Archive of Our Own

The day on which this story begins had been a relatively good one. I don't remember it with crystal clarity, except to note that it was less stressful than average; my meetings had all gone successfully, my investments profitably, and my workload – while no smaller than on any other day – seemed less antagonistic somehow. This alone should have tipped me off.

All the items on my roster were already taken care of. Routine chores I’d handled many times over, boring and forgettable: Employee pay adjustments, repair estimates, contractor bids, medical bills, outsourcing, importing; and the endless flow of legal text thick with convoluted language, its various sources constantly trying to slip their own agendas past me. They never get past me.

Lunch at midday: Salad with cress and smoked salmon, onion soup topped with fresh croutons and a thick layer of Gruyère, strawberry cheesecake for dessert. All of which is exquisite, as usual. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of the food here.

It's a quarter to two, early by Dethklok standards, when Nathan comes to my office. He's more likely to knock lately, but it’s always an impatient, surly knock. And startlingly loud, which is something, considering how thick the door is.

“Come in.” I don’t need to ask who it is. I wait, and then repeat myself, louder. This time, the door opens, and a familiar, crag-browed face precedes the rest of Nathan’s imminent mass . I can almost feel the ground shiver when he walks, I imagine the air sinking toward him as if he were creating his own gravity well.

“What can I do for you, Nathan?”

He orbits my old leather armchair, and then deposits himself into it. “Okay so, Pickles and Toki and I were talking,” Already, I cringe. When he starts with such a statement, it’s because he wants to diffuse blame for whatever idea he’s about to throw at me. There’s a lot of dithering between the beginning and the end of these pitches, but they tend to follow a predictable pattern, ending with the money shot of an ill-thought-out idea, which he must already know I will not agree to.

The man is never reasonable when I tell him 'no', as I often have to do. But this time, there's something new to his petulant bitching, something I don't take much notice of the first time it surfaces. A slightly different tone to his voice. A little more aggressiveness to his body language. It takes longer to make him give up the argument, and when he finally leaves, there's an itching in the back of my brain... I know this isn't over, there's a loose end somewhere that's going to come back to foul up my life. I force the anxiety down, I won't be distracted by indeterminable feelings.

The rest of my afternoon follows in the morning’s footsteps, with the exception of a very pleasant round of golf with the Attorney General of New Zealand, taken on the Mordlandian steppes. Interesting fellow, talks a lot about geography. There’s to be a show in Auckland next year, and that requires a lot of preparation to minimize damage. Not necessarily physical damage to the venue or the audience, but financial damage after the inevitable.

I think the world’s mostly come to terms with the way Dethklok works. The shows will always be blood sacrifices to their Gods. The one thing that worries me is that the size of the 'sacrifice' has been growing with each year – but then, so has the payoff. The more bloodshed and destruction the concerts generate, the more the countries that host them prosper. Their economies improve, the general standard of living goes up… it’s as if our world feeds on the carnage.

Maybe it’s wrong of me to live in the comfort I do, a willing component of an engine that runs on blood money. But I just try to steer the machine; far be it from me to question its greater workings.

The sun sets without me noticing, I’ve gotten lost in my work and the glow of my laptop, and when that heavy fist beats on my door again, it startles me. I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose. “Come in.”

Again, the dance. The posturing and procrastinating and couching of who said what and how this is really a good one, really... I filter most of it out and wait for the train to pull into the terminal. It takes several minutes, and I only focus on the singer again when I hear his voice switch into his 'here's the punchline' tone.

“So anyway, we thought we should build a dome on the moon in case of world war three.”

I do not pause, dither, or dissemble. “We’ve talked about this before, Nathan.” Many of the ideas are rehashes of older things he’s forgotten he’s already asked for. It doesn’t matter if I remind him, I’ll probably hear it again in a couple of months.

“No we haven’t! That was a space station, a dome is different, you grow plants and stuff in it,.” He makes gestures with both hands, as if I don’t know what he’s describing. “And you could live there without space suits.”

“I see. I am also going to have to tell you what I told you before, though. Which is ‘no’. First of all, it’s a terrible idea, and secondly, you can’t afford it.” All the money of the band combined would barely buy them a shuttle, much less terraform a habitable piece of lunar real estate.

Predictably, Nathan doesn’t listen to me, and instead whines loudly, “Why not!? It’s a great idea!”

