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It was the worst feeling in the world.
Worse than that look of pity he knew all too well, worse than this ever-present feeling of inadequacy that sat inside his gut the minute he woke up each morning, worse than the belly aches that used to accompany him on his way to school, worse than that mean little whisper telling him that surely something was terribly off inside his very bones, his blood, his organs, his brain, just when he was about to fall asleep.
No, this, this was worse.
This moment of utter impotence, when it all left him. His wit, his control, the air in his lungs. When he felt the heat rise from his neck to pinch his cheeks, the shrill scream of panic in his ears and the tremble in his throat, desperately trying to push the words, any word, out of his uncooperative mouth, to no avail.
Pairs of eyes stared at him. Eyes that should be familiar, that he shouldn't feel afraid of, ashamed by, and yet here he was, with his jaw clenched shut and a stumbling hum trying to fall up the stairs inside his chest, attempting to form vowels that didn't want to come as his muscles convulsed around them against his will. He felt terribly exposed, robbed of his dignity. It was a vicious circle, this condition; always making matters worse, making him look even weaker, even more insecure, and causing stress where stress was already present. How naïve he was for thinking he had been cured of it. He wasn't, he would never be.
And then, when he almost couldn't take it any more, the expectant looks and impossibly long seconds between then and now, the question that had been thrown his way and the reply that wouldn't come, they simply dismissed him altogether, and that, quite frankly, was the most embarrassing thing about it all.
“You know what? Forget about it, you guys do whatever the fuck you want, I don't care.”
Gazes dropped, annoyed sighs and curses picked up again, and Flake just about caught that knowing glance from across from him, the empathy edged along the lines of his friend's mouth before he, too, turned towards the one who had started it all.
“Don't just say that. You do care, we all care.”
“Shut up, Paul, you're always the first to find a fault in my ideas, so don't even start-”
“Only because I want us to be better.”
“Better?! So my ideas are shit, is what you mean?”
“Richard--”
“Guuuuys,” Schneider whined, hitting his open hi-hat repeatedly to break up the squabble before it could get any worse, as it usually did, “Can't we just move on? It's getting really stuffy in here, I thought this was just gonna be a quick run-through.”
“No, this isn't fair--”
Staring back down at his keyboard, his band mates' arguing gradually turned to static. Deeper and deeper their voices dropped, until all Flake heard was the nervous thumping of his heart and his own breath rushing round from ear to ear. If only he had had a drink already maybe this wouldn't have happened. Just a beer or two, and he would have been fine, making his point in a way he knew he was capable of. He wasn't stupid, for heaven's sake, he was just--
Crippled, a familiar voice whispered, sounding quite like himself, but quiet and all too sure instead, as it was in all things it told him. Mean. Crippled in every which way, aren't you?
On and on it went; the arguing around him, the bickering back and forth, and the hushed monologue inside his head, gearing up to question his very existence by the end of it, like it always did. He knew it was wrong to do so, that it had no right to speak up, and yet he believed it now and then. Often enough he tried to fight it, drown it out, too stubborn to let it have the last word, but sometimes, sometimes it was easier to just let it control his thoughts and run its course.
Flake blinked at his Casio's yellowed keys, suddenly aware of the argument that was now bordering on a shouting match, and looked up to find some of his bandmates already without their instruments. Impatience weighed heavy inside their storage room turned recording studio, along with the leaden August heat that came blazing through the open basement door leading up and out towards their overgrown garden. If he focused on it, he could hear the cicadas outside.
“If I have to put up with this for the entire record, I'm not fucking having it--”
“Oh, you're not having it?! How about you stop being a crybaby--” - “Crybaby?!” - “--for one bloody second, I was merely suggesting we try a different approach, you're not the only musician around! Guys? Right?”
“The song was finished, you're just doing this on purpose to piss me off--”
“You're not listening, is anyone listening? Is anyone actually hearing what I'm saying--”
“Fucking unbelievable...”
Wordlessly, Flake reached for the power button on his keyboard and switched it off with a click, his finger lingering on the ridged bit of plastic and rubbing the texture of it in thought. He wasn't used to these kind of divergences with his former bands. Whatever anyone had come up with was as good as any idea, things were quickly and easily agreed upon, only sometimes adjusted, and trying too hard was frowned upon anyway. This was different. In fact, nothing was like it used to be.
