Metal did not leave a lot of room for emotions beside anger and lust, so his life did not leave a lot of room for emotions beside anger and lust either. On stage, he channeled the energy of his divine ancestry through his fingers and caused the resonance of the most beautiful guitar sounds: quick, lengthy, angered, lustful, and prideful—his music was him if he were music. Thus, he lived this life like he played his guitar: he drank, he cursed, he fucked, all in ways that some saw as glamorous. Yet he saw his actions as necessary and ultimately draining on his person. Every night he passed the time with another (or more) slut and shared his bed (and oftentimes his floor) with an unfamiliar body (or two—or three—or so many he lost count). Quick signatures on waivers claiming them responsible for any diseases he might contract (though he never did—he suspected the divine ancestry in this as well) and claiming him without responsibility for any unfortunate result of the intercourse (directly lifted from the contract—after all he had enough children to amass a small, half-Swedish army) followed by a night of sex, drugs, booze, and whatever else he felt was required. His bedmates arrived after the sunset and left before the sunrise. He never saw the same one twice; he found that the features that made one special could be found in countless others and that, ultimately, human beings were not as unique as he previously thought them to be.
That was his life: music and sex intertwined in a haze; he was known for practicing guitar while getting sucked off if he was feeling particularly out of it that night. Half of the time he'd been in this band he couldn't remember, and of what he could, the majority was fuzzy and fitful, hard to grasp. He wasn't the type of man to bury his problems with substance abuse, but he found the post-orgasmic fog that clouded his mind with such frequency to have a similar effect. Features of women became hard to distinguish, even between the young ones and the old ones, the pretty and the ugly, the ones that should be memorable for being so good or the ones that should be memorable for being so bad. When they just started out, before he knew he'd found the band he'd stick with, before they had the final members and a manager and even a record label, he would laugh with the other band mates after a notably horrendous lay. The girls that frequented bars to try to hook up with grungy, scruffy Next Big Things fucked peculiarly—raw, unhinged, and oftentimes clumsy, and it was fun to make fun of them after they'd left the hotel room with their shirts half-buttoned. His favorite to discuss them with was Murderface, the only ones the girls didn't touch. He'd describe the encounters in lavish detail and despite the awkward English he spoke in, Murderface would lean forward and beg for more—out of jealousy, out of his own never quite satiated lust, out of his desire to hear about women that he so hated doing things he could hate them for, Skwisgaar never knew. The point was there was a time when he found sex fun, for whatever reason, and where he enjoyed bragging and drawing out others' envy.
Now was not that time, however. He still bragged, but he didn't find it particularly enjoyable. He did it more to prove to everybody that he was just as good as he said he was. Lately, he'd developed the habit of leaving his bedroom door open, though nobody ever walked by. He felt like a rebellious teenager fucking the stupid girls from school on his mother's bed with angry, devastating orgasms that would make him sick to look in the faces of the girls he'd fucked. Those weren't fun times, either. Now, as he inched farther away from being young, he found himself filled with the same anger as his younger self. Confused and enraged with the world for no apparent reason, he left his door open when he fucked. Some girls got off on that, on the raw exposure of the most primitive act, but he found it lessened the experience considerably. Still, he left his door open as if it was the most casual thing in the world, Skwisgaar Skwigelf buried in a woman, exchanging fluids and encouragements. He was a vocal but quiet lover, attentive when he wanted to be but naturally aloof. He enjoyed—preferred—stretching back and laying his arms behind his head while the woman of the night did the work herself. He found the majority of them (and especially the younger ones) to work in a frenzied way, trying to ravish his body and make it theirs, relishing the moment and basking in his beauty. He knew this to be a sort of competition, a strive to be the one to come back for seconds, but at the end of the night he would dismiss them, no matter how good they were. Sometimes it made him chuckle, the feelings of nails digging into his skin, the possessive kisses at the corner of his mouth; when they would ask, "What?" he would pass it off as if he was particularly impressed, but in reality, he found the optimism of an inexperienced groupie amusing in a pathetic kind of way.
Currently, he was sitting in the hot tub, playing his guitar absentmindedly while reflecting upon subjects of this nature. His fingers plucked at strings while he reclined with his head back. He was alone in the midday. Nathan and Pickles had gone out for lunch and some general friendship time, as apparently they'd thrown the ideas of not caring about each other out the window a long time ago. Murderface was somewhere doing something; he wasn't quite sure and he didn't quite care. He had the similar lack of ideas about Toki's whereabouts, which concerned him the slightest bit more, but he wasn't in the mood for concern. He was content to stare at the ceiling and play his guitar, a solitary man.
He was alone for perhaps half an hour, empty melodies filling in for the bustle of conversation, when he heard the familiarly heavy stomp of Toki Wartooth. Toki's gait sounded constantly like a child sneaking to grab a cookie from the cookie jar, as if he was trying to be quiet but had his efforts foiled by clumsiness and unfamiliarity of the size of his limbs. It was much befitting of Toki's overall personality, and Skwisgaar found himself charmed by how well it fit, smiling to himself when he knew Toki could not see him.
