twilightspeaks (twilightspeaks) wrote in dethslash, @ 2009-05-17 17:24:00 |
|
|||
He wears a happy, exaggerated mask with a long gilded nose perched high on his face. Of course it would remind him of a dick. He's mimed so many lewd acts with it the paint has begun to chip. For me, it calls to mind Pinocchio, a fairy tale about a wooden puppet becoming a real boy. I am reminded because up here, like this, I'm more alive than I've ever been. I am nervous my first time on an actual stage though, and unlike Skwisgaar's, my phantom's half mask is a mockery of anonymity. He takes my hand when the lights go down, hastily assuring me under cover of darkness.
But his good intentions are always too rough, and he holds me as if to bruise. It's not enough to stand beside me but to meld into me with an intensity both dark and blinding until I know not where the web of his fingers begin and the slope of my heart ends. I like to imagine, the way his hand fits so easily into mine, that we've worn these grooves over eons, our love stretching across the endless ocean of space and time to connect us again as in lifetimes before. I think what we are to each other can only deepen.
Still, ageless, endless love never paid rent or filled the stomach of a skinny guitarist with a high metabolism who eats like there won't be any more food.
That is how we first found ourselves in dirty garages, crowded city streets, and parties like this one, commanding our fingers to fly in exchange for money and booze. For me, it's a place to belong and I would play anything, but for him it's a calling. His music electrifies the air, all bravado and power. I have to remind him occasionally that music is for the audience because he plays whatever he feels. Tonight the crowd responds to him anyway. The girls dance wildly, their slinky bodies moving like liquid sex, tantalizing the boys that cling to them, parched and nearly begging.
No one can know our own dance is a slow one, intricate ins and outs, pivotal turns and impossible steps. We move slowly, we are careful in our choices. We know that once we advance, we can never go back.-o-o-o-
Adrenaline, terror, anger, need, and a million other chords rip through me in one instant. My heart flutters wildly within the confines of my chest like wings of a caged bird I fear I can never free. Even though my insides are rushing downward at light speed, time itself seems made of stone and I want to be carved in this moment forever. When he backs out of the kiss, I simply stare at him dumbly. I can't think. I can't move. His face falls and just like that, he is gone, carrying my stolen breath in his lungs as he puts distance between us.
Only his lingering taste convinces me it was real at all. I cringe at my ineptitude and curse my empty hands. Where is my guitar when I need it? I speak volumes through that thing, it is the only tongue I possess that does not lie numb and useless in my mouth. I would never put it down if I thought someday it could help me tell him I'd give him every last breath if he would only wait. For a moment I consider going after him and scooping him up, and part of me has already done so. Regrettably, there is no time. We have to play. More than just our next meal is at stake.
I shred my heart out and take comfort that the mosh pit is frantic, moist, and hot, like being inside the mouth of a lover. The music screams everything I can't say in a subterranean language all humans are privy to. He follows my lead as I know he always will, and together we command an army. I might lead the way, but he is the reason I keep going.
Throngs of pulsing bodies jostle to and fro, a powerful tide of arms and fists that surges and ebbs. Sweat-slick and utterly spent, our set ends just in time for our bodies to give. Not because we are tired but because our souls have bled out on the strings of our guitars. We are fucking wasted, mere residue of the musicians this important American came to see. He can barely understand us, and we've hardly the strength to make ourselves clear, but a look on his face tells me all I need to know.
We're in.-o-o-o-
Our magnetism is a fickle thing, a double-edged sword that draws us close and drives us mad. In the world of extremes that Skwisgaar inhabits, this grinding of gears is something he has come to need. It's the calm after the storm he cannot handle so guerrilla warfare has become a bonding ritual. Rather than smoothing knit brows and healing minor lacerations, we merely continue the bloody battle albeit fighting on the same side. This is how we revive the corpse of our kinship. Manic nights spent drowning from the inside, armed with loaded guns and a heavy boot pressed to the gas of fast cars that lose their appeal when acquired by honest means are just his way of blowing kisses to the dead. Making me smile again.