When he moved to leave he didn't look up, merely manoeuvred his way past cables, stands and Schneider's drum kit, neither rushing nor idling, but awkward and silent, leaving the bickering at his back and not noticing the heavy look of the one that felt his absence the most.
***
It wasn't any cooler outside than inside their shabby cottage as he sat on the narrow stairs leading up to their always open front door, but here there was a breeze instead of the bristling thunder of hurt egos, and while he could still hear them down there, the birds were loud enough to pretend that he couldn't make out any specifics.
Having taken the exit through the house instead, putting a door between himself and the argument, he had briefly considered making a detour past the fridge on his way out, but the need to feel the open space of their garden and the bordering woods had been greater than the bitter taste of beer and the ease it promised. However, now that he sat here his eyes did linger on the cheap plastic table standing askew a few feet away from him, a couple of forgotten bottles from last night still sitting on top of it. He didn't know what was more disgusting, the fact that he even considered taking a sip from whatever stale bit of piss was still inside of those beers, the bottom of them likely riddled with dead flies, or that the voice inside his head had been right all along.
He had run away, had once again taken himself out of the equation when things became too difficult, because it was easier to avoid responsibilities and slip-slide out of difficult situations than to face anything head on. He was still that boy voluntarily crawling into the nearest dumpster whenever his bullies turned the corner. He was a coward, and whatever lie he had told himself, that through music and the friendships he had thought he found his stutter was cured, that he had grown as a person, he knew it wasn't true.
He was still awkward, still lanky, still difficult to talk to and even harder to kiss. He only functioned somewhat like a normal sociable human being when drunk, and even that turned out to be an embarrassing affair most of the time. People had told him as much.
Staring out at the unkempt garden with the sun burning his neck, he briefly looked up when Oliver emerged from the basement, quiet and unhurried, striding past and picking up a branch off the ground along the way. Surely, he had had enough as well, but Oliver didn't argue, Oliver just left and came back later; fixing things when they were ready to be fixed. He always looked so unbothered, Flake thought enviously. Like nothing could ever throw him off, like he never had any doubts, endlessly patient, eyes on the course. Next to him, Flake looked like a bundle of nerves, operating a compass that only ever pointed south, not north, and never once aware of it. Quite frankly, he probably looked like that next to anyone, really.
He tensed when Lady brushed past him on silent paws from inside the house, sensing a walking companion in Oliver and taking off with him into the woods. So that was their bassist gone for the day, and their keyboardist having a crisis on the stairs, and over what exactly? He liked to tell himself that he was perfectly normal, but evidently that wasn't true when several childhood traumas had come collapsing right over his head the minute he had found himself stared at and unable to speak in front of his friends.
With his elbow propped on his knee and his face resting in his palm, Flake let the sun beat down on him still and let the embarrassment find a home in his gut. The arguing had quieted down in the back, and there were only low murmurs, the pop of amplifiers being turned off and the radio in the kitchen filtering through to his spot on the stairs. A part of him wanted to go back inside, seek out the company and safety of his friends, and yet that exact same thought made his stomach turn and the heat want to rise back up to his face. He had never stuttered quite so badly in front of them.
Flashes of Richard's hard stare crossed his mind, the agitation that had sat in the corners of his mouth as he waited for him to spit it out already. And Schneider, too, had looked particularly troubled, embarrassed even. Paul? Mostly sorry. He had seen these expressions so many times before. On his teachers' faces, some of his family's, strangers in offices and stores, the last girl he had tried to chat up. Any girl he had tried to chat up, actually. He had learnt to avoid eye contact since, it was easier to talk to his feet or the point just above someone's shoulder, at least that spared him their pitiful looks.
“Found you.”
A warm, heavy hand patted him on the shoulder, and with it came the soft grunt of someone sitting down on the tiny step behind him. Quiet regret washed over Flake's face; his lips pressed into a tight line and his eyes momentarily closed as he felt Till's presence right in his back, the smell of cigarette smoke wafting over. He should have ventured further than this, should have wandered around to the back of the cottage, or taken a stroll through Eichwalde instead. He felt too embarrassed to turn around, didn't move an inch, and simply stared at the trees up ahead, his arms loosely hugging himself around his angled up, bony knees.
