Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“And then he asked… get this. He asked me if I can play three against four,” Pickles giggled. “I mean, dude, that’s… how fuckin’ easy is that?”

Nathan snorted. “What an idiot.”

“Right?” he grinned.

He had half a mind to take another chip from the bowl that his lead singer had protectively moved closer to himself, just to piss him off. But the thought of eating made him strangely nauseous, despite how empty his stomach felt.

“I bet you a million fuckin’ dollars,” Pickles continued the conversation instead, “that he learned what a polyrhythm is the day before and was tryna impress me or somethin’.”

“Heh, yeah. Man, our fans are so stupid.” Nathan downed a big gulp of his beer. “I mean, how desperate can you be? That’s kinda embarrassing, honestly.”

Pickles shrugged, smiling. “Yeh. Pretty fuckin’ embarrasin’.”

He started to take another sip from his own drink as well, only to find it empty. With a frown, he shook the bottle, hoping it would magically produce more booze. It didn’t. He sighed, mournfully pushing the empty bottle aside. This was it for today, then. He should have drank slower.

“You good?” Nathan asked. “You look, uh.” He struggled for a moment. “Sad,” he finally decided.

Pickles quickly fixed his expression. “What? Dude, that’s my face. Do you need me to get your glasses?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

He just flipped him off in response, fake grin perfectly in place despite how awful he still felt about what had happened just a few days ago. He had to admit, drunkenly trying to play the drums and breaking his index finger when he collapsed right into his kit hadn’t exactly been one of his better moments. Neither had the very embarrassing things he had said to his lead singer and explained away as drunken jokes the next day. And even less so the spectacular return of some long repressed behaviors after the bender had somehow left him feeling worse than his stupid brother’s shitshow of a wedding. Usually, getting drunk and high made it better. It shut up the voices, it made everything much simpler, it allowed him to let himself go and to feel things that weren’t terrible. Or at the very least, it distracted him with other ways of feeling like shit. But now he was constantly checking the placement of his wristbands for the first time in years and the gun in his bedside drawer was still loaded with the desperate longing for relief.

The combination of all of these less than fortunate circumstances had led to the bold decision of trying to cut down on the alcohol. Again. He figured it was better than going cold turkey. He didn’t need to give up on it altogether, his health was long beyond salvation, anyway. All he really wanted was to make sure certain things didn’t happen again. He already regretted his decision.

Across the table, Nathan wordlessly took one of the remaining beer bottles, opened it and pushed it towards him. It had become a habit, one that Pickles usually appreciated. Whenever his drink was empty, it didn’t take long for his bandmate to notice and hand him a new one. It was one of those little gestures, those small, individual things that everyone in the band had begun doing at some point, betraying that they all cared more about each other than they liked to let on. If he was being honest, it was pretty endearing.

Pickles tried not to let his wistful gaze linger on the green glass for too long. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“Nah, thanks. I’m good.” He hoped his smile didn’t look as forced as it felt.

“You…” Nathan stared at him. One second, two, three. “What.”

Pickles shrugged. “Yeh. Had ‘nough for, uh, for the night.”

The singer blinked. “You had like… five or something.”

“Six,” he corrected. It took every ounce of willpower he had to slowly slide the bottle back towards his bandmate despite the way his mouth watered.

“That’s not even half of-” Nathan interrupted himself, furrowing his brow, and if Pickles hadn’t known any better, he would have thought he looked concerned. “Wait. You’re keeping count? You never keep count. You, uh… Seriously, you okay?”

For some reason, the repeated question rubbed him the wrong way. “Sure,” he stated simply, pretending he wasn’t getting increasingly irritated.

Now, the singer put down his own drink and turned to fully face him, eyeing him with open suspicion. The silence stretched unpleasantly and Pickles found himself wishing he had just gone to bed about half an hour ago, when Murderface had been the last of his other bandmates to retreat to his room. His leg bounced, his fingers drumming a random rhythm along to its beat on the table. He supposed it was too late to leave now.

“You don’t look okay,” Nathan finally said. “Actually, you look like shit.”

Pickles rolled his eyes. “Dude, Nat’n, will you get off my back?”

He didn’t. If anything he seemed more worried now. So much for not showing interest, care or intervening in each other’s personal lives. The bouncing in his leg got faster, the steady rhythm long gone.

“I’m just saying,” the singer continued, his deep voice rough as always. “You’re, uh… You’re kinda weird these days.”

“I’m always weird.”

Now it was Nathan’s turn to roll his eyes. “Weirder.”

Pickles wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans before inevitably continuing his senseless drumming. His eyes darted around the room, desperately searching for a distraction. The beer bottle flirted with him from the corner of his eye. He ignored it and found hope in the game on one of the counters that they hadn’t bothered to return to the living room last night.

“Hey, wanna play Scrabble?”

“Scrabble with two people is stupid.” Nathan paused, then narrowed his eyes. “You’re dodging the question.”

Pickles shrugged. “You didn’t ask one.”

He was already in the process of getting up and fetching the game anyway, when a strong grasp suddenly closed around his arm, effectively stopping him in his tracks. He froze. The prickling under his skin got worse, like a million little bugs dancing on his nerves.

“Nat’n,” he warned. “Let go.”

“What’s going on?” his gravelly voice asked instead.

Pickles tried to free himself from the unrelenting grip, but he didn’t stand the slightest chance. Stupid Nathan and his stupid strength. He turned around, bristling, and opted to stare daggers into the singer’s skull instead.

“There’s nothin’ goin’ on, okay?” he hissed. “Now will you fuckin’ let go of me?”

Nathan just glared back at him. “No.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.”

Heart racing an angry beat, Pickles breathed out as much of his agitation as he could and switched to a different approach. Anything to stop this dumb interrogation. He wiped the anger from his face and let a carefully fabricated, provocative grin creep onto his lips.

“Wait, so you’re tellin’ me you wanna hold hands for the rest of the night? That’s kinda gay.”

To his absolute dismay, it didn’t work. Nathan just continued to stare at him, his grip still strong as ever. Worst of all, his cheeks began to flush the slightest pink.

“Uh…,” was all that left his lips.

Shit. Pickles felt his grin slip and the heat rush to his own face. He quickly averted his gaze. Surely, that was only the alcohol tinting his bandmate’s face. Or it was just really embarrassing for the singer to hear something like that from him, now that his recent drunken fiasco had revealed that he possibly wasn’t entirely joking when he said these things. Nathan liked women and only women. He had made that a point often enough. Nathan was as straight as they came. Otherwise, Pickles would have made his move years ago. Otherwise, Nathan wouldn’t have been comfortable with carrying him to bed after he had told him he looked pretty and passed out in his own vomit. Right? The beer bottle was glowing in the dim light as if it wore a halo.

“Dude, will you just let go?” Pickles tried again, failing to hide the anger in his voice.

“Only if tell me what the hell is wrong with you,” Nathan growled.

