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The last place he wanted to be was on a street corner in downtown Miami, in a phone booth right outside of the crappy bar where he usually got dollar beers, talking to his bitch of a mother. But, here he was, and Pickles was white knuckling the hell out of the grimy receiver, forcing away the urge to slam it against the pay phone to drown out the sound of her nagging voice.
"....when yer gunna come back up to Tomahawk and see the feeamily?!" Molly was barking from the other end. From the ass end of fucking nowhere. He might be living in a goddamn gutter right now but at least he wasn't there anymore. He'd rather die than go back there. Anyone would.
Pickles choked back a sigh. "I dunno, Ma, I'm gettin' stuff goin' down here and I've just been real - "
She cut him off, the way she always does whenever he tries to explain himself. "What could ya possibly have goin' on down there that's more important than yer brother's engagement party?! Everyone's gunna be there! You can't tell me with all that money you got in that band you were in that ya can't afford to fly up here?"
In truth, he probably could swing a budget flight to Wisconsin. It's just that he didn't want to. Full stop. His brother was trying to marry some stripper - again, this was like the second one this year - and the rest of his family were leeches who came running every time they smelled free booze and food on the horizon. Back when Pickles had been in Sn'B, he'd received phone calls from countless aunt's, uncles, and first second and third cousins who'd somehow tracked him down (thanks a lot, Seth).
Pickles let Molly rant for a minute or two longer before using a tactic he'd seen Murderface apply while talking to his grandma and started to make crackling, hissing noises with his mouth close to the phone. "Ma? Ma, can ya hear me? Sahrry, connection's crap, I'll call ya back soon bye!"
Then he slammed the receiver down. And buried his face in his hands to keep from screaming.
He was an adult. He was an adult and he didn't have to do what his mommy told him to do. But old habits died hard and so did victim complexes. That woman had gaslit and guilt tripped him all his fucking life, and here he was at twenty eight still letting it happen.
And okay, his old band had burned out and faded away and he was fresh out of rehab and living on his best friend's couch, but things weren't awful. They were getting a new band together - it was slow going, sure, but Rome wasn't built in a day and more importantly, he knew...he just knew that this was going to be bigger and better than some flash-in-the-pad glam band. He had two guitarists, pains in the ass though they were, and a passable bassist, who could also be a whopping pain in the ass but knew how to play bass with his dick (horrifying yet impressive), and a singer - a towering, brutal, wildly talented, indescribably hot singer whose voice did things to Pickles' insides.
A flush of heat flooded through his body and the air in the booth was suddenly stuffy and it was almost hard to breathe. He didn't have to be in a cramped phone booth for thoughts of Nathan to have that effect, however. The big guy had definitely made a lasting impression on him. He just had such an overwhelming presence, onstage and off, but when they were hanging out together it was... different. It wasn't like hanging out with Willie or Skwisgaar... and definitely not like hanging out with Magnus. That was a whole other ball of wax, though.
It was raining by the time Pickles finally exited the phone booth, and of course he didn't carry an umbrella (what self-respecting metalhead did?), so he lifted his denim jacket over his head and hurried down the two blocks toward the apartments where Nathan lived. Pickles, up until a couple months ago, had been renting his own unit just down the row from Nathan, but one too many wild parties had led to his eviction and Nathan had been the first, and only, to offer his couch.
The heavy rain was starting to lighten by the time Pickles made it to the stairs leading up to the apartment, as if it was just waiting for him before it decided to let up. He sighed, trying not to dwell on the fact that nature seemed to have it out for him, and approached the door to the apartment, trying the knob first. Thankfully it was open - Nathan only had one key and the landlord had heavily forbade him from making copies for anyone, especially Pickles.
The first thing he noticed upon entering was the unmistakable aroma of baked goods...wait a minute. Not just any baked goods. The best kind there was.
Cinnamon buns.
He crept quietly inside, shutting the door behind him as soundlessly as he could. The TV was on in the den, playing some old horror movie at a low but still audible volume, but there was no one in there. Pickles tiptoed into the kitchen, the intoxicating smell practically lifting him off his feet like in an old Looney Tunes cartoon, and his face broke out in a wide grin when he saw Nathan bending over the oven, pot holder over one big hand, carefully taking the buns out of the oven.
They'd been "a little more than friends" for a few weeks now, and Pickles had had lovers in the past that had lasted a lot longer and none of them had ever even thought about making him cinnamon buns. Or any kind of dessert, really. His heart felt like it would burst out of his chest.
"Hey, you," he piped up once Nathan put the pan down on the top of the stove, unable to help himself, and Nathan jumped, whirling to face him, looking like he'd just gotten caught jacking off rather than baking.