I wouldn't change this for the world. Only sometimes, that's a lie. It's not the risks, I would follow him whatever the gamble, I trust him more than gravity. It's that he chooses the ones we take. Liquor burns all the way down, but not as much as this hole in my chest. This isn't hell, far from it, but knowing what heaven tastes like becomes it's own profound sort of hell in heaven's absence.
Ignoring the cacophony of drunken celebrants around me I retreat to a small, dark corner. I have stopped counting down or looking forward, that way it doesn't hurt as much when the years pass by and nothing changes. The screams of HAPPY NEW YEAR bounce off my turned back, dying unacknowledged on the cracked pavement. I've swilled enough alcohol to recompense for the years I spent as an honest boy, too sweet and too young, and welcome my inevitable descent into an alcohol-induced abyss.
If I'm still honest -- and I am, no amount of alcohol can change that -- I'm still too sweet and too young. Which is why I'm not surprised that even in the suffocating darkness, somewhere between alcohol poisoning and hungover, I dream of him. Even when I numb myself into unconsciousness, as close to death as one can be before dying, I still feel for him. I dream that in a fevered embrace we rise from the ashes of the nothing we've become.-o-o-o-
Morning is a watery pale thing when it arrives, right on schedule, too bright and too loud. My hangover dances to the tune of the alarm clock, setting fire to the restless dawn. I turn to punch the clock into silence and still my throbbing head when suddenly my hand sinks into a wet spot on the bed. I have no idea what it is and my mind blearily recants last night's sordid events. It could have been anyone. Anything. The sticky mess should sicken me more than it does, but I just make a mental note to have the bedding replaced and approach the bedroom window, nude and aching.
From up here, the world seems clean every New Year's Day, but it's just as dirty as I've ever been before. One thing I understand is that the further I venture into filth in my quest for satiety, the more lost in it I become. Latex. Shackles. Razor blades. The severely handicapped. The unwilling. No body is without it's charms for me now, no act void of appeal. I can't pretend he doesn't know. He always knows, and unlike me, he's not the type to spare himself any pain. I wear my weakness like a badge of honor and present a smug satisfaction that no longer requires effort to maintain, but honestly, how much honor and satisfaction can there be in using the same failed tactics to fill a hole that is everywhere and nowhere all at once?
I am just like my mother after all, only the hole I seek to fill is not so literal. Age and understanding have somewhat quelled my bitterness toward her and I wonder if it is out of want or need that she screws and bolts. I ache to satisfy this lust that defines me to the world, to have it done and over with-- I just don't know how.
They don't actually say anything when I enter, but they don't have to. Her smell is on me like a scarlet letter. Nathan crows, Murderface throws a high five. Pickles, older, wiser, just keeps to himself. He doesn't miss much and even if he did, men are repetitive creatures and we are no exception. It pains him nearly as much as it does me when the Norwegian greets me shyly, almost kind, not having the decency to disguise the hurt in his voice like the rest of us would. His haunted gaze is equal parts inevitable and unwanted, like the first symptom of a terminal illness lying in wait.
His willingness to expose every vulnerability irritates me beyond reason. The guilt I feel over this only makes it worse. I wash down the guilt with Alka-Seltzer and vodka, willing it to settle beneath the rioting fizz. I'm barely dissatisfied when the only thing that crawls its way up from my gullet is anger.-o-o-o-
He is so close, I can almost hold him, but wakefulness doesn't care for the cruel tricks of dreams and I can't cling to them for long. Reality sets in as sleep retreats, stealing away my fantasy. In the meantime, my very real grief finds a soft place and bites down hard. Dark smudges of kohl mirror themselves on my pillowcase, a testament of what amounts to a long string of lonely nights. They're black on blue, just like it feels. Pickles tells me I should wash before bed, that he clogged his pores for years by passing out in makeup. He warns I'll start to look like pizza, greasy and pock-marked. But I like pizza, and this mask is the most genuine face I wear. Corpse paint, paint optional.
The sheets must pool around your body differently when you share your bed, but I wouldn't know. Skwisgaar doesn't even touch me and I've become a whisper against his storm in so many ways. I don't complain. I've found a home in a place I'd never expected, I have the family I never thought I'd know. But I am weary of chasing dreams, waiting for what I once knew we were meant to be-- life is not a fairy tale. Illusion never became real. Hard, cold, splintered wood never warmed and softened into so much living flesh only to be chopped to shreds of bloody timber by unrequited love.
