A lumpy figure lay, backside up, on a large king-sized bed. He tossed and turned back and forth in the heavy crimson sheets, too hot underneath them and too cold without them. The ventilation in the palatial, all-stone room wasn't exactly perfect, so the floor felt like ice, especially at such a time as it was. He uncovered his face from under the blanket to peek at an analog clock hanging on the wall across from him, and between his restless mind and blurred vision, it took him a minute to decipher it was about midnight. Sure, it wasn't that late, but it had been a long day of practice, rehearsal after rehearsal, drill after drill. He was always trying his best, and his band mates always said it wasn't good enough. He shut his eyes at the thought of their disapproval; he was aching all over, and the feeling of small self-worth wasn't helping.
Leading a musician's life wasn't always fun. There's no time for friends, and at the end of the day there's not much left to do but gripe about tomorrow. On several occasions his fellow players had reminded each other that they were in no way companions, and though he'd pretended to whole-heartedly agree, he felt there was some sort of mutual denial between the five of them. But he could never tell if they understood this, or if they even bothered to give it any thought. He shrugged to himself, and rolled to the right again, suddenly hitting his head against the stone end table that was planted to the floor by his bedside. This caused him to sit up quickly, inhaling sharply, jerking him out of his thoughts. After recapturing his breath, he laid back on the metal headpiece of the bedset, annoyed by how frigid it was, thinking it may just be useless to try and sleep tonight.
At that moment, the drummer noticed a silhouette of the bottom of feet on the other side of his door, illuminated by the brighter lights of the hallway outside the room, always glaring no matter what time of day. He blinked a few times to make sure he was seeing right, and sure enough, he saw the feet shuffle a little bit. A while passed by, of the feet just standing there and him just watching, waiting. Growing bored of it, he assumed it was just a guard standing by, turned his head away and started to reach for an unopened bottle of beer. Just then, a couple knocks sounded on the door, causing him to stop mid-reach. He waited a moment, then called out, "Ye?" He heard a loud exhale come from outside the door, and then a muffled voice saying, "Can I come in?" "Uh–", he replied, remembering he was wearing nothing but boxers. "Ye, hold on a minnit." He quickly stumbled out of bed, located one of several pairs of dirty jeans lying on the floor, and buttoned them up while walking to the entry. He flicked a switch, and the metal door slid open sideways. He was surprised to see Toki, his band's rhythm guitarist, standing in front of him, so close to the doorway that the metal must have slid against his nose when it rushed past. Most of the shock from him being there was that nobody had seen him all day, he'd just disappeared, hadn't come to the meetings or the recording studio or, more surprisingly, any meals. Although the Norwegian was taller than Pickles, he wasn't wearing his boots, and his normally stiff-straight posture was noticeably hunched forward as he looked down at his feet, looking defeated. Even more surprising still, the drummer noticed, was that Toki seemed completely sober: no swaying, no drink in hand.
"Pickle, I has problem," said Toki. Even without looking up, Pickles could see that there was a troubled look in his large, icy-blue eyes. He gave a sympathetic smile towards his band mate, even if he didn't see it, and said, "Why don't'cha take a seat," and motioned towards his rumpled mattress. Toki trudged through the discarded clothing and broken bottles -hitting his toes several times- followed by a much more cautious redhead. The guitarist sat on the edge of the bed, looking unhappily at his now-bleeding feet, and at the torn seams of the pants he'd been wearing for the past few days. Pickles climbed on too, taking a seat behind him cross-legged and individually cracking each of his fingers.
