Nathan bounced his golf club against the lawn, growing bored and impatient. Beyond the patch of trees he stood beside with the guitarists, a protesting engine indicated impending destruction of the golf cart Pickles and Murderface hijacked.

"Hurry the fuck up, Skwisgaar," he said. "You can't have hit it too far in."

"I ams lookings as fast as I cans!"

Toki rested his driver on his shoulder. "Maybes bends down a bit more, then you could sees into the grass better."

"Okays, but I don'ts know how dat would helps."

Movement out of the corner of Nathan's eye drew him to where the cart disappeared over a sand dune. Even without Toki's gaze softening as Skwisgaar's ass rose further in the air, Nathan understood his intent.

"Hey Nathans," Toki said under his breath. "Looks."

"No."

"Just looks for a second, okay? Ares you looking?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Nathan's gaze still darted everywhere else.

"You sees right there?" Toki nudged Nathan. "You sees it? I's hitting that."

". . .God, Toki."

At least beside that break of news, Toki and Skwisgaar kept to themselves about it. Not that the Norwegian's statement came as a shock. For the past few months, whenever they departed the hot tub within minutes of each other, Pickles raised an eyebrow at Nathan. They never spoke about it, didn't have to, but then again they didn't exactly care, either. The entire band benefitted, since their bickering and Toki's affinity toward punching died down. Apathy reigned beyond that.

Nathan headed for the hot tub one night when he heard the soft thud of music coming from Offdensen's office. Weird. Their manager working late wasn't new by any stretch of the imagination, but he usually preferred silence. Curious, Nathan pushed the door open.

Offdensen sat behind his desk, chair tilted back, his hair mussed, and the three top-most buttons on his dress shirt popped. He pawed lazily at the glass of brandy held aloft by the drummer situated in his lap. "Give it back."

"Noooo," Pickles giggled. "You need to earn it."

"And, ah. . .what exactly might that entail?"

Surely an explanation came worse than the first impression, if Nathan addressed them. He shut the door and left them to it.

Pickles behaved no differently the next time their paths crossed. After the Scandinavians shacked up, another such occurrence incited no concern. Nathan didn't bring it up, deeming discussion unnecessary so long as he never had to deal with any of it. He kept in mind to never again waltz into any of their quarters without knocking, for their sake and his.

The hot tub sat mostly empty later in the week, as the drummer and guitarists set off elsewhere. Nathan worked on a beer while channel-surfing.

"Kinda crazschy around here, ischn't it?" Murderface broke the silence between them. "I mean, you've notisched, right?"

"Noticed what?"

"Toki and Schkwischgaar, and Picklesch and the robot?"

"Uh. I don't see why that means we have to talk about it."

"We don't. Heh." Nathan's grips on the remote and his beer bottled tensed as Murderface shifted closer. "But you realizsche that it'sch juscht you and me left, don't you?"

"Get that idea out of your head right now."

"Juscht think about it before you jump to any concluschionsch—!"

"Why does whatever they do have any impact over what I do? Get away from me."

"You schuck!" Murderface abruptly stood. "Fuck you, then! Not like I meant it, anyway. I'm not gay. . ."

The bassist's spirited mumblings carried on down the corridor. Nathan merely shrugged and turned back to the TV.