Or perhaps it did.
I still remember the way he tasted that New Year's Eve two years ago. I remember the courage it took, my breath catching in my throat as I anticipated his reaction, but I've waited on bated breath for too long. His silence is rejection by default and it seems there can be no happy ending. I was wrong, what we are to each other will only deepen until we drown in an endless ocean of our bottomless need. I am empty; there's nothing left to exhale.-o-o-o-
He swears there's nothing in him that ever felt for me, but when I challenge him his mouth is just as hungry as I've imagined in all my darkest hours. He isn't like the women; they let themselves be handled and I play them to prove I can. Like playing a solo, I am in control, they bend and sweep beneath my skilled hands and for all we are physically connected, I might as well be performing alone. He gives me everything when I take him and demands just as much in return. I have nothing to prove and this isn't because I can. This is what I was made for.
We move together without lead or rhythm, and yet I know this dance like a familiar song that resonates in chambers of my heart I'd forgotten how to reach. Each time I press into him, it feels like finally coming home. I've strayed too long, it's been a rough journey, and my body aches for release. In him I find a vessel that bears me to the brink of ecstasy much too quickly. This wasn't how I imagined this, and I recoil before I'm pushed over the edge. His eyes snap open and he clutches me, guiding me back into his warmth with more dexterity than I'd begun to think him capable. Then, more characteristically, he claws and grasps at me as if being inside him up to the hilt will never be close enough.
It occurs to me that despite appearances, of the two of us he is strong and I am needy, and though I'm inside of him, he fills me to the brim in ways I barely understand. I come, groaning his name and much more into the hollow of his throat in savage Swedish. I expect an echo when he arches backward, but I'm not disappointed with what I receive instead. I feel his orgasm blossoming between us where our bodies meet and it ripples through him in a wave of pleasure that reaches all the way to his face. The corners of his mouth turn downward and I catch his lips with mine as our climax strings us by a common thread. I don't want this ghost of the pain I've caused him.
Will cause him.
I know this night won't change everything, there is still too much to lose. I turn him, pull him close, and settle against his spine, feeling his chest rise and fall in my embrace as I bury my face into his hair. The musk of sweat, booze, and sex settles over us like fairy dust, a potent lullaby. Before I close my eyes to follow Toki into sleep, I thank Odin he cannot see the shadows that darken my face. The masquerade isn't over. Regardless, I smile to myself, my worry quieted with this small, shining bit of truth we've always known. There can be no going back.
Introduction:
My name is Winklebung. I am a nisse. I originally came from Norway, where, in the tradition of my people, I sought out a farm where the humans would leave me food (especially on Christmas Eve) in exchange for helping out a bit, and, let’s face it, not trashing the place. When you get right down to it, the whole porridge thing is really blackmail – feed me or I’ll kill your livestock. Anyway, when I came of age, I was dying to get as far away from my parents as possible – lucky me, I stumbled upon a poor farm kid who would end up taking me all over the fucking world, and introduce me to the most awesome force the world has ever known: METAL! The following is a selection of entries from the journals I kept at that time. Read if you want; I don’t give a piss.
Part 1
Dec. 12
My parents are so full of shit. It’s way past time for me to go find a farm of my own, but what do they say? Oh, Winklebung, there are no farms; all the humans have moved to the city. Hello, there’s a farm less than a league from here! And then they try to feed me some shit about how I should stay away from those Wartooths; they’re bad news. Bad news my ass, anything that gets me away from here is good news in my book.
Dec. 13
I knew it; my parents were just blowing smoke. Ok, the barn and house are a little old, but you can tell they work on them, and they have a full dozen goats, all well fed. I’m gonna go spread some footprints around and take a nap – this hayloft is the shit.
Dec. 14
Hunh – no food. I was sure I left enough footprints; I guess I’ll try again. Something else weird, both the farmer and his wife are wearing long, black robes – do they actually work in those? Maybe that’s just their winter gear. They’re kind of cool, actually, like wraiths or executioners or something. More good news – they’ve got a kid. He’s wearing short pants and short sleeves in this whether – is he retarded? Anyway, kids = candy somewhere, so prospects are looking up.
