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The stench of sex and cigarettes floods his senses. Joined by the aroma of her perfume, Till is feeling quite repulsed at the moment. Typically, such combination of scents is more of a smug reminder than anything else, but now it just disgusts him. She sleeps on her side, utterly passed out from the rounds of fucking and excessive drinking. Till sits at the edge of the bed, feet planted upon the floor, running his broad, calloused hands through his red hair. His vision is spinning, wobbling, distorted as if seen through a layer of water.
Shit. He really drank too much. His hands are unsteady, as if detached from himself, when he reaches out to paw at the lamp. It flicks on when he manages to find the switch. He squints, turning away from the glare, and pans his heavy eyes through the hotel suite. Clothing decorates the floor and various pieces of furniture. She had written a message in her own language on the wall with her lipstick. Till squints at it, pointlessly attempting to decipher it within his own linguistic limitations. He’s beginning to suspect she had something else other than merely alcohol.
Considering his age and how thoroughly drugs kick his ancient ass now, he tends to abstain from its temptation. As Richard put it in the past, it used to be fun and ongoing when they were in their thirties, but now it takes two weeks to recover from one night of indulgence. Very true. And Till has a line of concerts set up. Not happening. Either way, he stops dazedly thinking about it, and decides he has to piss. Badly.
His legs are like jelly when he attempts to stand. His entire world tilts. His equilibrium is far from existing at the moment. He stumbles forward, crashing very gracefully into the nightstand, knocking off his pack of cigarettes and the ashtray full of butts. It all scatters across the pristine carpet of the bedroom. The lamp wobbles dangerously, but settles without harm. He slurs a curse under his breath. He sluggishly, clumsily turns to look back at his conquest of the night. She didn’t even shift. She is out. Good. Till hates explaining himself.
The entire room is spinning. The angles of the furniture and walls expand and shrink, they spin and dance, and it’s fucking disorienting. Till is beginning to regret drinking nearly two full bottles of wine. Jesus Christ. He can’t recall the last time he was this drunk; his tolerance is stupidly high. He shuffles his way along the wall, stumbling past the distorted furniture, his eyes slowly blinking, sweeping side to side to read his surroundings as best he can considering his state.
Eventually, he makes it to the bathroom. He manages to shuffle up to the toilet, eyes wide, trained down on the closed lid of it, watching it widen and distort into various kinds of circles. His entire body sways. His feet attempt to keep up with it, shifting his weight back and forth to keep himself standing. Fuck.
In a questionable decision, Till tries to lean over and lift the lid. Obviously, that is unattainable considering he staggers forward, his big body collapsing to the side, and crashes into the marble counter of the spotless bathroom. He grunts, sagging heavily into the surface, hands dragging along the smooth countertop until he regains the strength and focus to slowly lift himself. He manages to stand again, but the momentum has him stumbling backwards, his sense of balance flipping in a solid 180°. Slamming back against the wall, his head hits the towel bar. His vision blackens, stars popping up across his fading vision. He slides down, dropping heavily onto his ass.
A string of slurred German flies from his mouth, gibberish in his attempt to voice coherent curses. He alternates to his hands and knees.
He begins to crawl to the bathtub. That works much better. He slips once or twice, but it’s much more achievable when he’s on his hands and knees. The bathroom continues spinning and warping out of control, but he pushes through it and forces himself into the bathtub. Raising up onto his knees, Till sighs heavily in drunken irritation. He grabs his dick, points it towards the drain that deforms into various shapes, and begins to piss, forcefully. The angle of the stream hits against the porcelain, spraying urine everywhere—but thankfully, mostly in the bathtub. It’s a major relief, emptying his bladder. Planting his big hand along the edge of the tub, he groans in bliss.
It takes a full minute. The stream lessens to nothing. Till collapses against the backrest of the tub. He closes his eyes, legs curled up, arm dangling over the side of the tub. After regaining his energy, he slowly opens his eyes and turns his head to look over the bathroom. He trails his gaze along the countertop, trying to decipher what he’s staring at beyond the warping of his vision. Squinting, brow furrowed, he stares, and continues to, until he realizes it’s his phone.
He left it in here, turned off, before he began screwing around with that woman.
Emboldened, he begins to climb lethargically out of the tub—he doesn’t trust himself to stand up and step out. He might trip and crack his head open on the toilet or the floor. Feeling akin to a snail, Till gradually, sluggishly, crawls his way to the other end of the countertop, closest to the shelf of towels. With a trembling hand, Till paws around at the surface from where he remains kneeling on the floor, until he finds the phone. He grabs it, and then collapses against the wall.