Flake liked Till. Though their friendship was still in its early stages, he felt naturally comfortable around the brooding man he was to most, and the caring boy he was around few. Till was a walking paradox; imposing and shy, strong and vulnerable, dangerous and gentle. He sang with the deepest baritone and spoke softly like somehow his words weren't worth hearing. He was everything Flake might have liked to be, though instead of feeling threatened by him it had always been quite the opposite. Something about Till put him at ease, at least on most days, maybe even made him feel a little more like himself. Till genuinely laughed at his jokes, welcomed his cynicism, his dry wit, his ideas. Around him, Flake never felt like a bother, like a sore thumb, or lesser than. He felt like someone whose presence was appreciated, cherished.
Thus he often found himself sitting with Till, enjoying the quiet and the company, and they were good at it, at watching lakes and reading books together. Flake hoped this could be one of those times, that he wouldn't ask. And so they sat, with the birds and cicadas singing, the sound of Till's thumb flicking at his cigarette, exhaling smoke with deep steady breaths, until the tension ceased in Flake's shoulders, at least a tiny bit. Minutes passed, that's when he didn't expect it anymore.
“Why did you leave?”
There was no accusation in the tone of his voice, none at all, and yet it had Flake's body grow tense all over again, his hand nervously picking at his face before it dropped to hold on to his wrist, his thumb rubbing against the bone of it. He wasn't good at talking about these things. He was good at internalizing, at suffocating problems with stoic silence, and then dealing with the consequences of such behaviour on his own. It wasn't healthy, he knew this, but it had been his strategy for most of his life.
However, when only another patient breath of smoke followed, Till's presence unwavering, still and safe, waiting for him to share what was on his mind instead of focusing on the two squabblers back inside who had a hard time agreeing on anything ever, he figured that maybe he could try.
“I don't like it when they argue,” Flake muttered, glad that sentence had come out whole, and felt his cheeks turn a faint shade of pink. He swallowed hard and kept his eyes trained on the trees. “And I-I don't like it when they make us be a part of it either.”
Smoke hit his shoulder, and Flake could tell that Till was smiling.
“Yeah. That's how it's going to be, don't you think?” Till mused, his voice warm and quiet, tinged with that tiny smile Flake knew was right there without having to turn around to confirm it. “They will always have a reason to butt heads, these two,” he continued on, now with the roll-up between his lips somewhat muffling his words, “What with one being prideful and eager to be the best at this whole thing while nothing is ever good enough for the other.” He paused, considering what he had just said.
“I guess there's some irony in that.”
“It's childish,” Flake spat.
His face grew warmer again, tension pinched his forehead. He couldn't stand himself when he was getting angry, when he snapped at people. It happened less now than it did when he was younger, but he could still get ridiculously upset and stubborn. When he could feel himself bordering on hysterical, that was when he used to flee. He couldn't help himself.
“Is that why it happened?”
There was a certain tenderness in Till's voice; something akin to a great sadness in only so few words, and it took Flake so utterly off-guard that he turned to look over his shoulder before he could decide against it.
Till looked concerned, for him and for the question he had asked, as if he shouldn't have. He even took a second to tap off his cigarette's ashes, breaking eye contact almost as if out of decency, before he looked back at him with that same gaze full of tentative worry. Young eyes, as green and brown and deep like a forest. Habit told Flake to sweep his gaze elsewhere, but he couldn't.
“Your stutter?” Till pushed on, but gently so and hesitant, as if anyone could hear, as if all of them hadn't witnessed it happen in all its embarrassing glory a mere twenty minutes ago. Was there pity in his voice? No, Flake knew that tone, knew the pitch of pity, the apologetic press of the lips that always followed. It wasn't there. And yet, nausea gripped him right around the throat, a clammy fist filled with bile and too little oxygen, pushing up and up towards his larynx. He felt faint.
“It's-- I'm... mmm-mn--”
Horror spread all throughout his chest as he felt it happen again, the power of his stutter making his muscles cramp, making him feel like he was sliding down this valley of sound unable to find a means to stop it from happening, scrambling to take a turn for the next vowel. His jaw started to tremble under the strain, his vocal cords fluttering on that M like a needle looping over that same dent in a vinyl's groove, incapable of escaping it.