Dec. 15
No food again, shit. No candy either. Maybe it’s been so long since they had a tomte they don’t know what to do – it would be so like my parents to tell other nisse to avoid these people because they don’t like the way they dress; like anyone who doesn’t wear bright, cheery colors is evil incarnate. Assholes. Well, I’m not a dick (most of the time); I just need to get their attention. Side note: they grain they feed the goats is pretty good; I just need to remember to get some before the goats slobber all over it.
Dec. 16
No food again, damnit! I’m gonna go leave some “clues” around the fireplace; lets see them ignore that!
Dec. 17
What. The. Fuck. A crust of bread? That’s it ?! Someone needs to teach these fucks a lesson – no way in Hell am I moving back in with my parents!
Dec. 18
Bread crusts again. Twats.
Dec. 19
More bread, but less crust this time – porridge, I want porridge, people!
Dec. 20
Ok, so, kind of fucked-up day. Turns out the kid has been leaving me the bread. The dad (I think he’s some kind of religious wacko – a monk? No, they can’t get married. A reverend?) caught him doing it and FLIPPED OUT. He lectured the kid about not finishing his own meals (your supposed to make me my own, kid, not give me your leftovers) and wasting food (it’s not a waste, asshole!). The kid told him about me, and the Rev starts beating him with a fucking stick! Not a switch, but a Big Ass Stick! Then he drags the kid inside, soaks the bread in salt water, and makes him eat it – fucked up. Someone needs to teach that asshole a lesson.
Dec. 21
Wow, the kid is covered in bruises. I never noticed before, but some look older than yesterday – has this happened before? That’s fucked up. No bread, but the kid left a handful of grain in a corner of the barn – good thinking kid, what we do is none of the Rev’s business. Someone really needs to kick that guy’s ass. I noticed the well rope was frayed, and I fixed it – drawing water is the kid’s job; seems like a lot of things around here are the kid’s job.
Dec. 22
So I tried to fuck with the Rev a little bit today and that didn’t really go as planned. I used a rope to trip him in the barn so that he fell face-first into a pile of goat shit – that part was awesome – but then he turns on the kid and blames him for leaving the rope out. Dragged him into the house by his ear and I haven’t seen him since – and no food today, because the kid didn’t have a chance to sneak me something before the Rev dragged him off. Crap.
Dec. 23
No food today – I saw the kid out and about, but maybe he thought the Rev was looking too closely. I sure as Hell hope the kid hasn’t decided to stop feeding me. I really don’t want to have to move back in with my parents, but this place is pretty fucking creepy – I guess I’ll wait to see what the kid comes up with for Christmas Eve.
Dec. 24
Nothing – I haven’t even seen any of the humans outside today. Fuck. Sorry kid, but this shit ain’t flying. I’ll go scout the house out, and if there’s nothing there, I’m leaving tomorrow.
Dec. 25
Fuck, just... fuck. When I went in the house last night, I found the Rev, his wife, and the kid, all doing some fucked-up religious thing. There were candles, and rope whips, and... shit. The Rev was preaching about Christmas being sinful and pagan (uh, shithead, you’ve got a faerie being in your barn, not an angel). They’ve all been fasting (the kid’s a freaking stick under that shirt) since the 23rd (that explains the no food, at least), and the Rev kept them up and praying until midnight. Finally, he lets the kid go, reminding him he had to be up at dawn to work. The kid didn’t say anything, just went to bed and cried himself to sleep (his “room” by the way, is a closet with a straw pallet on the floor – no toys at all, barely any clothes, just a bible and a wooden cross on the wall). It was the saddest freaking thing in the world.
