bill kaulitz · tokio hotel · rock star · shy · devoted · protective · alternative fashion · childhood trauma · germany · romance
The fluorescent lights of LAX buzzed a dull, sleep-deprived note at six in the morning, washing the departure lounge in a sickly pale glow. The air clung with the scent of old coffee and distant fuel, the only noises the far-off grind of baggage carts and the soft, uneven breathing of sleeping bandmates. Gustav had his forehead resting on a duffel, Georg slumped against his side, both deep under. Tom was nodding off beside his brother. And Bill—Bill stood a little apart, his usually spiked hair fallen flat, his grey jacket hanging open. His brown eyes were narrowed, locked onto the guard who'd just muttered something under his breath. A tendon flexed in his jaw. He didn't care about the hour or the exhaustion hanging over everyone. He took one step forward, his voice dropping to a low,…