Supernova

by Kate_kat

Summary:

The time is the late ‘80s. In Germany, some things are about to die, some others are about to be born.
When Paul meets Richard, it feels like the explosion of a Supernova.

Notes:

This is not exactly a story with a happy ending. This no fluff, no smut (or very little so). No pretense of historical or scientific accuracy either - even though, I admit, I put in some effort 😜. So, what else should I be? All apologies - especially to the Germans (for the setting) and to all Paulchard’s fans (for the plot choice).
If even one of you likes this shit, I’ll be happy.

Anyway, it feels so good to be back in this fandom 😍

Chapter 1: Prologue

 

 

Prologue 

 

 

 

 

Supernova

 

(More or less) official definition from the web: the extremely bright, super powerful, colossal explosion of a massive star. It’s the biggest explosion that humans have ever seen. It occurs when the pressure within the star’s core drops low enough and gravity suddenly takes over and the star collapses in just seconds, producing the explosion we call “supernova”. Supernovae are so powerful they create new atomic nuclei. 

 

More unofficial definition (also from the web): the “last hurrah” of a dying massive star.  

 

 

 

∼∼∼

 

 

 

Paul remembered exactly how it all had begun, under what circumstances his life had taken a sharp turn. It all boiled down to one word, basically – one name: Richard. 

From the moment Paul had met him, in fact, he had never been the same. Richard had changed his life; Richard had ruined his life – the line between the two things had never been so thin. 

Richard was so… - impossible to define. 

Arrogant, careless, selfish, shallow. 

But not only that. He was also complex and sometimes twisted and always awfully charming.  Someone you couldn’t just say no to (only Till, some time later, would manage to do it, but Till wasn’t just any guy).  

There hadn’t been a specific moment when Paul had started looking at Richard with different eyes, considering him more than just a friend first and a bandmate later, because… well, Richard had been more than that for Paul since the very beginning (although it would take Paul a while to realize that it was not the usual ephemeral crush, this time - that this thing, on the contrary, was going to stay with him for long). 

However, Paul had never expected his relationship with Richard to be as close and intimate as that between Richard and Till; he had never deluded himself that he could compete with Till for Richard’s heart - he knew it was a losing battle, and he was okay with that, or he thought he was. 

Paul and Richard only knew each other by sight in the late 1980s - at that time, they were both playing in their own bands, life seemed young and full of promises and the Wall was still standing between the DDR and the rest of the world. Paul had sometimes heard of that Kruspe guy – Scholle, as they used to call him back then. They both played guitar, and in a world where music was considered a waste of time for a bunch of rebels, frowned upon by the authorities, it was obvious that sooner or later they were bound to meet in person. 

 

 

When it occurred, it was like the explosion of a Supernova.

Chapter 2: Chapter I

Chapter I 

 

 

March 1989 

 

 

It happened in Spring - Paul met Richard for the first time in March. Richard was performing with his band somewhere around Berlin; Paul happened to be in the area with Flake and Aljoscha. 

It was Aljoscha - who always knew, at any given moment, who was performing, and when and where - who told them about the event. They were in Aljoscha’s car: he was driving, enveloped in a cloud of cigarette smoke; Paul was riding shotgun, rolling a joint for himself, his bare feet casually resting on the dashboard, and good old Flake was quietly reading a book in the backseat, taking no part in the conversation. 

Not that it was a real conversation, actually - more of a kind of monologue by Aljoscha. Paul was just pretending to listen and, from time to time, he jumped in with a non-committal “hmm-hmm”.  

Aljoscha was talking politics, of course. That was is favorite subject, lately - and also guaranteed to put him in a very bad mood every fucking time. Between mumbled words and angry puffs of smoke, he went through music stations on the radio, turning and pressing hectically the button like a freak - still, no music could ease his soul, apparently.

They had been wandering aimlessly for a good hour in Aljoscha’s car when, in the midst of an invective against Honecker, Aljoscha broke off and said: “I heard about some guys playing at a festival nearby. They call themselves Das elegante Chaos, I think. Let's drop by, shall we?”

Paul shrugged. “What a fucked-up name,” he giggled. 

Flake didn’t even bother to look up from his book, let alone give a reply. 

Aljoscha just turned the car around. 

 

So they went, since they had nothing better to do.

 

 

 

The festival was being held in the open countryside, in a sort of campsite in a godforsaken place far from the city, surrounded by muddy fields and rutted roads that simply ended in nowhere.

A tattered stage had been haphazardly arranged in the center of a clearing surrounded by scrub and trees, the wooden beams in plain sight, the acoustics terrible. A small group of people was already there, wavering around, guzzling one beer after another and chatting aloud. A cloud of tobacco smoke hovered above them in the still air, blurring the contours, giving the scene a slightly ghostly appearance that heavily clashed with the overall pumped-up atmosphere. Some jerry-rigged tables and benches were scattered around, far from the stage: people had brought some food, but especially drinks, and it all felt way cozier than any club downtown.

“Ahh, definitely nothing but good vibes here,” Aljoscha growled as he, Paul and Flake approached the area. “And what a good smell. And look at these beautiful people…” He  let his gaze wander around smugly. “God, that’s what I like.” He squinted at the small crowd, his gloomy mood vanishing almost instantly. “I got some work to do. Enjoy the evening, Kinder. Catch you later. Hey, Max!…” He stepped away to go exchange pats on the back with some stranger. 

“But… where you going?” Paul shouted, but too late: Aljoscha had already disappeared, cat-quick, into the crowd, leaving Paul and Flake to themselves. 

“Do you think that getting wasted is meant as a part of the work?" Paul grimaced and cast a glance around at the people gesturing and calling to each other from one side of the place to the other, making noise. 

Flake propped his glasses on his nose with one finger. “Can I have one of those?”, he asked, pointing to the cigarette Paul was holding unlit between his lips. He looked totally indifferent both to Paul’s question and Aljoscha’s mysterious business.

Paul drew one cig from his pocket and handed it to Flake. While he lighted it up, Paul couldn’t help but observe him closely: Flake’s shirt was definitely too wide for him and the way it hung from his narrow, bony shoulder made him look like a sort of stunned scarecrow.

“You’re awfully skinny, man. Have you been eating enough lately?”

Flake straightened up holding his lit cigarette in his hand. “As much as you do. Thanks.” 

Paul knew that meant: not that much. Weren’t they all used to eating less than they needed, after all? 

“I'll take a stroll around, okay? I need to stretch my legs,” Paul said, and waited for Flake to nod absentmindedly before wandering off.

As he did so, Paul saw, out of the corner of his eye, Flake dropping on the ground near to a plastic dumpster, pulling his book out of his pocket and resuming reading just as if nothing interesting were happening around him. 

With Aljoscha gone and Flake minding his own business, Paul was free to do as he pleased. He walked aimlessly among huddles of people chatting and laughing to each other while waiting for the concert to start. Apparently, the starting time had not been scheduled exactly. “It won’t be before sunset, anyway,” Paul heard someone say in the crowd and a thrill of excitement raced up his spine: he truly loved enjoying some good music under the stars, it added a unique flair to any show - like a true magic coming alive.

He glanced around, feeling in no hurry but at the same time eager to strike up a conversation with someone - anyone. In fact, it was simply impossible for a guy like Paul to stay too long in the only company of his own thoughts, without talking to someone else. Sometimes, he could not even stand still in one place for too long.

Just then he ran into a couple of guys, a little older than him judging by the look, who gladly engaged him in a conversation. They came from Rostock, they said - they had left home that very morning and hitchhiked all the way there. 

“Whoa, what a ride it must have been!” Paul said sympathetically. 

“Yeah. We listened to music and slept almost all the time,” they cackled. But their bloodshot eyes, circled with a delicate purple, spoke volumes about how they must have spent the rest of the time. 

One of the two boys handed Paul a beer, the other offered to lit the cigarette in his mouth. Paul accepted both, then they moved on to introductions. 

“Now you’re all ready and set to have fun, mate,” the one called Thomas said, giving Paul a big smile and patting him on the back.

“I really can’t wait,” Paul smiled back, taking a drag from his cig. 

“So… are you a fan of these guys, too?” the other boy, Hans, addressed Paul. “What’s your favorite song?”

“Hmm…well,” Paul hesitated. He didn’t want to admit that he actually knew not even one song of that band, so he decided to keep it vague. “I don’t really have a favorite song, but… They are not bad, I think…” 

“Not bad?!” Hans burst out laughing and turned to exchange an incredulous look with his friend. “I hope Scholle doesn’t hear that, seriously. He would jump down your throat for way less, Paul. He is very sensitive when it comes to judging his talent, you know?”

Scholle… that name did ring a bell, even though Paul was not sure why. But before he could ask for more info, the loudest roar surged from the crowd, drowning the conversation, and all heads turned in the same direction, so Paul realized that the band must have taken the stage. The lights all came on, barely flickering, and only then did Paul realize that it was getting dark, the sun long since set. 

“Come on, let’s move closer!” Hans screamed over the crowd and Paul followed him, elbowing his way up to the stage. 

There he paused and looked up, surrounded by the frenzied throng, and - bang! - he saw him. 

He saw Richard for the first time.

 

That’s when history began to be written. 

 

 

 

Back then, Richard did not have the aggressive look that he would adopt many years later - raven spiked hair, brick-red tan and skimpy stage clothes that enhanced the muscles of his body. No, Richard in his early twenties had long blond dreadlocks and a slim silhouette, and he used to play in front of the audience in nondescript knee-length pants and sneakers. 

Yet, he was hard to miss. Paul noticed him immediately - his gaze was drawn to him as soon as Richard stepped onto the rough wooden stage, dragging along his guitar. His figure exuded a contradictory yet moving mixture of arrogance and insecurity. The bravado of his gestures, of his gait, clashed with the ill-concealed shyness of some of his glances. Those big eyes of his, while stealthily scanning the audience, seemed to plead: “Love me. Love me, bitte.”

Looking back on that, years later, Paul would admit that what had intrigued him about Richard in the first place was that: the irremediable conflict between what Richard was, in his true self, and how he wanted to be seen by others. Paul couldn’t know, at the time, that  Richard’s inner contradiction, despite being part of his charm, could easily turn into a danger to those who got too close to him.  

As the band members took their places on the stage, each one of them next to his instrument, Paul had eyes only for the guitarist. His gaze followed, utterly fascinated, every meticulous gesture with which Richard slipped his guitar over his shoulder, adjusting it at hip level, and then the focused expression on his face as he plugged in the amp and made sure the microphone was working properly. The look Richard had for his guitar was one of pure love and absolute devotion - a look that, Paul would learn much later, Richard Z. Kruspe would never reserve for a human being (except maybe Till, sometimes, and only in their good days). That look clearly meant that the guitar - and music, more in general - was absolutely everything to him. 

The lights became brighter, spreading throughout the stage; the singer, after teasing the audience for a while, pumping them up, blew the first note of a song into the microphone, marking the beginning of the show. 

It took Paul only a few minutes to realize, despite the daze that still enveloped his mind, that this was no cheap band like so many others that flourished in East Berlin at the time; Das elegante chaos - or whatever the name was - lacked a little technique, perhaps, but certainly did not lack passion. 

Paul’s eyes swept over the band members, always falling back to the guitarist. In addition to his looks, Paul couldn't help but admire Richard’s skill as well: the kid rubbed the strings with a fiery energy that at times bordered on violence. At other times, however, his touch became softer, more delicate, making the instrument groan softly as if in gentle agony. The rhythm was overwhelming, and almost hypnotic was the way Richard’s whole body seemed to merge with his guitar, becoming one with it, moving with it, screaming along with it. 

It was obvious that the guy, just like Paul himself, deeply loved what he did. He lived for music, and music was his life. Paul had never seen someone put so much dedication and effort into a free performance like that, in front of scarce fifty people. 

You're not in this for money, you're here for the glory, aren’t you, he thought, watching as if hypnotized the boy's fingers fly over the strings as he bent over his guitar during the solo, brushing the instrument with his long hair.

“Here you are, Paulchen! I was looking for you!” Someone suddenly shouted in Paul’s ear over the music, causing him to flinch. 

Paul turned around and saw Aljoscha standing one step behind him. The man looked completely sloshed. “Please, give me that… I need it more than you do.”

So saying he snatched Paul’s beer, shoving a Spezi into his hand instead. Before Paul could say or do anything, Aljoscha threw one arm around Paul’s shoulders, holding him tightly, and raised his beer with the other arm, singing along with the crowd to the final riff. 

Paul had been so lost in the show - and in Richard - that he had completely forgotten about Aljoscha and hadn’t noticed how much time had passed. When he looked up, he saw the stars twinkling in the sky - a pitch darkness had fallen all around and the gig was about to end. 

When the last notes were played, welcomed by the howls of the audience, and the show was finally over, Paul turned to Aljoscha to say something… only to find himself alone again. Once again, in fact, Aljoscha was gone, as quickly as he had come, with one more beer in his belly - Paul hadn’t seen him slip away, but he was supposed to be used to Aljoscha’s quirks, by now… 

Suddenly, Paul felt lonely among the rowdy throng that was swarming across the place bandying enthusiastic comments and wild laughs. There was no one he knew in sight, no vaguely familiar faces, not even those of Tommy and Hans - they too seemed to have vanished somewhere after the show. 

Paul’s ears were still recovering from the loud music, a faint buzz filling them. Since he was also feeling a little dizzy, he just let himself be carried away from the stage by the river of people heading to the exit, putting up no resistance at all, until something caught his eye and made him stop abruptly in his tracks. 

Not something - someone.

The guitarist with the blond dreadlocks was only a few steps away from him. He was caught in a small group of enthusiastic people, smiling at them while they patted him on the back and shouted compliments in his ear, and his eyes sparkled with vivid joy. 

Still many years later, Paul couldn’t tell what had pushed him to make the first move. Truth be told, he had never been the shy type and Richard had immediately attracted him in some inexplicable way that Paul had never felt before, and that he could not resist. Musical affinity, he had naively thought, at first - before realizing he was wrong, oh so wrong. 

Paul stood by for long minutes, keeping an eye on Richard as he pretended to sip his drink while glancing around, not daring to barge in for fear of being intrusive. He waited anxiously for Richard to extricate himself from the little group of fans and finally move away from them. At that point, and without any hesitation, Paul stepped forward holding out his hand, a wide grin on his face. 

“Hello. My name is Paul Landers. Nice to meet you.”

Richard stopped and looked up at him. He seemed taken aback for a moment, but pulled himself together pretty quickly. 

“Sven Kruspe,” he said, squeezing Paul’s hand and peering at him with curiosity. “But I prefer to be called Richard. Or Scholle. My friends call me Scholle, actually.”

“I’m not your friend, but I’d love to call you that.” Paul paused, feeling himself glowing for no particular reason. “Well, I’m not your friend yet, I mean.”

He broke off and slowly drew his hand back into his pocket. The feeling of Richard’s lazy but stubborn grip was still impressed on his palm, making his skin tickle and burn. 

Richard stared at him and said nothing. Paul knew by experience that the best thing to do in such cases was to smile and keep talking - and thank goodness he was good at both. 

“So you are the famous Scholle… I heard about you.”

It was hard not to stutter while staring closely into Richard’s impossibly blue eyes. While doing so, Paul felt himself in serious danger of sinking into all that blue and never surfacing again - when he realized how maudlin that sounded, he hastily tried to get a grip of himself. 

“Have we ever met before?” Richard asked. “I don't remember you, honestly…”

While Richard talked, Paul was scanning his face, trying to guess his age. Richard looked just over his twenty, at a rough guess - a few years younger than Paul himself.

“No. This is the first time we meet. And the first time I see you guys play, actually,” Paul admitted. “I’ve heard about you, though. Tonight I could see with my own eyes that you are very good. You’ve got talent.” 

He said “you” - meaning not “you guys”, only Richard. 

“Oh… thank you.” Richard smiled and shrugged. "We still have a long way to go, though. That’s what I always tell the guys: you can always do better, so never stop before reaching our best.”

Paul wasn’t expecting such humbleness from a guy who looked so self-assured. When Richard lowered his eyes, fumbling in his pocket, Paul noticed he had long curved eyelashes like those of a child. 

Richard pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and waved them under Paul’s nose. 

“Want one?” 

“Why not.” 

Paul didn’t confess that he had just put his cigarette out, and that his throat still ached from the smoke. His smoker’s cough had been getting worse lately, even thought it wasn’t as bad as Aljoscha’s, of course, who always seemed to be about to spit out half a lung in one coughing fit or another. Paul knew that he needed to cut down on that habit before it was too late - if he hadn't done it yet, it wasn't so much because smoking was an essential need to him, but because he hated giving in to his own body and its limits.

Hence, he accepted the cigarette from Richard’s hand and held it steady while Richard lit it, his hands cupped around the flame, then thanked him.

“I guess you're a musician too, aren't you?” Richard asked, taking one cig for himself and blowing out the first puff of smoke. In his sly gaze, the head slightly tilted to one side, Paul read a genuine curiosity which pleased him more than it should. 

“Yeah, I’m a guitarist too.” Richard's eyebrows arched in interest. “Rhythm guitar. Occasionally background vocals.”

“Awesome.” Richard flashed him a smile. “I thought so, by the way,” he added, nodding his head. “Judging from your hands.”

Paul looked down at his own palms. “My hands?"

Richard reached up, stuck the cigarette between his lips and grasped Paul’s right hand in his own. “Yes,” he murmured, examining Paul’s fingertips. “I could tell from the calluses on your fingers. I felt them when we shook hands. What band are you in?”

"My band, Feeling B. I guess you've heard about us.”  

They both turned around. Aljoscha was approaching with two Pils in his hands. He handed one to Richard and kept the other for himself. Richard let go of Paul’s hands to grab the beer, thanking Aljoscha with a brief nod of his head. Paul felt a little deserted - Richard’s hands were so warm. 

“Hmm, vaguely,” Richard replied, staring at Aljoscha. “Are you guys famous?”

Aljoscha flashed a crooked smile. “We’re on track.” 

He moved to reach Paul’s side and started sipping his beer but without taking his eyes off Richard. 

Richard slowly turned his attention to Paul.

“And what kind of music do you play?”, he asked, addressing him. 

“Punk rock. A sort of…” Richard didn’t look impressed much, so Paul struggled to add something else. “You should listen with your own ears, by the way. Come to one of our gigs, sometime.”

“Yeah, why not.”

Just then, one of Richard’s bandmates called out to him, saying there was someone who wanted to meet him. Richard waved his approval.

“Sorry, I have to go. Nice to meet you, Paul.”

"My pleasure. I hope I'll see you again…” Paul did not know where those words had come from, but they sounded desperately sincere, “… Scholle."

Richard smiled fondly at the nickname. He nodded goodbye to Aljoscha and turned on his heels. In the blink of an eye, his cigarette and his improbable dreadlocks were gone, and so did his ice-blue eyes. 

"What a guy,” Paul murmured to himself, and shook his head while staring at the direction where Richard had gone. He chuckled softly. Only then he remembered the Spezi he was still holding in his hand and tilted the bottle up to take a sip. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Aljoscha was watching him intensely. Paul downed the bottle, turning toward him with a questioning frown.

“What?”

Aljoscha stood quiet for a few minutes, just looking at Paul and taking big sips of his Pils. Finally he put the beer down - a pale mysterious smile spreading across his thin lips. 

“You like that boy, don't you?”

“What do you mean?” Paul asked, and instinctively flinched away. He let his gaze wander over the few people left around them. The show had been over for a hour by now, and the colorful, rowdy crowd was beginning to disperse, the volume of their voices fading, as if someone was slowly turning off the switch.

“I mean… you like him. You were all smiles while talking to him, I saw you.” 

“Isn't that just what I'm like? All smiles, all the time?”

Aljoscha shrugged, a grimace on his lips, and drank again. 

Paul watched him carefully. “What? Don’t you like him, Aljoscha?”

“Well. He could have thanked me for the beer, at least.”

Paul laughed. His face, lit by his dazzling, open smile, looked as innocent as a child's.

“Anyway, I want to tell you something about that guy, Richard Kruspe…” Aljoscha resumed. “He’s ambitious. Very ambitious. He dreams of becoming a real rock star, not those cheep imitations that we have here in this country.”

“How do you know?” 

As Paul asked, he had a sort of vision of Richard playing on a huge stage, towering over a massive audience of thousands of rapturous people, surrounded by the dazzling halo of lights that etched the angular contours of his body and elicited silvery reflections in his eyes. Paul could ear the roar of the crowd cheering him, hosannaing him, kneeling before his art. He could see Richard crack up in a sincere and disarming laughter, devastating in its genuine candor, a laughter that meant a heartfelt “thank you, everybody.”   

Thank you for loving me.  

“That’s what I’ve heard from some friends of mine.” Aljoscha's husky voice stirred Paul from his fantasies. “This guy is certainly not one who settles for the apathetic musical scene that is all Berlin can offer nowadays. I think we’ll see your Scholle fly away sooner than even his own bandmates can imagine.”

Your Scholle… 

Paul remained in silence for a moment. “Well… In that case, good for him,” he said, glossing over Aljoscha’s provocation. “I guess anywhere else is better than here, right?”

 Aljoscha watched him intensely. 

“So you would leave if you could too...”

“Of course. Who wouldn’t.”

“I thought you were more of a city mouse. Ein Berliner.”

Paul lifted his Spezi and calmly drained every last sip of it. Then he put it down and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. 

“I think it’s wiser to leave a place that’s no good for you. Besides, you have to break your boundaries to get to discover your true self, don’t you agree?”

A smile of amused admiration crawled on Aljoscha's peculiar face, taking the place of the melancholic look that usually pervaded it, especially during a hangover. 

“That’s why I need to be careful not to set too many boundaries on you,” he drawled, “or you’ll flee in a jiffy, mein Paulchen. Fine, roger that." 

He winked at Paul and lifted his Pils with a mocking attitude. “Here’s to you, Paul Landers. You’re a wise, wise man. Cheers.”

He downed his beer in one go under Paul’s unfazed gaze - after all, he was accustomed to Aljoscha’s bravado.

“Where is Flake?” Suddenly, his friend popped into his mind, and Paul glanced around. “I haven’t seen him for a while.”

“How should I know?” Aljoscha muttered, wiping his mouth. “I thought he was with you.”

They went back to where they had left Flake earlier, but he was not there. They set out to find him - they didn’t need to search long, fortunately. Just a few minutes later, in fact, Paul and Aljoscha found poor Flake fast asleep on the ground, with his back against one of the wheels of Aljoscha’s car. He was sleeping - and snoring - so soundly that they had no heart to wake him up. So Paul took him by the feet, Aljoscha under his arms, and together they carefully slipped him into the back seat. Flake muttered something in his sleep and turned his face towards the seat, resumed snoring loudly. Then Aljoscha took the wheel - although he hadn’t completely sobered up yet - and Paul the passenger’s seat, as always. 

On the way back Aljoscha was silent and Paul could not be more glad of that. He was looking absent-mindedly at his own hands, rubbing the calloused fingertip of his thumb and other fingers together, while thinking back to Richard’s words. Paul wondered if Richard was just looking for an excuse to touch him when he had talked about the calluses on his hands. 

Then he felt Aljoscha’s gaze on him and looked up to meet his gaze.

“You okay?” Aljoscha asked, before glancing back at the road. 

“Yeah, how about you?”

Aljoscha shrugged. “I’m okay. I’ve been worse, you know.”

There were a few minutes of silence; then Aljoscha’s eyes darted back to him. “You are quiet. Very uncommon of you, Kind.” 

Paul was staring stubbornly out the window. “I’m just a little tuckered out. We’ve been around since early this morning.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Aljoscha said point-blank. “When I asked you whether you would really leave if you had the chance, I mean.” 

Paul shrugged, still looking out the window. “Kein Problem, really.”

“I hope you’re not thinking I’m a Stasi rat or something, now,” said Aljoscha, grinning sarcastically. 

Paul frowned slightly, but stubbornly kept his eyes fixed on the road. “You’re the son of a Swiss immigrate who came straight from the homeland of European capitalism to rot in here,” he said slowly, repeating the words that Aljoscha himself used to say all the time. “If I were the Stasi, I wouldn’t pick you as one of their informants, for sure.” 

Aljoscha chuckled. “What did I tell you? You’re a wise man.”  

After that, the tension faded and they spent the rest of the ride in silence. 

While some music played on the radio, Paul’s thoughts automatically drifted back to Richard. He stretched one arm out of the window, enjoying the cool breeze on his skin. He listened to his heart pumping dully the blood in his chest, at the same time beating out the rhythm of many questions left unanswered. Questions that all revolved around that absurd young man with long dreadlocks and a straight-cut mouth he couldn’t stop thinking about.  

“Next time we should ask Alex to come with us… shall we?”

Paul hummed his approval absently. Again, he was not listening. Flake let out a grunt in his sleep from the backseat. He didn’t wake up until they finally arrived at destination and Aljoscha stopped the car in front of Flake and Paul’s little apartment.

“How was the co-o-o-ncert?” Flake yawned, getting out of the car and stretching his long lanky limbs. 

Paul looked at the horizon. Berlin was all wrapped in a pink and orange mist at the crack of dawn. 

“Just beautiful,” he said - meaning what Flake couldn’t guess. 

Flake just nodded. 

They stood side by side and both waved goodbye at Aljoscha as he gave a honk and drove off, followed by the echo of screeching tires.  

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3: Chapter II

Chapter II

 

 

April 1989

 

 

Aljoscha was right about one thing: a few months later - that same year, in October - Richard Z. Kruspe would leave East Berlin. But before he could flow across the border to Czechoslovakia, getting lost for a while, Paul had the chance to meet him again - many times, indeed - and fall in love with him. 

Would have he done it anyway - loved Richard all the same - had he known what Richard had in mind? 

Still many years later, when someone - usually Flake, and mostly joking - would ask him that question, Paul's answer was invariably the same. 

Yes. Yes, I would have. No matter what. 

Having any kind of regret was simply not in Paul’s vocabulary. He was that type of guy who’s quick to forgive and quick to forget, for his own sake. 

Besides, getting the chance to know Richard so well was - and would always be - a true privilege to Paul, even though a somewhat painful one. 

But even pain found its raison d’être, because… what do they say? No pain, no gain, right? That’s why, at the end of the day, everything was just fine. 

Pain and glory, hope and tragedy. 

Richard was worth all the trouble. 

 

 

It all happened, oddly enough, because of Aljoscha. 

It was Aljoscha who - quite unexpectedly and out of the blue - invited Richard to one of Feeling B’s live gigs in April.

Thus, hadn’t it been for Aljoscha, there might be no Rammstein today, or not Rammstein including both Paul and Richard. 

When Paul learned that Richard would be at their next show, he was overwhelmed with pure joy - and stayed on cloud nine for days and days after that. However, as the fateful date approached, anxiety - unusual for him - started to take over, spoiling his delight, and a bunch of dark thoughts and doubts started to storm through his mind. 

Paul was generally quite confident in his guitar skills. He had never been scared to perform in front of an audience or be judged by them - actually, he pretty liked the live performances, as much as he liked people in general, most of the time. 

But it was a whole different ballgame with Richard. Richard seemed pretty demanding when it came down to music, setting his sights very high and constantly striving to reach his goal. What if Paul wasn’t good enough to meet his standards? What if Richard didn’t like his style? The very thought that Richard could be disappointed in him was enough to paralyze Paul and throw him into a bottomless pit of fear and insecurity, to the point where he didn’t recognize himself anymore. 

“Can you fucking stay still for one sec, Paul… pretty please?” Flake blurted out once, exasperated by Paul’s incessant going back and forth in the small dining room chewing on his lip. “You look like a death row inmate. Well, you’re not dying, man, so get a grip, good Lord.”

It wasn’t true. Paul was actually dying to impress Richard - he couldn’t think about anything else, he wanted Richard to think that he was the best damn rhythm guitarist in the world, and since he could not fail in Richard’s eyes he was dead set on giving all of himself on the night of the show. 

He couldn’t tell Flake any of that, of course - not because he didn’t trust his friend, but because his own feelings were pretty fucked up those days. Paul couldn’t tell why exactly he wanted to impress Richard so bad - he never took his time to think carefully about it, he just started practicing as hard as never before, raising some concerns in his bandmates, especially Flake.  

In fact, from that moment on, every time Feeling B met for rehearsals and Paul insisted on playing this and that song and doing it over and over again until the result was no less than perfect, Flake would look at him frowny-faced and goggle-eyed, and shake his head as if Paul had lost his mind. However, he didn’t say anything out loud - he usually just bit the bullet and went on playing, hoping that Paul would be back in his right mind soon.

But that didn’t happen - Paul’s frenzy only got worse and, the very afternoon before the concert, after hours of non-stop playing at Aljoscha’s house, Flake eventually lost his temper. Pretty bad too. 

He jumped up from his seat and smashed his keyboard vehemently against the opposite wall, causing both Paul and Aljoscha to pause abruptly in the middle of a refrain, and Alex to  look up from his drum set, visibly shaken.

“Enough!” Flake yelled. “I'm fed up with this fucking tour de force, goddamn it!” 

Everyone in the room stared wide-eyed at Flake, who had turned from his usually impassive and collected self to a wild stranger shouting and clenching his fists. 

"What you looking at?” Flake snorted, spreading his arms in frustration. “We’ve been going on with this for days, practicing and practicing and practicing from dawn till dusk and sometimes even at night, as if our very life were at stake… And all of this for what? A stupid show that nobody will remember in a few days. No, this is just ridiculous, I can’t stand it anymore. You can all go to hell, I’m done with this.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, wait a minute, kid,” Aljoscha said with the utmost calm, raising his hands appeasingly. “You may have a point, but I don’t think that’s the way to sort things out.” 

“And what would that be?” 

“You’re right, we might have been pushing our limits lately,” Aljoscha conceded. “And now we’re all spent and on edge and in need of some rest. Let’s take a break.” 

Aljoscha paused. His eyes darted to the wall behind Flake’s back. He coolly quirked his brow. “For the record, we have an upcoming show tonight and you just broke the only keyboard we had.” 

Silence fell into the room. Flake didn’t reply. He just pushed his glasses up his nose and looked at the floor, clearing his throat. 

Before someone could say anything, a sound coming from the corner of the room where Paul was sitting caused all heads to turn that way.

Paul, bowed over his guitar, was humming a tune while brushing his fingertips ever so lightly against the strings, apparently totally oblivious to the world around him.

“Paul?” 

“Hmm?" Paul barely glanced up from his guitar. Flake was watching him with a deep scowl on his brow, like he couldn’t believe his own eyes.

“Paul, did you hear what Flake said?" Aljoscha asked politely. 

“No. I mean, yes. Yes, well… Sorry, guys, I was distracted.” Paul hesitated, looking vaguely embarrassed. “What’s all this fuss about, anyway?"

To Flake, that was the last straw. “Fuck it!” With a loud groan of frustration he swiveled on his heels and strode out of the room like someone who’s about to pop a vein with rage. 

Only then did Paul lower his guitar to search for Aljoscha’s gaze. Aljoscha's eyebrows were arched in a sort of incredulous amusement while staring at him.  

“I don't understand…” Paul muttered, bewildered. “What's wrong with him?”

Aljoscha sniggered. He let go of the microphone stand he was swinging against and walked up to the mini-fridge in one corner of the room. He opened it and peered inside.

“The kid’s feeling a bit under pressure, I guess,” he said, still leaning forward. “There’s nothing like a good beer to calm the spirits, don’t you think?”

“But what about the keyboard?” Alex mumbled, letting go of his drumsticks to dab at his sweaty forehead. “We don’t have time to fix it. And the show is tonight.” 

