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Chapter Text

Paul

He's never been a shy or particularly awkward man, but Paul has always kept his morals when in presence of ladies. Cheerful and outgoing doesn't have to be mutually exclusive with respect. But nothing could have prepared him for tonight, when he's being faced with the challenge of his life and starting to wonder what he ever did wrong to deserve this torture.

He never should have slipped out on his own. Paul is usually accompanied by Schneider when they go out somewhere after a gig, or for that matter anybody from the band. But it was eleven o'clock and everyone was asleep in their bus and he thought there would be no harm in just going to a random bar for a quick drink and a walk; nobody can blame him for that chain of thought. How was he to know that a quick five-minute walk and a pint of beer was to turn into over an hour of being in the company of a particularly persistent and incredibly drunk fangirl?

Actually, it's not just that she's persistent, drunk or a fangirl. It's not even the fact that all of those three are combined. Paul's always appreciated his fanbase, but he's so far actually been lucky enough to meet with sane fans who really just want to talk to him and maybe squeal over him a little. He's escaped insane marriage proposals like the ones Till and Richard occasionally get, and he's always been grateful for it, though he's sometimes wondered what it might feel like to receive one.

Well, he's finding out at this present moment, and while he never thought it as a positive thing it is far less pretty than he ever thought it would be. They had only talked for about ten minutes when she'd grasped both of his hands passionately, declaring her love for him; in retrospect, all of this might actually have been at least half his fault for not cutting off the conversation there. Being nice is a curse sometimes. During the past hour he's managed to come to the rather disturbing conclusion that the girl's suffering from a rebound from a previous relationship in addition to being drunk and obsessed with him; she's not at all thinking straight and probably won’t even remember any of this tomorrow. If he'd come any earlier to the bar and had ran across her then, they might have actually managed a short and pleasant conversation before parting ways. She won't even tell him her name or age, which is the driving force behind his increasing will to leave - the girl's inebriated, not in control of her actions, and without any tangible proof of age. They're in a bar and she's getting drinks with ease, to be fair, but that doesn't help matters much when the drinking age in this country is sixteen. Way too young. Thus Paul thinks himself perfectly justified that he can't bring himself to touch her however lightly or come within two inches of her. This is troublesome when she’s descending further and further into hysteria.

"Why can't you love me, Paul?" she asks with desperation in her voice, and much to his dismay tears start rolling down her cheeks. "I'd do anything for you, I've been a fan of yours before Rammstein existed, isn't that enough proof of my devotion-" he can't answer but can only watch with incredible discomfort and horror as she starts to slam her forehead repeatedly into the counter.

"Please don't," he begs, feeling desperate and glad that they are in a crowded bar where none of what is happening is considered to be unusual business. "you're going to hurt yourself. I'm not worth nearly dying for."

"Oh please just kill me," she wails in response, thankfully going unnoticed by the nearby patrons. "I'd rather die than suffer through this. It's not worth it without you."

The older guitarist has no answer to this, instead leaning over her and whispering 'please, please cut her off' to the bartender. The man looks back at him with sympathy and nods silently, which gives Paul a slight boost to his confidence and the utter conviction that he needs to leave; he stands up, only be dragged back down by the girl again who is now incoherently sobbing into his arm.

"I have to go," he says, knowing that it's not helping but not knowing how else to deal with her. "we've got a long bus ride ahead tomorrow. I can never stay too long in one place, you know that. Besides, I'm already committed to a woman."

"No, don't say that, please don't say that, you can do much better-"

"-I'm already satisfied with my life, I told you! Can't you see I'm trying to let you down gently. Oh my God."

"I love you," the girl continues as if she didn't hear, and actually seems to regain her composure for a moment to rummage around for a tissue in her bag and dab her eyes. It's strange how, although her mascara has started running, the rest of her makeup seems relatively untouched. The mascara even adds a vague artistic look, like stage makeup, which would be actually kind of acceptable in any other situation but this one. It just makes him despair even more because he has no idea how to deal with this anymore. "I love you, Paul."

"You've convinced me, darling," he cries, slamming his fist into the counter in pure frustration. "you've convinced me. Now please let me go."

It's not often that he loses his temper like this. Paul immediately turns his head away, inwardly horrified at his outburst, becoming more and more unsettled as to what he's being provoked to do by this girl. But it's not just him who's surprised; the bartender, who's been watching with increasing discomfort in his eyes, finally steps out from behind the bar and walks over to them.