This routine was anything but new to the drummer. On several occassions --almost weekly now, he was proud to say -- his 'working partners' would come to him with something on their minds, something they couldn't let get to them, but indeed it was. It had all started one day when William was especially angry at some chicks he'd been trying to score with who went on to say he was completely useless in the band and might as well be an ugly roadie, et cetera. While all five of them were hanging out in the main hall of Mordhaus, he'd reminded himself of the subject and started complaining of it loudly, and eventually got so overworked about it that he was hyperventilating, can't-stand-up-straight mad. Naturally, the situation made everyone else rather uncomfortable, so the drummer decided to say, "Now calm down, dood, t's cool." to which he retorted, "It's cool?! Yeach, it'sh totally cool! You have NO IDEA what being the bassh player is like!" and with the effort of those screeched words had to sit down on the couch, his head was spinning. After looking from his distraught associate, to the others who were staring rather helplessly and uncaringly at the scenario, Pickles slowly approached him, and strongly grasped him and quickly twisted him to such an angle that he was facing away from him on the couch, and without pausing began to work his strong fingers into William's tense skin. After a few minutes of this, and "Shh"-ing every attempt Murderface made at objecting the situation, his heavy breathing stopped, his shoulders sagged and he said, "Yeah." and simply stood up and walked out of the room as if nothing had happened. Pickles was already smirking at the humour of the situation, and how simple the solution to his problems could be, but when he looked up he saw all his comrades were looking at him, somewhat astonished by this new revelation. So, he didn't know for sure, but that's where he assumed they got the idea.
Getting comfortable behind his sad colleague, he pushed a bright-red dreadlock out of his view and placed a finger on the center of Toki's lower neck. Instantly, he shot up off the bed, quickly inhaling from pain. "What's you do?! That hurt!" Pickles assumed Toki's skin was having a hypersensitive reaction to the alcohol withdrawal he seemed to be in, possibly so bad as to be delusional parasitosis. "Serry, man. Lemme try again," he said, as the Norwegian sat back down. Placing the same index finger lower down on his back, Toki winced with pain. "You're doing something different," he said between gritted teeth. Annoyed at the situation, Pickles said, "I think sometin's wrong with you. Take off yer shirt, let me see." The brunette seemed to hesitate for a long time before complying, and reluctantly took off his dirty, torn blue-grey shirt. And underneath was something quite shocking.
"Dude," said Pickles, at a loss for better words. Everyone in the band knew that Toki still had scars, both emotionally and physically, from being whipped as a child, and all of them had grown used to the long, oddly colored lines on his back. But what Pickles saw was that, and an additional something. "What, what's is it? I gots bee sting?" "No, dude... you're, uh, covered in staples." And indeed, all down his jutting spine were hundreds of staples pierced into his skin, some practically falling out, some securely fastened in. Most blood-crusted. The guitarist let out a groan, and said, "Toki would be covered wit' staples. Toki should have seen this coming." He didn't seem to mind the oddity of the situation, and proceeded to hunch over, propping his chin up with his hands. Straightening out his own back, Pickles said, "Okay, just hold still," and began to individually pick out the small metal apparatuses, one by one.
Toki picked up one of the several staples now gathering into a pile on the floor, one that had a deep-red tint to it, and sighed. "No wonders I've been all pins and needles latelys." Pickles didn't reply, and picked out the last of the small fasteners. "Y'ain't got 'em anywhere else, do you?" he said, half-laughing at his own quasi-perverted joke. Toki shrugged. "What's it matter? I die anyway." The redhead's smile immediately faded, and he realized his friend really was in a bad mood. He lightly ran his hands over the other man's back to see his reaction, and it seemed as if all the holes had closed right up. Toki probably didn't think anything of it, but Pickles knew he was incredibly lucky he hadn't been infected. Cracking his fingers and wrists once more, he dug his hands into Toki's lower back, and realized what a wreck his posture was.
A couple minutes later of this, and both were still silent. Tension hung like the chilling air in the room. Pickles could tell that the guitarist was struggling for words, several times he heard sounds start to form inside his mouth, but they never got past his lips. Slowly working his way towards Toki's neck, Pickles silently cleared his throat, and said, "So, you going to talk to me, er what?" Maybe not the most humble approach, but nobody ever said the drummer was any good at being soft-hearted. "I wants to talk, but.. I feel like it's not metal. I feel somesone saying 'no' to me, but inside my head instead."
Pickles couldn't help but smile at these words, how Toki couldn't understand his conscience saying things; how the rhythm guitarist, like himself, always feared judgement. "I know whatcha mean, but come on, you can trust me." He was about to say, 'you know you can', but it hit the redhead that this was only the second time Toki had ever come to him for this, and the first time was just when his high blood sugar had been driving him insane. Afterwards, he'd simply left without saying anything-- another painfully obvious sign that he didn't know what to say half the time. Reaching the middle of his back, rememering these things, Pickles couldn't help but wonder if Toki even thought in English, or if his ideas and emotions were ones he could so much better express in Norwegian.