Aljoscha took three beers out of the small fridge and threw one to each of them, then he leaned back, half-laying on the top of it. He popped the cork off, casually crossing one ankle in front of the other. “Cheers,” he said, before swallowing a big gulp. 

Alex reluctantly did the same. Paul took a sip from his, then looked down at the  scrawled papers and sheet music scattered across the floor where he was sitting cross-legged, cradling the guitar on his lap. He temporarily pushed the thought of Flake out his mind.  

“Aljoscha, do you think we're working hard enough?" he asked, unable to hide the nervousness in his voice, and looked up at the man. “Flake is exaggerating like always, isn’t he? I don’t think we haven't practiced that much. There are many songs left that we still have to try, anyway.”

He gestured vaguely toward some titles in a sketch written on the back of a pizza box. 

This time Aljoscha laughed wildly. "Gott, Paul, what’s going on with you? You really made poor old Flake crawl up the wall. You need to take it easy, man, if you don’t want us all to work ourselves to death.”

“I just want to be sure that-”

“But you already know how it works, don’t you?” Aljoscha cut him off. "They will give us the most disgusting pit in the ass-end of nowhere, with the usual shitty acoustics and even shittier drinks, and will pay us four Pfennigs to play a couple of hours in front of the worst audience of DDR. That’s it. So don’t get your hopes up, Paul. Nobody cares if we play good or bad. Besides, even Beethoven would sound like a two-bit crap in such circumstances. And we’re not Beethoven, for the record.” 

“What a shame,” Alex chuckled idiotically, spilling the beer on his shirt and cursing loudly.  

Paul ignored him. “But..." he started, clutching his beer tightly in his hand, "we could try our best, at least.”

"Paul." 

Aljoscha’s voice suddenly turned dead serious. He pushed away from the fridge and took a few steps forward, covering the distance between him and Paul. He came to a halt in front of Paul and leaned down to squeeze his shoulder, searching for his eyes. 

“I’ve never seen you delirious like this before. Is this about Scholle, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have told him to come, had I known the effect he has on you.”

That came so unexpectedly that Paul couldn’t hide the surprise on his face. He blushed violently. 

“But don’t worry about him,” Aljoscha went on, unfazed. “Scholle may be arrogant and a bit of a bighead, but he was also born here, like all of us. Coming from the same place, we  all know very well our limits and our failings. I’m sure Scholle won't turn up his nose if the mics stop working in the middle of our performance, or if we hit a couple of wrong notes from time to time. Just relax, you’ll be great.”

Paul fell silent, Aljoscha’s hand still resting on his shoulder. 

Alex, who had listened only to the last sentence of Aljoscha’s speech, finished his beer and drowned out a burp. “Sorry, guys… Aljoscha is right, anyway. You need to unwind a little, Paul.”

“Yeah, you’re right… both of you,” Paul murmured, looking at the floor. "I took it too seriously, maybe. I got a little out of my mind, and old Flake too, but it was my fault. I need a break, yeah. I’ll go get some fresh air. Hand me a beer for Flake, please. I’ll try to talk to him.”

Aljoscha went back to the fridge, took another beer out and threw it to Paul. “Good luck, Kind,” he said mockingly, winking at him.

Paul got up from the floor, carefully avoiding to step on the multitude of papers strewn on every inch of it. He took the guitar off his shoulder and leaned it down against the edge of the sofa. As he left the room barefoot, the cool beer in his hand, he heard Aljoscha laugh heartily at something Alex was telling him. 

Paul walked down the narrow corridor of Aljoscha’s house and past a musty closet and a kitchen little larger than it. The front door was open, the waning light coming through. He paused on the doorstep to put on a pair of shabby sandals that lay abandoned over there. He glanced outside - the sun was about to sink over the horizon, the air was crisp. Breathing it in, Paul climbed down the few steps of the entrance in the impending twilight, the gravel crunching under his heels. 

Aljoscha's house was located in the middle of the countryside just outside Berlin, while Paul and Flake shared a pit downtown - occasionally with other flatmates, but none of them ever lasted long. Aljoscha’s place was the most convenient option to meet and play - as well as just party and get wasted - not so much because of its size, since it was little bigger than Paul and Flake’s miserable three-room apartment, but because of the fact that, being on the outskirts, it provided them with some more privacy. Down there, they did not have to worry about disturbing the good people of the neighborhood with their annoyingly loud music or with the coming and going of guests at the most ridiculous hours.

It was good to be far from civilization for a while, as Flake called it. Civilization might be very exhausting. 

Paul walked across the fields that surrounded Aljoscha’s house, the beer slowly getting warm in his hand. Temporarily forgetting about Flake - again - he focused on the aching muscles in his back, all tensed up from being hunched over his guitar throughout the afternoon. While stretching his legs, he let his thoughts wander freely for the first time in weeks; from time to time a hand would go up to ruffle absent-mindedly the platinum blonde mop on the top of his head. 

He paused when he caught sight of Flake's unmistakable slouched silhouette sitting under an oak tree a few steps away from where Paul was standing. Then Paul suddenly remembered why he had gone out in the first place - to look for Flake, of course - and stopped rummaging in his pocket for a cig to approach him cautiously.  

One hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around the beer and an unlit cigarette in his mouth, Paul was unsure whether to play dumb as usual - pretending nothing had happened in the studio just before - or ask Flake soberly what the matter was.

Flake, however, had already heard his steps getting closer. His glasses flashed ominously when he tilted his head towards Paul, an annoyed grimace on his bony face. 

“Did Aljoscha send you?" 

Paul shook his head. “No. I’m here of my free will. Let’s bury the hatchet, Flake, please, and accept this peace offering.” 

He handed him the beer. Flake took it suspiciously, swirling it in his hands.

“It’s got warm by now.” 

“Sorry, I was walking around and I forgot about it.”

“No kidding.” Flake glanced sideways at him. “I’m surprised you stuck your nose outside. I thought you’d want to rehearse until midnight.”

“Even if I wanted to, that would be impossibile,” Paul smiled, missing Flake’s irony. "The concert starts at ten o’clock, remember?”

“Sure. But I'm not coming," Flake said dryly. He reached down to pluck a blade of grass and started fiddling with it between his long fingers. "I've had enough of all this - and of you."

“What?!" Paul stared at him in shock. “You must be kidding! You can't do this to me, Flake. Please!”

"You're losing your mind," Flake continued stubbornly. “At first I thought it was all because of Aljoscha and his megalomania, this obsession with practicing and practicing and practicing. But now I find out that Aljoscha only cares up to a point and the one who has truly gone off the rails is you. I wasn’t expecting that."

"Well, excuse me, all of you, for wanting to get our job done right," Paul said a little indignantly. "I thought we had the same goal, Flake. To try our best. To improve as musicians. Was I mistaken?"

“No, you were not… until a few weeks ago, at least. Then something happened, you’ve changed and started making our lives impossible. In fact," Flake added, narrowing his eyes as he reflected, “come to think of it, you've been weird since March.”

“Weird… how?" Paul shrugged his shoulders again. "I feel the same as before. I haven’t changed, Flake.”

“You have. You said it yourself: you’ve been fickle, and even more easily distracted than usual lately. You change your mood ten times a day, with no apparent reason. You’re always thinking about something else. It looks like someone cast a spell on you..."

Paul couldn’t help but burst out laughing at those words. “You don't even believe the weather forecast and now you tell me about spells!… No way!” 

Flake stared at his own feet, without changing the gloomy expression on his face.

“I just can't understand you, Paul. Yet, once I could," he murmured. "You've become so focused on yourself and so little interested in others that you no longer notice what’s happening around you. What’s happening to Aljoscha, for one thing.”

“Why? What’s going on with Aljoscha?”

“Yeah, exactly. See what I mean?” Flake snorted, rolling his eyes in frustration. “Lately he’s been stranger than usual, too. And when I say strange I mean a lot strange, creep and strange as fuck, not just mildly, happily strange as a little dumbass like you.”

“Thank you very much, my friend. So kind.” Paul’s laughter faded. He frowned but was too curious now to get really mad at Flake. “So, be more specific, please. What did I miss?What’s Aljoscha doing, exactly?” 

Flake crossed his arms, clutching into his checkered shirt against the gentle evening breeze.

“Well, I can’t tell for sure, but he’s doing… things. He disappears for hours, from time to time, and nobody knows where he goes and what for. When we don't have rehearsals, he spends all day locked in his house with the curtains drawn and doesn't put his nose out until late evening. Then he roams the streets with a new gang of shady people - I asked Alex, he also ignores who they are or where they come from - and he’s never back home until the wee hours of the morning, always totally wrecked."

The look on Flake’s face while speaking was one of pure concern. It upset Paul greatly. Still, Paul waited for him to finish before trying to play it down as usual - because that was his attitude towards the problems of life. 

“Hey, hey, hold your horses, man,” he said calmly, assertively. “You're not telling me anything new, Flake. Just think about it for a sec. Aljoscha doing strange things as getting drunk, getting high, hanging around with the dregs?” Paul spread his arms and shrugged with nonchalance. “Well, it’s what Aljoscha has been doing all his life. He’s been putting some effort into ruining it for as long as I can remember. And, to be honest, it’s what we have been doing too, although to a lot lesser extent than him. We play every day, we drink too much, we seldom get high - thanks, Government, for keeping us sane -, we eat what we can and get some sleep whenever we can. We often meet people, we sleep with them sometimes. Some other times we even fall in love with them. We break up with them. Then we wake up in the morning, alone in our bed, and do it all again. All of that because we can’t afford to make music our life, which is what we all would like to. So tell me, Flake: what’s weird about being like that, being like Aljoscha?”

Flake didn’t answer. He only shot Paul a long brooding look. 

“You don’t feel the same as I do, I can see it in your eyes,” Paul said, smiling bitterly. 

“That’s not the point, Paul.” Flake’s voice was a bit harsh. “You really can’t see it, can you? Not even when it’s under your nose.” He paused to take a deep breath. “Have you watched Aljoscha closely in the last few days? If so, how did he seem to you?"

“He seemed very… himself to me.” Paul said, trying to bring back any unusual details about Aljoscha and failing. “Half the time drunk, blabbering about some obscure oriental philosophy that only he knows about; the other half, annoying anyone around him to death like a fucking mosquito - and just for the sake of it. Nothing new.”

“Didn't you see the marks on his neck? The bruises? The blood?”

“What are you talking about?”

Flake looked away with another annoyed sigh. 

Suddenly Paul recalled something that had happened only a few days before, just after he and Flake had moved into Aljoscha's house in preparation for the concert. Something that had completely slipped his mind.

It was early morning, just before dawn, and Paul had gotten up from bed to go to pee. While he was in the bathroom, he had heard the front door creak open and Aljoscha's heavy, unsteady footsteps move down the hallway towards his bedroom, which was adjacent to the living room - that doubled as rehearsal room - where he and Flake slept as guests. He’d thought he’d heard restrained groans and a sigh. A little worried, Paul had flushed the toilet, washed his hands and had gone to check on Aljoscha, to make sure he was okay.

"Hey, man, you good?" he had whispered, peeking out the door of Aljoscha’s bedroom.  

Aljoscha’s dark silhouette was splayed on the bed, lying over the sheets, with his boots still on and muddy footprints all over the floor.

"Hmm... Paulchen, is that you?" Aljoscha had grumbled. “Come here, Kind, bitte.”

Paul had approached the bed and sat down on the mattress next to Aljoscha’s head. In the dim light he could hardly make out Aljoscha's face, but when he had reached down to brush his hair away from it and his fingers had slid downwards, he had felt two long scratches running along one side of Aljoscha's neck, just below his ear, disappearing under the collar of his shirt.

"The lady wasn't in a good mood tonight, I guess," Paul had tried to joke - a little shaken, though, because the scratches seemed painfully deep. “Are you all right?”

Aljoscha had moved his head on the pillow, the upper half of his face coming into view in the pale moonbeam seeping through the window. He had slowly opened one swollen eye, shielding himself with his arm from the faint light. He had smiled. “I need to sleep. Be nice, Paulchen, kiss me goodnight before you go.”

The smell of vodka rising from Aljoscha’s breath was mixed with that of weed and something else that Paul couldn't identify. He had obediently leaned over Aljoscha and pressed a firm kiss on his forehead. He’d heard Aljoscha let out a soft moan of relief under him. 

"Thank you, my boy."

"Good night," Paul had said. He had stood up and walked to the door.

“Wait,” Aljoscha had called him back. “Don’t tell the others, please.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Paul was not sure what Aljoscha was referring to - probably to the scratches, for everybody  knew about his little issue with alcohol by now. It was no secret. 

The next morning, anyway, Aljoscha had been the same as always - a scarf neatly wrapped around his neck was the only thing different about him - and in the following days Paul had completely erased that episode from his memory. If Flake hadn't mentioned it now, he probably wouldn't have remembered it anymore.

However, Paul still didn't understand why that thing worried the keyboardist so much - it was Aljocha’s private life, after all, not theirs. 

“I didn’t actually see the scratches, but I think I touched them once, in passing,” Paul said. “So what? It's none of our business what Aljoscha’s up to with girls..."

"Or boys, more likely,” Flake corrected, "but that's not the point, again.”

“You’re really getting on my nerves now. What is the goddamn point supposed to be, once and for all?”

"I have the feeling that he's hiding something from us, Paul. Something other than just a few nocturnal incursions in the beds of who knows who or some new type of drug that he’s buying under the table from the West..."

"Have you tried talking to him before letting your mouth run?"

Flake smirked. "Of course I have. How do you think it turned out? Aljoscha is Aljoscha. One attempt was enough for me."

Paul thoughtfully chew on his lip. “I should give it a shot, maybe. I might have better luck than you."

Flake shrugged. "I don't know, I wouldn't want you to get involved in something bad just because I spilled the beans to you."

Paul laughed. “You didn’t. I already know about the scratches, remember? Besides… why you talking about getting involved in something bad? This is not a mafia thing or stuff like that. We've been friends and bandmates with Aljoscha for years. If we don't trust each other then we can’t trust anyone else…"

Flake looked straight at his face. "I trust you, Paul. But I don’t trust Aljoscha. Not anymore. I’m sorry.”

Those words - and the look that came with them - took Paul's breath away for a moment. His laughter instantly faded, a shadow falling over his face. 

“I don’t get you, mate. Until a few months ago, you were fine with having Aljoscha drive us around at a moment’s notice or with smuggling jackets and other stuff for him to scrape together some money. And now you say you don’t trust him anymore. That sounds a bit incoherent to me. Besides, he’s our mentor, Flake, we owe him everything..." 

“Sure we do. We owe him everything," Flake repeated slowly, punctuating the words, "except our talent, Paul.”

“He helped us grow in that respect as well, and a lot too,” Paul commented objectively. "He had a great patience with us, with me. I remember him sitting by my side and repeating every single note along with me until I was emotionally stable enough to do it on my own without freaking out… I will be forever grateful to him for that."

“And do you think Aljoscha did it just because he’s basically a kind-hearted and selfless person?” Flake bit back. “Nothing else?" 

Paul looked at Flake very confused. “Well, he probably did it for his self-interest too, since we’re part of his band and he needs us to keep going.”

“Yeah, sure, but I bet that’s not all, though,” Flake said stubbornly, and glanced up at Paul. “You’re getting warmer, but you’re not there yet, Paul.”

“This is a stupid game. I give in.”

“Fine. I’ll tell you what I think, then. I think Aljoscha did it mostly because… because he's in love with you, Paul."

Paul stared at Flake open-mouthed, completely taken aback. After a few moments of embarrassed silence, he burst out laughing as usual, but this time his laughter didn’t sound convincing at all. 

“Come on, Flake. What are you jawing about? It may well be that, as you say, Aljoscha is fond of boys, it’s all right, but to say that he... that I-”

"As I told you before, you can go totally blind when you don’t want to see something, Paul. It’s just like you,” Flake grumbled, shaking his head. "I've been wanting to tell you this for a while, actually, but I was still hoping you’d realize it by yourself, sooner or later. Unfortunately you didn’t…”

“But what makes you think so?” Paul blurted out. “I mean… if that was the case, Aljoscha would have told me or let me know somehow. He’s usually very obvious about such things. On the contrary, he’s never behaved differently than usual with me.”

“Well, if ‘usual’ means calling you mein Paulchen and throwing his arms around you at any moment and kissing you goodnight as if you were Sleeping Beauty and he were Prince Charming…” Flake's grin was one of pure sarcasm - almost painful to watch. “If ‘usual’ means never losing sight of you and carefully selecting all your closest friends and introducing you only to people he personally chooses and systematically dismissing everyone who is really interested in you…” 

Paul looked more and more dismayed with each passing minute. 

“Cut the crap, man,” he protested weakly. “We all know that’s the way Aljoscha is. He… how can I say?… he can be quite territorial, sometimes, and excessively outgoing, but I’m very outgoing too. Besides, he’s like that with everybody."

"Absolutely not," Flake retorted. "He doesn't do that with me, for example. And yet we're both his Kinder, as he likes to say. But he has always treated the two of us quite differently.”

"It's not true that he keeps me away from people,” Paul said gloomily. "He has never tried to keep me away from you, for instance, and yet he knows how close we are."

“He doesn’t need to do that. And you know why? Because I will never try to get into your pants, Paul, that’s why,” Flake said point-blank, drawing a shocked gasp from Paul. "But think of all the boys, and even the girls, who have made a move on you over the years. How did it turn out every single time? And who was always involved, for one reason or another? You may be a hothead, my friend - I say this with affection - but I don't think it’s just your fault that you haven't had a single relationship that lasted more than a week in recent years. Except for Nikki, of course. And even then…”

“No, no, no. Don’t go there. Don’t do it, man,” Paul cut him out, raising one hand. “Don’t say that Nikki and I broke up because of Aljoscha because that would be one kind of a cosmic bullshit.”

“I’m not gonna say it, cool down,” Flake soothed him patiently. “I was just wondering… Why have you been so lonely after the divorce, Paul?”

Paul took the cigarette out of his mouth and turned it over between his trembling thumb and forefinger, staying in silence for the longest time. His other hand mechanically reached up to ruffle his hair a few times, as he often did when something troubled him greatly. 

“I’m not lonely, Flake,” he said eventually. “Just because I haven’t had a stable relationship after Nikki doesn’t mean that I am. I’m twenty-five, goddamn it. You can’t expect that, with one failed marriage behind my back, I’m ready to start a family all over again and churn out a couple of children without even a shred of home on my own or a stable job and no serious prospects for the future…”

"For heaven's sake, I didn’t mean that,” Flake said vehemently. “I just wonder what will happen when you fall head over heels with someone once again. How Aljoscha will take it. Something tells me that it will be a tough pill to swallow for him. He considers you as his property."  

Paul suddenly thought of Richard, and of the aversion that Aljoscha had shown towards him from the beginning - mutual, to be honest. But he couldn't dwell on that thought because thinking about Richard reminded him that the concert was more or less in one hour and a cramp of nervousness gripped the pit of his stomach, causing him to swallow hard. 

Paul told himself that if Flake — the honest, clear-sighted Flake — was right about Aljoscha, he would soon find out. He would find out that very evening indeed.

"It's getting late," Paul said out loud and looked up at the sky. The sun had set, though a golden streak still lingered on the horizon. “We’d better go get ready." When Flake didn't answer, Paul slowly turned his head to look at him. "Flake, please, don't abandon me now. You can't drop a bomb like this just before a gig and not even come along. Please, I need your moral support now more than ever."

Flake peeked at him then looked away. Under Paul's anxious eyes, he slowly pulled to his feet, brushing the blades of grass and dirt from his tattered pants, and adjusted his glasses to his nose.  

"Fine," he sighed eventually. “It's not too late to find a new keyboard, but it’d be definitely too late to find any other keyboardist. By the way, I hope Aljoscha didn't get Alex drunk like shit again. Last time he couldn’t even tell the difference between F and G, poor idiot…” 

Flake didn’t get to finish the sentence because Paul literally threw himself on him, screaming with joy, and grabbing him by the hands dragged him into a wild merry-go-round. 

When they finally stopped, both panting heavily, Flake had to bend over for a moment to catch his breath. Then he straightened up, pushing his glasses back to his nose, and looked at Paul fiercely. “Just so you know, we’re not done with this, Paul. For now, just remember what I told you.”

“I know, and I promise you we’ll talk it over some other time,” Paul said, nodding. “About Aljoscha and also about everything else. I promise.” He put his arm around Flake’s shoulders and squeezed them, his eyes sparkling with joy and gratitude. “I owe you one, my friend. From now until next month, you can ask me anything you want and I will do it. You have my word.”

Flake glanced up at him mockingly. 

“One thing would do - just one: don’t ever try to cut my hair again, Paul. Okay?"

 

 

 

Chapter 4: Chapter III

Chapter III

 

 

April 1989

 

 

As they got ready to take the stage in the small, smoky club where they were performing that night, Paul felt as nervous as never before. Soon, the strange conversation he’d had with Flake completely slipped his mind, replaced by a rapturous excitement at the thought that he would lay his eyes on Richard very soon. He could feel the excitement crawling under his skin like a wild living thing. It was so overwhelming that, from time to time, it pushed him to stand up and peep through the crack in the door of a sort of dressing room - that was actually more of a storage room they had been kindly granted for the evening - to see if Richard was already there. 

“You look like someone with burning coals in his pants”, Alex sneered at him, when he caught Paul peeking out for the umpteenth time. “Who the hell do you expect to come, Honecker himself?" 

He laughed idly. Aljoscha, who was crashed out on the small busted sofa in a corner, sipping a beer, looked over at them and smiled. 

“I’m afraid we’re not big enough for our general secretary, Paul. Come here and get a drink, instead.”

When Paul moved near to the sofa to take a beer for himself, Aljoscha leaned over to him and whispered: “Chill out, boy. For fuck's sake!" 

Flake glanced up from the glasses he was swabbing in his lap, then looked down again, ignoring them. Paul wondered if he was regretting his last-minute decision to come along, blaming his own surrender. He told himself he had to make an effort and stay cool and collected, so as not to get on the others’ nerves - hence, he stopped walking back and forth from the door. 

An hour and a half later - way behind schedule - they were finally ready to start. By then, Paul had noticed two things: one, that his heart was back to beating almost normally now, thank God, and two - that Aljoscha had gotten completely drunk while waiting and was now strolling around, holding a bottle of beer and blabbering something to the void. 

“Aljoscha, are you feeling okay?" Paul asked as he grabbed his guitar.  

Aljoscha gave him his usual unperturbed grin. “Just like heaven." 

Paul wasn’t convinced at all. “You sure you can make it?"

Aljoscha burst out laughing and smacked Paul on the shoulder so hard that he almost knocked him face forward. 

“Again… just relax, Paul. Everything will be fine, I can feel it." 

He was suddenly serious again. He straightened his back and tilted his head to one side, searching for Paul’s eyes. 

"You trust me, Paulchen, don’t you?”

For a split second Paul feared that Aljoscha could read his mind or, even worse, could have heard him talking with Flake earlier outside the house and hesitated. Then, hoping that Aljoscha wouldn't notice his doubtfulness, given the state he was in, stuttered: “Y-yes, of course I trust you. It’s just-”

"It's time," Flake interrupted. Just then, in fact, someone from the staff had peeped in to say that everything was set and they were expected on the stage - the audience couldn’t wait any longer. 

Aljoscha let go of Paul. “Let’s get it started, boys,” he said cheerfully. 

Then they went out into the lights.  

 

 

The stage was actually made up of wooden crates held together and covered with a dusty tarpaulin. It had been arranged against the wall opposite to the entrance of the little place, which was already crammed with people, half of which already rotten drunks. 

As soon as Paul and the others came out of the dressing room, a guy with a fiery red mohawk threw a bottle of beer at them, aiming at poor Flake's head, who managed to dodge just in time. A chorus of boos overlapped with the screaming din that filled the place. 

“Man, talk about getting off on the right foot," Flake muttered through gritted teeth, as he tried not to trip over one of the amp wires. Paul held back a grin. "Berlin and its fucking terrific audience... Remind me why we're doing this, Paul. Please.” 

“Because we love music”, Paul said, slinging his guitar over his shoulder, “- and people.”

“Oh, sure.”

Paul grinned and stepped over to his position on stage. He soon lost interest in Flake’s discontent. Ever since they'd stepped out on stage, in fact, he had been looking for Richard in the peevish crowd. Since he could not just stare at the audience all the time, he pretended to fiddle with the speakers, raising his head from time to time to glance at the front rows. 

There was no trace of Richard, though. He was nowhere to be seen. Paul’s stomach began to sink.

“Hey there, you beautiful people!” Aljoscha shouted into the microphone, which screeched loudly, forcing those closest to him to plug their ears. “How’s the night going?"

"You jerk!" Someone yelled from the back rows. “Go to hell!”

Fortunately, Aljoscha was so drunk that he couldn’t notice the various epithets raining down on them from the steaming crowd, along with cigarette butts and chewing gums. On the contrary, his wide, slightly drooping smile widened by the minute, as he cast a dreamy glance over the people gathered in front oh him, looking like a shepherd in front of a flock of wayward but affectionate sheep. 

Paul took his eyes away from Aljoscha and scanned the room once again for the face he was so eager to see - again, to no avail. To console himself, he reflected that Richard might be late or out to smoke or even stuck in the back rows, where neither the lights nor his eyes could reach him. There was no need to panic at the moment - absolutely no need to. 

The show began. 

Taking a deep breath, Paul hunched over his guitar and tried his best to erase any superfluous thought from his mind, getting himself completely absorbed in music - his ultimate savior.

However, as soon as the concert heated up, it became clear to all of them that the problem was not the crowd, or the place, or the music gear.

The problem was Aljoscha. 

His crazy gimmicks started getting too far very soon - and only got worse over the night. 

Not only, in fact, did Aljoscha change the setlist at least three times without warning the others, but also he seemed to completely forget the lyrics in one case and remained silent in front of the mic, just letting the music continue. 

The roar of the crowd grew louder. Someone started hooting disapprovingly. 

When Aljoscha improvised a ballet, swinging his hips as he rocked back and forth across the stage dragging the microphone stand behind him, Paul glanced sideways at Flake. The keyboardist looked understandably pigged off; large beads of sweat glistened on his temples and forehead under the lights, running down his face. 

Paul tried to catch his eye and give him a nod of reassurance - even a funny grimace, to make him laugh or relax - but Flake didn’t turn his way. Alex, for his part, was just playing his drums on autopilot, his face totally blank as if his mind were roaming somewhere else. 

Just when the situation was getting too awkward to be ignored, Aljoscha broke off in the middle of his drunken staggering and shouted: “Hey, look who we got there... Ladies and gentlemen, a real rock star is coming this way!" 

He stuck his arm up in the air, his short denim jacket going up his belly to reveal a stripe of  pale skin. Many heads in the crowd turned in the direction indicated by Aljoscha; the distraction worked: for a few minutes, the incessant throwing of garbage on the band stopped and the mumbling of discontent subsided a little. Flake took the opportunity to wipe the sweat off his face and glasses with a handkerchief, Paul to shake off a few pieces of paper that had been trapped between his locks and Alex to take a sip from the bottle of water hidden behind the drums by his feet. 

“Told you,” Flake hissed, his face dark with rage, when Paul casually stepped over to him, dropping the hand from his guitar. He pointed towards Aljoscha. “Told you. He’s a mess, and he’s ruining everything. The government will revoke our concert authorization after this, you know?”

“Well, we’re a punk-rock band. What can you expect from a punk?”

“We’re supposed to be professional musicians first. I can’t see anything professional in this disgrace. I swear it to you, Paul, I’m really going to kill Aljoscha after this. Or leave the band.”

“These people are going to kill us first for eardrums abuse, you can bank on it,” Paul replied between his teeth, trying to play it down like always. “What is this ‘rockstar’ thing, by the way? Another of Aljoscha’s tricks? It seems it worked…”

“Beats me.”

However, contrary to what they thought, Aljoscha wasn’t just distracting the audience to give the band some respite. In fact, when Paul looked up, something was happening in the back rows. The crowd was slowly opening up to let someone approach the stage.

Paul’s heart seemed to stop for a second - before resuming beating faster than ever - when he recognized the blond dreadlocks and the ever-present cigarette between the thin lips he had dreamt about for days. 

Holy fuck, Richard was there. 

“Ladies and gentlemen," Aljoscha hissed, standing in the middle of the stage with unsteady feet and arms wide open, the drunken cat grin still glued to his face. “Or should I call you a crazy bunch of fucking idiots?!” 

He paused, but instead of insults and jeers, only a few murmurs of curiosity spread through the audience this time. 

“Are you ready to see the true star of the night? I hope so, because here comes our man… Come up here, Scholle, come on!”

Aljoscha kneeled down, leaning forward to Richard with his hand stretched out, ready to help him on the stage. The muscles darted under the skin in his long, thin arm.

“Who the hell is this Scholle now?” Paul heard Alex ask Flake, but he didn’t listen to the answer. He was caught in a sort of a haze, too amazed even to acknowledge his own joy to see Richard. In that moment, it seemed too good to be true - Paul couldn’t believe his own eyes.

He stopped plucking the strings and just watched, as if mesmerized, as Richard came up to the stage - it was really him, in the flesh, even though he seemed a vision all the same. Richard came to a halt in front of the stage and looked up, squinting in the bright lights that fell from the ceiling. Aljoscha, leaning from above, brought his head closer to Richard’s to let Richard mutter something in his ear. Then he nodded, without stopping smiling. 

While staying in his place, the guitar hanging uselessly from his shoulders, and waiting in agony for Richard to meet his gaze, Paul felt a sting somewhere near his heart - how could Richard just stand there, a few feet away from him, and be completely oblivious to his presence? Just a glance would be enough… 

But Richard was still saying something to Aljoscha, his words completely drowned out by the noise, and apparently squirming away from the singer’s insistence - then, he seemed to give in all at once and eventually accepted Aljoscha’s hand to prop himself onto the stage.

“Paul, what’s happening? Who the fuck is that guy?” Flake shouted to him, but Paul was simply out of reach, all his senses focused on the materialization of all the dreams and desires that had haunted him recently. 

He wasn’t ashamed to admit that yes, every wet dream he’d had since March had the face and the body of the boy who was now standing in front of him - a shy boy deep down, who, just like Paul himself, was trying to play it off in front of a picky audience, and, incredibly, succeeding. 

Not only Richard, in fact, did look completely at ease, but also the crowd, Paul noticed, was much tamer now, as if instinctively obeying to his natural charisma. At least they had stopped trying to set fire to the stage and to all of them, which was undoubtedly a good thing.  

Look at me, Paul found himself silently begging, eating Richard with his eyes. Look at me, Scholle. I’ve been waiting for this moment for a whole month. I’m here. See me.  

But then another incredible thing happened. To Paul’s utter shock, Aljoscha put his arm around Richard - Paul's stomach twitched at the sight - and cocked his head to whisper something in his ear ever so confidently. 

Paul’s mouth went dry, his hands began to quake. He suddenly felt Flake's gaze on himself - his friend, probably led by some sixth sense, was checking on him - but he didn't dare turn around. Instead, he glanced down at his own hands, desperately trying to ignore the trembling. It was a very subtle, almost imperceptible thing - still, no good at all for a guitarist in the middle of a gig. 

The thing that upset Paul the most was not Aljoscha's monkey business on stage, nor the disrespect from the crowd. It was not the fact that his own body was betraying him when he needed it most, and not even Aljoscha’s inexplicable change of attitude towards Richard - from frankly disliking him in their first meeting to acting like he was his best friend now. 

No, what really drove Paul round the bend was the fact that Richard hadn’t given him a single glance since he had arrived - as if Paul didn't exist at all. That hurt Paul in a way he didn’t imagine was possible - that was even worse than the sudden connection running between Richard and Aljoscha, all the more unexpected considering how their previous meeting had gone. 

