contracted again and again so he had to press his lips together to keep the sobs from leaving his body.

He knew it wouldn't matter to Schneider if he would cry without holding back. He did it for himself. It seemed to be the last ounce of control he seemed to have, so he desperately tried to cry silently.

Behind him the drummer sat upright, rested his back against the headboard and kept consoling Richard with his gentle fingers in his hair and his quiet presence as company. He probably even looked away to give him some privacy.

Outside a door was shut and then there were voices and some footsteps. Then another door. Then silence again.

Richard waited for his own body to calm down. All this was wearing him down so much he could already fall asleep again, were it not for the fear he still felt. But when he was finally breathing normally again and the tears had run dry, he let out a deep final shuddering sigh.

The hand left his hair and gave him a supportive rub on the shoulder. “Come,” Schneider encouraged him, “Sit up and drink something.”

For a while he stayed exactly where he was. He was still afraid of everything that could happen from this point forward. It was scary that he wasn't the only one anymore who knew. But it was also liberating.

He pulled a sleeve over his hand to wipe his face dry. Now the fabric was sticking uncomfortably wet to his wrist.

His muscles protested as he finally unfolded his legs and moved his arms to push himself up. He reached behind him to adjust the pillow before he carefully settled his back against the headboard. He nervously played with his fingers and stared at the blanket. Anything to avoid eye contact. He wasn't ready for it.

“I promise, I won't tell a soul,” Schneider stated.

Richard nodded, unable to find his voice to say thank you. But he was grateful. The words made him feel calmer by the second.

A moment later a mug appeared in front of his vision. Schneider was giving him his tea. He would always give up own things in favor of helping others. The wellbeing of his friends and family always meant more to him than his own. The simple gesture spoke volumes about the man.

Richard's fingers wrapped around the mug and the warmth immediately seeped through his skin.

“Do you need another moment?” the drummer asked. He offered him all the time he would need.

No amount of time in the world would be enough to prepare him for this. But Richard tried to stall a little anyway. He took the mug by the handle with one hand, so he could graze along the porcelain with the fingertips of his free hand. He let them slide along the brim and a little over the edge. It was curious how the steam curled around his fingernails and then rose in small waves. He watched it for a little while.

“It has started with this tour, hasn't it?” Schneider tried to coax him to some kind or reaction.

Richard let out a small involuntary snort and shook his head.

He felt Schneider's eyes on him. “Longer than that?”

This time Richard barely reacted at all. He only raised his brows a little and took a deep breath.

“Years?” his friend carefully asked.

Richard closed his eyes for a moment. Nodded shyly.

“How many?” A layer of disbelief covered the question.

Should he try and see if his voice was willing to work? “Many,” he answered eventually. It was barely more than a hoarse whisper.

Schneider took a deep breath through his nose. It was a lot to digest at once.

“Since when?” he tried. He needed to know even if it didn't make a difference at all.

Richard shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno.” It was strange to speak about it. “Probably since the beginnings.” Somehow it was giving time a name. Made it more real. Made the proportions comprehensible. Harder to shove it all back into the corner of his mind where he had kept it hidden all those years.

He heard the small gasp Schneider was letting out. “This long? I never knew!”

The guitarist took a sip from the tea. His body instantly signaled him that he wanted to taste something else. “You weren't supposed to,” he muttered and put the mug on the bedside table. Then he folded back his blanket and slowly got out of bed. His limbs still felt like they belonged to someone else, but at least he could use them again. He stood up, took the mug that was originally meant for him and walked to the other side of the bed to place it on the bedside table for Schneider. He didn't look at him once though, but he knew the drummer was following him with his eyes. His fingers pulled a cigarette from the package on the sill before opening the window. On the horizon the clouds were gathering in a saturated orange-red and waited for the sun to finally enter the stage. It was a beautiful sight. He took a long drag and just stared into the distance. The contrail of a plane painted a bright needle into the far sky and guilt rose in Richard's chest. He could be sitting on a plane right now, too, ready to fly to Vienna any minute.

But he wasn't. Instead Schneider had found out about all this. Maybe this was karma. Maybe this was what he deserved for being too weak to be there for Paul.

He stubbed out the but in the ashtray he kept on the outer sill before he reluctantly closed the window.

When finally his gaze met Schneider's, they studied each other silently for a couple of seconds. Then the drummer patted the empty side of the mattress three times without breaking the stare. Richard understood the request and slowly turned back to his place next to his friend. When he was settled against the headrest and under the warm covers again, he let out a resigned sigh. “And now?”

Schneider swallowed and opened his mouth, but instead of saying anything, he seemed to think about the choice of words a little longer. Then he looked at him. “I have a thousand questions. But first of all I want to know how you feel right now.”

Despite just having cool air hit his face, it still felt puffy from the crying. “I don't know,” he answered. “Shitty.” That summed it up quite nicely. And yet he could hear his own words in his head. No I-don't-knows, no one word answers.

Schneider nodded. “Who knows about this?”

“You.”

“Who else?”

“You.”

Richard used the following silence to take the mug back in his hand and drink some more.

“You've kept this to yourself all this time?!” Schneider finally asked.

