'A Song From Far Away' [Bill Kaulitz/Tom Kaulitz]
Title: 'A Song From Far Away'
Author: that_1_incident aka und_wenn_ein_lied {tokiohotelfiction.com}
Fandom: Tokio Hotel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Profanity
Pairing: Overtones of Bill Kaulitz/Tom Kaulitz, no explicit pairing
Word Count: ~1,000
Summary: "It sounded like a song from far away, in another language, poorly translated and delivered haltingly through a long tunnel filled with cottonballs. It sounded like he was telling you about the song that was inside your own head already."
Disclaimer: I do not own either Kaulitz. Not even ein bisschen =/
Author's Notes: Based on the Oct 30 2007 prompt from we_are_cities.
---<---<---@
When he told the truth it never sounded like the truth but it felt like the truth. It sounded like a song from far away, in another language, poorly translated and delivered haltingly through a long tunnel filled with cottonballs. It sounded like he was telling you about the song that was inside your own head already.
I liked him but I was afraid of him. Wise people steered clear of us. People who didn’t know any better would sit with us, talk with us, then suddenly startle and back away. His joy was too big to get your head around, his wonder at the world was too grand to bear. And his sadnesses were so small and light and slippery that you couldn’t hold onto them. They would leave a breeze in your hand that you couldn’t grasp, and then your hand wouldn’t be able to close all the way, left open, left just slightly open enough to feel the silk of the world moving through it, lightly, lightly, free of your intention, outside the comfort of your own desire.
There is a knot of self but the rope that we are all made of refused to hold for him. Useless rope, but rope all the same.
Richard Siken, 'The Story of Bartlett'
--
Of course Tom was close to Bill - they were brothers, and they were born on the same day so Bill had literally always been around, except for those precious ten minutes Tom got to himself before Bill entered the world. They'd even done the twin thing, with their mother dressing them in matching shirts with their names on so people could tell them apart, and sometimes they even dreamed the same dreams. It was awkward when that happened, like they’d stepped too far into each other’s psyches without proper invitation. Bill’s dreams were just so fucking weird, and Tom often dreamed of girls in the kind of way that would leave him gasping for air against the mattress. In the morning, Bill would look at him like he was disappointed, and a knot would settle in Tom’s stomach that was really hard to eradicate.
He was close to Bill, yes, but that didn’t mean he understood him.
--
The first time Tom saw the translation of Monsoon, he wanted to cry. It wasn’t necessarily because his English was better than Bill’s - in fact, he didn’t speak in it nearly as much as Bill had to, for interviews and things, so the opposite was probably true - but to him it just sounded… wrong. He asked Bill how he could do it, sing words that were so removed from what he’d originally meant, and Bill had squinted at him from beneath mascara-laden lashes and looked confused.
“The sentiment’s still there, Tom. Some of the words mean something a little different, that’s all.”
Tom felt the fire rise in his stomach and did something that was very unlike him, something more akin to the diva perception everyone had of his brother: He spun on his heels and left the room.
Bill found him, of course, not five minutes later, sitting on his bunk and sulking.
“What’s wrong, Tomi?” he asked, unbearably childlike, crouching down beside his twin and balancing lightly on his haunches while he waited for a reply. Bill was yet to perform an indelicate action in his life, or so it seemed to Tom.
“They fucked around with your words, Bill,” Tom said finally, morosely. “Why aren’t you more upset about it?”
Bill got that look on his face, his eyebrows shooting up and his lips pressing together, and Tom could tell he was trying not to smile because that would seem insensitive. He didn’t answer Tom’s question directly, instead choosing to counter with a gentle stroke of Tom’s cheek and a quiet, “Why does it bother you so much?”
Tom huffed out a sigh. “It’s just. It’s different.”
Bill permitted himself a small smile - not mocking, not quite. “The guitar part is the same, you know, you don’t have to worry. I’m the one who needs to learn the new words before we perform in England.”
“That’s not the point,” Tom said with a frown. “I couldn’t care less about my guitar part when the whole rest of the song’s changed.”
“I think it’s cool,” Bill said softly. “I think it’s an honor to have so many people who like us that we get to record a song in their language.”