"Well, that's what everyone says, that they cans trust you. And that's what makes me think..." he said. Another minute passed before he continued, "...that if you put too much trusts in one person, that it gets too heavy in their brains and then they give some of it to someone else." Pickles nodded, "M-hm, I get whatch'ya mean. But I wouldn't be too concerned about my brain, I got a rock-thick skull, if yer speaking meterpheric'ly. But really, you ain't gots to tell me nothin'," he said, and reconsidering, extended, "It's not like I don't want to hear it, I just don't want to ferce ye into nothin'." Toki nodded, and was quiet for another minute. Pickles had now reached the center of his friend's neck, right between his jutting shoulders, and suddenly realized the type of crick he'd been working to get out, one he'd felt before, but not in a long time. He was about to address it, but held his tongue, remembering what he'd just said. The redhead just tried to keep calmly pushing and circling the Norwegian's scratched-up skin, until he heard a loud popping noise, and he let out a huge breath of air, groaning a bit from the quick pain of it. "Wowee," he said, under his breath. If he knew what it was from, he didn't let on, and if he did, he obviously thought Pickles didn't comprehend it. Both were quiet again for another eternity. Toki swallowed, and said softly, "I was drunks." What a newsflash, thought the drummer, but said nothing, waiting for him to go on. "I was drunk, and it was about ten last night or somethin', and I got home from walkin' around. It's hard to get home when you're walkin' around like dat," he said, his voice whining a bit at the mention of his own ineptitude. "And den when I gots home.. Skwisgaar was there... and he was bein' mean to me like always, saying I needs to stop acting like little kid." Pickles snorted at this. Everyone in the band was fed up of the Swedish's constant insults at Toki, but couldn't do much about it because he was the lead guitarist, and without him, there goes the band. Toki knew this, but kept insisting that something be done about it, not understanding what the consequences could be.
The rhythm guitarist grew silent again, unsure of what to say. "...Go on. I'm listening," said Pickles reassuringly, and Toki sighed. "Well, I guess Skwisgaar knew I was really drunks, and maybe he was kind of tipsy himself too. I don'ts remember. And then he took me to his room, and said, 'we going to do somet'in's fun'." Pickles plowed his hands a little bit harder than he should've into Toki's ribs, unable to hide his apprehensiveness. The brunette let out a faint squeak at this impact, and immediately the drummer remembered what he was doing, and began to much more lightly massage him again. After another moment, Pickles said, "Please, go on. If ye want." Toki crossed his arms, hugging himself tightly, and stumbled,
"He -- w-we...-- I had..-- us-- ...it-- like.. kind of-- no...", unable to form anything coherent, frustrated at his messy words. "I was drunks! Okay? I didn't do it, I swears!" he said, but didn't sound like he was even convinced himself, just angry. The drummer firmly planted his palms into the Norwegian's backside, as if trying to convert some of his own contentedness to him. He said assertively, "I heard you. Whatever you did, you didn't mean it. It's fine." Toki nodded in agreement, sniffing loudly. "Now listen to me, Toki. No matter what you're trying to say, chances are, ye ain't goin' to say it like you want to. Believe me, I know how it is. But really, it's better to say then don't at all, right?"
Toki sighed again, and nodded. Again. Pickles began soothingly working on his upper arms in small circular pressures, and didn't say anything further. Another long time passed, just the two of them, breathing.
"I was drunks, right?" asked Toki, so unstable he was unsure of what he'd just said. "Yes," replied the redhead. "And then Skwisgaar took me to his room, said we do somet'in fun. And then... uh..." Toki's voice grew smaller and smaller. "He unzip his pants and tells me to suck it." He paused here to take a breath, and continued, his voice still barely audible. "And I remembers it so well, I just swaying back and forth, and gig'lging and smiling like the IDIOT I am," he said, putting so much force on the word 'idiot', the drummer had to cringe at the hate it held. Another pause, then he said, even quieter, "And then.. I laughs, and he push me towards him and push me down on my knees, and..." just a small whisper now, he says, "I sucked his dick." And suddenly, like the pressure of this confession was the only thing supporting him, his head collapsed onto his knees and his arms hugged his legs as tight as possible. Not even giving it a second thought, the drummer swiftly moved up to sit next to Toki, wrapping his strong arms around him, trying to control his shaking. "It was so awful," the brunette said, muffled, "I had an out-of-body 'sperience. It was like doin' somethin', and bein' there, but not being in control. I was so drunks. That thing was huge, Pickle, and he shove it down my throat." he said, not even caring what it sounded like anymore. "And he just keeps does this until he gets stuff all over my face, and it's probably still on there, 'cause I haven't showered since, after that I just ran outta that place, I hads to leave, I didn'ts know what to do, I stills don't, and I..." he hesitated a moment, seeming to forget his train of thought. "I was drunks!"