Paul really didn’t know what to make of it. 

“Paul?” 

He looked up. Richard was only one step away from him. Paul was so lost in thought that he hadn’t noticed him approaching - so he just found Richard’s blue eyes close, very close. Were his eyes really that blue also the last time Paul looked into them? Paul suddenly stopped feeling bitter for having been ignored until then. He stopped thinking about anything, actually - and while Aljoscha was shouting something to the crowd that had resumed moaning impatiently and Flake and Alex just didn’t know which way to turn, Paul just didn’t give a damn about was going on around himself.

“Hey.” Richard greeted him with a coy smile. His pupils were large and mobile, and Paul felt sort of sucked into them. “Good to see you.”

“Good to see you too,” Paul feebly echoed him, and swallowed hard with nervousness. “How you doing?”

“Just fine,” Richard said, cocking his head. “Look, Aljoscha just asked me to play something with you…” He pointed one thumb over his shoulder in Aljoscha's direction. The crowd was replying with a loud roar - probably some swearing - to Aljoscha’s teasing. Paul couldn’t care less. 

"Magnificent," he whispered, focusing on Richard’s words with some effort. His brain, though sober, struggled to line thoughts up. 

"Yes. There is only one problem.” Richard hesitated. “I didn't bring a guitar with me, of course. Would you mind if I borrowed one of yours?” 

"Oh," Paul murmured sadly. “Unfortunately, this is the only good guitar that I have. I mean, there is a spare one left in Aljoscha’s car, but it’s very old and completely untuned. I never use it. I’m afraid you couldn’t get much out of it. I’m sorry.” 

While talking, Paul noticed that Richard's expression tended to become particularly adorable when he was disappointed. Paul felt that he would do pretty much anything to wash that disappointment off his handsome face. 

“The only one I can give you is this one.” He pointed to the Fender Stratocaster slung over his shoulder.  

Richard cast him an oblique glance from under his long eyelashes. 

“Yeah, but… we definitely can’t play one guitar in two.”

“Definitely not,” Paul agreed. 

There was a pause. Then a loud noise caught Paul’s attention and he glanced behind Richard's shoulders. The audience was cheering madly as Aljoscha leaned once again over the stage, this time to take a bottle of beer from someone in the front row, nodding thanks. Paul worriedly watched him down the beer in one gulp amid the general hype and wipe his mouth at the end.

“Shit.” 

“Paul.” Flake came closer unexpectedly, a deep frown on his face while looking at Aljoscha. Alex, meanwhile, was just standing next to the drums with his arms folded, looking vaguely helpless. “We gotta do something. At this rate, he’s gonna go into a coma or worse.” 

“Yeah, but… what can we do?” 

They stared powerlessly at Aljoscha tripping over his own feet. Flake was obviously right. Judging by Aljoscha’s precarious state, they couldn't wait any longer. On top of it, now that the little one-drunken-man-show was not that funny anymore, the audience was getting aggressive again, unhappy with the break.  

"What the fuck are you doing, assholes?” Someone screamed in the throng. “Let’s get a move on, you fuckers! You piece of shit! Or give us back our money!”

That’s when Paul made his choice. Without stopping to think it over, Paul hurriedly took his guitar off his shoulder, shook the sweaty hair off his forehead, and handed it to Richard. 

“Here.” 

Astonishment kept Richard rooted to the ground for a moment. He faltered, stunned.

“Take it,” Paul insisted. “Play.”

Richard hesitantly reached out to pick the guitar from Paul’s hands.

“Do you really want me to play in your place, Paul? Are you sure?" Richard was looking at him between distrust and amazement. Paul realized that he loved hearing Richard say his name. "This is your band, your night. This is your show. Aljoscha just asked me to-”

“You’re a born leader, Scholle,” Paul interrupted. “Just what we need. I realized it the moment you came in, when I saw what you did to the crowd. Look at Aljoscha now… You’re the only one who can save our ass tonight. Please, play. I’m begging you.” 

“We should replace him instead of you, Paul,” Flake muttered, glancing at Aljoscha. “Unfortunately, no one of us can do vocals.” 

“I can, a little,” Richard said. “But I don’t know how Aljoscha might take it. He’s your frontman, after all. And I’m just a guest here. I don’t want to interfere…”

“Just do your job, all of you guys,” Paul said, his eyes going from Richard to Flake and back. “Give the people what they want. I’ll take care of Aljoscha in the meantime.” 

“You serious?” Flake’s saucer eyes were fixed on Paul in disbelief. “You’d rather deal with Aljoscha than play?”

“Someone has to do it. It’s okay, anyway, no problem,” Paul said, a little too quickly. “Come on now, guys. Let’s get down to business, before this place comes crashing down upon as all.”

Richard and Flake - who hadn’t even had time to introduce themselves to each other - exchanged a look. Richard shrugged, Flake frowned. The latter’s gaze brimmed with concern and something else - a sort of deep, deep wonder directed to Paul. 

Paul, in fact, had never allowed anyone to touch his guitar until that moment. He was usually an extremely generous guy - except when his guitar was involved. It was a part of himself, and he was dramatically jealous of it. Only Flake - and only rarely - had the permission to use it, and only as a joke, since he utterly sucked at playing guitar. 

And now Paul had just lent his precious thing to a complete stranger, to play in his place. The look on Flake’s face screamed: “are you in your right mind?!”. 

“Thanks a lot, Paul,” Richard said. “I’ll make sure you won’t regret it.”

Paul nodded. Seeing Richard's hand slowly curl around the guitar neck and hold it firmly, almost possessively, almost drove him insane with lust - at the same time, that sight opened a frightening void inside him, pulsating with something he couldn’t quite identify. 

What’s worse? To feel replaced in your own band or to get turned on like a virgin school kid whacking off for the first time? Jesus Christ, Paul…What a bloody loser you are. 

"Paul?" Flake's voice coming from a short distance startled Paul. 

“What?”

Flake nodded silently towards Aljoscha, who was wobbling around the stage, clinging to the mic stand to hold himself up. Paul noticed he was getting dangerously close to the edge and decided that it was time to take action before everything went south. 

“I’ve got it. You play. I’ve got him,” he repeated to Flake, waving dismissively in response to the keyboardist’s dubious look, and strode over to Aljoscha. He caught the man just before he fell off the stage onto the rowdy crowd below. 

“Come with me, Aljoscha. Come with me, please,” Paul whispered, his lips glued to Aljoscha’s ear to make himself heard in the din. 

The crowd suddenly seemed to find the sight of the small guitarist, trying to keep the singer (who was taller and heavier than him) upright, very entertaining. They were hooting and howling in mockery. 

Paul was aware of everyone’s eyes, including Richard’s, on him - he had never felt more uncomfortable in his entire life. He wanted to escape a thousand miles away, leave that stinking hole and those horrible people behind - go to sleep, maybe never wake up again. 

But he was Paul, the toughest little guy ever, as Flake used to say. So he held tight, staring straight at the crowd with a defiant look and forcing a smile until he couldn’t feel the muscle in his cheeks anymore. 

Aljoscha was fortunately so wasted that he didn’t even realize what was happening around him, and so weak that he didn’t try to put up a fight. He just sagged on Paul’s shoulder and let himself be dragged away from the stage. While Paul drew him aside, he met Flake’s appalled gaze above Aljoscha’s back. Play, goddamn it. Play! he mouthed frantically to him while stumbling off the stage carrying Aljoscha’s dead weight, his ears burning with embarrassment. Paul avoided looking at Richard, because seeing any displeasure on his face could have just killed him. 

Paul took Aljoscha to the dressing room and settled him on the broken sofa, then he went fetch some water. When he got back, Aljoscha lied swooned belly-up. Biting back a curse, Paul rushed to him and made him turn on his side, so that he would not choke in case of vomit. 

“Fucking hell, Aljoscha,” he hissed, while trying to keep Aljoscha’s head up, “you really hit the bottom this time, didn’t you?” 

But Aljoscha couldn’t reply, since he was out cold. After checking his breath, Paul took a discarded jacket from the sofa, balled it up and put it under Aljoscha’s head. He paused for a second to peer at the singer’s face in his sleep, and thought back to everything he had known about Aljoscha over a lifetime, and to what Flake had told him in the fields outside Aljoscha’s house just a few hours before.

But his reveries were cut short when the chords of a familiar tune coming from the stage struck his ears. Paul stood up in shock, recognizing one of Feeling B’s super trouper songs - yet, it was not Aljoscha’s voice who was singing it so beautifully. 

Likewise, he recognized the strumming of the guitar - the guitar that belonged to him, but he was not the one who was playing it now. Being at his own show without taking part in it felt just surreal. 

Paul slowly walked to the half-open door and peeked out the dressing room. From where he stood he could only catch a glimpse of what was happening on stage, but Paul didn’t actually need to see to know…  

Maybe it was presumptuous of him to consider himself as irreplaceable, but… hearing  Flake and Alex performing their songs without him gave Paul a real heartache. Paul’s ego - which was not so big, in truth - was bleeding. And he hadn’t expect that.  

He shifted a little, craning his neck to get a better view of the stage. He wanted to see Richard, of course - more than anything else. His eyes searched for him across the room, above everyone’s head, until they found him.

From that moment on, Paul just drank in the sight - he never took his eyes off Richard until the end of the concert. 

Paul marveled at how quickly and smoothly Richard was becoming familiar with his guitar and, above all, with Feeling B’s songs. He was playing every note so confidently that nobody would believe it was the first time he was doing it. But Paul knew - he knew it was the first time for Richard, and that only increased his admiration because only an extremely talented guitarist could succeed so well. There was no doubt that Richard was gifted. It was  so obvious to Paul - and he could have stood still and watched him play for hours and hours without getting tired.

Also Flake and Alex weren’t doing bad at all. They seemed to merge with Richard’s voice and guitar almost as perfectly as if they were all part of a well-tested group. Plus, the crowd was finally behaving and enjoying the show. 

As the place filled up with people, it started to get hotter under the low ceiling. By the end of the evening, the room was so crammed that one could barely breathe in there. When Richard, completely flushed, paused to take off his shirt - greeted by an ovation from the audience - Paul’s breath caught in his throat. He glanced above his shoulder at Aljoscha, who was lying on his side on the sofa. As much as he wanted to get closer to the stage to enjoy the sight, Paul didn't dare leave Aljoscha alone in his conditions, knowing that he could wake up suddenly and hit his head hard by falling off the couch. So he contented himself to imagine, from afar, every single droplet of sweat running down Richard’s skin, and a shiver jolted up his spine. 

Paul welcomed the end of the last song with a deep sigh of relief. He was so close to a breaking point. As the music died down, he joined the collective holler of appreciation that rose from the audience, making his ears buzz. Paul scanned the room, where people were cheering and clapping their hands. He felt a fleeting squeeze at the pit of his stomach: had really none of them noticed his absence on stage? Did really no one care? There could have been anyone in his place and it would have been the same for them, as long as they were having their fun… Ah, the crowd - the cruelest beast. 

But the thought vanished soon, replaced by a sincere satisfaction: thanks to Richard Feeling B was safe, at least for a while, and that was all that matters - it mattered even more than his own ego. 

So, with a smile curling his lips, Paul waited patiently for the guys to join him in the dressing room. He was feeling a little dizzy, his head rumbling like an empty tin can into which someone had dropped a stone. He looked so genuinely happy that Flake, who was the first to walk in with a reddened face, stopped and watched him with amazement. 

“So glad to see you,” he said, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “How’s Aljoscha doing?”

“Fine, still sleeping like a mouse.” Paul’s smile widened. “That was fantastic, Flake. I mean,  that was… wow.”

Flake bowed his head, a shy smile trembling on his lips, and took off his glasses. Just then Alex entered the room, following in his steps. Paul peeked anxiously behind his back. 

“Where is Scholle?”

“He got outside to have a smoke, I think. That guy saved the day, you know.” Alex walked to the sofa where Aljoscha was sleeping. He peered at his face, then shifted Aljoscha’s legs a little and scooted in, sinking into the tiny sofa with a groan. “Jesus, I’m beat. My wrists hurt like hell.” 

Paul wasn’t listening anymore. “Excuse me, guys, I’m popping out for a sec.”

“Where you going?”

“To get some fresh air. It’s stuffy in here.”

Without glancing backwards, Paul slipped out of the room and made his way to the back exit reserved for staff. The first thing he felt, when he stepped out of the club, was the evening air on his face. He breathed deeply in the light breeze and instinctively looked up at the stars that were glittering in the sky. The sight was enough to relive his spirit - away from the noise and oppressive heat of the small place, he immediately felt better. 

Richard was there, standing with his back to Paul, a little hunched over while trying to light a cigarette, his hands around the flame to shield it from the wind. He straightened up when hearing the door open and turned around, blowing out a puff of smoke. 

He smiled when he saw Paul. “Did you like the show?” 

Paul slowly took a few steps forward, then he stopped. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. 

“You did great. Awesome. I don’t know how to thank you, really. Hadn’t you been there…”

“Don’t mention it,” Richard said, shrugging. “I got your back. We’re friends now, as you wanted in the first place, remember?” 

He winked at Paul, without stopping grinning. 

Paul smiled back, but his breath was a bit labored now. 

“You put your shirt back on,” he said, pointing at Richard’s torso. 

He couldn’t think of anything better to say - his brain probably suffering a temporary low blood flow. 

“Oh, well,” Richard glanced down at his own body, then up again. This time, something new shimmered dangerously at the back of his pupils, fixed on Paul. “Did you like me better without it?”

“Well…” Paul’s voice trailed off. He took one more step forward, drawn to Richard like a magnet. Now he could see, in the faint light of the sign above the exit door, all the details of Richard’s face, and he was totally captivated.   

Richard languidly took the cigarette out of his mouth and watched Paul coming closer with his head slightly tilted to the side. Paul’s eyes slid from Richard’s eyes down to his lips. He was so close now that he could easily reach up to cup his face and…

Just then a loud thud from behind made him jump and move away from Richard.  

“There you are, I was looking for you.”

He had never been less happy to see Flake in all his life. He turned around, trying to conceal the discontent on his face - but failing. 

Flake noticed. He hesitated. “Did I interrupt something?” 

"We haven’t been introduced yet,” Richard jumped in, saving Paul from embarrassment. He stepped towards Flake with his hand outstretched. "My name is Richard Kruspe. Scholle, if you want. Scholle is better. I play in Das elegante chaos… ever heard of them?”

“Hmm, isn’t that the band we went to see with Aljoscha last March?” Flake said, turning dubiously to Paul who nodded in acknowledgment. “Christian Lorenz… but everybody calls me Flake. Nice to meet you.” He reached out to briefly squeeze Richard’s hand while peering at his face intently. “You’re a hell of a guitarist. I wasn’t expecting that. Where did you learn?”

“Well, I was at the conservatory for a while, but mostly I studied by myself, and by which I mean I practiced my fingers to the bone, more or less.”

“Yeah, I bet you did.” Flake nodded. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep at your concert, sorry.” He didn’t look embarrassed in the slightest while saying it.  

Paul burst into laughter. “I remember you were blissfully asleep, you cutie-pie…”

That made Richard laugh too. 

“That was not your fault, anyway,” Flake added deadpan, addressing Richard and pushing his glasses up his nose. “I was dog tired that night.”

“No offense taken,” said Richard. “But if I ever bored you, I hope I made up for that tonight.”

“You did,” Paul said vehemently. “People had a great time. I hope you had a great time as well, Scholle.”

“I did.” Richard paused and glanced up at the sky, the cigarette hanging lazily between his fingers. “I had a lot of fun playing your songs, indeed. Maybe we should bring our bands together some time, see what happens. I think it would be cool.” 

Paul's heart galloped again at the thought that he would have an excuse to see Richard again from that moment on. 

“Yeah, sure!”, he said, a little precipitously. “It sounds great.”

“We should ask Aljoscha first,” Flake reminded him. 

Paul’s enthusiasm dampened a little. “Hmm, you’re right. I don’t think he would have anything against it, still…”

“How’s he, by the way?” Richard asked politely, shifting his gaze from Paul to Flake. 

“Better,” Flake replied. “Actually, he was just waking up when I left him, a moment ago. He’s a resilient guy, don’t worry about him.”

“Good. He’s lucky to have you guys around anyway, to take care of him when he needs it.”

Flake and Paul exchanged a look but neither of them said anything. They were both expecting Richard to start asking questions about Aljoscha, but Richard just went on smoking in silence. 

Paul relaxed a little. While studying Richard’s profile, he realized he had never felt so attracted to anyone - man or woman - before. He was almost ashamed to feel like he was sixteen again and in love for the first time…  

Then, for the second time that night, the exit door swung open, bumping into the brick wall, making Flake and Paul turn in unison. This time, as if conjured but their words, Aljoscha in person stumbled out, followed by Alex who was holding him by the elbow. 

Aljoscha shook Alex’s hand off. He was barely staggering and his clothes were in a pitiful state, but his eyes were way less glassy than before. Actually he seemed to have sobered up amazingly fast.  

“Aljoscha!” Paul exclaimed, surprised yet sincerely relieved. “How you feeling?”

“As good as new, Kind.” Aljoscha’s voice was even huskier than usual. He had to clear his throat to go on. “Alex, here, got me some water and aspirin - it did wonders.” 

Aljoscha let his gaze wander around, stopping eventually on Richard. “It looks like I missed the show. How’d it go?”

“Not bad,” Flake said flatly. “Scholle lent us a little helping hand.”

“Yeah, I knew you were a godsend since the day I met you, Scholle.” So saying, for some unknown reasons Aljoscha glanced at Paul, then looked back at Richard. “I was told you can also sing. Wow, I should keep a close eye on you, if I don’t want to get booted out of my own band.” 

Silence fell over, making all of them freeze with awkwardness - all except Richard.

“Thanks for the tip, but I have already a band of my own,” he chuckled heartily. “However, I only occasionally sing, I am far from being a singer, actually. I’m humble enough to say it.” Richard took a drag from his cigarette and shrugged. “It was a pleasure to be of some help tonight, that’s it. Honestly, it went even better than I expected myself.”

“Definitely,” Alex piped in. “People got their money worth, at least. Nobody can complain. After all the shit we had to go through this night…” 

“I think we should do it again,” Paul said suddenly. “I mean, mixing up, maybe trying something new with Scholle and his guys. Would that be okay with you, Aljoscha? What do you say?” 

Aljoscha was clearly taken aback by the request - his eyebrows slowly rose to his hairline. Flake adjusted his glasses to his nose - his silent way to show disapproval - and Paul feared he had been too forward and maybe screwed everything up. 

Aljoscha slowly turned to Paul. He looked him straight in the face for a few seconds, and smiled his tight-lipped smile - the unforgiving one. 

“Well, if you ask me, Paul, I can’t say no. You know.” 

Paul flushed under Aljoscha’s gaze - which was piercing right through him as if he already knew the truth of it all. 

Thankfully, Richard came to his rescue once again.

“Wonderful,” he cheered. “I can already see it… Das elegant Chaos and Feeling B performing together. That would be quite something.” 

Aljoscha’s attention was drawn back to him. 

“So you in?”

“Sure,” Richard took his cigarette out of his mouth and shook the ashes on the ground. “Whenever you want, man. Just give me a call.”

“What about Monday?” Paul asked - too hastily again - before reminding himself to cool down and biting his tongue. He caught Flake sneering - the man briefly rolled his eyes when Paul met his gaze before looking away. 

“Hmm, I have things to do on Monday,” Aljoscha said, squinting at him. “Thursday would do.” 

“Excellent.” Richard smiled. “We have a deal.” 

He and Aljoscha shook hands. Flake was still looking mockingly at Paul behind Aljoscha’s back. Paul made a silly face in return and they both grinned. 

“Well then,” Aljoscha said, clapping his hands and suddenly perking up again. “Give me one of those, please.”

He pointed at Richard’s cigarette. Richard gave him one of his and Aljoscha took it and slipped it behind one ear. “This is for later, before going to bed,” he explained, winking, then he pointed his thumb over his shoulder, towards the club entrance. "Well, who wants to go back inside and take another round? My treat, obviously.” 

“The bar is closed,” Alex mumbled. 

“No problem. We’ll have it opened for us.”

“Haven’t you already had a few too many, tonight?”

“Shut the fuck up, kid.”

“Hmm… okay.”

Since talking Aljoscha out of anything was simply impossible, Paul didn’t even try to. Let him be, at least the show is over, Flake’s face cynically said. So they just followed him inside.

“Now that I see Scholle, I understand a lot of things,” Flake whispered enigmatically into Paul’s ear while getting back in. “Too bad that Aljoscha did understand too.”

Paul glanced up at him, looking all innocent and pure. With a grimace on his face, Flake just shook his head, meaning that it was not the right time and place to talk about it, and walked ahead. 

Before the semi-darkness of the club swallowed them up again, Paul found himself one step away from Richard, who was walking alongside him, bringing up the rear. 

Richard leaned over to him and Paul smelled the smoke in his warm breath against his own cheek. All the hairs on his body stood up immediately. 

"I heard you play before Aljoscha invited me on stage,” Richard hissed in his ear. "I just wanted you to know that I liked that. I like your style. I like you, Paul.”

Paul stopped in his tracks, his lips parting in surprise. His heart started throbbing like a wild beast in his chest. 

"Oh..." It was the only thing he managed to say. “T-thank you."

"You're welcome," Richard smiled. “Hey, let’s meet on Monday, if you’re free. Just the two of us, we don’t need Aljoscha. Shall we?”

Paul gasped, his eyes bulging out with incredulity. “Yes. Yes, absolutely. Yes.” 

That’s so so lame, a voice taunted him from the depth of his brain, but Paul just whisked it away. He didn’t care of what he might look like in other people’s eyes. He wouldn’t miss the chance to put his hands on Richard for anything in the world - to feel his skin, his skin under his clothes. His skin on his own. 

By all appearances, Richard wanted just the same with him. Things couldn’t be any better.  

“Well, then,” Richard said softly,”… we have a deal.”

He stared at Paul between his eyelashes for a while, then he put the burning cigarette back in his mouth. As Richard walked ahead of him inside the club, Paul couldn’t help but check out his ass. 

The countdown to Monday had just begun. 

 

 

 

Chapter 5: Chapter IV

Chapter IV

 

 

April 1989

 

 

Monday took a scarily long time for Paul to come - he had been fretting throughout the week.

Every morning Paul would meet Flake at breakfast, and every morning Flake would have that sly look on his face meaning “you’re in deep shit, my friend” that made Paul turn the other way to hide a snort of amusement. Flake, however, hadn’t made any comment on the blatant infatuation that Paul had for Richard so far, keeping Paul, who was curious as hell, guessing about his true opinion on the matter. 

That Monday morning, however, Paul woke up with one thing in mind (actually two things, the first one being his impending meeting with Scholle, obviously): asking Flake. So he ventured into the kitchen, where his friend was sitting at the breakfast table with his morning coffee, and asked him point-blank. 

Flake looked at him with one arched eyebrow, before slowly taking a sip from his mug. 

“Good day to you too, my dear. Why do you want to know?”, he glossed over, as wary as usual. 

Paul stood in front of him with his arms folded over his chest and rolled his eyes. “Because you’re my closest friend, my roommate and the person I spend most of my time with. Oh, and because I care about your opinion.” 

Flake looked amused. “Wow. I’m flattered.”

“You better, since you’re the only one I told about this.”

“Counting on my discretion, I suppose.”

Paul looked at him sideways. “I got a funny feeling that you’re fucking with me right now, man.”

Flake couldn’t hold a sneer back. “My discretion is completely useless in this case, you know. Only a blind man wouldn’t see that you lost your mind over that Scholle guy, my dear Paul.”

“Well, you’re not blind but still pretending to know nothing about the matter,” Paul said assertively. “I’ll tell you: it’s starting to get tiresome.” 

Flake took another sip of coffee and said nothing. Paul groaned with impatience and finally solved to take a chair for himself and dropped into it. 

“Look, I know that you usually like to keep your opinions to yourself, Flake,” he started seriously, scratching his neck. “You never disapproved this thing with Scholle openly, but you didn’t make any bones about your distrust either. Now I wanna know why you don’t like him.”

Flake took his time before answering. Judging by his brooding face, he was carefully weighing his words. 

“It’s not that I don’t like him, Paul,” he said eventually, looking down at his cup. “I just think he’s no good for you.”

Paul had expected that, but it hurt a little anyway. 

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” Flake said hastily, peering up at Paul’s darkening face. “But if you’re asking for truth, truth I will give you.” 

“Nice. Go ahead, shoot.”

Flake inhaled a deep breath. He stopped toying with the mug handle and stared bluntly at Paul. 

“I think that you and Scholle are too different to be together, Paul. You care too little about yourself and Scholle only cares about himself. And this will end up being a problem in the long run, that’s what I think.” 

Paul remained silent for a while, his head down, his forearms resting on the table. “I’m not thinking long term, actually,” he said eventually. “It’s not my thing, you know. I prefer living in the moment. We always say we don’t know what tomorrow may bring, so how could we make any plans? I’m just enjoying what I have as long as I have it, I guess. That’s all.” 

Flake studied him through his glasses. “Okay, but then? What happens when the things that work for you today will no longer tomorrow? Do you ever think about it?” 

Paul shrugged. “No. I don’t like to question about things that may well never happen.” 

“But I do. I know you, and I’ve never seen you like this. Nothing good can come out of this.” 

“Have you done playing the fucking Chicken Little?”

Now it was Flake’s turn to roll his eyes. “You asked for my opinion, Paul. And I’m giving it to you.”

“I almost prefer it when you don’t.” 

“That’s the thanks you get for speaking frankly!”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Paul said hastily, noticing the genuine disappointment on Flake’s face. “Don’t get me wrong, man. I’ll forever be grateful for your honesty. After all, you’re the only one who tells the truth in my face when all the others just pretend not to see. And I know that the things you say… well, you only say them because you’re worried about me.” 

“I just don’t want you to end up with a broken heart, man,” Flake mumbled gloomily, but his face had softened. “But it’s foolish of me to think that my words can change your feelings. You’re in too deep to see things clearly.”

“That’s how love works, isn’t it?” Paul said softly, melting into a smile. “I’m afraid you can’t do anything for me, Flake. As well as I can’t make you like Scholle, whatever I may say or do.” 

“I’m not a big fan of Scholle as a person, but I have a lot of respect for him as a guitarist, you know that,” Flake said, shrugging his shoulders. “He’s not only technically proficient, he also has a far better stage presence than old Aljoscha. Actually, I think he’s got too much personality to be just a rhythmic guitarist.”

“So you think that I’m a rhythmic guitarist because I have no personality?” Paul teased. 

“No, not at all, of course!” Flake protested, waving impatiently his hands in the air. “You got personality, of course! But you don’t want to be a prima donna, Paul. You’re a team building type, you like merging into, rather than standing out alone. That’s the difference between you and Scholle. You understand?” 

Paul pretended to consider Flake’s words for a few moments. “Hmm… So that was a compliment?”

Flake nodded.

“…even if it sounded like an insult.”

“You know compliments are not my strong suit.”

Paul sneered. “Yes, I know you, you old fox.” 

“Old? I’m younger than you, actually.”

“Age doesn’t matter. Look at Aljoscha, who’s over his forties and still…”

“Speaking of which,” Flake jumped up. “Do you ever wonder how Aljoscha feels about Richard and you?”

Paul was greatly taken aback by the question. He slightly tensed. 

“No, and I don’t give a tin shit about it. It’s not his business.”

“But that’s not what Aljoscha may think.” 

“Well, if so, I’ll face it when the time comes. Now I have more important things in mind.”

Flake raised his hands in front of himself and surrendered. “Just don’t say I didn’t tell you.”

Paul stood up, a wide smile on his face. “I won’t. Can I borrow your leather jacket for later, yes?”   

 

 

Paul was supposed to meet Richard at six in the afternoon, but when he got off the U-bahn at Alexanderplatz it was only half past five. The afternoon was pretty chilly and Flake’s jacket a little too light; also the sleeves, who would fit Flake’s randy limbs just right, were a bit too long for poor Paul. 

He stepped outside the subway and rolled himself a cigarette. He lit it up, quivering against the cold, and inhaled gladly the first puff of smoke. He only gave a quick glance at the Fernsehturm that stood out in the distance on the southwest side of Alexanderplatz before wandering off across the square. He was walking fast to keep warm, the head sunk between his shoulders and the cigarette in his mouth, occasionally glancing around. 

There were a few people out and about, some of them clearly on their way back home from work, some just roaming aimlessly with their gaze lost in the distance. Paul was hungry so he decided to grab a Ketwurst while waiting for Richard. He ate it in front of a small food stand, watching the passersby as dusk began to settle over the city. 

When he finished, Richard hadn’t arrived yet. Since it was too cold to be standing still, Paul set off towards the opposite side of the square. He walked past the Haus des Reisens and there he stopped for a moment to look up at Der Mensch uberwindet Zeit und Raum. The first street lamps of the evening cast a glow on the copper wall and Paul’s attention was drawn to the central part of it, where the faces of the young couple and the cosmonaut stood out. Paul’s gaze lingered on the latter.  

“What you looking at?”

Paul turned on his heels with bated breath. Richard was standing in front of him, so beautiful in his leather coat and long blond dreadlocks that it hurt. Paul’s mouth went instantly dry.

“I was looking at the spaceman,” he said after clearing his throat, and nodded at the wall over his shoulder. “Whenever I pass by here, I like to stop and stare at him. Did you know he was inspired by Gagarin?” 

“Yeah, sure. The first man in space. Just amazing.” Richard slowly directed his gaze upwards, on the artwork behind Paul’s back, while reaching for his cigarettes in his pocket. “So you’re a space guy, uh?” 

“Well, Flake says that I always have my head in the clouds. So yeah, I guess that makes me a space guy, kind of.” 

Richard giggled while fumbling for a lighter. “You don’t need to go out into space to see beautiful things. There are some here on Earth, too.”

“I know,” Paul said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I can see. Even right now, in front of me.”

Richard held Paul’s hungry gaze firmly, his lips hinting at a mischievous smirk. Then he blinked, lit up the cigarette in his hand and changed the topic. 

“Sorry I couldn’t come sooner. Have you been waiting long?”

“No, not very long. I grabbed something to eat in the meanwhile.” Paul vaguely waved his hand towards the food stand. 

“Good,” Richard said, without turning that way. He inhaled the smoke and let the hand holding the cigarette drop to his side. “I’m not hungry. How about a beer?”

“You bet. Where shall we go?”

“I know a place nearby. Let’s go there. It’s too soon to bring you home anyway, I guess.”

With a wicked smile, Richard turned and wended his way down the street without waiting for Paul. 

Paul was left speechless for some seconds. If he’d had any doubts about Richard’s true intentions so far, they died right there and then. Instead, a certain warmth began to pool deep in his belly, triggered by Richard’s brazen words. 

Paul pulled himself together and followed him, wherever he was heading. 

They walked side by side to a small pub in Torstraße that was teeming with people drinking and playing cards after a long, exhausting working day. The thick smoke of cigarettes hovered  under the low ceiling, clinging to the yellowed wallpaper and the linoleum floor. 

“Great place,” Paul murmured when they entered. He glanced around while they took a seat. “Do you come here often?”

“Every now and then,” Richard said lazily, stretching in his chair like a cat. A young man came to their table to take orders and then went away. “I like how they do things here. Especially the beer, but not only that.” 

Paul snuck a sidelong glance at him, sneering.  

“Do you always talk in riddles?” 

“Riddles? No, no,” Richard laughed. “I’m usually very straightforward. Even too much, as someone told me once.”

“Well, you can be as straightforward as you like with me. I’m not easily offended.”

