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“You’ll need to be in Brussels Thursday. There’s a radio show…” Jens was saying, but Robbe wasn’t paying attention. He was too tired, and if he knew his manager, he’d have a text and an email with all the information waiting for him when he woke up tomorrow anyway.
Robbe sat hunched in front of the brightly lit, dressing room mirror. The make-up remover pad hovered over his cheek as he stared at the dark circles that had just been revealed under his eyes. Deep purple surrounded sunken dark eyes, shot with red. His hair had practically matted itself to his head with sweat, and his cheekbones sat prominent over sunken cheeks, giving him a gaunt look.
He looked like hell.
No, he looked like shit. Absolute shit.
If only the world could see the real him, they’d be shocked. But no, his fans would never see it. They couldn't. They didn't want to.
He resumed the ritual of painstakingly peeling off his thick stage makeup. Pancake could hide anything, and in this case it was hiding weeks of touring–late nights, hotels, bus rides, people, so many people.
He loved his fans, really, but sometimes it just…got too much. When he’d started on this path years ago, a kid barely out of uni with a piano and a dream, he’d been amazed to find how lonely he could be while constantly surrounded by people. Now he was used to it.
Sure, Jens and Moyo hardly left his side, and he had fans and event staff waiting for him everywhere; but it was far different from having a confidant, someone he could be himself around.
Jens and Moyo were his friends, of course, but they were also technically paid to hang out with him. There was a part of him that always wondered whether they liked him or the benefits that came with his fame, so he held back, never truly revealing himself.
And fans…they were wonderful and fun (usually–there were always a few who went too far), but they weren’t friends. They weren’t family. He couldn’t talk to them in the same way.
They were always a series of meetings and brief, but shallow interactions that stoked his ego while highlighting just how alone he really was, a rotating blur of words and faces.
He wanted to go home. He needed to go home. Everything important to him was at home.
The man he loved was at home.
Robbe ached even thinking about him. It had been too long this time. It always was, but this tour felt interminable.
More and more, as the years passed, Robbe found himself wanting to go on tour less and less. The adrenaline and thrill of performing live no longer held any excitement for him. Instead the tedium and constant shuttling from place to place and the emotional drain of always having to wear his celebrity mask wore him down.
No. He was fucking exhausted, and it was clearly affecting his health. He’d lost at least four kilos in the last three months, likely more.
But maybe...he could be done. He had plenty of money.
Maybe he could just record in the studio, take on a few students, stay local.
Twenty year old Robbe would have been appalled at the idea, but thirty-five year old Robbe practically drooled at the thought. He was tired of being lonely. Tired of sleeping alone. Tired of late night phone calls and quick visits that never felt like enough.
Thank fuck the last stop on their tour had been here. Tonight he could go home and stay home. He could sleep in his own bed. Sleep with—
“Robbe, are you listening to me?” Jens asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“Hmm,” Robbe answered, “Yeah, sure. Just tired.”
“I know,” Jens said, coming up behind him. He placed a reassuring hand on Robbe’s shoulder and squeezed. “You look like shit.”
Robbe huffed out a laugh. “Thanks. Some asshole scheduled a shit-ton of shows.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” Jens said with an innocent smile. After a moment, though, his expression sobered. “Go take a shower. You’ll feel more human afterwards, and Moyo will get you home as quick as possible.”
Robbe swiped another make-up remover pad over his face and stood, his expression brightening. “You’re right. The faster I get moving, the sooner I can get home. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. Can you let Moyo know, so he can call the car?”
“Of course. And we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“No," Robbe shook his head, "Monday. I’m not doing fuck all tomorrow, and I think Jana would agree with me.”
Jens’s cheeks turned a dusky pink, and he nodded. “Good point. I’ll call you Monday.”
“Alright, enjoy your day off.”
“You too. Not too much, though.”
“Fuck off,” Robbe said, flicking him off as he headed for the bathroom.
Jens’s laughter followed him out the door where Robbe assumed he was telling Moyo to call for the car.
As soon as Robbe was clean and dressed, he shouldered his rucksack and opened the dressing room door.
“Hey man, ready?” Moyo asked. He leaned against the wall just outside the door, eyes alert to any threat or stray fan looking for backstage access.
“Yeah. What's it like outside today?”