“Even if it were the best idea in history, you still don’t have the resources to do it. I’m sorry. Your assets have taken a downturn recently, and you’ll just have to settle for your measly dozen homes, bunkers, and fortresses on THIS planet, alright?”

“God, I mean, you don’t have to be so rude about it.” Suddenly indignant, Nathan manages to stay entirely off topic. I can feel that itch coming back – the one that tells me Nathan's on the verge of doing something really unusually annoying.

“I'm not being rude, I'm being-” But he cuts me off, capable of simply being louder than me.

“No! You can’t talk to me like that! I’m your boss, so … you should just do what I tell you to!” He folds his arms at me expectantly.

“Firstly, I cannot make money that you do not have magically appear. Secondly, no. No, you are not my boss, Nathan.” My voice sharpens as I speak, and you know what? I’m actually angry – scratch that, I am downright pissed off! And not just because this is how he treats me, the ongoing lack of consideration and respect, I've taken that in stride for years. But the fact that he doesn't know what I am, what he owes me. He thinks of me as a servant. I am done taking that.

So I stand up and I snap at him, “In fact, as of our last contract negotiation, I am the CEO of Dethklok incorporated, with final executive control over all business decisions. I own this company, and everything it does for you. I’d say that definitely puts me above ‘employee’.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Don’t start this with me, Nathan.” I am already seeing red in the corners of my vision.

Still sitting, he folds his arms behind his head smugly, just to make me angrier. “I'll start whatever I want. You're not going to stop me. You sit in here and dick around with my money all day, but you don't have any real power! I have the power! Everything here is fucking MINE.”

“Oh my god, will you shut up! I am not going to fight you for dominance. And I…”

Nathan interrupts me again, “Good! Don’t fight me, I’d kick your ass. That’s why I’m in charge, because I could break you. My band, my company! Don’t forget that!”

I have to scoff, I can’t help it. It takes the wind out of the posing jackass and I can see how much he hates it. I actually take a little extra delight in that, the scandalized expression. “Kick my ass, will you? Really? I’d like to see you try.”

Now Nathan stands up as well, drawing himself up to loom over me, as if he could intimidate me with size. I know I am not a large person, I have learned to compensate very, very well. “Do you really? If you want me to break your fucking legs, I’ll do it. I’m not going to take that shit from you.” He crouches defensively, as if he expects me to tackle him over my desk.

“Not here. If we do this, we do this the right way. Meet me in the dojo in half an hour.” I fix him with a calculated look and disarming smile that makes him shift his weight backwards uncomfortably. I enjoy the effect, it’s a useful skill.

“Ugh. Fine... Where is that?” I tell him, and when I dismiss the vocalist there’s another awkward pause, as if Nathan isn't sure what to do now. I glare at him and he wanders back out into the hallway.

If briefly, my office is mine again. I finish what I’d been working on before the interruption and put everything else away for the time being. A quick shower, and then fresh clothing more suitable to my ‘appointment’: soft clothing, easily removed shoes. Some of the Klokateers have never seen me wearing a T-shirt in the common areas and they turn to look at me as I pass them in the hallway. Interesting reaction, I might need to present a more casual side to my employees before they start trying to find where I plug into the wall.

The band’s martial arts room is huge - built to the vast scale inherent to anything Dethklok - but at least it’s designed in the traditional Japanese style. Which is to say; not metal. But if I hadn’t pressed the issue, it would also be dangerously decorated with spikes and blades and other artful protuberances that would kill anyone who tried to use it for its intended purpose. So at the very least, we have a place to tussle where the walls won’t eviscerate us.

Nathan is waiting for me. His hair is tied back and he’s wearing a custom Gi with a black belt, which is laughable as I know he's never earned it - it's a costume. It doesn’t even fit him properly, being little more than glorified pyjamas: cut to flatter. Which, I admit, it does, but I still have to suppress my amusement. Not well enough, I notice. Nathan can be oddly astute, and he glares at me for daring to think of laughing at him.

“How are we doing this?” He asks impatiently.

“Civilly.” I reply. “MMA, American style full contact." I'm fairly sure he knows the rules, I've seen him watching matches on television with keen interest. "Hold and pin for a count of five. No hair-pulling, pinching, biting, scratching…” I have to cover all my bases with him, “Poking, tickling, or blows to the face or groin..”

“So if I knock you down and hold you there, I win? That’s it?” He makes it sound so easy.

I take off my glasses, “Yes, Nathan. If you pin me for five seconds, you win.”