“Mm-mm—ohgod,” the words fell from his mouth with an agonized moan, his face a hot red as he buried it quick in his sweaty palms, embarrassment and anger, bare self-hatred, burning behind his tightly shut eyelids.
Stupidstupiduselessdumbfuckingidiot.
He almost expected it; the rueful pat on the shoulder, the it's okay, take your time. He would have despised Till for it, but it didn't come. He didn't want his pity. There was only patience, enough room for him to collect his thoughts, to push through the panic and searing shame. To breathe, and breathe he did, long and shakily, vaguely remembering the advice the doctors had given a young stoic boy with too many fears to fit inside a single mind.
“It's not-- It's n-not supposed to happen,” he tried, feeling like there was a growing earthquake inside his throat, just simmering below the surface, threatening to have him stumble and slip again if only he chose the wrong word, or one too many. “Not like-like-likethis, not with you.”
For one ridiculous second Flake's mind tried to evaluate what was more embarrassing: to have his stutter show in such a glaring fashion or to admit to something he knew sounded terribly fragile. It didn't matter, he realized, it was all the same to him as he stared at the stone steps between his knees, past his foggy glasses, his fingers curling through his matted hair.
“Flake.”
There was that voice, that tone. Was he exasperated by him? Annoyed? He couldn't tell. His fight or flight mechanism had already switched on halfway while he not only regretted sitting here, but also his entire decision to have come at all. You're being dramatic, Paul would tell him, as he had often done. Calm down already.
“I know what it's like wanting to run out of that room. I've been meaning to at least three times the past couple of days alone,” Till admitted to him, and Flake knew it was true, he had seen it in his eyes just as much as Till had seen it in his, right before he had given up and left. The fundamental difference was, however, that Till would stay, no matter what.
“But you can't let them get to you.”
There was genuine concern in those words, and Flake might have caught on to it on any other day, but today, right now on these steps, he couldn't hear it. With his mind and body set to defence, with years of bad experiences clogging up his judgement, it was hard to listen at all.
“I've heard you speak up for yourself. Even if it's tiring, you have to keep doing it--” - “Till, I'mmm trying--” - “--you have to be louder.”
Those deep forest eyes stared up at him; surprised and wide, while the rest of his young features softened with something like remorse. Only now did Flake realize that he was standing, that he had shot up to his full lanky height like a jackknife, the inside of his chest full of ants and his hands balled, frustration trembling in each fist.
“That's easy to-to say,” he spat, Adam's apple bobbing awkwardly as he tried to keep the inevitable at bay, “with-with a voice llll--like yours!”
He couldn't tell whether Till was simply at a loss for words or had given up on him entirely. He didn't stay to find out, finally giving in to his urge to flee, to walk out on it all. First, his burning gaze dropped from Till's furrowing brow, briefly passed the apologetic press of his lips to his hoodie-covered chest, then his big hand still holding on to that bit of cigarette nearly having burned down to his fingers. He turned, this time nearly running, and as he walked and walked, the tall grass biting into his bare soles, a part of him wished he was fleeing towards Till, not away from him.
***
His shame and anger had taken him as far as to the edge of the woods that surrounded their summer house. Not a particularly long walk, not by his standards anyway, but considering he had only looked at his own feet hurrying over leaves and branches without a single thought crossing his mind, he had been surprised to find himself standing on actual asphalt. He could have walked further still, find that old fire station Till had mentioned a few days prior, or the bathing beach Paul and Oliver wanted to check out before they would leave again, but strangely enough he didn't want to see any of these places without the others, so he had turned around a little forlorn and backtracked the way he had come.
Now, he was back at their cottage, sitting in that same spot as before, but with terribly dirty feet and a heavy log of regret in his stomach. He hadn't meant to snap at Till, and he hadn't meant to walk away the way he had. A part of him knew Till had only meant well, while another was too stubborn to listen, and a very dark, very quiet corner of his mind was worried. Worried, that Till wouldn't get him, and he wanted Till to get him so badly.