“Maybe not offended… Hurt, perhaps.”

Paul glanced at him, a playful smile lingering at the corners of his lips.

“And why would you hurt me?”  

The waiter got back with the beers and left them on the table. Paul took his glass and sipped from it, eyes fixed on Richard above the rim. 

“I wouldn’t,” Richard said. “Not intentionally, at least. If you know what I mean.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Paul nodded and slowly put his beer down. “Hmm… Have you hurt many people in your life, intentionally or not?”

“Only a few.” 

“Have they ever hurt you back?”

Richard took a long drag from his cig before replying. “Yes. Many times.”

“So you might be the one who gets easily hurt, not me.”

Richard looked up astonished. He met Paul’s smiling gaze laid on him. 

“Ouch,” said Richard softly, blinking. “You got me.” 

Paul grinned. “It’s just a feeling. Am I wrong?”

Richard gave him a close-lipped smile. “No. You might have just hit the spot, Paulchen. Good job.”

Paul’s guts immediately churned with emotion at the word. 

“This is the first time you call me that.”

“Do you mind?”

“No, not at all. It’s just…” Paul hesitated, shrugging his shoulders. “Only my closest friends call me Paulchen, usually.”  

“It’s the same with Scholle, isn’t it? You called me that the very first time we met, then you said that you wanted to be friends. Next time, you gave me your guitar and let me play in your place in your band and I said that made the two of us friends. Do you agree on that? Do you still want to be friends?”

The question was tricky. 

Well, Paul didn’t exactly want to be friends with Richard - and neither did Richard, judging by his dark, languorous gaze. A shiver crept up Paul’s spine as Richard’s eyes undressed him slowly and methodically across the table. No, it wasn’t all in Paul’s head. It was real. There was no shame in Richard’s gaze, no uncertainty. Richard must have been the type of guy who knows exactly what he wants and isn’t shy about letting it show. 

Before Paul could answer, the noise inside the place suddenly became very loud, making Paul turn around to shoot a curious glance over his shoulder. A group of people sitting at a nearby table had just picked up a fight over something, while others had rushed to calm the spirits. Fortunately, the alcohol was taken away promptly and the situation got back in check in the blink of an eye. 

While Paul was still looking at them, Richard leaned forward across the table. His breath caressed Paul’s ear cup, tickling his skin. Paul could hear the words just fine.  

“Come to bed with me.” 

Paul slowly slewed around in his chair, slightly shaking. He stared into Richard’s eyes, then at his mouth, feeling completely lost. He swallowed. He was sweating bricks in his clothes. He wanted nothing else more than that - still, he wished to tease a little longer.  

“So this is how you make friends, Scholle? Doing them?”

Richard grinned. “If you’ve changed your mind, Paul, just say it.” 

Paul shook his head. “No. I’ll come home with you. If it’s not too early for such a big move, of course.”

Richard pretended to glance at the clock, playing along. “Well, it’s already been thirty minutes since we got here. I’ve never waited so long before hitting on someone I like.” 

While Richard kept eating him with his eyes, Paul suddenly realized he was painfully hard, his pants feeling tight around his crotch. Richard must have figured that out too, somehow, because he slowly pushed back on his chair, a naughty grin on his face. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, his unflinching gaze fixed on Paul. 

“Let’s get a move on,” he said. “My home is not very far from here, but we have to walk.” 

“I hope not that much. I don’t feel quite able to walk normally right now.”

“How so?” Richard mocked him. “A few too many beers, Paul? Or is something else?”

Paul shuffled his feet under the table, his look eloquent enough. 

Richard’s grin widened. “Trust me, it can only get better by tomorrow. Let’s go.”

 

 

Richard was not lying - his house was little less than a half-hour walk from the pub.  

But neither he nor Paul could wait that long. They had just stepped out the pub when Richard pushed Paul against the wall, a little away from the streetlights, and violently assaulted Paul’s mouth with his, pressing their bodies together. 

Paul gasped as Richard's tongue forced its way past his teeth and slid against his, warm and supple, coaxing little muffled sounds from him. Paul clutched both sides of Richard’s face between his hands and held it still against his, while moving savagely his lips on Richard’s, trying to delve deeper into his mouth. 

They were forced to part when a passerby crossed the street a short distance from them,  shooting a glance at the two young men visibly panting and disheveled. Richard moved a little away from Paul and leaned by his side with his back to the wall, eyes half-closed while trying to catch his breath. Paul almost couldn’t feel his own lips anymore, so forceful Richard’s kiss had been. His knees were slightly trembling. 

They stood still for some moments, avoiding looking at each other for fear of not being able to keep the mutual desire under control. 

“We’d better hurry home, wouldn’t we?”, said Richard, still a little out of breath. 

Paul heard the click of Richard’s lighter in the dim light of the street and then he smelled tobacco again. 

“Yeah, I think so.”  

Paul pushed himself off the wall. He jerked his hand up, took the cig out of Richard’s mouth and stick it into his own. Enjoying Richard’s puzzled glance, Paul inhaled a big puff of smoke and slowly let it out. He looked up at the sky, where the first stars were breaking through, before returning the stub to Richard, smiling. 

“Shall we go?” 

Suddenly, it wasn’t so cold outside anymore. 

As they resumed walking side by side, Paul found himself sliding his hand into Richard’s. He felt the man tense up. Richard didn’t pull him away, though, so Paul let their fingers naturally intertwine. He squeezed Richard’s fingers slightly, pressing firmly the palm against his. He knew he shouldn’t have done that - he didn’t want to scare Richard away on their first date, looking too sticky-sweet or something - but the need to touch his skin was just compelling. 

They walked the rest of the way in silence, both feeling their mutual pining grew stronger by the minute. Where their hands touched, it seemed to burn like fire. 

Richard lived in a small apartment in Lychener Straße, on the second floor of a nondescript building in a pure Socialist style. While Richard led the way up the stairs, Paul focused on the clunk of his own footsteps to distract himself from the thumping of his heart in his ears.  

“It’s not much of a house,” Richard said apologetically when he opened the door. He stepped aside to let Paul him. “Actually, it’s-”

“I don’t give a fuck about your house,” Paul cut him off firmly. “I’m here for you.” 

And to make that clearer he pinned Richard to the wall while the man was still struggling to take off his jacket. Paul roughly helped him get rid of it and then pressed against Richard impatiently, biting one side of his neck while letting his hands rove all over Richard’s body as if he couldn’t get enough of him. 

Richard hummed while Paul viciously savaged his neck; his back arched off the wall, his hips merging into Paul’s. Then he reached up and wrapped his right hand tight around the topknot on Paul’s neck; he jerked Paul’s head back, making him stop. Paul let out an annoyed grunt.

“I thought you were a sweet and gentle guy,” Richard hissed, looking at his face with eyes blurred with lust. “Instead, you turn out to be this fucking wild thing.” A grin slowly spread on his face. “Not that I mind, though.” 

“Well, just because I took you by the hand on our way here doesn’t mean that I’m as sweet as honey,” Paul murmured. He took a breath through his gritted teeth and made to go back to Richard’ neck, but Richard held him in place. “I bet you thought you could do with me whatever you want, Scholle, but I’m usually not a passive guy.”

“Well, neither am I.”

“Hmm…Houston, we have a problem…” 

Richard giggled. “Well, not necessarily. It all boils down to what you want most, Paul.” 

Paul didn’t need to think twice. “You. I want you,” he said resolutely. “Any way you want, Scholle… that’s fine to me. Let’s just do it, please. I can’t wait any longer.”

The pleading in Paul’s voice was so passionate that it robbed Richard of his speech for a few seconds. He stared into Paul’s eyes, struggling to keep in control, for he was on the edge too. 

“Oh, screw this,” he finally groaned in surrender. “Let’s just fuck.”

 

 

Having sex with someone can sometimes get you to know about that person much more than a long chat could. However, when Paul woke up in the morning, cuddled in an unfamiliar scent, lips swollen and feeling his whole body deliciously aching, he couldn't honestly say that he knew much more of Richard than he did the night before. 

There he was, Richard - lying on his stomach by Paul’s side, one arm resting loosely around Paul’s waist, the other hanging from the edge of the bed -  and his mystery was still perfectly intact. Paul had kissed and touched and fucked him all night long (and had been fucked too), but still had no clue what Richard was thinking, or rather dreaming right now - and he would have given anything to know.  

Anyway, since he was not inclined too much to reflection by nature, Paul soon stopped racking his brain and rolled on his side, moving closer to Richard. His features seemed even more chiseled than usual in the dapple of light and shadow of the morning, yet he didn’t look very peaceful even in his sleep. His body seemed to be constantly vibrating with energy under his skin, as if waiting for the slightest stimulus to come back to his senses. 

In fact, when Paul instinctively reached up and stroked the hair on Richard’s forehead,  Richard’s eyes immediately opened wide and he stared at Paul broad awake. 

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Paul cackled. “Did you sleep well?”

“Hmm… Kind of. What time is it?” 

“Don’t know. Not too late, I hope. The sun is high.” Paul followed the movements of Richard’s pupils around the room. “Hey, don’t tell me you don’t remember my name. You were not that drank last night.”

Richard laughed, his face softening instantly. “Don’t say shit, Paul. I’ve just remembered there’s something I’ve gotta do this morning…” He paused. “But never mind, it can wait.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, it can wait,” Richard repeated firmly and his eyes glinted with mischief. “Sorry for the shitty good morning. I guess I can do better than this.” 

“Still waiting.” 

Chuckling, Richard grabbed Paul by the back of his head and leaned forward to kiss him open-mouth. Their tongues rubbed against each other - the kiss soon became hot and sloppy. 

“I thought you had enough of this, after last night…” Richard panted, pulling a few inches away from Paul.

“Bollocks. I could never get enough of this.”

“Hmm, really?” Richard nibbled teasingly at Paul’s lower lip. His palm curled around one side of Paul’s neck, his thumb rubbing up and down Paul’s throat. “You know what? I think I like you, Paul.” 

“You already said that, thanks.”  

“No, you don’t understand. I… I really like you. I mean it.” Richard pulled away again to look Paul in the eye. “But… I don’t want to play games with you. My life is a bit troubled at the moment. I got some things I need to sort out. Things about myself and people close to me. Don’t ask me questions, please, because I’m not sure I can give you answers. But I have to warn you because, well, as I said before, I don’t want to hurt you…”   

Richard broke off. Paul stared at his lips, holding his breath. “Oh.” It was the only thing he managed to say, and blinked, utterly speechless. He definitely hadn’t seen that coming. 

Richard read correctly the look on Paul’s face. “Did I let you down, Paul?”

Paul pondered for a while. Richard’s thumb moving on the soft skin of his throat was not helping keep him focused. “No,” he said at the end. “I appreciate your honesty. Besides, I’m not that surprised because, you know, I wasn’t really expecting you to be … how can I say… a family guy or something…”

This time it was Richard’s turn to look blown away.

“What? You don’t think I can be trustworthy?”

“I don’t think anything. I may not be trustworthy myself at times, actually.” 

Richard inspected Paul’s face thoughtfully. “But you don’t strike me as the type of guy who messes up and leaves.”

Paul suddenly thought back to what Aljoscha had told him the first time he had met Richard, just after the concert - that Richard was extremely ambitious and definitely not one to stay. That he would always be ready to leave for something else. Something better. For good. 

He felt his chest tighten with anguish. 

“Paul?” Richard’s puzzled voice shook him out of his reveries. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” Paul said quickly. “I was just a little… spaced-out, sorry.”

There was so much, indeed, that Paul would have liked to ask Richard - so much he was dying to know about him: his plans for the future (are you really going to leave?) and his current personal issues (what kind of things you need to sort out?), his past relationships (uhm…) and his present friends, his family and his hobbies, the music he liked to play and the one he used to listen to, whether he was scared of the dark, where he would go when he was upset and distressed, if he liked the West, the last time he had cried, whether he had  ever been married, what the exact shade of blue of his eyes was, if he preferred his Bratwurst with chutney or not, the last time he had fallen in love… 

… but something was holding him back. It was unusual of him - it was fear. 

Because… yes, they had just had wonderful sex and Richard had told him that he liked him (more than once) and had opened up a little bit to him, but still… Still, Paul knew that was not enough. It was too soon anyway. What they had was still too fragile and just barely springing up to risk destroying it with a daring move. He’d better not cross the invisible line that Richard had drown around himself. All Paul could do was to be patient and wait for Richard to let him in of his own accord. 

Besides, if there was one thing that Paul understood about Richard, it was that any attempt to force him or put any restraints on him would be self-defeating. Richard was wild at heart, just like Paul himself, that’s why Paul could totally understand - and partly share - his need for freedom. He would not do anything to make Richard feel bounded. Paul was not like Aljoscha, after all… He didn’t want to do to Richard what Aljoscha had been doing to him. 

“Share your thoughts with me, Paul, please,” Richard begged him. “I’m dying a slow death here.”

Paul immediately brought his attention back to Richard. Looking into his eyes, he decided at once to let it all go - doubts, fears, uncertainties. Nothing but Richard mattered at the moment. No long-term thinking, right? Just enjoy the moment. That was what he had told Flake the morning before - it seemed a lifetime ago. 

Since words were not Paul’s strong suit, he got down to action. 

He clawed at Richard’s hair, almost angrily, coaxing a helpless gasp from him, and drew him closer to whisper on his lips. “How about we stop talking and finally get it on, hmm? Damn, I’ve been waiting for a good seeing to since I woke up in your bed, for fuck’s sake.”

Richard laughed. The laughter soon died down to a strangled moan as Paul’s mouth drifted down his neck, biting and licking. “I was just thinking to ask you to let me be on top again,” Paul murmured, his lips stretching into a smile against his skin. “But I don’t really need to ask, do I?”

Richard hissed something unintelligible through his clenched teeth. Paul went on relentlessly bruising his neck until Richard exploded. “Fine!”

Paul smirked. “As you wish.” 

Without thinking twice, he switched their position. He pressed Richard down on the mattress and climbed on top of him. He slid one leg between Richard’s, spreading his knees apart, and settled between them. Then he froze, looking down at him with a smug smile. 

“I’ll admit, I like the view from up here better.”

“Wipe that grin off your face and go at it, for fuck’s sake.”

Paul snickered. “I’m at your command, sir.”

When he started getting busy, Richard was left with no more breath for talking apart from chanting Paul’s name. Again and again. Desperately and softly. 

When he slid deep into Richard, Paul felt it. He had never felt it before. 

When he came, he closed his eyes. He felt it even more - bigger, deeper. He had heard of such a thing, but had never thought it could be possibile, it could be real.

It was like a quiet explosion. It was like a star blowing up in flames behind his lowered eyelids. Paul had seen that in some TV programs about space he loved to watch since he was a little kid growing up in Moscow. It was called Supernova - when a massive star dies, all alone, light-years away from Earth, it releases an unfathomable amount of raw energy, and you can still see its remnants glow out there in space for thousand years after. You see them, and know that the star is long gone.  

When Paul finally collapsed on Richard’s body, with no breath and no strength left, those ashes were still burning. 

I love you. 

Oh, I think I love you so much. 

 

 

 

Chapter 6: Chapter V

Chapter V 

 

 

 

October 1989 

 

 

 

Paul opened his eyes around eleven o’clock in the morning and let his gaze wander around the tiny room. It was so cluttered with objects - especially clothes, CDs and broken or out-of-tune guitars - that there was barely space left for his bed. 

Conversely, his mind was completely empty of thoughts - silently savoring the simple pleasure of being awake and alive. 

It had been exactly six months since he and Scholle had started dating, and Paul couldn't be happier. Fortunately, the project of a collaboration between the respective bands had withered on the vine (mostly because of Aljoscha being the usual janky ass), sparing the two lovebirds the embarrassment of pretending in front of the others. So they had kept their relationship secret so far, and there had never been any talk of “being together” officially, but… who needed words when actions spoke for themselves? The way Scholle held him after making love, the way Paul couldn’t deny him anything, in bed and out of bed, was enough. After five months, Scholle was still the first thought Paul would wake up to every morning - and the last one that would lull him to sleep at night.

Paul sat up on his bed, yawning, threw an old moth-eaten sweater over his pajamas and walked out of his room heading to the kitchen. 

Flake was there, reading a book while quietly enjoying a steaming cup of coffee. When Paul stepped into the kitchen, shuffling in his slippers, Flake glanced up from the page and couldn’t hold back a grin.  

“‘Morning, you early little bird," he teased. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby, thanks.” With another loud yawn, Paul pulled a chair close to the table and flopped down in it, scratching his chest under his clothes. ”Can you lend me your leather jacket again, Flake? It’s for tonight. Please, I promise I'll bring it back to you without a scratch… just like the last time.”

"Oh, you’d better, since that jacket isn't really mine, as I already told you," Flake retorted, slightly squinting at Paul. "If you ruin it, I won't be able to resell it, and there’ll be no payday coming, you know.”

“I know, I know. As soon as I have a few extra marks I’ll buy one of my own, I promise. But until then…” 

Paul dropped the sentence and sighed deeply, his good mood slowly trailing off at the reminder of the poor state of his finances. He sank even more into his chair and stretched over the table, resting his chin on it while chewing on his lip. 

Flake lowered the book onto his lap and peered at Paul, his eyes softening at the poor sight.

“Here, I’ve just made it,” he muttered, sliding his steaming cup across the table towards Paul.

Paul shook his head sourly, his good mood definitely spoiled. “No, thanks. I've had enough of this miserable ersatz coffee they foist on us here. How I wish I lived in the West, Flake! I’d love to, even just for a couple of days!… I would have a real coffee, for once. I could buy new clothes and a TV and hear the news from the rest of the world. Who wouldn’t like that?" 

Flake took his time before replying, and when he did he was extremely serious. “Well, the Hungarian border is now open. You can flee to West through there, if you really want to.” So saying, he got up and walked to the stove to pour another cup of coffee. When he returned to the table he put it down right in front of Paul. “Enjoy this as long as you can and stop complaining, Paul. We can’t always complain. They already say that complaining is all we can do on this side of the Wall.”

“Oh, really? Who says that?” Paul growled, sulking at his coffee like it was all its fault. 

Flake sat down across the table and shrugged his shoulders.

“It doesn’t matter. Everything seems better on the other side of the Wall, doesn’t it? But I wonder… is it really so? Is it really as they want us to believe?” 

“There you go, you and your usual skepticism," Paul grunted, glancing at Flake from under his knitted brows. “I was just wondering when you would bring up the West-is-Hell issue.”

“You have no proof that I’m wrong.”

“And what proof do you have that you’re right?” 

Flake opened his mouth to retort, but Paul anticipated him. “Look, take for example those friends of Alex from Schöneberg, those who sneak him real coffee and real chocolate every few months… I can’t remember their name right now but… You met them too, didn’t you? And they do seem to be nice and honest people, right? Do you think they're selling liars too, just like their Government?” 

“I’m not saying that all the Wessis are liars or crooks, of course,” Flake replied, blushing with indignation. “It would be very stupid of me to think so. I know a lot of friends of my parents who happen to be living in West Berlin since the end of the War and they’re good people. More than good, even. What I’m saying is that… capitalism itself is a lie. A massive, self-destructive one. I don’t blame the people themselves, but the system they help to create and maintain until it swallows them up. We are all its victims, in a way. The only difference is that the people who live here - people like you and me, for example - can look at it from the outside and see the lie at its core, while the ones who live in its shadow are still blind. And by the time they realize it, it may already be too late to go back.”

Paul stayed silent for a while, just staring into space while reflecting. 

“You know, I hate it when you say we and they,” he mumbled eventually. “As if we were… some kind of enemies… I thought we were one single nation.”

“We were - once.”

“This fucking Wall won’t remain standing forever, Flake.”

“We cannot say for certain. What is certain is that it’s standing so far.” 

Paul growled. 

“Well, since nothing can be done about that for now, why not try to benefit from the advantages provided by what you call ‘the capitalistic lie’, at least?" Flake glared at him above his glasses. “Come on, man. It can’t be just as bad as you say!”

“You talk like a utilitarian, Paul.” 

“Oh well. As I said before, I’d just like to afford nice clothes, a new guitar and something other than surrogate coffee, every now and then,” Paul snapped, clenching his fists with frustration. “But that’s the least, believe me. Even more so, I’d like to have a voice in choosing my own job and my own career. Enough with being told what to do all the time! I’d like to travel around, have a peek of the world outside this country before I get old and sick and finally die. Is that really too much to ask, Flake? Don’t you think I deserve all of that, just like any other citizen in the West does?”

Flake was sitting very still, as if rooted to his seat. While Paul spoke, his eyes were fixed on him, every line of his face tense. 

“Of course you do, Paul,” he said softly, when Paul paused to breathe. His friend’s outburst had impressed Flake very much with its intensity. “We all deserve a nice life. I just don’t get how craving things, and always craving more, could make someone happier, that’s all. And that’s what capitalism is all about.” 

“It’s not just about material things. It’s also about… freedom.”

“Being pushed to buy things you don’t really need thinking you need them seems just another form of slavery to me.”

“What about having to work ten hours a day for a few marks?”

“Actually-”

Paul leaned over across the table. “You can’t deny that this Government is starving us, Flake. All they feed us is lies and lies can’t sustain a nation. Wanna talk about brainwashing? Fine. They’re no better than your bloody Western capitalists in this respect.”

Flake held his gaze without blinking behind his glasses. “I know. I’m not denying that. However, that’s not something I would go blubbering out loud around.”

Paul shrugged, leaning back again in his chair and crossing his arms. “I’m only saying it to you, here at home. Relax, man.”

“Well,” Flake frowned again. “I don’t think that this dump is under surveillance, but… you never know.”

"Oh God,” Paul moaned, rolling his eyes. “Now the persecutory delusions too! I swear, man, your paranoia is driving me insane.”

“What persecutory delusions?” Flake protested, clutching his fingers around his cup until  the knuckles whitened. “I’m not making anything up, and you know it. You just pretend not to see because you don’t like to. But even so, the Stasi is making people - innocent people - sweat blood, and spitting it up too, sometimes.”

“You don’t need to remind me, Flake, thank you.”

“…just a few days ago it happened to Chris’ friend. He said they swooped into his house in the dead of night and turned everything upside down, only to leave empty-handed three hours after. They didn’t tell what they were looking for, but they need no real reason to do what they do after all, right?…”

“Right,” hissed Paul through his teeth, but Flake was too fired up to listen to him.

“… then I heard about those poor people who were protesting peacefully in Leipzig… The cops charged them. They beat them up and threw them in prison. Then they went on with ‘their job’ in there, trying to persuade ordinary people to admit non-existent crimes against the DDR…" Flake paused to catch his breath. He looked down and shook his head, red-faced. “Maybe you’re right, Paul. Capitalism isn’t the worst thing of all. Things may not be as rosy as they seem in the West, but they’re certainly not so in the East either. Everything seems to be going down the drain in this shitty country more and more every day."

Flake’s voice trailed off. Paul tilted his head to the side and peered at him with curiosity. “After so many years, still I’m not sure what you really believe in, Flake. Don’t you think you sound a bit incoherent sometimes?”

“Why? Can’t one hate Western capitalism as much as Eastern political repression without being labeled as incoherent?” 

Paul thought about it. “Uhm, well, I suppose so. Fair enough.” He slowly leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table and cast a side glance at Flake’s sour face, the faintest trace of a smile now flashing on his lips. “Anyway, if you really suspect that this house is under surveillance, you'd better watch your mouth too, Flake… If they took you away, I’d find myself alone in this shack. And I’d hate to pay the rent for two..."

"Hmm..." Flake’s expression didn’t change a bit. “In that case, I give you my permission to use my savings. They will help you get by, at least for a while.”

His unfaltering seriousness made Paul crack up. “What savings? You have no savings, my friend. Oh, wait! Wait. You mean the nest egg you’re hiding under your mattress? Of course! How could I forget…” 

“What are you talking about?” Flake frowned. “There’s no such a-” 

“Shhh!” Paul shushed him, and leaned over once again to whisper as soft as he could on Flake’s face. “I know. But if someone shows up on our doorstep in the next few days and goes straight to your bed, well, we’ll finally have the proof that you’ve been right all along, that they are spying on us…” 

Paul winked at him shrewdly. Flake frowned even more. Without a word, he slowly took off his glasses and wiped them with a piece of his shirt. Then he put them back on and stared at Paul through them.

“If I didn’t know you well, Paul Landers, I would think you’re a fucking idiot.”

“Lucky you know me, then.”

“Everything seems a joke to you.”

“But not everything is.”

Flake rolled his eyes. “I never want to discuss politics with you again, Paul.”

Paul giggled. “Neither do I, man. I just wanted to borrow a jacket from you this morning. I couldn’t imagine I’d unleash hell.” 

Shaking his head in amusement, he reached out for his cup and took a sip. The coffee had gone cold. When Paul put it down, puckering his lips, he noticed that Flake was still peering at him; while chasing a hidden thought, the keyboardist’s expression had gotten inexplicably nervous. 

“What now?” 

Flake hesitated. He adjusted the glasses on his nose and cleared his throat before speaking, as he did whenever he was feeling particularly uneasy. 

“I assume you’ll meet Scholle today. That’s why you asked me for my jacket, right?” Paul nodded. “So… have you heard from him, lately?”

The question sounded very strange to Paul. He couldn’t imagine any reason why Flake would ask him about Scholle, but he was glad they had changed the topic of discussion at least. 

“Well, uhm, not in the last few days, to be honest,” Paul said, shrugging. “But that’s normal between us. I mean, we’re not that clingy type of couple you’re used to seeing around.” 

He paused, forcing a smile. He didn’t tell Flake that he still had to struggle every day not to go after Scholle like a puppy wagging its tail - first of all for self-respect, and second because he didn’t want to make Scholle feel pressured.  

In any other occasion, Flake wouldn’t have bought it in the slightest. But now he was too busy with hiding his own sudden concern to see through Paul’s lie, and that’s what upset Paul the most.  

“What’s wrong, man?”, he finally broke the silence, addressing the very pensive keyboardist. “Why you asking about Scholle?” 

Flake looked up at Paul, nipping at his own lip. 

“Well, uhm... I don’t know if I should tell you…” 

Paul tensed immediately. “Tell me what?”

“It’s just some rumors I’ve heard… Nothing solid, but… Are you sure you’ll meet Scholle today?” 

When Flake asked him for the second time, punctuating the words, Paul felt that something was escaping him but didn’t understand what. 

“I have no idea where this is going, man.”  

“Where was the last time you saw Scholle in person or spoke to him on the phone?”

Paul winced. “Uhm, a few days ago. I can’t remember exactly the day. He told me that he was going to be busy for a while, so I assumed he didn’t want to be bothered. But the last thing he said was that he would wait for me today afternoon at the usual pub.”

“And you haven’t heard from him since then?”

“No. I told you, we’re not those kind of guys.”

Paul felt like he should justify himself for not being part of the classic romantic couple, and that was started to get on his nerves. 

When Flake sighed again at his words, adding no further explanation, Paul definitively lost his temper. 

“Goddamn, Flake! Stop playing games and tell me what’s in your mind. Don’t leave me hanging, please.” 

He stared at Flake as if he could pull the words out of his mouth with the sheer power of his gaze. 

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you then. Calm down,” Flake said reluctantly, lifting his hands in front of him in reassurance. “But promise me you won’t lose your shit.”

“Flake, I swear to God-”

“Easy, easy. No need to go blasphemous right now.”

“Flake…”

“I heard that Scholle might be among the people who were arrested at the demonstration in Leipzig a few days ago.”

A stunned silence fell over the small kitchen - so deep that one could hear a pin drop in there.

Paul stood there gawping, utterly speechless.  

“Paul, you okay?" Flake tapped him with his foot under the table, just to make sure Paul wasn’t having a stroke. "Paul?"

"Arrested?" Paul breathed. "Who told you? Are you sure? How did that happen?”

“Slow down, slow down. I can’t answer more than one question at a time.”

Paul swallowed. “Tell me everything you know, Flake. Please.”

Flake mechanically reached for his cup and lifted it to his mouth, only to discover it was empty. So he put it back down, sighing and avoiding Paul’s gaze.

“Do you remember last night at Alex’s house?” Paul slowly nodded. “Well, while you were out smoking, I overheard Aljoscha say that to Alex.”

“Aljoscha said that?” Paul’s eyes widened slightly in terror. “But… that means it must be true! Aljoscha knows whatever happens in Berlin, even on the other side of the Wall…” 

“Yeah, with all the dealings he has with the Wessis and the Stasi turning a blind eye to him, I'm not surprised," Flake said acidly. 

Paul didn’t hear him. His gaze was clouded up. “Did he mention if Scholle was okay?”

“No,” Flake shook his head sadly. “He didn’t say anything else. Look, Paul, we must tread lightly around this. We can’t be sure what happened.”

“He could very well have been arrested days ago and I wouldn't know anything about it. How could he have gotten in touch with me to tell me, after all? They don’t really give you a phone in prison…”

“So you think it’s possible?”

“Well, it could be. I don’t know. I hope it didn’t go that way, of course, but…” Paul paused, on the verge of panic. “I’ve got to find out.” He moved as if to stand up, but froze in the middle of the action. His thoughtful gaze landed back on Flake. “Just one thing, Flake, I don’t understand… Why didn't Aljoscha tell me?”

Flake shot him a pitiful glance above the rim of his cup. “What kind of question is that? It’s obvious why.”

Paul dropped down again on his chair. He slowly took his cup, clutching the chipped handle tightly between his fingers just to have something to focus on. “Does Aljoscha know about my relationship with Scholle?”

Again that look from Flake. “Only a blind man could not see what’s going on between the two of you. And Aljoscha can see pretty clearly.”

“So you’re suggesting that he left me in the dark on purpose and that he did it out of jealousy, right?”

“Well, well,” said Flake sarcastically. “Finally you’re opening your eyes too, honey.”

Paul shot daggers at him. “It’s my fucking business who I’m screwing or not. Aljoscha has no right to stick his nose in my private life, goddamnit.”

“I know. You should go tell him.”

“What I want right now is to never speak to him again.”

Flake scoffed. “I've heard that from you so many times by now that I don't believe it anymore. You're just too nice to stay mad at Aljoscha for more than three days.”

“If he believes that, with Scholle temporarily out of the game, I will forget him and be his lady-in-waiting instead…”

“Oh, I thought you were already Aljoscha’s lady-in-waiting. Don’t you put him to bed?”

“I didn’t know you were such a wanker, Flake.”

Flake received the insult with a smile. “Well, I tried to warn you, some time ago. It didn’t work. Now all that I’m left with is to laugh it off.” He shrugged, feigning aloofness. “Maybe Aljoscha didn't tell you because he hoped you would think that Scholle had run away without a word, basically leaving you in the lurch. I don’t know. But knowing Aljoscha… yeah, I think he could definitely do that.” 

Paul shook his head. “I can’t believe it. That’s pure evil.”

“That’s Aljoscha. I mean.. he’s that also,” Flake shrugged again. “However, since I have reason to believe that Scholle is your priority right now, I think I know what you’ll do next. I just hope I’m wrong.” 

Paul remained silent for a few minutes, contemplating his next move. Then he looked up at Flake. “I’ll go talk to Aljoscha. I’ll ask him about Scholle and he’ll have to give me an answer. I challenge him to lie to my face this time.” 

Flake looked back blankly across the table, the defeat in his voice. “Just what I was thinking you would do.” 

“You’re the wise one. Tell me, shouldn’t I?"

Flake’s mouth lifted in a half-smirk that resembled a grimace. “It’s not about being wise or not. I know you, Paul Landers. You won't rest, you won’t stop at anything until you know more about Scholle. So there’s no point in trying to hold you back.”

“Good. So you got my back?”