“Obviously.”

“How …?!”

Richard shrugged his shoulders helplessly. His eyes scanned the pictures on the wall to distract himself a little bit from the uncomfortable conversation. “One day at a time, I guess.” He took another sip and went on. “I've thought about the possible consequences and … I just couldn't tell anyone.” He knew Schneider would understand. The drummer knew how the band's chemistry was back in the days, how at times they wouldn't have survived any added tension, how they hadn't trusted each other on the level they did now, how they weren't as mature as they were now. There were so many factors that had made it seemingly impossible to make such a confession to anyone. Maybe he could have told Schneider. Maybe he even should have, now that he saw the small hint of hurt in the drummer's eyes. A second later it was gone and he wondered if he had just imagined it.

“Do you fear any consequences now?” Schneider asked carefully. Hidden in those lines lay the question if Richard trusted him.

“You said you wouldn't tell a soul,” he replied.

“I did,” Schneider stated.

He thought about it. Of course his mind was finding ways of Schneider possibly giving clues to the others about what was going on and why. That this might be just the beginning and soon the whole band would know. Paul would know. And then what?! So he remained silent despite knowing that it might hurt the drummer even more.

Schneider knew him well enough. He knew what Richard needed to hear. “Lets be clear: None of the stuff we speak about will ever leave this room.”

“Ever?” He had to be sure.

Their eyes met yet again. “I would never do this to you.”

There was this fundamental honesty in Schneider's voice, the never-wavering loyalty to his closest people. It was still hard for Richard to trust people, but he trusted Christoph. He trusted his promise. So he took a deep breath before he nodded at him. He saw a small smile tug at Schneider's lips, gentle and encouraging. And he felt a small part of him be grateful that his friend had come into his room this morning and found out about all of this. He turned his head again and leaned it against the headrest before closing his eyes. It slowly sank in that after more than twenty years he wasn't alone with this secret anymore.

He listened to Schneider's breathing for a while. He could hear him think. “Is it more like … some feelings?” the drummer then asked. “Or are we talking about really feeling more for him?”

Richard didn't know if he wanted him to know. Then again it didn't matter anymore at this point. “Just a little bit at first,” he told him with a quiet voice, his eyes still closed and his fingers absentmindedly turning the mug clockwise in his hands, “Or I believed it was.” He took a deep breath through his nose. “But then I realized he really meant something to me. I thought this couldn't be. I wasn't into men. I've had my experiences, you know that. At the end of the day I liked women.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I can't get him out of my head.” And heart.

“Even though you were married and all that?”

He nodded.

“Was that the reason your relationsh---”

“No,” he immediately replied and opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling, “No, that never had to do with the feelings for Paul.” There had always been other reasons.

“Have you ever thought about telling him?” It sounded like Schneider wasn't sure if he should ask this.

But it was a fair question, Richard thought, before he nodded.

“Still thinking about it?”

“No,” the guitarist sighed, “He is--- … was in such a wonderful relationship all those years.” Schneider nodded. “And he has stated more than once that he isn't interested in men.”

“So did you,” the drummer replied, “But the thing with his marriage is a solid point.”

“And we're colleagues,” Richard added, “We work together. It would have been messy no matter what.”

“True,” Schneider nodded.

They fell silent again for a moment, each of them thinking about what they had just said.

“The situation right now is messy, too, isn't it?” Schneider looked right at him when he asked the question. “We shouldn't have forced you into this position.”

“You didn't know,” Richard replied although he couldn't deny Christoph had a point. “And I could have said no.”

“Why didn't you?” the drummer dared to ask.

“Because …,” he started, but fell silent again. There were so many reasons and he needed a moment to decide which was there first. “... because I wanted him to get better. More than anything. I feared I might fail him but I knew I would try with all my heart-”

“Because he means so much to you.”

Richard nodded. “And I know him. I knew I might be able to help him.” He placed the mug aside and instantly he started playing with the ring on his finger. “I had no idea that we would end up sleeping in the same bed that one night.” He lowered his gaze, ashamed to even think about it the way he did. His voice was nothing but a whisper when he said the next words. “But it felt nice.”

Schneider didn't say anything. Instead he leaned forward and reached for the cardigan on the floor next to him. He pulled it up in his lap and looked at it for a moment. Then he placed it in Richard's lap and drank some more tea while remaining quiet. He just kept listening and made room for Richard's thoughts.

The guitarist reached for the piece of clothing and his fingers started playing with the stitches instead. He instantly felt closer to Paul. “I've grown used to it, you know?” he started anew. “If I'm close to him for a longer period of time, I try to find reasons to shove him away because …, “ he sighed for what felt like the hundredth time, “... I have to make myself stop being drawn towards him.”

“Is that why you would pick a fight every other day back then?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes just because he's been the little piece of shit that he can be every now and then. But who am I to complain, I'm no better than him.”

“You've changed, too.” It was nice how Schneider could be consoling and honest at the same time.

So Richard just nodded and then he went on. “It got out of hand in the last week or two. Maybe even earlier, but the last couple of days I---,” he felt his voice crack a little, that traitorous thing, and his fingers dug deep into the wool to make him focus, “--- everything became too much. Usually, especially after touring, I distance myself from him. But I can't do that right now. I can't push him away, either. And I don't want to.” He felt his eyes water and blinked it away. “I shouldn't have to.”