Looking up from his feet and over to their shabby garden furniture that had endured standing outside in the rain one time too many, he found that none of the others felt any of that doom and gloom that he did. Of course not, and why would they? They hadn't embarrassed themselves in front of the rest of them, didn't seem to question their worth, their manliness, their spot within this group.
Not even Richard, who had been the loudest earlier, seemed to pay the situation any more mind as he sat, sunbathing, in one of the colourful chairs, legs crossed and suspenders hanging from his hips while he dozed, shirtless. Close to him, Oliver and Till played with the dog that had seemingly come with the house, laughing and playing tug of war with her, and Flake watched them for a while, hoping to catch a glance, an acknowledging look that Till wasn't mad, but it never came.
Instead, a big plate stacked with slices of watermelon got pushed into his view. Startled, Flake looked up to find Paul standing a step behind him, offering him the plate with a slice of his own stuck in his mouth. Mumbling something past the red flesh between his teeth, nudging the plate towards him. Flake contemplated it for a moment, then silently shook his head no. He didn't feel like eating, didn't even feel like drinking anymore, and that was saying something.
About to look back, Flake just caught a glimpse of Till and Oliver having retrieved the sorry looking football, which was missing its entire outer layer of leather and had been the source of much entertainment the past week, but shot back around again as Paul nudged him pointedly against the thigh with his bare foot.
“Mmh!” He argued, brows knit and damn near pushing the plate into Flake's face, insistent.
“Christ, okay,” he muttered, dutifully picking a slice from the very top while his eyes shortly swept over Paul's softening features. Flake sure wasn't good at maintaining eye contact, but even so, he could tell his friend was concerned for him, and that, even as he looked away, he could feel Paul's eyes on him just a second longer. A silent question, surely, and Flake only nodded to no one in particular, nibbling on the juicy, pointy end of his watermelon.
Satisfied, and without feeling the need to address anything at all, gladly, Paul walked off the tiny steps, obviously headed towards the others, when Flake heard the last of them come bounding down the hallway and outside. Reflexively, Flake drew up his shoulders a bit.
“Stop! I said I was just gonna go take a piss, no need to run off with the goods!” Schneider laughed, nearly wrapping himself around Paul's smaller frame from behind and snatching up two slices. Paul swayed, taken off-guard, and nearly dropped the plate with a grunt into his watermelon that sounded awfully close to Fucking idiot! while Schneider only chortled, teasingly kneeing Paul in the butt with a soft push to force him forward and make him walk away. If Paul didn't have his hands full, he surely would have flipped him off, but he only glared, looking awfully non-threatening with the slice still in his mouth, walking backwards, until he turned and finally made his way towards the garden table.
A little wary, Flake watched as Schneider moved back to sit down on the stairs with him, that joyous smile still on his boyish face, eyes bright and blue and without worry, at least it seemed that way, and Flake envied that. Whatever it was that Schneider had been looking for both in Feeling B and in Rammstein now, he seemed to have found it, while Flake still felt like he had lost something rather than won since the wall had come down.
“Can I ask you a favour?” Schneider cut in, taking a big bite from his watermelon. Flake's own slice was still practically untouched as he watched Paul push the plate onto the table, winning everyone's attention, and even Richard smiled gratefully as he sat up and reached over immediately.
“Depends,” Flake muttered.
“Could you help me out with the clippers later? It's been so warm the past week, I could do with another inch off at the back.”
Blinking, Flake peeked at him sideways, “Why me?”
Schneider took another bite, looking at him and then away towards the others, nodding in their direction so Flake followed his gaze. There they were, a bunch of overgrown boys, away from home, with wild ideas and broken hearts. A smile threatened to break loose on Flake's face when he saw Paul on his knees, rubbing Lady's belly, while Richard kicked the football so hard the echo of the impact against Till's back caused a few blackbirds to flutter off their trees in surprise. Oliver cursed empathetically.
“I don't trust them.”
Schneider looked back, face beaming, and that, eventually, had Flake laughing.
***
Night had fallen over Eichwalde.
Here, away from the busy city parts of Berlin, the street lights, cars and pollution, the stars shone bright and plentiful down upon the little cottage amongst the trees, seemingly a world away from home. The heat had gone, but left the air balmy and thick with the familiar scent of warmed up grass, wood and leaves. Even the birds had gone to sleep.