"Can I comes ins?" Toki asked, voice rising above Skwisgaar's playing. He sounded hesitant, standing an awkward amount of distance from the hot tub and picking at a loose string on the hem of his shirt.
"Ja, I guess sos."
Toki stripped to his boxers and slid into the hot tub. Skwisgaar was half-expecting him to run across the room and cannonball, but he was thankful for the uncharacteristically quiet entrance, as Skwisgaar was in an uncharacteristically quiet mood.
"Why's yous in heres all alones?" Toki asked. He was sitting on the opposite end, eyes wide, leaning against the wall of the hot tub. His hands were clasped in his lap in a leftover "good and quiet boy in the pews" fashion.
"Somethingks to do," Skwisgaar replied, shrugging. He was still playing his guitar, slowly by his standards, the notes unyielding and simple. He tended to slip from his trademark fast and furious style to a more basic fingering when buried in conversation or listening attentively, but basic for him was still quite fast and worthy of accolade; Toki did a bad job of masking his awe as he stared at Skwisgaar's hands with the slightest envy lit on his face. "Its has been borings."
Toki furrowed his brow. "If yous ams bored—"
"Not boreds enough to hangs outs with you," Skwisgaar chided. He stared down his nose at Toki, eyes half-lidded.
Toki sighed. "I's wasn't going to says dat," he said. He reclined in the hot tub as if he was utterly exhausted, resting his hands on the wall beside him. This new position highlighted the virile broadness of his chest and shoulders. Skwisgaar found it inherently curious that Toki, such a childish man, had such a strong figure. He had vague suspicions that it had to do with the way he was raised and that that had set his metabolism firmly in stone. Even when Dethklok had the collective fat crisis Toki had put on little weight and was able to draw attention to his body—Skwisgaar had heard the comments of "even Toki?" when confronted about having unsuitable figures, and found himself asking the same questions. Toki was a sculpted specimen, a fine example of musculature, and Skwisgaar could not imagine a circumstance where Toki would let himself go.
He lost himself in thought but managed to find himself again before disrupting the flow of the conversation. He had been staring into the distance, hands on his guitar with a spacy look in his eyes. Now he made eye contact with Toki and asked, "Whats was yous goingks to say?" with needless intensity.
Skwisgaar, far too used to making his own amusement, enjoyed the game he played of intimidating Toki. Toki showed his emotions the easiest of all Dethklok members—in fact, perhaps the easiest of people Skwisgaar knew in general—and thus he would physically shrink, the corners of his mouth turning down, eyes narrowing when he was intimidated. He was doing all this now, low enough in the hot tub for the tips of his hair to come floating back up. Skwisgaar's mouth twitched in the slightest smirk.
"I's was saysings," Toki said, drawing out the words as if he wasn't sure Skwisgaar wanted to hear them, "that's I was goings to be askings hows you could bes bored."
"Ja?"
Toki made a guttural noise of agreement before continuing, "We's in Dethklok. We's has everythings. You's can't finds somethings to entertains youself?"
"Indeeds we does has everything," Skwisgaar said, nodding. They did have everything, including their own economy circling them like a solar system. If Skwisgaar so desired, he could lead an invasion into Britain by Togo and upset the entire world; if Skwisgaar wanted, he could take a trip to the moon; if Skwisgaar wanted, he could collect hundreds of women and have an orgy on the North Pole. Unfortunately, Skwisgaar's imagination did not extend that far, nor did he want it to. He found himself happy just sitting in his (admittedly luxurious) hot tub with his band mate; so he voiced this: "But boringks can be goods. I's okay right now."
Toki nodded, hanging off of Skwisgaar's every word like the man spoke gospel. "I's okay too," he said.
There was a momentary lapse in conversation. It was not awkward, just quiet, both parties having nothing to say to the other but not wanting to leave the other's company. Thus, they sat in the hot tub for a moment and listened to the bubbles and Skwisgaar's guitar playing. Toki sat with his hands on the floor behind him still and gazed into the water; Skwisgaar plucked at the strings until it bored him and pushed the guitar out of the water, sliding it on the floor behind him. He summoned a Klokateer to collect the guitar, and the Klokateer did just that with a demure "As you wish, my lord."
"No more guitars?" Toki asked. He appeared to be in an especially inquisitive mood that day, which did occur sometimes; he had the natural curiosity of a child and often behaved as if life was never truly explained to him.
Skwisgaar shrugged. "Ja, I's been practicingks all days, unlike yous, probabablies."
"I's practiced!" Toki took his hands from behind him and crashed them into the water with fury, which sent bubbles and water spraying onto his face. He wiped at his cheek to remove a large path of bubbles entwined with one side of his fu manchu. Much befitting of a person who constantly displayed his emotions, Toki had an expressive face; as he rubbed his cheek his eyes crinkled shut while his nose crinkled up. The task at hand seemed to distract him from the classic argument that Skwisgaar so often engaged him in (after all, Toki was obviously lying, as he never practiced) which Skwisgaar was glad for, as he did not feel like getting into this today. The band was not really doing anything, existing in the awkward period after a tour for the newest album where they could lay low and take a break for a while, so the music was not as big of a concern for Skwisgaar at the moment. He wanted to bask in the solace of not having to be around other people and that's what he was doing—basking. Toki wasn't even being annoying lately, instead placid, and Skwisgaar found him infinitely more tolerable in this state.
