Nathan sat alone in the recording studio, listening and re-listening to the album on the digital playback. But not really. He had started out listening, sure, but then he got carried away with his own thoughts (and they must have been pretty goddamn strong, because we all know Nathan's not a big thinker) and it wasn't long before he was pressing a steady pattern of buttons and slowly getting an awesomely brutal headache. He'd probably done more actual thinking in these past five months than he had in his whole life, and not without any side effects: he was even more irritable and unapproachable than ever, he hadn't got a decent night's sleep in weeks, all the fun had been taken out of getting drunk/high/someone killed…his life in general…and he was still popping wood at the mention of Toki Wartooth.

And yet, either by coincidence or cruel irony (who gives a damn, they're both sorta the same thing), Nathan hadn't been able to get turned on by any other source. Girls Gone Whory. The Sin-a-Max TV Network. Even his prized collection of raw vintage 1970s porno mags were losing their power. He thought he just needed new material but that stack of Millennium Masochist he borrowed from Murderface wasn't helping either.

The few attempts to assert his heterosexuality (which was pretty much in shambles) with a couple random groupies had ended with cringe-inducing embarrassment. He hadn't been laid in almost two months. This was fucking horrifying. He hadn't been this bad off in the meat department ever since that time he got high on nitrous oxide and dared Murderface to punch him in the nuts. He couldn't walk right for weeks.

But Pickles—thank fuck for Pickles—Pickles kept Nathan together. Kept him cool and sane and overdosed and tied to the belief that everything would be fine-fine-fine once they kicked off their opening tour for Dungeons & Ratguts. That was one month from today. One more month. Four weeks. Thirty days. But it was okay. It was cool. Just a little bit longer and then no more of this crap. Everything would be back to normal. Toki would never find out. Nathan would never have to humiliate himself by confessing his actions to the rest of the band. They could all just move the hell on and never look back. Not-So-Little Nathan would be cured and back in business, the album would sell off the shelves and life would be FUCKING PEACHY.

Just then Nathan's lumbering thought processes were interrupted by what sounded like an approaching scooter being driven by a cackling madman. He turned his attention to the open doorway and saw Toki, hooting gleefully in his motor-propelled executive chair, buzz past. A few moments later Skwisgaar trudged by, followed by Murderface and then Pickles, who stopped in the threshold.

"What's going on?" Nathan muttered. "You havin a funeral procession?"

"Maybe." The drummer finished off his beer and tossed the bottle somewhere. There was a small shatter as it broke on some point beyond the frame of the readers' vision bubbles. "We're takin Toki to the hospital."

Nathan tried not to cringe at the mention of The Name. "Really. Is he sick?"

"Yeah, pretty bad. Jest yesterday Skwiss noticed a tumour growin on the dude's backbone an' it's probably gonna paralyze him fer the resta his life. Might be spinal lymphoma r' somethin carcinogenic n' terminal. The cancer's probably already spread t' his other organs so we're takin' 'im in t' see what kinda euthanasia plans they got."

Pickles paused for a moment, taking in the speechless, blood-drained face of the lyrical visionary. White as corpse-flesh. Eyes like black holes. Jaw slackened. It was too much. Pickles started to chuckle.

Nathan was stunned for a second, then pissed as hell. "You FUCKHEAD."

The red-head lol'd so hard he couldn't stand up straight. "My GAD yer so gullible it's sick! Ya really do love 'im, don'tcha?"

"I could fuckin' kill you for that."

"Ya shoulda seen the look on yer face! Can't believe y' actually fell for it. Christ, Nate, let's get the hell outta here before ya go shack-wacky; Toki's gettin his casts taken off n' today's chicken finger day at the hospital cafeteria."

"I can't believe you'd even fuckin joke about…really?"

"Yeah, why the hell else ya think we're all taggin along? Fer the scenery?"