Sitting cross-legged against a tree, not far off from where he could hear the others talk, deep and quiet, sharing beers, Flake played a little melody on his wireless keyboard. It only had few effects to choose from, as it was tiny and old, but what came out of it sounded hanseatic and yearning, chaperoning the kind of conversations young men have in the dark, with cigarettes and alcohol.
It wasn't like him to separate himself so strongly. Flake enjoyed good company when he was welcome. And it wasn't like him either to dwell on things he couldn't change, to sit and sulk and be sorry for himself longer than was really necessary. He had his moments, but this one seemed to want to stick around. He was filled with an uncertainty he hadn't felt in a long time, an existential fear that slithered through his gut like a restless eel.
With the next press of a key, his Casio died on him with a sorry sounding note that dropped ten feet deep before it fell completely silent. He pressed it again, irritated, but the batteries must have run out of juice, and so he sat, unmoving and staring down at his keyboard barely illuminated by the light coming from the porch.
Click, click, click, the key rattled as he pressed it again. Click, click, click, mechanic and dull.
He could feel the resistance right under his fingertip, the squeeze of a metal spring, plastic pushing against unresponsive electrodes, and it didn't take much more than that to remind Flake of all the times he had wanted to make a sound and none came. Click, click, click, just like his jaw. Clattering, pushing, squeezing; nothing working like it should. Broken.
“I don't like my voice, you know.”
Flake looked up at the dark silhouette standing right in front of him, broad-shouldered, with his unzipped hoodie and a beer in his hand, the other pushing back his long bangs in a display of unease.
Flake didn't answer, only clutched at his little malfunctioning keyboard and pressed his lips into a tight line, eyes sweeping up to Till's darkened face and back again. Constantly, back and forth, restless and guilty. He hadn't spoken to him all day since he had snapped and walked away.
Till seemed to hesitate, contemplating whether he should let Flake be or pull through with whatever he had meant to, and landed on the latter as he sighed, shortly looking over to the unassuming others before moving to sit down next to him. With his forearms resting on his angled up knees, bottle of beer dangling in between, Till stared at his drink for a long moment, then turned his gaze sideways. Flake looked away immediately, eyes dropping to his familiar Casio like a safety blanket.
“There is nothing to be envious of,” Till assured him, obviously addressing what Flake had thrown into his face right when he had left. He only let his head hang deeper over his keyboard, his right hand's fingers ghosting over the quiet keys and buttons.
“Whenever I open my mouth it feels like the words come out wrong,” Till went on, sounding so soft-spoken, so prudent in the way that he spoke, like someone you wanted to read Grimm's Fairy Tales out loud to you, front to back, and twice over. Irritation bit at Flake's brows, staring at his keyboard still. What would Till even know about hating one's own voice? Distrusting one's words? How it would all come out?
“I feel terribly inarticulate, no matter how much I read or how much I write,” he muttered, his gaze having dropped back to the bottle of beer in his hands, “It's different when I put my words onto paper, but when I say them out loud or sing them,” he sighed, “I feel like I'm missing something, something inside--” His fist hovered over his chest, lingered as Till pressed his lips together, until he thumped himself against the broad expanse of it in a helpless gesture.
He shook his head, “I don't know what I'm more afraid of... the words or my own voice.”
Finally, Flake looked up to watch Till take a deep swig from his bottle, the way he swallowed and looked on into the distance afterwards, running his tongue between his prominent lips. He didn't know how to comprehend that the person he looked up to felt himself lacking so unfairly. There was nothing wrong with Till's voice, nothing at all. Flake knew that it had taken a lot of convincing from the others to get him to sing for this project, but he had figured it was just shyness, not so much crippling insecurity. That sounded familiar.
“Even if you don't always have the right words, at least you have words.”
Flake's eyes flitted across infinitely sad ones, the strong brow and soft mouth, the youthfulness of Till's face; he didn't want to sound accusatory, and Flake was sure he hadn't, on the contrary, it had sounded rather meek to his ears.