"Sir, I think you should leave. We'll handle it," he then helps the guitarist disengage his arm from the girl's grip and lets him turn away before holding her firmly by the shoulders. "listen to me. You're cut off and you should go home. Do you have any money?" a vague, tearful nod. "good. I'm going to call a taxi for you and you will leave this gentleman alone while he leaves. Is that clear?"

"Noooo," she wails, but just as quickly her protests falter into nonsense. 

Paul turns around to see the girl still sobbing, slouched helplessly on the counter, and for a moment is tempted to at least help her back to her place. But he can't really afford to give her any more reasons to be attached to him, and besides, he really does need to get back to the rest of the band. So although he feels horrible for doing so - and will continue to feel that way for a long time afterwards - he looks directly into her eyes before he walks out and tells her: "Because of your outburst I'm also not paying for your last drink."

-----

Olli

It's cold, I'm thinking. It's quite comfy in here, I'm thinking. Terribly bumpy beneath me, I'm thinking. That's kind of what crowd surfing is about, though, and I can't say that I find it terribly uncomfortable overall; people who just jump into the crowd without an entire rubber boat to aid them would be uncomfortable. And I'm not one of those people.

I never really understood why Flake didn't like the boat stunt until he was carried so far away that he couldn't come back to the stage in time. And when he came back he was stripped of some of his clothing, to boot. Then I understood and felt kind of bad that I didn't get it before. I guess I volunteered for this instead as a way of making it up to him, because despite the fact that he's uptight and so stoic in some matters, he's really a lovely and very intelligent guy. It's the least I can do.

I think I'm more suited for this stunt anyway. Everyone wants to mess with Flake but nobody feels like messing with me. Sometimes I wish they would, just to see what it would feel like, but apparently something about me that Flake doesn't have is inherently more respectful. Heaven knows if I can figure out what it is, though. Maybe it's my height, or that I've never been photographed or filmed being in the mercy of others.

Till's voice carries all the way to here, although I think I'm at the far end of the arena now and I probably won't be able to see anyone onstage from where I currently am. I raise myself onto my arms and confirm this; the few fans that make eye contact with me cheer and squeal appreciatively and I smile back at them. With that, I gaze meaningfully towards the stage for a second or two - and magically, just like that, the boat changes direction and the fans begin to pass me back towards the stage.

It always works. I can't explain how, but no words - or even actions to indicate that I must get back - are ever needed for them to get my message. I'm not sure how to feel about this still - on one hand, it's good that I can always make it back to the stage in time without having to resort to wild, helpless gesturing. It means that I'm fully connected to the fans, that they understand me and I understand them. But on the other hand...

Well.

I'm the quiet one, seldom seen and seldom heard. Till, Richard and Paul are very much visible on stage, Doom is most definitely audible over everything - it'd be very problematic if we couldn't hear him - and Flake is just... well, Flake. He's an unusual one but one can definitely bet that somehow he always makes his presence known. Debatable how much he wants it to be known, but either way, it works. I'm not bitter about this, though; I genuinely don't think I'd be able to handle it if I were to take up a more prominent position. Not permanently, at least. It'd drive me crazy. But every time I go on the boat it's quite baffling how things tend to work - this song is the one that I take center stage with Till in, even moreso since Flake stopped. I actually make more contact with the audience than everybody else in the band because of this stunt.

When I'm on stage, five meters away from the first row, I'm visible and I'm heard more clearly than anything else. But when I'm in the boat, I'm still visible - but I can no longer be heard over the audience, even though I am right amongst them, above them, sailing over their heads. I could lean over right now and yell out something random at a fan and the words will simply be completely lost on them. They wouldn't even notice I ever said anything, no matter how loud I shout to however many people there are. And that's the downside of it, that I can say or do whatever I want and it will go unnoticed by people who are ironically in complete contact with me and the boat.

Till's visible now, singing out to the crowd; I catch his eye and he briefly seems to smile in my direction. Somewhat satisfied, I lean back and glance around at the audience, letting the tide of hands take me towards where I need to go.

