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The night is clear in Mordhaus, the beer flows and the laughs grow with every shot, every dare, every shared smile. Nights like these are rare: they are all in a good mood, together, and there is no threat above them —not even on Charles’ shoulders. All the noise echoes in the living room, where the five of them joke and drink inside the jacuzzi, their skin already as bland as their hearts. Only when the black out is near, when Skwisgaar is getting close to the floor, Toki can hardly speak English and Murderface insists on hugging, one can feel a thin veil lifting, as if they allowed themselves to see each other —to care. They undress in ways no other human will ever see of the legendary metal band, maybe just their all-mighty manager, but it’s a shade of golden so rare and strangely quiet, it comes and goes as fast as a sigh. Once you focus your eyes, the moment is gone —but they remember. Not the day after, not after months, but they are aware of these spaces.
It’s a sacred ritual they share that ends in bile and headaches.
“I’m jast sayin’ thet I could lick tha sun.”
“Why woulds you likks da sun, Pickle? It ams an stupid ideas.”
“Why nat?? Nat with that attidude!”
“Det høres dumt ut...”
“Tha feck is Toki sayin’?”
“Don’t looks ats me.”
“You can underschtand him, Skwisgaar.”
“Ja, you cans forstå meg.”
“Uh, wouldn’t you die licking the sun, Pickles?”
“Whet? Hmm…”
“Goods points, Nathens.”
“I needsch another drink.”
“MURDERFACE!”
“WHAT?”
“Fuckings dildo, don’t flash ats us.”
“Wowee, Modaface…”
“Dood, ya really need to trim thet forest.”
“You’re a bunchsch of pussies.”
“Onlys Pickle.”
“Oi! See? If I licked tha sun, y’all have me mor’ respect. ‘N bold of ya to sayh, Skwisgaar.”
“Wants some fightins, Pickle?”
“Only if ya dan’t go to yer mamma cryin’ when I beat ya.”
“C’mon guys.”
“Jeg vil se dem slåss!”
The fight was as quick as it was silly, and it settled after a few ducklings in the filthy water. Pickles tasted the whiskey and piss in it, and then knocked the air out of Skwisgaar, just in time for Nathan to come in between while Toki cheered. Murderface appeared with another bottle of gin, and the frontman took it from him just to give it to the redhead.
“Pickles, c’mon.”
“Aw, Nate’n, my favorite, how did ya know?”
“You two are disguschting.”
“Ya jealous.”
“Schut up.”
“Kaller du det en kamp?”
“Toki, we don’t know the fuck you’re saying. English.”
“... You guys suck.”
The blond was faster than the redhead, and the youngest was able to try the acrid taste of piss in the water. Murderface, angry at the fact that his gin bottle had been stolen, decided to jump into the jacuzzi, and the splash was so loud, so unexpected, one could have swore Mordhaus trembled. When the bassist reemerged, the five of them went silent.
A roar of laughs loud as thunder filled the room.
The night went on, and with it the early morning. Dressed in robes and stolen shirts, they decided to climb to the roof and watch the sun dye the sky as it rose. Toki dozed off and Skwisgaar followed him, their heads pressed together and their knees tucked in. Murderface rested at the blond’s side, snoring, and Nathan sighed as the redhead sat on his lap.
“Why the sun?”
“Whatdya mean?”
“Why would you want to lick the sun?”
Pickles gave him that smirk of his, that so often framed his face and always made Nathan swallow hard, no matter the moment. His green eyes locked into Nathan’s, and there was a glint behind all the alcohol, the weed, the coke. Pickles knew how to hide behind all kinds of substances, only to truly let himself be seen by Dethklok’s singer.
“Easy, big boy. ‘Cause than I could call the sun min’.”
“...”
“Heh.”
“That was gay as fuck, Pickles.”
“Well, ‘f this sun donn want me to blow ‘im…”
“Uh, I never said that.”
“Yeh, I guessed so.”
They stood there a little while longer, until the sunlight touched their skin and warmed them, until Murderface’s snoring became truly unbearable. And once they were all in their (or other’s) beds, Pickles did a line, ready to finally lick the sun.