“Is that why you didn't take that flight?” Schneider sounded like he was close to taking him in his arms. He hoped he wouldn't do that.

“And I feel like shit because of it.” He closed his eyes and swallowed down the lump in his throat.

“Because you feel like he needs you and you can't be there for him? Or because you need him and need to stay away because of it?”

Maybe Schneider should have been the one to show Paul how to talk about feelings, Richard wondered. At least he was capable of asking the right questions. “Both,” he answered and opened his eyes again to look at the cardigan. He remembered exactly why he had made that decision. “It was my number he had called yesterday. He had called me the night before. He has called me from the hospital.” He remembered all the times Paul had started writing messages but didn't sent any of them. “He came into my room.” He shook his head. “Why couldn't he call someone else?! Go into Flakes room. Or yours.” His hands clawed into the fabric. “And always if he wanted something. If he needed help. As if I could say no in such a situation. But I need to. I have to.”

“The first time the two of you were sleeping in one bed was in his room,” Schneider replied softly, “Are you sure this wasn't your decision either?”

Richard's hands let go and his head fell back against the headboard. He instantly knew Schneider was right. And yet he wasn't. The guitarist remembered the night as if it was yesterday. How scared and helpless Paul had been. The sleeping pill. The attempts of opening up. The nightmares. Yes, it was his decision to stay that night. But should he have left him alone? Maybe he should have asked for help. For his own sake. But then again, if he was truly honest to himself, he would have to ask himself if he was ready to give up his position of being the person Paul would come to. Now that he finally played such an important role in Paul's life, it was breaking him. But he didn't want to give that up, even though he knew he'd have to. This indeed was his own decision.

“I don't know what to do,” he whispered.

“Go one day at a time, I guess,” Schneider replied. “But now you have me to come to.”

The words drove a painful gratefulness through Richard's heart and he rolled his head until he could look at Schneider. Their gazes met. A single tear rolled from the corner of his own eye.

There was so much understanding and empathy in Schneider's eyes as well. And sadness. And when Richard didn't say anything, the drummer helplessly tried to fill the silence. “Any time. You understand? If you need someone, you come to me.”

Richard nodded. He wanted to say thank you, but it didn't feel like it was nearly enough. He felt like he didn't deserve this either, at least not without giving something back. “You didn't let me down,” he replied instead. “When you left for Berlin and I was the only one staying with Paul. You've been there for me more than I could have wished for.” He saw Schneider shake his head, but he went on. “And you were here for me here, too.”

“Not as much as you would have needed.”

“Not your fault I had secrets.”

“True,” Schneider took a deep breath. “Still.”

They both turned their heads and looked at the ceiling. One of them trying to hide a sniff and the other wiping away a rebellious tear.

“I'm sorry I haven't told you sooner,” Richard whispered eventually.

He heard Schneider swallow next to him, before he tried to answer. “Are you apologizing to me? Or to yourself?”

The question evoked a small laugh from him because it hit a nerve. “Both, I guess.”

“You're welcome.” There was a smile in Schneider's reply.

It made them both chuckle. Most of all because of the deep, deep feeling of relief.

As if on silent cue, they leaned their shoulders against one another.

One after the other they reached for their tea. They sat and drank in silence. It all had to sink in. For Richard the time after had begun, for Schneider the time of knowing. They had been through so much over all those years. They had seen things, done things, shared things that only came with a band life like the one they had. And yet this moment right now strengthened the bond between them like nothing had before.

They let the time pass and watched how the rising sun threw orange light and sharp shadows against the wall. Suddenly the world was warm and clearer. Richard knew it would have been this way anyway. But different. He liked this version.

And he came to realize that, now that Schneider knew, he was glad he didn't take that flight. One hand absentmindedly held the cardigan again while he silently apologized to Paul. It would never not hurt to chose his own sake over someone else's. Pain seemed to be inevitable no matter what he did.

“Can you explain to me, what it is about him?” Schneider eventually asked. His voice had changed. It was carrying a lighter mood. It felt like he tried to start a normal conversation between them. Wanted to know more, still. Wanted to take the opportunity while none of them seemed to go anywhere anytime soon. “I mean, we all have our damn good reasons to be friends with him. I just want to know what other things you see in him.”

“I just told you I need distance and now you want me to tell you what draws me towards him?” Richard asked.

A somewhat mischievous grin appeared on Schneider's lips as their eyes briefly met. “Seems so.” He shrugged and his shoulder moved against Richard's. “I'm curious. What can I say? You know me.”

The guitarist shook his head, but smiled nevertheless. There were so many things that instantly came to mind and he had thought about all of them countless times. He would again in the future. But right now he didn't really want to lean too much into this yearning. And he didn't want to give Schneider this much insight. Just something obvious. Something to satisfy his curiosity. “Besides his smile, you mean?” He asked. Maybe this would be enough already.

The drummer smiled as well. “Yeah, that's really something special about him.” He nodded. “Something like that, yes.” He expectantly looked at Richard.