I'm drifting in a seemingly endless ocean of smiles and voices, the stars twinkling above me. A girl about the age of sixteen gazes up at me with a longing look in her eyes; she's so petite. And the look in her eyes isn't unfamiliar to me, either; some fans would indeed give anything to climb up here, although I look away casually from her and carry on. Flake slipped up and didn't react fast enough when the fan got into the boat with him that time, and even now he doesn't like talking about that experience for sure. Can't give away anything, or I'll have people trying to repeat history. All the same, I'm briefly tempted to carry her up and have her join me in this boat for a while but that would be quite terrible for her. I'd be doing nothing but potentially relocating her where she shouldn't be. A shame - you can see so much from up here. Not even the guys on stage can see this far, all around. People, all kinds of people everywhere and not one to join me in my sweet deceptive isolation.

I let out a yell of utter frustration, mixed with what I think is boundless euphoria, as I lie in the boat with my eyes closed and hands crossed over my chest. I don't think anyone heard through all those loud cheers and singing, but as I get back on the stage - with Till and Richard both reaching out to help me back on my feet - I look over at the crowd and come to the conclusion that maybe that was for the best, really.

Chapter Text

Richard

The video of 'Mein Teil' had been a difficult one to film because none of the six band members had been allowed to collaborate exclusively with each other. But eventually they'd managed to finish filming their individual segments without much incident, much to their collective relief - band members, the crew, and all. It was five o'clock in the afternoon when they'd gathered together in the dressing room to see what each of them had come up with; over an hour later, the hilarity of it was definitely proving to be worth all those days of secrecy. At least Schneider thought so, quite giddy over the laughs and praise that he had received; he and Till were the only ones in the room at the moment, having chosen to stay for a while while everyone else got changed back into normal clothing.

"You actually make quite a convincing woman," Till commented as he rocked backwards on his chair and took a swig out of a can of beer. He lightly brushed away some feathers that were still stuck on parts of his vest as he did so. "should have seen it coming from when we did that transvestite photoshoot, ages ago."

"I do, hmm?" the drummer didn't want to let it on, but he was secretly quite pleased; he was always a crowd-pleaser, but it somehow always seemed more special whenever Till praised him. The singer never handed out empty compliments. "what about it was the best part? And don't tell me it was the makeup or anything."

"Pfft, I said you were convincing, not that you looked in any way respectable," the older man sniggered, adjusting the spiked collar around his neck; it was a nice weight and he didn't mind it, but he'd had it on since early morning and he probably needed to take it off soon. "certainly not the makeup or your fishnets. Seriously, fishnets. You're just the one who's built most like a woman out of all of us, that's what makes it convincing for me. Put a business suit on you, and have you standing behind a reception desk and you'd look like a charming little secretary."

Schneider laughed in agreement. "I'd say! It'd have been worrying if you said what I was wearing was realistic, when I was going for the sort-of-trashy look. Glad it's carried through."

The door swung open as he was saying this, and they both looked up to see Richard, still clad in his costume and a half-smoked cigarette in his mouth. He gave them both an acknowledging nod as Till raised his can of beer in his direction and Schneider said a hello. "The showers are all full," he said as he took out his cigarette and crushed it out on a nearby ashtray. "and it's miserable, just standing around waiting for them to free up. How are you both holding up, then?"

Unlike anyone else, Richard appeared to be considerably subdued for some reason, having not joined in much with the others. The guitarist's own segment was incredibly intense though - the man had some seriously good acting in him, fighting his own mirror image and making even Till catch his breath when he'd watched. The drummer just assumed that the intensity of it had taken most of the life out of him for the time being. "Pretty good," the singer replied, tossing his empty can across the room and right into the bin; it went in smoothly, and Schneider let out an appreciative 'woo!' in response. "just admiring our lovely Frau Schneider here. Don't you agree that the woman look works with him, Risch? Stick him in a dress and he'd be quite beautiful."

Richard's blue eyes darkened for a second before focusing on the drummer. "Ravishing," he commented in a low drawl as he eyed Schneider's ensemble; the latter, whilst quite flattered, was feeling a little uneasy, as being commented on almost as an object was something he was most definitely not used to. "you gave a truly authentic performance there, Doom. Good on you."

"Thanks, I do appreciate it."

The guitarist stood there for a while in silence, staring first at him and then at Till, before looking towards the door. "Looks like one of the showers is empty. I'll jump in there now, then," he paused there as his gaze lingered on Schneider's form again. "nice makeup, by the way, Doom. Like the heels, too. Just what I'd expect, really - quite an accurate portrayal-"

Schneider looked at the guitarist in disbelief. It was definitely a compliment, but the drummer's entire segment (just like everyone else's) had never been intended to invoke charm or even any hint of normalcy; as a result Richard's comments simply felt to him as if they'd come out of absolutely nowhere. "Risch, I look like a cross between an evil Hausfrau and a whore."

