It hadn't been easy. Not for anyone. For Toki, the passing of his father had created a storm inside of his brain: a constant whirling of mixed emotions and regret that he couldn't even begin to comprehend. The rest of Dethklok, while keeping up the appearance of being uncaring and clueless, did worry about the Norwegian's mental state. They each seemed to have their different reasons. Pickles and Murderface seemed hell bent on the likely possibility of Toki eventually snapping and killing them all in an ironic massacre. Skwisgaar concerned himself with Toki's guitar playing; he took it upon himself, a burden of course, to ensure the rhythm guitarist's presence at all rehearsals and performances. He didn't want Toki's sulk to affect the band and, in turn, sinfully affect Skwisgaar's reputation.
Nathan, though he'd only voiced it once, was just plain worried about Toki. It was some "fucked up shit", as he'd called it, and he hoped that Toki would somehow melt back into the fun-loving, carefree, childish guitarist that he once was. But out of everyone, the singer tended to act the most normal around Toki. Not necessarily because he thought that it would make it easier for the Norwegian, but mostly because it was just what Nathan did; he rarely dwelled on any one issue for too long.
When they returned from Norway, everyone seemed to be walking on eggshells. There were the random breakfasts where Toki would break out into sobs and run off; or band rehearsals where Toki would just stare blankly at the floor, becoming catatonic and inconsolable for hours on end. He always went to bed early, got up late and, recently, had taken up quite the drinking habits. The other band members began to hide the alcohol and forbid any errand-running Klokateers to buy it for the Norwegian.
On this particular Wednesday afternoon, Nathan was soaking in the hot tub, on his laptop. Toki was sitting across from him, completely silent, just staring at the water with his wide, ice-blue eyes. This had becomes quite commonplace; Nathan would be involved in an activity in Mordhaus, usually writing or watching TV, only to look up and realize that Toki was there. It wasn't creepy, it just seemed to become common practice. Nathan never asked him if he was okay, or what he was doing; he just went about his business normally. Toki never bothered him like he used to. He didn't ask random questions, beg Nathan for more solos or play noisy, Japanese video games on his PSP. He was just…there.
That was Toki's life for the time being. He just seemed to exist. He was floating, coasting—and occasionally a wave of horrifying emotions would sweep over him, almost too intense to handle and he would have to flee. It was getting quite embarrassing, but Nathan was the only one who left him alone. Skwisgaar was becoming more of a tyrant than usual. He was getting tired of Toki's mood and kept trying to motivate him to put his anger or sadness into his guitar playing. But Toki wasn't obsessive about his music, like the Swede was, and it wasn't really an outlet for him, so that was out.
Murderface and Pickles usually just stared at him, wide-eyed, like he might jump up and magically pull machine guns or machetes out of his pockets. They spoke to him like a child, (even more so than usual), and treated him far too delicately.
But Nathan was a good companion for peace. He wasn't very verbal and Toki knew that he never wanted to seem like he cared much, so it worked out.
"Hm," Nathan grunted, commenting on a photo he was looking at on the internet, "Brutal."
Toki snapped out of his daze and looked over at Nathan, feeling slightly glazed over.
"Whats?" His voice was very soft.
"Oh, uh…" Nathan hadn't expected Toki to be responsive. "I guess…the President was like…apologizing for the economy, but…he got a shoe thrown at him at this…press…thing."
Toki just blinked, looking quite owlish as usual. "Oh."
Nathan felt a bit uncomfortable now, with Toki staring at him expectantly.
"That, uh…that's the end. Of the story."
Toki nodded vaguely and looked away again, disappearing back into his own world of painful memories and confusing guilt.
Later that night, around ten o'clock, Toki was preparing for bed. He was sitting on his twin mattress, staring at his dusty model plane station, which hadn't been touched in months, while brushing his hair absentmindedly. There was an intrusive thud on the door as Skwisgaar hit it once with his fist and then barged in; he never was very tactful when it came to privacy. Toki simply looked up at him.
"Toki…uh…cames to says goodnights to you."
Toki furrowed his brow. That wasn't like Skwisgaar…
"Oh, uh…thanks you? Goodnights,den…"
Skwisgaar sighed, an edge to his voice. He shut the door slowly and then took a seat beside Toki.
"You knows…you has to snaps oudda dis funk, Toki. I's…don'ts know why yous ares so sad. After all that's he dids to you…"
It felt as if Skwisgaar had stabbed Toki in the stomach; a sharp twist of pain tensed his abdominals and he felt that he might be sick. Why was Skwisgaar choosing to talk about this now?
Toki looked away, panic in his eyes. He didn't want to try and talk things out, especially not in front of Skwisgaar: the man who'd often called him a "cry baby" for sounding emotional. The younger man simply shook his head, staring at the floor. Skwisgaar started to get frustrated at Toki's silence, feeling slightly embarrassed for even bothering to care.