Nathan scowled thoughtfully. He really didn't want to go someplace that put him in unnecessary contact with Toki, but the hospital cafeteria did have the best goddamn chicken fingers on the face of the planet. Perfectly seasoned and hot and tender and juicy on the inside…like Toki…NO! No no no. Bad. BAD. Chicken fingers, Nathan. Chicken meat. Chickens. Chickens and cocks. NO! Cock meat. NOOOO! Hot tender juicy cock-

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Pickles leapt out of the way as Nathan jumped from his chair, knocked it over backwards, and plowed through the doorway. He was off and sprinting again, presumably to a dark, happy place where he could curl up in a fetal position for a few hours. At least all this running was doing him good. He looked like he might have lost a couple pounds.

The drummer picked himself off the floor and went out into the hall, where he saw Nathan round a corner at full speed, hit the wall, ricochet off, and thunder away. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "IF YA DIDN'T WANNA GO ALL YA HAD TA DO WAS SAY SO! Douchebag."

Dr Romstein was the chief bone expert guy—skeletonologist or something—at Saint En's, and he was the one who got to cut the blue camo casts off Toki's shins with a hand-held circular-saw that Murderface immediately fell in love with. The Norwegian was so happy to be freed from those damn things that Pickles and Skwisgaar had to restrain him long enough for Romstein to take follow-up X-rays. The pictures revealed that all the bones had knit just right and Toki was A-OK. Despite everything he'd done that the doctors told him not to do.

"Howeffer," droned Romstein as his patient bounced excitedly on the examining table, "I muss varn you not to go kwrazy wis de rhunnink arhound, Herr Toki. Das bones ist still nicht-shtrong, und puttink dem unter strain vould be vewwy unwise-"

Romstein hadn't even punctuated his sentence before Herr Toki exploded off the table and was running like a motherfucker out of the room. Out of the ward. Hooting and cheering the whole way.

The doctor turned his head to glare dully at the three remaining band members, and handed Toki's left-behind pair of shorts to Skwisgaar. "Goot luck. I vill see you oll again een vunn hour."

Toki hadn't gotten all that far before the others caught up to him; he was lying on the linoleum—in nothing save t-shirt and underwear—just past the CAUTION: WET FLOOR sign outside the maternity ward. (Why did they even have one of those in this place? It's not like they ever used it.) They all sighed heavily in unison and muttered under their breaths about something-or-other related to the adorable little dumbass.

Skwisgaar knelt down and tossed the shorts in said dumbass's lap. "Dids yous break your fucking legs again, Mister Genius?"

Toki, who looked wide awake and perfectly alright, gave a little shrug. "Nah, I just catch my breath right now. I needs to run more, I all out of shapes."

"The doc said not to," Pickles snapped. "Ya wanna be wearin leg casts again fer the next gad-knows-how-many months?"

"No."

"Well then." And that was all he said.

"Still," Toki complained, sitting up and pulling his shorts on, "they shoulda warn peoples about wet floor likes this one."

"They DO, shtupid," Murderface kicked the CAUTION sign around so that Toki could see it.

"Oh. I can't reads that when I run fast."

"Dat's why dey puts on de pictures of a guy's falling down, so dat dumbs retard-" Skwisgaar jabbed his finger onto Toki's forehead. "-like yous will understands it. Come on, gets off de floor." He extended his hand and helped the Second Best to his feet again. "Oh yah, and deez is yours."

A hideous green pair of those cloth/paper hospital shoe covers found their way into Toki's hands. He wrinkled his nose at them. "What's de hell are this?"

"Ruby slippers," Pickles muttered as he walked past, blowing cigarette smoke at a nearby NO SMOKING sign. "The doc wanted ya t' have 'em, said they're magic. They make ya dance like Fred Astaire."

"Really?"

"Sure, why not."

"Who's Fred of Stares?"

"A dead guy."

In quiet awe: "Wowww. And wearing these will makes me to dance likes a dead guy too?"

"I dunno, Toki, jest put the fuckin things on so we can get outta here."

So Toki put the fuckin things on and honestly believed that they made him dance like a dead guy. The other three bandmates danced him down to the hospital cafeteria where they waited in the line that didn't exist to get the best goddamn chicken fingers on the planet, then they all sat around a small table and dug in.

"Mm," Pickles murmured, "I fergot how good solid food is."

