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Hotel Le Meurice, Paris
26th June 2019 9:39 pm
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The carved oak door clicks shut and echoes in the nondescript hotel room that is suffering from an overdose of beige. The air is still and sounds are hushed.
"Thanks for coming, Paul."
"No problem. There's only so much French dubbed TV and Rammstein guitar covers on Youtube that one can watch in a day."
(And honestly, being alone in that room is driving me insane, knowing you're just across the corridor.)
Richard gets up from the window sill where he'd been sitting - possibly staring at the top of the illuminated Eiffel Tower which is barely visible from between buildings - though only if your cheek is pressed tightly against the glass at the corner, and your face is tilted just correctly.
"I still don't get why you watch those clips - it's like being a famous chef and spending your free time watching videos of others trying to do your signature dish. But they never get it just right, they just don't have the touch. Edible - yes, as good as yours - not even close."
"Nice analogue, Richard… Yes, I'm guilty, sometimes I need to benchmark myself and my skills to see if I've still got it. Maybe I like to torture myself, too. And they're not all bad, some of them are actually quite good and creative."
(But I really think they're lacking the right co-chef. The one and only.)
He nods as he understands and approves.
"But at least I'm not reading fanfics, like some of us…"
(Saw my wink? And a confession - actually I do too, at times. But let's keep the illusion alive. I do enjoy teasing you about it, and to see you blush because of it.)
Richard laughs and shakes his head affectionately, stepping closer before stopping maybe two meters away.
"You do love to tease me about it."
(Bingo. Aaand your ears are getting red and that smirk is adorable. I often wonder - what's your favourite pairing?)
"C'mon, you know how I need to know what people think. I need validation. It's flattering. And entertaining. And always available on my phone."
(Whatever floats your boat, if you like being tortured and being the troubled one - go ahead. Actually, who am I even to judge. I wish I could convince you of how perfect you are. Look at you, standing there in your shorts and Ramones T-shirt, hair cute and dented from wearing a hat all day. And you look stunning.)
Looking at his toes, Richard shuffles his feet, then looks up again.
(Actually the hair doesn't even look that bad, but yes - I will dye it for you.)
"Richard, you're relevant, also today. So, the hair..."
"Oh. Yes. I have everything set up in the bathroom, I even got some Vaseline ready this time. "
He smiles as he motions towards the bathroom door with his hand.
(Vaseline? Ready? Wait…)
"Why do you look so shocked? Don't want to rub my hairline and ears raw with the nail polish remover like I did last time, when Schneider made a mess."
(Oh. Okay.)
"And this time I'm gonna make sure I won't leave the container behind. Do you know how annoying it is trying to buy that stuff in a foreign country? I had Olli with me today, and the pharmacist kept lecturing us in her Frenglish that Vaseline is not good for condoms."
"Reasonable advice, you need to go bare then. Shall we get started?"
(See my poker face, Reesh.)
"Wait. The hair? Yeah, let's do it. I'll just get this shirt off first."
Richard throws his phone on the bed, and in a fluid movement, he reaches for the back of his collar.
(Be casual, look away.)
(Maybe just a little peek. Damn. Still looking mighty fine at 52. Your upper body 641 - my head 0. I lose another round again.)
"Hey, you coming?"
(In my pants - almost. Hahahaaaa.)
"Paul, what are you smirking about?"
(Dirty things.)
"Nothing."
The hotel bathroom is another triumph of sandstone beige, bathing in almost hostile LED light. Richard leans over the sink and splashes water on his head. Small droplets form at the ends of his hair.
(Hypnotised by Trapezius. Stop staring like a creep.)
"So, any plans for tomorrow? I was thinking of a photography exhibition, maybe - once we're done with the meeting. Olli was interested too, so you could join us..."
(Please say yes.)
"Dunno. Maybe."
Richard closes the weird French faucets, gives his head one last shake, and sits down. Those droplets run down his neck and shoulders in small rivulets.
"Let me give you a towel dry first."
(Levator scapulae, Latissimus dorsi. I want to label all your muscles, one by one. Shit. I need to distract myself. Towels. So many towels to choose from.)
"Use that black one."
Richard points blindly towards a worn, black towel hanging off the shower door handle.
"That's so considerate of you to bring your own towel for your hair."
"My conscience couldn't handle the mountain of white hotel towels that I've ruined over the years with hair dye. So yes."
Richard looks into the mirror, eyes meeting.
"Richard, you're getting…
(Old. Lovely. Irresistible. Handsome. Domestic. Grey.)
"...soft."
He's laughing now. Face adorably scrunched, mouth wide open, head tilted back.
"Not exactly what I had in mind, but yeah. You know how they say the harder the music, the softer the guys."
"Sounds like a laundry detergent or fabric softener commercial. There, all ready and towel-dried."
(If you just knew how I love running my fingers through your hair. And the way you lean in, almost butting your head into my hands, like a cat claiming ownership. Of me.)
"Is this scalp massage a new addition to the service?"
(Ha. Cheeky. Focus now.)
"What can I do for you today, Sir? A little trim and some highlights, maybe?"
(So many things I'd like to do, if you’d just let me.)
Richard snorts. Lifting his hand, he combs through the black locks. He observes himself in the mirror, pondering for a while, eyes sparkling mischievously.
"Bald. I could go bald."
"Nooo."