"Fine," he mumbled, standing back up, "just stares likes a fish, ats de floor. Sees if I's care."
He started for the door and turned back to see if he'd gotten any response out of Toki whatsoever; but the Norwegian remained in his frozen silence, unable, it seemed, to even blink. Skwisgaar clenched his fists. He wanted the Toki back that he could tease, and rile up, and make fun of Murderface with. In truth, he'd always valued his Scandinavian brother, though completely devoid of the emotional depth required to voice it.
"You can'ts bes like dis forever," he hissed, leaving and slamming the door.
Toki felt like his chest had caved in. A familiar stinging began behind his eyeballs and his mouth tasted like acid. An invisible weight was forced down onto his strong shoulders and he leaned forward, curving into and hugging himself, as if he were going to wretch.
But before the tears began to fall, a thought popped into his mind; where was the one place he could go that would help him forget and not feel so alone? The answer was all too clear and no more than one minute later, he found himself standing outside of Nathan's bedroom door, knocking softly.
Nathan had been fucking around with some song ideas, crumpled up paper that held discarded lyrics littering his bed. He opened the door, scratching the back of his head and yawning, figuring it was probably just Pickles wanting someone to do shrooms with. He was surprised to see Toki standing at the door, a sheepish look on his face, holding Deddy Bear in his arms. His hair looked gorgeously soft, falling around his shoulders as he looked up at Nathan with shameful eyes.
"Um…Nathans...?"
Nathan furrowed his brow, shifting his weight to his other leg nervously.
"Uh…yeah?"
Toki looked down at the floor and twisted his torso back and forth in a childlike way.
"Just thoughts, uh…maybes you wants to hangs out?"
He looked up at Nathan expectantly. The singer was temporarily at a loss for words; he couldn't ignore the small voice in the back of his head that ordered him to humor Toki for the sake of his recent loss, despite how odd he felt at having Toki into his room at such a late hour.
"Well, I, uh…" he stammered, "I was just getting ready for bed."
Toki kept his gaze and blinked. "Oh."
Toki turned to walk away, his face falling into a look of devastation. Nathan sighed heavily and reached out, grabbing the younger man roughly by the arm and pulling him into his room before anyone could walk down the hallway and catch him giving a fuck.
"Come on." Nathan shut the door and locked it. "You can sleep in here."
Toki's face lit up, his eyes wide, and for the first time in a long time…he seemed lighthearted again.
"Oh, Nathans, thanks you! I's be real quiets!"
He rushed over to the bed and stopped short when he saw the mess on top of the black, cotton comforter.
"Oh, uhh…" Nathan grumbled, moving to clear off the paper and scribbled-on notebooks, before tearing back the blanket to reveal the black sheets. "There."
Toki smiled, gleeful again, and climbed into the bed. He sank down into the sheets, covering up, still clutching his bear. He laid his head down on one of the large pillows and sighed happily. The tiny noise of contentment made Nathan feel funny inside…
Nathan turned off the light and walked to the bed…only to grab a pillow and throw it on the floor. He lay down beside the bed, hitting the floor with a thud. Toki furrowed his brow and sat up, turning to look in the singer's direction.
"Nathans? Yous goings to sleeps on da floor?" He sounded awfully confused.
"Uh…yeah," Nathan muttered, "I don' t really, uh…sleep with other guys in my bed."
Toki seemed unsatisfied with this answer.
"You choose da floors overs a bed? Dats is sillys. Comes on, I saids I would bes quiet!"
In an amazing act of boldness, he fell onto his stomach on the edge of the bed and reached down, grabbing the back of Nathan's shirt and tugging. But he didn't understand; Nathan wasn't worried about Toki making noise. Sleeping with another dude just…wasn't metal. Even if the dude was more like a chick than he knew.
Nathan hesitated, but eventually let Toki pull him up onto the bed. Maybe if Toki just lay on his side Nathan would only be able to see his hair and could imagine it was a girl.
Wait…that was fucked up.
He grunted as Toki smiled, thankfully, and turned on his back, finally on his side of the giant, king-sized bed.
"Nathans?"
"Hm?"
"…thanks you."
And both men fell silent, each falling into a fitful sleep.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Mmm, deeper…"
Pickles laughed bitterly. "I'm tryin', Jesus…"
"O-Ohhh…y-yes, that's good…"
"Uhhnn…Gad, Charlie, ya like that? Ohhh…yeah…there…shit…"
Charles wrapped his legs more tightly around Pickles, his fingers digging into the drummer's back. The sex had always been amazing, ever since they first started fooling around a year ago. It seemed to be the only hobby Charles had in which he delighted in being submissive and vulnerable (and not only because Pickles refused to be dominated).