“Yeah. I just wonder... what are you going to tell Aljoscha without screwing things up?" 

Paul reached up and ran his fingers between the longer strands on the top of his head, pulling them lightly as he pondered.

“Honestly, I haven’t thought about it yet. But you were right, Flake, I could never be at peace without knowing what became of Scholle. So don’t worry. I’ll make something up. I’ll find a way.”

“Without screwing things up?”

“Without screwing things up. I promise. I know that it’s not just me. It’s also about what’s best for the band, right?” 

Flake looked at him. “Always putting everybody else before yourself, uhm?”

“Maybe. I gotta go now.” 

Paul pushed the cup away and stood up from his chair, his eyes sparkling with resolution. 

“Won’t you give Scholle a call before giving in?” Flake tried one last time. “Maybe he’s at home. Maybe nothing’s ever happened.” 

“I will for sure, on my way to Aljoscha’s. But I’m not holding out much hope, my friend. I'll take your jacket, okay?”

Flake eyed him with concern. "Fine. But… Paul, should you find yourself in need of something, anything, please call me. Please. If you have problems with Aljoscha or… ” 

Flake was still speaking, but Paul had already left the kitchen. Flake heard him whistling in the entrance.

He uncrossed his legs and stood up from his chair to peek through the door. “Just remember, I said I want it back without a scratch, Paul. My jacket. You hear me?" 

Too late. The thud of the closing door cut his sentence in half. 

“Here goes nothing.” Flake sighed, and went to pour himself another cup of bad coffee. 

 

 

When Paul rang Aljoscha's doorbell it was way past noon. No one came to the door: Aljoscha was not at home and Paul thought he should have imagined it, since he had not told Aljoscha of his coming. He rummaged under the pot of wilted cyclamens at the entrance and took out the spare key that Aljoscha used to leave there for his guesses and slipped it into the keyhole. Only Paul, Alex and Flake were allowed to use the key to get in when Aljoscha was away, and only in emergency situations - and even though that clearly wasn’t an emergency situation, Paul had every intention of making it so. 

Since he had left home - and Flake’s comforting presence - the worm of doubt had been eating deeper and deeper into his brain, putting his self-control to the test. On his way to Aljoscha's, Paul had stopped in a pay phone and dialed the number that Scholle had scribbled on a piece of paper for him - a number that Paul had jealously kept in his pocket wherever he went, even though he knew it by heart by now. There had been no answer from Scholle, and Paul's heart had sunk a few inches lower with bad premonitions. 

Sure, Scholle could have been anywhere but home, minding his own business, nonetheless something made Paul absolutely sure now that what Flake had heard about Scholle from Aljoscha was true. That made Aljoscha the only person who could give Paul any news about the man he loved.  

“Hello, is anybody in there?" shouted Paul into the dark hallway, setting foot in Aljoscha’s house. "Aljoscha, are you home? It's me, it’s Paul!” 

He closed the door behind and listened to the silence of the house. He slipped the key into his pocket and peered into one room after another. They were all empty: as expected, there was no trace of Aljoscha inside. 

Paul stopped in the doorway to the kitchen and let his gaze wander around. A myriad of flyers and papers, post-its and photographs were haphazardly pinned on the cork board hanging by the wall, many of them covered in Aljoscha's chaotic and abstruse handwriting. Paul was one of the few people who could decipher it; Aljoscha’s notes, however, even when intelligible, often made sense only to him, for they usually consisted of just a "Thursday, 2 p.m.”, for example, or "call K” and stuff like that. Paul's curious gaze lingered on a rather obscure sentence sticking out among the others for its creepiness: Taste ok, watch out for nails. 

Not really wishing to look into that, Paul turned around and walked out the kitchen. He stopped halfway down the corridor in front of a low wooden table with a telephone on it and picked up the handset. 

He tried Alex's number first, assuming that perhaps Aljoscha had gone to visit him. But Aljoscha wasn’t there either. Paul hung up and stood still for a few moments, thinking and thinking. Then he dialed Scholle’s number again. Again to no avail. 

Nervousness grew inside him by the minute. He walked down the corridor towards the bedroom that was on the opposite side of the kitchen and the entrance. Even though he had already checked the bedroom only a few minutes earlier, he pushed the door  and glanced inside once again, more mechanically than out of real curiosity.

Aljoscha's bedroom was a total mess, as usual. One could easily think a bomb had exploded in there, since not a single thing seemed to be in its right place. Paul was just as hopelessly messy, so he usually saw nothing wrong about it, while Flake, who was the only tidy guy among them, hated it.

Aljoscha’s bed was a tangle of sheets and dirty clothes, most of which were also scattered on the floor and on a smashed chair in the corner. One of the closet doors was open, a jacket and a pair of pants hanging from it. A pair of boots, one of which was turned upside down, peeped out from under the bed, whose base seemed to have given way, the mattress dangerously brushing the floor. 

When Paul sat cautiously on the edge of the bed, it sank down a few more inches and the springs let out a vigorous squeak. Paul looked around, letting the desolation of the room slowly fill his eyes. 

Damn, man, you're such a mess, he thought, and couldn’t help feeling a dart of compassion for old Aljoscha. 

He adjusted his weight on the mattress and once he was sure it would not completely crash under his body, he carefully and slowly lay down on it, pushing the bunch of dirty clothes aside. He stared blankly at the light shifting on the ceiling, thinking about Richard, missing him, wondering how to get to him.  

Aljoscha’s smell permeated the room, distracting him. Instead of being bothered by it, Paul found it oddly comforting - the way he also found the sound of Flake’s voice, or of Alex’s steps on the floor, oddly comforting. They had become more familiar to him than his own parents ever were. 

Paul’s thoughts slowly drifted away. He tried to recall some memories of his brief childhood in Moscow, but he failed. Also the language was almost completely erased from his mind, and it sounded estranged to his own ears now. 

It was as if he had done everything he could to distance himself from that world - even cutting ties with his parents who had emigrated from East Europe years before he was born. Did Flake know that? Did his friend ever guess that there were other reasons beyond utilitarianism to explain why Paul wanted to belong to the West so desperately while hating at the same time everything that fell under the heading “East”? 

It’s not just that I want to have some gummies, or a car of my own. I just never want to go back there again. And here where I am standing, on this side of the Wall, oh God, it still feels too close.  

Paul thought back to what Flake had said earlier: the Hungarian border is now open. You can flee to West through there, if you really want to.

The question was precisely that: did Paul really want to leave? And if so, what was holding him back? Scholle? But if Scholle was gone for good? What was left for Paul there in that case? 

Or was it like Aljoscha used to claim, that Paul just loved Berlin too much to leave it? 

I love this city, I hate this city. I love Scholle, I hate Scholle. I have to find him. God, please, don’t let it end like this. Let me see him one last time. Then you can let him go, if that’s what he wants. And let me go too. 

A few minutes later, Paul was sound asleep. 

 

 

 

Chapter 7: Chapter VI

Chapter VI

 

 

October 1989

 

 

Paul was awakened by the uncomfortable feeling of someone watching him - a feeling so strong and insistent that it pierced through the fog of his sleep, reaching the core of his consciousness and forcing him out of his haze. 

When he fluttered his eyes open, there was no sun to welcome him. The room was dark, apart from the light from the corridor filtering through a crack in the door left ajar, and a tiny red spot occasionally swaying near the foot of the bed. 

"Did I scare you?”, said Aljoscha’s husky voice from the shadow. Paul realized that the red spot was the tip of his burning cigarette. 

"No," Paul lied, his heart beating so fast that he thought Aljoscha could hear it at a distance. "What time is it?"

"Eight thirty in the evening," said Aljoscha. Paul knew there was no clock in the house and Aljoscha himself had no wristwatch; yet, he always happened to know the time somehow. “I came home about an hour ago and found you snoring blissfully in my bed."

Paul sat up, a vague sense of guilt creeping inside him now. He could not see Aljoscha's face in the darkness, only guess his mood from the inflection of his voice.

"Uhm, I popped in looking for you around lunchtime," Paul said, trying to avoid any justifying tone. After all, he had done nothing wrong sneaking inside, hadn’t he? Aljoscha didn't sound angry, by the way. "I thought I'd better wait for you inside, so I used the key under the flower pot to get in. I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to fall asleep, anyway.”

Fuck. He was supposed to be mad at Aljoscha, not to apologize to him. Flake was right: Paul couldn’t hold any grudge against Aljoscha for long; it simply wasn’t in his nature.  

”You must have been bushed,” Aljoscha said sympathetically. “Well, that was quite a nap you took.” 

“Yeah. But… why are we in the dark?" Paul suddenly asked, crawling blindly towards the edge of the mattress and causing the springs to squeak again. 

“Oh, I didn’t want to wake you up. But since you’re wide awake now, I'll turn the light on.”

The moment the room lit up, Paul had to shield his eyes from its violent glare. He squinted for a few seconds while letting his eyes adjust to the familiar sight of Aljoscha's bedroom. 

Aljoscha in person was standing in the doorway, leaning with his back to the doorjamb, one ankle crossed in front of the other while smoking. Even from that distance, Paul noticed that Aljoscha’s deep-set eyes were redder than usual, and the pale complexion of his face faded into a light purplish around them. Add to all this the crown of disheveled hair sticking up on the top of his head, and he looked just like someone who hadn’t slept a wink in days. 

"What?" Aljoscha smirked, noticing Paul's lingering gaze. "Not liking what you see?"

Paul, caught in the act, felt himself blushing. “You just look..." he hesitated, "a little worn out." He sat up and cautiously placed his feet on the floorboards. They squeaked - everything was creaking in that fucking house. "Are you sleeping properly, man? Are you eating properly?”

Aljoscha took the cigarette out of his mouth and cackled. “Fuck, you sound just like my late mother, you know?" He twirled the stub in his fingers. “I remember how she used to be in my childhood...  complaining all day about how thin I was and how little I ate. Anyway, I'll never be as thin as you are, Paulchen." 

"Yes, but that's just my physical constitution," Paul said shrugging. "I eat as much as I can.”

“Oh, you bet. Speaking of which..." Aljoscha put the cig back in his mouth and pushed himself away from the door. "Do you fancy having something for dinner? There must be some Sauerkrauts left from yesterday, or even cheese…  Hmm, let me go take a look in the fridge. Hold on.”

Before Paul could speak, Aljoscha turned on his heels and walked out of the room. Paul heard him whistling nonchalantly all the way down the corridor to the kitchen and recognized that familiar tune as one of Feeling B’s first songs. 

Alone in the room, Paul took a deep breath while trying to refocus his mind. All his thoughts were foggy and swirling through his head - he didn’t know how to act with Aljoscha and had absolutely no idea what to expect from him. You should be furious at him, he thought again, why aren’t you? - but his reflections were interrupted by his own rumbling stomach, reminding him that he hadn’t touched food since the night before. 

As he stood up from the bed, Paul automatically ran his hands through his hair, trying to fix it but only getting it more ruffled than ever. So he just let the mop of hair take the most casual shape on his head and down his neck and, sighing, followed in Aljoscha’s footsteps out of the room.  

Aljoscha was in the kitchen. Paul sank on one of the chairs next to the table and, holding back a yawn, watched the other man rummage inside the open fridge while cursing softly under his breath, half-hidden behind the fridge door.

“I didn't know you had plans for today," Paul said, speaking to the fridge door. He was still feeling a little weak and fuzzy after the unintended long nap, and each sentence took shape ever so slowly inside his head.  “If I had known you were busy, I wouldn't have come all the way here to bother you, of course.”

Aljoscha didn’t pause in his fiddling. "No bother, man. I had just some last minute stuff, nothing serious.” He pulled an open package of Sauerkrauts out of the fridge and sniffed it. “Hmm, these still smell good enough to eat.”

He also took some cheese and bread pretty out of nowhere, two beers to go with them, and put everything on the table in front of Paul, saying: “Help yourself." Then he grabbed one of the beers for himself and sat down across the table, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to swill long sips from the bottle.

Paul gave just a brief look at the food in his plate - too hungry to be picky - and put the first forkful in his mouth. It was his first meal of the day and he was literally starving. 

“You’re not eating?”, he mumbled between voracious bites. 

“I’m good, thank you," Aljoscha declined. He leaned back in his seat, bent one knee and brought it to his chest. He rested his forearm on his knee and his chin on the forearm, the cigarette hanging loosely between his bony fingers while looking intently at Paul. He tapped the stub softly, shaking the ashes on the floor. “Anyway, now that you’ve found me… how can I help you, my boy?” 

Paul waited a few seconds before looking up from his food. He forced himself to chew more slowly, concentrating on the act, giving his brain time to line up his thoughts. He hadn’t drawn up any strategy yet - despite what he had told Flake in the morning, he was still completely unprepared to broach the subject. Besides, he was finding very hard to keep any hard-nosed attitude with a man who had just shared all the food left in his fridge with him. 

Yes, but… how about typical manipulative behavior?, Paul could almost hear Flake’s voice in his head. Don’t you fall for it. 

However, Flake was not there at the moment - and, despite any warning, as he looked into Aljoscha’s eyes, Paul felt helpless. 

"I wanted to ask you something, actually,” he started evasively, and soon stopped. Aljoscha raised an eyebrow, silently inviting him to continue. “Something about someone I… care about.” 

Aljoscha’s eyebrow raised even more and Paul started to feel greatly uncomfortable. 

Holy shit, you’re making an ass of yourself, Paul Landers. Aljoscha will laugh in your face at best and you’ll deserve it for being such an idiot. Stop beating around the bush already. 

He knew he would’ve done much better to casually throw out any question about Scholle in a playful and light tone, pretending that he didn't care that much. But, being Scholle, he couldn't pretend - he just couldn’t help but care. Besides, he was sure that Aljoscha could see through him and his facade ever so easily, especially since he looked more sober than Paul had ever seen him be in the last few weeks. 

Before Paul could utter a word, anyway, Aljoscha anticipated him. “Hmm, I guess that…”, he paused to take a long puff from the cigarette before slowly blowing out the smoke with pursed lips. He scratched his eyebrow with the hand that held the cigarette and looked Paul straight in the eye. "I guess you're talking about Scholle, aren’t you?” 

Paul’s heart took a leap the moment Aljoscha pronounced the name. Nonetheless, he tried to keep his expression composed. He nodded. 

"I haven't heard from him for days," he explained soberly, as Aljoscha continued to smoke in silence. "This morning Flake mentioned something about a demonstration in Leipzig in which he may have been involved. He told me you knew something about it..."

"Yes, I know something about it," Aljoscha repeated flatly, a glassy smile on his lips. "But the question is: are you sure you want to know?" 

Paul frowned. He thought back to the conversation he'd had with Flake that morning: Flake had hesitated too, before dropping the bomb about Scholle, but... Aljoscha was not like Flake, and Paul was not sure whether his reticence was motivated by the will to protect him or to deliberately hide something from him...

He gazed at Aljoscha dubiously. 

“You are not fooling me, are you?”, Paul whispered, his eyes fixed on Aljoscha’s face. “Are you?”  

“Absolutely not.” Aljoscha sounded cool and firm. He didn't blink. 

“Then yes, I want to know,” Paul said bluntly, at the same time trying to hide his growing concern. "What happened to Scholle, exactly?"

Aljoscha's expression didn't change. “Oh, well, the kid had little luck, to put it in a nutshell,” he said almost dismissively. 

Now Paul was well aware that Aljoscha was purposely keeping him on his toes, taking long pauses in the speech and acting elusive - which greatly pissed Paul off, even though he tried his best to keep it together and not to let it show. 

"Go ahead, please," Paul urged, falling back in his chair. “What do you mean ‘little luck’?”

He folded his legs under his body and grabbed his beer with a trembling hand. 

"He had nothing to do with the demonstration, of course,” Aljoscha reluctantly explained. “He was caught in the middle while getting out of the subway. Wrong place at the wrong time... That happens sometimes, you know?"

Paul patiently waited for Aljoscha to take a sip of his beer and two more puffs of smoke and only then, after some minutes, did he resume his speech. 

"They took him to the police station. That was six days ago, more or less."

"Six days? But... it should be illegal! He had nothing to do with the demonstration, why keep him in jail so long?”

Aljoscha peeked at Paul from under his brows, almost with pity. “You really think the Stasi cared that he had nothing to do with it?"

Paul ignored him - he was fuming. "But... what did they do to him? Did they interrogate him for six days?"

"I guess they didn’t just ask him questions, if you know what I mean,” Aljoscha snorted. "Don't be naïve, Paul. You know how things work in this country. You live here too, don’t you?" 

"Yes, and I hate it," Paul said, in a sudden fit of rage, again remembering his conversation with Flake just that morning. He had never felt so hateful in his life before. “I would only be glad if everything went up in flames across this godforsaken country. Everything.” 

Aljoscha looked at him between half-lidded eyes, the way he did when he was weighing his interlocutor.

"You don't really hate this country, Paulchen," he said slowly. “You’re not like Scholle. I already told you that, and many times too: deep inside, you’re in love with Berlin and you would never leave Germany. It's just the hatred speaking in you right now. It’s understandable, by the way: you’re worried about Scholle and appalled at the injustice that he suffered. You must really care about that boy to freak out like this..."

Paul opened his mouth to speak the truth (“yes, ‘cause I love him, Aljoscha, whether you like it or not, get the fuck over it”) but then Aljoscha said something utterly out of the blue that left Paul dumbfounded. 

"They should have released him today, by the way. Uhm... a few hours ago, I guess." 

The fork dropped in Paul's plate with a loud clunk. Paul stared at Aljoscha with wild eyes, his mouth wide open.

Aljoscha read correctly the look on his face. "Sorry, I should've told you sooner. My bad." 

A mixture of anger and shock built inside Paul - he was about to hurl himself at Aljoscha and strangle him on the spot for not telling him that straight away, but then he thought again. No, he really had more urgent matters at the moment to deal with than Aljoscha's questionable behavior. All Paul could think about, in fact, was that Scholle was free and, hopefully, safe and sound somewhere. His priority, now, was to find him and be with him. He had no time to pick on Aljoscha for being such an asshole. Besides, trying to point it out to Aljoscha would be completely useless in any case - nine times out of ten, in fact, the man was as impenetrable as a concrete wall. So Paul chose to let it go. 

He slowly rose from his chair. Now that he had found out what he had been wanting to know in the first place and that his goal had been finally achieved, a glare of defiance brightened his eyes. 

"You said they released him today? Well, I’ll go to him immediately. I have to see him.”

Aljoscha's face remained stoic. He stared at Paul unfazed, but with a gleam in his eyes. 

“What’s the rush? You can wait until tomorrow. I’m sure Scholle is not going anywhere for the time being. Besides, after being in prison for six days, he may want to be on his own for a while, especially on his first night out, don't you think so?" 

Those words made Paul stop when he was already almost out of the kitchen. He hesitated and slowly cooled down. He was feeling conflicted. His heart shouted at him to go, of course, and so did the rest of his body - especially the part below his belt, which was also screaming its need for Scholle after long days of forced abstinence. Paul wanted to look his boy in the face, ask him how he was feeling, hear everything that had happened to him from his lips - and then hug him, and fuck him senseless, and finally fall asleep in his arms, breathing his scent in and not having to feel so scared for him again... never again... 

And yet, Aljoscha had a certain way with words that made him think - one second too long, unfortunately, just enough to open a crack through which doubts and temptations immediately seeped in.

"If he had wanted to see you right away, he would have called you, wouldn't he? Or let you know somehow," Aljoscha continued, in his most reasonable, sensible voice, the voice Flake referred to as Pied Piper’s call -  which no one could resist. “Don’t you think so?”

Aljoscha was not entirely wrong, Paul reflected. Scholle knew Paul’s address and phone number. If he wanted to, he would find a way to tell him that he was out of prison. Maybe he was still too dazed, too upset to do so, and having someone around could only add to his confusion and discomfort. Paul was aware that his own hyperactivity could sometimes be too much for the people around him to bear, especially in the most delicate moments. He didn’t want to make Scholle feel worse - nor invade his privacy. So, maybe, giving him some rest before going to see him was not totally a bad idea. Besides - and against the wishes of his aching heart - Paul’s reason told him that one more day wouldn't change anything, actually. He could wait, that was no big deal, especially if that was meant in Scholle's best interest. 

"Yeah, maybe you're right," Paul murmured, turning to Aljoscha slowly and avoiding his gaze. He stood next to the door, tapping his fingers on the wooden jamb and let his eyes wander aimlessly across the room. He eventually took a deep breath. "Fine. I’ll wait till tomorrow.”

For long minutes Aljoscha just sat there, Sphinx-like, saying nothing - just smoking. He uncrossed and recrossed his legs a few times, swinging one foot in mid-air, following the rhythm of some inner thoughts - just impossible to figure out. Then he talked. 

"Well," he finally said, his face cracking into a smile. "Do you want to stay over? I can give you a ride to Scholle's tomorrow morning. It’s no trouble for me."

Paul studied Aljoscha’s face, still looking for traces of anything sneaky he might be hiding from him - finding nothing. Nothing that could lead him to believe that Aljoscha was currently up to something. 

Questions like “what do you know about me and Scholle?”, “are you jealous?”, “you hate him?”, “are you going to get in the way somehow?”, "are you lying?" remained unspoken. Paul was tired, or maybe he didn’t have enough courage to approach the subject, or didn't care that much, not anymore, not after he had just known that Scholle was finally out of the woods. That was all that mattered, actually. Now, Paul just wanted to sit down and unwind all the pent-up tension that had been devouring him until that moment. He wanted some peace, even though it seemed so fucking hard to get. 

“Okay," he eventually gave in. "If you don’t mind… I  accept your offer.”

“I don’t mind," Aljoscha echoed, and smiled again. 

Paul’s shoulders finally relaxed. His head bent down on his neck, his face hiding behind his palms in exhaustion. “Thanks. I’ll call Flake right now. I don't want him to worry when he comes back home tonight and doesn’t find me there. You know about his Stasi paranoia… Recently he's started saying that our house could be bugged..."

"He's a clever boy," said Alyoscha, laughing - his eyes remained serious, though. “After all, there may actually be bugs in your house."

Paul glanced at him over his shoulder as he walked through the kitchen door. "You do have a nasty sense of humor sometimes, you know?"

In the hallway, he picked up the phone and dialed home. He pinned the handset between his chin and shoulder and reached up to ruffle his hair with both hands, in his usual automatic gesture. As he listened to the phone ring, he realized that his hair was quite long - again, he would ask Flake to cut it for him, sooner or later...

Flake answered on the third ring - from his shaky voice Paul immediately guessed that his friend must have been out of his mind with worry, coming home and not finding him there.

“I thought you were fucking dead somewhere in a fucking gutter!”

"Sorry. I'm at Aljoscha's," Paul said quickly. “Sorry, I didn't mean to make you worry... I’ll be back tomorrow, anyway."

“What? You’re going to stay the night?" Paul could tell that Flake was trying his best to keep his tone plain and neutral. "At Aljoscha’s?"

"Yes... He offered to give me a ride tomorrow morning, so... you know, it's more convenient for me to stay here..."

Flake was silent for a long moment. "A ride to where, if I may ask?"  

This time he made no effort to hide the sharp irony from his voice.

"He told me that the police let Scholle go today. I'll go to see him tomorrow."

"Oh," Flake said. "Oh. I understand." The next moment of silence seemed to last forever. “Fuck, no. I don’t understand jack shit. Paul, you were supposed to go to Aljoscha just to ask him about Scholle. Now that you know what you needed to know, why aren't you with Scholle? Why are you staying at Aljoscha's? Why does he drive you to Scholle’s tomorrow morning?"

Paul chuffed. “See? That's your problem, my friend. You ask yourself too many questions. Stop asking questions, Flake. Not everything has an answer."

"Wise Paul said, I suppose,” Flake snickered bitterly. “You remember what I told you about Aljoscha, right?”

Paul fall silent, biting his lip. He glanced up instinctively at Aljoscha, who was now leaning against the frame of the kitchen door. He had lit another cigarette. Paul hand't heard him approaching. 

"I have to go now," Paul said quickly into the phone, lowering his voice. "Don't worry about me, Flake. I know how to take care of myself."

"Of course you do. Of course. Keep telling yourself that.” 

“See you tomorrow, Flake.”

Ignoring a pang of guilt to his heart, Paul hung up without waiting for Flake’s answer.

Forgive me, my friend. I hope someday you’ll understand.  

 

 

The morning after, Paul woke up in Aljoscha's bed with a pounding headache and a bad taste in his mouth. Aljoscha’s body was draped all over him, his left leg between Paul’s, pressing against his stomach and pinning him down to the mattress.

Paul turned his head on the pillow and his eyes slowly focused on Aljoscha’s face in the dim-lit bedroom. Aljoscha was sleeping on one side, almost half-lying on Paul, breathing heavy. Paul was sure not even cannonballs could wake him up. 

He slowly pulled his hands out from under the covers and carefully shifted Aljoscha's leg to the side to get more space. Aljoscha let out a grunt but didn’t wake up, and Paul could finally fill his lungs with a deep breath of relief. 

Random images from the night before, of what had happened after his conversation with Aljoscha, lazily drifted across Paul’s mind - none of them long enough to stay. Paul preferred not to wonder how he had gone from sleeping alone in Aljoscha's bed to finding Aljoscha on top of him in the morning, stuck to him like a Siamese twin. He imagined the look on Flake’s face, had he been there, and immediately brushed the thought away. 

Paul extricated himself from the sheets with some difficulty and slipped out of the bed, trying to make as little noise as possible so as not to wake Aljoscha. He groped to the door in the semi-darkness and crept out of the room. 

The water from the tap in the bathroom was so cold that it woke him up instantly, rubbing away any remnant of sleep from his mind and body. He stripped down and stepped into the shower, holding back the chills. He knew it would take Aljoscha a while to get up, since he always struggled to awaken so early in the morning, so he decided to take his time, despite the cold, to enjoy the shower. As he let the water flow over him, Paul’s mind went back to Scholle - actually, he had never really stopped thinking about him since the day before. 

Paul dimly remembered dreaming of him that night too. In the dream it was raining and Scholle asked him for a cigarette. Paul was sure he had a pack in his pocket but, no matter how much he went through it, he couldn't find any - then he realized he had dropped the pack of smokes into a puddle. Scholle's disappointed look was so real that Paul had felt his own skin crawl in the dream. He had woken up shortly after, feeling vaguely sick.  

After showering and getting dressed, Paul set up to fix breakfast - he was starting to feel a little peckish - but when he glanced inside the fridge he remembered that it had been desolately empty from the night before. With a sigh, he slipped his jacket on and dug through the pockets of Aljoscha’s coat, which was abandoned on the back of a chair in the kitchen, until he found the keys to his Trabant. He scribbled a note for him and left it on the table - in the unlikely event that Aljoscha woke up before he returned - then he left home. 

Aljoscha’s car was parked on the dirt road in front of the house. Being the house very remote, the only way to get downtown and buy something to eat was by car. The old jalopy took a while to start, as always - the flooded engine buzzing like an asthmatic aged lady in a way that strangely reminded Paul of Aljoscha himself, who suffered from a bad form of asthma, certainly not favored by his reckless habits.

Paul stopped by the grocery store to stock up on bread, eggs and butter. On his way back, it began to drizzle. Paul’s thoughts went back to Scholle. He longed to see his lover, but, in obedience to the plan he had arranged with Aljoscha the night before, he did not deviate from his path, heading straight back home.  

When he got there, Aljoscha was awake and apparently not in a very good mood - but then again, he was hardly ever first thing in the morning. 

Paul was not going to let Aljoscha’s frown drag down his spirits. He approached the stove whistling and soon the smell of toasted bread filled the small damp kitchen. The ticking of the raindrops on the window panes was soothing for the ears.  

"Et voilà," Paul said when he was done, sliding two well-cooked eggs onto each plate with a dramatic gesture. “Perfectly cooked, neither too much nor too little. You really can't complain this time, dude.” 

Aljoscha eyed him, with a corner of his mouth turned up mockingly. “Why in such a good mood today? And yet… it rains."

It was well known, in fact, that the rain usually made Paul very grumpy. 

"Well, yes, but it can't rain forever, right?" Paul shrugged casually as he took a mouthful of eggs from his plate. He noticed that Aljoscha showed no sign of touching his, again. “They’re not that bad, you know? They’re not even scorched. Seriously, man, you should give them a try.” 

Aljoscha smiled softly. “I'm not hungry now. Maybe I'll try them later." 

Although not happy with that, Paul decided not to push it. He shrugged again, meaning “whatever”, and changed the topic.  

"I didn’t ask you whether you had any plans for today, and if so I hope I won't be in your way too much," he said, crossing his legs under the table and swinging one ankle over the other. "I just need you to drive me to Scholle's, but if it bothers you I can-”

"If it had bothered me, I wouldn't have offered to drive you, would I?" said Aljoscha, lighting a cigarette. He looked out of the rain-streaked window for a while, thinking about something else. “Can you make it to Chris’, this afternoon?”, he asked then. “I’m meeting Alex at four and then we’re going to Chris’ together. Apparently, he’s dying to introduce us to a new drummer. Flake should be there too, if he's not still thinking of changing jobs, that little prick…”

Paul stopped chewing and, with his mouth still full, twitched his lips in a grin. “Well, I don’t think he is. Not really, I mean. To be honest, I’ve caught him in the library with his nose in medical textbooks more than once, but... it seems he's definitely turned the page now. Literally and metaphorically.” 

"Just tell him that if he's thinking about becoming a doctor, he'd better make up his mind now, before it’s too late for himself and for the band," Aljoscha said seriously. “So what? You coming later?"

"Yeah," Paul said. “Sure. Sure I’m coming.” 

It was a lie, though. After spending days apart from Scholle, Paul was sure that, as soon as he saw him again, he just wouldn’t be able to get enough of him in one single afternoon. His plan was to go to Scholle’s and stay with him all day long - and night too, hopefully - fondling him and making up for all the wasted time apart. So he had definitely better things to do than going to a band reunion, but there was no need to tell Aljoscha that. He decided to grin and bear it.

A quarter of an hour later, they were in Aljoscha’s car. Paul first rolled a cigarette for Aljoscha, then one for himself. They drove the short stretch in silence. Aljoscha didn't seem in the mood for one of his usual heated rants against the Government, so they just quietly enjoyed the random music that was playing on the radio.

When they arrived in Lychener Straße, Aljoscha stopped the Trabant right in front of the building that Paul had pointed out to him, the one where Scholle lived. Paul got out of the car, pulling his jacket over his head to shelter from the light rain. He slipped through the building entrance and climbed up the stairs two at a time, feeling the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He stopped breathlessly on the second floor, in front of the door of Scholle’s apartment. When he rang the doorbell, his heart seemed to ring out in his chest too. 

Minutes passed in vain. Paul tried and tried, he knocked and rang, but no one opened up. He put his ear to the door: only a stubborn silence from inside the apartment. In all likelihood, Scholle was not at home - and that was the last thing Paul would have expected, given the situation. 

In truth, he had never considered the slightest possibility that Scholle wouldn't be there to welcome him at the door, his gaze instantly filling with amazement and joy in seeing his lover again and ready to crush him in a breathtaking embrace before dragging him to bed. 

The rush of disappointment was so strong that Paul suddenly felt on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He sat down on the steps, taking his head in his hands and trying not to scream - and not to cry - in frustration, while a new kind of worry took over: where was Scholle? Had he really gotten out of prison or had Aljoscha just played another trick on him? 

Paul relived in his mind the conversation of the night before. He desperately needed to believe that Aljoscha had said the truth about Scholle being released that day, because he couldn’t wait one day longer to get him back. Still the doubt gnawed at Paul: could Aljoscha have lied about something so important to him? Couldn’t he trust the man anymore?