Inwardly Richard cursed halfheartedly. One more thing. Then he would have to stop. “The way he can switch from making jokes to this utter concentration. The look on his face when that happens.” He loved those moments. At least once a day when they were working together it would happen. He would look forward to it every time, hoping he wouldn't miss it.

Richard found himself being pulled out of his musing by Schneider smiling at him once again. “I get that,” the drummer said. “And then there's the way he can become completely absorbed in an idea and not let go of it for hours because---”

“No, that's just outright annoying,” Richard interrupted him.

“Because that's already your thing?” He started to grin.

He would never admit that. “Oh, bite me.”

The reaction made Schneider laugh. A moment later Richard was laughing with him. God, it was good to have such a friend. Somehow Schneider had managed to pull him out of the hole he had dug for himself.

“Sooo... ,” By the tone of it the drummer wasn't done teasing him. Maybe it was his plan to lighten the mood until there was no darkness left. “You ever pictured the two of you …?” instead of using words Schneider just clicked his tongue two times.

Richard turned his head to blankly stare at his friend. “How about: None of your business?”

“Ah, come on!” Schneider faked a pout. “If you were me, you would be curious, too.”

“If you were me, you wouldn't tell either.”

“You would tell Till, if he'd ask.” Schneider raised a brow to strengthen his point.

“Highly unlikely.”

“I should channel my inner Till and try.”

Richard snorted in amusement. “You have no inner Till and believe me, it's better that way.”

“Pfffffff,” Schneider made. But then he wiggled his feet for a moment and grinned again. “Knowing you from twenty years ago I think I have my answer anyway.”

“Go on like this and I'll regret I ever told you anything about this.” He tried to sound as serious as he could.

The grin slowly faltered and a moment later it seemed he had reached his goal. “Okay, I'll stop teasing you,” Schneider sighed.

“Thank you.”

“One question though.”

By now Richard was almost scared of whatever Schneider would ask next. He already felt like there was no hidden secret left.

“Two, actually,” the drummer corrected himself.

The guitarist put the mug aside and let go of the cardigan to instead press his palms against his face for a moment. He exhaled audibly through his nose before he let the hands sink again. “Okay,” he muttered, “What do you want to know?”

Schneider looked at him for a few seconds before he asked the first question. When he did, he sounded sincere. “How do you feel right now?” He really cared.

Richard looked back at him. No I-don't-knows, no one word answers. He took a moment to really feel into his emotions and find suitable words. But it was hard to grasp. The feeling was too new to fit it into the right words. “Less alone than before,” he tried. “Relieved that I don't have to hide this from you anymore. But I'm scared that anyone else could find out.”

Schneider nodded. His features showed that he understood the gravity of it all. That he understood his responsibility as well. “I knew you would say this,” he said, obviously referring to the last sentence. “It brings me to question number two: How would you like to handle this once we leave this room?”

Richard's eyes switched to the door. He was still caught up in this very moment, so the imagination of actually having to leave this room, to interact with all the others, to have to hide everything again, made him hold his breath for a moment.

“I mean, I know that we both act the way we always do,” Schneider went on, “But is there anything you want me to do to help you? Or---”

Richard shook his head. Then he blinked and stared at the door again. He took a deep breath and weighed what he needed most. His impulses reached from getting far away from this place to just get it over with and tell all of them, until he found a reasonable middle-ground he hoped Schneider would agree with. Again their eyes found each other. “I need to go on like I have before. Nothing can ever change.” He straightened his back while he sat up. He turned his head and he looked at the door again. “So Paul needs to get better. And then I can go back to my old rhythm.” Richard knew Schneider would understand.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” the drummer asked.

He couldn't have what he truly wanted. So he chose the next best thing. “Yes.” He needed distance as soon as Paul was stable enough, so he could heal in self-chosen solitude.

The way Schneider exhaled signaled that he didn't think this was a great idea. He sat up as well. “Okay,” he said, showing he supported his friend anyway. Maybe even more so. “But if you want to change your mind, you can count on me. You know that, right?”

He felt an intense stare from the side. And although he had no idea why he would ever change it, he nodded.

“And if it is too much, you come to me, too. Promise me.”

He nodded again.

“You don't have to say anything. Just come to me.”

Before he could think twice about it, he leaned to the side and wrapped his arms around Christoph as tight as he could. Second later he was held by strong arms himself. “Thank you!” he whispered and felt the hug grow even tighter.

Schneider waited until Richard was ready to let go. Then he took the cardigan and slowly got out of the bed. “I'll put this in the laundry before it raises any questions,” he said. A hidden statement that he was willing to make sure that Richard's secret would be safe with him. That he would look out for him. “Care to take a walk along the dyke with me later? I bet it would make you feel better.”

Richard looked up at him. The drummer winked at him and he realized Schneider had lied to Till earlier. This was a smart way to keep him company and get him out of this room without destroying the lie. He wished Schneider wouldn't have to do this at all. It all was messy indeed.

“I'd like that,” he replied and tried to smile. “Half an hour?”

“Sure.” The drummer smiled back at him with so much warmth that it melted Richard's doubts that this might be too much for his friend. Maybe he underestimated him.

