This is actually a Rammstein fic, I didn't know what to categorize it as, sorry. Paul is cold, and Richard is tired. Fluff.
After several weeks of being stuck on the cramped bus near constantly, it was wonderful to stretch out in a hotel room. We were currently staying in particularly luxurious suites, courtesy of a string of sell-out shows. However, we still couldn't exactly afford six separate rooms, so we had to divide into pairs. Till and Flake immediately darted off together, and I shuddered at the thought of the activities the night held for them. Olli and Schneider took the next room, obviously craving the tranquility that only two such quiet people could attain in the same space. Which meant I was stuck with Paul. Scheisse. I had wanted to spend this night relaxing, escaping from the hustle and bustle of touring. But I ended up rooming with the human equivalent of the Duracell bunny. On speed.
Thankfully, Paul had disappeared to the hotel bar almost instantaneously after dropping his bag, which meant I had the immense suite to myself. We didn't have a show that night, so I was afforded the luxury of having plenty of time to unwind. Well, I had until my diminutive roommate reappeared, possibly with several women in tow, and definitely inebriated. I sighed as I unlaced my boots, tired fingers struggling with the laces. I kicked them off, and fell back onto the cold bed I was forced to occupy as Paul had immediately pounced on the one next to the radiator. Asshole. I briefly considered just crawling under the covers as I was and falling into a happy oblivion, but after only having five minutes to shower in grubby venue showers recently, my vanity was beginning to get the better of me and I dragged myself from the comfortable matteress to run a bath.
The bathroom was huge, comically so, and a large clawed tub sat in the middle. How elegant. I flicked the hot tap on, the soft roar of the water soothing my ears after many nights of Till's growling vocals and Olli's bass pounding my eardrums. I poured all of the little vials on the tub's edge into the bath, a veritable mountain of foam growing before my eyes. I cooled the water slightly, undressed, and stepped in, the still-scalding water swirling around my ankles, flushing them scarlet. Heaven. I slid down into the water, hissing quietly as the burning heat slid across my skin, but I quickly acclimated and let the warmth protect me from the biting chill of the air and sooth my aching muscles. I may have scoffed at the size of the tub before, but now I was grateful, as I'm not as such a short man, and most tubs necessitate me folding my legs uncomfortably in order to fit.
I lay in my cosy cocoon until the bubbles had dissolved into fading scum and I had begun to shiver in the cooling water. I hauled myself out, and grabbed the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. Soft and fluffy, I made a mental note to persuade our manager to let us stay in hotels much more often. I padded back into the main room, flopped down into a padded armchair, and switched on the TV. Some loud American talk show was on. I let the meaningless chatter lull me into a gentle snooze. I was content as could be.
Sadly, my peaceful little bubble was violently burst as an intoxicated bundle of energy and noise slammed against the door, and failed multiple times at opening it, before stumbling in. Paul had a deluded grin etched across his face, and was giggling as he drunkenly slapped a finger to his lips, shushing himself. Until he realised I was not in bed.
“Reechart! You shpoilsport bastard, you mished all the fun!”, he slurred, faltering over in my general direction. Christ, he was only gone for about four hours and he was trashed beyond belief. Groggy and disoriented from my nap, I was not in the mood for him sober, never mind his current state.
“Paul, please go away. I'm tired.” I yawned and stretched, as if to prove my point. He was not, however, sympathetic to my plight.
“You're always tired. And boring. You're boooooooring, Reesh.” he laughed away to himself, the joke lost on my unaddled mind. He wandered into the bathroom. I got up, dragged some underwear on, and threw myself onto my bed, and wedged myself beneath the frigid covers (damn winter touring, at least it was slightly warmer than the bus), and tried to block out the loud, irritating presence. It worked, and finally I heard the light click off and bedsprings groaning slightly under the addition of an insubstantial weight. I curled up, toes cold, and tried to sleep. My efforts proved futile however, and I was left staring at the ceiling, listening to Paul's soft snores and bouts of incoherent muttering. I rolled onto my side to look at him.