Pickles winced. Now that was a sentence he had heard often enough. He’d heard it from his father upon finding him collapsed in the living room after having his first beer at six years old. He’d heard it from his mother when he refused to wear the pretty dress she had picked out for his birthday. He’d heard it from his brother after cutting his long, red curls into a messy shag with his craft scissors the day after. He’d heard it from his classmates when he fucked up a presentation because he was too high to remember what he was supposed to say. He’d heard it from his closeted bandmates in Snakes N’ Barrels when they found him making out with a male groupie. He heard it from himself every time he looked in the mirror.

Something inside of him snapped. In one rapid, violent motion he tore his arm from Nathan’s grip. The singer blinked, taken aback.

“What’s wrong with me?” Pickles hated the way his voice cracked. “What’s wrong with me?! What’s wrong with you, fuckin’ douchebag? What do you want from me?!”

“Seriously?” The surprise on his bandmate’s face quickly morphed into rage. “I wanna fucking help you, you stupid idiot!”

“I didn’t ask for your fuckin’ help!”

An angry growl tore from Nathan’s throat. “Fine!” he spat. “Don’t tell me, then! Fuck.” He abruptly got up, pushing his chair back with a bit too much force. “I’m going to bed.”

“Nate-”

“Good night, Pickles.”

And with that, he stomped away, making it a point to slam the door on his way out. The silence was deafening. The kitchen suddenly felt warped, too big and too small at the same time, the ceiling too high and the counters too close and the steel table way too crowded with beer bottles. Pickles’ gaze zeroed in on the drink Nathan had opened for him just a few minutes earlier. The drops of condensation glimmered on the green glass. The bittersweet smell was filling the entire room. He felt his fingers twitch, his racing mind coming to a screeching halt, all of his attention now on the offending drink. He had already fucked up enough this evening. At this point, he figured it didn’t really matter anymore. He just wanted to dull his stupid emotions a little. He could still drink less tomorrow.

Pickles held out for a whole of five seconds before his fingers closed around the cool neck of the bottle and the familiar taste of booze soothed his thoughts. The shame and disappointment over his failure faded two bottles later.

“-ckle.”

He groaned, eyes glued shut. There was a dull ringing in his ears. His body felt impossibly heavy. He was sinking through the mattress, his head underwater.

“Pickle.” The voice slowly dragged him towards semi-consciousness, no matter how hard he tried to disappear into the black again.

“What,” he whined. It sounded weirdly muffled to his own ears.

“Cans you takes us to the instruments libraries?” Toki. That was Toki. “Skwisgaar wants to buys a new pianos.”

“You means guitars.” Huh. Skwisgaar was here, too.

Lids heavy, Pickles managed to open his eyes just enough to see the blurry image of the two Scandinavians standing in his doorway. It was way too bright in here. There was a pit in his stomach and a nauseating tightness in his throat.

“Yeh,” he managed, deciding not to question why Skwisgaar needed another guitar and why Toki needed to come with to buy it. The nausea rose. “Just… gimme a-”

He turned over just in time to empty the contents of his stomach onto the floor instead of his sheets. Neither Toki nor Skwisgaar batted an eye. This was nothing out of the ordinary, after all. Pickles wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went through the agonizing process of sitting up, his thin brown blanket still draped over his shoulders. His head protested with a heavy, pulsing pain. It took a few seconds for the room to stabilize. His bandmates patiently waited.

“Lemme just,” Pickles drawled, his tongue heavy, “get dressed real quick.”

“Okis,” Toki smiled.

He shrugged off the blanket and reached for the pile of clothes he had thrown onto the ground the night before. From the corner of his eye, he could see Toki’s smile fade and Skwisgaar’s brow furrow. He paused, turning to see what could possibly be bothering them. He wasn’t exactly happy to find that they looked strangely worried. Why did everyone look at him like that these days?

“Dude, what?” he sighed.

Toki was just staring at him, eyes wide and lips pressed into a frown.

Skwisgaar crossed his arms. “Pickle, you ams bleedings.”

Oh. He had kind of forgotten about that.

“Oops,” he grinned, forcing the most lighthearted tone he could conjure. “I think I, uh… I think I fell, yesterday. Into some… glass. Y’know, cuz I was… really drunk…”

Pickles hastily wiped the small trickles of blood from his arm where some of the wounds had reopened. As quickly as he could with his body still feeling like it was made of liquid lead, he grabbed his sweatbands from his nightstand and pulled them up over the angry red marks. He avoided looking at the guitarists, instead busying himself with getting dressed while trying not to throw up a second time. His head was pounding. Maybe he should have another drink. Hair of the dog and whatnot.

“Ams you okays?” Toki asked, his voice quiet and about an octave higher than usual.

Rolling his eyes, Pickles grabbed the almost empty bottle of vodka he had left on the floor next to his bed at some point and unscrewed the cap. He tossed it to the ground to be cleaned up along with his puke at some point later in the day. Or tomorrow.

“Will you guys stop askin’ me that?” he complained. “I’m fine. What happened to mindin’ your own fuckin’ business?”

A healthy sip of what was left of the vodka made his nausea intensify for a moment, before finally, it slowly began to subside. A familiar, welcome sense of calm washed over him and he breathed a sigh of relief. His throbbing headache lost a bit of its intensity.

“Sorrys,” Toki said meekly.

The list Pickles had left on his nightstand after drunkenly scribbling onto it the night before was resentfully demanding his attention. He stared at the stupid piece of paper. The tally marks in the shakily drawn calendar glared back at him accusingly. It was Wednesday and he was already well past the limit he had set for the week. Defeated, he let the now empty bottle drop to the ground and added another line in black marker.

“What ams you doings?” Skwisgaar asked from the other side of the room.

Pickles frowned. “Nothin’.”

The feeling of irritation that seemed to be a constant companion these days flared up again. Scowling, he scrawled over the entire row for the week, hiding the shameful amount of marks behind layers of black. He pressed so hard that the marker broke through the paper right in the middle of Thursday. This sucked. He just barely resisted the urge to simply crumple up the whole list, instead getting up with a fake smile plastered on his face.

“Alright, fuck this. Let’s go buy some guitars or whatever.”

Chapter Text

Tick. Pickles blinked. Tock. He scratched his beard and readjusted one of the dreads that had slipped from his scalp. Tick. He had never noticed that the living room sofas were almost the same shade of red as his hair. Tock. Maybe he should put on another movie. Tick. Or play one of the arcade games. Tock. He didn’t move. Tick.

“Ugh, shut up,” he groaned.

With nothing else within reach, he hurled his Dethphone towards the clock on the wall. It did the trick, the spikes shattering the glass and locking the clockhands in place. Now it would forever be 4:36 AM. Or PM, too, he supposed. At least until someone fixed the thing. Which was probably tomorrow. Pickles took a sip of his cocktail, frowning at the distinct lack of alcohol in its sweet taste. Whoever had invented mocktails was a sick bastard.

With the clock now silenced, it was unbelievably quiet. Too quiet. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so aware of his tinnitus. His own heartbeat was hammering wildly in his ears. Had his breathing always been this loud? As he listened to the sounds of his own existing, he decided that the silence was actually worse.