(Dear God, NO.)
"Think of the fan reaction, Paul. It'd be priceless, you know!"
"Now you're just evil. Ok. How about some jet black to highlight those blue eyes."
(The most beautiful blue eyes .)
"Did you read my mind?"
(I truly hope you didn't read mine.. .)
"Sometimes I really wish I could. Then I’d go on a field trip into your head, and really learn how your mind works."
"You sure? It would be such a depressing and dull experience."
(Never.)
"Yes . You're a fascinating person. Even after 25 years of knowing you, there are still things I'd love to learn. Mysteries to solve."
"You make me sound like a weird detective novel. Hey, let's not forget this."
Richard picks up a tube of Vaseline and holds it up.
"So, should I do it?"
(Please let me.)
"Yes."
Richard closes his eyes. He looks like he's meditating.
"So I just apply it to your hairline and ears?"
"Mmm."
(I guess that's a yes. Ok. Open the cap, remove the seal. Perfect. Squeeze a little dollop - this is surprisingly thick stuff.)
"Start with my forehead , you can stand between my legs."
(Why did you have to say that? Why is my heart beating so fast? It's not like I've never touched you before.)
"I need you to lift your chin up a bit. Perfect."
(Okay, here we go. Nice and easy. Steady hands. Your skin is so soft and smooth. Beautifully tanned, too. And warm, why are you a furnace?)
"You got quiet Paul. What are you thinking?"
(How to calm my breathing. And not to pop an inappropriate boner because you're holding onto my hips.)
"Nothing really, just concentrating. I don't want to make a mess and disappoint you."
(Lies lies lies.)
"Okay..."
(You know me too well. Honestly? My brain has been recently looping around theories and characteristics of passionate love. And how you tick all the boxes for me. I suffer from constant intrusive thoughts, idealization, strong desire to know and to be known, strong emotions, and an overpowering need for physical closeness.
Like how I press my leg against your thigh and it makes me feel grounded, but also hyped at the same time. Do you feel the tingle, too?)
"I think that's enough."
Richard grabs the tube, closes it, and tosses it on the countertop by the sink.
"Oh, you've even got those fancy, black gloves for me."
"Gotta guard your valuable hands."
(Awww.)
"Let me see the instructions. So, how does this work…?"
"Forget the instructions. First squeeze the tube into the bottle and shake, then apply, comb, let sit for 20-25 minutes, rinse. And it's not like you've never done this before."
"But that was ages ago, can't remember the details."
(Actually it was January 20th, around half past two in your upstairs bathroom. You had that red shirt, track pants with a tiny hole in the left inseam, and mismatched socks. It was raining outside, and I came to drop off the gloves that you accidentally left in my car. Afterwards we watched Hertha BSC beat FC Nürnberg 3-1, it was a fine night. I think I spent more time watching you than the game.)
"Okay, here we go."
Richard closes his eyes again, smiling a bit. He relaxes into the touch.
"You do have a few grey roots here."
"I know."
"I think you'd look great in your natural colour too."
"I don't. Well, maybe one day when we call it quits, I'll stop dying it. Or not."
(You'd be a beautiful silver fox, maybe with a moustache or a beard. Oh. That's a lovely image, two old, silver-haired men playing guitar in the garden of a beautiful house that we, yes we, own.
We would watch movies from our youth, talk about old memories. You could cook, if you had the energy, I could do the dishes. Or we could just hire a cleaning lady and order take-away.)
(Oh. Why are you staring at me so intensely?)
"All done? Paul, you're zoning again."
Richard stares into the mirror, eyes following the motion of the comb that stops abruptly.
"Just thinking how lucky and happy I am, we are, to be where we are, together."
(The band. And the two of us. Even if I can't have you all to myself. )
"Yeah."
Richard blinks slowly, reaches back with his hand, searching, then squeezes gently.
(What do you mean? You're sending mixed signals. Is this caressing? Comforting? Agreeing? Help me out.)
(You'll always have me.)
"What did you say?"
(You'll always have me.)
"Paul. Paul! You look pale…Paul, can you hear me? Wait! Shit! Don't faint…"
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La Défense Arena, Paris
28th June 2019 10:41 pm
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(Du kommen mit, ich dir machen gut.)
(Paul, your flirting is a bit creepy.)
(Du kommen mit, ich dir machen gut.)
(I'm flattered, but already regretting this thing, will I ever get a moment of peace and quiet from you?)
(Du kommen mit, ich dir machen gut.)
(Ok, Till's gone. Let's meet in the middle. How's your head coping after the fall?)
(Just a little bump, I'm fine, fine, fine…)
(Haha. I said meet me in the middle!)
(I wonder, what are your motives?)
(Agreed choreography.)
(Ouch Risch, that hurt. The pain gets harder with every step, I'm practically limping. I've got tears in my eyes…)
(You don't look too hurt with that smirk on your face.)
.
.
.
.
(Hi.)
(Hello.)
(Looking good, Mr. Kruspe.)
(Likewise, Landers.)
(So…)
(So what?)
(The outro is almost done. A kiss?)
(Needy.)
(Guilty as charged.)
(Well. You can choose…)
(Yes?)
(Instant gratification - a kiss now.)
(Or?)
(Delayed gratification - much more, but you have to wait for it.)
(The audience will be disappointed!)
(I know of someone else who won’t be.)
(...bye!)