Drabbles
Pickles couldn’t recall a time in his life he had gone to the midnight showing of a movie. But Toki had begged, whined, wheedled, and possibly tricked him into going. And after digging out some hoodies (for disguise, as each were unwilling to shave their facial hair), throwing some excuse to the rest of the band, and then sneaking past the Klokateers (which was damn hard to do), Pickles found himself waiting in a huge line of stupid, obnoxious teenagers. Toki had made a beeline for the concessions as soon as they got inside, leaving Pickles to awkwardly guard their spot in line. Toki made it back to him just as the line started moving forward into the theater, mouth moving a mile a minute with conversation, but Pickles can’t hear him over the crowd. They push into their seats (“Somewheres near de backs!” Toki insists) as more people file past them, knocking into their legs. Now Pickles is pissed.
“Toki, why the fuck did we come here?” Pickles doesn’t even bother to whisper; the noise from the crowd has reached a dull roar in the enclosed space of the theater. And no one seemed to recognize them so far.
“For Harry Potters! I tolds you dis.” Toki ignores Pickles’ annoyance, completely focused on one of his various boxes of candy.
He’s groaning as the lights start to dim, rubbing his forehead. What the fuck had Toki talked him into? Seeing a kid’s movie with a bunch of regular jackoffs, that’s what. At midnight, when he could be at home getting wasted like a proper adult.
He started at the feeling of a hand slipping into his. He looks over at Toki and can just make out a smile on his candy-stained lips. Pickles smiles, shaking his head as Toki squeezed his hand. All that annoyance had disappeared, lost in Toki’s sugary smile.
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Toki tried to walk casually through the living room, but the effect was ruined by the two Klokateers, arms laden with bags and boxes, who followed him. They just had to walk in front of the TV.
“Hey, Toki. What is that?” He paused, weighing the routes of escape in his head. Lie, or pretend to ignore Nathan. Lie.
“Uhh, I don’ts….whats you talkings about? I don’t knows whats you talkings about. Okay, sees you!” He almost made it to the hallway.
“What the fuck are you talking about? I can see it. What are you holding? Toki, goddamnit, did you bring home another animal?” A collective groan from the group sitting on the couch.
“C’mahn Toki, you know what happens when you bring home pets.” Well, it wasn’t his fault the cat died, or the hamster got out of its cage, thank you very much.
“Oh, but looks at her! She ams so sweet!” He shifted the bundle of fur in his arms, holding out a little black bunny. “She won’ts bites or nothings!” To prove his point, he plopped the rabbit down on Murderface’s lap. Murderface was, needless to say, indignant.
“Hey! HEY! Get thisch thing outta here!” Toki had wedged himself between Murderface and Skwisgaar on the couch and was stroking the bunny’s soft head.
“Looks, she likes you Moidaface! Pets her, she likes dat.” Murderface grumbled, hesitantly reaching down to put one finger on the bunny’s head. The rest of the band had all turned towards the rabbit, bending over each other and their beer to look at the little thing. Murderface, although he would rather die than admit it, rather liked animals. Just as he had grown used to softly petting the bunny, Toki pulled her out of his lap and passed her to Skwisgaar. Murderface felt a sting of disappointment drop like a weight in his stomach as the rabbit was carefully passed from lap to lap by Toki.
The bunny had grown less interesting after her initiation into the hearts of Dethklok, and the band members had one by one wandered off on their own. Murderface and Toki remained on the couch, Toki completely enamored by the bunny (he had named it Rachel. Nathan failed to see the humor in it). He spoke in Norwegian to her, holding her delicately and kissing the tops of her ears. He put her down on the couch, watching her hop to Murderface. At the barrier of his legs, she stopped and sat, staring up at the bass player, ears twitching at the soft laughs from Toki. Murderface stared down at the rabbit, carefully reaching out to pet her.
“You are pretty cute, aren’tcha?” Rachel sniffed at his leg, ears twitching in response.
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Mordhaus was always cold, no matter how hard the enormous furnaces worked. It was especially cold in the winter, when cold air seeped in through the stone walls. On the unbearably cold nights, Pickles found himself in Toki’s bed, both stripped down to underwear and piling blanket after quilt over them. They knotted together, cold hands sending shivers up their spines. Sometimes there was sex, sometimes there wasn’t. Sometimes they talked or listened to music, sometimes they just lay in stillness, listening to each others’ breath.
Sometimes Toki’s anxiety kept him awake for hours. Pickles would lay, chest against his back, legs fitted together, and murmur anything into Toki’s ear; stories he knew by heart, stories he made up on the spot, song lyrics.
Sometimes Pickles studied Toki’s hands, holding them up in the shaft of moonlight streaming through the window, absorbing the feeling of them, the creases, bumps, bruises, cuts. Pickles felt as if he were holding a piece of priceless artwork. These were billion-dollar hands, even if they weren’t insured for Skwisgaar’s ten billion.
Sometimes Toki just stared at Pickles, counting his freckles, running his fingers over the lines of his face, touching the piercings in his eyebrows. Sometimes he slipped a hand under the covers and grasped Pickles’ hand in his. Sometimes he was overcome with desire, sometimes he just enjoyed the sparkle in Pickles’ eyes.
All those quilts and knit blankets, most of which Toki’s mother had made for him, made their time together secret, safe. Shut away from the rest of the band. It felt like time was orbiting around them, speeding up and slowing down in perfect synchronization of their movements. Under those quilts, they were totally lost in each other, forgetting their names, their occupations, their reputations. Just soft, quiet, dark stillness.