Nathan looks at me, he doesn’t’ scoff or smile. He doesn’t trust me. Good. The man is learning. We both take off our shoes and stretch. He’s impatient, and drops into a defensive pose while I’m still readying myself. I watch his body language – he speaks volumes with the way he stands, the parts of his body he protects, even what he's looking at. I too, assume a starting position.

The beginning is awkward, as I expect. We spend a long, silent moment just looking at each other. He's not as dumb as people tend to think, and he wants me to make the first move. Of course, it's in my best interest not to. So we spend several seconds shifting our weight from foot to foot in a quiet preliminary battle of patience... until one of us loses. It isn’t me.

When he charges, I dodge him, which he half-expects and compensates for. I've seen him fight before, and while he's not completely obtuse, he still uses his body as a blunt weapon - whereas I am as quick and flexible as my favored blade. The mental comparison pleases me - I know I'm being conceited, but it gets my heart going, keeps me quick. Again, he moves, and I let his fist get within inches of me.

Nathan passes without touching me, and I don’t touch him - yet. He turns around and glares at me. I smile calmly, it’s going to be that kind of fight. Again, he tries to make contact, swerving toward me, and I twist to the side. It's too easy to evade him – his weight makes his trajectory overly predictable, and each time he lunges at me, I avoid him. “You’re just going to wear yourself out this way.”

Nathan's already breathing heavily, “Stop being a dick.” I must admit to myself, he's right - I'm baiting him. It's unsportsmanlike, which isn't how I like to play.

But on the other hand; “You want me to just stand here while you tackle me with your weight advantage?”

He huffs, “Yes!”

I roll my eyes, resuming a defensive pose. Nathan mirrors me, but he doesn't try to charge again. Instead, he's thinking. Oh, he can be a clever boy when he tries – It's so endearing, makes my chest flutter. I know it's more than just the anticipation of a better fight, but I have to keep my expression neutral. He'd just think I was laughing at him again.

This time he approaches me more slowly; good. I can’t simply dodge him when he’s not being pushed past me by his own momentum, I can only back out of reach, keeping us at a stalemate until I let him corner me.
Nathan grabs my arms, the great hot paws he calls hands clamping down on me. I hold my ground until he tries to push, wherein I turn and roll my upper body forward, pulling him easily over my shoulder. He grunts as he hits the floor. I let him ‘escape’ and get back on his feet.

He tries to tackle me at close range, using his greater mass in a manner that would benefit him if this were football or wrestling, but it's not, and he has a bewildered look on his face when he winds up flat on his back again. I've barely broken a sweat.

“That’s bullshit!” He accuses.

“That’s Judo, Nathan.” Again, we take our places. He gestures for me to come at him this time. I do, but I let him overestimate my intent. The singer lunges toward me as I pull up short and throw him again. He rolls with it this time and regains his feet quickly. When he comes back at me, it's with a series of quick, vicious blows that I deflect, sidestepping him. I don't realize I'm smiling as he tries repeatedly to land a punch and I evade each one - he's adapting himself to my style, and I like it when he learns.

The singer lets his hands fall and pauses to catch his breath; "Stop that."

"Stop what, exactly?"

"That smile. That... rape face you've got going on. That's creepy. No psych shit."

I have to stifle myself again and choke on a surprised laugh until my eyes mist. "Rape face?" I can barely say it without cracking up. "You think I'm going to force myself on you?"

"Maybe. I don't know." He edges back, "That's a rule now, though. No raping."

"Alright, Nathan. No raping. And no psychology. I was just thinking of something funny."

He glowers, no doubt assuming I mean him. But he shakes it off and prepares for his next attack. I'm sufficiently distracted by Nathan's hilarious accusation, and I let him catch me in the ribs with a massive arm.

I fly vertically away from where I was standing - leaving my breath behind. It's not the blow or the landing that's difficult; it's getting back to my feet and out of range before Nathan can pounce on me. He's fast for his size, and doesn't hesitate to take the opportunity, hands curled into claws as he makes his finishing move.

I am faster, however, and just barely slip his grasp. Nathan lands on his hands and knees - giving me an opportunity to put my foot on his broad back and push him off-balance. When he flails, I catch his arm and twist it around, forcing him down on his belly.

I lean down to speak quietly, “Who's kicking who's ass, Nathan?”

"Ow! Fuck! Jeeze!" Nathan struggles, but I have him in a position where his strength won't help.

There's a bitter note that comes out in my voice, “Answer my question. Are you kicking my ass?”