I couldn’t help it; I made him a Christmas present to say thanks for trying; just a teddy bear, but to spite the Rev I added a little demon tail (I call him “Deddy Bear” – hehe, I crack me up). I put it under his pillow so Mrs. Rev wouldn’t see it when she woke the kid up at fucking dawn, then I went to pack up my shit so I could leave in the morning (and say goodbye to the goats). Well, morning comes and what do I find when I wake up? The kid’s entire serving of bread – with butter. He hadn’t eaten in over a day, and he gives me his breakfast (not to mention risks pissing off the Rev). And just to put the icing on the cake, he spent the day humming Christmas carols when he thought his parents couldn’t hear. This is probably the dumbest decision I’ve ever made, but I can’t help it – he’s just too fucking... I don’t know the word, but I can’t just leave. I mean, all the fucked-upness in the world has got to be better than my parents’, right?
Dec. 29
The kid’s name is Toki – why didn’t I know that before now?
Jan. 3
I wonder where the kid went? The goats were already fed when I got up today (he did set some grain aside for me at least). Come to think of it, he was pretty cheerful yesterday. Oh, crap, he didn’t run away without me, did he? YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME HERE YOU DICK!
Jan. 4
Oh, school, that’s where the kid is going. He leaves before dawn and gets back after dark, but he seems happy to go. I can’t blame him; maybe I’ll follow him sometime? It’s gotta be better than hanging around here (I would just chill with the goats, but the Rev tends them when Toki’s not here, damn it).
Jan. 10
I let the goats out of the barn after the Rev checked on them this morning (hehe) – you can’t blame Toki for this one, asshole!
Jan. 13
Holy shit! I followed Toki to school today (boring as Hell, but better than being around his parents, I suppose), but after that, I followed him to this music shop. And not just any music shop, but a black metal music shop! I have never in my life heard anything so... so... BRUTAL! Fuck the farm, when the kid’s at school, I’m hanging out here!
Jan. 24
Snargé’s been teaching Toki how to play guitar. He’s getting pretty good considering he can only stay for twenty minutes or so every day before he has to go home. He should ditch the farm and join a band... or the circus - anything that gets us the fuck away from here.
Part 2 (five years later)
June 11
Tomorrow’s the day! Not one more fucking summer of putting up with the Rev and his wife – we’re ditching this dump! I think Toki’s got it pretty well planned – he hid his schoolbooks under his “bed” to he can put his clothes and shit (he’s still got that demon bear I made him – can you believe that?) in his backpack without the Rev noticing, and he’s got more than enough money to get to Oslo from Lillehammer. I just hope he doesn’t spend too long saying goodbye to Snargé; I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve, but we sure as Hell better be out of Lillehammer by the time the Rev starts looking for the kid.
June 12
He did it! We’re free! Oslo is pretty fucking huge, but fuck that shit – I am not the same as my scared-ass parents – I can handle a fucking city!
June 29
Ok, so, it’s not quite as great as I thought it would be. The kid still hasn’t figured out a place to stay, so he’s been sleeping in alleys and shit. He can usually make enough with his guitar to buy a little food, but he’s been scavenging from garbage bins too – kinda gross.
July 7
Uh, getting pretty sick of the city by this point. Toki’s tried out for a few bands, but those assholes said he looked “too young”. He’s fucking fifteen and probably seen more brutal shit than you will ever see in your whole fucking life, fuckers! I think I might try and give the kid a few hints, see if we can’t get out of this place a little sooner.
July 29
This is it! This is fucking it! I’ve been crashing metal shows at night (Toki’s usually looking for a place to sleep by then, poor kid) and I saw a band last night that rocked my fucking eyebrows off! Literally! The bass line was so fucking powerful it shorted out the electrical system and started a massive fire. A mass of people were trampled to death, and the rhythm guitarist was impaled by a falling light fixture (hey, you gotta go sometime, right?). I don’t care what I have to do to make it happen, but Toki is going to be the new rhythm guitarist for Dethklok!
July 30
Success! I tracked down the remaining members of the band (three Americans and a snobby Swede) at a bar not ten blocks from the kid’s usual corner (he plays for coins when he doesn’t have an audition – he’d probably make more if he had an amp). I snagged a matchbook from there and dropped it in Toki’s guitar case. Six hours later, he had found them, played for them, and was piss drunk in their hotel room. Sometimes I wonder if the kid doesn’t have some magic of his own.
Aug. 2
This. Is. Awesome. We’re going to fucking America, with an awesome band that leaves booze lying around (the drummer also has an excellent stash of smoking herbs). Fuck that farm shit, this is the life!
