Title: You.
Rating: R for implied sex, implied sex with a minor, cursing, drugs...come on, it's Dethklok.
Pairing: Skwisgaar x Toki.

Shivers whisper up my spine as my fingers close around the doorknob. I try to blame it on the chill air of the corridor, the coldness of the brass against my skin as I turn the knob, but I know better. The warmth steals over me even as the first sliver of light appears, spreading over my whole body and being, and yet it still feels as if ghostly fingers are trailing down my backbone.

The door clicks back into place; the world is so still that the minute sound is nearly deafening. For one horrific moment every fine hair stands neatly on end, my heartbeat trebles and I close my eyes, inhaling the air of your room—raw, fresh wood and the sharp smell of the glue that holds it together, as well as something more subtle, and yet more there; there's no name, no description for it. It's just…yours.

I pass several moments just breathing you in, but eventually, my eyes flicker open. They search for you, though I know you're not here. I sink down onto your bed, picking up your bear, turning it over in my hands. You're somewhere downstairs right now, but I know you're not with the others. You never want to be with them unless I'm around—it's some kind of habit leftover from the years when English words made your smooth forehead wrinkle in complete confusion.

I remember how you would look up at me then, my guitar case clutched in your arms. Magnus would laugh, Nathan would grunt, Murderface would mumble something about the stupid little foreign kid. Pickles would try, but his accent destroyed any attempts he made at Swedish or Norwegian. So I would tell you what they had said—and sometimes I lied to you, simply so the words of rougher, older men wouldn't hurt you.

What did I know of you and what had hurt you in those days? You were so young, so skinny and so silent, with absolutely nowhere to go and talent with a guitar that seemed utterly inexplicable. You asked me if you could be our roadie, and when I put the question to Nathan, he initially said no—until you snatched my guitar and proceeded to play a string of notes that impressed Magnus and me both. A fourteen year old kid with talent to rival a thirtysomething year old man? It was unheard of…so we kept you, and you did anything we asked of you, provided I was around to translate. It was disturbing how quickly you obeyed us in those days. You weren't a roadie, you were a servant.

I lie back in your bed, now existing in my memories—our memories. I remember how you would cringe every time Nathan bellowed, every time Murderface would snarl. The two of them fought often in those days…full on wrestling matches, rolling on the floor like dogs, punching until blood flew. I still have a pair of white pants stained in blood from the night you and I pulled an unconscious Murderface out from between Nathan's knees. You shivered the entire time you were in Nathan's vicinity; I found you crying in the little space where you slept beneath the kitchen sink of the bus. I remember telling you—in Swedish, of course—to suck it up and get used to it. You nodded at me, mumbling some small noise of agreement, and then you rolled over to sleep and I reeled backward like a drunk.

Your back… What I had expected to be pale skin was a latticework of scar tissue. Some were stark white, like lines drawn; others were so bunched and raised that running fingers over them would be like feeling the dips and rises of a landscape model. And all the scars crisscrossed, scar on scar, from somewhere within your shorts all the way beneath your ragged, long hair.

What possessed me then, I have no clue—I was abused, but not…not in such a way. Never before had I counted myself lucky in my childhood until I first saw you shirtless. It made something in my throat catch, and before I could control myself, I had touched one scarred shoulder.

You rolled over to look at me, wiping your eyes quickly so that I wouldn't see that you hadn't yet stopped crying, and made some small sound of question. I stuttered for a moment—I never stutter—and then offered you my hand, mumbling something about the cold and drafts under a sink. "Come sleep with me," I said, and you obeyed me like you obeyed every other order anyone had ever given you. I still regret not asking you to come, rather than telling you to. You were gone when I opened my eyes the next morning, though all we did was sleep.

Is it hero worship that has made you come back to my bed over the years? Come back to it when I'm drunk and stumbling, come back to it every time I say Come sleep with me though sleep doesn't happen for hours? You're grown now—you were grown the night Magnus's arthritis finally prevented him from playing a show, and you took the stage like you had always belonged there. When it put him out of commission for good—barely a year before he died—you said your first English words to Nathan: "I can does it. You knows I can does it. Let me play." And he let you, and you no longer obeyed our every whim and command, and years of carrying heavy band equipment had given you the muscle to back up your refusal. You were our equal, and yet to this day, when I command you to come to my bed, you come—though I always wake up to find you gone.

I thrust out one of my long arms in frustration—your alarm clock falls to the floor and shatters, but you'll blame that on your cat. I'm breathing you in still; your room is a gas chamber of inhaled memories and emotions. I want to leave but I want to stay, I want to stay so that I can finally ask you to come to bed with me. Ask you, not tell you to, and see if you refuse.

Don't refuse.

That one thought is enough to propel me toward the door. I have never handled rejection well. I'd rather have of you what you'll give to me than ruin it all with a question. This power you have over me—this power to say no, should I ever actually ask—makes me insecure, makes me want to run from your room back to my own and hide there for the rest of the night. You alone in this world can hurt me.

It is, of course, my luck that the first thing I see when I open your door to flee is your wide eyed face, hand hovering just beyond where the doorknob was seconds before.

"Skwisgaar? What are you doing in my room?"

You lean against the doorframe, shirtless, wearing nothing but gym shorts—you must have come from the seldom-used weight room. You say the words without an ounce of accusation in your voice—as if I hadn't invaded your privacy.

"I…I…I broke your alarm clock. I'm sorry."

You peer around my shoulder to the broken clock beside your bed, and smirk crosses your lips. You laugh a little, quietly.

"I'll have another one by the time I go to sleep. But really, Skwisgaar…why were you in my room? Do you need to borrow something?"

I see the edges of the old scars creeping over your broad shoulders. They've faded so much now, but my fingers remember the feel of them. I've run my hands down your back so many times…

"Toki?"

"Yes, Skwis?"

"Will you…would you like to sleep with me tonight?"

I watch your eyes grow wide again, watch you stand up straight from the doorframe, and the panic rising in my chest is hotter than heartburn. Your silence seems to last for hours interminable, and I duck around you as quickly as I can, muttering my excuses.

Your fingers close around my thin wrist just before I'm out of arm's reach. I try to go on, but you pull me back. You're stronger than me now.

"Skwis, look at me." You say as you release my wrist.

I do so, peering down at you just because you asked. Your powerful arms are crossed over your chest, but once I lock eyes with you, once that grin spreads over your face, you reach down and take my hand.

"Did you even have to ask?"

"I…I did. Yes, I did."

"You know the answer is always going to be yes."

I smile, and I can feel the uncharacteristic broadness of it, but you just laugh and pulls me down the hall toward my room.

"Toki?"

"Yeah, Skwis?"

"Just…sleep. Tonight. Okay?"

You open the door to my room and let me go in ahead of you. When you shut it, you wrap your arms around my waist, resting your forehead against mine. You smile again before toppling me down into the mass of white covers. We lie there, talking, until my eyes fall closed. When I wake, you're still there, wrapped around me more closely than the covers.