The grey-haired man stood tall in the doorway. He had changed, no doubt, but aged well. Never having gained the weight that everyone had expected. When he smiled, rare and unexpected, the lines in his face crinkled around his eyes, giving him a much mellower look than he had ever had before in his life.

"Do you invite me in or not?"

His voice hadn't changed at all, still the deep, soft gentle darkness that could turn within a heartbeat to the harshest hardness the German language could muster.

"I know," He continued when he was met with a silent stare of disbelief, "it's been over ten many years and I promised you that I would never try to contact you, but ..." he shrugged and the smile turned into a minutely wicked grin, making him look just as he had all those years ago, the day they had disbanded, knowing damn well that six aging men could not be anymore the angry Teutonic Sex Gods, keeping themselves from ridicule by keeping the reputation alive. Rammstein ceased to exist except on CDs and in music files and in the collective memories of hundreds of thousands of fans. "… but I lied. So what."

He was waved in at last with a hand that visibly shook. The man he had wanted to see, hear and speak to, was still just looking at him. The disbelief was giving way to a rapid succession of emotions that chased each other across the still-handsome, aged face. Seemed this man had finally allowed himself to accept the advancing years without artificial help. From what was visible in the black jeans and tight sweater, the body had been kept in an even fitter state than it had been ten years ago.

"You haven't changed." The other huffed in reply, rolling his eyes at the blatant lie. "Well, not much, anyway. You look damn good." The latter couldn't be anymore true.

He stepped closer until he stood right in front of the other, looking down at dark hair that was allowed to be sophistically streaked at the temples. Somehow the other's silence did not disturb him at all. It was expected, perhaps even sought for, and almost soothing.

He smiled and shrugged. "Don't tell me you didn't expect me, or that at least you didn't have an idea that I would turn up. Everyone knew I was flying in and after all those years I might have had a particular reason." Tilting his head, he studied the other's expression that went briefly to incredulity. Yes, he had been expected, at least somehow.

Damn, it had been long. He should have ignored the fervent wish, should not have accepted to leave him alone, should have raged and furiously fought until he had convinced the other that it was wrong, so very, painfully wrong, to never see each other again.

Wrong. But had it been? They had changed over the last ten years. They were no longer two fucked-up men with torn souls and jagged egos. Out of the near-daily limelight, finally left alone by even the most persistent of music journalists, he had been writing his poetry, branching out into prose of disturbingly beautiful darkness and even published fairy tales with twists that surpassed even the starkness of the Brothers Grimm. He'd been hailed as a writer, won acclaimed literary prizes, been finally taken seriously and had learned to deal with depression, anxiety, self-loathing and aggression.

He'd calmed, but hell, he hadn't become boring.

The other? He had followed his progress, of course he had. Watched the music channels, read the articles and felt almost ridiculously parentally proud when he had witnessed the rising success. From guitarist and occasional songwriter to prolific producer.

One highlight he would never forget, about four years ago, on the world-wide satellite channel. Live and of course at the worst day time of all, the one where everyone was watching. He had just known how much the other must have been amused about the initial uproar and the delicious discussions afterwards. He had created a stir, just like he had always liked it back in the days of Rammstein.

He had laughed at the famously infamous interview, where the proficient producer and songwriter had told the obnoxiously curious reporter out of the blue and with the most staggering air of indifferent nonchalance that his bisexuality was no one's business and if it mattered to them that he liked to shag men and even worse, if it really were anyone's business other than his own whom he loved, then they could stuff it up their virginal arses. H yes, he remembered that interview well. It had been one of the moments when he had almost broken down, but he hadn't contacted him, had remained true to his word and stayed out of the other's world.

Whom he loved. Yes, indeed.

Studying the face, he realised one intense feeling above all of them. Nothing had changed. No. Nothing. He still wanted him as much as all those years ago when he had finally realised what he should have understood right from the beginning.

He still smiled, unsure if he actually expected an answer or not, comfortable in the silence. He would leave, immediately, if asked to do so, but there was not a twitch of a muscle all of a sudden in the other's face, not a movement of limbs. There was stillness at last. Perhaps he felt as calm as himself.

Silence, for a long time, neither of them spoke, until at long last it was broken, unexpected and with a faint tremor in an otherwise warm voice.

"What took you so long, Till."

Richard smiled and Till knew he had timed it just right.

Whom he loved.