Toki stopped committing poultycide with his mouth long enough to comment, "I wish Nate'ns was here now. He'da like de fry chickens. Is his favorite foods."

"Uh…he wanted t' come but…eh, he's busy."

"Bizzshy dying," Murderface muttered under his breath, stabbing moodily into a piece of chicken with his Ka-Bar.

"What?" Pickles asked.

"Nothings," Skwisgaar answered quickly. "We's just wish dat…never minds."

"No really. Ya wish what?"

The Swede responded by shoving three chicken fingers into his mouth and saying something. And just in case Pickles might be gifted at understanding Full-Mouthenese, he said that something in Swedish. It didn't even sound remotely human, let alone intelligible.

"Huh?"

Toki stifled a squeal of surprise as he was elbowed in the ribs. "Don't does that, Skwisgaar! You coulda makes me choke! …oh. I means…gee. I sure hopes Nathan's is not working too much. He might needs to take a vacations and…enjoy lifes while he still…" Toki's bottom lip quivered and he slumped in his chair, his appetite lost faster than virginity at an Alabama middle school.

Pickles arched a studded red eyebrow at this curious behaviour and lit another cigarette. "Why the long face all the sudden?"

"I dunno," Toki shrugged, head bowed and his brown hair curtaining his eyes. "I thinks I gots it from my ffff…ff-f-father's side-"

"Nah nah, jeez, not literally, c'mon, I mean…why're ya so sad?"

But Toki didn't reply, either lulled into a catatonic state at the mention of his parents or too emotionally fatigued to force air into his voice box. Pickles narrowed his eyes suspiciously and looked over at Skwisgaar and Murderface, who noticed that Pickles had narrowed his eyes suspiciously at them; they both started to perspire chicken-flavored sweat.

"You guys've been actin kinda weird lately," he drawled. "If I didn't know any better I'd say ya know somethin that I don't."

"Nope!" Murderface pasted on a fake smile that was truly terrifying to look at. "We don't know schit!"

"Never dids, never wills!" Skwisgaar agreed, pulling his face into a taut imitation of a smile and managing to do a scary-accurate impression of Jack Nicholson with Botox injections.

Pickles had to look the other way. It hurt too much. "Uh. Okaaaay."

Toki pushed his chair back and stood up. "I'm through," he mumbled and walked out of the cafeteria, the magic of his little green hospital booties just plain gone. It was the saddest damn thing in the world to watch.

Aside from Hollywood Squares.

later that night

The hallway to Nathan's bedroom was dark and quiet, unusual for this hour. Toki crept silently through like a Norwegian ninja, his pale eyes fixed on the dim splash of yellow-orange light escaping from beneath the bedroom door. He stopped in front of it and studied it for a while. This was Nathan's door. It belonged to Nathan. Soon the room beyond it would be dark and cold and empty, and the door would be locked, never to open again. Everything inside the room would stay the same. Nothing would move ever again. All the things that Nathan owned would sit unused, collecting dust and cobwebs and time. That's what it's going to be like soon. All too soon.

Toki raised his hand as if to knock before thinking better of it; instead he laid his open palm upon the wood and thought of the million excuses why he shouldn't bother Nathan: he was probably tired. He was dying after all. Dying people need rest, don't they? It didn't make very much sense. You'd think dying people who knew they were dying would never sleep again. Don't waste a moment 'cause it might be your last. And besides, Toki didn't want to piss him off. Wasn't it already enough that Toki's final memory was going to be of Nathan's hands around his throat, throttling him to death? What a way to go. Toki hoped they wouldn't press charges, though it'd be kind of useless to put Nathan on death row for murder when he was already dying. He'd probably go tits-up before the verdict was in.

Toki didn't wanna die. Toki didn't want Nathan to die. Toki didn't wanna make Nathan mad. Toki didn't wanna sing that fucking love song, either fucking version of it. This whole thing was bull's shit and all he wanted to do right now was spend time with Nathan before he croaked. No tour, no rehearsals, no screaming fans or any of that crap. Just sit somewhere close to him and appreciate the company he had always taken for granted. All he wanted was time. The one damn thing they didn't have. Life was a real kick in the dick sometimes.

