Work Text:
He doesn’t bring “The Hammer” to practice for the first six months. For six months he sits on it, wondering if Dethklok could be the band to bring it to life the way it deserves, to make it a hit. It’s his greatest work, he knows. It’s going to be his legacy.
The cassette tape burns white-hot in his jacket pocket over his left breast. Over his heart. He presses on it, sensing the weight of this moment, and then addresses his bandmates as they set up their instruments in the cleared living room.
“Hey, uh.” He clears his throat. He can’t falter. “I’ve got a song I’d like to show you guys.”
Nathan adjusts the mic stand. “Who by?”
Magnus straightens his posture and draws the cassette from his pocket with a meaningful flourish. “Magnus Hammersmith.”
Deep green eyes, washed out by the red light in the room, narrow just a touch. He’s thinking about it. This is good. “You wrote a song.”
“I did.”
“And you, what? Want the band to play it?”
“Eventually, yes.” Magnus stretches his arm out, pushing the tape closer to Nathan. “Just listen to it. All of you. It’s a Dethklok song, I know it.”
Nathan and Pickles share a look the way they always share a look. Pickles joined the band last, a relic of a bygone era looking to reclaim some fame, and Nathan has quickly learned to defer to his expertise in most things. But Magnus is the eldest among them, the most experienced. Perhaps not the most famous, but his time is coming. When “The Hammer” puts Dethklok on the map, he imagines he’ll slide rather easily into the position of band leader, and then it won’t matter what Nathan or Pickles thinks.
Pickles shrugs. It’s a ‘go head’. With a slow hand, Nathan takes the cassette tape and lumbers to the bar counter between the kitchen and the practice space. He pops open the front of the small boombox there and jams in Magnus’ tape. Magnus wants to tell him to be gentle with it but holds his tongue. It’ll only hurt him to sour the mood before the song even starts.
Nathan presses the play button down with a plastic chunk sound, and Magnus realizes his heart is pounding.
The guitar jumps right in, galloping with that strong chug he hears in his sleep. The drum machine he mixed in is exceptionally programmed, and his vocals enter like a throaty, wicked shriek. He knows Nathan’s voice will sound different singing his words. He’s tried to hear it in his mind so many times over the last six months, to prepare for it.
In his peripheral vision, Skwisgaar’s fingers make shapes on the fretboard of his guitar. Murderface sits on the couch pushed against the wall and listens, head bobbing to the beat. The kid has shit taste in music, though, so Magnus takes his appreciation with a grain of salt.
Arms folded over his massive chest, Nathan is quiet as the song plays. It’s impossible to tell what’s going on in his head, if he hates it or loves it. But of course he loves it. It’s a fucking great song. As perfect as one man can make it. Polished, tight, heavy. Just needs the full band to really make it complete.
The song ends and Nathan stops the tape, pops it out, moves to hand it back.
Magnus just stares at him, every sinew in his body stretched to snap. He tries to be casual about this. “So? What’d you think?”
Nathan is still holding the tape. Magnus won’t take it from him until he answers.
The deep green eyes flick to Pickles, but Magnus doesn’t turn to see whatever face that little twerp is making. It’s not important. He wants to hear this from Nathan. Wants to hear him admit that his work is a masterpiece. Go on, fucker. Say it. Tell me what I want to hear. He’s ravenous with the need for it.
“Hrmm.” Nathan grumbles, lowers the tape an inch or so. “Yeah, it was good. We can probably make it work.”
Magnus waits for additional comments, but nothing is said. By anyone. Is that all? Good? Good? They could probably make it work? Is that what he gets for years of songwriting? Years of tweaking and rearranging? Ten fucking words out of this bastard’s mouth and that’s it?
“Here,” Nathan says, finally shoving the tape against Magnus’ chest like an additional insult, and he takes it because he doesn’t know what else to do.
“But you’ll need to make copies for the band,” Magnus says to him. The fire is fizzling out in his heart. It was a “yes” but not the kind he wanted. Not the kind he deserved. “For practicing.”
