Disclaimer: I don't own Toki Wartooth, Pickles the Drummer, Nathan Explosion, Skwisgaar Skwigelf, or William Murderface. All of them belong to Metalocalypse and thus Brendon Small. I never claimed to own them, so don't sue me. I do, however own Sjurd Trofasthet. He is not part of the show, nor or any of the events in the below story mentioned.
Warning: M/M slash. Pickles/Ofdensen, Toki/Pickles, Toki/Sjurd. Very mild. Also, drug and alcohol references and profanity. Rated T.
Sjurd Trofasthet couldn't help it; this Toki Wartooth already understood. He couldn't help that his wavy blonde hair fell in luscious locks on his shoulders, he couldn't help the smirk he always used to show his superiority. He especially couldn't help the fact that his gray eyes held the power of Thor's hammer, that a single glare at anyone could cause them to faint. Toki was well aware of all of this, but he still couldn't help but be fascinated by the younger boy. At thirteen, Sjurd was only a year younger than him, but his maturity surpassed all in the school.
As usual, Toki and Sjurd were hiding from their families under the protection of a large bare tree, snow crunching all around them as they moved. Toki remained focused on his schoolwork, but the blonde continually stared up at him with a gaze that held thunder.
"Toki?" Sjurd asked timidly, seeming the child he was for the first time. Toki glanced up momentarily from his work to respond with inquisition as to what he wanted. "I…we're friends aren't we?"
"Of course," Toki responded. "We always have been. Since we were children."
"Will we always be friends?"
Toki scowled and glared up at the tall boy. "Why wouldn't we be?"
"I don't know." Sjurd paused for another few minutes before adding to the conversation. "Could anything…anything at all change that?"
"I don't…I don't think so," Toki replied, thoroughly distracted. "Maybe when we become adults. Maybe…if we become like our parents." They both winced at the painful memories.
"Then…well, Toki. Does that mean…"
"Nothing," Sjurd flinched away. "Nothing at all."
Toki didn't press. Instead, he continued on reading the chapter, doodling little guitars in the margin of his notebook. Everyone had their dirty little secrets, Toki himself did. If Sjurd didn't want to express his emotions or thoughts, he didn't have to. Toki wouldn't push him the way both of their parents did.
Toki woke up in a cold sweat, his throat sore. As he stared down at the sheets beneath him, he noticed that they were drenched in both sweat and vomit. "Shits," Toki murmured to himself. He'd done it again, puked in his sleep. It happened more frequently now, since the dreams about his childhood and Sjurd began occurring.
He stood, feeling the deepest urge to leave the bed behind and be cleaned later in the day. The clock read three. Three in the morning? Toki rubbed the sand from his eyes and made his way towards the living room, hoping that reentering society would cleanse his black soul from the mourning and grief he felt over his dream.
The living room was surprisingly empty. The couches and chair seemed crisp and fresh, as though the spoils of alcohol hadn't yet reached them yet. Perhaps Ofdensen or a klokateer had them cleaned, perhaps the stench of pure acidic liquor had finally driven someone to the edge of buying new furniture. Not like the drunkards would even notice.
As Toki took a seat on the end of the fresh couch, he heard a slight groan coming behind him. Gasping, he jumped off of the couch and peeked over the edge to find a wasted Pickles lying in his underwear on the floor with a bottle of straight whisker in one hand and a joint in the other. Toki frowned and poked Pickles gently in the stomach.
"What? What?" cried Pickles, rolling over gazing up at Toki's long caramel-colored hair. "Wha'dya want, eh, Toki? Yer up early…er late."
"Pickle!" Toki exclaimed. "Ams you hurts? You…lyings on ground and moan like hurts, ja?"
"Ah…nat exactly. Could ya - " Pickles pointed towards a bag of what looked like parsley. He grunted once. "Could ya get dat bag fer me?"
"Sure, Pickle." Toki smiled and reached towards the bag of spices. "I likes parsley in my foods, buts dats cool if you likes it…plains."