Moyo sighed. “You’re home, so it’s a crush. Paps. Cameras everywhere. Fans hoping for signed photos. Girls who want you to sign their tits. Guys too probably. Chaos.”
“I can’t tonight, Moyo. I just can’t. Can we…” He didn’t finish the sentence, both because Moyo knew what he meant and because he hated disappointing his fans. Without them, he wouldn’t be where he was, who he was, but tonight the siren call of home was too loud, his bed too enticing.
“Yeah, man, of course. Just let me get in front of you, and–” He pushed open the backstage door, and Robbe’s eyes were immediately accosted by the flash of cameras and bright lights. A roar came from the crowd, and as Moyo broke a path through, Robbe caught a few phrases and questions.
“Robbe!”
“Robbe!”
"Hiiii."
“Robbe, can I get your picture?”
"Oh my God, it's him!"
“Robbe, I love you!”
"I'm gonna faint. He's even hotter in real life!"
“Robbe, you’re amazing! Can you sign my…”
“Mr. IJzermans, when do you expect to release your next album?”
“Robbe, what’s your response to those who say your last album wasn’t up to par with The Artist’s Muse?”
“Any idea when your next tour will start?”
Fuck, he’d hit the paps and reporters. Robbe ducked his chin, keeping his gaze resolutely down at Moyo’s heels. A large flash popped right next to him, and Moyo shouldered a papparazi who’d moved too close out of the way.
“Robbe, any truth to the rumors that you’re dating a super model?”
Robbe’s head snapped up. He knew that voice. Sander Driesen, a freelance photographer for Glitz and Glam. Robbe scowled, glaring daggers at Driesen, who, now that Robbe had acknowledged him with a look, stood there smugly waiting for an answer. Another photographer jostled him, but his eyes remained fixed on Robbe.
“You know I don’t answer personal questions, asshole,” Robbe shouted back, practically leaning into the crowd to make sure his voice carried over the din.
“One of these days you’ll slip up and answer one, so I think I'll keep asking.” A crooked smile danced on his lips, like he knew he had the upper hand, and Robbe wanted to smack it right off of him.
He took a step towards Driesen, but Moyo caught his upper arm, pulling him back towards the car. “Don’t engage. It’s what he wants.”
Under his breath Robbe answered, “I fucking know.” Over his shoulder he shouted, “Asshole,” and just before Moyo opened the car door Robbe saw Driesen laughing. He shook his head and walked out of the crowd. Robbe watched him go, scowling.
“C’mon, man,” Moyo said, practically shoving him into the car. As he slid in after him, he added, “Why’d you do that? You never respond to paparazzi questions.”
Robbe didn’t answer him, just gazed out the window, a small smile twitching on his lips and tugging his dimples to life.
***
Later, after Moyo had dropped him off and he’d brewed himself a cup of tea, Robbe sat at the kitchen table, idly scrolling threw his phone while his tea cooled. He had about ten messages from family and friends welcoming him home, but he was too tired to answer them tonight.
He'd do it tomorrow. He’d be a better person tomorrow.
As for tonight, he shot off a quick message to his mother, letting her know he was home safe, and just as he was about to carry his tea to the bedroom, the front door opened and closed. Keys rattled and then fell silent as they were placed on the hook by the door. There was a little more rustling, followed by the sound of socked feet padding down the long hallway.
Robbe hastily set his tea back down and hurried around the table, enfolding the newcomer in a hug before he’d even fully entered the kitchen. Arms wrapped around him, nearly lifting him off of the ground, and Robbe buried his face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of sweat, soap, and skin.
“I’d say, ‘Honey, I’m home,’ but technically you were the one who was gone.”
Robbe could feel the deep voice practically purring against his lips, and it felt so good, so damn good. “Shut up and hug me.”
“I missed you too, Robin.”
They hugged, rocking and shifting, until Robbe thought he might finally be able to breathe again, to function. He relaxed his grip, melting against the chest before him.
“So…how was your day.”
Robbe pulled back, gazing up into Sander Driesen’s green eyes with pursed lips. “Well, some asshole pap asked me an impertinent question.”
“Oh did he now,” Sander drawled, grinning broadly. “You want me to punch him in the face for you?”
“No,” Robbe said softly, placing a palm against Sander’s cheek and pulling him down into a light kiss. “I’m rather fond of his face.”
