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Pickles' car was way, way too small for the entirety of Dethklok to cram into. But cram they did- Skwisgaar grudgingly squished between Nathan and Murderface in the backseat, the two tallest members slouching, legs scrunched, their heads brushing the wilting upholstery haphazardly tacked to the ceiling. The windows were blessedly cracked, allowing for gusts of Atlanta night air to weave between their bodies, not quite fresh, but better than the stale stench of five men with limited access to both laundry and showers fused with the haze from Pickles' Pall Malls. Smoke danced and curled in the front seat only briefly before being sucked out through the gaps, the gusts of city air bringing to life locks of black and blonde hair, which, unfortunately, would inevitably end up in the other's eyes or mouth.
In the passenger seat, Toki sat transfixed, wide eyed with wonder at the sight of the city lights streaking by as they sped down 85 on their trek from Lakeville Heights to Buckhead. They had pooled all of their spare funds together to afford the gas needed- they had scrounged for change(their signing bonus having been spent almost immediately), shaken down vending and laundromat machines, cut up the bottom of their sitty sofa, and dug into the depths of the nooks and crannies of the car to find it. But they had done it, had scraped together just enough, and even though they would have to spend the next two weeks subsisting off ramen and stolen food, drinking only the cheapest, most watered down light beer and bottom shelf whiskey, the look on Toki's face as the first decked out house came into view made it all worth it.
"Oh, wowee, looks at dats one! Ooh! Ohh! And dat ones there! Oh! Looks! Reindeers on de roof!"
From the driver's seat, Pickles grinned at their newest members' enthusiasm, doing his best to maintain a consistent speed right at the 25mph limit, not wanting to draw any more attention to themselves from the local Neighborhood Watch than they no doubt already were, his dingy red '89 Fiesta sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the Volvos, Mercedes, and BMWs dotting the driveways they passed. He knew the kind of people that lived here- though the suburbs he had grown up in weren't quite this lavish, not quite upper middle class, he had spent enough time crashing house parties to drink rich kid booze and selling his ritalin and overpriced dirt weed to know that right now, inside the dark windows of these McMansions, concerned residents were peaking through the blinds, watching with a close eye, debating on if there was enough of a cause to call the cops. Which meant no smoking, no drinking, no speeding, and no yelling.
Shifting gears to ease into a full stop at an intersection of the labyrinthine, interlocking streets, Pickles elbowed Toki, pointing off to the left, "Check oot dat one dere- it's gaht a train."
Toki gasped out an Oooooo, leaning to gawk around Pickles at the blinking lights that gave the illusion of rotating wheels, "how ams it doins dat?"
"Yeh can program th' lights to light up at the times yeh want."
"Wowee~ so highstech."
"Sure. Reeel cool stuff, I guess."
A week prior, a few apartments around their neighborhood had begun to decorate, stringing up Christmas lights that twisted around the handrails of balconies and dripped down as fake icicles from the overhangs sheltering the walkway. Toki had been transfixed, but confused, asking what all the decorations were for.
"Fer Christmas, dude. They naht have that in Norway?"
They didn't, apparently, or at least not where Toki had grown up. In fact, he knew nothing of American holiday celebrations, listening with rapt attention as Pickles and Nathan spun tales of decor and presents and food and movies, Murderface occasionally chiming in with how much Christmas sucked, which they both agreed with, but they didn't have the hearts to dampen Toki's excitement. Eventually the conversation turned to the lavish decorations in the suburbs, real Home Alone style, and how they were always the best, Toki begging to see.
And so, here they were, the three less enthused members scrunched together and grumpy in the backseat, though Nathan couldn't help but notice the hint of wonderment in Skwisgaar's eyes as he too leaned to better see the displays, red and green and white dots twinkling in his eyes as tips of blonde hair tickled over Nathan's clenched hand. His fingers itched to touch it, the comb through the fine strands, curl the locks around his fingers, but he restrained himself, shifting in his seat in an attempt to create some space between their touching thighs.
It was totally gay, these thoughts, these urges he had when around Skwisgaar. No matter how androgynous the Swede could look at times, he was most definitely still a dude, and Nathan was not gay, damn it.
...but, man, fuck, he couldn't stop thinking about just reaching over and holding Skwisgaar's bony hand. The guitarist's hands were always so cold, and he longed to hold that delicate, slender hand between his own and warm it up.
"Hey! Look at that housche over there!"
All heads turned to the right, various sounds of approval sounding from the band as the aforementioned house came into sight. Skeletons wearing Santa hats and holding wrapped presents dotted the yard alongside gravestones, grim reapers with mistletoe in their hands hung from trees spiraled with red and green lights, fake snow dusted over the grass.
