Work Text:
His long, sharp nails dug deeply into that damned part of the side of his left waist, moving against it with intensified force and speed, creating white, asymmetrical straight lines around it. It bothered him; it bothered him so fucking much that it made him want to replace his nails with 5 silver knives for the sake of the scratching to have a better effect - for the sake of him finally getting rid of that unbearable piece of skin he had to look at every goddamn day. It made the man feel gross, disgusted; it made him wish that Nathan would just come there and beat the shit out of him in hopes that his good eye would follow the same fate as his bad one.
Everything, everything, just please make it so that fucking mark wouldn’t be there anymore. Screw its stupid design, screw all the fucking memories it brang up every time it was revealed to the brunette’s eye, screw his long forgotten friends, screw Dethklok, screw them all! All that burning pain had been completely unnecessary, he had made a huge mistake back then, he told himself. It had taken him so long to realize that yet it was too late. It was the present, there were no fucking time machines invented yet; whatever mistakes he had made, he couldn’t reverse.
“For Christ’s sake… Fuck! Shit!” the half-blind adult cursed and cursed, his nails not even once pulling away from his skin and in fact picking up the speed.
“So, how about it?” the 30 year old asked, his lips curling in a slight smirk.
William looked at the ground nervously, obviously having some doubts about Magnus’ offer. The two were very close friends and would hang out every time they had the chance, most of the time either playing bass and guitar or having a smoke while talking about nonsense not even they cared about. Body art would be a subject they would talk about from time to time – tattoos, piercings, henna, body paint and last but not least… scarification. Magnus seemed to be especially excited and interested when talking about scarification and its different methods and origins. Murderface could even recall seeing some sort of spark in the older male’s eyes at some point during their conversations concerning that topic.
“I dunno… it looksh like it’ll hurt.” Murderface said, still in denial about what to decide further.
“So?” Magnus shrugged, taking a drag out of his cigarette and exhaling the smoke “That’s the whole point of it, right? C’mon, pal! Don’t ya think it’ll look brutal on us?”
“Well, we are friendsh after all.” The younger male said in a low tone, still unsure if he should agree with his pal or not.
Both men were always lonelier than they would ever like to admit, so keeping each other’s company was something Murderface considered a blessing. He wasn’t so sure about Magnus but he knew that the older brunette was enjoying himself at least a little bit; otherwise he would’ve just kicked William off the roof or something. It was one thing having a friendship but having parts of their skin removed to show their bond was taking it to the extreme, which made Murderface think. Maybe his relationship with Magnus was even stronger than he had thought? Why else would the hazel-eyed guitarist want to scar his own long and slim body just like that?
“Alright, I’m up for it man!” the younger man spoke up enthusiastically, all of his worries disappearing into the thin air.
“Great!” Magnus smiled, pretty pleased with his friend’s agreement.
The knife pierced through the thick wooden desk, as if it were nothing. The owner of the weapon pulled it out, only to resume stabbing the piece of furniture over and over until his hand got tired. This was bullshit, all of this was complete and utter bullshit. Why, oh why did the guys have to ask about that already healed wound on the left side of his waist? It was bad enough that it was hideous-looking but it was impossible to get off. The man had made a lot of mistakes in his life but this one was plain unforgettable as it had a physical scar to remind.
The chubby brunette sighed before growling to himself and melting onto his chair. He wasn’t in the mood for neither cursing, nor breaking things, which was something other people thought of as strange. The bassist always reacted aggressively and violently at the smallest things, they all thought. But this sort of thing was not something that awakened wrath – it was the source of a sheer, long-lasting and unavoidable depression. It’s true that the musician was mad that he couldn’t get out of it once he got in, but he was too emotionally drained to do anything violent or try to snap himself out of it.
This was a stupid thing to get sad over, of course it was. He was young, he did stupid life-changing mistakes, he could get the fuck over it now that he’s a grown up fucking man. Shit like that shouldn’t be bothering him at the least; it was just a stupid scar he could easily ignore, right? – no big deal.
Murderface’s eyes were on his pal, Magnus, who was cheerfully chit-chatting with the tattooist in the office, presumably discussing the tattoo design the brunettes were going to get on their skin. The bassist scurried over to the other two after getting called over by Magnus, who was obviously enjoying himself. The tattooist rounded up a line of questions towards the two so he could get a basic idea on what to suggest to them as a design. Scarification tattoos were permanent after all; they weren’t like normal ink tattoos that could easily be removed by specialists or fixed by having another tattoo over them.
“Alright, I think I got a solid idea!” the worker said, putting his index finger under his chin, “How about a pentagram with a goat’s head in it, overlapping a hunting dog’s one?”
“Perfect.”
“Yeah, that shounds aweshome!” Murderface agreed enthusiastically, the biggest smile on his young face.
“Great! And for a place, how does the waist sound? I can assure you it doesn’t hurt as much as the other body parts. I’m no biologist though so don’t blame me if you scream bloody murder.” The tattooist joked, scratching his head while letting out a low laugh.
Murderface got scared for a second but quickly joined the other man and Magnus in laughing. The customers decided that they both wanted their scarifications on the right side of their waists, exchanging smiles while the tattooist went to prepare his tools. Oh boy, if only they knew what had been awaiting them.
A vodka bottle shattered. A scream. Another bottle shattered. A thud. Another scream. Three similar thuds. An even louder scream. The sound of fingers scratching furiously against a curly-haired brunette’s scalp. Cursing. Breaking. Yelling. Kicking. Punching. Heavy breathing. Trashing.
“Oh my god, fuck!” Magnus cursed through gritted teeth, holding onto the bed frame, trying to keep his voice down as much as he could. Fucking dammit, that was painful.
On the other hand, Murderface, who was being handled by another employee, didn’t give a single fuck and expressed his emotions freely. He was producing the greatest screams known to man while frantically moving around to try and avoid the pain, much to the worker’s displease, who had a hard time sitting him still. Magnus was finished sooner so he tried to lend a hand into holding down William, which ended more or less successfully. Of course, excluding the punch to the jaw the older man received.
Eventually it was all over, both to the relief of the customers and the tattooists. It was pretty costly but money wasn’t that big of a problem for them. They found their scarifications pretty rad and spend half an hour staring at their selves shirtless in front of the mirror, taking pictures of each other and the workers before thanking them and leaving. They had to walk with their shirts pulled up though, so the tattoo would dry out completely and not stain their clothes.
“Y’know what?” William spoke up as he and his pal were walking down the street, “Thish isn’t ash bad ash I thought it would be!”
“See? I told you.” Magnus smiled, walking confidently and proudly wearing the scarification on his waist as if it were a trophy.
“We’ll be besht buds forever, right?” the smaller male asked, grinning up at the guitarist.
The older man let out a happy ‘yeah’ as he pat the bassist’s waist, as if telling him that the matching mark there was already proof enough.
Splash. Scrub. It was still there. More scrubbing. Still there. A sigh. More scrubbing, this time more intense. Still crystal clear on the bassist’s skin. Another sigh. Then a thud.
...
Magnus had lied. And William had been stupid enough to even ask something so impossible out of him. Both of them fucking hated it. They hated the fucking scarification. They hated the damn ugly goat, dog and stupid pentagram on their skin. They hated each other. They hated how they would fucking sit on roof tops and smoke their asses off every day. They hated tattoos. They fucking hated joining Dethklok. They fucking hated when Magnus had to leave.
They hated themselves so fucking much and the fucking scars they were never going to be proud of, forever craved in their miserable bodies and minds.