Neither knew what to say. They just sat, pressed together, both shirtless, feeling each other's body heat. Toki grabbed Pickles hand, and brushed it along his backside. "All these scars, they from different people, but they all mean same thing. They mean, 'Toki's stupid'." The drummer grew infuriated at this statement, but before he could say anything, the other went on. "I gots some from mom, some from dad, some from nature, some from I don'ts even know wheres. And ones from Skwisgaar, too. He hurt me last night, gave me bruises, 'cause I couldn'ts do nothin' bout it. And that's 'cause I was stupid. I was bad. Toki, bad," he said, both despairing over the words and saying them as if they were facts.
Pickles couldn't think of anything to say to this. How could he convince someone who'd grown up in the cold that this was anything but true? How could he make him see that he truly was a beautiful person, no matter how horribly he was treated? Finally, eyes watering, he said, "Toki, the only thing that makes you stupid is thinkin' that you are." Toki sighed again, propping up his cheek with his palm. Pickles admired the fact that he never cried, no matter how depressed. The redhead swallowed the ache in his heart, and said, "Why don't'ye lay down, I'll give you a foot rub." Toki looked directly at the drummer for the first time that night with his large, crystal-cobalt eyes, and said, "I gots real uglied feets." Pickles smirked and said, "You really need this."
So Toki agreed to lie down, his head propped up on the large feather pillow on the bed, his hands intertwined over his stomach. Indeed, his feet were gnarled, almost pitch-black and covered in cuts and scratches, seeing as he must've left Mordhaus last night without bothering to grab shoes, then being gone a whole day. Nevertheless, Pickles began relentlessly rubbing Toki's left foot, enjoying the grunt of approval that escaped from the guitarist's mouth. Staring up at the walls made of rock, Toki said, "I just don't know what I do. I try to be cool, but everyone says I do it wrong. And I try to be in-deev-dual, but everyone says I's not doing it right. I'm not good at t'instruments neither, they say." It wasn't easy for the redhead to hear this, seeing as he, too, often made fun of his band mates. He wondered how often this actually effected them. "Toki, you know you're abserlutely brilliant at geetar." "Den why's nobody else say thats?" "Just.. think of their criticism as motivation. That's what I do." Toki let out a long breath in the form of a 'hm', and offered no other reply. Pickles switched to his other foot, and the two of them once again fell quiet. Five minutes later, the clock struck one-fifteen."...Pickle, I think I sleep right here tonight," said Toki, as if the question wasn't up for debate. "Oh, wait, dude.." he said, and scrambled up to prop himself next to the guitarist. He looked at him with his bright, Irish-green eyes, pushed a bright red dreadlock out of his view and said, "You know you aren't really bad, right?" the Norwegian looked to the ceiling, then back to him, practically hypnotizing him with those endless, slate-blue irises of his. Toki considered for a moment, then leaned forward, kissed Pickles on the cheek, and with what almost seemed like a smile, said, "Yeah, I am." then turned around, and promptly fell asleep.
Pickles couldn't do anything, seeing as Toki felt the matter was settled, but raise a now-filthied hand to his face, feeling warmth where his friend had just put his lips. Paralyzed for a moment, he was leaning on the bed stock-still, until he heard a faint knock at the door. Trying to recover from the heat in his face, he walked up to the door, pushed a button and it slid open sideways. Standing in the doorway, so close that the metal must have slid against his nose as it rushed past, noticeably hunched forward in comparison to his straight posture. Looking down at his feet, his blonde hair covering most of his face, he said, "Pickles, maybe I cans talks to you?"