Sander huffed out a laugh, said, “Thank fuck,” and captured Robbe’s lips in a heated kiss.
Fucking finally! This is what Robbe had been missing. This was what he needed. Sander’s soft, demanding lips on his. Sander’s minty breath and light stubble sending tingles from his mouth down to his toes. Sander’s tongue sliding luxuriously into his mouth, knowing exactly what turned Robbe on most. Sander’s hands everywhere. Mussing up his hair. Sliding under his clothes. Gripping his ass. Cupping his face.
On a long groan, Sander pushed Robbe backwards until his thighs hit the kitchen table. His hands gripped behind them, lifting him up to sit him on its surface. He caught Robbe’s lip between his teeth, releasing it in a slow scrape that sent fire straight to Robbe’s belly. His lips then found Robbe’s neck, and he began nipping and sucking at the delicate skin while Robbe tipped his head back and slipped his hands underneath Sander’s shirt to grip his back, hugging him closer as he spread his legs wider to accommodate him.
“What the fuck possessed you to call out to me like that today?” he asked, breathless.
Sander removed his mouth from Robbe’s neck long enough to lift Robbe’s shirt overhead and toss it blindly behind him. Then he dove back in, answering in a rumble at Robbe’s throat, “Why the fuck did you answer me?”
“Because,” Robbe said, curling himself around Sander’s head and speaking into his spiky brown hair, “All I’ve wanted since you visited me in Venice was to be close to you, and there you fucking were. And I…”
“Exactly. I wanted you to see me, to know I was there. I knew the question would piss you off enough to get your attention.” Sander pushed him back onto the table, leaning over him to kiss a line down his sternum and over his ribs.
“It wasn’t–” Robbe gasped for breath as Sander mouthed him through his sweatpants. Fuck he was hard. He hadn’t seen Sander in a month, and only for three days at that.
Sander pulled away, and Robbe whined, immediately missing the pressure and heat of his mouth. Sander hovered just over his groin and peered up at Robbe with a quirked eyebrow. “You were saying…” he grinned.
“Oh fuck off,” Robbe said, kneeing him in the shoulder.
Sander laughed and dropped his mouth back to the bulge in Robbe’s sweats. Robbe bit back a moan and tried to think clearly even though all of his brain power was now focused almost entirely on his dick and Sander’s mouth. “I–” he started, but Sander’s teeth scraped lightly down his shaft, and he shouted, “Shit!” instead.
Sander chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. Robbe tried to spit out a sarcastic comment, but he was cut off by Sander’s hands at his waist pulling his sweats and briefs down to his thighs. In a moment Sander had swallowed Robbe down, and Robbe thought be might levitate at the sheer ecstasy of Sander’s mouth on him, his hands massaging his thighs, his balls, his ass.
"Fuck, fuck San...God, I missed you. There– Fuck!" Robbe kept up a litany of nonsense as Sander expertly tore him apart, filling his blood with fire and sending sensation after sensation crackling through his body. He placed his hands in Sander's hair, lightly gripping the short strands, and watched him.
Sander looked up, and their eyes met, sending a spark straight to Robbe's heart. Sander slowed briefly, keeping eye contact, purposefully teasing Robbe by licking around the tip before diving in again.
It didn’t take long before Robbe was crying out and spilling into Sander’s mouth. He didn't care that it had been quick. Sander had considerable experience by now getting Robbe off, though today the intense eye contact had done it more than anything, and they’d been apart far too long for Robbe to last anyway. Regardless, it had felt damn good, and he now felt sufficiently loose and content.
“Jesus Christ, Sander. On the table?” Robbe said when he could finally speak.
Sander grinned from where he’d crouched at Robbe’s feet to catch his breath. “What can I say? I missed you.” He stood slowly, and they both ignored his cracking knees, though Robbe would definitely tease him about it later. Sander crawled up Robbe's body and kissed him. “I hate when you’re gone.”
“Me too,” Robbe said, curling his fingers into Sander’s hair and deepening the kiss.
“I love you so fucking much,” Sander murmured against his lips.
“And I love you.” He pecked Sander’s lips and then said, “But can we maybe move this to the bedroom. My backside is not exactly enjoying the rigidity of the table.”
“I’ll show you something rigid,” Sander purred.
“I fucking hope so,” Robbe agreed firmly, trying to push himself up.