Aug. 9
That was a Hell of a trip. I still have no idea how the humans’ flying machines stay in the air, but after I found where they store the roasted peanuts and drinks it was pretty damned awesome - although hiding in Toki’s bag for hours while they waited around the airport still kind of sucked. And holy shit, this city is so bizarre – even the trees look different (actually, I’m not even sure they are trees- they look like giant ferns) and it’s fucking hot, but there are half-naked human women everywhere! This place is fucking amazing!
Aug.15
I learned a new word today: dildos.
Aug. 21
It’s official – if Toki dies, I’m sticking with the drummer. He leaves cinnamon rolls and whiskey lying on the floor every night, and his place always smells like weed.
Sept. 1
Another new word: douche. Seriously, humans make some weird ass shit.
Sept. 7
Toki’s first live show with the band - they blew the roof off that place! Keep that shit up, kid, and you can go back and buy that whole fucking village!
Sept. 9
Going on tour – I’d originally planned to stay home (unguarded booze is the best kind), but after that last show, no way in Hell am I missing any of their concerts. Also, the tour bus kicks ass.
Oct. 14
Holy fuck, I’ve never seen anything like the show they put on last night. More casualties, but that just means they were fucking brutal.
Nov. 2
They’re talking about building a house further north – fuckin’ A.
Nov. 21
The house is happening– goodbye Miami heat (although I will miss the beach - and the bikinis).
Dec. 12
To Mordland we go – the house should be done by Christmas, and it’s camping in the tour bus until then.
Dec. 14
We have arrived in Mordland, and you could fit a hundred farms on this chunk of land. Spooky woods full of magic mushrooms, and a big-ass house (still under construction) – this is more like it.
Dec. 23
Getting a little worried here – the house still isn’t done, and I’m not sure the kid even remembers me. There’s so much crap on the floor, I can’t tell if he doing it on purpose or not – HE BETTER NOT HAVE FORGOTTEN ABOUT ME AFTER I’VE STUCK WITH HIM THIS LONG AND GOT HIM IN THIS FUCKING BAND, THE ASSHOLE!
Dec. 24
I short-sheeted the Swede’s bed to let off a little steam – it was fucking hilarious, but if that kid doesn’t remember to leave me some food tonight, I am seriously going to kill something.
Dec. 25
I knew it! I knew this kid was the one! Porridge with butter and cinnamon AND a beer – suck it, mom and dad! MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS!
END"Winklebung" Photo Illustration also by the author, catspook.
Toki’s dream had been long; long enough to partially convince him that it was reality, if only for a short while. That Skwisgaar truly had tripped up on stage during a solo and Toki had taken over; only to win over the crowd and be forever switched to lead guitar. Nathan had brought Toki flowers for his birthday and told him that he should start writing all the music for the band. Murderface did indeed trade Toki rooms so that he could have the basement all to himself and Pickles had...
...er...
The little Norwegian’s eyes shot open as he clung to his pillow, face down on his twin-sized bed. He bolted upright, his eyes darting around the dimly lit room. Glancing at the clock, he sighed. 6 A.M. He knew he wouldn’t be going back to sleep.
Yanking on a pair of blue, drawstring pants and a white, cotton t-shirt, Toki attempted to sort all of the images in his head; okay, it had been a dream...but parts of it had seemed so real. Particularly the end, where Pickles had...had...
He shivered visibly. Wowee. Sex dreams were rare for Toki and often included a domineering Skwisgaar; not that he really felt romantically about his lead guitarist, but...well, Toki was gay and Skwisgaar was attractive. Even if he was a huge dick. And the commonplace tension between them was usually worked out at night, in his dreams.
But last night had been something else entirely; a whirlwind of fantasy and a poignant, touching confession by the drummer. Followed by...
Stop thinking about it! Toki screamed at himself internally.
But what had Pickles said again? Something about Toki being talented...and beautiful...and...
...sexy?
The Norwegian nearly laughed. Dreams were silly. It hadn’t happened. And as Toki wandered out of his room and to the kitchen, all of last night’s make-believe seemed to slip away; all except the image of a redhead, clinging to him, pulling him close with his arms around Toki’s neck and whimpering...