With a frustrated sigh, Pickles let himself fall backwards onto the sofa. The emptiness in his chest pulsed painfully as some invisible force was trying to condense his heart into a diamond. Sullenly, he realized that the ceiling wasn’t even spinning. He was so used to the ceiling spinning. Everything was too clear, too present. Too real. He’d completely lost any track of time, but thanks to his list he was at least 85% sure that he had to be on day five of semi-successfully drinking less. It fucking sucked. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep and he constantly felt about ready to kill the next person that looked at him weird. And that stupid dull ache in his chest just wouldn’t go away. Since he’d drunken on an empty stomach, the few beers he’d allowed himself today had quickly given him a buzz, but unfortunately, it had faded just as quickly. Maybe he should have set the limit higher.

“Uh… Pickles?”

He flinched hard and sat up decidedly too quickly. Despite the lack of a hangover, a flash of sharp pain raced through his skull. He supposed withdrawal and hangovers were awfully similar in a lot of ways. He still had a clear preference.

From the hallway behind the open door, Murderface stared at him in confusion, dressed in nothing but his terrible confederate flag boxers. “The fuck are you doing?” His lisp was thick with sleep.

Pickles blinked. “What’re you doin’?” he countered.

“Taking a piss,” the bassist grumbled.

He skeptically raised an eyebrow. “You do know the bathroom’s in the other hallway, right?”

His bandmate nodded, stifling a yawn. “Saw the light was, uh, on. Here.”

Pickles slowly took another sip of his shitty, nonalcoholic drink, just to seem occupied. “Yeh. It is.”

The bassist nodded again. “Yeah. Uh. Why?”

“I’m…” He looked around helplessly, then pointed at the flat screen suspended in the middle of the room. “Watchin’ a movie.”

“The TV’s off,” Murderface supplied helpfully.

“I was watchin’ a movie?”

The bassist hummed. He was still standing there, looking at him. If Pickles hadn’t broken the clock, it would be ticking loudly right now.

“Are you… y’know,” Murderface made an unidentifiable gesture, “feeling alright?”

He was getting real sick of that question. “I am,” he replied and if his voice sounded a bit too insistent that was just because everyone kept bothering him.

The bassist nodded. “Okay, good, good. It’s just, uh.” He pointed towards his cocktail. “You’re spilling your drink.”

Pickles looked down. His hand was shaking just enough for some of the orange liquid to slop out of the glass. A few drops had gathered at the bottom and were dripping onto the red carpet below.

“Oh.” He watched, unable to control the movement. “I guess I’m… I guess I’m really tired, huh.”

If Murderface called his bluff, he was kind enough not to point it out. “You should probably go to sleep,” he lisped instead.

Pickles set his glass down onto the coffee table in front of him. “Yeh, I guess I should… go to sleep.”

“Yeah, you should.”

“Yeh.”

Neither of them moved. The imaginative clock ticked on.

Murderface cleared his throat. “Do you want me to wait, or…?” He trailed off.

Pickles shrugged. “Nah, that’s alright. You go on ahead.”

“Are you sure?” the bassist asked hesitantly. “It’s… dark. In the hallways. Really, uh, dark. Don’t want you getting scared.” He laughed awkwardly.

This had to be the most obvious attempt at supervision that anyone had ever tried to pull of.

“Murderface?” Pickles said, trying his best to ignore that awful feeling of agitation that was beginning to make its way through his nervous system again.

“Yeah?”

“Go to the fuckin’ bathroom.”

“Okay.”

The bassist lingered for another moment, then he finally turned to leave.

“Night, Pickles,” he lisped. Somehow, he sounded a little dejected.

“G’night,” Pickles sighed.

About half an hour later, he fell asleep on the couch, too lethargic to actually go through the effort of moving to his bed.

He woke up to the sound of hushed voices. Another thing that was becoming a strangely common occurrence lately. Then again, he had fallen asleep in the living room, so he supposed it was kind of his own fault this time.

“I dunno, he’s just,” he heard Nathan’s rumbling voice, “being really weird.”

Someone hummed in agreement. So they were talking about him now. Great.

“Ja, he ams always sittings there with this looks on his face,” Skwisgaar whispered.

“Likes he ams not evens there,” Toki added.

“Ja, likes thats! It ams kind of creepys.”

“And he’s so… jumpy all the time.” Nathan again.

“Did you notice he’s barely eating?” Murderface lisped. “He didn’t even want a slice of my pizza yesterday! I mean, who doesn’t want pizza?”

“He ams drinkings much more lessers, too,” Skwisgaar said quietly.

“Yeah, that’s the weirdest thing about all of this,” Nathan agreed. “I mean, what the fuck? He’s keeping count! He doesn’t do that. Ever!”

There was a pause.

“Do you think he’s, y’know…” Murderface began, apparently too embarrassed to finish the sentence.

“Whats?” Toki pressed.

Pickles could just barely hear the bassist hemming and hawing. “Depressed,” he finally concluded, whispering the word as if it were a curse.

Yep, that was about as much as he could take. “Are you guys fuckin’ talkin’ about me?” Pickles raised his voice as he strained to push himself up into a sitting position.

Four heads quickly turned, four pairs of eyes settling on him with the look of a toddler who had just gotten caught stealing a cookie from the forbidden jar.

“Oh, Pickles, uh,” Nathan stammered, “you’re awake. Hi.”

“We were talking about… uuuuhhhh.” Murderface’s eyes darted around the room, searching for a scapegoat. “Steven,” he chose, the name thick with his lisp.

Pickles blinked slowly, utterly exhausted by this whole ordeal. “Okay? Who’s Steven?” he asked flatly.

“Oh, Stevens ams Toki’s… pet,” Toki chimed in, “uh… lions. Pet lions.”

If he wasn’t so unbelievably tired and, frankly, in such an awful mood, he might have laughed. “You got a pet lion,” he sighed instead.

“Yes?” For someone with an alleged pet lion, Toki sounded very unsure of himself.

Pickles grabbed the glass he had left on the table yesterday and downed the rest of the – unfortunately still nonalcoholic – cocktail. The fruit acid burned in his empty stomach. His hands were still shaking just as badly as last night. He ignored it and got up, his muscles painfully cramped from the uncomfortable position he had slept in.

“Okay, guys, guys.” Pickles staggered for a moment. His knees really shouldn’t feel this weak. “I dunno what’s goin’ on with all of you, but I’m good. I keep tellin’ you. I’m fine.”

He began making his way over to the group, trying his best to look more put together than he felt. God, he just wanted a drink. Even a single beer would make him feel infinitely better right now. Everything was a blur, but unfortunately not in the fun way. He didn’t even have the slightest idea how late it was. A glance at the clock told him 4:36. Right. Maybe this whole thing had been a bad idea. Maybe he should just give up on it and start drinking like normal again.

“Look, I promise, I’m fine, alright?” he repeated.

“Bullshit,” Nathan growled. Pickles stopped. “I mean, look at you, you’re like a… like a newborn fawn. With sleep deprivation and, and Parkinson’s.”