“Uh uh,” Sander said, holding him down with his body. “First, tell me what you couldn’t say earlier with my mouth on your dick.”
“Fuck you,” Robbe said, reaching down between them to grab at the bulge in Sander’s jeans. Damn. They weren’t nearly as accommodating as his sweats had been. Between being so tight and the stiffness of the fabric, he wasn’t going to get anywhere fast enough to get back at Sander.
Sander thrust into his hand and kissed him hard. “C’mon, baby, just tell me, and I’ll let you do whatever you want to me.”
Robbe pretended to think for about three seconds and then acquiesced, saying, “It wasn’t what you said. It was hearing your voice. You were there. You were so close. And I couldn’t touch you. That and you were being a smug shit, knowing that all I’d want to do was jump you.”
“Maybe,” Sander said, rocking his head side to side with a grin.
“Bed now?”
“Bed now,” Sander repeated. He stood, held out a hand to pull Robbe to his feet. Robbe moved to pull his sweats back up, but Sander stopped him. In a quick rush, he’d pulled them and his socks off.
“This is kind of unf–” Robbe started to say, bristling at the fact the Sander was still fully clothed, but he never got to finish. Sander tackled him around the middle, picking him up in a fireman’s carry and hauling him into the bedroom.
Robbe kicked his feet and giggled, which prompted Sander to smack his ass and nip at his hip with his teeth. Robbe screeched, and before he knew it, Sander had tossed him on the bed and flopped himself on top of him.
Robbe shoved at him until he could roll them over. “You” –Sander's shirt flew off– “are” –his jeans followed– ”getting” –bright orange boxer briefs fell to the floor– ”naked” –one sock and then the other dropped over the edge of the bed– “now.”
In an instant he’d smothered Sander with his body, wriggling so as to touch and rub up against as much of him as he could. They kissed furiously, rolling around until Robbe landed squarely on top, his knees straddling Sander’s hips. “What do you want?” he asked huskily, rubbing his hands up and down Sander's chest and torso, the light dusting of hair and smooth skin soft under his fingertips.
Eyes dripping with lust and devotion, Sander replied, “You. Just you.”
“How?” Robbe asked, fighting back a sudden welling of emotion gathering in his throat, nearly choking him. Fuck he loved this man.
“I don’t care, Robin. I just want to be near you, to hold you, to know that you’re real and that you’re mine.”
“Of course I’m yours,” Robbe cried, falling forward to kiss him tenderly. “Fuck, San–” The tears he’d been fighting threatened again, and he thought his heart my burst for aching. He crawled to the edge of the bed and opened the bedside table, pulling out a bottle of lube and a small, black jewelry box.
He placed the lube at Sander’s side and then sat back onto his hips. He opened the box and pulled out a ring, kissing it before placing it on his own ring finger. “Baby, I’m yours. I’ve been yours for years.” He reached for Sander’s hand, kissing the matching ring there.
“I know,” Sander choked out. “I just missed you so much. I don’t know why, but this time was so much harder. I hated it. Every day.”
A tear fell this time, trailing down Robbe’s cheek. This was the moment.
They had both felt it.
He crawled off of Sander’s lap to curl up beside him so that they could look into one another’s eyes more easily. “Me too.” He placed a hand on Sander’s cheek. “What if…” He snuggled closer. “What if that was the last one. I don’t want to go on tour again.”
Sander’s mouth fell open, speechless, but a dawning joy lit up his eyes; and he inhaled sharply. “Really? You’d do that?”
Robbe closed Sander's mouth with a finger and then caressed his cheek with his knuckles, feeling even more sure about his decision than before. “Yes. I’ve been thinking about it for awhile.”
“You’d quit?”
“Not exactly. Just downsize, step out of the spotlight a bit. No more tours. No more press.”
“Jens is going to kill you.”
“He’ll get over it, especially since he and Moyo are the only ones who officially know about us. He’ll understand.”
Sander grabbed at his hips and pulled Robbe on top of him, kissing him hard. “If you mean it…” He hugged Robbe to his chest, burying his face in his neck, and Robbe felt moisture on his skin. Was Sander crying?
“I mean it, baby. I’m ready. I don’t want to leave you like that ever again.”