“There are words I can't say, impossible words, they c--,” he stopped and swallowed, a hand momentarily flying to his nose as he tried to keep the bobbing in his throat at bay. “They c-control me,” Flake ended sadly, hand falling again, “they control me.”
Laughter carried over to them, fits of giggles and Richard's drunken bellowing above it all, but it had nothing to do with what was going on a few feet away, just under this oak, as Till contemplated Flake's honest words. An honesty that made his ears burn the longer it took Till to respond.
“Paul never mentioned it.”
“Because it hasn't been an issue.” The reality of it stung, and it was much closer below the surface than Flake would have liked to admit. It's what had been bothering him all day, after all. “All this time-- and now--”
Flake had never stopped to think about why he had turned out the way he had. If left alone, with his books and records, or amongst friendly people who had a story to tell and a beer to share, he was fine. He had grown up well-loved after all, cared for, even pampered as far as his parents' and country's means allowed it, his brother a reliable friend. Flake had simply come into this world a little weaker, a little more prone to sickness, and thinner than most. An issue he hadn't been aware of. Not until school, not until he was told time and time again.
“Flake, I hope you know none of us care,” Till said, his gentle words cutting through Flake's thoughts sifting through unwanted memories. “Whether you stutter or not, it doesn't matter to us.”
“But it mmmatters to me!”
Angry tears burnt in his eyes again. He didn't want to snap, not after earlier, but it was so frustrating, so embarrassing to have to explain himself, to look so weak in the eyes of a person he wanted to mean something to. Usually, Flake couldn't care less; he had had so many people judge him before, just by his looks alone, and he had learnt to not give a shit, or at least pretend to, and it only added to his frustration that he cared now. With them, and with Till especially.
Inherently, he wanted to be liked, just like anyone else.
“L-look at me! I'm a grown mman, waking up in a c-c-cold sweat each night, convinced I'll die! I can't loosen up without a-a drink first, women laugh at me for simply saying hh—hello, and... and I-- I play the fucking keyboard!”
With his last word, Flake's tiny Casio went tumbling through the grass.
Shit. A sob worked its way up his throat, steady and quick, and he didn't want it to escape, but it did, ripped its way right out of his mouth as he took a shaky breath. Why couldn't he play it cool for fucking once? Why couldn't he just get over himself, grab a beer and drink himself senseless? Why couldn't he just be like the others?
“W-what are you doing?” Flake choked out miserably, looking down at Till's big hand pressing against the very centre of his chest. His hand was warm, hot almost, or maybe it was Flake's body's own response to the touch. He couldn't tell, only looked, swallowing past the giant balloon in his throat while Till's hand rose and fell with every breath, every hiccup quaking through Flake's chest.
“Feels like a chicken is going mad in there,” Till rumbled, apparently unfazed by whatever sorry display of an outburst he had just witnessed. His hand stayed, like a heavy piece of hot iron, and Flake sputtered out a short wet laugh, head leaning back against the tree in utter surrender to the situation, his own shortcomings.
“Say something again,” Till demanded, voice gentle, and Flake had no idea what he was getting at, only shrugged defeatedly.
“I'mm out of things to-to say, Till.”
“You need to breathe,” he stated, hand slowly dropping from Flake's chest. He missed the touch immediately, a part of him wondering how deprived he actually was that something as simple as a warm hand pressed to the dent in his chest had him wish Till would do that again, and soon.
“You're all cramped up in there,” Till said, shifting up on his knees, facing Flake sideways, who couldn't help a sad little smile from pulling at the corners of his mouth. Till sounded so concerned. He didn't deserve it. “You need to --” Till took a deep demonstrative breath, his big torso expanding, gesturing at himself, “-- you need to do this, come on.”
Flake remembered the doctor's office clearly; the dark wood furniture in the waiting room, the antiseptic smell and grey floors. He had been so many times, his mother always by his side, holding his hand. He had always suffered from something. A cold, a fever, a stomach ache. A nasty cough, cold sweats, growing pains. And his stutter. How humiliated he had felt, when the doctor had made him say certain words, and watched him fail miserably time and time again on the same consonants. He had asked him questions, too. Questions he didn't want to answer, not in front of his mother anyway.
“I don't have your llllung power, Till, I can't--”
“Of course you can!”