Charles wasn't young anymore, but Pickles could definitely make him feel so. The manager had thought his once impressive stamina to be a thing of the past; but he and the redhead could go for hours on end it seemed. And now, as Pickles thrust in and out of him for the second time tonight, Ofdensen was wishing it would never end.
"A-Ahh…J-Jesus, Ah'm gonna-….o-…OH!...."
Charles felt his own climax nearing as he bit the drummer's shoulder in an attempt to hold back a loud moan. Pickles really hated it when the manager restrained himself in bed, in any way, and so he let out a feral growl.
"Jes' fuckin' scream, Charlie…"
"N-No…" Charles was close to unhinging, letting his head fall back and eyes close.
"S-Scream…please…please….a-ahh…"
Pickels began to go at a much faster pace, reaching down to stroke the older man's cock, trying to over-stimulate him devilishly, to coax out an extraordinary reaction.
"P-Pickles, N-..!!"
"DO IT! FUCKING SCREAM!"
The drummer was getting off at the power trip, feeling himself dangerously close. But he wouldn't give in until he got what he wanted. Both men could be quite stubborn.
"I want you to, Charlie…" he whispered fervently in the manager's ear, "I wanna hear it…" He stroked faster, moving his hand to touch his balls.
Charles pulled Pickles closer, his entire body on fire. He gasped, all of his muscles tensing, begging for release. He didn't want to give Pickles the satisfaction of undoing him entirely, but…it was almost too much, all of the sensations and sadistic demands.
Finally, Charles caved; he threw his head back onto the pillow, arching his back, and screamed the drummer's name—his real name—releasing himself into orgasm. That was all Pickles needed and with one more violent thrust into Charles, he came inside of him with a loud and grateful groan.
His body quivered and he collapsed onto Charles, who wrapped his arms around Pickles, breathing quite unevenly. It was in moments like these that Ofdensen felt repaid for the sacrifice of a real relationship with the drummer. Pickles had made it very clear that they were a private couple: no dinners, no public appearances, no admission to their relationship whatsoever to the other guys.
It had all begun with a bit of harmless flirting, mostly on Pickles' part. But the drummer was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it, and he pursued Charles quite zealously when enticed. Surprisingly enough, the sex came months later, after many nights of late movies and chats in the manager's separate apartment attached to Mordhaus. Perhaps this is why Charles seemed okay with their arrangement; it hadn't seemed, at first, to be all physical.
Pickles was unexpectedly intelligent and eclectic, so it made it easy for Charles to feel drawn to him. Dethklok was really the only people the manager had constant contact with and Pickles' knowledge in business and the politics side of music had been the source of many good conversation starters.
"Mmm…thanks, kid," Pickles chuckled. He loved to patronize Charles in a playful way.
"Kid? Hmph." He pushed Pickles off of him slowly, but turned to lie on his chest.
"Heh, hey…I'm nat too much younger 'an you."
They lay there for a while, letting their breathing even out and their bodies come back to earth. Then Pickles reached over to the little overnight bag that he often brought that was sitting on the dresser. He pulled out a joint and a lighter.
Charles sat up on his elbows and gave Pickles a disapproving look.
"What?" Pickles asked, though knowing very well what that look meant.
The manager had asked Pickles, on several occasions, not to bring drugs into his home. It wasn't so much a moral issue as it was just an annoyance—legally, hygienically and sexually. Once the drummer did a drug, he was either too far gone to even pay attention to Charles, or he became insufferably talkative and touchy.
"Ah, c'man, Charlie, it's jes a joint. You wanna smoke?"
"No, Pickles, I do not want to smoke. And I don't want you to, either." The aggravation in Charles' voice was hard to ignore. The drummer's substance abuse was a constant cause for conflict in their already strained relationship.
"Would you like to go grab a bite to eat instead?" Charles thought he would push his luck, feeling that the evening was taking a turn for the worse anyway.
Pickles shot him a dark look. "Ya know I can't do that."
"Yes, I do," Ofdensen admitted, defeated. "Well, you're not smoking in here. Period."
"Sheesh, yer like my dad or somethin'," he muttered, immediately regretting it as Ofdensen rose out of bed and walked to the closet, pulling out his silk robe. "C'man, don't be this way…"
"You know," Charles said offhandedly as he tied his robe closed, "I have a lot of work to catch up on. If you want to get high, you should go find one of the guys to do it with you." His voice was an odd mix of purposeful monotony and irritation.
Pickles frowned. He didn't want to be kicked out, but he did want to get fucked up…
"Fine."
Pickles got up, pulling on his jeans and his black tank top, grabbing his bag, heading for the door to the hallway. Charles stopped him, taking his arm gently.
"Please don't leave like this…"
Pickles turned to him, sighing. "I jes…don't feel good enough for you sometimes, Charlie. I'll…see ya tomorrow."
And with that, he exited swiftly through the front door, leaving the manager to the work he said he needed to complete…the work that didn't even exist.
Fuck.