“And depression,” Murderface lisped quietly.

There was the anger again, taking over his entire body in less than a second. A hot, gurgling stream of blinding rage, racing through his veins. Pickles clenched his jaw, skin suddenly prickling with energy, and stumbled the rest of the way towards his bandmates.

“Alright, you fuckin’ douchebags,” he snarled. “I’ve had enough of this crap. You do not get to tell me how you think I’m doin’! I am fuckin’ fine and I don’t need-”

“Guys!”

Everyone stopped moving. Pickles lowered the fist he didn’t even remember raising, breathing heavily. Almost in unison, they all turned towards the door.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Knubbler asked, hands on his hips and robotic eyes flaring an angry red.

“We’re having a band meeting,” Nathan grumbled.

Their producer raised his brows, obviously not buying it. “Alright, well, your ‘band meeting’,” he sighed, making sure to put the words in air quotes, “can wait. We have a recording session scheduled. For half an hour ago.”

Murderface cleared his throat. “Y’know, we’re kind of in the middle of something here-”

“Babe, I don’t care, okay? We’re losing valuable time here.”

Pickles nodded, shaking off his anger and managing to replace it with a well-practiced, lazy smile. “Yeh, no, he’s right, this is, uh, really important. We’ve been sittin’ on this album for months. Like fuckin’ assholes.”

He didn’t exactly feel like sitting through an entire recording session right now, but anything was better than being interrogated by his stupid bandmates.

Knubbler gave him a weird look, apparently not having expected support from him of all people. “What Pickles said,” he agreed, anyway. “We need to get this record done. The fans are going crazy.”

“Ugh, fucks ‘em,” Skwisgaar mumbled.

Their producer ignored his comment. “Into the studio, all of you. Now.” He clapped his hands. “Come on.”

There was a lot of complaining and whining, but eventually, all of them were following Knubbler through Mordhaus and grumpily filing into the sacred room. Pickles let himself slump onto the sofa as far to the left as he could in an attempt to make it obvious that he was not up for any further conversation. To his relief, the rest of the band seemed to get the hint and left him alone, instead focusing on the recording. Pickles tuned out the noise of their bickering, way too tired to contribute any feedback or ideas, anyway. He stared at the floor, the red lights from Knubbler’s setup blurry in the corners of his field of view. The tightness in his chest grew.

At some point – he honestly couldn’t say if it was minutes or hours into the session – someone got up and returned with a few bottles of beer. Pickles absentmindedly took one, making a mental note to add a mark to his list later on. The scent was like heaven. Or hell, rather, since he was pretty sure heaven actually fucking sucked, if it even existed. Probably didn’t even have booze. He breathed in the heavy aroma, mood already improved, and took a big gulp. His still terribly empty stomach churned with a stinging pain, but it was a small price to pay for the bliss of the alcohol that was beginning to course through his system.

It only took a few sips for him to feel the slightest bit of a buzz. His tolerance really was suffering terribly from all of this. But at least he was feeling the good kind of tired now. His hands weren’t shaking as much, either and his heartbeat was calming down significantly.

“Pickles.”

He flinched, putting down the second bottle that he had to have grabbed at some point. “Yeh, that’s me. What?”

He managed to focus on Nathan’s face next to him. He looked unhappy. Concerned, actually. Again. He really needed to stop looking at him like that.

“It’s your turn,” the singer said slowly. “In the booth. Recording.”

Pickles blinked. “Oh, yeh, I know that. I’m just gonna… yeh.”

He quickly finished his drink and got up. Despite the buzz, or maybe because of it, he felt much less wobbly on his legs than before. This was way better, even though his headache was beginning to make a return. At this point, he had no idea whether the alcohol made it better or worse.

They recorded a few tracks and Pickles thought it was going pretty well despite his broken finger. It only hurt a little and he quickly found a way to make sure it didn’t impact his playing too much. He tried to ignore how uncharacteristically quiet his bandmates were being and how they worded any feedback with the careful and glaringly obvious exclusion of any insults. He was in the middle of playing his solo, when he was interrupted by Knubbler’s voice, yelling at him over the talkback mic.

“Pickles. Pickles!”

He stopped, casting an annoyed glance towards the window. “What?!”

His arms and legs were burning, his breathing labored. This was stupid. He usually didn’t get exhausted this quickly. The nice, calming effect of the beer was long gone, too. Now, the light buzz was just making him weirdly nervous.

“108, we said 108 bpm! You’re at…” Knubbler paused, checking the tempo. “91. You need to be faster, okay, babe?”

Pickles let out a frustrated groan. “Fuck, I know, okay?” he hissed. “Just… record it again.”

He listened back to the correct tempo, waited for the okay and started anew. Immediately, he knew it was getting even worse. Knubbler stopped him only four bars into the whole thing.

“No, Pickles, you’re even slower now!” his voice blared through the booth. “And it sounds a little… how do I put this. Just play with more energy, can you do that for me?”

Usually, at least one of his bandmates would have told him to stop fucking up or made fun of him in some way by now. But today, he didn’t get a single comment from them. Pickles ground his teeth, annoyed. He just wanted to be done with this bullshit. He was dizzy, tired and really damn pissed off and he really needed another fucking beer.

“Fine! I’m doin’ it again, just record that shit,” he growled.

Only a few beats in, one of his sticks slipped from his hand, bouncing off the floor tom and hurtling through the air before it landed on the ground with a loud clatter. Pickles stared for a few seconds. It took every ounce of his self-control to not kick at his drum kit and throw the other stick to the ground as well. He slowly got up, breathing heavily, picked up his wayward drumstick and walked out of the booth. His anger was drowned out by an overwhelming wave of frustration, manifesting itself in an embarrassing burning in his eyes.

“Yeah, okay, just take five, we’ll…” Knubbler trailed off.

All five of them watched quietly as Pickles dragged himself towards the exit. Their eyes were glued to him like he was some kind of freak, a mistake of nature to feel sorry for. Just like his parents and his brother and every other damn person in his life had ever looked at him.

“Fuck it,” he said quietly. “I’m fuckin’ done. Fuck all of you.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing those stupid, unnecessary tears to stop from spilling over.

“I’m goin’ to bed.”

He grabbed another beer on his way out.

Chapter Text

“Pickles, wait.”

He ignored Nathan and quickened his pace.

“Pickles!”

“Fuck off, Nat’n!” he snapped.

Still walking, he took a pull on the bottle. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this shit. But of course, the steps behind him only got closer.

“Will you just fucking listen to me you fucking asshole?!”

Nathan grabbed his wrist, forcing him to stop. Somehow, that was the final straw. Pickles spun around, instantly wrenching his arm from his bandmate’s grasp. Blinding rage burned in his lungs. His fist connected with Nathan’s face before he could even register what he was doing. The singer stumbled backwards, hand immediately shooting up to protect himself.

“What the fuck?!” Nathan yelled. There was blood pouring from his nose.

“Dude, just fucking leave me alone, okay?!” Pickles’ voice miserably cracked on the last few words.