Flake winced hearing Till's voice turn gruff for the first time in, well, ever. He sat up a little straighter, warily observing Till's expectant face, how he reached out and tugged on Flake's forearm, his grip easily wrapping around the entire girth of him.
“If I know one thing, it's how to breathe,” Till argued, referring to his swimming career before all of this, “It's just a matter of practice. I don't know how to help you with your other shit, but I can help you breathe, now come here.”
Startled, not knowing what exactly Till had in mind, Flake scrambled up on his knees, then found himself gingerly manhandled into a position that had him feel the heat shoot to his neck immediately. A little timid, he shifted in his spot, looking at Till's sturdy, angled up legs on either side of him, careful not to touch him, but then Till's strong arms wound right around Flake's body, pressed him back against Till's chest with ease. He whimpered.
“Till--”
“Shut up,” Till grumbled fondly behind him, locking Flake's body into place, but without restricting him, his flat hand finding that same spot again, that bony dent right below Flake's collarbone. Flake clenched his hands into the grass.
“Now breathe.”
Behind him, Till breathed in deeply.
He could feel it, the big intake of oxygen, Till's chest expanding, further and further, pushing into Flake's spine. He could never breathe in that deeply, he thought, still too tense to follow, his eyes fixed on the ground. It was almost violent, the way Till's ribcage grew, then deflated, then grew again; like a tide coming in, spreading, then receding, more and more. Like a force of nature.
The hand at his chest began to rub. Slowly, in sweet, soothing circles, right along with Till's next inhale. Flake's heart was racing, shooting heat from Till's palm into every direction, down into his gut and up to his shoulders. He started to relax, fingers flattening on the grass rather than gripping it, his spine slouching, letting himself sink into Till's embrace. And then, then he breathed.
“Deeper, old boy,” Till muttered behind him, so close Flake could feel his breath hit the shell of his ear. He coughed awkwardly as Till stopped his gentle rubs to pat the spot in encouragement. “More. Until it hurts.”
In and out, they went. In and out. And hurt it did, but in a good way, in a way that told him he was putting up a fight against his body's restrictions, breathing in as deeply as his lungs would allow, and then pushing on a little further still. It felt good, this breathing exercise, but so did Till's close proximity, his exhales rushing out and over Flake's neck, arms strong and safe around him, offering him a sense of security Flake hadn't known before.
“Better?”
Flake blinked blearily, slowly taking stock of his motor functions, his relaxed shoulders, his heart beating slow and steady now, his tears forgotten and his mind at ease, but blushing still.
“Better,” he confirmed, and even though it was just one word, two syllables, there was none of that restrictive feeling he had felt all day, the clenching of muscles inside his chest, nor the nervous flutter in his throat, his jaw. He felt good, as if Till's mantra-like exercise had pulled Flake off the edge of a lifelong panic attack.
Any second now, Flake thought, any second now and Till would sit up, signal him to make some room. He wouldn't move until that signal came, he decided, feeling way too comfortable right where he was. To his surprise, Till only lifted his hand from Flake's chest to have it reach across and hold on to Flake's shoulder, tugging him against Till's torso in a way that felt rather final. Flake let him.
“We need you, Flake, you know that, right?”
Flake's blush deepened, but it wasn't shame this time around, it was gratitude, so he didn't argue, just this once, only listened, and sank further back against Till's embrace.
“It's not those two guitar heroes leading the songs, it's not Schneider dictating the beat, or Olli. And least of all it isn't me. It's you,” Flake felt the one-armed squeeze against his chest, his shoulder. A new tear rushed down his nose. “On almost the entire record, we wait for you to lead us. You, with your evil synths, Doktor,” he shook Flake slightly in his hold, who managed a blubbering chuckle in response, a sniffle, listening to the smirk on Till's lips.
“We want you here. Don't you doubt that.”
Flake only nodded, reaching up quickly to brush at his face, and allowing Till's words to mend what he hadn't known needed mending so badly. He sighed, allowed himself to need this, and to receive it, too, to be fragile, and got comfortable.
Together they sat and listened; to the soft chatter, the cicadas, the slosh of Till's beer as he took another swig, and the next breeze rustling in the treetops of Eichwalde.
It was like the night took a deep, long breath.