"Yeah, that's what I mean," he might have just imagined it, but Schneider thought that he'd heard a trace of a bitter, sneering tone in the other's voice. "you're the mother of a cannibal. A woman. That's what you're supposed to look like."

This was such an unbelievably harsh statement that the drummer was rendered completely speechless for a few seconds, only being able to stare dumbly at Richard in response. Till looked just as appalled; he actually let out a stunned 'Risch!' as he stared at the younger man, being greeted with only a cool glance in return before Richard turned on his heels and left. The vaguely horrified silence persisted even after the door had closed.

"What..." the drummer stammered, still looking incredulously at the door and hoping that any moment Richard would come back in and the whole thing would be dismissed as a joke. But nothing happened, and the guitarist's footsteps faded away completely. "what was that all about?"

"Hell if I know," Till muttered, but when Schneider stole a glance at him he saw that the singer's eyes had taken on a strange glint; the drummer had the uncomfortable feeling that he did know, but he didn't dare ask even as the man rose from his seat and marched straight out of the room, calling for Richard. While he didn't follow - he was still too shocked by the turn of events to do so - Schneider still managed to catch the look of frustration and what looked disturbingly like sadness in Till's eyes. He looked down at himself for a long time before he took off his heels, slipping them off as demurely as a real lady would before pushing them away with a shudder and considerable unease.

In that manner he got undressed and back into his normal clothing, and by the time he got outside and rejoined the rest of the band, Richard and Till appeared to be completely normal. They weren't talking to each other, but at the same time weren't avoiding each other in the slightest and nobody else seemed to notice anything different about them. But Schneider eventually found himself to be so bewildered and a little upset at what had happened that he'd ended up approaching the director the very next day, requesting a little re-shooting of his own scene only. He left out the fishnets this time, altering the costume slightly to go for a suit-inspired look, one that was more respectable; with the assurance that he looked more presentable, he was able to quietly complete the second take before they moved onto the final scene of him walking everyone down on a leash. Of course throughout it all he kept his bandmates' confidence, and never actually let on to why he'd found any of this necessary in the first place; he'd always considered himself a man who could be relied upon for things like that. But Richard's words, his eyes that had been filled with so much loathing and pain (directed to whom, though?), and Till's own gaze continued to haunt him constantly at the back of his mind, and as helpless as it made him feel, Schneider kept silent and never mentioned the incident to anyone else.

Nevertheless, weeks would pass before he could look at the guitarist properly again.

-----

Till

He can't believe it. He just can't believe it. All that time spent trying to get Richard back on his feet and what does the ungrateful bastard pull on him? The sky is dark and his watch reads 9:30pm; he should be in bed. Till throws down a hefty tip on the counter, slams the door open and leaves the bar, a couple of patrons looking unsettled at the sheer violence that he's exhuding. Starting a new band, Richard says; moving ahead with his life, away from Rammstein and away from Till, he says. Not if he can help it, though. The thing that bothers him the most is less that Richard is proposing this idea but more that he's left Till to figure it out by himself. The bastard didn't even have the decency to tell me himself, he thinks furiously as he starts walking in the direction of his house. No, I had to hear it from Flake and Schneider!

His phone's ringing. It's been ringing for at least ten minutes now and he's been too busy being angry and drunk for it to really register. How does the second verse of 'Zerstoren' go again? "Oh mein Gott, I can't remember," he groans as he fishes around in his pockets and finally gets the phone out, flipping it open. "Vatti?" Nele's voice is on the other end. "Vatti, wo bist-" at the sound of his daughter's voice, Till's paternal instincts activate instantly and he has the sense to hang up before cursing out loud. His daughter might have recently become independent, but she still checks on him now and then - why now, though, when he's in this state? He should call her back later. Till stumbles along the road again, this thought fueling his desire to get back home as fast as possible. He's aware that he's mumbling something like 'I've got to lie down, I've got to lie down', and has to fight very hard to resist the urge to do exactly that in the middle of the street. Very unseemly if that ever happened. Can he walk back or is there change for a taxi in his pocket? There is, but the prospect of hailing one and having to possibly make small talk while he's in it is too dreadful compared to what he can deal with right now, so he just keeps on going and stews in his desperate, utterly frustrated and downright irrational anger towards Richard.