Nathan glowered at him, one hand pressed to his face in a useless attempt to stop the bleeding. “I’m not gonna do that, you idiot!”

“Why the fuck not?!”

“Because I fucking care!”

The roaring in his mind came to a screeching halt. The breath in his lungs crystallized. Pickles felt his eyes widen. This was all wrong. They didn’t do that in this band. This wasn’t something he deserved.

“I fucking care about you, okay?” Nathan repeated, a little more quiet this time, but no less intense. “And I… I hate that you’re not doing well and I want to fucking help you, but you won’t let me.” He paused, breathing heavily, and all the anger slowly vanished from his face, making room for something different, something much more vulnerable. “Why won’t you let me?”

“I… I don’t…” Pickles stammered.

And truthfully, he didn’t have an answer. What was he supposed to say? That his pride wouldn’t allow him to? That he felt like he was enough of a burden as it was? That he thought he was only worth something as long as he was fun and cool and easy to be around? That he hated himself so much that he didn’t believe he deserved any help? Maybe even just one of those things was what Nathan wanted to hear. But instead of voicing any of it, Pickles did what he had gotten so used to by now. He lied.

“I’ve been tellin’ you,” he said, not really succeeding in keeping his voice from wavering, “I’m fine.”

The look on Nathan’s face turned into frustration. “Please, will you just… Just stop fucking saying that.”

“But it’s-”

“Stop,” he repeated, this time with more emphasis. “Stop lying to us, goddammit… Fuck.”

In the blink of an eye, Nathan had closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around him. Stunned, Pickles felt the bottle slip from his hand as he was pulled into a hug. It hit the ground with a glassy thud. The burning in his eyes was back, much stronger than before. His chest was too empty and too full at the same time, a dull ache tearing through his lungs.

“I can’t lose you, idiot.” Nathan’s gravelly voice sounded uncharacteristically fragile.

No amount of rapid blinking was able to aid Pickles in damming up his tears. He clenched his jaw, his throat painfully tight. And finally, his self-control broke into a million tiny pieces, scattered on the ground like shards of the mirror he hated so much. He pressed his face into Nathan’s chest, unable to hold back a choked sob. The singer’s embrace tightened.

“Nate,” was all Pickles managed to squeeze out between his sobs, “help.”

It was wrong, it was selfish and he almost expected his friend to recoil and push him away. But Nathan kept holding him, strong arms shielding him from a world that he had never felt wanted in. Pickles clung to him like he was the last breath of air that was keeping him from drowning. In a way, he was.

It took him much too long for his own liking to finally calm down. There was just too much he had bottled up, too much he had kept and kept on drowning in drugs and alcohol, flushing it to the darkest depths of his mind. Once the first drop had spilled over, everything else just followed suit.

He sniffed, catching his breath as he slowly pulled away from the embrace. Nathan let him, but his hands remained gently resting on his shoulders. Pickles kept his blurry gaze fixed on the floor, terrified of what he would find, were he to look at the singer’s face. He felt pathetic. He couldn’t remember the last time he had openly cried in front of anyone.

“Look,” Nathan started, the rumble of his deep voice strangely soft. “Can we just… I dunno, talk?”

He really, really didn’t want to. Miserably crying into his bandmate’s chest already felt like enough emotional vulnerability for a lifetime. And yet, despite himself, Pickles gave him a hesitant nod.

“Okay.” The relief in Nathan’s voice was audible. “You wanna, uh… go somewhere else? This is kinda… I can hear Murderface’s shitty playing out here.”

They couldn’t, obviously, the soundproofing made sure of that, but it was as good an excuse as any. “Yeh,” Pickles agreed quietly, “it’s… really fuckin’ bad.”

“Yeah. I, uh… also still have blood on my face.”

While Nathan shoved some tissues into his nose to stop the bleeding, Pickles stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He had avoided looking at his own reflection for the past few days. And as much as he hated to admit it, he was now beginning to understand why his bandmates had been acting so worried. He looked like shit. His face was sunken, his tired eyes deep-set into their sockets, underlined by circles so dark they were only a few shades away from passing as bruises. His skin was a sickly, pale color, glistening with small beads of sweat. There was a constant, barely noticeable tremble running through his entire body, even though he had thought that the beers from before had taken care of that. All in all, he looked about ready to pass out.

“Fuck,” he sighed. “I’m like a fuckin’ corpse.”

Nathan glanced over at him. He opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to change his mind halfway through, quickly looking away again.

Once Nathan’s nose had stopped bleeding, they made their way to the Mordhaus rooftop. It felt like the right place for this conversation, much less suffocating than any of the rooms and much more private than the picnic area. They sat down on one of the large, flat spikes lining the dragon-shaped mansion’s back.

Up here, Pickles felt a little lighter. A little less like the world was about to crash down and bury him under its unbearable weight. He had forgotten just how beautiful it could actually be. The sun was just beginning to set, tinting the sky and the surrounding mountains a soft pink. There was a light breeze, just warm enough to not make him shiver. A few clouds clung to the mountain peaks, passing over them in waves of white. Part of him wished he had a drink to fully calm the turmoil inside of him. The rest of him knew that was part of the problem.

“So, uh…,” Nathan began, picking at his painted nails. “What’s been, y’know… happening… Fuck, I’m bad at this.”

“Nate…” There was something somber about the way the distant trees swayed in the wind. “D’you ever feel like you’re just… not made for this?”

The singer gave him a strange look. He couldn’t really place what it meant.

“For what?”

Pickles shrugged. “I dunno. Everythin’.”

It was quiet for a long moment.

“Yeah,” Nathan finally replied. “I guess so.”

If he was being honest, he wasn’t all that surprised by that answer. He had been living with his bandmates long enough to know that none of them were actually okay, no matter how much they all liked to pretend. Between the five of them, they probably had enough issues to supply a small town.

“I mean, dude,” Pickles went on, “we have everythin’. We have enough money to buy the whole fuckin’ world, nobody gives a shit what we do as long as we make the next album… But I just can’t feel fuckin’ happy. Not without the booze, at least.”

Nathan hummed. “I hate to agree with Murderface here, but that sounds like you’re fucking depressed.”

He wasn’t really sure what to say to that, so he just shrugged again. He had never gotten a diagnosis – therapists were quacks, anyway – but at this point he didn’t think he needed one to know it was probably true.

“Is that why you’ve been drinking less?” Nathan asked carefully.

Pickles sighed. “Yeh. Made a list and everythin’, countin’ my drinks and stuff.” He hesitated, unsure if it was a good idea to keep talking. “It just… kinda got outta hand last time,” he finally continued, anyway, figuring that at this point, it really didn’t matter anymore. “I, uh… was this close to… y’know.” He formed a gun with his fingers and pointed at his temple.

Nathan stared at him, clearly taken aback. “Fuck…” His hand twitched as he struggled for words, but whatever he wanted to do, he apparently talked himself out of it again. “Don’t… please don’t do that.”

“I’m tryin’ not to,” Pickles said honestly.