Toki wasn't an angel, not by a long shot, and this emotional sewage wasn't his cuppa tea—he was selfish and immature and impatient and vengeful and impulsive and all sorts of horrible little pieces of dysfunctional personalities. But goddammit, he thought that just once he would like to care about someone else even though he would never be rewarded for it. He realized he loved Nathan. Nathan was his friend. He didn't want him to die. In lives where they all ate, drank, slept, lived, breathed and fucked death, only when it seemed inevitable that one of them must meet the Reaper did it suddenly become real.

Toki came to the conclusion that there were two kinds of death: the fake death that was all cool and brutal and fun and didn't really mean shit in the long run, the kind of death that everyone wrote songs about and got famous for, and then there was real death. Permanent death. Death that ripped a part of your fucking heart out and ate it. The kind of death that ended things when they weren't supposed to end and stole your best friends away from you. Real death was horrible. There would never be anything cool about it.

Toki rested his forehead against the door. His face twisted into a look of extreme pain as he fought to keep the screaming, wailing emo agony at bay, but he wasn't mentally mature enough to know how to restrain himself yet; he started to cry, very quietly so that the room's occupant would never ever know.

Don't steals him from me, he thought, making himself cry even harder, which was what he wanted. He needed to get this shit out of him. I wants him here. Lets him suffer. As longs as he's around we'll always be togethers. De band will be togethers. Stay, Nate'ns. We falls apart if you don't, and I'll hates you forever if you leaves us.

God this hurt so bad. But at the same time letting it out felt so good. He sniffed wetly, achieving a horrendous schlerrrrrk sound. He needed a Kleenex bad. His whole head felt hot and swollen and the back of his eyes ached and his lips felt all puffy and inflamed. He felt ugly as hell.

You bastard. Why you gots to make me cry like this…

Toki wiped his eyes and was suddenly startled by a voice to his right: "Toki?"

He froze, turning his head to see Nathan standing in the hall a few feet away, looking at him expressionlessly. He was wearing pajamas—flannel pants and a black t-shirt that said This Is My Band. There Are Many Like It But This One Is Mine.—and he carried a rolled-up magazine in his hand. Toki tried not to react hysterically at being seen in such a state of repulsive girly-ness, but it was very hard to do.

"N-Nathan!" he hiccupped. "But-! If yours out here, then who's in there?" He pointed to the bedroom door.

"Uh, nobody?" Nathan grunted. "I was in the bathroom."

Right. How could Toki forget. Probably just flushed his pancreas down the toilet. How long could a person live without pancreas? Maybe they could live without one—wait, there were two of them, right? What the hell were pancreas anyway? Fuck. It didn't matter. The important thing was Nathan probably needed it/them and now it's/they're gone. No way could the doctors keep replacing organs at this rate. They'd need to start sacrificing people by the dozens and keep a walk-in freezer fully stocked with bowels and bladders. No way, man. Ain't gonna happen.

These thoughts weren't helping Toki at all but somehow he managed to stifle his sobs despite the snot and tears and drool leaking out of every orifice in his flushed face. "Oh," he choked. "Okay. Ha."

"Toki…?" Nathan said with great difficulty. "Are…why you standing outside my door and crying?"

"Cause I feels like it!" the Norwegian exploded, grateful for a chance to get angry. "What are you, de police? Is you gonna to arrests me for it?"

"I was just wondering…I mean. Since you're crying and-"

"So I'm crying! BIG DEALS! Why de fuck's everybody worry about why I cries or not? Do I needs a fucking permit or somethings!" He was clearly losing it at this point.

Nathan lifted his hand peacefully. "Alright alright, calm down. I just…I didn't mean to…"

Toki's bloodshot eyes met Nathan's and stayed there. Nathan saw grief and desperation burning red hot in those shades of cold blue, and it was unbearable. Like clubbing baby harp seals unbearable. Why was he still standing here? Why hadn't he left yet? He must want something.

"Toki," Nathan said very quietly. "What do you want?"