The day began in a fairly normal fashion; Toki was, of course, the first up and one by one the others stumbled into the common room much later, half awake. The rehearsal planned for that day was scheduled at three o’clock and by the time Skwisgaar awoke, they all had a few hours to fuck around.
Toki lie on the couch, his eyes fixated on the hanging flat screen in the corner of the room. Nathan, Pickles and Murderface soaked in the hot tub while the Swede sat at Toki’s feet on the couch, fingering his guitar idly and quietly.
It was Nathan who spoke first, surprisingly enough.
“Do you guys, uh...ever have that dream, where, ya know. You fall.”
“Oh, yee-uh,” Pickles piped up, sipping his morning martini, “and ya can’t...ya know, hit the battam, er whatever?”
“Yeah, it’sch like...you can’t hit the bottom,” William added helpfully.
“No, no, no,” Nathan corrected, “you, like...jerk awake when you, uh...before you hit the bottom?”
“Dat’s what I meant, ya can’t-...”
“Ja ands yous kicks someones next tos you!” Skwisgaar interrupted, finally looking up.
Toki scoffed.
“Nots all ofs us has bigs fat lady ins bed wit’ us.”
The Swede scowled at Toki
“I’s bets you dreams abouts stupid stuff,” he fired back, tossing his blonde hair behind him rather majestically, “Or else you ams dreams abouts de gay sex!”
He snorted, but Toki’s eyes widened considerably. Damn his easy blush! Now his reddening skin was damning him and it was, of course, Pickles who caught on. After all, Toki’s sexual orientation had never been too inconspicuous; he’d been outed on several occasions with little defense to prove otherwise.
“Dood,” the drummer began, “it’s normal.”
Good ol’ Pickles. He always was the nicest and most considerate to Toki. Always calming Skwisgaar down to keep a fight from breaking out, or telling the others that a certain mishap in rehearsal truly wasn’t Toki’s fault (even when it was). It was no wonder that Toki dreamt about him, about Pickles cooing soft, soothing words in his ear and begging for the Norwegian’s thrusts to be deeper and...
This wasn’t helping his now bright red skin and Skwisgaar pointed.
“You DOS! Yous ams de little fag dat has dreams abouts-...”
“Shuts UP, Skwisgaar!” Toki screamed, jumping up. All fell silent in the room and it seemed that the younger guitarist’s heaving chest was the only movement.
Humiliation threatened to evoke tears in the corner of Toki’s icy eyes and so instead of allowing the situation to escalate, he chose the easier road: running away.
Pickles, Nathan, Skwisgaar and William watched as the over-sensitive crybaby darted from the room and back down the corridor from which he’d come this morning. They heard his door slam, cringing at the echo.
“Greet, nice jab, Skwisgaar,” Pickles huffed. He really just got tired of all their bickering. He was a pretty “Why can’t we all just get along?” kind of guy; mainly because he’d had enough of childish egomaniac-wars in Snakes ‘n Barrels. He was too old for this shit.
“Mes?!” Skwisgaar asked, widening his eyes to feign shock.
The redhead sighed, rising from the hot tub and grabbing a white towel to wrap around his waist. The Swede definitely wasn’t going to apologize; but maybe if Pickles talked to Toki, all would be right before practice. The least the two Scandinavians could do at this point was have a smooth, drama-free rehearsal. Was that so much to ask?
Rolling his eyes, the drummer followed Toki’s trail, ending at his door and knocking a few, lazy knocks.
“ ‘ey, Toki, lemme in.”
On the inside, Toki sat, hugging Deddy Bear and pouting on his bed. His head jerked up in surprise when he heard Pickles’ distinct voice at the door.
“...Pickle?”
“Yee-uh, dood, it’s me...c’man, Skwisgaar didn’t mean it.”
That seemed unlikely. But Toki wasn’t about to shut the drummer out and so he rose, unlocking and opening the door. Toki bowed his head, looking much like a beaten child: something he’d had practice resembling.
“I’s knows dat I ams stupids,” he nearly whispered, “Runnings away likes dat.”
Pickles sighed, entering and shutting the door behind him.