"Dildos," Skwisgaar muttered, regardless.
"Why's yous gots to says dat even whens I's not actings stupid?" Toki asked. He had stopped rubbing his cheek, hands in the water again; he appeared to be gripping the hot tub's bench, causing his shoulders to roll forward and highlighting the taut muscle in his arms. Skwisgaar did not know why Toki couldn't just pick a position in the hot tub and stay like that—Skwisgaar had been sitting with his knees together, fists on top of them since he rid himself of his guitar—and looking at Toki made Skwisgaar feel restless.
"You's always actingks stupids," Skwisgaar pointed out.
Toki blew a piece of hair out of his eyes and flicked his head back in grumpy silence. He really did walk straight into that one, prompting a small chuckle out of Skwisgaar. Skwisgaar, still laughing to himself, summoned another Klokateer and asked for a beer this time. Toki attached the same request onto the end of Skwisgaar's.
Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Not only ams yous stupids," he said, "but you copies me. Agains."
Toki harrumphed. The Klokateer returned and handed both men their beers; Toki popped the cap on his with his teeth while Skwisgaar undid his with a single thumb. Toki chugged, Skwisgaar sipped.
There were a few moments of silence before Toki grew subtlety irritable. Toki's subtleness was, on other people, complete obviousness: he twitched, shifted, opened his mouth as if he was going to speak before closing it again, so on and so forth, clearly uncomfortable. Skwisgaar cherished Toki's easy-to-read emotions, which stood in stark contrast to the women he had met—women were mysterious beings, seemingly speaking a whole other language of movements, looks, words with different meanings than what he already knew. He could appreciate this, as this language carried with it its own beauty, but it was a beauty he was content to admire from afar. This is why he was not a monogamous man—he did not have the patience or emotional intelligence to detect the underlying emphasis, meanings, and implications of a woman's finery. With Toki, though, Skwisgaar always knew what he wanted or what he was thinking—the man wore his heart on his sleeve. Skwisgaar did not agonize over Toki's thoughts and for that he was thankful. Without the feeling that he was taking an extremely hard test by just simply socializing with another human being, Skwisgaar was much more at ease with Toki than with the majority of the population. Not that he would ever admit that.
Thus, Skwisgaar reclined back in a fashion that Toki had been earlier, with his hands beside him while still holding his beer, and asked: "What ams wrong, little Tokis?"
"I's was just withs Moidaface," Toki began, still shifting in his position, "and he was saysing some stuffs."
"Ja?" Skwisgaar's curiosity piqued, just slightly. Murderface and Toki had an odd relationship, one of close comradery where the other party didn't quite like the other. They stuck together, Skwisgaar supposed, because they were the weakest musical players in the band. The fact that Toki had been with Murderface in an undisclosed location also partially explained Toki's (as well as Murderface's, which Skwisgaar cared significantly less about—especially from a musical standpoint, as he would value the rhythm guitar above the bass any day) whereabouts.
Toki nodded before continuing. He appeared to have settled back into his skin and was not shifting but reclining once more and looking at the ceiling. Perhaps it was the fact that his neck was stretched, or the way his hair fell that framed it so, but Toki had quite the elegant neck: thick and long with a prominent Adam's apple and smooth, tanned skin. When he spoke it rippled deeply, forming a contradictory resonance with the naturally high pitch of his voice. "He was makingks funs of mes," Toki said, speaking as if he was ashamed to be admitting this.
"Ja?" Skwisgaar said, again. He ignored the small spike of rage bubbling in his stomach, blaming it on the beer (though that didn't make much sense at all). "Whats about?"
"De facts that's I don'ts screw many sluts," Toki mumbled. He switched his eyes from the ceiling to the water in the hot tub, lowering his head to his chest. His hair formed curtains around his face, but through the blockage Skwisgaar was able to see a streak of red across Toki's visage. Skwisgaar was about to say something—dismissing the conversation as not worth his time, as this was a boring topic—but Toki continued to speak, raising his head and locking his eyes on Skwisgaar's, which had the perplexing effect of jumpstarting his heart. "Sos, I comes to yous. Is it ams fun?"
"Fun?" Skwisgaar repeated; the question caught him off guard. "Screwding de sluts, yous means?"
Toki nodded.
Skwisgaar shrugged. "Ja, it ams fun."
Toki arched a single eyebrow, a habit he'd picked up from Skwisgaar. Skwisgaar suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "I don't thinks it am," Toki said. "I thinks it ams borings, sex withouts love. Dat's what I says to Moidaface."