He watched Schneider walk to the door, put the key back into the lock and leave the room quietly.

For quite some time Richard sat there and just kept breathing. He thought about what had just happened. Tried to realize what it meant. Came to the conclusion that he couldn't at this point. Time would have to tell.

Eventually he got out of bed, switched off the lights and made his way to the door. His hand rested on the handle and he hesitated. He took a deep breath before he pressed it down. The hallway was empty. The soft sound of Flake playing piano on his keyboard traveled from the living room to his ears. He could hear Till sing along as well. It was strange how at the same time everything could be comfortably familiar and scarily new all at once.
One day at a time, he thought. Then he went for a shower.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter 31: Repair

Swathed in warm clothes and with the sun on their backs they had been walking along the dyke. Rime clung to the grass blades that still slept in the shadows. Each word was accompanied by a small visible cloud rising from the lips and hastily mending with the air around them. Sharp little stones crunched under their shoes in the otherwise quiet nature. Everything around them seemed to remain dormant to give both men the privacy they needed.

“Hier. Lieblingsfrühstück nur für dich,” Schneider had greeted him earlier in the empty kitchen, two thermoses in hand and ready to go. “Kippchen und Käffchen.” - Here. Favorite breakfast just for you. Ciggy and coffee.

Now Richard's eyes observed how everything he did seemed to leave a short trace. The steam rising from his beverage, the smoke rising from the cigarette, the condensing syllables. Next to them the water was on its quiet journey and above them transparent clouds hurried by. Watching the world around him shift and fade fade made it so much harder to realize that this new reality, the one where Schneider knew about his secret, was going to stay.

They didn't talk about Paul for the most part. Neither of them dared to. Richard needed to see that, at least in a way, nothing had changed. Christoph seemed to notice. Or he, too, needed time to realize the dimensions of it all. Richard didn't know. He was glad either way that all they did was talk about their families, as different as they were. Most of the time their children. The beautiful moments, the small problems, the huge responsibilities. The mistakes and the self-blame. How to forgive oneself. Schneider's hopes of maybe have another child. They could so easily dive into that whole topic. And it helped them both to just talk to each other. Talk without the uneasiness and hesitation that had held them back earlier.

So they walked along the dyke, further away from the farmyard and further away from Wittenberge, before after more than an hour they decided that it was time to head back. They had come across a few houses at one point, and had turned around when they had almost reached another village. It was a blessing that for the whole time no other soul was crossing their way. Richard felt how much he needed this kind of intimacy between Schneider and him to slowly open up again. To feel safe despite now being so vulnerable to him. One wrong word and Schneider would be able to destroy his life. Instead he was saving it, it seemed.

So, when the farmyard came into view in the distance, it surprised both men that it was Richard who finally changed the subject. “Paul will be back this afternoon.”

The sun was dazzling him when he tried to look at Schneider.

“Yes,” the drummer said, before he just kept walking for a moment while thinking about what to reply. “How do you feel about that?”

Part of him couldn't wait to see the other guitarist again. It was the part he wished he could get rid of. He shrugged his shoulders. Instead of answering he pulled out his cigarettes and lit himself one. Schneider would read this as a sign of nervousness and he would be right about it.

“Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?” the drummer tilted his head a little.

Richard shook his head and stared at the glistening waves of the Elbe. He tasted the smoke on his tongue before he blew it out of his nostrils. “I guess as long as we're here this isn't going to get any easier.” He'd gone through every possible scenario in his head but none seemed more appealing than the next. “Let's just help him get better. Anything he needs.” Their eyes met. “I'll get through this. And the sooner I can go back to Berlin, the better.”

Schneider didn't say anything. He just averted his gaze and stared into the distance for a while. Richard could tell that the drummer still didn't like the approach.

“After finding you like that this morning,” Schneider obviously seemed to look for the right choice of words, “I have to ask: What, if he wants to sleep in your bed again?”

“Then I will let him.”

“I'm sure we could make him sleep in someone else's company without making anyone suspicious.”

Richard knew Schneider wanted to help. Yet the thought alone was painful. Despite the fact that the whole situation was hurting him, he wasn't ready to let go. Not so soon. Not so suddenly. Maybe he should. But he couldn't.

“I can handle it.” He nodded to himself before taking another long drag. “He needs to choose what helps him the most.”

Schneider let out a resigned sigh. They kept walking side by side for a moment.

“I hate it when you're in that self-destructive mode,” the drummer muttered eventually.

“I know,” Richard whispered. He hated knowing that Schneider was stuck in the position of wanting to help him. And he hated that Schneider was right.

