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***

The emergency room was pure white.

Skwisgaar had had ample time over the past nine hours to memorize it's every detail – every stain in the ceiling, every crack in the floor. Now he lay on his back, sprawled across three chairs, trying to find anything to distract his mind.

That wasn't just anyone in there, being put back together. That was Toki. That was one of them.

The rest of the band were doing much of the same – trying not to show how desperately, desperately worried they were. Pickles sat in one of the chairs, smoking cigarette after cigarette, despite the numerous 'No Smoking' signs. Nathan alternated between sitting and flipping through the outdated magazines and pacing restlessly. And Murderface...well, he was no different than usual, really, having already carved "Planet Piss" into the walls fifteen times.

They were all trying to avoid the same thing: the memory of their gravely wounded bandmate – their friend, no matter how loath they were to admit it – being prepped for emergency surgery. The quiet snicksnicksnick as his shirt was snipped away by the two onboard medics, and the sick splatter of blood falling on the floor. The medics shouting orders that none of them understood, except to know that it was bad. Real bad.

The sudden, hopeless flatlining of the heart monitor.

For as long as he would live, Skwisgaar would never forget how he felt in that moment. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. One of the hooded medics began compressions while the other prepared to deliver a shock with the paddles.

Every hurtful word, every cruel sneer, came rushing back to him. The way it had always been. They both knew that it wasn't serious – their rivalry was simply the manifestation of the deeper emotion between them – the friendship that neither would acknowledge, because friendship was gay and unmetal. They both knew that...didn't they? Toki knew that Skwisgaar didn't really hate him, right?

For ten agonizing minutes, the solid tone beeped it's funeral dirge. Then, just as the medics were about to give up – just as the words "Time of death," had been on the first one's lips, it blipped. Weakly at first, then with increasing steadiness. Toki was back.

Skwisgaar had let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, feeling a rush of renewed hope and determination. Toki was alive, and as soon as he was out of surgery, Skwisgaar would make sure he knew the truth. Hell, he might even apologize.

The waiting room door opened and Klokateer #1059 entered. He was one of the doctors by profession employed in the Klokateer Corps; as such, he was one of the very few permitted to forgo the usual black hood. He was currently dressed in blood spattered scrubs, and his expression was very, very serious.

"Does you have any news?" Skwisgaar demanded.

"Yeah, how's Toki doing? When can we see him?" Nathan asked.

#1059 hesitated, then sighed. "My lords," he said. "I'm afraid I have some bad news."

And instantly, Skwisgaar knew just what he was going to say.

"Noes," he said, as if preventing the doctor from saying it would make it untrue.

"Lord Toki was very badly hurt when he was brought in," #1059 went on. "We operated for nine hours; we transfused nearly thirty units of blood into him. We did everything we possibly could for him."

"Noes," Skwisgaar repeated dully.

"But his injuries were too severe, and we couldn't save him." The doctor lowered his head and closed his eyes. "Lord Toki died. I am...I am so sorry that I have failed you, my lords."

Skwisgaar heard Nathan's howl of disbelief, but it meant nothing. Silently, leaving his guitar behind, he walked out of the waiting room.

***

The grave was dug on the outskirts of the Mordland forest. True to his childish nature, Toki had never given any thought to his final arrangements, and they had, at Ofdenson's urging, settled on a small but neat headstone. Problems had emerged when it came time to do the inscription, and the band realized that they hadn't even known Toki's birthdate, and had to settle for simply inscribing his name.

Skwisgaar knelt on the mound of fresh earth. He'd taken to doing that now. Toki's death had thrown into stark relief for him just how fucked up Dethklok was – how long had they known the Norwegian, and they didn't even know when he was born? There was uncaring, but Dethklok had long since moved past that into outright active indifference. It had been okay at first, but not any longer.

He studied the small headstone, wondering how it had all gone so wrong. The very first night after...after the funeral, he'd brought Toki's Flying V out and propped it up against the stone. It would get ruined, but that was all right. No one but Toki would ever play it, and now Toki was gone. It didn't need to be preserved.

The second night, he had brought Deddybear out. Now the bear's black, beady eyes glared up at him, silently accusing him of being the one that had hurt it's master so.

"Skwisgaar."

The blond guitarist looked around, trying to figure out who had called his name. He had thought he was alone.

"Skwisgaar!"

With growing horror, he realized it was from in front of him. From the grave.

"Skwisgaar! Wake up, dood!"

Pickles?

Skwisgaar's eyes snapped open. His heart was pounding and bile rose in his throat. Pickles hovered over him.

"Dood you were like, dreeaming or somethin'," the drummer said.

He slowly sat up, trying to figure out where he was. White walls. The emergency room.

The emergency room!

He'd fallen asleep, sprawled over three of the chairs.

Then Toki wasn't...

"Haves you heards any news?" he asked.

"Nat yet," Pickles said.

All his limbs seemed to turn to water as relief ebbed through him. Toki wasn't dead. The dream had been just that – a dream. A nightmare.

"Man they've been in there a long time," Nathan observed.

"Maybe he'sch dead and they juscht don't want to tell usch," Murderface suggested. "You know, cuz they know we'd kill'em."

"Ohh, good point," Nathan said. "He better not die, I don't wanna have to audition a new rhythm guitarist."

Skwisgaar had to bite back a sharp retort as the door opened, and #1059, the Mordhaus surgeon stepped through, wearing blood-spattered scrubs, and a very grim expression. Instantly, his heart sank to somewhere around his knees and all his blood turned to ice.

"My lords," began #1059. "I wish to let you know that Lord Toki has made it through surgery."

And Skwisgaar felt his heart start beating again. I cannots takes much mores of dis! he thought wildly.

"So, he ams alives?" he said outloud. "Cans I sees him?"

"Yes, my Lord," replied #1059. "He is alive, but he isn't out of danger yet. The next twelve hours will be touch and go, but if he makes it through then, he will more than likely be all right. He's still being closed up, but you should be able to see him in the morning."

"Ja, okays." Suddenly he was exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to get out of there. "Tomorrows." Clutching his Explorer tightly, he strode out of the room.

* * *

Seven hours later, Skwisgaar stood in front of the doors marked INTENSIVE CARE, a small bundle in his hands.

He hated the hospital wing. It reminded him that despite their fame and fortune, their talent and sucess, they too were still mortal. They were as subject to injuries and illness as every other douchebag out there. And someday, despite their power and wealth, they wouldn't be able to outrun death any longer.

He'd die before he'd ever admit it, but it scared him.

Stupids, he told himself. You ams being big dildoes babies. And that just was not acceptable. So he took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Skwisgaar was used to gore. Being a member of Dethklok, he pretty much had to be. But the sight of Toki lying there was almost more than he could take.

At first, he thought the younger man was still wearing his corpsepaint. Then, with a certain sick sensation, he realized it was the deathly pallor of his skin. He was sedated, and, still too weak to breathe on his own, connected to a ventilator.

The blankets were pulled up to his waist but his torso was bare, except for the bandages and pressure dressings. A nasty looking tube snaked out of the bandages covering the wound, draining into a plastic pouch. A bag of blood transfused through the IV line stuck in his arm. The heart monitor beeped steadily, but it was little comfort.

Skwisgaar felt like he might be sick. Even though it had been his choice to come down here, even though the doctors had warned him Toki was in bad shape, he'd pushed them all aside with his usual sneering bravado. Now, he wished he'd listened. Nothing, nothing could have prepared him for seeing his friend like this.

He looked frail and weak.

He looked human.

With shaking hands, he approached Toki's bedside, and gently placed Deddybear in the crook of his elbow.

Then, cursing his own weakness, he fled the room.