He already regretted mentioning it at all. It wasn’t fair to unload something like that onto his friend. He had enough to deal with as it was.

“Okay, good, because…” Nathan swallowed. “The world would fucking suck without you. Even more… than it already does.”

Pickles felt his chest clench painfully. The notion that someone could actually view him as an improvement to their life was something so wildly contradictory to anything he had come to believe that his entire body wanted to reject it. And yet, it filled him with such a strange, wonderful warmth. In a weird way, it felt almost similar to the effects of a nice, strong drink.

Before he had the chance to come up with anything even remotely intelligent to reply, Nathan continued to speak. “You’re a fucking douchebag, but, uh, so am I. And I’ve been an asshole to you, because I… ugh, fuck.”

He buried his face in his hands. Pickles’ heart dropped. Hesitantly, he placed a hand on Nathan’s back.

“Dude, what?” he asked, already dreading the answer.

“I’m feeling all these… things and my heart’s all weird.” The singer’s voice was so quiet and muffled against his hands, Pickles barely understood him. “And I can’t stop thinking about what you said to me when you were so fucking wasted last week.”

There was a joke to make there, because Pickles had said a lot of stupid shit to Nathan in the past, but he was too terrified of ruining the moment to do so. Everything about this was surreal.

“I guess I just…” Nathan continued, “didn’t know I could… feel that way… about another man… and it’s freaking me out.”

Pickles’ heart was about ready to check out entirely. He swallowed, the adrenaline rush more intense than any high in the past years. He knew what his answer was, he’d known that for what felt like an eternity at this point. But he also knew he needed to leave the choice to Nathan. He’d had his whole life to come to terms with his sexuality. From what it sounded like, the singer had had a week so far.

“Nat’n, we don’t have to…”

“No, I…,” Nathan interrupted him. He finally looked up again and the sheer amount of affection in his bright green eyes was so overwhelming, it stole all the oxygen from Pickles’ lungs. “I want to try and I…” He slowly breathed out. “Pickles?”

He swallowed. “Yeh?”

“I fucking love you.” A wave of warmth washed over him, so much more soothing than any amount of alcohol could ever be. “And I think I’ve… I’ve always known that, I was just… fucking terrified.”

Pickles was incredibly glad to have already bawled his eyes out, because he had a feeling that otherwise, he would probably be tearing up again.

“I love you, too, douchebag,” he smiled, his heart fluttering. He hadn’t thought he would get another chance to say those words properly.

Nathan laughed and it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. “Yeah, I… You told me… last week.”

Pickles drank in the view, every little feature of the singer’s face. The little crease in his brow, his barely visible dimples, the enchanting green of his irises.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he blurted out.

There was that blush again. “That’s my line, asshole.”

Before he could even begin to disagree, Nathan grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him in. Pickles’ breath hitched. The singer’s lips were much softer than he had imagined, but the kiss was rough and raw, an outlet for all the emotions both of them had pushed away for far too long. It completely erased any coherent thought from his brain. If this moment were to last forever, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t mind at all. He slowly brought up his hand, his thumb stroking over Nathan’s cheek, deepening the kiss even more.

And then Nathan’s stupid phone rang. Breathing heavily, they pulled apart. Pickles stared at him, his heart hammering wildly. Nathan stared back with wide eyes. The phone kept ringing.

Pickles burst out laughing. “Fuckin’ pick up,” he snorted.

“Shit, uh, yeah.” He blinked a few times and cleared his throat before accepting the call.

“Where the hells ams you dildos?” Skwisgaar’s voice rang from the speaker.

Nathan waited for Pickles to give him a nod of approval before replying. “Uh… on the roof.”

“Ams everythings okay?” Toki chimed in.

“Yeh, we’re good,” Pickles grinned.

“Oh, Pickle! We was really wor-”

“We’re coming up there!” Murderface yelled in the background.

He snickered. “Bring booze!”

Nathan gave him a concerned look. “You sure?” he whispered.

“Yeh, it’s fine.” He shrugged. At least this time, he knew he definitely wasn’t going to be drinking to drown out any awful thoughts.

“Okay, bring booze, assholes!”

Chapter Text

Pickles rested his head on Nathan’s shoulder as they waited. It only took a few seconds for a strong arm to hesitantly snake its way around his waist, pulling him closer. A stupid little smile crept onto his face as his heart drummed a happy blast beat in his throat. The dull, aching tightness in his chest was still there, the same way it always was whenever he wasn’t completely wasted. But so was the soothing warmth that enveloped his spine and filled his lungs, making it a little easier to breathe. And so was the pleasant prickling on his lips, still lingering from the kiss.

By the time their other bandmates arrived, the sun had disappeared behind one of the mountain peaks, its deep red rays spilling into the slowly darkening sky like fire. It was getting colder now, but Pickles still forced himself to shift away from Nathan’s warmth just enough to keep up appearances, unsure if his lead singer was ready to let everyone else know about them yet.

“You look like a couple of homos,” Murderface mocked despite his efforts.

Toki punched him in the arm, almost causing him to drop the six-pack he was carrying. “Shuts up Moidaface. Pickle ams needings support rights now, he needs us to be close to hims and-”

“Okay, alright, no,” Pickles interjected hastily, “we’re not doin’… whatever that is.” He aimlessly gestured towards Toki. “Look, I’m… I’m thankful you guys give a shit, but… I dunno, just, don’t feel sorry for me, okay? It’s weird.”

With a frown, Toki shoved Murderface and Skwisgaar aside to bolt ahead and claim the spot next to Pickles. “But you ams-”

“Toki,” he interrupted before the guitarist could say anything stupid. “That’s my one condition. I’m gonna tell you what’s goin’ on, but I don’t want any of you bein’ weird about it.”

His bandmate stubbornly held his gaze for a few moments longer until he finally gave in. “Fines.”

Feeling slightly reassured, Pickles waited until Skwisgaar had made himself comfortable next to Toki and Murderface had settled down by Nathan’s other side. He gnawed on his lip, uncertain how to even begin explaining anything. A bottle from one of the six-packs the others had brought found its way into his hand. Despite the guilt ringing in his ears, he opened it on the edge of the concrete they sat on, downed a big gulp and let the pleasantly bitter taste soothe his nerves. He really didn’t need to feel bad about it. The limit he had set for the day was still a few drinks away and he had been sticking to his plan pretty well. He just desperately needed some alcohol in his system for this stupid conversation.

“So, uh…,” he began. “How was the rest of the recordin’?”

Skwisgaar sighed dramatically. “I ams probably goings to haves to re-records Toki’s and Murderface’s parts for thems. As always.”

Two offended gasps sounded from both of the accused in unison.

“How dare you!” Murderface pressed a hand to his chest. “I have never sounded better! That was some of my best work!”

“Yeah! We puts our hearts and souls into those tracks!” Toki agreed, mimicking the bassist’s gesture.

Skwisgaar looked entirely unimpressed. “Wells, you still soundeds dildos.”

“You did not just say that to me,” Murderface warned.

“Does you wants me to lies to you?”