He'd take a plane to New York now for all it matters, no matter what the cost or the consequences might be of him running off. He'd hunt Richard down in his house and without caring if there are any of his friends or Khira Li there he would grab the bastard by his collar and shout 'I'm your leader, I'll give you everything you want if you call this off, can't you see that I'm watching and waiting for you, you idiot, if you leave right now you can think of never coming back' until he knocked enough sense into him. There's a rock on the pavement that he nearly trips over while he's in this frenzy, and Till lets out another string of curses, earning him a disturbed look from a young woman passing by him. Richard is a member of their band, his lead guitarist, his-

His-

-whatever. All it matters is that Till won't stand for it. Richard belongs within Rammstein and nothing, not even what the younger man wants, will get in the way of Till keeping it like that. Call him selfish but that's just how things are going to be. In fact, why is he standing around here being angry when he can actually act on his emotions? Spotting his house in the distance only makes him walk a little faster, and he reaches for his phone again (ignoring that he has 20 missed calls from Nele), frantically pressing Richard's number into it before holding it up to his ear.

"Risch, du bist ein-" he's cut off by a series of coughs, caused by having spoken up too quickly, and finds himself rather distressed at this. So much for being a poet and a master of language. "German, for God's sake, Lindemann, speak it properly," he groans before taking a few deep breaths and carrying on. "so yeah, I heard that you were starting a new project, Flake and Schneider told me. Emigrate, you call it? Fitting name. Didn't think you had it in you to be so blatant about the whole thing. Is this a public declaration to us that you want to leave this band? Because, considering that - well, you're the lead guitarist - that's going to be just a little bit problematic, don't you think?"

He stops there as he walks down the path. No response.

"Without you there wouldn't be any more Rammstein. We promised. Swore over our first demo and everything," he whispers into the phone before his voice suddenly rises to a scream. "is that what you want? Did I help you get your life back on track so that you could bugger off from us for good? Well, everybody else seems to think it's such a good idea, doesn't that say something about us not wanting to deal with your bullshit any more. Are you happy? Are you happy now, you dumb son of a bitch."

But there's nothing, only black oppressing silence down the line, and this doesn't surprise him at all. In fact it actually sobers him up a little, allows a sense of sadness to creep up on his being (much to his own horror and disgust), wondering why it went all wrong in the first place. "Don't you dare," he gasps out into the phone and into the night, standing in front of his house, knowing that he's dialed a long since outdated number that once would have connected him to Richard - before he moved away, that was - and that it won't do a single thing to change anything, seeing as he hasn't even pressed the 'call' button. "you hear me? Don't you dare fucking leave. Don't you dare leave - leave me. Oh Christ. Don't leave me."

You sound like some sort of broken record, a voice says inside his head, a stalkerish broken record to boot - what next, private investigators and spy cameras? Why don't you shut up, Till tells it, I'm the one who deserves to be angry here because Richard is an idiot and I'm the bloody narrator. But nevertheless he drops his arm, his fingers reaching and turning the phone off before limply stashing it back into his pocket. The voice is right - what right does he have, really? And why shouldn't Richard go on to do his new project, really? After all, there was no withdrawal announced, and neither Flake nor Schneider had said anything about Richard leaving, instead using the term 'side project'. What's so wrong with that? Till is not so unreasonable as to not understand the younger man's need for emotional comfort, and as much as he wants to not admit it - perhaps being in Rammstein cannot provide that comfort for him. The path is kind of unkempt so he should probably go at it with a mower soon. But Till still feels betrayed anyway. Betrayed that Richard didn't even tell him in person, that he moved so far away that they couldn't feasibly meet each other in time - and that apparently he isn't enough to provide the guitarist with whatever kind of comfort that he's looking for. What's so inadequate about me, he thinks to himself as he fiddles with the keys and gets the door open, stepping inside. Would it have been so wrong to have worked things out with me instead, when I have all the time in the world just for him?

In the days and weeks to come he will be able to calm down and think about it a little, but he will remain very angry until the point a blissfully-ignorant Richard joins the rest of the band in their meet-up. His feelings won't have changed much, but he'll be able to put them across in speech and manage to only sound like a demented maniac instead of a demented stalker maniac and that's really what should matter. But that's ages away and civility is currently the last thing in his enraged mind.