"Fuck, Pickles! Don't do that shit to me!" he shot back, chest heaving from shock. Pickles snickered good naturedly, coming up to wrap his arms around Nathan. They were alone, the only time they could really be together like this. Band practices were held here and the other guys liked to hang out before and after, if they weren't planning on going to the bar or the greasy strip joint further down the street. So Pickles seized his opportunities whenever he could. They both did.
"So, are those fer me?" he asked, poking his head around Nathan's bulk to attempt to inspect the pan. Nathan made a low rumbling noise, spreading his arms to block him.
"They were. They're mine now since you almost gave me a heart attack," he growled. Pickles knew he was kidding but he made a show of sighing and rolling his eyes, grabbing onto one of those meaty arms, fingers running up and down the skin lightly. He could feel the goosebumps forming and saw Nathan suppress a shiver.
"Ah, c'maaahn, babe, I didn't mean it," he wheedled, his voice rising in pitch just a bit the way it did when he was in a playful mood. "'I walked in here and saw ya slavin' over a hot oven. It was fuckin' cute, what can I say?" He winked up at him.
"Ugghhh, do not call me cute." His defensive demeanor was crumbling though, and he moved aside to let Pickles approach the stove. "Be careful, they're still hot. And get a plate, I don't want icing all over the floor."
Pickles picked up a cinnamon bun and, maintaining eye contact with Nathan, licked some icing off the top. "You didn't mind last time we made a white creamy mess in here."
It was Nathan's turn to roll his eyes. "Don't make me regret this."
"Oh, you love it." Pickles took a bite. It was perfect. The outside was almost crispy but not dry and the inside was warm and soft. "Damn, these are fuckin' great! Better n' the bakery. What made you do this?"
Nathan shrugged. "You were talking in your sleep about them the other night. After we passed out in my room. You were saying cinnamon buns and uh…'rock n' roll french fries?' Whatever that is. I dunno, you were pretty drunk."
Pickles snickered again. "Yeeah, that's my own lil' secret recipe, I gotta make 'em sometime. I make a pretty mean macaroon too." He scarfed down the rest of the bun, reaching for another. "I really kinda needed this, dude... today's been sorta on the rough side."
Nathan raised an eyebrow at that, heading over to the fridge to grab two beers and handing one to Pickles, then left the kitchen to sit down on the couch. He lowered the volume on the TV. Pickles followed. This, he'd learned, was Nathan for "sit down and tell me what's going on." He grabbed another cinnamon bun before clomping over and plopping down on the couch next to Nathan.
"So," he started after a long swig of beer, "I told ya about my family, right?"
"Yeah."
"And how they're like, y'know…" He trailed off with a wave of his hand.
"Douchebags.*
"Yeeah, douchebags!" He nodded emphatically. "So I actually go and call my mom today since last time she says I never call 'er, and all she can talk to me about is Seth and his fake fuckin' engagement to his newest stripper girlfriend and how I better drop everything n' go up there an' support 'im and it's like...no. No, I'm naht doin' it. Cuz he'll start hittin' me up fer money and then everyone else in my family n' all his friends'll start too."
Nathan nodded. "Because they think you're still rich."
"Yeah...well, I have a little saved still but I'm not sharin' it with those dildos! None of 'em ever wanted anything to do with me before I gaht famous. They laughed at me when I told 'em I wanted to be in a band, be a rock star. Well fuck 'em! I'd rather be here gettin' our band goin'."
"Yeah." Nathan finished his beer, plunking the empty bottle on the coffee table in front of them. "You know what's gonna be fucking awesome? When we do get signed and we finally make it and we play in like, Milwaukee or something. And your family comes to see the show and you're like, too famous to even look at them."
Pickles' mood had already brightened considerably since coming home, but now he was practically elated, his grin getting even wider. "Fuck yeeah! Too hot fer those assholes!" He giggled, suddenly feeling drunk and knowing it wasn't the beer. He scooted closer to Nathan on the couch, leaning against him comfortably. He sighed softly when he felt Nathan's arm around his skinny shoulders.
His eyelids were suddenly heavy, and it was no mystery as to why - his stomach was full, he was warm and cozy all cuddled up with Nathan. He relaxed, letting his eyes flutter closed. Before he drifted off, Pickles felt the soft, warm brush of Nathan's lips on the top of his head, and he hummed softly from it.
Of course, it wouldn't be long before two bickering voices would jolt him awake and Nathan's arm recoiled from around him, and through the remnants of sleep fog he heard "Hej, what ams these?"
"Uh, they're schinnamon bunch, Schkwischgaar, duh," Murderface retorted, following the blond guitarist into the kitchen. "HEY! Gimme thosche! You didn't even know what they were a schecond ago!"
Pickles exchanged a look with Nathan as they listened to Skwisgaar and Murderface fight over the remaining cinnamon buns. They'd cut it close, that time. And their privacy had been short lived. It was okay, though. Next time he'd be introducing Nathan to rock n' roll french fries.