The bassist slammed down his bottle so hard that Pickles worried it was going to break. “You know what, you are a narcissistic fucking-”

“Waits,” Toki interrupted, narrowing his eyes. “Why ams we even talkings about this?”

Murderface stared at him. “Toki, you’re supposed to be on my side here!”

The only reaction the guitarist graced him with was a shrug, apparently completely over the topic already. “Whatevers. Pickle?”

Pickles suddenly felt a lot smaller. “Yeh?”

“I believes you wanteds to tells us something.”

He laughed nervously. “I did, huh?”

So much for his distraction. Pouring his heart out to Nathan was one thing, but having the eyes of the whole band now focused on him, eagerly waiting to hear about all the things that were wrong with him, certainly didn’t feel all that great. Still, the cold bottle in his hands and Nathan’s warmth next to him were a strangely grounding combination. He took a deep breath and another sip of his beer for courage.

“Uh… I’ve been tryna drink less,” he said quietly, “and it really fuckin’ sucks, so… Yeh.”

“Ja, we thoughts so, with…” Skwisgaar vaguely gestured at him. “All thats.”

Pickles tried his best not to take offense. “Yeh, well… I guess I shoulda known, this crap’s never fun. Just thought it’d be easier if I don’t go cold turkey, but… eh, still sucks.”

He stared at the bottle in his hand. If he thought about it, it was almost funny how much a simple beverage was able to shift his entire life one way or the other.

“Okay, but… Why?” Murderface lisped. “I mean, why the fuck would you drink less in the first place? Did fucking Offdensen make you?”

There was the dreaded question.

“Nah, it was… my own idea,” he quietly replied. “Things kinda got outta hand.”

Skwisgaar skeptically raised an eyebrow. “Don’ts they always?”

“Well, I mean…” Pickles sighed, realizing that vaguely beating around the bush unfortunately wouldn’t do. “Okay, fine, I guess I’ve been… lyin’ to you guys. A little bit.” He just barely managed to resist the urge to bounce his leg. “Because I’m not… actually… okay. Haven’t been for a long fuckin’ time. There.”

He quickly took another pull on his bottle. It was so wonderfully soothing, so unbelievably grounding and his stomach only stung a little bit. Toki opened his mouth, probably to say something way too sweet and supportive and concerned, but a nudge from Skwisgaar made him swallow his words.

“A lotta booze usually helps, but, uh… not recently.” Pickles swallowed and began nervously peeling the label off of the bottle. “So I’m drinkin’ less to avoid doin’ somethin’ stupid. Sorry for bein’ a douchebag about it.”

Murderface cleared his throat. “So, what you’re saying, is… that I was right.”

“About what?”

“You being depressed.” There was a triumphant tone to his voice, but the emotion didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Pickles shrugged. “Yeh, I guess so.” If he was already spilling his guts, there really was no point in trying to deny anything anymore, no matter how wrong it felt to admit to.

“But you amen’ts goings to…” Skwisgaar struggled for the right words for a moment. “You knows… kills yourself, ja?”

Pickles almost choked on his beer. That certainly wasn’t a question he had been prepared for. But then again, Skwisgaar and Toki had seen the blood and scars on his arms a few days ago. He knew from more experience than he liked to admit how that tended to look to people.

“Probably not.” It was quiet for a long moment as his bandmates stared at him. “Seriously guys, don’t worry about it,” he added when he realized that no one seemed to be satisfied with his answer.

“Goods. And don’ts falls into more glass,” Toki said quietly, earning confused looks from Nathan and Murderface. “You cans builds model planes with me insteads. Or plays a games. Or pets some kittens.”

The warmth in Pickles’ chest grew. This much affection might just as well be the end of him.

“Sure,” he smiled. “Thanks, dude.”

“Does you wants to… uh, talks about it?” Skwisgaar asked after some hesitation.

“Fuck no,” Pickles snorted. “I mean, there’s not really a single cause, anyway. It’s more like a… general problem. I dunno.”

Murderface hummed, swirling the drink in his hand. “You’re not gonna freak out, though, right?”

“Nah.” He would have liked to say that there was no chance for that to happen, but his bandmates had already bared witness to some of his breakdowns in the past. “I’ll keep it in check,” he said instead. “I got it under control, just… need some time to get my shit together.”

“We’re here if you need us.” Nathan’s deep, gravelly voice had absolutely no business sounding this uncharacteristically gentle.

Pickles really wanted to plant a stupid, affectionate kiss on his cheek, but held himself back. He didn’t want to rush things and he definitely didn’t want to out the singer when he wasn’t ready yet. It was already enough of a miracle that no one was calling him gay for being so openly caring and supportive.

“Thanks,” was all he carefully replied.

An awkward silence stretched as everyone quietly nursed their beers. The last rays of fiery red sunshine slowly faded, leaving the mountains dark against a purple sky. Pickles briefly wondered how all of them were so unbelievably bad at this stuff. But given most of their upbringings, it really wasn’t that much of a mystery.

“Ah, fuck it,” he finally said. “There’s one more thing.”

If they were already having such a rare and, frankly, uncomfortable moment of emotional vulnerability, he might as well use it to its full potential. Everyone looked up from their bottles or the roof or whatever they had been staring at. He tried his best to ignore the feeling of their stares burning into his skin. If he had to take one for the team to help Nathan feel a bit more secure, he would gladly do so. That was the least he could repay him with.

Pickles took another sip of his beer and a deep breath, shielding himself for whatever reactions he was going to get.

“I’m, uh…,” he spoke up, ignoring the way his heart anxiously accelerated. “I’m bi.”

There was a beat of tense silence. Next to him, Nathan shifted nervously.

“What does that means?” Toki whispered.

“Pickle ams sayings he doesn’t just likes womens,” Skwisgaar explained, completely unfazed. “He ams also likes to sucks cocks.”

Pickles snorted, barely managing to stifle a laugh at the guitarist’s choice of words. “You could say that, yeh.”

Nathan choked on his drink. Failing to hide a smirk, Pickles gave him a few pats on the back as the singer tried to prevent himself from ingesting beer through is windpipe.

“Wait, what?!” Murderface sounded theatrically offended. “You’re fucking gay?!”

“Nah, dude. I just said it, I’m bi,” Pickles corrected him dryly. “I’m into both. I hope that’s not… a problem.”

To his left, Toki let out a weirdly high-pitched laugh. “Hells no, why woulds it be?” Suspicious.

Murderface threw up his hands in disbelief, spilling some of his beer onto Nathan’s shoulder. “Why?! Because he’s a fucking sissy! No wonder you’re depressed! Are you gonna try to turn us into that glam metal bullshit now?”

Pickles gave him an exasperated look. “Fuck no. That’s for Snakes N’ Barrels only and they’re… well.” He mad some vague gesture, unsure what he was even trying to say. “Also, that’s a dumb fuckin’ stereotype,” he added.

Murderface shook his head, his gaze fixed on the horizon with the thousand-yard stare of someone currently living through the most traumatic flashback imaginable. “I can’t believe I’m bandmates with a queer person.”