"No! Let go! I'm not done!"

The fight isn't fun anymore, my ribs hurt, I'm tired of toying with the boy, and I just want to end it. “You're done. I'm counting. One... Two..." I have to catch my own breath now, and the man under my heel thrashes and then whines when moving gives him a muscle cramp in his shoulder. When I reach five, he howls miserably and I let go of his arm, stepping aside so he can get up.

He doesn't. The big brute of man just lays on the floor, ragdoll-limp and pathetic.

"Get up, Nathan."

"No. Fuck off." He mumbles into the tatami mats, not at all being a good loser. He whines again when he moves his arm and finds it painful to do so.

"I'm sorry about your shoulder. Please get up. We can get something to eat."

"Don't wanna eat." Of course, he's not as prone to 'hunger strikes' as Murderface, but he's no stranger to short-lived loss of appetite when things don't go his way. I know if I have a meal made, he'll show up and eat it before it gets cold.

"Okay. I'm going to have the chef make Bulgogi tonight. If you change your mind, I'm sure there'll be plenty." I don't wait for him to say anything else, it'd just be gloating at this point. So I step into my shoes and leave him there to lick his wounded pride. Metaphorically speaking. I hope.

I don't see him for the rest of the evening, and when I send a Klokateer to check up on him, it's reported that he's no longer in the Dojo, and the rest of the Korean barbeque has disappeared from the kitchen, as I'd predicted. I have all the ice cream locked in the basement and replaced with low-fat frozen yogurt, to minimize the health impact of Nathan's impending sulk-binge.

In fact, he does his best to avoid me for another two days. I could easily find him if I need to, but I let him believe he's successfully hiding, and leave him alone until he's ready to come to me. I expect sullen demands for attention, apologies, or a rematch... but the man actually surprises me when he finally arrives at my quarters.

I have more than one 'home' in Mordhaus, but my most frequent living space is a small apartment adjacent to my office. It has two entrances – one hidden within the office itself, and another which is its public face to the Haus, the latter of which is being pounded upon abusively until I'm forced to acknowledge it. When I get closer, I can tell that the person on the other side isn't knocking, but -kicking- at the brass bootguard. I sigh and press the intercom.

“Nathan?”

A grumble, “Yeah.”

When I open the door, what I encounter is not the sulking heavy-browed face that I expect, but rather a mass of fresh flowers in an ovoid sardonyx vase. White calla lilies and tea roses so deeply red they're nearly black dominate a three foot tall arrangement being carried by a pair of familiar hands. “Can I come in?” The man behind the flowers asks meekly, “This is heavy.”

I'm taken aback, and my first instinct is to protest. “Nathan...” I begin, but stop myself quickly. “Yes, come in.” I want to see what he's planning. I move aside and wave him into my parlour, It is styled after an Edwardian antechamber, with antique furniture and tufted claw-footed chairs, and I can tell Nathan is uncomfortable with the décor. Well, he doesn't have to sleep here, now does he?

Once the arrangement is safely on my dresser, Nathan pulls a black card envelope from between a pair of scarlet peonies and thrusts it toward me; “Here, I wrote something for you... It's better if you read it than, uh, me saying it.”

I take the envelope and read the note inside, written in surprisingly a neat and sober hand, even if the strokes are as heavy as ever.

Charles, I was thinking about how you really owned me at judo.
I mean you trounced me. It wasn't even hard. You could have done that any time.
But you didn't. And all those times I was a dick to you, you could have. You could have kicked my ass.
And I thought you were just not doing anything about it because you couldn't take me.
But I guess I see now you were just trying to be patient with me.
And I guess that's really hard. Because I know I piss you off a lot.
I don't know why you even bother to be nice to me and explain stuff to me.
But you do a lot of stuff that I don't understand. I know it's important stuff that I couldn't do.
I tried and I know if you didn't come back we'd all be seriously fucked now. Probably dead.
So thank you for staying and not beating the shit out of me every time I do something stupid.
Nathan Explosion.

As I'm reading, Nathan is watching me. His expression is so puppyish and worried, he'd be so hurt should I reject his almost-apology. And yet he doesn't want me to think he cares if I do or not. I could have handled the petulance, the irrational, violent tantrums I expected. This, though...

This isn't just an apology or an admission that I'd beat him in a physical challenge. This is an acknowledgement, something I thought I'd never see. He knows he's wrong, he was wrong about me, and he's owning up to it. I must have knocked something loose in the Dojo, because this is truly an epiphany coming from the self-centered frontman.

