A/N Wow has it been a while since I've done anything for this fandom. I feel kind of like I'm saying hello to an old friend after we haven't seen each other for, like, twenty years. It does feel pretty damn good, though; it's nice to be back! Anyway, without further ado, here's my "return to fandom" fic, I guess! Hope you all enjoy!
Mordhaus and silence went together like metal and hymnals, which is to say not at all, ever. Its inhabitants mostly liked it that way, though; silence was for regular jack offs who had to give a damn about their ability to hear shit. Charles did keep telling them they should probably start caring about that, though; something about them being musicians or whatever.
Anyway, the point was, none of them liked it quiet there, but it's hard to keep it noisy in a place the size of a medieval castle. On one particular day, the band had found a new and unique way to keep it from getting too quiet, and it didn't even involve porn or fire or window-shattering metal or anything! Somewhere, the squadron of Klokateers tasked with the janitorial duties in Mordhaus wept with relief.
Which wasn't to say their activities were safe or anything, though; safe is for pussies. That their activity was Murderface's idea should probably be a pretty good hint as to how likely to cause serious bodily harm it was. Suffice it to say that the first thing that happened was Murderface's nose getting broken. Again.
"Shit!" he yelled, blood and spit flying everywhere. Toki and Skwisgaar tittered in the background. Nathan rolled his eyes. Pickles looked insufferably proud of himself.
"It was your idea to wrestle, dumbass," Nathan grunted, and Murderface glared. It lost a lot of its effect since he was desperately clutching his bloody face and obviously in pain.
"That'sh not wreshtling! That'sh fucking punching!" Even Toki and Skwisgaar stopped their schoolgirl giggling long enough to stare at him for that one.
"I don't know what the hell kinda wrestlin' you been doing, but wrestlin' is punchin' people," Pickles said, eyebrows up, and Murderface sighed. It sounded more like hissing steam than usual.
"No! That'sh fighting, not wreshtling!" Skwisgaar and Toki stared at one another.
"Ams dat one of dem American idiomses Charlie ams always tellings us about?" Toki questioned, and Skwisgaar shrugged.
"Probabsly." Pickles snickered, and Nathan shook his head, looking around for something else to do.
"No, it'sh not the shame thing! Come here, Toki," he yelled, finally moving his bloody hands. Toki shrugged and walked over, glancing longingly at his DDR machine. That, of course, was when Murderface attempted to put Toki in a chokehold. Everyone was no less confused than they had been before.
"Murderface, that's… that's kind of gay. Let's just do what Pickles was doing." Murderface gaped, but he did drop Toki, who just tilted his head and wandered back over to Skwisgaar. A breathless moment passed; stillness reigned. And then Nathan took a swing towards Pickles and all hell broke loose.
Pickles ducked out of the way, managing to elbow Murderface in the crotch as he went down, all while Toki and Skwisgaar glanced at each other, shrugged, and lunged at one another, both immediately going for the hair. Murderface, once he finally stopped groaning, dived for Pickles to get payback for the nose and the dick, and Nathan actually grinned for a split second before he too dived into the fray between his bassist and his drummer.
Skwisgaar and Toki just sort of got ignored, though, mostly because the other three knew better than to get involved in a brawl between the two Scandinavians. Mostly because they both fought dirty, with nails and biting and bony elbows in eyes. Really it was better for everyone involved if those two just stuck to kicking each other's asses. Everyone was happier that way in the long run. Besides, Nathan and Pickles were having too much fun ganging up on Murderface, at least until he managed to get his knife from the pocket of his cargo shorts, which was the point when things got really interesting.
Or, at least, it would've been, if Charles hadn't picked that exact moment to come in and ruin the fun. He stared at his band with the certain type of blandness that simply cannot be achieved unless one has practiced for many, many months. Then, very slowly, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Toki and Skwisgaar continued to scuffle, each holding a clump of the other's hair and screaming very likely awful obscenities in their respective tongues. Pickles, Nathan, and Murderface, however, were frozen in position like a child who hoped desperately that its mother had turned into a dinosaur and couldn't see so long as stillness was absolute. It really was admirable, though, the straight face they were all managing to keep even though two thirds of them had a knife aiming at their vitals and the remaining third was staring out of two black eyes, breathing through a bloody, broken nose, and had a Wisconsinite standing partially on his dick while a former football player kept his neck squeezed in a particularly firm grasp.
"Guys. We have a concert. We, ah, we have a concert tonight. In three hours. Forgive me for, ah, for being crass, but what the hell are you doing?" Slowly, Toki and Skwisgaar separated, two sets of blue eyes going childishly wide all at once. Both of them looked ready to start blaming the other immediately, but for once, someone else beat them to it.
"It was Murderface's idea, some shit about wrestlin' 'er somethin'," Pickles said, bouncing away from the other two like they'd just miraculously caught fire. Blood dripped steadily from a cut on his forehead to the floor, and Charles was very certain that his wrist was not meant to be bent at that particular garish angle.
"And you all, ah, agreed because…?" Pickles coughed. Thankfully, Nathan had prepared to take over.
"Because fucking each other up is fucking brutal, Charles." Sometimes Charles wondered what life would've been like if he'd just done what his family wanted and become a lawyer. Surely he wouldn't have to deal with things like this so often; after all, keeping a band like this afloat without homicides (at least of the band members themselves) was enough work for a managerial army. Compared to that, regular court cases would be child's play. Hell, he'd probably already be a judge if he'd just chosen to do anything but this with his life. But, what was done was done, and this was his band, his bread and butter. It was his job to deal with things like this.
"And now you can't play. Wonderful. Hopefully it doesn't cause an, ah, international incident this time. Now, all of you go to the, ah, to the doctor. Immediately. And don't touch each other again." He turned on his heel then, feeling quite proud of himself for not worsening their injuries himself, and stalked back up to his office in a very dignified, cool manner. And then he broke a few lamps. The cheap ones, obviously.
As for the band, they were simply left staring at the empty space where Charles had been, realizing very suddenly as the adrenaline wore off that they all felt very unsurprisingly shitty. In fact, it was even penetrating their thick skulls that maybe, just maybe, wrestling hadn't been a good idea after all. Even though they hadn't actually been wrestling. Besides, they had to justify having a hospital in the Haus somehow, right? You know, beyond the frequent injuries amongst the Klokateers.
Evening fell pretty unremarkably, after the mess of the afternoon. Really the only noticeable changes were the various bandages, casts, and slings coating the residents of Mordhaus. They were at least pretty happy, though; they hadn't wanted to play the stupid concert anyway, and this would get them out of practice for a while, given that Pickles' wrist was broken and they couldn't very well play much without a drummer, could they, Charles?
Honestly, it was basically just, like, paid vacation, starting that night. The only thing was, it wasn't a comfortable paid vacation. Skwisgaar, despite probably being one of the least injured, was having the worst time of it by far; after all, he'd broken two fingers on his fret hand, and Charles had put a ban on the flow of sluts into the Haus as punishment, meaning that, upon leaving the hospital, he was stuck lying, miserable, on his bed. Alone. The thought took a moment to sink in, once he entered the room and took the aforementioned position on his bed. He groaned at the realization and only hoped faintly that everyone else was just as miserable.