“Yer nat stupid,” he breathed, sitting on the bed, making himself comfortable, “Yer jes’...sensitive. Ya need ta nat let Skwisgaar get ta ya so much.”
Toki nodded, moving to place himself beside Pickles, staring at the floor.
“He did,” Pickles went on softly, “hit a nerve though, huh? Wit the, uh...dreamin’ thing?”
The Norwegian shrugged sheepishly and the drummer laughed.
“Shit, dood, I used ta have sex dreams all the time when I was yer age!”
Ugh. Saying that felt weird. What was Toki, his son or something? Then again, there were a good couple of decades of difference in their ages. It would only seem natural for him to want to give advice.
Toki looked up through his eyelashes, over at the redhead.
“Yous did?”
“Yee-uh, all the time.”
“...whats about bands mates?”
Pickles’ eyebrows raised.
“Like...sex dreams aboht other band mates?” Toki nodded, so the drummer shrugged. “Yee-uh. I think I had a dream aboht-...”
He stopped. Tony. Several times. Though those had been based off of actual events...
“Abouts who?” Toki prompted, his voice soft.
Pickles shook his head.
“Doesn’t matter. Anywee, who’re you dreamin’ aboht? Skwisgaar?”
He’d said it casually enough. But Toki’s expression read as if he’d just been accused of murdering a five-year-old.
“NEJ!” he cried. It was only half lying, as last night hadn’t been about Skwisgaar at all.
Pickles simply raised an eyebrow, waiting for the actual answer. Toki swallowed hard, looking away as his skin dared to blush once more.
“Its...was you,” he admitted, the back of his head now turned to Pickles completely as he stared at the wall.
Toki envisioned it perfectly now. He could remember it all. And as Pickles sat in awe, he was free to recollect the dream in its entirety, now that the drummer knew.
They had been in Toki’s room. But the walls weren’t scattered with the usual pictures of his parents, their eyes boring in on him as they always did. They’d been completely blank. White.
Toki had been on top of the drummer, under his sheets, teasing him, at first, before sliding his cock all the way inside of the older man. It hadn’t been about dominance, or muscle; it was just something Toki’d been given permission to do. Make love to Pickles.
The redhead had begged. Argued. Pleaded for it. And Toki had been acquiescing, only to please the one person in the world who he had true, unconditional respect for. The closest thing to a real father, a real caregiver, he’d ever have.
The Norwegian was jerked back into reality as Pickles’ voice softly rang through.
“...is dat true?”
Toki finally turned to meet Pickles’ emerald gaze. He nodded, unable to speak; he feared his voice cracking. The redhead chuckled.
“Issat really what you’d call a ‘fantasy’? I mean...Ah’m old, ‘n-...”
Toki widened his eyes, interjecting rather dramatically.
“Nos, you ams secks-sies!”
Pickles’s jaw nearly dropped. He hadn’t been told he was sexy, by anyone who wasn’t a rabid fan, in...years. He’d doubted that Toki even knew what that meant.
“Sexy?” he repeated, only to see Toki nod with sharpness.
“Hm,” Pickles mused. He stood up, heading for the door. He didn’t appear weirded out; perhaps he felt it wise to avoid flattery from young, attractive Norwegian men. Whatever the reason, Toki needed reassurance.
“Pickle?” he called timidly. The drummer had opened the door, but turned over his shoulder to answer back.
“Yee-uh?”
“You...ams nots hates me, ja?”
The redhead laughed softly, shaking his head. He wasn’t going to encourage the younger man... but it was at least nice to feel desired every now and then.
“Nah, kid. A’course I don’t hate ya.”
Toki beamed.
“Goods. I’s going to takes a naps now!”
Pickles bit his lip, stepping out into the hall. With one last thought, he turned back, leaning into the room a bit to mutter.
“Sweet dreams, kid.” He shut the door and Toki listened as the sound of his footsteps trailed away, echoing through the halls.
Cuddling up under his sheets, Toki sighed, allowing his eyes to slip closed. If Pickles didn’t mind...he thought he would attempt to access that dream again. Or perhaps another. Any dream that would have Toki curled up with the one man who rendered him safe and quiet.