At this moment, this very minute, our entire dynamic is changing. And I'm so unprepared that I find myself struggling to stay coherent. I clear my throat.

“Why did you do this?” I'm being vague, but my heart is in my throat, making it difficult to put my thoughts into words.

Nathan shrugs, not wanting to meet the most obvious question with the obvious answer. “I wanted you to know that I thought about what you said. That I can think about things and change my mind and like... be better.”

“Better.” I repeat, blinking behind the lenses of my glasses.

“Better than what everyone thinks I am, just a dumb big loud spoiled asshole who breaks shit and has breakdowns because I'm too stupid to do anything by myself. I can take care of myself, I'm not a fucking baby who has to be fed and clothed and taken care of all the time!” He's not exactly yelling by the time he's finished, but he's not -quiet- either. Good thing Mordhausian walls are solid stone.

I don't have anything witty to say to him. “I see.” He can be so passionate, even when he's being childish, his charisma makes him seem heroic and awesome in his fervor. And I am just a small, dark shadow in the face of that brilliance. How could I do anything to diminish him?

Nathan looks at me with that predatory gaze, far more astute in his element than I commonly give him credit for. “You okay?” He asks, another crack forming in his wall of jaded machismo.

And I can't reassure him, because I'm not okay. I'm trembling – confused, angry, and vulnerable. Somehow Nathan's friendly gesture has struck into the heart of me, and found me weak. I shake my head and turn to sit down.

Nathan tries to be comforting in his poorly thought-out way, by knuckling me in the shoulder and trying to make a joke. “Maybe you need to unwind. Get laid or something. It's not like you're a robot...” Ugh, that old bone again.

“Nathan...” He has to go, I can't let him see me get emotional. I steel myself, “Please leave me be.” But it comes out sharper than I intend, and has entirely the wrong effect. I realize my mistake as soon as the words are out.

The singer's emerald eyes go wide, “What? No! This is my fault! I shouldn't have gotten in your face... this was stupid... stupid flowers. I'm... “ He puts both hands on my shoulders, “Don't be mad at me, I didn't mean to do it wrong, I just wanted you to be … uh... you know. Okay... with me. With working with me.”

I turn away, “I'm not angry at you. You didn't do anything wrong... I'm just under a lot of stress.”

“Oh yeah, huh. You have to be, I guess. You're a pretty tight-wound guy. Maybe you really do need... I mean, that's your business. But... do you like them?” He glances over at the flowers. “They're really not metal at all, but... I uh... I talked to someone and she said you'd like them.”

Ah, Rose, it has to have been Rose. She's a delightful lady, and quite fun when she's had a few drinks. I've enjoyed talking to her on many occasions. Another thing I can never let Nathan know – the poor man would be beside himself if he had any clue what his manager and his mother had been up to behind his back. His childhood photos, for instance.

“Yes, Nathan. They're very nice. ...The flowers and the letter. They're the nicest thing anyone's done for me in a long time.” The very reason for my current condition. It's been so long since anyone was kind to me out of the blue like this – it feels alien and painful; even worse coming from someone I actually like. And that disturbs me deeply.

“So we're good?” Nathan's still touching me, eyes seeking mine.

Should it taint the moment that I know he's just doing it because he's afraid of marring the facade of congeniality we keep up? The misguided paternal attachment and illusion of camaraderie? It doesn't, not when I am hiding my own attraction and infatuation. And now that he's forced to see me as an equal, he's far more invested in what I actually think or want. My opinion has weight, my decisions matter to him in a way beyond simply being an impediment to what he wants. This is going to take some adjustment on both our parts.

“We're good.” I tell him. It's not what I want to say, but it's what the reasonable, professional me knows I must say. It was a mistake, all of it. Rising to his jibes, losing my temper and agreeing to fight him. It was a mistake to have let him in as much as I have. He wouldn't understand, and I don't explain.

I see him to the door, I must let him walk out without grabbing him and holding him, without touching his hair and sobbing into his chest as I ache to do. I have to swallow the pain of his presence, will continue to do so, use it to sharpen myself into an ever deadlier weapon.

Because they're out there – the vengeful ones, the hateful ones, and the bringers of chaos. They beat at our gates, claw to get in, and when they do, I must be as cold and merciless as they are.

It's because I love him, that I'm willing to sacrifice my own happiness to protect him. And that is the most important job in the world.

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