FIC: I Never Say No To Beer (Nathan/Murderface, Nathan/Pickles; R)
TO: hidden_ferret
FROM: skwisguarded
Title: I Never Say No To Beer
Summary: Murderface reflects on his first encounter with Nathan, and why he puts up with Pickles.
Pairing: Nathan/Pickles, unrequited Murderface/Nathan
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, rape, alcohol abuse.
Timeline: Unspecified but during the same period as the show, with flashbacks to high school.
Ugh. Not again. I hate seeing him with you like that. Why does it have to be him, anyway? Is it because I'm fat? Because there's hair on my butt? I'm the fat one, I'm the ugly one. It's not brutal enough for you. No. You had to go nuts over Pickles.
Look at him, fawning all over you like that. You just hold him up whenever he gets drunk. When was the last time you cared if I collapsed in a corner, huh? Would you clean me up if I puked on myself like he does? What if I drank and went bald, then would you give a damn? I'm just the bass player. No one cares about me. Not anymore, anyway.
-
I was minding my own business, just hanging out under the bleachers staring at the cheerleaders' boobs. That's when they got me. It was four guys and I was high on weed, they dragged me off inside into the locker room. Punched one in the nuts though. Oh yeah.
They shoved me over one of the benches, one of them sat on me and I could hardly breathe as the slatted wood cut into my stomach and my face was pressed to the wet and stinking floor. I started kicking and punching and yelling, but they got my pants off and my hands tied to my ankles and shoved a sock into my mouth to shut me up. Bastards.
"Okay Pete," one of them said, "you wanna be part of the team? Then you gotta ream him!" The asshole laughed at his stupid joke, and I started to panic. Stupid jocks and their stupid initiations. Whoever Pete was, he'd do it.
"Aw, man! Jake, that is the nastiest ass I have ever seen!" one of them said.
"Dude, where did you find this guy?"
"Hey Petey, don't forget the vaseline!"
Their taunts didn't matter to me. They kind of faded to the background when I heard the zipper being undone. Then there were cheers and shouted encouragements, and I was screaming around that smelly sock because that was the worst pain I'd ever felt in my entire life.
It didn't end, either. They cheered him on and laughed at me as I screamed, even though I wanted to shut up. The bastards didn't deserve to hear me scream, but I couldn't stop. I can't remember anything but pain, pain and the greenish mouldy stuff caked on the concrete where the bench was bolted to the floor.
Then your voice, deep and gravelly and loud, shouting, "HEY!"
Next thing I knew you were standing over me, there was a crack and the jock flew out of me and hit the floor. I wasn't the only one screaming then. He was howling in pain, someone was screaming that you'd broken his nose, and you were shouting at them for doing this at all. You were like some kind of animal, roaring and attacking and beating them down like they were nothing. Your fists kept flying, and I raised my head and watched as they left the room covered in blood. I felt some kind of satisfaction then. Because it wasn't your blood and it wasn't mine, you'd beaten it out of them and they deserved it.
You untied me, but you didn't look at me like you pitied me or anything. You grabbed my pants and shoved them at me, then you turned around and let me have some kind of dignity while I put them back on.
"You wanna get a beer or something?" you asked.
I don't know why I agreed, I didn't know you. You could have something worse planned for me. You were wearing the same letter jacket as the other guys, the ones who'd done it in the first place. I guess I thought it was better to stick with you than risk running into them again. It was a pretty good plan, because they were waiting. That was the first time I saw you glare at anyone. It was pretty scary.
You drove us to your place, jumped out of the car and were gone five minutes. You returned with a sixpack, stowed it in the back, and drove us to a vacant lot. Over beers, we talked.
"Nathan Explosion," you introduced yourself.
"William Murderface," I replied.
"Murderface. Cool."
We talked about stuff after that. You thought it was cool that I played bass. You thought it was really cool that I liked AC/DC. I told you your hair looked kind of metal, and you said you were growing it. We talked about Black Sabbath and Anthrax and how you wanted to be in the biggest band in the world.
That night, drinking together in the car, that's when I decided I wanted to be in that band with you.
-
So I've been in every single band you've ever started and you still care more about Pickles than you do about me. I'm just the bass player. I don't matter. You think it's funny when he falls over, you just pick him up and you give him another drink. I bet you like it when he drinks so much that he can't stand up, that way you get an excuse to hold him up and be all faggy in public.
I'm not jealous. No way. I'm not a fag or anything, it's just really annoying watching you and Pickles pretend that you're not doing anything with each other. You probably don't even know that I know, because you never pay me any attention. I just go in and play my parts and every now and then I go onstage and play bass with my dick. That's all I do.
"Hey Murderface," you say, "Pickles and I are gonna go, uh, hang out and stuff."
"FINE!" I reply. It's not like you need me around. You never needed me. The thing that I hate most is that I always needed you. I could leave. I could pack my bag and I could go live in a Civil War house and concentrate on Planet Piss. But I won't, because maybe tomorrow you'll ask me if I want to get a beer or something.
Hey, I never say no to beer.