Sometimes Tom hated Bill’s optimism, and the fact that Bill had a hopeful quality about him that was almost cliché in its intensity. He’d hated Live Every Second ever since Bill first showed the lyrics to him at seven years old, scratched into a wide-ruled notebook using a three-sided pen with grooves cut into it for young fingers to more easily grasp. Life wasn’t as simple as one of those stupid “Don’t worry, be happy!” mugs that Bill left strewn around the tour bus.
“They killed it,” he maintained, struggling to keep the emotion out of his voice and the lump out of his throat, wondering why he was so very upset about this. “Okay, no, look, Bill, they changed the whole entire meaning of the chorus. What the fuck is ‘into the blue’? Ins Blaue? What the hell? It’s ‘am Abgrund entlang’, Bill, Abgrund, ‘along the abyss’, only they couldn’t find anything to rhyme that with so they changed it. All your fucking imagery, the way you explained to me about the abyss symbolizing everything evil and undesirable - why aren’t you upset about this?”
Bill gazed back at him mildly, showing little to no reaction to Tom’s outburst. “They needed it to rhyme, you know. It would’ve sounded silly if it didn’t rhyme. Tom…” He shifted his position a bit, putting one perfectly manicured hand on the floor for balance. “What’s this really about?”
Tom didn’t really even know himself, beyond the alarming feeling that something in his life had shifted, some constant that was never meant to be altered. He made his living on Bill’s lyrics - they all did. Without the drums and the bass and the guitar, Bill’s songs could still make millions. Haltingly, he told Bill so.
Bill leaned forward instantly, opened his arms and hugged Tom close. He buried his nose in the crook of his brother’s neck and whispered hotly, “Don’t be stupid. I’m nothing without you.”
“Shut up,” Tom mumbled, faintly embarrassed - blushing, maybe, judging from the sudden heat on his cheeks. “That’s not true.”
“Tomi,” Bill said solemnly, pulling back to regard his brother. “You’re the only one who really gets me. No one can touch us, you and me, you know? We have that special thing, we’re Zwilinge, nobody can come close to that. I’d never do anything like this without you. I couldn’t handle it on my own. You keep me centered.” He took a deep breath. “The feeling in the song that matters the most is preserved, even if it’s worded differently. That’s why I never worried about the rest of it.”
“And what’s that?” Tom asked hoarsely.
Bill smiled his lovely smile, the one that made his whole face light up. “When I lose myself, I think of you.”
---<---<---@
Author: that_1_incident aka und_wenn_ein_lied {tokiohotelfiction.com}
Fandom: Tokio Hotel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Profanity
Pairing: Overtones of Bill Kaulitz/Tom Kaulitz, no explicit pairing
Word Count: ~1,000
Summary: "It sounded like a song from far away, in another language, poorly translated and delivered haltingly through a long tunnel filled with cottonballs. It sounded like he was telling you about the song that was inside your own head already."
Disclaimer: I do not own either Kaulitz. Not even ein bisschen =/
Author's Notes: Based on the Oct 30 2007 prompt from we_are_cities.
---<---<---@
When he told the truth it never sounded like the truth but it felt like the truth. It sounded like a song from far away, in another language, poorly translated and delivered haltingly through a long tunnel filled with cottonballs. It sounded like he was telling you about the song that was inside your own head already.
I liked him but I was afraid of him. Wise people steered clear of us. People who didn’t know any better would sit with us, talk with us, then suddenly startle and back away. His joy was too big to get your head around, his wonder at the world was too grand to bear. And his sadnesses were so small and light and slippery that you couldn’t hold onto them. They would leave a breeze in your hand that you couldn’t grasp, and then your hand wouldn’t be able to close all the way, left open, left just slightly open enough to feel the silk of the world moving through it, lightly, lightly, free of your intention, outside the comfort of your own desire.
There is a knot of self but the rope that we are all made of refused to hold for him. Useless rope, but rope all the same.
Richard Siken, 'The Story of Bartlett'
--
Of course Tom was close to Bill - they were brothers, and they were born on the same day so Bill had literally always been around, except for those precious ten minutes Tom got to himself before Bill entered the world. They'd even done the twin thing, with their mother dressing them in matching shirts with their names on so people could tell them apart, and sometimes they even dreamed the same dreams. It was awkward when that happened, like they’d stepped too far into each other’s psyches without proper invitation. Bill’s dreams were just so fucking weird, and Tom often dreamed of girls in the kind of way that would leave him gasping for air against the mattress. In the morning, Bill would look at him like he was disappointed, and a knot would settle in Tom’s stomach that was really hard to eradicate.