"Heh, bet the HOA loves them, " Pickles returned his attention to the road, hitting the wheel with his palm as he remembered, "Oh, hey, Murderface, th' candy canes?"
"Oh, schit, yeah- here."
A bag of mini candy canes was unearthed from deep within the pockets of Murderface's cargo shorts, Skwisgaar cringing at the warmth of the plastic as it was handed off to him as the centermost seat, tearing open the packaging and dolling out a handful to each person.
They drove around for another hour and a half, sucking on peppermint and carelessly dropping the sticky wrappers into the floorboard, getting lost in the twisting roads of the suburbs multiple times and arguing over the right directions, though nothing could shake the cheek splitting grin from Toki's face.
He had never been on a long car ride with his friends before.
But all good things must come to an end, and as the night drug on, lights began to switch off, and the arrow of the gas gauge crept lower and lower. Pulling in at a RaceTrac just before the highway and parking at a pump, Pickles hopped out, stretching his arms high above his head before leaning back in to address the group.
"'m gonna get a slurpee, you guys want anythin'?"
"Ooh, cans I haves an Airshead? Wait, no, astro pops. No! Gummied bears. Wait-"
Pickles rubbed a hand over his face, "Toki, dood, jest come in an' pick."
"Okay!"
Patting his pockets for his wallet, Pickles turned, closing the door with his hip as Toki jumped out bouncing with energy, the pair heading inside.
Miffed, Murderface threw open his door, slamming it behind him, voice fading as he ran after the two, "Hey! You didn't even wait to schee if I wanted schomething!"
Silence hung heavy in the car as the quieter members of the band were left alone. Nathan had expected Skwisgaar to scoot over, for him to be eager to put space between them and not be squished together like sardines, but the blonde didn't move an inch. Clearing his throat, Nathan squirmed his hips, but Skwisgaar didn't take the hint, and Nathan noticed for the first time the pensive look on the other man's face.
"You, uh… look like you're thinkin' pretty hard."
Skwisgaar shrugged, slouching down in the seat and crossing his arms, his long legs bending at a severe angle to accommodate, boots crunching the discarded wrappers.
"Dids you do celebratings Christmas before? Wit' your families?"
Nathan nodded, running a hand back through his hair, his arm brushing against Skwisgaar's with the motion, "Uh, yeah. My parents, uh, aren't religious or whatever, but we did the usual stuff. You know. Tree, lights, presents…"
The blonde hummed in reply, staring out the windshield at the flickering neon Icee sign, the bright overhead lights doing little to illuminate the interior of the car and casting long shadows over his face, and Nathan found himself staring, concern and unease blooming in his chest.
"Did, uh… did you? You know, do stuff for Christmas."
Skwisgaar didn't respond for a moment, gaze stuck straight ahead and shoulders tense, but then he sighed, propping one of his boots on the center console.
"Nos."
"Oh."
An awkward silence settled over them. Nathan didn't know what to do. He wasn't good at this stuff, at comforting people. But that look on Skwisgaar's face made him feel all kinds of weird, gross things, and he couldn't just do nothing .
Grunting, Nathan patted Skwisgaar's knee in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, "Yeah, I mean- Christmas is pretty fuckin' lame, anyway. Fuckin'... Jesus and Santa and shit. Elves . Who needs it."
"Ja… Shores."
Both their eyes shot down to where Nathan's hand had unknowingly taken purchase on the other man's lower thigh, and the corners of Skwisgaar's lips curled up as the vocalist stuttered and yanked his hand away as if he had been burned. Straightening back up, Skwisgaar turned in his seat, draping his arm across the back of Nathan's seat, eyes twinklinking with amusement. Reaching forward, the guitarist plucked up a lock of inky black hair, curling it around his slender fingers, grinning wide as he saw Nathan gulp, green eyes burning a hole through the back of the headrest.
"Nat'ans."
A grunt was the only response, and Skwisgaar gave a soft tug to the lock in his hand.
"Looks at me."
Heart pounding, Nathan turned his head, locking gazes with those icy blue eyes, breath catching in his throat as blonde lashes fluttered. Skwisgaar glanced to Nathan's lips, then back up, leaning forward as his eyes slipped shut. Nathan moved to meet him with lightly parted lips, each breathing in the other's breath, the air electrified as their lips became only millimeters apart, and just as they brushed-
The door yanked open, the jarring creak of the hinge making them both jump and smack their heads on the ceiling, leaving the two disappointed and groaning in pain as Murderface flopped back into the seat, tossing a plastic 'Thank You' bag full of junk food into Skwisgaar's lap.
"Here, we got schnacksch-" noticing the twin glares and pained expressions from his bandmates, Murderface scrunched up his nose, "jeeze, what happened to you two?"