"Parsley!" Pickles exclaimed with a laugh. "Ah, nevermind. So wha'dya want?"
"I hads bad dreams," Toki whispered sheepishly. "I comes out here to thinks."
Pickles remained silent, so Toki turned around and turned on the giant TV. After a few minutes of clicking through stations and a rapid rate, the sound of a lighter igniting a flame could be heard, then immediately following was a strange odor that somehow was pleasing. Toki leaned over the back of the couch again and stared down at Pickles' cigarette. It was the source of the mysterious fumes.
"Ya wanna try it?" Pickles offered with a devilish grin. Toki shrugged and accepted, breathing the smoke in deeply. The inhalation made him gag for a moment, but he soon stopped choking and began smiling. He felt utterly at peace. Sjurd quickly left his thoughts.
"Dis ams cool, Pickle," Toki smiled, inhaling once more before handing the joint back to the redheaded drummer. Pickles nodded and took a swig of whiskey.
"Yeah, dat's what livin' is all about." Pickles smiled slowly. "Drinkin', smokin', gettin' high…Don't need nothin' else. Ferget yer worries."
Toki frowned. He was forgetting something vital, something key that had triggered him to leave his pukey bed. It was something important, something he needed to talk to someone about. He continued to fidget as he thought relentlessly about what it could possibly be…
"Somethin' botherin' ya?"
"Eh…" Toki continued to think. "Kinds of. Is stupids anyway."
Pickles leaned forward expectantly. "And? Come an, get it aff yer chest."
Toki cocked his head. "Nothings ons my chest, Pickle." Suddenly, the struggle released its persistence; he remembered the dream, Sjurd…yes, Sjurd. That was what bothered him so much. "Buts, uh, I feels kinds of bad abouts something."
"What would dat be?"
"Sjurd Trofasthet." Toki hesitated for a moment. "Kinds of personal, you knows?"
Pickles shifted. "Yeah, I know. Dere's things I wouldn't tell ya, no offence."
"I, well…" He bit his lip. "I wants to tell you, tell someones. Anyones, really. Just, I don'ts know if I'ms ready to say yets."
Pickles paused. "Well, ya know, ya can always talk ta me, dude."
"We…ams friends then?"
"Sure, we're bros."
Toki bit his lip again. "Takk, Pickle. You really ams the bests. I'll talks to you soons, ja?"
"Whenever," Pickles assured him. "Whenever yer ready."
Something was clearly bothering that strange little Norwegian, that Pickles was sure of. There was nothing he could do though, he couldn't push him too far. He wouldn't. He wouldn't be his parents. And besides, he agreed never to care about anyone else in the band's life. It was a solemn vow.
So why did he care so much about what ran through that thick foreign skull of Toki's?
Pickles bit his lip until a tear-shaped drop of blood spilt from the wound like a leaky faucet. Maybe it was the fact that Toki was so much like him that he felt so bonded to him. Little was known about Toki's past except that his parents were clearly abusive, much like his own, and that he was forced to do hard labor for the sake of punishment. That, Pickles wasn't familiar with. He'd ran away at a fairly young age and was able to avoid most of the issues that sprang up in life. One punch from his dad and he was gone. One insult and he was packing his things.
It hurt. It always had. "You belong in a garbage can," his father had said over fifteen years earlier. Most of the time he could ignore the pain, but the lingering effects bothered him until he softened enough to cry. Only Ofdensen was aware of the situation, as he'd walked in on a previous episode, and Pickles liked it that way. If Nathan knew he cried himself asleep, he'd do more than laugh at him; he'd be out of the band for sure. Crying wasn't brutal. It never had been. It's much more brutal to keep it lodged in your soul until it explodes and you become the epitome of hate.
Nah, Pickles thought to himself. He wouldn't become the embodiment of violence, no matter how much he fantasized about it. Instead, he would continue to release his pain nightly with his tears and to ease it in the meantime with drugs, alcohol, and good old-fashioned sex.