Title: "Vacations Are Brutal" - Chapter 3
Author: Klarinette-18
Word count: 1,223 (holy Scheiße, they keep getting longer!)
Summary: Drinking some brandy, playing guitar, drifting off into some memories, sudden alarming phone call.
Warnings: There's way too much fluff in here. It's getting crowded.
Comments: Read the other two. Srsly. I'll wait. One more after this, and that's when it gets slashy. Also, incidentally, "Charlie Bird" is the nickname I've affectionately given my budgie, Charlie (originally named after Charlie Runkle two years ago).

-storystartshere-

Charles slid has hand affectionately up the body of the guitar, running a finger up the neck and rolled it over the tuning pegs. He took the time to carefully tune each string, knowing by heart the note each one was supposed to make. He looked at his fingers, remembering the days when they had been hardened with calluses from playing night after night, making drunken attempts at serenading his lover with songs by Snakes N' Barrels—his favourites being ones reminiscent of "November Rain" by Guns N' Roses, and "Home Sweet Home" by Motley Crue.

He placed his fingers and strummed the first chord he'd played since the week before Dethklok formed. He could feel the strings pushing back hard on his skin, the chord sounding only mildly muffled. He took a minute to place the next chord and strummed, this time sounding brighter. He played more, placing each chord quicker than the last, remembering all of them. 'Our song', he said. My song.

Charles took another sip of brandy and removed his tie, only loosening it enough to pull it over his head, rather than untie it. He flung it over the couch back and let it hang next to him. He decided to remove his shoes and socks, as well. Okay, now this reminds me of University. He lifted his feet and rested them on the edge of the table, the guitar resting across his elevated legs. He rolled up his sleeves and began strumming the chords again, this time humming the melody he could remember Pickles singing to him.

"I don't think those are the words."

"A' course they're naht. Y' think Tony'd let me sing dat sappy crehp? Naht very Snakes N' Barrels-like, y'know?"

"Definitely not. But… I like it anyway."

"Ya better! Fresh lyrics, straight outta my head, all fer you, my Charlie Bird."

The brunet handed the guitar to the redhead, "I think you should play for a while. Play me the song—" he smirked, "And sing like you love me."

Charles winced at the sudden, sharp pain he felt in his pinky finger. How long had he been holding down that chord? He'd completely phased out, lost in another memory. Those were the days before Dethklok; the days before he'd had to lock away his emotions and ignore the pain that he felt, knowing that he could no longer keep his lover—the other boys would never accept that sort of thing from their manager. He wrapped his arms around the guitar and rested his chin on the side of the body.

"I don't like dis anymore n' you do, Charlie."

Charles was almost sick with anger and despair, "Is there no way around this? Is there actually nothing we can do?"

"I jest do see it workin' out, y'know?"

He could feel the heat rising in his chest and neck, manifesting as tears that were now beginning to stream from his eyes, "I just… I can't…"

The redhead laid his arms around the brunet's neck and shoulders, pulling him into a gentle embrace and resting his forehead on the other man's, "Ya can't what?"

"I can't let you go."

Pickles chuckled and kissed his lover on his nose, "Y' act like yer never gonna see me again."

"Well, that's exactly what it feels like."

"I'm naht goin' anywhere, Charlie," Dethklok's new drummer whispered, kissing the newly-appointed manager on his trembling lips, "I'm always gonna be right here, you know dat. We just can't be like we used ta be, y'know? We gotta keep dat in check an' keep it to ourselves, y'know?"

Charles sighed heavily and wrapped his arms around Pickles' body, "…I love you."

"I love ya, too. So, do ya want yer partin' gift, er no?"

"Yes, please."

Pickles slid his hands around to Charles' chest and began undoing the buttons on the crisp, white shirt.

Charles absently chewed at the guitar's body where his chin had been resting, until his mind was suddenly hurled back into reality when his phone rang. Oh god.

He answered the phone as fast as he was quickly capable of doing, "Talk to me—what happened?"

"Whoa—is dat really how ya greet the Gears? Ya frickin' robaht!"

Speak of the Devil. A short gasp could be heard as the air hitched in Charles' throat—easy now. The manager could hear the murmurs of a crowd of people in the background, as well as Nathan yelling at someone. Clearly, things were going well at the conference."Hello, Pickles."

"Heeeey! How ya holdin' up dere, chief?"

"I'm fine. I've, uh, decided to take a day and night for myself."

"What? Ya mean y' actually took time ahf from workin'?"

Charles suppressed a chuckle, "Yes, I've taken time off from working."

"Well, good fer you, Charlie."

"Is there something wrong?"

"Nope. Jest checkin' in ahn ya. Figured you'd be kinda bored without us dere, y'know?"

"Life doesn't tend to get, uh, boring when you're managing the, uh, seventh largest economy in the world, Pickles."

"Alright, alright," Charles could hear that the drummer had been drinking a fair bit, "Y' alright dere, chief? Whatcha been doin' wit' yer time ahf, ennyway?"

"I was just…" drinking. Playing guitar. Remembering the days when I was still allowed to show you how I feel. Choking on the past, "…relaxing."

"Oh yeah? Y' in yer ahffice?"

"No, actually. I've, uh, taken up in a motel for the night. I felt like getting away from the 'Haus and, uh… maybe, uh…"

"…maybeeee…?"

"Re-living a few memories," Charles screwed his eyes shut and shook his head—don't do this to yourself.

"Heh… someone's been into the sauce."

"I'll have you know I've had two sips of brandy."

The dreadlocked drummer chuckled, causing a light flutter in the manager's chest, "Alright, Charlie. I'll let ya get back to yer relaxin' er—"

"Wait—" Charles had even surprised himself with the volume of his sudden interjection. Stand your ground, Charles, "Wait." Pickles said nothing. "I, uh… do you… remember the night you gave me your guitar?"

Charles could hear a muffled sound on the other end, and what sounded like light static. "Pickles?"

"Gimme a sec, Charlie," Pickles said quietly.

The manager waited silently, the question he'd asked the drummer burning on his tongue, churning his stomach with anxiety.

After another minute, the muffled, static sound stopped, there was silence, and then, "A' course I remember."

Charles shoulders relaxed (how long had I been tensed like that?) as a smile rolled across his face, "That was one of the memories I'd thought of."

"Heh… dat was a good night, if I recall correctly."

"It was. It was a very—very good night."

"D' ya still remember the song?"

Charles grinned broadly, "Of course I remember."

The sound could be heard of Pickles taking a drink of something, as well as a soft sigh, "I think I should come see ya, y'know?"

"What do you mean? You're on vacation. You, uh, should stay and talk to the press and, uh…" his voice trailed off.

"Ferget it. Where are ya?"

"The Comfort Motel on I-83, room 219," So much for standing your ground.

"Sit tight, chief. I'll be dere as soon as I can."

There was the sound of a click, and the line fell silent. "Hurry…"