“Don't worry.” Christoph's voice was warm and soft. “I'll get you out of it. Whenever you're ready. I'm patient.” Then the drummer smiled to himself, the expression on his face so content that it erased all doubts on Richard's mind. It was a messy situation for sure. But he wasn't alone anymore.

~~~~

When they returned, the atmosphere was taut among the band members. They knew that right now, about eight-hundred kilometers away, Paul might be facing one or more of the people who had attacked him that night. It didn't matter that they weren't at his side. It was like they could feel his tension anyway.

The lie of Richard missing the flight because he hadn't felt good enough this morning had worked well. No one had asked him about it. Instead he was given a fresh tea by Till. The band was unable to work. None of them could concentrate. Their thoughts were with Paul, hoping he would get through this day somehow.

They had decided for the kitchen as their center. Olli had already started with the preparations for their dinner, while Till had decided to bake. He explained it with wanting to do something for those among them with a sweet tooth. Truth was that he just needed something to entertain his mind without having to leave the room and distract himself from all the worries in his head.

A short message from Theo was all they had gotten to know that both Paul and Theo had arrived at the police station earlier. Paul himself hadn't called or texted once. They tried not to feel offended by it, knowing that Paul probably had a lot on his mind at the moment. Still, a small sign of life would have been appreciated. Mainly because of how the call last night had ended. Abrupt. Without a goodbye or goodnight.

They kept themselves occupied while they waited. Sometimes one of them would leave the room to go and clean a bathroom or take out the ash from the fireplace. Sometimes someone would have a smoke and pace around the courtyard or even go into the garden and get some fresh apples. Till eventually took a scrubbing brush and a watering can and got rid of the last remains of the rooster.

But no matter what they did, time seemed to pass slower by the minute.

~~~

Richard volunteered to take care of the laundry and stuffed the washed clothes into the dryer. While adding the detergent and starting the next round of laundry, in his mind he went through all the items he'd had in his hands. Then his eyes went to the few pieces that didn't fit into the washing machine anymore. Thoughtfully he lay his head to the side for a moment.

Then he shook his head and turned to the door of the small room. After all there were clothes of six people and it was easy to overlook a single item. Especially since most of them were black. Still he missed one of his favorite shirts for at least three days now. It was probably in the dryer. He would have to check later.

~~~

Again it was Theo who called them. It was around noon when he told them that both Paul and he were back in the hotel and that they would be on their way to the airport soon. He called them while Paul was in the bathroom, probably so that he wouldn't hear every word. He told them that Paul had been reticent ever since last night. That he had tried to have breakfast but now refused to eat dinner. They told him that he shouldn't worry and that they would take care of it once Paul was back with them.

He kept the call short and efficient and yet they could clearly hear how drained he was. Right after they'd hung up, Till decided he would drive to the airport later and pick up Paul himself. He didn't want someone this tired to drive all the way out here and then back to Berlin. And he didn't want to order additional security staff on such short notice either.

Richard was about to voice that he would like to come with him, but his eyes met Schneider's, before the words left his lips. He hesitated and then closed his mouth again. Maybe it would be wiser to stay here. For his own good.

“I'd like to come with you,” Olli said.

Till nodded immediately.

Richard's heart sunk as he realized that Schneider knowing about his secret made a difference. The drummer seemed to be confused as well. Interpreting his expression it was as if he had expected Richard to join Till. Now he seemed to understand that he shouldn't have looked at the guitarist in the first place. That Richard was so sensitive that this simple gesture had stopped him. He apologized with only his eyes.

~~~

They had dinner together soon after the call. They all felt relieved that the line-up was behind Paul. That he would be back soon. They also were irritated that Paul didn't call them himself. But after the events of last night they were almost sure that their rhythm guitarist had reached his limits and was barely hanging on. He would need rest once he returned. And they would make sure he would get all the rest he needed. Still, it would have been nice to hear his voice. It would have made it easier to estimate in what state he was in.