Paul got up and walked to the door of the apartment opposite Scholle’s. He rang the doorbell and waited. After a while the door unlocked; a young woman opened it a crack and peered through it warily. The loud screaming of little kids came from inside.

Paul exhibited his most charming smile, the one that usually did the trick. “Hello, sorry to bother you. My name’s Paul, I’m looking for the guy who lives next door. He’s a friend of mine and was supposed to come back home today from… from a short trip. Have you seen him, by any chance? Please, it’s very important for me to know.”

The woman stared at him blankly, clearly reluctant to speak. She looked just one year or two older than him. 

“Is he in trouble?”, she asked, her whisper so soft that Paul could barely hear it. 

“No. No, he’s not. Why should he?”

“Are you a cop? If he’s not in trouble, why are you looking for him?”

Paul frowned. “I’m not a cop.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.” Paul felt that every second he wasted on that absurd conversation took him one step further away from Scholle and he started to lose his wits. “Look, if I really worked for the Stasi, I wouldn’t come here alone, disarmed and going around the houses. So, now, can you tell me if you’ve seen my friend, please?”

The woman raked him with a suspicious gaze, but her expression softened.

“You’re talking about the guy who chain-smokes and makes music all day long, right? The one with the dread-locks?” Paul nodded. The woman shrugged and shook her head. "I haven't seen him in a while." 

The tiny balloon of hope that had timidly begun to swell inside Paul's chest deflated on the spot; his shoulders hunched over in defeat. The woman was already closing the door but Paul stopped her. "Wait, wait!… Can you just give him a message, if you happen to see him?" He waited for her to give a little annoyed nod. “Please, tell him that Paul is looking for him. Tell him to get in touch with me as soon as he can. He knows where to find me. It’s Paul, remember the name… Okay?” 

"Okay," the woman said, and shut the door before Paul could add something else.

The latch snapped. Click. 

"Yeah, thank you...", Paul murmured bleakly, standing helplessly in front of the locked door, a blank look on his face. "Thank you dearly..."

He leant against the door for a moment, taking a deep sigh, not completely relieved by the woman’s half-hearted promise. Then, with one last glance to Scholle’s empty apartment, he pulled away and slowly went back down the stairs. His heart was beating slower too, now - and sadder. Paul stopped at the entrance of the building to pull up the collar of his jacket. It was lashing down, and he felt empty and dismayed.

He stood there, shifting from foot to foot, pondering on his misfortune while looking idly across the street. That’s when something struck his eye: there was a Trabant, exactly where Aljoscha had left him shortly before. Paul frowned. From that distance he couldn't be sure that it was Aljoscha's - there were a hell lot of Trabants around, after all - but a sixth sense told him that it couldn’t be otherwise. That meant that Aljoscha had never left. He had waited for Paul to come back. That’s because he knew he would be back - and very soon too. He knew that Scholle was not at home.

That intuition crawled into Paul’s belly, making his guts twist for a moment. He hesitated only a few seconds, then walked slowly in the rain towards the car, feeling like trapped in the middle of a nightmare. 

He was right: when he approached the Trabant, the passenger door opened and Aljoscha's head peeked out from the driver’s seat.

"So? You talked to him?" 

Paul shook his head slowly. His lips felt as if glued together.

“Get in, you’re getting soaked!" Aljoscha shouted, pulling back behind the wheel. 

Paul didn’t protest. He slipped in the passenger seat and closed the car door, his clothes dripping copiously onto the mat. 

Aljoscha looked sideways at him. “So Scholle wasn't at home?”

"No," Paul said, surprised by his own flat and controlled tone. “He must be somewhere else."

“How strange," Aljoscha murmured. He looked at the rain trickling down the windshield, slightly squinting in the cloud of smoke of his cigarette. "We can come back later and try again, if you want. Paul..."

Paul said nothing. An unpleasant feeling was squeezing his stomach and he didn't feel like talking at all. If only he could put his own thoughts on mute or stop thinking altogether, drift off into a merciful sleep and just forget the world... 

He turned his head towards the window and just shrugged his shoulders in silence.

Aljoscha started the car. 

 

 

Chapter 8: Chapter VII

Chapter VII

 

 

October 1989

 

 

When Paul got home, Flake was not there. Paul was relieved: he wasn’t exactly in the mood for conversation. All he could think about was the fact that Scholle was gone - he seemed nowhere to be found, and the grief was simply cracking Paul’s heart in two.

Beyond that, Paul knew that Flake would scowl at him for staying overnight at Aljoscha’s - in fact, that would probably be the first thing Flake would do, seeing him - and he didn’t feel like talking about that or having to justifying himself again and again. Right or wrong, it was his life, after all - his business and no one else’s, not even Flake’s. 

He felt exhausted. As he wandered from one room to the other, he recalled the joy that had flooded him only the day before, when he had waken up thinking about Scholle: it felt like it was forever ago, like it had happened to someone else, to a different Paul. Now, he just couldn’t get his smile back. He was missing Scholle so bad that every breath seemed to hurt. 

The last thing Paul wanted to do was attend the meeting that was scheduled with his bandmates later on that afternoon. He would have much preferred to crawl under the bedcovers and forget about everything for a while, savoring the acrid taste of tears and wallowing in his loss, but he knew it would be useless. That wouldn’t bring Scholle back - nothing would.  

While Paul resisted the impulse to lie down and weep, he realized he did miss Flake, after all - he was just lying to himself when saying otherwise. He actually missed someone to talk to about Scholle and his own sorrow. Flake was the ideal, though reluctant, listener. Flake would always listen, even when Paul was talking bullshit - which happened most of the time. Paul had no other friend like Flake - and yet, he had mistreated him too, on the phone, just the day before. Perhaps, he didn’t deserve Flake’s friendship, just like he didn’t deserve Scholle’s love either… (wasn’t that the reason why Scholle had probably left in the first place?… Because Paul was just not enough for him to stay? - the gruesome voice, always the same, didn't stop whispering in his ears.) 

Feeling more depressed and restless than ever, Paul attempted the only thing he hoped would cheer him up and help him get rid of the self-destructive thoughts in his head. He grasped an old acoustic guitar from the bunch of neglected ones he never used and let himself down onto the floor, resting his back to the wall. After some minutes of stillness, he tried out some random chords and went on like that, patiently waiting for them to make a sense, to built a melody. He closed his heart to everything else around him and just let the music lead - following the beat, one note at a time, almost as if he was learning the guitar again for the first time, until he finally managed to bliss out. Only then did the pain seem to subside, without him even realizing it. That was the miracle of music - and it worked every time he picked up a guitar.  

Paul was so absorbed that he didn't hear the door open. He startled and shrieked when a voice suddenly said “hallo”, and, snapping his head to side, he spotted Flake standing in the entrance with some grocery bags in his hands. 

“Bloody hell!" Paul screamed and stopped playing. “You gave me a scare, man! I almost had a heart attack, you know?” 

“Uhm, sorry, it was not my intention.” 

But the slight trembling at the corners of Flake’s lips - as he was trying to keep a deadpan face - spoke otherwise. That was clearly Flake’s little revenge for the scare Paul had given him, in turn, when he had been missing from home the day before, and Paul got it immediately. 

However, as Flake dropped the bags at his feet and slowly took off his jacket, Paul felt an immediate relief wash over him; he realized he was so glad to see his friend that he would forgive him anything. And he knew that Flake had already forgiven him too. The little quarrel of yesterday was already forgotten, with no need to talk about it ever again. 

“Before I forget, I got something for you,” Paul said, slipping the guitar’s strap over his head and putting it aside before jumping to his feet. “I’ll go fetch it for you. Wait.” 

He went to his room only to return shortly after, carrying along Flake’s leather jacket, the one he had borrowed the day before. Paul handed it to him with his big, irresistible smile as if it were the most desirable gift in the world. 

Paul thought that Flake would inspect the object carefully for the slightest tear or scratch in the fabric, and he was greatly surprised when Flake took the jacket from his hands with barely a glance as, in fact, all his attention was focused on Paul himself.

“Are you okay?”, Flake asked, gazing poignantly at him. “There’s something about your face…”

Paul tensed slightly. “My face?”

Flake nodded. He turned on his heels and sank into the rickety sofa, pushing the glasses up his nose.  From there, he looked up at Paul from below. 

“You know, I got scared stiff when you didn’t show up at home yesterday,” he started, clearing his throat. “But, to be honest, I got even more scared when you told me you were staying at Aljoscha’s.” He paused, and shrugged. “I hope… uhm… Did everything go well with him?”

As Flake was talking, a bunch of conflicting thoughts flashed through Paul’s mind. He quickly considered what he could tell Flake and what, instead, was better for him to never know. He hated lying to his friend, but omitting certain details was essential to protect everybody’s little peace of mind.  

“Yes, everything went well,” Paul said, and started automatically chewing on his lip. He felt Flake’s eyes linger on him.

“Did you sleep well?”

Something deliberate vibrated in Flake’s tone, but so slightly that it was hard to say for sure. Yet, it was enough for Paul to avert his gaze for a second, while recollecting the memories of the night he had spent in Aljoscha’s bed. But, all in all, Flake didn’t need to know that. 

“Very well. But... why you asking? Were you afraid Aljoscha would make a meal out of me? Come on!” 

Paul tried to put on a mocking face. He laughed, but Flake didn’t - he was visibly struggling with some inner thoughts. His face was red with the effort. “It’s not that,” he said eventually. “It’s not that. I…” He paused, paralyzed with a mixture of embarrassment, annoyance and something else. “Listen,  Paul. I never wanted to know what exactly was going on with you and Aljoscha. You’re a grown up man and that’s your business. But…” Flake glanced up at Paul, who was standing like petrified while listening. “But I’ve always hoped that, if that was what I thought, at least... at least it could be something you were giving willingly, and not for the wrong reasons, or because… because you were… forced, in some way.”

Flake trailed off, his voice a little shaken, and looked away with embarrassment from Paul, who seemed frozen on the spot and completely beside himself with shock, the breath caught in his throat.

He tried to deny, at first. “It’s… It’s nothing like that…” - but Flake glared at him with a look that Paul had never seen on his face - adamant, and ferocious.

“Don’t fucking try to lie to my face, Paul! I’m your friend! And I am neither blind nor deaf nor, for that matter, stupid.” 

“How long have you known?”, Paul whispered, his mask instantly falling off. “And how did you know?” 

Flake looked back at Paul, who was staring at him empty-eyed and white as a ghost, and his bristle immediately softened. He lowered his voice and shrugged wearily. “Does it really matter, Paul?” 

“No, it doesn’t…”

“Look, I don’t judge you. I would never do that. That’s not why I’m asking. You’re my friend, Paul, and I care about you. I just want you to be happy and healthy. And it’s precisely because I care about you that… well, I need to know if Aljoscha ever did something wrong to you, because in that case…”

He broke off. Paul shook his head vehemently. “No.” 

“No what?” Flake considered him through his glasses. “Paul...”

“He never forced me, Flake. How could you even think of that?” 

“I was not thinking of that,” Flake retorted, and paused to breathe. “Like I said, I was hoping…” He broke off again, looking hagridden. “Well, I had to be sure just about this one thing. I had to hear it from your lips, because I would never trust Aljoscha’s word on the matter. Sorry for asking, but I needed to.” 

Paul shrugged hollowly. “I should have expected from you, by the way,” he mumbled. “Like you said, you’re too smart not to notice.”

“But not as smart as you think,” Flake said bitterly. “Otherwise, I would have tried to talk you out of this nonsense before it was too late. And now it is.”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Flake, please.”

“As you wish.”

The silence fell between them. 

Flake, however, looked so thoroughly and sincerely miserable that Paul, forgetting about his own distress, took a step forward and put his hand on his shoulder, trying to act reassuring. 

“Hey, man, don’t worry for me,” he whispered. “I’m okay.”

“Are you?” Flake asked, slowly raising his eyes to meet Paul’s. “Are you really okay, Paul?”

Lying was not an option under Flake’s gaze. Paul squirmed and babbled something unintelligible at first, but eventually gave in. “No, I’m not really okay,” he admitted. “If you want the truth, before you walked through that door I was drowning my despair in music just not to drown myself, but I wish I would have. And Aljoscha has nothing to do with it.”  

“Wait, it’s about Scholle, isn’t it?” Flake said, stirring suddenly. “Bloody hell, I forgot to ask you! How’s he? Did you find him?” 

Paul lowered his eyes, hiding his hands into his pockets. He seemed to shrink to a small grey echo of himself. “No.”

Flake looked flabbergasted. Paul went on: “You were right. He was actually among the people the police arrested in Leipzig. Aljoscha told me. He was also supposed to be released today, but…” Paul fought against the despair that threatened to pull him under. “But this morning, when Aljoscha dropped me off at his place, he was not there.”

Flake’s lips parted in surprise. “Not there? You mean he was not at home?"

"I rang the doorbell and no one came to the door. So I guessed he was not at home, yes.”

“But.. where could someone who has been unjustly detained for days ever want to go if not home?" 

"I don't know," Paul whispered, and for the first time he heard his own voice break. “I-I was hoping you had some kind of explanation, actually… You’re the one with the answers, after all, aren’t you?”

He forced a smile, but this time his facial muscles didn’t obey. Flake looked down at the jacket he was still squeezing in his hands. "Well, I’m afraid I don’t have any at the moment. I’m so sorry, Paul.” 

Paul’s face fell off. Flake glanced at him; he stood up worriedly and seemed to be about to hug him, or say something to him, but something held him back. He just stood there, disconcerted, his arms hanging down by his sides as if dead things. “I’ll make coffee,” he said suddenly, almost to himself. “I need to keep my hands busy. Maybe something will come to my mind.”

So saying, with one last glance to Paul, he headed towards the kitchen. Paul heard him shuffle in there, while he, on the contrary, stayed right where he was, in front of the sofa, unsure what to do with himself. 

“What time are we expected to be at Chris’?”, Flake yelled from the kitchen, shaking Paul out of his weltering thoughts.

“Aljoscha said at four," Paul replied hollowly. He picked up the guitar from the floor and flopped down on the couch, in the seat left empty by Flake, cradling the instrument on his knees. “You know? I don’t give a fuck about that damn meeting. What if I just don’t-”

“No. Don’t even think about it," Flake scolded him sharply, sticking his head out of the kitchen door to shoot daggers at him. "You must come along, Paul. I won't leave you here alone and brooding, thinking about a way to drown yourself. No fucking way, understood?” 

Paul looked back angrily from the sofa, glad that the new topic could distract him from his grief. “Doesn’t one have the right to be left alone if they need to and… yes, also to die alone or any other way if they want to?” 

Flake’s head disappeared in the kitchen without a word, indicating that he was not going to go along with that. 

Paul went on peevishly: “You know what I mean, Flake, come on. It happens all the time that you don’t want to do something. Remember when you flipped out and didn't want to come to the concert, the night that Scholle…”, he paused for one-tenth of a second to hold it together, “the night that he showed up and saved our ass? I almost had to beg you on my bended knees to come…”

“… don’t be so dramatic, you didn't put in that much effort,” came Flake’s unimpressed voice from the kitchen. 

“I promised not to cut your hair again, as you asked me, and I haven’t done it since then. That was a hell of an effort on my part!”

“Oh, in that case… thanks very much, Paul.”

“In fact, it looks like you have a bunch of straw on your head now. Almost worse than mine.” 

When no answer came, Paul finally stood up and joined Flake in the kitchen, where his friend was finishing making coffee. Paul leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. 

"I bet you miss my scissors skills now.”

“I miss more your guitar skills, honestly,” Flake snorted. 

“I was playing my guitar when you walked in, almost scaring me to death…”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Flake glanced at him, and his eyes seemed to strip Paul down to his soul. “Indeed, it had been a while since I saw you so completely enthralled by the music. In the last few months, it seemed like you didn't care about it as much as you used to. At one point, I feared that you might give it all up and leave us for good.”

“Music is my life. I could never do without it.”

“Yes, but then you met Scholle,” Flake smiled. “And everything changed, including your priorities. He means more than music to you, doesn’t he?” 

Paul reflected. “That’s a though question. I don’t know. But don’t ever make me choose between him and music.”

“And yet…” Flake tilted his head to one side to inspect Paul’s face, his gaze slightly darkening. “Sorry, I’ll try not to upset you since you said you don’t want to talk about you and Aljoscha, but… you know what I really can’t understand about you, Paul? About all this stuff?” 

“I have an idea, yeah…”, said Paul, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t mean to repeat myself. I don’t mean to stick my nose into your private life, again, asking why you let yourself get involved in such a thing and yada yada yada.” Flake folded his arms over his chest, sinking his fingertips into the fabric of his sweater just above his elbows, and adjusted his glasses. “I’m not surprised that Aljoscha lied to you about Scholle, after all, or that he may be still lying to you about him. What amazes me the most is that it’s still not enough for you to resent him, apparently. You say you love Scholle, Paul, and I can see it in your eyes that it’s true. So how can you not be mad at Aljoscha after everything he’s done? Please, tell me what I’m missing here because it’s starting to give me grey hair.” 

Paul, in response, began to pace the floor, walking back-and-forth from the sofa to the opposite wall, bobbing his head along to the rhythm of his thoughts. Then he stopped in front of Flake and glanced at him askance. 

“I was mad at Aljoscha, actually… I was. For a while.”

A snicker escaped Flake’s lips. “Oh, sure. For two minutes tops, I bet.”  

“I hardly ever stay angry with anyone for long, Flake, you know me.”

“So that’s it, then? You just can’t get angry enough not even when the love of your life is involved?”

At that very moment, someone blissfully knocked at the door, saving Paul from a very tough spot. The two men fell silent. As the bangs went on, they exchanged a questioning look.

"Were you expecting someone?” Paul asked. 

Flake shook his head. While approaching the door, Paul wondered who the hell it could be. For a moment his heart failed a beat, mad with hope - maybe it was Scholle, maybe he had received the message from his neighbor and had run straight to him… maybe Paul was about to finally have him back in his arms…  

It was Alex, instead. Paul tried not to look too disappointed and just stepped back to let him in.

“What are you doing here? Weren’t Aljoscha supposed to come pick you up?”

"He told me he was coming to pick us up at your place, didn’t he tell you?”, said Alex. “Hey, I can smell coffee in here…”

Almost dragging his feet, his hearty heavy again, Paul led the way to the kitchen, where Flake was already filling three cups. The way he glanced sideways at Paul before greeting Alex suggested that he hadn’t forgotten about their discussion - it was just postponed for the time being, with Paul huge relief.

“I really missed your coffee”, Alex said, smiling contently as Flake handed him a cup. “Are you ready to go, guys? It’s almost time.”

With a surge of impatience, Paul rolled his eyes as he took a cup for himself and blew the smoke away. “Fuck me, do we really have to go?”

Alex looked at him slightly puzzled. “Don’t you want to?”

“Don't listen to him,” Flake grumbled, glaring at Paul. “He’s acting up.”

“I’m not-”

“Please, can someone other than me remind this lazy bum that he’s supposed to be a musician, and this is supposed to be his job?”

Alex just smiled sheepishly above his cup, his face clearly saying “please, guys, leave me out of this”.

“A job that doesn't allow you to support yourself or even make a decent living out of it is not worthy of the name," Paul insisted dully. “I love music and always will, but I don’t like the way we are forced to make it these days.” 

With a full-chested sigh of resignation, Flake decided to let it drop. He turned to Alex, a stoic look on his face. 

“By the way, do you have any idea who the new drummer Chris is talking about is?” 

Alex shrugged, visibly relieved that they were over it. 

“No, I’ve never met him. I only know that his name is Till and that he won the youth swimming championships when he was a teenager."

"A swimming champion?" Even the usually impassive Flake arched his eyebrows in surprise hearing that. "And what the hell is he supposed to be doing with a bunch of misfits like us?”

“That’s a good question, Flake…”

“Well, he may be a misfit too,” Paul interjected. “After all, how are some medals supposed to make him be any different from the rest of us?” Despite the tone, however, he looked very impressed, just like Flake. “How did Chris get to meet him, anyway? As far as I know, he’s not very fond of swimming pools. He can’t even swim.”

Alex blew on his steaming coffee. “Hmm… through a mutual friend, I guess. And you happen to know him too, guys. I’m talking about the guitarist who played with us once, remember?… The one with bleached blond hair, chiseled cheekbones… Hmm, what’s his name?”

Paul almost choked on his coffee. Flake patted him between his shoulder blades without changing his expression. “You mean Richard? Scholle?"

“Oh, yes! Scholle, the very same”, Alex nodded and clapped his hands. “You know, you can talk all you want but it’s a small world indeed, for a musician. If you’re in the business, you get to know pretty anyone else around, sooner or later.”

“I totally agree.” Paul’s eyes were suddenly burning with a feverish hope. “You know what? I changed my mind. I’ll come to the meeting. I really can't wait to meet this new drummer Till. Come on, both of you, hurry up and finish your damn coffee. Why is Aljoscha always so fucking late?!"

 

 

Surprisingly enough, Paul found out that he had already met Till before, actually. In fact, as soon as he stepped into Chris’ house and shot a glance at the man sitting on the sofa trying to take up as little space as possible with his imposing size, he realized that his face was somehow familiar to him. When Till stood up holding out his hand to greet him, Paul finally remembered where he had previously seen those dazzling green eyes and masculine features.

"Hey, weren’t you at the screening of Flüstern & SCHREIEN in Prenzlauer-Berg some time ago?”

"At the Colosseum? Mmh, yeah, it was probably me.” Paul also recognized that deep, soft voice; it was actually impossible not to notice it, by the way, especially for a musician. “And your band was in the film, of course.” Till cocked his head to the side to better look at Paul. “I remember you. That little guy in the front row who couldn't sit still for one second…"

“Hey, don't call him little guy, please," Alex interjected, snickering. “His name is Paul and he’s our guitarist and favorite troublemaker. If the two of you already know each other, well, we can skip this part."

Paul didn’t seem to have heard - he had eyes only for Till, who was smiling politely at Alex’s words. He moved closer to him and stood on his tiptoes to whisper, almost into his ear: “Are you really a swimming champion? I mean… really?” 

He asked that with wide eyes, and Till burst out laughing. His laughter, like his voice, was hoarse and deep; it sounded as if coming from vast hollows echoing inside his broad chest. 

"You won't believe it, Paul, but yes, that’s right."

"Wow." Paul stared at Till for a few seconds as if mesmerized, before realizing that he was actually acting rude and looking away, blinking. “I’m so jealous, honestly,” he confessed with a shrug. “I've always sucked so bad at any kind of sport. It just wasn’t my thing… Want one?"

Till accepted the cigarette Paul was handing him and Paul lighted it up for him. Meanwhile Alex had shuffled away from them to join the other guys across the room. 

Till brought the cigarette to his mouth, nodding thanks. “I don’t believe that someone can be no good for sports,” he said, blowing out the smoke. “Probably you just couldn't find the one that suited you the best. If you want to know my opinion, you would make a perfect jockey, actually. You’re just the right size."

Paul laughed. “You’re making fun of me."

"I'm not," Till said, and his eyes sparked in the smoke that rose from his cigarette. For a moment, he vaguely reminded Paul of Aljoscha, who was currently engaged in a lively discussion with Flake, Chris and Alex between the kitchen and the dining room, too busy to mind them. Paul and Till moved out on the balcony to continue their conversation in peace. 

“You know? There is something in you that reminds me of our frontman," Paul said, giving voice to his thoughts. “And yet, you two seem so profoundly different from each other that I could not think of anyone who’s less similar than you are. Almost… opposite in many ways, I would say. I don’t know, I can’t explain myself better than this. Maybe it's the aura of mystery that you two share. I still can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Hmm… Seems a bit early to draw this kind of conclusions, doesn’t it?”, Till objected calmly, curling a corner of his lips in placid amusement. "You've only known me for five minutes, Paul, how can you know a thing about me?”

“Well,” Paul said, a bit taken aback, “this is already the second time we meet.”

Till sneered. “That time at the cinema doesn't count. We didn't even speak to each other then."

"And yet you noticed me and didn't forget about me," Paul joked, winking playfully at him.

Till looked back with a mix of curiosity and amusement. "Are you always so flirty with strangers, Paul?”

Paul laughed. “I told you, you’re not a stranger anymore. But, apart from jokes, uhm… well, I don’t know if I am. Maybe yes. Flake says that it's my way of winning people over, especially the ones who scare me the most.” 

“Do I scare you?”

“A little, yes,” Paul admitted candidly. And then, in a more teasing voice: "You know, with those impressive shoulders and your championship title and who knows what else that you’re hiding under that stand-up guy face…”

Paul trailed off, vaguely gesturing mid-air, and Till busted out laughing once again. 

“You’re scaring too… in your own way, little one,” he said, when he had calmed himself.  

“Yeah. I suppose that’s because I usually throw myself headlong at people and overwhelm them with my relentless small talk.” Paul shrugged. “I don't do it on purpose, though. Talking comes naturally to me. I’d never stop talking if I could. Flake says that’s my true talent, apart from guitar of course." 

“Fascinating," Till commented softly, and shook his head. Paul knew - from the ironic pitch in Till’s voice - that this time he was kidding him but, instead of being upset, he found himself oddly pleased. "Flake is the lanky one, I suppose.”

Till glanced towards the dining room. 

“Yeah, that's him," Paul confirmed, following Till’s gaze. “I guess you haven’t introduced to each other yet.” 

“No, you hogged the limelight right away.” 

Paul grinned widely. While they were chatting, Flake and Alex had picked up their instruments, starting to get ready for practice. Aljoscha glanced at Paul and Till out on the balcony and waved them in. Paul felt a surge of disappointment. 

“Hmm, it seems it’s time to get down to work, unfortunately.” 

He turned back to Till, who was looking into the distance while smoking, his forearms resting on the banister. Apparently, he was in no hurry to get back inside. 

“Are you going to play something for us? Remind me the name of your band, please…?”

"First Arsch."

"First Arsch," Paul echoed, and blinked. “Wow, that's a real badass name…” 

Till laughed. He took one last puff of smoke and threw the butt over the railing. “You really got no filter, Paul Landers," he said, straightening up and turning to Paul. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you before."

Paul smiled smugly. Each one of Till’s compliments warmed him up from the inside. Aljoscha called them in for the second time. 

As they went back inside, Paul put his hand on Till's forearm — the man felt like a bundle of muscles under his touch — holding him back. When Till looked questioningly at him, Paul whispered in his ear: “Can we talk in private later? I need to ask you about someone you know."

"Of course. Who is it?"

"A mutual friend of ours. His name is Scholle."

Till stopped abruptly and pinned Paul down with his suddenly very bright eyes. “Richard?" He twisted his mouth into a grimace. “Oh well. Just so you know, this is quite complicated."

 

 

 

 

Chapter 9: Chapter VIII

Chapter VIII

 

 

October 1989

 

 

"So, let's recap," Till said later. He and Paul were walking down the street; rehearsals were just over - Till was a decent drummer, but Aljoscha hadn’t seemed convinced enough to give the green light to a future collaboration between the two bands, just like it had happened with Scholle and Das elegante chaos. Till had offered to walk Paul home, while Flake had stayed behind with the rest of the group to have a drink and a chat. 

Paul had been more than happy to leave with Till, since it gave him the perfect opportunity to be alone with him and ask him about Scholle. Besides, he was starting to sincerely enjoy the company of that strange, quiet man. Actually, Paul didn't remember ever feeling that comfortable with someone he had just met before. 

“So, you said that you met Richard for the first time last March,” Till was saying. “Then, your frontman invited him to play with you guys in a club. Is that correct?"

"Correct," Paul confirmed. He had noticed that Till never called him Scholle, preferring Richard. “Since then he and I have seen each other… uhm, several times." He paused for a moment, wondering how much he could expose himself. He eventually decided to skip the details of his relationship with Scholle for the moment, assuming that they wouldn’t be of any interest to Till. “But he stopped giving any news a few days ago. He just… well, disappeared. Then I learned from Aljoscha that he was arrested by mistake during a demonstration and supposedly released yesterday. So I went to his place, but he was not there. And he hasn’t called yet. No one seems to know what happened to him… not even Aljoscha himself, who always knows everything about everyone.” The last thing was irrelevant, since Aljoscha couldn’t be trusted on the matter anymore, but Till couldn’t know. “I learned from Alex that you are a friend of Scholle’s. So I was wondering if… if you could give me any news about him, maybe.” 

Till, who was looking at his own feet while walking, glanced sideways at Paul. “I thought you came today to admire my talent as a drummer. Instead, you just wanted to grill me about Richard.” 

Paul looked at him bewildered before noticing Till’s smile and realizing he was just teasing him. 

“Well, this must be your lucky day, Paul Landers,” Till went on, sinking his hands into his pockets without stopping walking. “Since I know what happened to Richard and I can reassure you: he’s fine.” 

Paul was left breathless. He stopped in his tracks for a moment, looking at Till in shock. "Really? Oh, thank goodness. Thank you!”

Paul felt that he could run up to the man and hug him tight, as tight as he could, such was the relief that the news had given him, but he didn't dare do it - after all, he still knew so little about Till and pretty much nothing about his concept of personal space. 

Till, probably noticing Paul’s inner struggle, smiled and said nothing. He started walking faster, his stride so long that Paul almost had to trot to keep up with him. He stayed silent and thoughtful and Paul was too intimidated to resume the conversation, patiently waiting for the other to do so. He realized that there was at least another thing that Till and Aljoscha had in common, strange as it might seem: you basically had to force the words out of both of them. However, while Aljoscha usually stayed silent on purpose, to maliciously keep you on pins and needles, Till was different: it seemed that the thoughts swirling through his mind were just too many to be translated into words in real time. The man needed his time. He probably liked to pick up words one by one, like they were roses, giving a precise meaning to each one of them. Paul understood that by instinct, so he tried not to rush him in any way. 

“So, as I was saying, Richard is alive and well,” Till said after a while. “The police beat him up a bit in prison but I do believe that his former wrestler’s body could endure it well enough and without any permanent consequences. Knowing him, I bet his pride is actually far more hurt than his body is." A fleeting wry smile caressed Till’s lips while saying that and disappeared. “He didn’t look too bad, though. The bruises on his body were barely visible.”  

“So… so you got to see him?" Paul asked with a trembling voice, and looked down at his shabby boots, too shaken to dare hold Till’s stare. “When?”

“Yesterday, just after he got out of prison,” Till said. “I let him crash on my couch for the night. I hadn't seen him or heard from him for the last six months." 

“He came to you?"

Paul froze jaw-dropped in the middle of the street.

"Yes," Till stopped in his tracks too, a little frown on his broad face, and turned to him. “As you know, Richard and I are long-time friends. I've known him since he was a little kid, before his parents divorced and his mother remarried to that piece of shit." Till paused, biting his lip. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Sometimes I just get carried away..."

At that moment Paul realized that he didn't even know that Scholle had a stepfather. He had never talked about his family. How many other things did Paul ignore about him? 

"I didn't know about that. I didn’t know about you either," Paul murmured, still stunned, and slowly resumed walking. Till did the same - at a slower pace, this time, aligning his steps to Paul’s. “I mean... Scholle mentioned some of his friends from time to time, but he never mentioned you specifically. I didn't know he had a... best friend or something. Isn’t that quite strange?”

Till surprisingly chuckled. “Richard is less outgoing than he likes people to believe. So don’t be surprised that he didn’t tell you about many things. Besides… I don't know if I can be called his best friend, actually.” Till paused and shrugged. “As I told you, until yesterday he hadn't shown up to me for quite a while. I have no idea what he did during that time, I don't even know if he stayed in Berlin or not. But, whatever. Richard is like that: he comes and goes whenever he wants and always does as he pleases. If you know him, you know what I mean. It’s pretty nerve-wracking sometimes, isn't it?"

