Work Text:
The front door slams shut, shaking the thin walls of the apartment. He can hear grumbling as Murderface sits at the end of their shared pullout mattress. He continues talking under his breath as he pulls his boots off and flops down on the bed. The metal frame creaks, Pickles is terrified that it’s going to break one of these days. They couldn’t tell how old it was from the side of the street, so it was any day now at this point. He can make out words here and there but otherwise tries to focus on sleeping. Murderface has moved subjects about a million times but keeps circling back to the club they played at that night. For one minute though he stops. Quiet as a mouse and Pickles thanks whoever’s up there. He shuffles around, finding a comfortable spot and closes his eyes. Then he hears a loud huff and Murderface goes right back to his grumbling complaints.
“Shut the fuck up, man!” Pickles says probably too angry and loud. “Throw on one of those stupid documentaries.” Murderface loves anything to do with wars. It’s a sick fascination he has with them. He mumbles some more shit as he gets up to pop the VHS in. Pickles can hear the low, monotone drone of the narrator as the frame creaks with Murderface’s weight again. The volume is decidedly low and he appreciates that. He flips over and scooches up to where the other man is lying on his back. Pickles cuddles up to him, his head on his chest. Murderface throws an arm around him. This was their usual arrangement. It was comfortable, helped them sleep better, ‘just friendly’ is what Murderface said. Pickles rolled his eyes as soon as it was out of his mouth
Pickles laid there for he doesn’t know how long. Eyes closed listening to Murderface's heart beating. The conditions were perfect. Yet he couldn’t sleep, he had been trying for about an hour before Murderface walked in. He patted the bed behind him, trying to find his phone. He grabbed it and flipped it open. 2:50. He’s never felt more suicidal. Maybe he wasn’t drunk enough or maybe it was him throwing it all up not even a couple hours ago. He knows they don’t have anything and his bathroom stash is running low. All his money is going towards rent and you can only score so many free drinks off of prospective hook-ups and kind bar-goers. He sighs heavily, knowing this is going to be a long night. He tosses the phone behind him hearing it hit the floor.
“Hey, Murderface, what’s this one about?” Pickles thinks he should be doing something more productive like working on the album or even going out to see if he can score anything but Murderface’s chest is comfy.
“It’s uhh- Something about making kids Nazis in World War Two.” Interesting, Pickles didn’t pin him as a World War Two guy. He always watched ones on the Civil War. Murderface continued rambling about what had been said in the documentary so far. It was better than nothing to Pickles’ insomnia racked brain. He would cut in with little comments here or there supplemented with what he remembered from high school history classes. Then the conversation leads into music. Murderface talks his usual shit about how bass players aren’t appreciated enough. They’re the foundation of the band, metal wouldn’t be anywhere without them, all that. Eventually he brings up his idea of playing with his dick. Pickles always scoffs and laughs at the idea. It’s just something only Murderface could think of and actually want to do.
“Isn’t that gay?” He smirks. It’s mean, Pickles knows that, but he kind of revels in Murderface’s anger. “Most metal fans are men and you’re just inviting them to look at your dick.” He can hear his heartbeat rise.
“What?!” His voice rife with panic. “No it’s not, it’s metal!” And Pickles has to give him that, slap cock bass is a little metal. But mostly gay. Murderface rants on about how cool, impressive and not gay his idea is. It’s hilarious but Pickles knows if he laughs that Murderface would leave and that’s the last thing he wants. Eventually, after a couple minutes of stuttering and a liberal use of nuh-uhs, he shuts up. He’s never really this quiet, Pickles chalks it up to his lack of engagement though. Until he looks up at Murderface’s face, propping himself up on his arm. He’s blushing in the glow of the TV.
“Dude, it’s okay to be gay.” Pickles didn’t think he’d be the one to uncover Murderface’s obvious repression. Especially sounding like a cheery educational ad.
“Pickles I know for you it’s expected,” Ouch? “But what would the guys think?!” Pickles knows what the guys would think. Which is to say a whole lot of nothing and they would all go back to doing their own gay shit. He doesn’t even think they would react or even acknowledge it. “Or my grandma, Pickles!” That was a valid concern, although she was states away he hadn’t heard good things about the lady. And Murderface being notorious for letting every detail of his life slip wasn’t a good mix with that
“Just don’t tell ‘em man, really simple actually.” He doesn’t think he’s ever really told anyone that he’s gay or queer, whatever. Just assuming they would know. It’s not a major deal but Murderface is, well, Murderface.