Again Richard blamed himself for not being able to have taken that flight. He had to fight another wave of feeling selfish. He eased the pain by reasoning with himself that he at least wouldn't sit in the car later, which, if he was honest, he would have done most of all out of selfish reasons just to be close to Paul again. He sighed quietly and forced down the food. Everything would be easier if he wouldn't overthink everything.

~~~

“Do you have any idea why?!”

Till was standing in the hallway. Fully dressed, Paul's car keys in one hand and his other holding his phone against his ear.

Olli stood at the door, about to press down the handle and leave the house. His eyes expectantly watched the singer.

Next to him the rifle case leaned against the wall and waited to be placed in the trunk and brought back to Berlin.

“---”

Richard leaned against the banister and tried to analyze who had been calling Till. It didn't help that the singer only occasionally nodded or let out a small “Hm.”

Schneider, who wanted to say goodbye to his two friends before they would drive to the airport, sat down on one of the stairs instead and listened as well. Flake joined them from the kitchen and came to a halt in the doorframe, where he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Have you tried?”

“---”

“Yeah, okay, you're right.” Till combed his fingers through his hair, forgetting he still had his finger in the key ring. A strand got stuck in the ring and he yanked it free absentmindedly, pulling out a few hairs in the process.

“---”

“You're not alone. It's frustrating for us as well.”

Richard's eyes followed Till's hand. Saw how the car key was placed on the sideboard again before strong fingers blindly searched for the zipper of the jacket and pulled it open.

“---”

Olli let go of the door handle and pulled his brows together.

Richard's gaze met Schneider's.

Flake shifted his weight to his other leg.

“Did he say for how long?”

“---”

“So maybe ...” Till nodded as the person on the other end seemed to continue the sentence.

The singer quietly closed his eyes and shook his head, took a deep breath and then straightened his back. “Just in case it's not clear yet: Do whatever is needed. We bear the expenses. Don't worry. I'll talk to our management immediately so they'll have your back.” Till's eyes found Flake's. The keyboarder looked concerned. By now it was clear the call had to do with Paul. “Is there anything you need right now?”

“---”

“Violation of human rights, I'd say, but not a bad idea otherwise.” He gave a short helpless laugh.

“---”

“Okay, thank you so much! Don't hesitate to call again.”

“---”

“Bye.”

A thumb ended the call, before the fingers curled around the device. Then the other hand balled into a fist and connected with the wall with a loud bang.

The other four band members waited patiently until Till would stop angrily breathing through his nose. Until he would stop clenching his jaw. Until he would drop his fist and open his eyes again. It took a long thirty seconds.

“He's back at the police station,” the singer said.

“Did something happen?” Richard was the first to ask while his mind instantly prepared for bad news.

To his relief Till shook his head. “No,” he replied, “Or, at least nothing happened to him.” He started to get out of his jacket and boots while he kept explaining. Olli understood the message and did the same. “They were already at the airport. Then, all of a sudden, Paul just stated that he had to go back, seemed to be completely in a tunnel and ordered a taxi to get back to the police station. Theo tried to get more out of him, but Paul didn't say anything to him. He just told him to wait.”

“Why?” Flake wanted to know.

Till placed his boots against the wall, got into his slippers and turned to face the keyboarder before he shrugged helplessly. “He didn't say.”

“Maybe he forgot to tell them something,” Schneider mused, “That would be a good thing.”

Richard nodded. That would indeed be good. But he was worried because of everything else.

“Why the wall?” Olli asked and pointed at the spot where Till had punched it with his fist.

The singer took another deep breath. Then he cocked his head to the side. “Because,” he started meaningful, “I'm fed up with him not communicating.” His huge hands underlined every sentence. “I know I should be patient, and trust me, I try! But he isn't here right now, so I'm just saying it: It pisses me off that right now,” he tipped with his index finger onto the open palm of his other hand and stared at Olli with an intense glare, “No one knows what's going on, for how long he will stay there, when another flight should be booked, if he has done that already without telling anyone, when he wants to fly, if they need to stay in Vienna for another night, who should book a hotel room, when he plans to be back here, if Theo needs assistance after all. He doesn't care if Theo has plans with his family or if he simply needs a fucking break after the stunt yesterday. He doesn't care if we are worried. He doesn't answer any calls or messages. Not even those of his own family! If it weren't for Theo we would be completely oblivious!” He turned to look at Schneider and Richard. “It's going on like this for weeks now. Traumatized or not, this is irresponsible!”

“He tries,” Richard defended Paul before thinking twice about it. “Believe me, he tries. He tries to talk and he tries to move forward.”

“Doesn't look like it,” Till replied, “At least the talking part.”

“Maybe he would have talked to Richard if he had been able to fly this morning,” Olli mused, “He gets him to open up towards him.”

“Good for Richard then,” Till said in a sarcastic tone, “Bad luck that he couldn't fly.”

They didn't mean to hurt him. Richard knew that. And they couldn't know better. But right now, after last night's call and this morning's reveal, he couldn't take any more stress. So he just straightened up without another word, pushed himself past Till and Olli and ripped open the front door to get outside. He didn't mean to slam the door shut behind him, but he couldn't care less.

Routine brought a cigarette to his lips and he inhaled greedily to have that calming effect. His feet carried him out of the shadow until he could stand in the warming sunlight.

Behind him the door was opened. He didn't turn around. Just by the sound of the footsteps he could tell it was Till.

“What did I say?!”

He was right. It was him. He decided not to respond.

“Hey, I'm talking to you.”

He blew out the smoke and stared at the cobblestones in front of him. “Nothing,” he answered, hoping that Till would know him well enough to understand that he didn't want to talk. His mind wanted to process the fact that for God knows what reason Paul was back at the police station.

More footsteps behind him. He didn't turn around, to see who it was.

“Great!” Till sighed. “The next one not talking.”

“Leave him alone.” It was Schneider.

Richard just kept smoking. He felt the anger boil inside him.

“Is it because I think you should've been on your way to Vienna by now?” Till's voice was close now. He seemed to stand right behind him. “You had a ticket. You seem fine.”

