The Dethphone's irritating treble cut Nathan's concentration on the television. He, Murderface, Skwisgaar, and Pickles all hunted their respective devices down to see who got caught in the most recent game of Mom roulette. Murderface heaved a sigh of relief, Skwisgaar's sneer lessened, and Pickles grinned with a 'heh'.

Fuck.

"Hello?" Nathan held the phone an inch or so from his head.

"Nathan, it's your mother."

"Yeah, I know. What do you want?"

"Your father and I were talking. . ."

Oh god, it was never good when it started like this. Your father and I were talking and we think you should go into the special education program. Your father and I were talking and we think you might have a drinking problem. Your father and I were talking and we don't think you should be wasting your time playing that noise you call music. Your father and I were talking and we think you should get your GED and go back to school to be a plumber.

". . .And we think you should come home for Thanksgiving dinner."

"Uhhh, what?" Was she fucking joking?

"This is probably going to be the last Thanksgiving for your grandmother, and we're getting her out of the hospital for the evening. She'd love to see you."

"The last time we saw one another she threw a pot of boiling water at me."

"But she missed."

"I don't think that's the point."

"Oh Nathan, you know what dementia can be like. She's medicated now!"

"I don't care. I'm not coming."

"But—"

Nathan dropped his phone into the hot tub. Out of respect, in case she tried to call one of them, the other three guys followed suit. "Ugh."

"Whet the feck was thet about?" Pickles sipped his cocktail. "Theenksgivin'?"

"My grandma tried the schame schit, sche won't schut up about it!" Murderface erupted. "And sche fucking learned to text. Now sche never leavesch me the fuck alone."

"See, now dat am a goods reason for you mom to lives outside of de sorvice area. My moms can only calls me on de landline unless she go to town."

"Yeeuh, well, some of us don't gaht thet luxury. My mom called me too." Pickles shuddered. "Seth's comin' home this year, 'n' she thaught she'd get both of us. Heh, nope!"

"I fucking hate the holidays," Nathan stated. "Fucking bullshit."

Murderface and Pickles agreed, but Skwisgaar paused. "We ams having a torkey and shits, amn't we?"

"Uhhh. . ." Good question. Normally they did, even if they were too drunk to figure out what differentiated that particular dinner from any other. "I wouldn't see why not."

"You're not fucking eating it without me, scho I'm in if it'sch going to happen."

"Dood, maybe Toki'll even come 'n' sit widdus. I'm gonna text 'n' ask—oh. . ." Pickles' gaze found his phone down by his feet. "I'll ask later."

"I schaw him leave with Dr. Rockscho," Murderface stated. "He probably won't be back for a while."

"I's startings to hates dat fucking clowns again." Skwisgaar's fingers sped up on his guitar. "He ams gettings him drunk on a nightlys basis!"

"Yeeuh, I mean, dood, I waited up last night fer him to come home 'n' it was practically noon! 'N' he'd pissed all over himself!"

For their bitching, none of the other guys would do anything to intervene. They'd all in one way or another been rebuffed by the Norwegian, and one rejection was enough for them to not bother again. Nathan, stubborn as he was, merely bided his time. He forced himself to stay awake in the hot tub after everyone else retired, trading out alcohol for energy drinks. When the hour just about came where the band would rise, dull pounding of a car stereo sounded outside Mordhaus' front doors.

Dr. Rockso's jingling boots came to a stop when he spotted the frontman. The smell of piss, from both he and Toki, wrinkled Nathan's nose. "Uh oh! Looks like we're in ke-ke-ke trouble!"

"Psssh!" Toki staggered toward his room. "I sees you later, Dr. Rockso!"

"Hold on, where do you think you're going?"

"To fuckings bed, where else?"

"Don't—"

"What's you gonna do, tells me I's grounded?" Stringy hair fell into the Norwegian's face. A fresh wash of urine soaked his pants. "Just fucks off. Is not like you didn'ts get drunk last night!"

"I didn't fucking piss myself."

"Then you gots to ask youself, Nathan," Toki lowered his voice to a whisper, "ares you really living?"

Nathan held the younger man at bay so that sweat and piss couldn't transfer over to his robe. "Yeah, maybe it's best if you just go to bed."

"Fucks you, I does what I want!" Toki retorted. "Maybe I nots going to bed, I's gonna go sits in the hot tub—cannon balls, oh wowee!"

"Toki, don't!" Too late. The Norwegian's bellyflop—a far reach from what he intended—caused a wave of water to rise over the hot tub's edge and coast along the floor. Nathan pulled Toki out by the back of his shirt, ready to give him supreme shit, but he'd already passed out.

"Dood, whet the feck is goin' ahn out here?" Pickles yawned as he came in from the west corridor. "'N' why does it smell like feckin' piss 'n' clowns?"

A klokateer ran over to make sure no water permeated the Norwegian's lungs. "Would you like us to take him to his room, my masters?"

"We'll take care of it. Just get out of here."

Nathan and Pickles stood over Toki with their arms crossed, unsure what to say. Oblivious, Toki lightly snored. Maybe this was the only way he could sleep.

"Soo. . .should we geddim t' bed then?"

"Yeah, I guess." Nathan threw the kid over his shoulder with a grunt. "Fuck, though. What a fucking mess."

Toki landed like a sack of potatoes on his bed, after which Pickles arranged him into a better position for if he should throw up. Precautions taken, neither of them budged.

"He's bin pritty fecked up, lately."

"Yeah." Nathan would never admit it, but a recent pain in his stomach had sent him to the doctor. He'd gotten a fucking ulcer from all this bullshit. "He's kinda got a right to hate us, doesn't he?"

"I dunno thet he hates us, Nate. We woulda bin killed in our sleep by now, reet?"

"God, don't even fucking say that."

"It's jest the feckin' season. I'd be lyin' if I said I didn' get a little fecked up aroond Theenksgivin' 'n' Christmas."

"Should we even fucking bother asking if he'll come eat with us on Thursday night?" Nathan leaned against the wall. "He'd probably just fucking ruin it."

"Heey, don' tahlk like thet. He'll prahbly say no, but it don' hert to ask. He likes to feel included."

"Not anymore."

"Maybe naht reet now, but there'll be a day when he looks back at how we handled this crep 'n' he'll be glad we bugged him to do it. Even if he didn' show up in the end."

"I dunno. I'll believe it when I see it." Uncomfortable that the drummer could maybe sense the frustration, worry, and fear grinding together in the pit of his stomach, Nathan looked away.

Pickles mirrored the larger man's stance, falling quiet. "Toki's bin through worse. Maybe we fecked up by waitin', but we came in the end. He said he appreciated thet. It's normal fer him ta be like this. He's jest. . .dealin'. 'N' thet's good. I'd be werried if he were actin' like nothing happened, ya knoow?"

"I just want this bullshit to be over. Magnus is dead, so is that fucker with the metal mask, so why do we have to live through it every fucking day?"

"Because Toki is." Stilted breath from the bed preceded a twitch of the Norwegian's limbs. Fat tears leaked out of his eyes, as if Nathan didn't feel bad enough already.

"Do we wake him up, or. . .?"

Pickles bounced off the wall and grabbed something brown poking out from under the bed skirt. Some dust needed to be pat off Deddy Bear before being subjected to Toki's tight grip. With that, a rattled sigh and curl of the young man's body seemed to calm his sleep. Bashful under Nathan's contemplative stare, the drummer shrugged. "Seems t' help, anywee."