Skwisgaar arched an eyebrow back at Toki unconsciously and took a sip from his beer before leaving it on the floor while he rested in his hands in his lap, similar Toki. "Sex ams never boringks," he said.
"Maybes not sex itselves, but I thinks it ams different when yous loves somebody," Toki elaborated. Then, with sadness in his eyes that made Skwisgaar frown, he said in a slower, softer tone: "I wouldn'ts knows."
"Never been in loves?" Skwisgaar asked. He drank more beer and noticed that after the initial chug, Toki hadn't touched his at all. Skwisgaar's heartstrings began to twinge uncomfortably—a brutal feeling if he ever felt one.
"Noes," Toki said. Strangely, he smiled. "Has yous?"
Skwisgaar paused. No—he had not been in love, he did not think. He'd been driven crazy with lust, had had intense desires to mark somebody as his, but he'd never been in love. That sounded personal, and was, frankly, something he'd never paused to think of. He had disregarded the notion of love when he was younger—he had love for his music and that was good enough. He did not need another person. He had been completely apathetic to the notion—now, shame bubbled inside of him, fizzy as the beer he was sipping and a foreign feeling. "Noes," he admitted finally, forming the word on his lips and letting it drift softly from his mouth like a rose petal falling from a flower—suitably romantic imagery.
"Dat's a shame." Toki lent him another one of those strange smiles—it did not quite reach his eyes, which remained sad. Skwisgaar was puzzled until something tugged at his brain, made him remember—when a smile does not reach somebody's eyes, it is not genuine; smiles can be indicative of lies in that manner.
Skwisgaar was utterly perplexed but did not show it, just narrowed his eyes and instead, scoffed. "
Loves! I ams not needingks its."
"I thinks you does," Toki said. He was speaking with extreme hesitance, nerves apparent as he held Skwisgaar's gaze. This conversation was downright odd and confused Skwisgaar, deeply whose fight or flight response was telling him to run, pushing him away. He did not want to have a conversation about the merits of sex versus love with Toki; no, Toki was too close to Skwisgaar, and there was a huge risk in front of him. They would get into the uncharted, unfamiliar, and uncomfortable territory of feelings, which was not only not metal, but also an area where Skwisgaar had no experience. He was not good at emotions, he could admit that to himself. Perhaps this was the only area where he would (inwardly) admit defeat. Toki was better at emotions and feelings than Skwisgaar. Even though he did not voice his praise—even though Skwisgaar didn't find the fact to be praiseworthy—it still felt bitter on his tongue.
What he did voice was, "Noes I don'ts." On the off occasion Skwisgaar found himself in situations such as these, denial worked the best. He resorted to his naturally aloof and haughty nature, collecting himself to his full height. He believed that if he could tune into his animalistic side and employ classic intimidation techniques, this could all come to a glorious end.
"Yes, yous does. I sees yous, Skwisgaar. I ams you's bandmates. I ams you's friend. I thinks you ams lonely and you need somebodys to love." Toki spoke with fervor, voice rising higher as it always did when he wanted to be heard. Toki's mouth opened wide when he talked, exposing particularly canine teeth and a tongue that swirled with his accent. Toki was an animated speaker, his hands flailing wildly about him. When Dethklok made it big, Charles forced the band to watch public speaking videos and attend seminars so they (but especially Nathan, the front man who had ironic trouble with speaking in front of large audiences) could present themselves adequately to the masses. Skwisgaar did not remember much of them and the afternoon of public speaking had been painstakingly boring, but sometimes bits of information from the videos flooded his head. He remembered now that there were endless hand gestures a human could use while speaking, but each person developed their own repertoire of preferred ones. Skwisgaar believed Toki had broken that barrier and had unlocked every single gesture known to man as he gave his little speech. If only he could play guitar with that frantic speed.
Skwisgaar was beginning to suspect that this conversation—which had started out being about Toki and Murderface and silly, stupid things—was starting to become very much about him. Toki was not wrong. He had been lonely, and had definitely been depressed, and his enjoyment of sex had been going down as he struggled to find crazy ways to incubate it—but he had not made the connection of something as trivial as love with his issues. He grew up without love; he knew how to live without love. There was no way that he was suffering from the lack of something he never had, not at this age. So Skwisgaar remained quiet and hoped that his lack of attention to Toki would cause Toki to take himself away.
It did not. Instead, Toki groaned and stood up before quickly diminishing Skwisgaar's hope by walking directly in front of Skwisgaar. Standing like this, with his waist exposed and dripping, Toki looked strong. He looked intimidating, even, though that may have to do with the fact that Skwisgaar was not looking down on him as he was so used to, but up—the angle Toki was at made Skwisgaar have to crane his neck. Skwisgaar had a lovely view of Toki's jaw and the area under his chin, which pointed in a shark like manner. Had Skwisgaar been another man, he would've felt intimidated indeed, but Skwisgaar was Skwisgaar and instead he felt offended and found the situation to be insipid. Skwisgaar was going to stand up and deliver a long speech to Toki about wasting his time with trivial matters, but he did not have enough time before Toki said in a shaky voice (while somehow making eye contact with Skwisgaar despite the sudden height difference and robbing Skwisgaar of the view of his jawline), "I wants to be that loves, Skwisgaar. I knows whats which yous needs and I has knowns it for a very long times."