Nathan snorts. “Just get me the lyrics. I’ll remember how it goes.”
“After one listen?” Magnus scoffs at him, but he’s not feeling cocky anymore.
“Wasn’t hard,” Nathan says, then he turns to the rest of the band. “I mean you guys picked it up, right?”
Skwisgaar is already plugged in and ready to play, and before Magnus can truly fathom the horror of what’s about to happen, slender hands rake across strings and the opening chug of “The Hammer” fills the small apartment for a second time. He plays through the intro and doesn’t stop and oh god no one stops him, and at the end of the first chorus Skwisgaar tosses his hair over his shoulder like he’s bored and says, “De rests is just de sames afters dis, ja?”
Magnus can’t speak. His throat is tight and pained.
Skwisgaar purses his thick lips. “Doesn’ts really works dat way, does it. Whats abouts...” The music changes. Evolves. That’s not Magnus’ melody. That’s not his song! What is he doing to it?
Something about this activates Pickles and he climbs in behind the kit to accompany Skwisgaar, but the drum pattern is all wrong. Wrong! Magnus stands there, knees locked, forced to listen to this abomination, this bastardization of his efforts. He’d spent weeks fine-tuning the drum machine. Weeks. And in seconds Pickles is disregarding it in favor of his own ideas.
Even Murderface begins to play, slogging through the bassline like the ham-fisted simpleton he is. This is offensive. This is maddening.
Then Nathan starts singing. The cadence is intact but the words, Magnus’ words, are cast aside and ad-libbed into nonsense. Like he doesn’t care. None of them care. Look at them, they’re ruining his music with smiles on their fucking faces with no regard for him or his talent or his feelings.
Magnus is certain he’s never been so thoroughly destroyed. He feels this like a death. Mourns for himself.
And in his grief, there is such a rage.
“Stop,” he tells them. It comes out trembling like the bleat of a goat. “I said STOP.”
They stop and look at him, and for a second Magnus still hears the revolting reverb in his ears as a mean-spirited joke. He doesn’t know what to do. He knows what he wants to do. But he can’t.
Pickles huffs and makes a big show of his irritation, but Magnus is trying not to pay attention to him. “What’s the deal, Mags? That was soundin’ pretty damn good.”
“It was fun,” Murderface says. “I like that song.”
Oh, Magnus wants to snap at him. Scream at him. Push him down. Hurt him. Hurt someone. Something.
Instead, he throws the cassette against the far wall hard enough to hear a crack.
“Fucks was dat for?” Skwisgaar cries, and the brief flash of fear in his eyes is pretty damn rewarding.
Magnus buzzes with a sick cocktail of endorphins and adrenaline and breathes fast. He shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have given in to his baser instincts. But it’s too late. He has to own it now. “What do you care? Thought you had it memorized.”
Skwisgaar puts down his guitar and goes to the smashed cassette tape lying on the carpet by the floorboard. “I dos, but dis ams your works, Magnus. Shouldn’ts just breaks it likes dis.”
“Oh man,” Pickles wails, getting up from the drums. “Give it here. Is the ribbon intact? I might be able to salvage it.”
Suddenly Magnus doesn’t know what’s happening. The band descends on the cassette like a force of nature, and a minute or so later Nathan presents it to him once again. It’s in one piece, repaired with duct tape from Murderface’s tool box. Magnus takes it from him, turns it over his hands, and tucks it back into his jacket pocket. He doesn’t say thank you. Just can’t. He’s been thoroughly conquered.
“It’s still your song, Magnus,” Nathan tells him. “We were just having fun with it.”
Magnus can feel his jaw trembling, and he nods. It’s all he can do.
Nathan smiles. Smiles. “Hey, buck up, big guy.” Claps him hard on the shoulder. “Don’t be so sensitive all the time, okay? It’s weird when you get all crazy on us.”
Crazy? Magnus chews the word in his mind. Is that what he is? Is that why he’s like this?
He nods again, and he speaks and his voice is small. “Won’t happen again, Nate.”
“Okay, cool. You good?”
No, he’s not.
But he gets his guitar out anyway.