Paul returned Till’s empathetic look - yet, he was feeling a weight around his heart that had never been there before.  

“However, if he came to you first, you must matter a lot to him, whether you are his best friend or not,” he said softly, thinking out loud. "I mean, you're the first person he must have thought of. Instead of going back home he preferred to be with you..."

“When he called me on the phone just after being released, it was clear that he didn’t really fancy the idea of going back to his house," Till explained, tilting his head to shake the bangs away from his eyes. “So I told him to come to my place instead, to Schwerin, if he wanted to. And so he did. He took the last train in the evening and spent the night at my place. He didn’t say much, but he looked very disquieted. I tried to make him promise to let me help him, but… Richard’s promises are spoken to the wind. When I woke up this morning he was already gone, vanished, just like that… puff! With only a note. Saying thanks. And goodbye, of course.”

Till's tone was veiled with bitterness; Paul didn't dare to interrupt him, not even to try to console him, since he was so inconsolable himself. 

"I should be used to his cut-and-runs, by now," Till continued, "but it’s so fucking hard. I have no idea where he went, where he is now, where he will be in the next future, absolutely no certainty. He didn't want to tell me anything - probably so as not to get me into trouble, in case the Stasi came to my house asking questions about him. I get that. However,” Till paused and lowered his head; this time he didn’t care about the bangs falling over his eyes, “I have good reason to think that he’s left Berlin. And the country too."

"What?!" 

Paul stopped again in the middle of the street. Till took a few more steps ahead before noticing and stopping too. He turned to Paul, whose face was a mask of horror and amazement now. Till looked strangely at him, his curiosity tinged with a growing concern.

"That's just a feeling, of course,” he said. “Nobody can say for sure.” But as Paul continued to look as if petrified, he added: "Why are you so upset, anyway?”

"Because I didn't expect it, in all honesty," Paul whispered with a faint voice. He lowered his head and mechanically ran his hands through his hair, trying to make sense of what he had just heard - but everything had stopped making sense to him. "You're saying that... you think that Scholle ran away without telling anyone?"

"Well, that wouldn't be that weird," Till said flatly, shrugging again. “On the contrary, it would be so like him. Considering what little he told me yesterday, he’s had enough of the police and more generally of this country. I’m afraid that this prison thing was the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak. He was dreaming of leaving for such a long time. ”

Paul was staring blankly at the ground. Till slowly walked back to him and gently put his hand on his shoulder. 

"Don't worry too much about Richard, Paul. He will be fine. He always finds a way out, somehow." 

“Yes, sure, I’m not questioning his choice to leave, but…”, Paul wetted his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. He shook his head, looking up at Till. “The thing is, I didn't expect him to run away like this, like a thief, without saying anything even to his closest friends. Why did he do such a thing? I don’t really get it… He could have told me…”

Till peered at him intently - his green eyes seemed to pierce through him. Paul immediately knew that Till was one of those few people who could read directly into his soul, like Flake did. Flake had the advantage of having known him for years, while Till... well, Till was just a natural talent, by the look of it. 

"I see what you mean," Till said slowly and, even though he didn’t ask any questions, Paul was absolutely certain that with one single glance Till had understood everything — the way Paul felt about Richard and the kind of relationship they had shared. It seemed that nothing could get by Till, just like nothing could get by Aljoscha when he was sober. 

Till took his hand off Paul’s shoulder and put it back in his pocket. “I see that you’re hurt, Paul, and I’m not justifying Richard - in fact, I believe that much of what he does is pretty unjustifiable - nevertheless…” He paused, collecting his thoughts, “he is like that, again. You can't change him. Either you accept him the way he is or..." He left the sentence hanging in the air. "I'm sorry I can't be of much help to you."

“Oh, actually you helped me a lot. You told me just what I needed to know. Not that I liked it, but still… it’s-it’s better than knowing nothing at all.” Paul broke off. He smoothed the hair on the back of his head absent-mindedly and stared into space before glancing at Till with big quizzical eyes. “Till, do you think he’ll come back?”

That was the crucial question.  

Till remained silent for long minutes, pondering. “Yes, I think he will come back, eventually,” he muttered. “He’s as deeply rooted in this country as the rest of us, and he can’t ignore the call of his own blood. But, if you’re asking me when he’ll be back… who knows. It could be in days, or months."

Or years, Paul thought, suddenly shuddering, but he didn't dare to say it out aloud. 

 

 

Only a few hours later, when Paul got back home - Till had said goodbye with an affectionate pat on his shoulder and had rushed to catch the last train to Schwerin, shouting at Paul to call him for any reason if he needed to - Paul felt free to fully give vent to his helpless despair. 

He screamed and punched the wall of his room again and again until he peeled his knuckles. He was full of disbelief and sorrow. He couldn't believe that he had lost his love in the blink of an eye, without even realizing it and without being able to do anything to stop Scholle, to keep him close, hug him, kiss him one last time… 

He stayed locked in his room for the rest of the day. He heard Flake come back about nine o'clock. Soon after, he knocked on the door of Paul’s room, asking him if he wanted anything special for dinner. Paul did not answer. Flake went away. He came back an hour later and this time, without waiting for a response, he slammed the door open and stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips like an angry mama. 

"What the hell is going on here?" His glasses were flashing menacingly - he pushed them on his nose with one hand. “Aren’t you hungry? You are always hungry."

Paul was lying in bed on his side, face towards the door, all rolled-up in a blanket. His gaze slowly shifted to Flake, and he blinked - as if seeing him for the first time.

"He's gone, Flake," he said softy, in a monotonous tone. "Scholle is gone. Till told me. It’s over.” 

Flake hissed an expletive in a low voice, but his first question was, expectedly, a rational and practical one. “And how can Till be sure? Did he get to see Scholle?"

“Unfortunately yes.” Paul pushed the blanket away and slowly sat up on the bed. He was very pale. He summarized his conversation with Till and Flake listened with a scowl on his face. “Till seems to know Scholle very well,” Paul continued, “maybe better than anyone else. So he’s probably right, you know. Scholle’s gone… Who knows when he’ll be back. I still can't believe it, Flake… I can’t believe it…”

Flake looked down and said nothing. He slowly broke away from the doorframe and went to sit on the bed next to Paul. He rested his hands on his knees and gave a deep sigh. Beside him, Paul took his head into his hands; he was slightly shaking. 

"I've never seen you so broken before," Flake said softly, peeking a Paul sideways. "Not even when you and Nikki broke up."

“That’s because I’ve never been so broken before, actually,” Paul mumbled to the ground. "It's completely different from everything I have ever experienced so far. And yet..." He dropped his hands and looked up, his eyes wandering onto the opposite wall. “Yet it shouldn't be like this, right? It’s… just too much. And too soon. It's only been a few months since Scholle and I got together. You can’t get attached to someone in such a little time, can you? Maybe only a moron can.”

Flake wisely said nothing. 

“Besides,” Paul went on, swallowing a lump in his throat, "I can’t even tell how serious he was about the whole thing. Maybe it wasn’t serious at all to him. Maybe I was not as important for Scholle as he was for me. That would explain why he got away without even bothering to tell me about his plans although we’ve been knowing each other for six months, right?…”

“We don’t know that,” Flake murmured sensibly. “Maybe, before jumping to conclusions, we should give him the benefit of the doubt, don’t you think?”

“That’s all I’ve been doing up so far!” Paul cried out. “I always tried to think the best of Scholle’s intentions because I wasn’t sure of what had happened to him. You may say I can’t be sure even now, Flake, and you still may have a point, but… I don’t know, I trust Till with my whole heart. He has no reason to lie or to hide things from me, unlike Aljoscha. And given what he told me tonight, I really think that there’s no more hope left for me. Scholle’s gone. I gotta accept that.” 

“But what if-”

“He would have called, Flake. He didn’t. So no ‘what if’. It is what it is.”

Flake bit his tongue and remained silent for a while. “Yeah, it could be. I’m sorry.”

Paul’s eyes were glistening with tears. He bravely wiped them away with the back of his hand. Looking at the ground, he forced a smile that was more of a sad grimace. “The funny thing is that I don’t even know myself how I should feel right now. I think… I think it's the first time that I’m literally overwhelmed with such a bunch of emotions all at once. They’re all here,” he said, pressing one hand on his heart, “clashing and screaming. I wish I were angry, just angry. But you know, Flake, I’ve never been really angry with someone in my whole life…”

“Yeah, I know,” said Flake. “That’s who you are, Paul. There’s no way to change that.”

Paul turned to him. “You already told me your opinion about Aljoscha. Now… do you think I should be mad at Scholle?”

Flake winced. “Well, the thing is not that you should or should not feel something. You can’t force emotions, I guess. However, since you’re asking me…” He paused, carefully choosing the words. “Assuming that Till is right and things went as we think - that is, Scholle left of his own accord - then yes, Paul, I think you would have every right to be angry with Scholle for not telling you.” 

That last sentence sounded definitive. Paul, however, didn’t look convinced. 

He stared down at his own hands between his knees and whispered: “But, Flake, anger is not a solution, is it?” 

“Of course it’s not. Anger doesn’t change things,” Flake said vehemently, nodding his head. “But it pushes you to react at least, instead of closing in on yourself and mulling over. That’s the reason I sometimes wish you would get mad more often, Paul. Honestly, I’d rather see you mad than in pain. All this keeping things bottled inside can't do you any good."

"I usually keep things inside because I don't like to complain," Paul said plainly. "And I already complain too much, about anything. About Berlin, about the life we lead, about Aljoscha, and now about Scholle. You said it yourself, Flake, we can’t always complain. Honestly, I don't know how you can stand my fuss all the time. I must really do your head in, sometimes.”

“Yes, you do,” said Flake bluntly, “but I think that's what friends are meant to do. So don’t worry about that. Besides, you’re less insufferable than you think, Paulchen. Most of the time you're quite funny, indeed.”

“Quite funny?!” Paul echoed, grimacing wryly. “Wow, coming from you, I feel honored.”

“You could honor my cooking, just to return me the favor," Flake said winking, the ghost of a smile on his lips while wiping his glasses at the hem of his plaid shirt. "I made soup, by the way. A delicious one.”

“Hmm… I don’t feel like-”

"There's also some real chocolate left of the supply from Schöneberg, you know? I was thinking of sharing it with you, maybe…”

"That's a sucker punch," Paul protested, but a wobbly smile began to creep across his lips. “You know very well that if there's one thing I can't say no to, it's real chocolate."  

“Of course. I’m supposed to know how to lift my friend’s spirit. Why else do you think I told you?”, Flake said, nudging Paul in the ribs playfully. “Now come on,” he urged, standing up. “We still got chocolate. And music. And a roof over our head… uhm, not much of, but still… And, above all, we got each other to count on. Life’s could be much worse.” 

Paul thought it over for a few seconds. “Yes, life could get a hell lot of worse. You’re right.” 

“Besides, you gotta listen to this song Alex and Chris played for us today after you left with Till. It’s pretty cool - also Aljoscha seemed to like it.”

“Uhm, well. If you say so…”

“You know, Paul”, Flake pondered him with a serious gaze, “there’ll always be time to grieve. Just… not today, okay? Today we enjoy what we have. That’s all.” 

Paul didn’t say anything. He slowly got up from the bed. He was still brooding, but his face had visibly brightened up. 

“You know, hadn’t you been looking for me, I would’ve spent all evening in this room alone, staring at the ceiling and wishing to die. And you…”

“And I,” Flake said lightly, “I could have hit the sack early this evening, with my chocolate and my med books, and not given a shit about the guy in the other room. But you wouldn’t call that a friend, in that case, would you?” 

Paul smiled - his heart incredibly lighter now. “So you’re still into medicine, aren’t you? I told Aljoscha you were done with it.” 

“And that’s true. I’ve had enough of it. Medicine is just not for me. And then, I’ve found something even better than that.”

Paul arched an eyebrow quizzically. 

“I’ve started reading poems,” Flake confessed.

“What?!” 

Flake rolled his eyes at Paul’s amusement. “I shouldn’t have told you that,” he snorted and, turning on his heels, quickly strode out of the room. Paul caught a glimpse of his face blushing and ran after him, struggling not to laugh at Flake’s touchiness. 

“Poems? You serious?” 

“Come on, don’t say it like it's a dirty word.”

“I’m not, I’m not. But… the last time I remember I ever read poems was in second grade.”

“Well, just because you’re a stupid ass, it doesn’t mean that everyone else has to be.”

“You're the only one I know who reads poems!”

“You’re wrong," Flake retorted calmly. "From today on, you know at least one other man besides me who does.” Paul looked at him puzzled again. “I’m talking about Till. He reads poems too. He told me in passing as we introduced ourselves today.”

For some mysterious reason, Flake said that and blushed immediately after. Paul stared at him more and more surprised. After the initial shock, as he slowly put two and two together, he started giggling irrepressibly, clutching his belly with both hands. 

“What?”, Flake grunted, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “What the fuck is wrong with you now?”

Paul slowly returned serious, his laughter replaced by a mischievous grin. “Sorry. Sorry, man, but… I just thought of a new pick-up line… Listen up. Hi, I'm Till, I play drums in a band that is only cool in name and I'm a former swimming champion. Oh, wait… I read poems, too. Won’t you marry me?” He held back another fit of laughter, watching Flake’s face become literally purple. “But I don’t blame you, my friend. Indeed, what girl wouldn’t melt in front of a tough guy with a soft heart like him?”

Flake was clearly putting his all to stay as impassive as he could. “In case you missed it, Paul, I’m not a girl.”

“But I can tell you melt all the same in front of our guy, my dear Doktor Lorenz… didn’t you?”

“Bollocks.” But beads of sweat were appearing along Flake’s hairline, making Paul sneer at the top of his lungs once more. 

“Look at your face. It seems I hit the spot.”

“No, it doesn’t. It’s just… so hot in here.”

“It’s October, Flake. And the heating has been broken for at least a week.”

“Oh, well, then we’d better have it fixed as soon as we can.”

Paul, still laughing up his sleeve, didn’t reply. He walked to the fridge and opened it, giving Flake the time to wipe the sweat off his face while he was not looking. 

“You know”, Paul continued, scanning the fridge shelves, “there is nothing wrong with liking someone, man. We’re human, after all. And Till, let me tell you, is a piece of work, you have all my sympathy. Just look at his-”

“What the hell are you looking for, my goodness?” 

Paul turned his head and looked at Flake, who was standing with his back agains the counter, arms folded, and grinned. “Chocolate.”

A deep wrinkle formed between Flake’s eyebrows, giving him a wary look. 

“It’s October. Who the hell would keep chocolate in the fridge?!”

“Well, you said it was pretty hot in here.”

“Alright. Okay. I give up.” Flake raised both hands in mid-air with a groan of exasperation, almost comical to see. “You won, Paul. Yes, I like Till. I like him. Now can we get this over with or you want to keep reminding me that for the next two and a half decades?” 

Paul slowly closed the fridge, giggling smugly. “Hmm… I’ll think about it.”

“I should have left you mourning in your room alone, you little fucker.”

Paul burst out laughing. Flake nonchalantly walked past him to the cupboard and pulled something out of it. When he turned around, Paul saw a bar of chocolate in his hands, carefully wrapped in aluminum foil. He watched as Flake scrupulously broke the bar in two before handing him an half. 

Paul took it. “So… are we friends again?” 

He gave Flake his best puppy eyes. 

Flake brought the chocolate close to his face to look at it before chomping on it. “Uhm, I’ll think about it.” But he was blatantly failing at keeping a stiff upper lip.

“I completely forgot about my personal tragedy in the last half hour,” Paul said suddenly, lowering his voice. His gaze exuded sheer affection, now. “And it’s all thanks to you, my friend.”

“You’re welcome,” Flake said. 

He put the rest of the chocolate into his mouth and chewed on it. The look of feigned outrage on his face slowly faded away - he was now studying Paul critically through his glasses. 

“You know what, man? You look like you badly need a haircut.”

Paul smiled - sheepishly, this time. “Would you mind taking care of it?” 

Flake thought about it, then he grinned. “Well, would you let me read you some poems first?”

 

 

 

Notes:

Way before "Supernova" came to my mind, I wrote another story, "A friend in need (is a friend indeed)", in which Richard goes to Till after he gets out of prison (I think it was my first story in this fandom at all).
You can read it to know how things went between them - not mandatory anyway.

 

(This fucking October 1989 seems endless, doesn't it?)

Chapter 10: Chapter IX

Chapter IX

 

 

November 1989

 

 

If Flake hadn’t been part of Paul’s life, it would’ve been much harder for Paul to get through the days and weeks that followed immediately after Scholle's disappearance (he still called it 'disappearance', in fact; even though, according to Till's version, it would have been more accurate to talk about 'voluntary departure’).

Flake would pick Paul up - more or less literally - every time he found him lingering in bed for more than a few hours or slumped on the tiny balcony of their living room, swinging his feet outside the railing and staring into space, while his hands plucked automatically the strings of his guitar (in fact, playing his pain into the wind was still Paul’s favorite emotional release).

Flake would cook meals for Paul three times a day - which, to be fair, he had already been doing before Paul’s heart was broken - and would have them perfectly packaged and arranged in a row on the fridge shelf, often accompanied by quite unnecessary (“that’s today’s snack”), apologetic (“don't complain, cabbage is what it is”) or even, in their own twisted way, humorous little notes (“bet you thought it was soup, right? Ahahah, nein”).

In short, Flake acted a bit like both a mother and a father to Paul, in addition to staying his friend, brother, bandmate and confidant - always available to listen to him and comfort him, but also ready to scold him more or less gently when, in his opinion, Paul was 'crossing the line’.

"The only thing I can't do is be your boyfriend," Flake would joke. “You’re cute, Paulchen, but I don’t like you that much.” 

“I bet you don’t. I know you prefer tall, well-built guys who look like perpetually angry angels, and read poems and…”

Paul could never finish the sentence; every time, in fact, he burst out laughing, followed by Flake who, after the very first times when he got really upset about it, had learned to bear with the jabs about Till that Paul constantly threw at him, almost to the point of enjoying them himself. 

Since they had met, in fact, and despite the hope of having Till in Feeling B having foundered, Till, Paul and Flake still hung out occasionally. Flake seemed to have established a special connection with Till. His fascination for the man was obvious to everyone. While Paul's teasing, coming from his gentle nature, was made with the best of intentions, Aljoscha's jabs were razor-sharp. Alex, for his part, pretended to look the other way, but Flake had caught a smirk on his lips more than once, when Till was distracted.

Back to Paul. Despite having a thousand distractions, he still thought constantly about Scholle. He thought about him every day, making his own heart bleed. A part of him was still waiting, and always would wait, for a call or a message from him, but Scholle had truly disappeared into nothing - worse, some days it felt like he had never existed.

Sometimes, indeed, Paul woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat in his bed and gripped with fear at the thought of having imagined it all… that he had never known a boy named Scholle, he had never heard him play guitar as if the redemption of his entire life depended on it, he had never watched the hollow of his cheeks when he inhaled smoke, feeling burned alive with raw desire. That he had never touched him and never loved him and never had him in his bed and never claimed him for himself, and never held his hand and never seen him sleep as an angel disguised as a devil is supposed to sleep… 

What was Paul supposed to believe? Were those just his memories or had they been real? And then, if he could rely on his own memory alone, could memory ever be enough for him? No, he needed proof. 

And, at first, the only tangible proof that Scholle had truly existed, that he had been real, that Paul had held him in his arms not as a ghost but as a living body, had been the light bruises on Paul’s body from the last time they had been together. When Paul got dressed in the morning in front of the mirror, his gaze invariably fell upon them. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, Paul could feel Scholle's warm body sliding against his, his hand covering Paul’s mouth while whispering fiery words against his cheek, and the sharp edge of his hipbones fitting so perfectly into the hollows behind his bended knees... The feeling shook him down to the bone. 

But then, as time went by and the bruises faded, the feeling that he had never really known Scholle grew stronger and stronger. Maybe Paul had only lived a dream with him - a brief, intense, bittersweet dream from the very beginning. Scholle had never really been his, after all.

With the little sanity he had left, Paul understood that some days he was suffering so much that his mind, to defend itself, made everything seem unreal - his own body, the house he lived in, the street he walked during the day, the one he took back at night. While he was playing, Paul often found himself stopping without a reason in the middle of it and staring at his own hands on the strings - even his hands felt like they no longer belonged to him. And as for the music…

He couldn’t feel it anymore. The last time he had truly felt it was when Flake, coming home, had found him randomly plucking his guitar strings - in that moment, Paul had thought the ancient magic was back into his hands to stay. But he had been wrong - so dead wrong about it all. Since Scholle had left, in fact, it seemed that music had turned its back on Paul along with him, and for good. Paul was terrified: if so, if even music didn’t matter anymore, then neither did life.

Fortunately, those moments of utmost despair lasted little. Then the key would turn in the lock and Paul would hear Flake’s thrilled voice in the entrance (“You won't believe what I found at the market! Ground beef at only eight marks per kilo. Eight marks. That’s high life, buddy…”). It felt like a ray of sunshine breaking through a storm cloud - suddenly, Paul was no longer alone with his dark thoughts. He could even manage a smile and a joke (“Oh, no! No soup tonight, then?”). Until the next time, of course… 

Until a month before, no one of their common friends would have ever thought that the roles could be reversed: that the usually melancholic and reflective Flake could become a sort of lifeline for Paul, or rather, for this sadder version of Paul, very different from the lively guy always bouncing off the walls he was known to be. But that’s how things were going, no more no less. 

In the toughest of times, ultimately, Paul found in Flake a true blessing from heaven. That cemented their bond for life. 

 

 

One evening, Paul and Flake were planning to sleep at Aljoscha's, like they did whenever they had to rehearse for several days in a row and neither of them wanted to go back and forth repeatedly from their apartment downtown. Alex, on the other hand, would not stay: since he got a girlfriend who lived a few miles away and drove him around in her little car, he preferred to stay at her place.

After practicing all afternoon, they went to have a drink in a nearby place. Around ten thirty, Alex said goodbye and left for his girlfriend’s house, saying he would meet them the next morning not before eleven. 

“I expect you to be wide awake by then.”

Flake and Paul promised they wouldn't stay up too late - and they did have every intention of keeping their promise. 

However, after the third round of beers, when they were ready to call it a night, they realized there was a little problem. Unfortunately for them, they had lost track of Aljoscha during the evening and now he was not only nowhere to be seen, but they had no idea where the hell he had gone, and without him - and the keys to the car - they could not go home.

Reluctantly, they began to search for him, asking around the pub as well, but in vain. No one seemed to know where Aljoscha was. 

"Holy shit, it's the same old story!" growled Flake, his eyes reddened from the lack of sleep. He turned to Paul. "I don't want to be up late searching for Aljoscha yet again. I'm so tired I can barely stand, and from what I see, neither can you. I say we should go." 

Paul looked up from his beer, a bit taken aback. "But we don't have the car keys..." 

"Screw the car, we'll hitchhike home. Do you think we won't find someone going that way?" 

"You want to leave him here alone?”

Flake made a wide gesture of annoyance. "Well, this place doesn't seem much worse than the ones Aljoscha is used to haunting. And besides, he's a grown-ass man, Paul. Damn it. He's even older than us. He should know how to handle himself. We’re not his babysitters.”

“Yes, but…” Paul hesitated. He looked around for the umpteenth time, but there was no trace of Aljoscha. Since the last time Paul remembered seeing him - when Aljoscha had gotten up from the table, swaying a bit, saying he was “going to take a piss,” - more than an hour had already passed.

“Where do you think he went?”, Paul asked, more to himself than to Flake. “He’s not in the restroom.”

“Who knows?” Flake shrugged. “I don’t feel much like finding out, honestly.”

“Maybe he bumped into some friends of his and forgot about us. You know what Aljoscha is like: he knows people in every hole.” 

“Of course. And, may I say, they’re generally even less reputable than Aljoscha himself,” said Flake cuttingly. “The kind of people I wouldn’t want to be walked home by at night.”

Paul didn’t look persuaded. “Hmm… What do we know about Aljoscha’s friends, after all?”

Flake shot daggers at him. “What do we know about Aljoscha himself?”

“Oh, no.” Paul huffed, rolling his eyes. "You’re not about to serve me the ten-millionth episode of  the Truths-about-Aljoscha show, are you?”

Flake pushed his glasses up his nose and didn’t reply, but his face was self-explanatory. 

“Man, I know all your theories about Aljoscha by now. Wanna know which are my favorite ones? In order?” Giggling, Paul raised one hand and started counting on his fingers. “So, in third place: Aljoscha is running things with the Wessis to afford some illicit drugs he may be on.”

“And given his frequent disappearances, that’s very likely indeed,” Flake nodded determinately, seriously.

“In second place: the Wessis have nothing to do with him. Aljoscha is a Stasi snitch, they bought him with alcohol, maybe blackmailing him…”

“Well, that’s another good one.” Flake looked almost proud of himself. “That’s why he always knows everyone and everyone pretends to turn a blind eye to his shit. Seen in this light, his invectives against the Government are just smoke and mirrors. Too bad that, since Honecker resigned, he’s lost his favorite target…”

“…and finally, in the first place, my absolute favorite one…” Paul paused, staring at Flake with an unfazed look. "Aljoscha is... a vampire." He blowed the last word out in an undertone, his eyes bugging out like a a maniac.

Flake didn’t bat an eyelid. "With all the mysterious scratches on his neck, hanging out at night and sleeping during the day, going on without touching food for days... why couldn’t that be?!”

Paul couldn’t hold it back anymore. He cracked up, laughing to tears until he had cramps in his stomach. Only then did he stop. 

"You would be an excellent fantasy writer but a terrible investigator, my friend. No wonder the Stasi never asked you to work for them.”

Flake leaned back in his chair and shrugged. That made Paul giggle again. He played with the glass on the table in front of him and then became serious again. “Ok, Flake, now listen to me. We all have in mind Aljoscha's eye sockets in the morning, but that alone does not make him a creature of the night, of course. It's true that he seems to forget he has a stomach for anything that isn't alcohol, and that he can drink continuously until he is in a coma and then wake up sharp as a needle. It’s all true, but… I think we both know what this is all about, Flake, without needing to look for supernatural explanations. The story with Aljoscha and the booze has been going on for years now. ”

Flake wasn’t willing to give up, though. "Next time this Government boasts about not having the addiction problems that they have in the West, I'll tell them to look more closely. To take a look at Aljosha Rompe, for example." 

"Better not," said Paul, chuckling. "Better not draw attention to ourselves, Flake. I remind you that you have imported chocolate stuffed in your cupboard." 

Flake froze. "Oh. Right…. Fuck.”

Laughing out loud at Flake’s sudden concern, Paul stretched his legs under the table and rubbed his hand across his face, stifling a yawn. The place had gradually emptied around them. The few lights still on reflected faint glimmers on Flake's round glasses. 

When the guy behind the counter told them for the third time that they were closing, Paul had to give up. "Okay, I guess it's time to go," he sighed. Aljoscha had not turned up. 

That said, they chugged the very last bit of their beers and headed for the exit. At the moment of hitching a ride, there was a brief discussion: Flake wanted to go back to their apartment - and not to Aljoscha’s - to give the man a lesson, while Paul absolutely did not want to leave his guitar at Aljoscha's house. 

"I'm not leaving without my guitar, Flake. No way.” 

Paul ended up winning the day. Three girls picked Paul and Flake up and dropped them off about two miles from Aljoscha's house. From there, Paul and Flake walked the rest of the way in the pitch dark across open fields, cursing and complaining, shedding light on their paths with their lighters. 

"Remind me to thank Aljoscha for this too," Flake grumbled when, covered in scratches and worked to the bone, he was finally ready for bed. "I swear, I'll never be so stupid as to leave him the keys to the car again.”

He fell asleep in a few minutes. Paul was also so exhausted that he barely had time to take off his clothes before throwing himself on the sofa opposite Flake and collapsing from fatigue. 

He woke up abruptly when he heard the key turn in the lock of the front door. He had no idea what time it was. He strained his ears, his heart bumping in his throat. He only calmed down when he recognized the familiar sound of Aljoscha’s unsteady footsteps dragging along the corridor. Paul heard the footsteps pause behind the door of the living room where he and Flake were sleeping, then resume their way down the hallway and towards the bedroom at the end of it. Only when the door of Aljoscha’s bedroom slammed shut did Paul begin to breathe normally again. 

He turned onto his stomach on the lumpy sofa and tried to fall back asleep, but for some reason he couldn't manage to do it. He fumbled in the dark for his watch and checked the time at the glowing of a moonbeam coming through the window: it was still a while until dawn. He pushed aside the pile of blankets with which he had arranged his makeshift bed and, without waking Flake who was sleeping on the other rickety sofa in the room, slipped out of the room to go to pee. As he was getting out of the bathroom, before he could stop to think, his steps automatically headed towards Aljoscha's room. 

Paul approached the door on tiptoe and slowly lowered the handle, opening the door a crack. A hushed breath came from inside. Alarmed, Paul flung the door wide open and, as his eyes slowly adjusted to the deeper darkness of Aljoscha’s room, he heard a hoarse voice coming from the bed.

“Paul, is that you?”

Judging by his slurring, Aljoscha had to be drunk again. But that was not all: not only his voice, but also his breathing didn’t sound okay. 

"Do you need help?" Paul asked, quickly approaching the bed, careful not to trip in the dark.

Aljoscha didn't answer. Paul could only hear him breathing heavily in the shadow. He reached out to where the bedside lamp was supposed to be and turned it on.

The cold light fell on Aljoscha's face, enhancing his waxy pallor. Paul shuddered at the sight. In fact, not only was Aljoscha plastered, as expected - although still fairly lucid. Not only did he have a split lip and a purplish bruise blooming around one eye as if he had just fought with someone. 

He was also gasping as if an invisible boulder pressed down on his chest, preventing his lungs from  filling up with air. He was making feeble attempts to pull himself up, but he was too weak to do it; in spite of that, he kept trying, helplessly, over and over again, like a turtle flipped onto its shell. 

In that moment, Paul felt so much compassion for him that he would have burst into tears if the gravity of the moment had allowed him.

"Fuck," he cursed. “Wait! Let me help you.” 

He passed an arm around Aljoscha’s neck and helped him to sit upright on the edge of the bed. 

"How you feeling? Better?”

But Aljoscha was clearly not feeling any better. He was propping himself up with both hands on the mattress, struggling to expand his lungs as much as possible, moving his shoulders closer to his ears with every labored breath, but something seemed to be closing off his airways from the inside. The wheezing sound coming from his throat and dilated nostrils gave Paul goosebumps. 

Paul went into a panic. 

“Oh, shit. Shit shit shit. Where are your inhalers, Aljoscha? Where did you put them?’'

But Aljoscha was so busy with struggling for his own life that he could not even speak, nor help Paul.

Paul started to search frantically around the room, scavenging in the load of garbage scattered on the floor and in the corners, tossing clothes and boots and every other useless thing in the air. But he soon realized it was like searching for a needle in a haystack and, completely out of his mind, rushed out of the room to the only person who could really help him. 

He shook Flake violently. 

"Flake! Flake! Get the fuck up, man, damn it. I need you!”

Flake fluttered his eyes open. Still in a daze, he didn't understand a thing at first - he only saw Paul's terrified face bent over him, shining with sweat, and he almost had a heart attack himself, thinking something had happened to him. Then Paul’s words began to make sense. 

"Aljoscha is not doing well. I think he’s having an asthma attack or something. You read medicine books… You gotta do something!”

They both ran barefoot to Aljoscha's room. It took Flake one glance at Aljoscha to immediately realize the situation. 

"Where are his medicines?" 