Skwisgaar's first response was to shoot up from the hot tub. Now he was standing too close to Toki—close enough to be touching—and the feeling of skin on skin caused him to leap backwards and stumble. He regained his gait with grace and walked deliberately and with confidence away from the rec room towards his own, ignoring Toki's shouts after him. Toki's voice was becoming quieter as Skwisgaar walked and there was no noise of footsteps behind him. Skwisgaar deduced that Toki was—thankfully—not following him.
Skwisgaar curled his nails into his palms hard enough for his knuckles to feel weak and his palms to hurt. He bit hard on his lip. Feelings were stirring and simmering inside of him and he did not want to feel them, so he walked hard and fast. His stomps on the stone floor were loud and made smacking sounds due to the wetness of his feet; a quick glance over his shoulder revealed that he was leaving a trail of water. He began to grow cold, and his wet hair plastered to the equally wet skin of his back and chest was uncomfortable. Thus, he resolved to let the Klokateers or evaporation take care of the water while he entered his room, slammed the door behind him, and immediately went to his shower.
The act of turning on his shower, stripping himself of the trunks he'd been wearing, and stepping into steaming water was methodical enough to allow his brain not to think. Once in the shower, though, he was flooded by things he had so long repressed that it dizzied him.
Had he not been jostled by the complexity of the conversation he was partaking in before Toki made his confession, Skwisgaar would have laughed at Toki. He would've hit him, even, and they would've gotten involved in a rolling fistfight involving lots of hair tugging like they had done countless times before; he would've walked away, chuckling to himself as he made fun of Toki; would have called him a lady (as it was a ladylike way of going about things) and would had continued on with his day. But the growing depression that had been darkening him, the mental exhaustion he had experienced while attempting to have a deep conversation with another human being, and his own repression (at this point in his thought pattern, Skwisgaar's memories flicked back to the rage bubbling inside of him when Toki bought up Murderface) made him break upon hearing the words. He had crumbled, had been fragile and disrupted with just the slightest touch. He felt like a glass pane with spider web cracks from a bullet: broken and exhausted. The initial shock was wearing down; he lost the feeling of being electrocuted as he stood under the showerhead, water far too hot pummeling his skin and turning it red.
Frankly, Skwisgaar could not deny that he knew Toki had a crush on him. He chalked it up to hero-worship, to the desire to be Skwisgaar, not to—be his love, or whatever convoluted nonsense Toki had spewed at him in his attempt to be romantic. Besides teasing Toki, Skwisgaar had ignored it, much like he ignored the emotions that would rise in his midsection when Toki did something noteworthy or adorable or—dare he say it—sexually provocative. Skwisgaar would notice himself staring at Toki, paying attention to him more than the other band members, and to compensate for that and to deny it, he would simply not spend time with Toki. That had hurt Toki, though, which had hurt some primitive part of Skwisgaar that still let himself be hurt by such things, so he slowly swung back around to being Toki's friend. Repression proved simple, uncomplicated—his life proved simple, uncomplicated. And here was Toki, who wore his heart on his sleeve and his emotions in his eyes, finally admitting that there was something between the two guitarists that neither of them wanted to owe up to—and Skwisgaar felt as if he'd been slammed against a wall. His body hurt, more inwardly than outwardly. His mind was clouded. He felt vaguely nauseated. He jerked his body in the shower with the wave of realizations washing over him, and he did not want this, did not want this at all.
He shut his eyes and washed his hair, which was always a long and simple task. He pushed his feelings out while he lathered his locks; he ignored the strong desire to see Toki again while he conditioned his tresses; he disregarded the feeling of never wanting to see Toki, or anybody, ever again while he ran his fingers through his hair. As he washed the conditioner out and went to repeat the cycle, however, he found the panic subsiding. In its place was a depression, and an argument that he began to have with himself, in his own head—in Swedish, which he tried not to slip back to when spending time with people who spoke English.
You need to talk to him, a rational part of his brain was saying. You do not know what he means.
It is obvious, he, himself, responded inwardly. He wants me. He comes into the hot tub and he talks about Murderface, to make me jealous. I wonder if he was even hanging out with him. He brings up that I sleep around and that neither of us has been in love. Then he says that I need to sleep with somebody I love, and he says that he should love me, and I don't know what to do.
You sound like a teenage girl.
I am only responding to Toki's confession in an apt manner, as Toki is the ladylike one.
So? You're overreacting. You don't know anything for certain; stop acting like it. You always do this.
Skwisgaar sighed and gave into the rational part of his brain. He was being silly and overcomplicating life as usual. He spent the rest of the shower fuming, repeating the same thoughts in his head and allowing new ones to form before dying, as he really did not want to deal with this—what would the band think if they engaged themselves in each other; why was he even thinking about it this way; he'd been with men before, he knew his sexuality, it had more to do with Toki; what was Toki, anyway, he never seemed that interested in sex with anybody; was Toki even a virgin; why was his mind jumping straight from a single sentence with countless interpretations to sex; was he really that pathetic—while he washed his face and his body.
He stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. Sometime during the act of bending over and wrapping a towel around his hair to lift it off of his neck while he dried and dressed, he resolved to confront Toki. He was not quite over the initial overreaction, but there was not much else he could do, and Skwisgaar wanted to be a man about such matter. With this new resolve he walked to the mirror in his bathroom and stared at his face while he applied the post-bathing creams designed to prevent acne and keep his skin fresh and young. His resolve grew as he brushed his teeth (a kneejerk reaction to stepping out of the shower, no matter what time of day) and festered in him while he gently dried himself with his towel. He took his hair from its wrap and combed it, thanking his ancestry for the genes that let his hair fall naturally beautiful, and threw both towels in the laundry hamper before striding into his room, naked. Skwisgaar had no particular inhibitions in that regard.
For some reason, he was expecting to see Toki laying on his bed and kicking his feet (as Toki never sat on his bed like a normal person, but twisted himself into the position of a teenage girl gossiping on the phone whenever his body made contact with Skwisgaar's sheets) and felt slightly disappointed when he did not. Deciding to stop buying his feelings, he let the disappointment rise from his emotions' usual place snaking around his midsection to his throat, where it made him frown and feel…sad. Shaking his head, dissatisfied with this whole feeling business, Skwisgaar dressed in the solitude of his room.
It was the midafternoon: strong light was slanting in through the window, bathing him in golden tones while he dressed in his normal clothes. Today was a freeball sort of day, so he tugged on his tight jeans in no particular hurry, allowing himself to relish the way the material fit his legs. He buckled his belt with appreciation, as every time he looked at it he swelled with love for the garment. He picked a shirt up gently and stretched the hole just the slightest bit before tugging it over his body so that it did not rake down his hair, but barely skirt it. He pulled his hair free from the back and let it fall naturally. He sat on his bed and pulled socks and then boots on his feet, which easily fit over the skintight leg of his pants, before rising and subsequently standing dumbstruck in his room with the realization that he had no idea what to do next.
He had fumed. He had showered. He had thought. He had made up his mind. He had dressed. He figured that he should walk out of his room and search for Toki, but he hadn't the slightest idea of where Toki would go, and he didn't want to start asking around. He thought about sending a Klokateer to find him, but that felt ridiculous. He wondered if Nathan and Pickles were back from lunch, or if they were going to stay out all night getting drunk together. He yearned to have as uncomplicated of a relationship as that, instead of this fucked up mess he just consented to participating in.
In the safety of his own room, he sighed.
He began to pace, locking his hand behind his back and staring at the floor. He mumbled to himself in Swedish, a habit he resorted to only when extremely upset. Eventually through his crazed Swedish mumblings and frantic pacing, he decided that this was the safest time of day to confront his demons and walked out of his room.
Again, he was expecting to see Toki immediately outside his door and was met with disappointment when he did not. He did not let that shake him, though he did feel shaken, and turned to his left. He would visit Toki's room, the rec room, the dining room, all of his usual haunts, until he found the other man.
He was not in his room, nor in the rec room, nor in the dining room, and Skwisgaar was growing frustrated. It was not about confronting Toki any more—it was about seeing him, about knowing that he still existed, about being comforted by his presence, even if his presence was what had discomforted him in the first place. Skwisgaar's inability to locate Toki was making him nervous, one of the only feelings he allowed himself to feel with regularity, and he just wanted everything to end. But it would not end until he found and talked to Toki, so he searched for Toki, through every nook and cranny, until he was certain that he'd cover all of Mordhaus that the band was allowed to visit while they were unsupervised. Perhaps Toki had left, had left him and was angry with him— that would make sense. That's what Skwisgaar himself had done, after all; he had fled. Skwisgaar gave up, gave in, and returned to his room. He would spend the rest of the afternoon simmering in silence, would deny the invitation to dinner with a flick of his hand and a muttered nots hungry, and would come to another conclusion sometime in the future about what in the actual fuck he should do.
This time, when he opened the door, he had the half-hope slanted inside of him that he would find Toki on his bed—and this hope utterly exploded when he saw Toki laying diagonally with his head on his hands as he stared at the floor. He was not wearing his boots—they were discarded in a heap by the door—and his sock-enclosed feet were rolling over his toes on the bed, which pressed his knees into the mattress and arched his back in a most enticing manner.
"Toki?"
"Skwisgaar! There's yous are," Toki said, smiling. He leapt up immediately, coming first to his knees and then sliding his feet backward in a fluid, childish manner that almost made Skwisgaar smile.
"There's yous am," Skwisgaar said. He silenced the exuberant joy inside of him and crossed his arms over his chest. Though he was willing to have this conversation, he wasn't going to have it willingly. "Whats did yous means, whats which yous saids in de hot tubs?"