He was close to Bill, yes, but that didn’t mean he understood him.
--
The first time Tom saw the translation of Monsoon, he wanted to cry. It wasn’t necessarily because his English was better than Bill’s - in fact, he didn’t speak in it nearly as much as Bill had to, for interviews and things, so the opposite was probably true - but to him it just sounded… wrong. He asked Bill how he could do it, sing words that were so removed from what he’d originally meant, and Bill had squinted at him from beneath mascara-laden lashes and looked confused.
“The sentiment’s still there, Tom. Some of the words mean something a little different, that’s all.”
Tom felt the fire rise in his stomach and did something that was very unlike him, something more akin to the diva perception everyone had of his brother: He spun on his heels and left the room.
Bill found him, of course, not five minutes later, sitting on his bunk and sulking.
“What’s wrong, Tomi?” he asked, unbearably childlike, crouching down beside his twin and balancing lightly on his haunches while he waited for a reply. Bill was yet to perform an indelicate action in his life, or so it seemed to Tom.
“They fucked around with your words, Bill,” Tom said finally, morosely. “Why aren’t you more upset about it?”
Bill got that look on his face, his eyebrows shooting up and his lips pressing together, and Tom could tell he was trying not to smile because that would seem insensitive. He didn’t answer Tom’s question directly, instead choosing to counter with a gentle stroke of Tom’s cheek and a quiet, “Why does it bother you so much?”
Tom huffed out a sigh. “It’s just. It’s different.”
Bill permitted himself a small smile - not mocking, not quite. “The guitar part is the same, you know, you don’t have to worry. I’m the one who needs to learn the new words before we perform in England.”
“That’s not the point,” Tom said with a frown. “I couldn’t care less about my guitar part when the whole rest of the song’s changed.”
“I think it’s cool,” Bill said softly. “I think it’s an honor to have so many people who like us that we get to record a song in their language.”
Sometimes Tom hated Bill’s optimism, and the fact that Bill had a hopeful quality about him that was almost cliché in its intensity. He’d hated Live Every Second ever since Bill first showed the lyrics to him at seven years old, scratched into a wide-ruled notebook using a three-sided pen with grooves cut into it for young fingers to more easily grasp. Life wasn’t as simple as one of those stupid “Don’t worry, be happy!” mugs that Bill left strewn around the tour bus.
“They killed it,” he maintained, struggling to keep the emotion out of his voice and the lump out of his throat, wondering why he was so very upset about this. “Okay, no, look, Bill, they changed the whole entire meaning of the chorus. What the fuck is ‘into the blue’? Ins Blaue? What the hell? It’s ‘am Abgrund entlang’, Bill, Abgrund, ‘along the abyss’, only they couldn’t find anything to rhyme that with so they changed it. All your fucking imagery, the way you explained to me about the abyss symbolizing everything evil and undesirable - why aren’t you upset about this?”
Bill gazed back at him mildly, showing little to no reaction to Tom’s outburst. “They needed it to rhyme, you know. It would’ve sounded silly if it didn’t rhyme. Tom…” He shifted his position a bit, putting one perfectly manicured hand on the floor for balance. “What’s this really about?”
Tom didn’t really even know himself, beyond the alarming feeling that something in his life had shifted, some constant that was never meant to be altered. He made his living on Bill’s lyrics - they all did. Without the drums and the bass and the guitar, Bill’s songs could still make millions. Haltingly, he told Bill so.
Bill leaned forward instantly, opened his arms and hugged Tom close. He buried his nose in the crook of his brother’s neck and whispered hotly, “Don’t be stupid. I’m nothing without you.”
“Shut up,” Tom mumbled, faintly embarrassed - blushing, maybe, judging from the sudden heat on his cheeks. “That’s not true.”
“Tomi,” Bill said solemnly, pulling back to regard his brother. “You’re the only one who really gets me. No one can touch us, you and me, you know? We have that special thing, we’re Zwilinge, nobody can come close to that. I’d never do anything like this without you. I couldn’t handle it on my own. You keep me centered.” He took a deep breath. “The feeling in the song that matters the most is preserved, even if it’s worded differently. That’s why I never worried about the rest of it.”
“And what’s that?” Tom asked hoarsely.
Bill smiled his lovely smile, the one that made his whole face light up. “When I lose myself, I think of you.”
---<---<---@