Sander full out sobbed then, and Robbe rolled them over so that he could hold him and murmur comforting words into his ear. “I love you, San. I’m tired of leaving and of being without you. I’m tired of not being open about our relationship. Maybe if I’m not in the spotlight anymore, no one will think it’s a conflict of interest. Maybe I can come out…publicly.”
Sander sniffled and sat up on his elbows. “You’d do that, for me?”
“Oh San.” Robbe nearly burst into tears himself. He cupped Sander’s cheek with one hand and brushed the sweaty, tear-dampened tendrils back with the other. “I’d do so much more than that, and I should have done this sooner.”
“Uh uh,” Sander shook his head. “We made this decision for my career as much as yours, and you weren’t ready to stop yet. I would never have asked you to, either.”
“I know, and I love you for that. But I’m ready now. I just wanna play piano for fun and be your husband.”
“I fucking love that idea, baby.” Sander turned his head, kissing Robbe’s palm. Robbe closed his eyes and breathed in the calm and intimacy, reveling in the idea that this would be the rest of his life now. No more long separations. No more frenzied meet-ups all over the world. No more coordinating schedules. Just them.
“And now,” he said, pulling Sander’s head down so that he could whisper in his ear, “I desperately want you to fuck me.”
Sander nodded, saying, “I also love that idea,” and nipped at Robbe’s shoulder, making him squeak. He reached for the lube that Robbe had set aside and deftly began opening Robbe up, hiking one leg over his shoulder so that he could still kiss Robbe in the process.
Robbe’s insides lit up, and they made out languidly in complete contrast to the fire slicing through him as Sander hit the right spot again and again. On the last one, Robbe moaned loudly into his mouth, and Sander pulled back, grinning broadly.
“Oh shut, up,” Robbe said, smacking at his chest.
“You’re beautiful.”
Robbe groaned.
“I could stare at you all day.”
“Please don’t.” Robbe’s hands scrabbled ineffectually at Sander’s hips, trying to pull him closer. “I need you to fuck me. I’m ready.” He didn’t even try to hide his desperation, which was probably why Sander didn’t comment on it.
He only said, “Okay, baby.”
“Fuck me slow.”
Sander spread Robbe’s thighs wider, and lifting his hips, he thrust into him in a tantalizing glide that seemed to take forever. It was just right. “Yeah?” Sander asked.
“Yeah, slow. I wanna feel it everywhere. I want to imagine it could last for days, that we could be connected for days. I want to keep you inside me as long as possible,” Robbe breathed, panting slightly at the amount of control it required to speak with Sander filling him up with hard heat. “I don’t want you to ever doubt me.”
“I don’t doubt you, Robin. Never.” He pulled back and slid back in, and every cell in Robbe’s body screamed his name.
“Fuck, yes, Sander, like that.”
Once Sander really got going in a torturous, slow rhythm, the talking ceased, and they communicated in breathy moans, intense, loving looks, and desperate panting. Robbe stared up at him and just watched. Sander was gorgeous, long and lanky with shoulders that hadn’t broadened until his thirties. Sweaty, dark hair framed his face, and his arms shook with the effort to hold himself up. He bit his lip in concentration, and he stared just as fixedly and devotedly back at Robbe.
He would never leave this man again.
“I love you,” Robbe mouthed, and Sander mouthed it back.
Robbe wasn't sure what felt better: the delicious slide and earth shattering tension of Sander inside him, or Sander's closeness, the smell and taste of his sweat, the smoothness of his skin, the light in his eyes, his smile as each thrust made Robbe moan. Being near him was overwhelming in the best way. They'd been together over ten years, and yet he couldn't get used to it. Robbe might have been the celebrity, but Sander was larger than life. Robbe loved to lose himself in his presence, drown in his brightness and vitality. He was everything, and Robbe loved him so much.
Sander dragged it out as long as he could, and Robbe’s orgasm crashed over him unexpectedly in wave after wave as if the steady heat pooling within him had reached boiling point and had nowhere to go but out. Within moments, Sander followed him, crying out his name and a series of profanity. He collapsed beside him, and immediately gathered Robbe up into his arms, hugging him close.
“Fuck,” he said.
“Yeah,” Robbe agreed.
“I’m never letting you go again."
“Never.”
Robbe closed his eyes, warm and content, and though he was perhaps more tired than he’d been before, the exhaustion was gone.
He was free.
Soft lips brushed against his brow, and he fell asleep happier than he’d been in years.