Toki's smile faltered before coming back full force, a flickering light. "I's was just being sillies, I comes to apologies—"
Skwisgaar shook his head. Toki trailed off. They stood in silence, Skwisgaar's grip on his arms growing lax while Toki's grin faltered. Unlike the lapse in conversation they experienced in the hot tub, this silence was awkward and too long. Frustration festered inside of Skwisgaar until he could not stand it any longer.
Then—and this was not his plan, but he didn't know what else to do, and this tended to work when he upset a woman, and Toki was quite ladylike, and he didn't know what else to do, and this was not his plan, but this is what happened—he walked forward, uncrossed his arms, and kissed Toki.
They had sex for the first time that day.
It was Toki's turn to be surprised, to be rendered useless and incomprehensible by Skwisgaar's actions. The kiss was payback, Skwisgaar decided as he continued it—Toki perplexed him with words and emotions, as Toki was good at, so Skwisgaar would confuse Toki with sex and lust, which is what Skwisgaar was good at. In the strong, slanting light of the afternoon, Skwisgaar led Toki to the bed and threw him down with force. He was not angry at Toki, but more at himself, and he channeled this anger into what he hoped was passion. Toki eventually met Skwisgaar's pace and proved himself to be a capable, worthwhile partner, and Skwisgaar knew—oh, Skwisgaar knew—that as they were both leading to orgasm, that this was not only a climax in the sexual sense, but one in a literary sense. Every moment since he met Toki, every festering, bubbling, fizzing, simmering, sizzling feeling he'd ever felt in his midsection and swallowed back down, every depression that ever came over him, every moment his enjoyment of sex was lessened, every time he left his door open, all culminated in this moment of intense pleasure. It was the most he'd enjoyed sex in a very, very long time, and afterwards as he lay in the lazy afterglow, he felt once more the feelings he liked—the post-orgasm glaze, the desire for a cigarette, the joy. He wrapped his arms around Toki, who proved to be a pillow talker, and settled the issues—yes, he wanted this so much for so long, they had both been lying to themselves, Toki did have a conversation with Murderface, during which he had this epiphany that he was tired of pining and decided to assert himself for once, and yes, oh gods yes, they both wanted this, whatever this was, to continue—of their blossoming relationship in hushed, hurried voices before they both drifted into a nap, golden light reflecting off of the back of his eyelids. He wanted to live in this moment forever.
There was a single issue, however, that they mutually missed. They discussed whether or not to tell the band mates—no, not yet, as it wasn't that they would care, but Toki and Skwisgaar would rather test the waters on their own first. They discussed that they would play it by ear. They wouldn't label it. They would try to work through it, they wouldn't try to define it, they would go with the flow. But—and perhaps both parties assumed that it was something left unspoken, or perhaps that was Skwisgaar's fault for assuming Toki was in sync, when in reality, Toki was left with a blind optimism—they did not discuss one thing: Skwisgaar's sexual escapades. Skwisgaar was a man who lived off of sex in a literal sense. Sex was his sustenance just as much as food or water or music. It was entwined in his being, pumped by his heart, alive in his muscles, rattling off his brain. Sex was barely about sex; sex was so much more; it was not a matter of love or even unfiltered physical desire. Thus, Skwisgaar figured that he could not be expected to stop, and also that Toki knew and understood this beforehand. After all, half of Skwisgaar's involved him either partaking in sex or talking about it; the other half involved music. Toki, now wrapped up in Skwisgaar's life, should have learned enough about Skwisgaar to know that he needed this. Skwisgaar would come to know that Toki had simply assumed that they were entering a monogamous relationship, despite the fact they promised no labels, no definitions.
The issue came to a head just a week later. There was an awkwardness that settled in between Skwisgaar and Toki, one with undertones of sexual tension, which highlighted Skwisgaar's inability to socialize outside of seduction. The conversation that had fallen so freely from their lips after their initial encounter could not find its flow again. Skwisgaar was frustrated by this—he wanted to show Toki how much he cared, wanting to embody his desires, wanted to put a definition to "it", but he couldn't articulate anything in any language. He tried. He tried English, which came out as guttural nonsense; he tried Swedish, where he stumbled through adjectives before deciding that no, that one was not right; he tried Norwegian with half-baked notions that it would help him to connect to Toki on a deeper level, but that didn't work, either. Toki, a language junkie, had apparently found the right words to say to Skwisgaar—in German, which Skwisgaar couldn't speak a lick of. That had been the first day; Skwisgaar had stormed off, collected five sluts, and fucked so rough he was raw in the morning. He wasn't thinking about love, wasn't thinking about Toki, was just thinking about releasing himself, sorting himself out.
The second day, Skwisgaar ignored Toki. He found quickly that his haughty, dismissive attitude caused hurt to paint itself over Toki's face, which was too painful for Skwisgaar to bear. Another handful of sluts, and this time he thought about Toki, and could not gather the willpower to fuck properly; instead, he lay down on his bed and let the women do their work. Achieving the pinnacle of his pleasure took the longest it ever had, and so after coming to the weakest orgasm of his life, Skwisgaar dismissed the women and slept for fourteen hours straight.