The light spilling in through the unclosed curtains from the streetlights outside illuminated the room enough to see, without being obtrusive. In the glow, I could see his soft expression, eyes lightly closed, lips parted ever so slightly. He looked childlike, adorable even. My mind wandered back to days years ago, days before this band, days before I was married. Days when I didn't have to feel guilty for every lingering glace, every blush induced by physical contact, every lonely explosion of pleasure with his name on my lips. Yes, as much the shortarse ground on my nerves, as much as we fought over riffs and hooks, as much as I wanted to punch his lights out on regular occasion, I had a rather large soft spot for him still. It started the day we met, and had slowly been beaten back over the years, by seeing every new female companion, every proclamation of how good a friend I was, and every stark realisation that Paul's straightness could put a ruler to unending shame. Yet it never went away, an annoying little niggle in the back of my mind. Much like Paul himself, really.
His face suddenly contorted and he twitched, nonsense spilling from his mouth. I smiled to myself in the semi-light. He was dreaming. How cute. I rolled over again, sleep finally beginning to tug my eyelids down and blurring my thoughts. I slipped into dreams of my own, filled with the other guitarist. Innocent dreams, might I add. I was finally sliding into restful sleep, when I felt a hand on my shoulder, gently but insistently shaking me awake. All fondness was suddenly thrown out the window and replaced with thoughts of murder when Paul's face appeared in my line of sight.
“Paul, I'm exhausted, it's the middle of the night, what the fuck do you want?” Hurt flashed across his eyes, but at that moment I really didn't care.
“You're beside a radiator. Go to sleep and leave me alone.” I tried to keep my front of anger, but his breath was hot on my face and his pleading expression was boring into my soul.
“It's not working. Reesh please do something. I'm really, really cold. It's horrible. I'm going to get pneumonia and die.” He'd obviously sobered up a bit already, as his ability to send people on awful guilt trips and use words such pneumonia had returned. I sighed, realising that it would be easier to comply with Paul's stupid demands than to fight them.
“What do you want me to do about it?” His eyes lit up.
“Wha-?” I could only manage half a syllable before he had swung the covers up into the air, letting an icy draft attack my unclothed torso, and dived in beside me. He wasn't kidding about being cold. It was as if an iceberg had decided to invade my bed.
“Paul, what the actual fuck?” I spluttered. My discomfort was clearly amusing him, and he chose to ignore my vulgar question.
“Mmm, Richard, you're so warm. Maybe I won't die prematurely now.” He giggled to himself. How could he laugh in a situation like this?! My mind was doing gymnastics. The object of a over a decade's affections was occupying my bed. Paul. Was in. My bed. His head was pressed against my chest, his hair itching and his warm breath tickling my stomach. I could smell his shampoo. An era of buried desires were quickly resurfacing, and manifesting themselves in a rather embarrassing manner. I swore mentally, and rolled over quickly, which resulted in Paul laughing at me yet again.
“Shut up laughing, or I'll throw you out and you can freeze solid for all I care.” I was embarrassed and panicked more than irritated, but thankfully he didn't seem to notice. He just whispered an apology and lay on his back silently. I felt somewhat bad then. He was really cold. Maybe he was lonely too. His girlfriend had recently decided that his lack of presence in Berlin and stories of his promiscuity were too much for her. At least I knew Caron and Khira were at home waiting for me. I sighed for the umpteenth time and turned over to look at him again. To my surprise, he was also laying on his side now, which meant his face was inches from mine. I felt my breath catch in my throat as I looked into his cool blue eyes. There was in indescribable emotion in them. I threw my arm around him, and pulled him close. I felt him relax as he cuddled closer, forehead pressed into the curve of my neck.
“Better?” I whispered. I felt him smile as he slid a glacial hand over my side to curl around my hip. I closed my eyes, late-night daydreams of holding him like this forever lulling my weary mind into the best sleep I've had in years.
I just needed to get this out of my head because I have horrific writer's block. It kinda sucks, I know. R&R anyway? xo