Without thinking, unable to really process what he’s actually doing, Till turns it on, blinking slowly, and waits for it to boot up. Despite the classic combination of his completely intoxicated state and massive fingertips, Till manages to type in a specific phone number after a half-dozen attempts. When it begins to ring, he lethargically brings the phone to his ear, his head swaying a bit. He rolls his eyes shut—it helps him focus on the call, and not his distorted surroundings.
It rings five times. Eventually, it does go through. The other end picks up. Till hears some shuffling, and then a heavy exhale.
“Till, you know that we leave for Moscow in five hours, right? It’s… God, it’s five in the morning. What’s up?”
Paul’s gravelly voice, thick with sleep, overwhelms his senses, flooding his mind. Till grunts and relaxes back into the wall. It soothes him. He waits for him to speak some more. He wants to hear his voice more. It doesn’t come for ten seconds. Till grumbles.
“M’re,” he mutters, voice rough and slurring heavily, “Talk t’me more.”
A lengthy pause follows. Till blinks heavily, bringing the phone from his ear to check the call is still ongoing, his head bobbing in its attempt to stay upright. He watches the seconds tick by on the call length display. He brings his iPhone back to his ear and waits. He hears a contemplative hum.
“You’ve been drinking, haven’t you? Ah, no, I know you have. You’re barely able to talk,” Paul begins, his voice low and soft. He pauses, seemingly calculating while Till silently enjoys the sound of his voice, his eyes closing again. Paul sighs, and continues quietly, “I hope it’s not more than that. Are you safe? Do you need me to come get you, Till?”
“No,” Till drawls out, in an elongated nee that rolls off his tongue like warm molasses. He continues, voice rumbling, words shoving together to create a collision of gibberish, “D’nt come g’me. I’m—”
The next sentence is totally incomprehensible. Till attempted to explain his whereabouts, but it emerged as a slew of utter nonsense. Not what he intended, not at all. His tongue is curling and tripping up on itself, not quite keeping up with the motor of his barely-functioning mind. Paul snorts in amusement. Till grins, tucking his chin. Paul’s laughter is nice.
“So… What? You’re in your hotel room? You’re safe? Just say yes or no.”
“Yes,” Till slurs heavily, this time in English to mock him for his coddling. His accent’s atrocity is amplified in this current state. Paul giggles. Till hears some shifting beyond the call; like Paul was getting comfortable.
“Wh’you?” he asks, struggling to form understandable words. Paul hums lowly, a long sound hitching with repressed laughter.
“I’m in bed. In my own room. You know, the one that isn’t the suite.”
Till presses his lips together. He’s struck by an unusual sense of longing. Staring, unfocused, at the wallpaper in the bathroom, Till pictures the other man all cozied up in his hotel bed, wearing the typical sleep shirt and his boxers. Seated up against his pillows now, cradling his own iPhone to his ear with one hand roughened both by age and his guitar playing. Till’s chest aches.
“I,” he begins, putting emphasis on his words to really get it across, to say it without any sort of misunderstanding. Ich (though, his Berlin accent begins to seep in due to his inebriation).
“Miss,” he pointedly says, hand clenching into a fist against his bare thigh. Vermisse (he stumbled on that one a bit).
“You,” Till finishes, vocalizing that one rather easily. Dich.
Paul chuckles. Till’s entire core warms up at that. A delicious, vibrating sound of Paul’s fond amusement. He speaks in a hushed murmur, his smooth, deep voice slow and calming.
“I’ll be seeing you again soon. You know that. Unless you want to see me now? I can be there in a second.”
A furrow comes to Till’s brow. He licks his lips thickly, his chest tight, heart beating faster now. He shakes his head, grunting.
“No. I… I d’know. Miss you. The… The past.”
Why is it so damn hard to articulate himself? His lips and tongue move like lead. His world is upside down, but he still wants to get this across. Paul has to know. Doesn’t he? Till lifts a heavy hand to rub at his eyes.
“Yeah,” Paul says, “I get it. Can you get back to bed? We need to meet up soon. And, obviously, you need your rest. You’re going to have a killer hangover in the morning, I’ll tell you that.”
Till crumples a bit. Paul isn’t understanding him! He’s brushing it off much too easily. Till just gives up, with a deep exhale. He releases a grumbled noise and pans his eyes over to the ajar door of the bathroom. The journey back to the bed is doable. It should be. He can manage it. Definitely.
“Okay,” he produces in a slurred mumble, “G’night.”
Paul chuckles again. It replenishes that soothing warmth in Till’s chest. He smiles weakly to himself. Such a lovely sound. He wants to hear it over and over again. Paul speaks, gentler this time.
“Goodnight, Till. Please take better care of yourself. We care about you—I… I care about you. Understand?”
Till nods sluggishly, an exaggerated up and down that the other man surely can’t see.
“Yeah. I do.”