The third day there was no sluts, just solitude. This was even more unbearable, so on the fourth day he returned to his previous habits. He was not enjoying himself for the first time in his life, utterly miserable. The women spoke in whispers amongst each other afterward about him, when they thought he was asleep. The older ones showed concern; the younger ones were frustrated that their chance to finally be with the ultimate sex god was dampened by his lackluster performance. When he heard them speak like this he would toss them out and curl into a loose fetal position on his bed by himself.
The pattern continued until on the eighth day, Toki cornered Skwisgaar. It was in the midafternoon once more; Skwisgaar had just woken up from a nap and was sitting on his bed, shirtless and stretching his muscles like a cat. Toki burst through the door so hard the hinges snapped and stood epitomizing fury in the doorway, glaring at Skwisgaar. He stomped over, and once again stood above Skwisgaar—who, this time, was able to bolt up and exceed Toki's height, as he was not flabbergasted by a fuzzy confession—with what appeared to be tears of anger pricking his eyes.
"Why's you still sleeps with de sluts?" Toki cried out. His voice was wrangled, frenzied, and utterly heartbreaking. Skwisgaar wanted to envelop Toki, to silence him, to make everything alright—unfortunately, one cannot do that if one is the cause of the unsettlement.
"It doesn'ts means anythingks," Skwisgaar said, softly. He was not mad and his arms hung loosely at his sides. He was saddened, and perhaps a bit confused—he assumed Toki would be okay with Skwisgaar's habits. After all, Toki knew Skwisgaar. He knew the man needed a way to work through his issues.
"You says you loves me," Toki choked out. It was true; Skwisgaar had confessed that he'd been denying his feelings in their talk after the initial encounter. "But then you goes back to sleepings with de sluts. You don't needs thems! You's has me. Toki."
Skwisgaar reached up to cup Toki's face and placed a chaste kiss at the corner of his mouth. "Ja," he said. "I has you. I loves you. I does not loves them sluts. What is de matters, Toki?" He was earnestly befuddled, his eyebrows slanting just the slightest. He raked his brain and simply could not come up with an answer as to what could be bothering Toki.
Toki was still frantic beneath Skwisgaar's fingers, and Skwisgaar was beginning to think that he confused fury with utter despair—a heart-wrenching concept. Skwisgaar found quickly that the feeling of having your heart broken was the most brutal feeling of them all. "Why's you has sex with sluts you doesn't loves?"
"Is not about loves," Skwisgaar said, trying to explain as patiently as possible. "It am about—expectations. Myselfs. Not about yous, or thems. I ams not knowingks whys you ams upset."
Toki was quiet; Skwisgaar rubbed at his cheek absentmindedly. Toki seemed particularly small like this, raw and trembling slightly, biting on his lip as he appeared to be lost in thought. Skwisgaar lifted Toki's head so he could see his eyes. Toki's eyes left him speechless—before, it had only been an inward feeling of breaking down, crumbling, and succumbing to another person. Now, he was honestly speechless, grasping for the words to say what he needed to say to Toki. He needed desperately to make him understand, to show him the difference between sex and love and how they could exist independently, and even to give him hope that one day Skwisgaar would figure out how to turn them into a single thread connecting him and Toki. Yet people were not perfect—Skwisgaar had to know this, and he did know this, but exercising knowledge is a hard task to do—and Skwisgaar was not good with conversation. He could only sigh, staring into Toki's eyes and trying to telepathically hand him his thoughts—begging him to realize that Skwisgaar was a flawed man, but he would try to fix himself, but it would be hard and long and tedious and exhausting and he did not have the energy for this right now. Still, looking at Toki, who could manage to be such a lovely human being, gave him the hope that he needed, that he had been craving, as Toki singlehandedly put an end to the depression that had been slowly enveloping Skwisgaar. Skwisgaar earnestly believed in this moment that he could change, and so he put forth the only sentiment he could think of. It was not particularly eloquent or romantic, but it was the best that he would do, and he hoped that this time he would get his meaning across:
"I loves yous, not thems," Skwisgaar whispered. "Remember dats."
Toki vowed to do so.
There would perhaps come a day where Skwisgaar would work through his problems on his own and not need another person's body to ruin in the process. There would perhaps come a day where sex and love would become entwined as much as sex and Skwisgaar was. There would perhaps come a day where monogamy gained meaning as Skwisgaar himself gained meaning. There would perhaps come a day where Skwisgaar could let go, unclench, forgive and forget, move on, and reach a sort of enlightenment—there would come this day, where Skwisgaar would exchange a smile with Toki that reached their eyes, that reached their souls and in that day, Skwisgaar would know. Skwisgaar would feel as though he ascended to the divine plane, had found his serendipity—there would come that day. Until then, there would be a period of working and ultimately waiting for the day: it would be hard, but it would be worth it. Thus, the two men swore to each other that they would work and wait together.