Till slams the door and sits on the couch with his head buried in his hands for a grand total of one minute before the house phone starts ringing and by this time he's in such a foul mood that he picks up the call (hearing a familiar voice that he nevertheless can't place exactly in his state but it's most definitely a bandmate and it's not Richard so who cares) and screams 'go fuck yourself you miserable son of a bitch' down the receiver before slamming it down and throwing the entire phone across the room and chugging a whole bottle of vodka and then he passes out right there on the couch until the next morning when he's awakened by Flake who first carefully and gently tucks a blanket around him before giving him a proper wallop around the head and only then does he feel like a real asshole but that still doesn't mean that Richard is in the right so screw the bastard.

Chapter Text

Schneider

It was with much frustration that Schneider settled down in front of his drumkit, in the basement of a drum club that he frequented and had a spare set of keys to (courtesy of a friend). It being a Sunday morning, the club was shut, but sometimes when he wanted to get away from everything he'd leave their rented flat behind and come for a brief session in here. It meant that he didn't have to practice as a part of Rammstein, he could just focus on anything that he fancied at the present moment without feeling the need to contribute his input. It helped him work out his frustrations the way Olli did often in the gym.

He eased into a smooth rhythm, slow and steady, as he thought about what was bothering him so. All the usual things, bills, money concerns, family - but right now what was bothering him the most was the relationship between all the band members. He was surely not the only one who could see that they weren't as creative as before, and that their hiatus hadn't done them a lot of good. Well, Richard had appeared more rejuvenated for sure, which was good for him and all, but one person feeling better wasn't going to help very much in a group of six.

"Beat two and four," he muttered to himself. "... snare drums, that's it..." Schneider adjusted his position a little and resumed his standard 4/4 beat. As he sped up a little, his thoughts wandered back into the band's current situation and he frowned a little, recounting their various arguments over the past few weeks. Some of them had been fairly valid, over how certain things should be played and what to do about their continued lack of inspiration, and that he felt was fair enough. That wasn't just a personal concern for one of them, the entire future of the band hinged on it. But most of their conflicts consisted of the most trivial of arguments, one notable case being when Paul out of all people had had a shouting match with Till over a bottle of wine. The drummer still wasn't sure what to feel about that one, apart from the conviction that it had been a stupid thing to fight about - but he'd sided with the older guitarist back then, and three weeks on, his opinion sure hadn't changed any.

Till was a catalyst to a lot of their current problems, now that he was thinking about it. As he reached a tempo of around 160, he briefly felt a strong burst of irritation towards Till, and wished with all his heart that the singer would just man up and start caring for his own life again. It was not a new thing for him to feel, he'd even said as much: even just the night before he had come across Till drinking steadily and sitting somewhat lopsided on the couch, and the sight had been nigh unbearable to him.

"When are you going to start getting yourself back on track?" he'd snapped at the singer, being met with only a vacant stare. And that look simply riled him on even more, although Schneider at least had possessed enough restraint to just leave the room before he started up a proper argument. Till had been depressed for a long time, and whilst they were exercising the most amount of patience and sympathy they could, that left them with precious little of those two virtues to give to one another. And Schneider had been thinking for some months now that perhaps he wasn't getting through, that Till was far too deep within himself to be able to open his eyes and see all that his bandmates were doing for him. It was honestly saying something when even Flake and Olli were raising their voices to one another, and the drummer had personally witnessed such a situation more than once.

Everything was going to hell and he didn't understand why, but he sure as hell didn't like it. Schneider didn't realize that he had worked himself up to quite a frantic, almost cacophonic state until he slammed his left hand onto the snare drum and heard a sickening 'crack' coming from it. He flinched sharply at the flash of pain that travelled up his arm and looked down - and gasped in shock and disbelief as he saw that his left drumstick had snapped cleanly in half.

"What..." Schneider whispered, holding his left hand up to his face, unable to process what had just happened. "no way - talk about bad luck!"

But what he was seeing was undeniable. The broken half hung limply by a single splinter from the rest of the now-useless drumstick; he couldn't figure out what had happened, he only used the very best kind of sticks out there. And Schneider was fairly certain that he'd done everything right so far, his drums having been placed in the correct position and the cymbals aligned properly. That would only mean that brute force alone had contributed to this incident, and this disturbed him such an extent that he gathered up the drumsticks and decided to stop his session altogether for the day. Schneider didn't like to think of himself as a violent man - working out his frustrations on his drums was one thing, but becoming destructive and wasting a perfectly good pair of drumsticks was something else entirely.