“Yeah, now,” the drummer replied for Richard and walked closer as well. “He wasn't earlier. Or would you have liked it if he'd thrown up on the plane?! Would have made a good headline for sure.”

Although he knew Schneider was protecting him, it just added more pressure hearing one friend lie to the other just to keep the big secret.

“Of course not,” Till replied with a certain layer of impatience in his voice, “But it feels like he didn't even really try.”

“Oh fuck you!” Richard quietly mouthed and walked a few meters away to keep himself from doing anything stupid. He understood Till's frustration. They all, each in their individual way, had reached their low point. And usually they could talk to each other openly without taking it too much to heart. Usually he could deal with such a remark easily. Especially since he knew Till better than most and understood how he meant it.

But not today.

“That's not fair,” Schneider said in a strict tone.

There was a short moment of silence behind him and Richard wondered if the other two were staring at each other or at him.

“Fine,” the singer mumbled eventually, “You're right, it wasn't. But why is he---,” Till cut himself off and walked a little closer to Richard to address him directly, “Why are you defending this behavior?! We came here because Paul shutting himself off constantly had to stop.” He came to a halt in front of him and their eyes met. “You wanted him to talk as well! We had the same goal. And now you want to tell me that he tries even though aside from last night the only person we could talk to was Theo.” The glare got more and more intense. Richard knew Till didn't intend to. It was just how his face worked. “You can't seriously mean that! How is that trying?! And I don't mean the day at the climbing tower or one of our rehearsals here. I mean the hard moments. Like the day he went to the neighbor's house for example.”

“He called. And he did so yesterday. And the day before.”

“Yeah. You.”

“I wonder how that came to be... ,” Richard answered in a sarcastic tone, knowing that Till would understand what he was hinting at.

“I know it comes with the role we've asked you to take,” the singer replied, showing that he'd understood. “I just hoped that we would have moved further than that by now.”

“So we're basically arguing about your impatience?” the guitarist asked with a raised brow. “Fuck the setbacks. Those were your words, if I may remind you.” Basically they were on the same page. They all wanted the situation to get better. He just couldn't take it that Till thought he'd have it somewhat better than the rest of the band.

“I wouldn't mind setbacks,” Till muttered, sounding slightly resigned, “But some kind of real improvement would be nice.”

Richard couldn't believe it. Deep down he knew that Till didn't say this to hurt him. This was probably a mixture of his own impatience, his helplessness, and the crushing pressure of responsibility towards all their employees and fans alike. The time was running, and it was running fast. What if a situation like this would happen on tour. What if because of an unforeseeable reason they would have to be on stage with only five men? It wouldn't even work. They wouldn't be able to explain this. They wouldn't be able to do their job while worrying about their sixth man. Would Paul still only call him, if anyone? He couldn't go down that path of possibilities in his head. It was making him nauseous. “Do you think this is fun for me?” he said before he could stop himself. Maybe the rising fear had been the last straw. “It is fucking exhausting! He doesn't answer my calls or messages either, by the way. It's silence and questions for me, too. And then, out of nowhere,” he clicked his fingers in the air, “he suddenly needs something and I have to be there. And it is never a Hi, how are you? I just want to chat. There's always a problem. He's always ready to just hang up or leave the room. One wrong word and he would cut the conversation short. Yes, Till, I'm so fucking lucky he's talking to me.” He could see the change in the singer's face. The anger faded and regret took its place. “And I'm sorry I didn't feel well this morning. I wish I could have taken that flight. But believe me when I say that this isn't a picnic for me either!” He wished he could stop himself. He should, he knew. Yet the self-protection mechanism in him decided to rather hurt someone else and push them away than to give them the chance to get closer and hurt him instead. “Oh, just so you know: He wanted to tell me he was going to fly a day early. I might have had the chance to come with him that day. But some genius decided to shoot an animal right over there,” he pointed at the spot where the rooster had died, “and ruined that option for me. Maybe that genius would like a chance to talk to Paul next time there's a problem, a fear to overcome?” Now he was the one glaring at Till. “Don't talk to me about bad luck when it comes to talking to Paul, okay?! It's a little more complicated than that.”

“What do you want to hear from me, hm?!” the singer defended himself with a broad gesture. “I'm sorry! I'm really sorry about the rooster!”

“And I'm sorry I can't make him talk as fast as you want me to!” Richard shot back.

“Stop it!” It was Flake. His voice was strong and loud, which it usually wasn't. “Both of you!” The keyboarder walked closer with a determined look on his face that he reserved for rare occasions. “No more arguing! We want the same thing, remember? Take some time to cool off if you have to! But I don't want Paul to come home to you two bickering!”

Till and Richard stared at each other without another word. They knew Flake was right and they knew how much he hated this kind of conflict. None of them dared to go on, but they couldn't let go either.

It was Richard who first that came to the conclusion that a little distance was the only thing helping him right now. He turned and walked away.

~~~

He had decided to sit down in the spot Paul had occupied the day after they had done the photo shoot on the bridge. The spot on the fence on the far end of the garden. Today the cows were back again on the pasture. A little further away there were sheep on another pasture as well. He just sat there and observed the animals for a moment. Listened to them grazing and communicating with each other every now and then. One of the sheep was standing apart from the others. He wondered if the flock had the same problem as the band.

He remembered how Paul had sat here, unable to say the simplest things without being pressured to. And even then it was hard work to find out what he needed and what might help him. How the smaller man had punched on the wooden fence due to his frustration over his own lack of words.

He wondered if maybe Till, at least in parts, was right.

He knew Paul tried. He was convinced of it. But Richard wondered if he could have done more to help Paul. Maybe he could have if he wouldn't have to carry round his own feelings for the other guitarist? Was this holding him back?

He pondered over it for a while without coming to a conclusion.

When he returned to the house and the others, Till apologized to him in front of all of them. The singer chose heartfelt words and it didn't take more than two sentences before everything was forgiven.