The cracking, hoarse reply was as hollow as an empty coffin: "Nothings you can gives me."

The words totaled Nathan's heart before his brain even heard the squealing tires. By then all he could do was watch in stunned silence as Toki bowed his head and sucked in a sob of air, wrapping his arms tight around himself and shadowing his eyes from view with his hand. Standing just out of reach, crying, begging for something that Nathan couldn't understand. He should leave. Why wasn't he leaving? Did he actually want…?

Nathan took a step forward and raised his hand to touch him. An inch from Toki's brown hair he stopped. No. Don't do it. Loss of control. It'll go too far. You don't need this. Nathan almost didn't care. He could admit to that now. He could admit to wanting it for what it was, and that was bad. This wasn't right. Toki wanted something that Nathan didn't have, and that hurt more than a stab wound in the gut. He felt betrayed.

If only. The hand traced the space around Toki's oblivious form, a sad imitation of touch.

I think I love you more now than all this time I've been pretending I don't.

"Go to bed, Toki. I'll see you tomorrow." He shuffled his way past the dejected figure and closed the bedroom door behind him. On the other side Nathan rubbed his wet eyes and snorted hard to clear his sinuses.

Fuckin Toki Wartooth. Thanks for making a grown man cry.

Another super secret midnight rehearsal. The three guitarists were now past the point of "overworked" and were actually looking forward to the nice long relaxation that untimely and gruesome death would provide. Between tying up loose ends with their manager and practicing two versions of the show, the heavy metal string section of Dethklok was hallucinating on a regular basis and suffering from delirium. And Pickles had been watching them like a priest at a playground. For an Irish wino he sure could be observant sometimes. They'd all had to take extra precautions to avoid attracting the drummer's attention; no doubt he'd ruin everything by ratting to Nathan about their plans for a live, on-stage mutiny. And the only good thing about that would be earlier demises.

They ran through the original love song one more time, practicing the transition into the new version. It was essentially a really good song with a really bad intro. Like starting as Celine Dion and ending as Glen Danzig. Hopefully the fans would forgive them. It was kind of entertaining really, faking them out like that. Fucking with people's minds was fun.

"Okay, I think we got it," Murderface said loudly, taking off his guitar before they'd even finished playing the song. "I'm gonna be schitting ghostsh if I don't get shum shleep shoon."

The other guitarists gratefully followed suit; even Skwisgaar—who usually had his axe hanging off his shoulder 46% of the time, even during dinner and sleep—untangled himself from his strap and propped his X-plorer against an amp. Then he crouched down beside it and let his head drop. "God I so fuckings tireds," he mumbled. "I woulds gives up de hottest ladies on de world to gets an hour's sleeps. Så trött…I thinking. I just sleeps here." He stretched out on the floor and folded his arms beneath his head. "G'natt, fuckers."

"Don't starts it," Toki wheezed. He'd had his vocal cords keel-hauled again earlier that night in an effort to build up his singing stamina. "You going to makes us all…tire..." He interrupted himself by yawning.

"You shuns of bitsches," Murderface groaned, staggering across the stage to slump down beside Skwisgaar. "I…" He was snoring before he could finish his sentence. He'd fallen asleep sitting against the amp.

Skwisgaar raised a bruised looking eyelid. It took every ounce of energy for him to lift his arm and gesture for Toki to come over. The Norwegian lifted off his guitar, let it drop to the floor, and took a few steps before he stumbled and crash-landed onto Skwisgaar's legs.

"How many day left?" he croaked against a sharp kneecap.

"Fives," answered Skwisgaar, clapping his hand on top of Toki's head and rubbing absentmindedly. "Are you's scareds?"

"No. I'm Toki." Pause. "But de snow scare me."

"What snow?"

"De snow falling…froms de ceiling now." He closed his eyes. "Is all…fairies. They comes to get me. Bad…snow." And then he went out like a light.

Skwisgaar was the last to let go. By then the world looked like a winter wonderland—Murderface was the Abominable Snowman, Toki was Walt Disney, and he himself had hair made of double-helix sugar crystals. And somewhere some laughing bastard was calling him a ho.