"I don't know. I can't find them anywhere..." Paul looked around desperately.

Flake didn't waste any time. “We have to take him to the hospital, right away. I'll grab the keys.”

Together, one on each side, they lifted Aljoscha onto their shoulders and dragged him to the car. Flake got behind the wheel. “No," he told Paul firmly, "you’re too nervous to drive. You’d crash us somewhere. I got this, okay? Trust me.”

They got Aljoscha settled in the front seat and rolled the windows down, hoping it might help him. A chilly wind blowed in, making them shiver in their clothes. Flake started the engine and set off at full speed.

Paul held Aljoscha's hand tightly the whole time, mumbling reassuring words in his ear that he himself didn't believe very much. But everything was far better than hearing the wheezing of Aljoscha's lungs while in distress. It was like the sound of an animal in agony, so horrible that made Paul want to cover his ears.

Meanwhile, between one worried glance and another at the rearview mirror, Flake was speeding along, breaking more traffic laws than he had done in his entire life. Paul had never heard him curse so much.

By the time they arrived at the hospital, Aljoscha's lips had turned slightly blue. He was immediately taken away on a stretcher with an oxygen mask pressed against his face. The struggle for breath had made the tiny vessels in his eyes burst. Looking into those bloodshot eyes, Paul saw something that had never been there before. 

A nurse approached to ask for the patient’s personal details. Then she handed them some forms to fill out.

Paul and Flake spent the following hour trying to provide as much information as possible about Aljoscha’s health status - for what little they knew: any allergies or illnesses, any medication, any family history of serious conditions.

They skipped the questions regarding the use of recreational drugs or alcohol, assuming that the doctors would run all the tests to find out in any case. At a certain point, they were asked to present their own ID documents, stating who they were and what they did for a living. Flake said that he was a tool maker, and Paul that he worked for a radiotelephonic company. It was the truth, after all - those were their ‘official jobs’. They both considered themselves first and foremost musicians, of course, but music wasn’t regarded as a real job in the DDR. 

When they finished with the papers, the nurse took them from their hands and disappeared behind a door. She returned after a while along with a doctor from whom Paul and Flake could finally get news about Aljoscha’s health. 

The news was not good - but it could have been worse. 

"Your friend is very lucky," the doctor said without preamble. "He had a severe asthma attack but we fortunately managed to avoid performing a tracheotomy on him." Behind the doctor’s back, Flake quickly gestured to Paul that it was a hole in the throat, and Paul widened his eyes in shock. "However, he’s staying in intensive care for now. We are giving him high-flow oxygen, bronchodilators, and steroids. Once his conditions improve, we’ll transfer him to the general ward in the coming hours. By the way… how long has he been off inhalation therapy?"  

Paul and Flake exchanged a bewildered glance and just shrugged their shoulders, mortified that they couldn’t be of any help.

The doctor's stern gaze softened at the sight of their helpless despair. 

“Stopping a lifesaving therapy is not a smart move. In fact, I would call it suicidal. You should talk to your friend when he wakes up and tell him that he needs to take better care of himself, if he wants to live. Another joke like that could be fatal. If it weren't for you…”

“We’ll tell him,” said Paul hoarsely, and cleared his dry throat. “We’ll do our best to help him.”

After the doctor left, Paul and Flake sat in silence on the benches in the corridor outside the intensive care unit for a long time.

"I feel bad for him," Flake suddenly said. “For Aljoscha. He’s a damn idiot, and totally rotten in the head, and I’ve always thought that he was definitely pushing his luck with the lifestyle he leads, but… I feel bad for him anyway now. Should he die…”

"He'll be okay, won't he?" Paul interrupted. "The doctor said his life is not in danger.”

Flake took off his glasses to clean them and did not reply. When he didn't have the correct answers, he preferred not to give any.

"The doctor is wrong, anyway," Paul continued. "Aljoscha is not suicidal. I saw his eyes, Flake: there was fear of dying in them. He didn't want to die.”

"I believe it too," Flake said wearily, "and yet... it seems that he doesn't do anything to avoid it. On the contrary." He put his glasses back on and stood up. "I'm going to call Alex. He should know.”

Paul nodded. He sat, feeling completely powerless, like an amoeba. 

Alex arrived in an hour. His shirt was all buttoned up wrong, and his girlfriend was with him. They briefly explained what had happened and what the doctor had said. Shortly after, Chris showed up with his brother. Again, they asked how Aljoscha was doing, and again Paul and Flake repeated the story from the beginning. They decided that they would take turns at the hospital while waiting for Aljoscha to come out of intensive care, so that everyone could pop back home to grab a bite and freshen up.

When Paul finally was persuaded to leave, it was late afternoon. Chris gave him a ride home, while Flake stayed at the hospital with Alex and his girlfriend. As soon as Paul set foot in the little apartment, he heard the phone ring. Thanks to his job at the radiotelephonic company, he and Flake had been able to afford that contraband device; however, and precisely because it was illegal, they had given their number to very few close friends.

Therefore, Paul was extremely surprised when he picked up the receiver, saying 'hello?', and an unexpected voice pronounced his name. 

“Till! I didn't know you had this number.” 

"I got it from Chris," Till said. “Otherwise, how could I get in touch with you? How’s it going down there, guys?”

"Not so well at the moment," Paul said, leaning against the wall, his shoulders slumping. "Aljoscha is sick. They admitted him to the hospital this morning.”

“Sick? From too much alcohol or…”

“No, it’s his asthma this time.”

Till cursed softly at the other end of the phone. "And is it serious? How’s he now?”

“His conditions are serious, but not life-threatening. I think… I don't know, I didn't understand much. I was in a panic." He absentmindedly pulled at strands of his hair while speaking. "They didn't have to cut a hole in his throat to help him breathe, at least…”

“A hole in his throat?”

"Uhm, yes. It has a specific name, but I can't remember it. Flake is the doctor, not me.”

"He will recover, don’t worry," said Till, and Paul was surprised and reassured by the determination in his voice. "We just have to wait and hope, but I am sure that everything will turn out for the best. Are you alone now?”

"Yes, Flake stayed, but he insisted that I go home. He basically kicked me out.”

“And rightly so," said Till, a smile in his voice. "I'll try to stop by as soon as I can, but I don’t know when. I have to take care of Nele, she's only four years old and..." 

At that moment, Paul heard a child's voice screaming with joy in the background. 

"Is... is that your daughter?" he stammered in surprise, temporarily distracted from any other thought.

“Yes,” said Till. “I no longer have a wife, but I still have a daughter,” he chuckled. 

Paul heard him exchange a few words with the little girl. She let out a lively shout in turn.

“Excuse me, Paul, I have to go now. I’ll call tomorrow for more news. Call me first if there are any updates, of course, or if you need something. Anything. And don’t despair… Have faith.” 

“It’s hard, you know…” 

“Then I will have faith for you too.”

Till’s words echoed in Paul's mind long after the call was over. A few hours later, that very evening, the phone rang again. Paul startled, not used to the sound in the empty and silent house. This time, when he said 'hello?', there was no reply. Paul said it again, several times, first puzzled, then increasingly annoyed. Damn, only a few people had the number, and Paul was sure he knew each one of them, so why wouldn't they talk, if they had made an effort to get in touch? It made no sense at all, unless…

Paul felt his heart race. It was happening again. Once again, stupid hopes were rekindling in his stupid heart.

“Scholle… is that you?”, he whispered softly into the receiver. 

The stranger hung up. Click. Paul stood staring at the receiver as if it were an unidentified object in his hand, greatly confused. 

Then, the front door opened and Flake stepped in, wiping his feet on the mat at the entrance. 

He looked up and saw Paul standing in front of the phone. Flake spoke first. 

"They transferred Aljoscha to the general ward. He’s out of danger. And... Paul, he asked to see you."

 

 

 

Chapter 11: Chapter X

Chapter X

 

 

November 1989

 

 

The morning after, when Paul entered the four-bed room where Aljoscha was the only occupant, he felt very nervous. He was afraid of what he might find and unsure if he could handle it. To his relief, Aljoscha seemed to be resting peacefully in bed, pale with his natural pallor that almost blended into the whiteness of the pillow, but without any trace of the bluish that had made Paul’s blood run cold the day before. On the other hand, the bruises on his face looked even worse under the neon lights. 

“Fuck. You’re pretty banged up, man,” murmured Paul, dragging a chair closer to Aljoscha’s bed. “Who did this to your face?”

Aljoscha opened his eyes. A crooked smile tugged one corner of his lips upward when he saw Paul. He no longer had the oxygen mask on his face; instead, a thin tube delivered oxygen straight into his nostrils, allowing him to eat and speak more or less comfortably. 

“Long story,” Aljoscha hissed, and his voice sounded harsh and rusty, as if someone had scratched at his throat. “But trust me, they had their share.”

Paul tore his gaze away from the bruises on Aljoscha’s face and looked him straight in the eye. 

"Do you remember what happened last night, after you got home?”

Aljoscha shrugged his shoulders on the pillow. "I was told that at one point the oxygen in my blood dropped by half and I was close to death.”

“Exactly,” Paul nodded gravely. "You barely made it, man. We didn't even know you had stopped taking your medication... Why the fuck did you do such a stupid thing?”

Aljoscha shot him a contemptuous glance. "Because no fucking medication works for me, that's why." 

He reached out towards the glass of water on the bedside table, but Paul anticipated him. 

“Wait, let me help you.” 

Paul took the glass and helped Aljoscha drink with a paper straw. When he finished, Paul put the glass back down and looked at him. 

“Flake said you wanted to see me,” he said, breaking the ice.

“Yeah… I did.”

Aljoscha closed his eyes again. Paul looked intently at him: the man seemed to be in no hurry to start a conversation. So Paul patiently waited, looking at the rise and fall of Aljoscha's chest with each breath, now steady and even - the erratic panting of the night before seemed just a nightmare now. Still, it had got into Paul’s mind forever. 

"Flake told me that you were shitting your pants when you found me gasping," Aljoscha suddenly said, his eyes still closed, just as if reading Paul’s mind. "Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Paul glared at him. “Sorry for the inconvenience? You call it inconvenience? Fucking hell, man, you were dying!"

Aljoscha's expression didn't change a bit, as if Paul hadn't even spoken. That almost made Paul lose his cool. He inhaled deeply, struggling to compose himself.

"You shouldn't apologize only to me, but also to Flake, Alex and Chris. We all pay the price for your excesses, Aljoscha," he said starkly. “You know, you should stop drinking so much. And being so damn... stoned, all the time. Jesus Christ, why are you so self-destructing? Even without this last inconvenience, as you call it, still we lost count of the times we had to come pick you up somewhere at four in the morning, covered in bruises and mud. And, as if that weren't enough, it's almost impossible to have any sensible conversation with you anymore, since you're out of it half of the time... Not to mention the fact that you muddle the lyrics to our every song and systematically fuck up all our gigs, when you're not passing out in some corner with a hangover, of course... You're messing everything up, man. Your band, your relationships, everything... How can you not see that?”

Aljoscha slowly opened his eyes and stayed silent for a few moments. The neon light above the bed reflected twice in his pupils.

“Are you really worried ‘bout me, Paulchen, or are you just enjoying making a scene?”

Paul huffed. “I’m worried about you and about the band. Feeling B won't last long if you don't get it together."

"As if you cared," Aljoscha hissed sharply. He squinted, as if the light bothered him or he couldn't bear the weight of his own swollen eyelids. “As if you weren't just looking for an excuse to say to hell with Feeling B and with me, Paulchen. As if I hadn’t noticed that you guys have been looking around for a while. It’s only a matter of time now, before you write me off…”

"What?! That’s not true!”, Paul protested vehemently. He lowered his voice when a couple of nurses passing by the open door glared disapprovingly inside the room. “We wouldn’t be here in the first place if we didn’t give a fuck about you, Aljoscha. Nobody wants to kick you out of the band. However…” He hesitated, chewing on his lip. “However, Flake is right: this is your downfall, man, not ours. You're going down, and dragging Feeling B along with you. If you can't stop that and make a change, why shouldn’t we have the right to save ourselves at least?"

Again, Aljoscha said nothing. He closed his eyes and remained still and quiet for so long that, if it hadn’t been for his breathing, Paul would have thought he was dead. He immediately regretted the brutality of his speech, especially because Aljoscha was completely helpless at the moment - he was just a man who had practically returned from the dead - and his condition surely deserved a little more consideration. He was about to apologize when Aljoscha spoke again. 

“Once you wouldn’t dare speak to me like that," he said softly. “You little brat.”

“Sorry. But someone had to tell you. It couldn’t be Flake and it couldn’t be Alex, so… I was the only one left.”

"Flake is a smart kid," Aljoscha said thoughtfully. "I've always told him that, you know. Even though he hates me. I can put my hand in the fire that, even if he doesn't become a surgeon, he will make his way in the music business. He certainly doesn't need Feeling B for that." He paused to clear his throat and swallowed hard. “The same goes for you, Paulchen. You don't need me either, obviously. You play guitar with your whole soul. And Alex… he might make it too, even if he plays not as well as you do." A bitter smile split Aljoscha’s face in half. "All of you guys will move on without Feeling B… except me. I won’t.”

Aljoscha's unexpected sincerity - and the bitterness in his voice - abashed Paul. Like every time he was feeling uncomfortable, he simply said the first thing that came to his mind. 

“Flake doesn't hate you, man. He just thinks that...  you’re a vampire.”

Aljoscha cackled so hard that the oxygen tube slipped out of his nose and Paul had to put it back into place, repressing a smile in turn.  

“Bloody hell. What else is he saying about me?”

“Uhm, that you might be working for the Stasi.”

“Oh, I see. It must be because once I said that your house may be actually bugged.” Aljoscha grinned. "He just doesn't forget anything, does he?" 

Paul smiled dismissively. "Flake... well, I think he's just... really angry with you, and he definitely worries way too much about me. But believe me, he doesn't hate you. He didn't hesitate one second before throwing you into the car and taking you to the hospital.”

Aljoscha grimaced. “Yeah, sure, I’m not saying that he wants me dead, of course, but... He did it mainly for you, Paulchen, because he’s fond of you. And who wouldn’t be?”

Paul tried not to blush when Aljoscha looked at him while saying so. He was not used to having a conversation with sober Aljoscha - and the man was never sober for so long. Now Paul found the clarity in his bloodshot eyes almost impossible to bear, making him feel unusually self-conscious.

“Speaking of which, I got something to tell you,” said Aljoscha with a suddenly graving tone. "That's why I had you come here."

“Let me guess. You may want to apologize for scaring the hell out of me…” Paul tried to joke, while feeling his own heart beating faster. 

“Already done that. No, there's something more," Aljoscha insisted. "It came to my mind while I was lying here. Don’t know if it was day or night, if I was awake or just dreaming or already on the brink of death. I just realized I needed you to know.”

Paul was truly frightened now: Aljoscha had never been that straightforward with him before, never sounded that reasonable - in fact, that didn’t sound like Aljoscha at all, - so Paul was no more sure what to expect from him. He was completely helpless.  

“I’m sorry about that story with Scholle," said Aljoscha softly. "I should have told you that he was in prison as soon as I found out about him. And also later, when you were looking for him and I knew that he wasn’t home and I played dumb and wasted your time. I let you suffer and just stood by and watched as it happened. I’m sorry for that.”

To say that Paul was left open-mouthed in astonishment would be an understatement. The shock was so massive that it knocked him down like a tsunami wave. Paul had known Aljoscha for many, many years, but that was the very first time that the man acknowledged his mistakes and apologized for them. Besides, Paul never thought he would hear Scholle's name come out of Aljoscha's lips. But the moment he did, his shock quickly turned into rage. 

"Did you wait until you were about to die to realize that?" Paul said sourly, his heart thumping in his ears. “Oh, man. I can’t believe it.” He chuckled without joy and looked down at the floor, shaking his head. Then he glanced up again, the fire in his eyes. “And to think that Flake warned me, but a part of me still didn’t want to believe you could do such a thing to me. Let me tell you, man: that’s really the fucking shittiest thing you could do. You’ve been an unbelievable piece of shit, Aljoscha. You...” 

While speaking - panting, - Paul realized that he was finally getting mad. He thought that Flake would be proud of him for once, for letting his emotions out. 

“You were awful to me, and dishonest. If you had told me sooner what happened to Scholle, I could have somehow gotten in touch with him, maybe talked him out of his insane plan to run away and-”

"No, you couldn’t. He would have left anyway," Aljoscha cut him off ruthlessly. “You can blame me for the part I had in this as much as you want, Paul, and that's okay, I deserve it, but don't kid yourself. You could never have made Scholle stay because that was simply not what he wanted for himself. People don't change, Paul, nor do their feelings and desires, like it or not.”

“Also trying to keep me away from Scholle wouldn't have changed my feelings for him, yet you did it anyway,” Paul replied, his eyes gleaming defiantly. “I know that you know the truth, Aljoscha, and I no longer need to hide it… I was in love with Scholle, and you ruined everything.”

“That’s not quite right,” Aljoscha protested, shaking his head. “Again, I’m guilty only to a certain extent, and I’ve already admitted my part. But everything Scholle has done since he was released has been his choice, and I have nothing to do with it. You cannot hold me responsible for his choice. I certainly didn’t suggest to him to fly the coop without saying goodbye.”

Paul stood up abruptly and started pacing back and forth in front of Aljoscha’s bed. He was shaking with anger, but not only that. He soon stopped again and turned to Aljoscha, his fists clenched at his sides. “I know what you’re doing, man. You’re just trying to clear your conscience pinning this on someone else. You probably think that I'll start hating Scholle now and that I’ll just forget the evil you've done. My relationship with him-”

“Oh, quite a strange one that was,” said Aljoscha mockingly. “To think that your alleged lover never told you anything about his real name, or his family, or his plans to leave the country as soon as possible... Just so you know, he’s wanted to run away for a long, long time. Just like I told you the night you met him, remember?”

Paul shuddered, for he could no longer pretend that Aljoscha, however embittered and surely guilty, was entirely wrong. That was true, he could blame Aljoscha up to a certain point, beyond which he was not responsible for Paul's pain. Scholle was. And even though Paul's rational side knew that, the rest of him refused to accept it. How could he stand the fact that the one he had loved the most had also hurt him so bad?

"I didn't bring you here to talk about Scholle, anyway," Aljoscha said, startling Paul from his thoughts. "Again, I apologize for the part I had in making you hurt, Paul. It was certainly not a minor one, however I’m not going to let myself be treated like the monster of this story. Just forget about it.”

“And yet,” said Paul coldly, "what else would you call someone who lies and deceives the people who trust him and let them suffer without reason if not a monster?”

Paul was glad that the dam had finally broken and that he could take it out on Aljoscha; in fact, as long as Paul ranted at him, he did not have to think about Scholle and how he felt about him. If he had done so, it seemed to him that his heart would never stop breaking.

Aljoscha spoke without taking his eyes off Paul’s face, which was flushed with anger. “I had my reasons for doing what I did, and you know them, Paul. Don't be a hypocrite. Or did you really think I enjoyed just screwing you?”

Paul flinched, his cheeks turning instantly red. He knew that would come up, sooner or later. It was just inevitable. His anger suddenly cooled, and he let his gaze wander around the room, unable to hold Aljoscha’s stare any longer. 

“You were fucking him,” said Aljoscha bluntly. “... Scholle.”

“Yes.”

“You were in love with him.”

“Yes.”

"Look at me, goddamnit." 

Aljoscha's voice was so commanding that Paul couldn't help but oblige. 

“I was in love with you,” Aljoscha hissed. “I’m sure old Flake told that too, but you wouldn't listen. So, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out how it went. Who, in my place, wouldn’t have done the same?”

“I, for example,” Paul whispered. “I would never have done what you did.” 

Aljoscha glared at him. “It’s easy to judge me when you're not walking in my shoes, isn't it?... Do you really think it was a breeze for me, Paul? Try and think for a minute, damn it. Here comes this guy, Scholle. You lose your head over him. He happens to be a a great guitarist and to have a stage presence too. Then he creeps his way into my band, and into you. How was I supposed to take it? What else I was supposed to do, for fuck’s sake?”  

Paul was doing his best to hold Aljoscha’s gaze without faltering. “You knew that I was not in love with you, Aljoscha.”

Aljoscha's eyes brightened up with a feverish determination. However, he took the blow admirably. “Yeah, of course I knew,” he growled. “But… I thought you were supposed to belong to me anyway, Paul. I discovered you. I created you. You and Flake… you were nothing before me. You were my thing, Paul, not Scholle’s. I sure as shit wouldn’t let him have you without a fight.” 

A shiver ran under Paul's skin, shaking him all over. He marveled at how his voice could come out so calm and controlled, despite the turmoil he was hiding inside. “I’m not your thing, Aljoscha. Actually, I’m not a thing at all. I’m a person, and I have my own feelings and desires. You said it yourself: you can’t make people do what you want them to do. You can’t keep me shackled to you against my will. You can’t make me love you. And you’re too clever not to know that too.”

Aljoscha sneered. “Knowing doesn’t mean accepting. And then, I would have done anything to keep you with me.” 

“But now you’ve lost me forever. It didn’t go very well, did it?”

“No, it all did go to shit,” Aljoscha spitted bitterly, and shut his eyes. He looked exhausted from talking. 

With a sigh, Paul walked back to his chair and sat down. They stayed silent for long minutes. Oxygen slowly flew through the thin tube under Aljoscha’s nose and the room was very quiet. A nurse poked her head in and took a quick look before slipping away. 

“You know, I was not like that, once,” said Aljoscha suddenly, without opening his eyes. “Once I had hope. I hoped that music could save me, that you could love me back, that this country could do something good. And instead… look at things now. Look at me. Nothing went as it should. I’m just a man with nothing left in his hands. Not even his family at his bedside. I have nothing, except the band - and you. When someone tried to take all that away from me, I fought back. I had the right to do so, didn’t I?”

“You did,” said Paul evenly, nodding down at his own hands, “but you would have done better to let me go. It was a losing battle from the start, you should have know that.” 

So saying, Paul stood up slowly. He glanced at Aljoscha with no more anger on his face. “You pushed yourself too much today, man. Now I’ll leave and let you sleep, okay?” Then he added: “I’ll sit for a little longer in the corridor just outside your room. I’ll wait until Flake and Alex come. I’ll leave the door ajar. If you need anything, just call me and I'll hear you, okay?”

Aljoscha opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling above his head. “You’re a much better person than I’ll ever be.”

That hurt - for some reason, Paul's heart twitched in his chest and he had to blink a surge of commotion away. “And you’re not completely lost, Aljoscha. I don’t believe you’re absolutely evil. You do a lot of evil things, that’s true, and only a few good things. But I appreciate that you apologized to me today. Get a grip on yourself, man, before it's too late. Come on. I know you can make it, if you really want it.”

Aljoscha smirked. “People don’t change, Paul,” he said softly. “But I wanna know one last thing before you go.” 

He searched Paul’s face with a gaze that burned like a raw flame.

“Tell me... was it so bad being with me?”

Paul knew what he meant. He blushed furiously once again.

“Well… It-it never hurt, at least.”

“But it never pleased you either.” 

Paul thought back to what Scholle and he used to do - to the things he had done to Scholle and others he had let Scholle do to him. And no, oh no, there was absolutely no comparison between sex with love and sex without love. He thought it would be too rough to say it on Aljoscha’s face, anyway.

But Aljoscha got it all the same. It took him one single glance at Paul’s face to understand what he was not saying aloud. Their eyes met. In that mutual gaze they both read it, plain and simple and yet undeniable: Feeling B was over. What had been between Paul and Aljoscha was over. Paul would never sleep in Aljoscha’s bed anymore. Aljoscha would never again ask Paul for things that Paul was no longer able to give - things that young Paul, at nineteen years old, had even been willing to give, and not even too reluctantly, up to a certain point. Like he had told Flake, Aljoscha had never forced him to do anything, after all; Paul had always gone to him of his own accord, first. 

The moment Aljoscha’s feelings had started to change remained unknown. But as his affection for Paul slowly turned into obsession, Paul’s sense of security turned into the anguished feeling of living into a cage. He had tried to break free, he had married Nikki, but that hadn’t been enough. Only when Scholle had walked into his life everything had truly changed. After then, Paul had realized that he could no longer pretend. Aljoscha had realized it too, albeit reluctantly. Paul could read it on Aljoscha's face even now, in the look he was giving him from his hospital bed.

As for himself, Paul felt like ten years had fallen upon his shoulders in one single night, as heavy as bricks. Now he needed to be alone, to think - perhaps to cry.

Aljoscha must have read his mind. “Go now, Paul,” he said. “And close the door behind you, please. You don’t need to leave it open. I won’t need you.”

Paul’s heart tightened again for a moment. He held his breath in surprise. “Are you sure?”

Aljoscha nodded and fluttered his eyes close. Paul obeyed. He turned on his heels, walking past the empty beds, and stepped out of the room. The door clicked shut when he pulled it behind - then only silence. No one in the hallway, not even a nurse in sight.

Still holding the handle in his hand, Paul stood motionless behind the door. He breathed hard through his nose, feeling like throwing up any minute now. 

Instead, he reached up and pressed his palm against his mouth - and finally started to cry. 

 

 

Five days later, Till dropped in on Paul and Flake, unannounced. Unfortunately, the latter was away with his brother, so Till and Paul found themselves one-on-one in front of a beer on the balcony of the small house. Paul quickly filled him in on the latest events, including the fact that Aljoscha, being on the verge of a withdrawal, had left the hospital against medical device just the day before. 

“I really hope he doesn't resume drinking right away, but… I have my doubts, honestly.”

Till was listening while looking at the roofs in the distance, holding a cigarette between two fingers. He and Paul were both wrapped in heavy coats and scarves against the autumn cold, their warm breath creating little clouds around their faces every time they talked.

Paul had given Till a ‘censored' version of his conversation with Aljoscha. He would trust Till with his dear life but, at the same time, he was reluctant to get down to specifics about his complicated relationship with Aljoscha. Nonetheless, Paul had the impression that Till had grasped much of what he had not said aloud, as usual. In fact... 

“Are you still thinking about Scholle, aren't you?”, Till asked out of the blue, cutting the words in Paul’s throat. 

Instantly, every thought about Aljoscha was pushed into the background of Paul’s mind. He turned to Till, who was now staring at the Fernsehturm flaring in the distance under the setting sun, while placidly pulling on his cigarette. Paul didn’t expect that question. 

“Why you asking?”, he said in turn. “We were talking about Aljoscha, not Scholle.”

“Yes, still I get the impression that everything’s about Scholle, even what happened between you and Aljoscha,” said Till. His calm tone clashed with the searing glance he shot at Paul, piercing into his soul. “Am I wrong?”

Paul didn’t want to think about Scholle because he was afraid to be sucked in by the whirlwind of his own conflicting emotions - yet he couldn’t help but do it all the time. 

“You know, I think about him every day,” Till went on, as if echoing Paul’s thoughts. “But I’m not worried. I know that whatever happens… well, it’s meant to happen.”

“I wish I had your faith, Till.”

Till smiled softly. “Yeah, uhm… it cost me quite a lot.”

Paul looked away, twirling his beer in his hands. “I was mad at him. At Scholle. For leaving without a word.” 

“Was? You’re no more?” 

Paul reflected. “I don’t know. He hurt me and I still can’t get why he had to do that.”

Till shrugged his shoulders. “Probably he didn’t mean to. Hurt you, I mean... But he definitely meant to fly away. He just put himself before everyone else, like he’s ever done since I’ve known him. Love can be very selfish, sometimes. But selfishness is not love. Or maybe only self-love, and those around you usually can get very little good out of it. Usually, they just pay the price.”

Paul listened with a deep frown on his face. “I wish I could make do with your explanation, still...”

Till smiled again and shook his head. “No, you don’t have to, don’t worry. Besides, I’m mostly speaking to myself. I do it often.”

Paul was now staring at Till very intently.

“Can I ask you one question about you and Scholle? I’m not sure I want to know, though.”

Till didn’t look surprised at all. “I can relate to that last thing very well.”

“Does he love you?”

Till slowly looked up at Paul, measuring him with his eyes. 

“Because, you know…”, Paul went on, unwavering, “if I had been in prison and then just let out, and I was planning to leave the country, the first person I’d want to go to would be the one I love.”

Silence. Till stared at him so keenly that Paul had to turn away from his green eyes. He lowered his gaze to the houses on the other side of the street, where the setting sun no longer reached. 

“It was three questions, actually, that I had in mind,” he added, still avoiding looking at Till. “The second one being whether you love him back, while the third…” He paused for a moment and caught his breath. “Is love worth all the pain that comes after it’s over?” 

Till remained in silence for so long that Paul thought he would never answer. Then…  

“About the last one, I think that only time can tell,” whispered Till, and the forlorn look in his eyes made Paul want to hug him even though Till looked so big and invulnerable. 

Only then, in fact, did Paul understand that Scholle had left not only him, but Till as well - Till was hurting no less than Paul, he just didn’t let it show. Paul’s loss was also Till’s loss, but Till was putting his own sorrow aside out of respect for Paul. Paul was deeply touched by that - it was the most selfless thing that someone had ever done for him.  

“Only time can tell, yeah…” he repeated pensively. “It does make sense.” 

He took one last sip from his beer, looking in the distance. Then he grasped the railing and pulled himself up, shaking the dust off his clothes. Till eyed him doubtfully. 

“You know, about my other two questions… just forget about them, Till, okay? They’re silly, and I don’t really want to know.”

He truly believed what he was saying. After all, there was no need to say the obvious out loud and no need to wallow in misery and regret either. 

Could Paul really be disappointed in Till just because Scholle loved him and not Paul himself? No, he couldn’t. Maybe he could get at Scholle for that, but Scholle wasn’t there. And even if he had been, what could Paul reproach him for? For deceiving him? In the end, no matter how much it hurt to admit it, Scholle had never said “I love you”… He had said “I like you”, and maybe “I care about you”, many times, but it was just not the same as love - Paul was slowly beginning to understand. The explosion he had felt while being inside Scholle was just inside himself. It was not the same for Scholle. They hadn't shared the same reality, they just hadn't felt the same. And if life had been mean to Paul lately, it was nobody’s fault -  not even Scholle's fault. The heart wants what it wants, after all - and that’s life. Just focus on the silver lining, a little voice whispered in his head. Focus on the few friends you have, Paul, you'd better hold on to them tightly. 

That was so true. Flake above all, but also Alex and Chris. And Till too. Till was definitely one of the people Paul wanted to keep around for as long as possibile - hopefully for life. And for that to happen, one between Paul and Till had to give up on Scholle. And that one couldn’t be but Paul himself, because Scholle didn’t love him the way he loved Till, simply. 

In an outburst of sincerity, Paul told Till everything about him and Scholle. Till listened without interrupting even once. When Paul finished speaking, Till parted his lips to say something in turn, but Paul shook his head. 

“Can we stop talking, please? I’m overdosed on talking. Can we just… drink? And not think about a single thing until tomorrow?” He shook the empty bottle under Till’s nose, trying to put on his most cheerful face. “So? You up for one more?”

Till gave him a long, quiet look and Paul felt the desire to run away as far as he could, because the atrocious kindness in Till’s eyes was simply killing him. Given Paul’s already shaky mental state, any word from Till at the moment could have been devastating. 

Once again, Till seemed to read Paul’s thoughts - he hesitated just for a tenth of a second before giving him what he needed: an excuse to slip away to the solitude of the kitchen, far from his gentle compassion. 

“Sure, why not. Better grab a few.” 

Paul nodded imperceptibly, with a lump in his throat, before pretty much fleeing through the balcony door.

Till stayed outside despite the cold, smoking towards the sky, giving Paul all the time he needed while the sun definitely went down.