Disclaimer: Metalocalypse and all characters mentioned here belong to Brendon Small (and some other guys, probably). I make no money from this.

A/N: First Metalocalypse fic, woo! Feedback's always welcome.

"Hey. Hey Nate."

No response.

"Oi, dood." Pickles kicked the taller man in the shin, which at least got one grumpy green eye to open and stare at him. "Move. You're crushing my legs Nate."

The red haired drummer made a vague gesture towards his lower body. The green eye blinked slowly.

"No."

Pickles tried to move his other leg, which was currently trapped beneath both of Nathan's. It was impossible to get away from the mix of fat and muscle without serious struggle, so Pickles decided that he was too drunk to bother. Besides, the king size hotel bed was really comfortable and he had several bottles of booze just within reach. Once he rummaged through his pockets, he found a handful of colorful pills as well. The green eye closed and Nathan resumed lying face down on the mattress, sprawled out like he only did when he was seriously fucking drunk. Pickles knew those things because they'd been friends forever and seen each other at their worst. Multiple times.

The red haired drummer squinted at the corners of the room, trying to guess in which country they were. Nothing but the blue glow of the tv illuminated the walls. There was some sort of animal documentary on and he watched a lion eat a zebra's carcass for a while. Nathan radiated warmth like a furnace. If Pickles reached out, he could grab the remote on the large singer's other side. That would require him to lean over Nate in a creepy and kinda gay way, like some sort of..

"Forces of evil, I command ya to bring me the remote!" He muttered dramatically and made grabby hands.

The forces of evil didn't seem very charitable tonight. Pickles slowly pushed himself up and stared down at the mess of black hair next to him. The smell of tequila and smoke hit his nostrils. Pickles frowned. Nathan didn't smoke, at least not cigarettes. That was what "regular jerkoffs" did, and therefore not brutal. They must've hit some shitty bars that night. He hardly remebered details, only flashing lights and writhing bodies against him. At either rate, the lions were getting boring and Nathan looked out of it. Pickles stretched over the singer, close enough to hear his deep even breaths and get a good whiff of booze. Once he had the remote, he drew back to his side of their bed. That was a thing, one of the rituals of their Friender Bender, even after they could afford seperate rooms. It was just as solid a part of the routine as the getting horrifically drunk and spending no more than a night in a single country. Pickles didn't think about it too hard. If Nathan was cool with it, he was cool with it, too, and that was that.

"Who cares, who cares," he muttered as he switched channels from one news station to the next.

It was all the same, anyway. Death, terror and hate. Nathan might get a kick out of it. Might even get new ideas for songs, if he wasn't so fucking out of it. He finally landed on a music channel, one of the few left who actually played music videos. There was some sort of stoner rock playing and Pickles let the bright colors lull him for a while. After patting around, he found a stray pillow and stuffed it under his back so he didn't have to keep leaning on his elbows. Sometimes he felt his age in aching joints and back pains that hadn't been there a few short years ago. Pickles made a face and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Fucking hell, dood." He mumbled and popped a few pills in his mouth.

There had to be a painkiller in the mix somewhere. There always was. He hated feeling so fucking morose, which was why he liked to spend the night drugged out of his dumb mind. It took a while for the drugs to kick in. Pickles searched for his phone and started typing a few messages. Felt like his resistance was increasing, so it was time for stronger stuff again.

"Don't do that."

The drummer glanced down at the man staring up at him with both eyes now. He raised his brows in question. Nathan was the one who came up with the No-Caring-Policy.

"What, you some sorta mind reader now?" Pickles asked and hit send on a mass text. "Maybe I'm just textin' a coupla friends, eh?"

The black haired man scowled up at him, which by itself was not unusual. It was the barely hidden concern in his eyes that gave Pickles pause. The drummer shifted uneasily and hit lock screen.

"Nate, c'mon man. You're drunk as shit. Go to sleep and we'll get outta this dump in another couple hours, yeah?"

Nathan heaved a sigh and put his arm under his head. "Good plan," he grunted and closed his eyes.

Pickles kept staring him as the other man's breathing evened out. Nathan acting weird wasn't exactly news to him. It was just that he got weirder when they were alone. He wondered if the younger man would give a shit if it was Murderface or Skwisgaar lying next to him. Hell, he probably wouldn't go on Friender Benders with them in the first place, much less share a bed. A strange kind of satisfaction settled in Pickles guts when he thought about it. This was special, he was an exception. Knowing that Nathan thought he was fucking special wasn't the appreciation he craved. His parents still didn't give a shit about him. But it was something, and it fixed some of the broken parts in him. He leaned back against the pillow and let his mind drift away, drowsy and content in the knowledge that someone, at least, gave a shit.