Rolling his eyes, Pickles took another gulp of his beer, just to make sure that shitty, prickling anger didn’t rise again. How could one stupid brain have so much room for internalized homophobia? He was at least 76% sure that Murderface was into men as well. That idiot was just so far into a closet made of concrete they’d probably need a wrecking ball to get him out of there.

“Dude,” Pickles sighed. “You know I’m trans, right? Always been queer, you never gave a shit about that.”

“But being gay is totally different!” He didn’t even get a chance to correct the bassist again about being bi, not gay. “That’s just fucking lame! Homos can’t be brutal, that’s-”

“Alright, you dumb fuck.” There was a dangerous edge to Nathan’s rumbling voice that caused Pickles’ heart to skip a beat. “I’m gonna stop you right there. You wanna talk about brutal?” The singer got up, glowering at Murderface and pointed at Pickles. “This man has gone through every fucking struggle, just to be himself. He’s so fucking brutal, he chopped off his damn tits and regularly stabs himself with a needle because he got the wrong fucking body at birth. That’s the most brutal shit anyone in this stupid band has ever done! It’s not his fault you’re too much of a little bitch to find out who you are. If anyone’s a sissy it’s you for having a problem with something that’s not even about you.”

Nathan was menacingly towering over their bassist, his hulking frame outlined by the red lights from below. A few rogue strands of his black hair had messily fallen over his face. He kind of looked like a madman. Possibly a serial killer. Pickles didn’t think he had ever been this in love.

Any sane person would be backing down by now. Murderface, however, was anything but sane, so he took a comically angry pull from his bottle and crossed his arms, staring up at the singer in defiance.

“I’m not a fucking sissy, you dildo! I’m just saying, what if-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Nathan instantly shut him down.

“You ams embarrasscings yourself,” Skwisgaar agreed. “And how coulds you even blames Pickle? Men ams beautifuls, I likes ‘em, too.”

Pickles didn’t miss that Toki quickly began to act as if he had developed a sudden interest in roof tiling. He also didn’t miss the blush that crept onto his face. So suspicious.

“What the fuck, you too, Skwisgaar?!” Murderface whined.

If he was being honest, Pickles couldn’t quite believe that the bassist was as shocked by this information as he acted. With Skwisgaar’s admittedly impressive track record of sexual adventures, there was absolutely no way in hell he hadn’t slept with about every gender under the sun by now.

“Wait, hold on.” Nathan blinked in disbelief. “Wait a minute. Are any of us straight?”

If anyone had noticed that he had included himself in that collective, they didn’t bring it up.

Skwisgaar shrugged. “I amen’ts. That woulds be totally borings.”

“Not me,” Pickles grinned.

If his ears didn’t deceive him, he heard a very quiet, sheepish “nopes” from Toki.

“I am,” Murderface huffed. “I’m not fucking weird like you sick-”

“I calls bullshits,” Toki interrupted him, a triumphant gleam in his pale blue eyes. “I’ve seens your ‘ladies’ magazines. They ams fulls of naked dudes!”

It was deadly silent for a moment. Then Murderface jumped to his feet and hurled his bottle onto the roof. It shattered into sharp chunks of green glass as the rest of the beer spilled onto Nathan’s boots. Pickles frowned at the waste of alcohol.

“You said you didn’t look at them, you fucking asshole! What the fuck?!”

The denial was starting to get old. “Dude,” Pickles chimed in, “we all know you’re gay. You can fuckin’ admit it, y’know?”

“I’m not fucking gay!” the bassist screamed.

Nathan blinked, unimpressed. “Yeah, right.”

“Totallys gays,” Toki agreed.

“A fuckin’ homo, just like the rest of us,” Pickles grinned. “You just gotta accept it.”

Murderface angrily glared at them for a few more seconds. Then, finally, he sat back down, causing Nathan to do the same shortly after.

“Fine, whatever,” the bassist grumbled as he kicked at one of the glass shards, sulking. “Just shut up. No one’s totally straight, anyway. Everyone has those thoughts.”

And if that wasn’t every closeted person’s excuse ever. But Pickles didn’t have the heart to tell him as much. Murderface was going to figure things out eventually.

Next to him, Nathan shifted his weight, moving ever so slightly closer to him. “So that means… none of us are straight,” the singer said hesitantly. “Because, uh… I’m… also… bi.” The last few words were barely above a whisper, but they were still intelligible.

“Congratsculations.” Skwisgaar gave him a nod of approval.

“Wowie.” Toki laughed nervously. “We really all ams homos, huh.”

Pickles smiled, his chest swelling with a strange sense of pride for his dumb, dysfunctional family of a band. “Birds of a wing, or however that stupid sayin’ goes,” he grinned.

“Well, I’m still gonna make gay jokes,” Murderface grumbled. “Just so we’re clear.”

“Yeh, dude, me too.”

“Yeah.” Nathan nodded.

They fell quiet for a moment. Pickles’ heart skipped a beat when he felt Nathan carefully interlock their fingers. An embarrassing blush crept onto his face as they silently watched the stars appear on the deep blue sky one by one.

“Whats about that stupids rules?” Toki asked quietly.

“Hm?” Pickles made.

The guitarist pressed his lips into a thin line, determination written all over his face. “Abouts not carings. Not gettings mixed up in each other’s lives. I hates it.”

“As leader of Dethklok,” Nathan spoke up, “I hereby declare that rule fucking bullshit. We’re, uh… all kinda gay, anyway, so. Since the whole point was… to not seem gay. Who gives a shit.”

Toki’s face lit up. “Oh, goods!”

“Abouts fucking time,” Skwisgaar added.

Pickles couldn’t agree more. “For the record, I always thought it was stupid.”

“Yeah, kinda sucked,” even Murderface lisped.

The wind picked up ever so slightly, whistling over the rooftop as if in agreement with them. The stars shone their approval from above.

“I don’t want anyone bottling up their stupid feelings anymore.” Nathan gently squeezed Pickles’ hand. “I mean, we don’t have to tell each other everything, cuz that’s… that’s fucking weird. But, y’know. We’re a family. We can talk about, uh… stuff.”

“And talkin’ about your feelings is fuckin’ hard,” Pickles added, “so… arguably, that’s way more metal than… not talkin’ about them.”

The others hummed in agreement. They fell quiet again, but the silence was surprisingly comfortable this time. Nighttime welcomed them with open arms as each of them was lost in their own thoughts. The warm red glow from Mordhaus and the surrounding buildings below ignited the darkness like flares.

At some point, everyone began to talk again, joking and bickering like they always did. Pickles started to take another sip from his drink, only to find it empty. He put down the bottle and didn’t reach for another one. His body was still aching for more alcohol, but he distracted himself by listening to the chatter of his bandmates. Nathan smiled and gave him a nod of approval, a proud gleam in his bright green eyes.

And Pickles realized that if his singer was the one holding him accountable, maybe things would be a little easier from here. If he wasn’t entirely alone in his efforts, if there was someone to listen and support him, he might just manage to stick to his goals.

He definitely had four very important reasons to try his damn hardest.