Perturbed, he closed the basement door behind him and worked his way up the stairs, locking the front doors before he started to walk along the pavement. He had no real idea as to where to go next, only seeking to distance himself as far as possible from the building; he was still holding the pair of drumsticks in his hand, which he tossed into a nearby bin with a shudder. Schneider had no idea why he was feeling like this, he was a professional drummer and things like this happened all the time, but somehow he couldn't shed the thought that perhaps his current sense of resentment towards Till and the rest of the band had played a part in all of this.

To get the thought out of his mind he stopped at a corner shop that was open until lunchtime, buying himself a bottle of water and taking a long sip out of it. The cold liquid made its way down his throat and calmed him down enough to get him thinking straight again. I should be getting back, he thought to himself as he looked ahead, frowning a little under the cold winter sun. Maybe - maybe Till deserves an apology-

His cellphone rang from his pocket, startling him enough to nearly drop the bottle. Schneider secured the lid around it again before fumbling around in his jacket for his phone; the call was from Paul, he saw, but he couldn't think off the top of his head any reasons as to why the older guitarist would be calling him. Nevertheless he flipped open the phone and put it to his ear.

"Hallo?"

"Doom, come back to the flat right now - there's something gone horribly wrong with Till-"

Holy shit.

-----

Flake

"Flake?"

"Hmm?"

"Why on earth are you sticking thumbtacks in your piano?"

"It's an experiment. It lends a metallic pitch to the sound. Makes it sound charmingly untuned, if you know what I mean."

"I'm afraid that I do not indeed know what you mean. It just seems really... unusual."

"Trust me, Paul, I know what I'm doing. It's far better to modify a piano like this than to just let it rot - it sounds kind of lifeless now, but I know this one will sound much better with the alterations."

"... Are there actual distinctions as to what pianos sound better with tacks stuck in their hammers?"

"Oh yes. It's hard to tell with new ones, but you get the feel for it if you've played enough different pianos for quite some years - take the new arrival that's going to be delivered here in two days, for example. More expensive than this one was, but I doubt that will be of any use as a tack piano when it does eventually get old."

"Huh."

"It takes a keen ear."

"I assumed. I mean, I've been playing the piano for some years now and I've never heard of this modification before."

"You can play a duet with me on it one day, Paul. Then you'll be able to see what I mean. You've probably heard quite a few before, it's just that nobody really identifies them as such."

"You might be right there. But you look kind of tired, Flake. Have you eaten anything today?"

"Didn't feel like it much. I'll have dinner later."

"What have you been doing all day apart from this?"

"Slept. Awoke. Slept. Awoke again. Miserable life."

"Oh, Flake. That's so typical of you to say. Your life is perfectly wonderful, there's no need to try to invoke pathos in it."

"Heh. I try."

"And I fall for it every time."

"..."

"..."

"Paul?"

"Yes?"

"When the thumbtacks give way... then the piano will be well and truly unplayable. It usually means the hammer and strings will be caught up in or damaged by them, and despite people claiming otherwise, there's really no fixing it when that happens. So really I'm probably just prolonging the inevitable and adding on even more damage. I give it two years at most."

"So why-"

"Put it down to human selfishness. I'm much too fond of this piano to let it go yet, and I like the sound of tack pianos, so I figured it would work. When even this isn't doing the trick anymore... you said you had a plot of land somewhere, right? Not one you have any use for?"

"I did. There's not much there though, why?"

"Let me burn it there. It needs a good sending-off. But I'm... I'm not sure if I want to watch, although I have a feeling that it's the least I can do."

"Let it go to piano heaven?"

"Piano heaven. I like that. I might use that as a composition title one day. But yeah, I'm not going to let people attempt to fix it and make it into something more artificial than what I've already done. It's mine, and it needs dignity."

"Well then, it'll be a well-attended piano burning party, for sure. We could break out some beer and invite a few people around to watch as well - I think Till would like to come, you two've met before. What better way to bond than over piano burning?"

"Not beer. Champagne. Fine stuff to wish it into the next life. And yes, I'd like to get to know Herr Lindemann better. We could do that."

"It's settled, then."

"..."

"..."

"Paul?"

"Flake?"

"Thank you."

"No problem."