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The heavy, stale scent of scorched butter and industrial-strength hairspray hangs thick in the air of the tour bus, trapped beneath the low laminate ceiling. It is mid-afternoon in Rochester, and outside the tinted windows, the gray New York autumn is starting to bite. Inside, however, the atmosphere is stiflingly warm, dominated by the brilliant, aggressive neon of a fluffy pink faux-fur pimp coat. Fred wears the coat with the unearned majesty of a king in exile. The hem drags along the linoleum floor of the tight kitchenette as he hunches over the small built-in table. His signature red cap is turned backward, the plastic strap biting into his forehead, and his brow is furrowed in intense, uncharacteristic concentration.
Between his thick, tattooed fingers, he delicately cradles a tiny glass bottle of yellow nail polish. Directly across from him sits Jonathan Davis, completely melting into the vinyl booth. Jonathan is wearing a threadbare, oversized black t-shirt and a dark, heavy leather skirt that pools around his thighs. His long, beaded braids drape over his shoulders like weeping willows, occasionally dipping toward his plate. Right now, his focus is divided between the small, yellow-and-green acrylic brush Fred is wielding and the slightly charred, oozing grilled cheese sandwich gripped in his left hand.
"Hold still, man," Fred mutters, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He uses the pad of his thumb to steady Jonathan’s right index finger, carefully dotting a row of tiny, bright yellow squares onto the black base coat. He is painstakingly rendering a microscopic ear of corn on his husband's fingernail. "You’re vibrating. Stop vibrating."
"I'm eating," Jonathan mumbles around a massive mouthful of toasted white bread and processed American cheese. A tiny bead of grease escapes the corner of his mouth, catching the harsh fluorescent light. "You're the one who decided to play salon while the butter was still hot."
"Yeah, well, you said your hands felt naked," Fred counters without looking up, his tongue poking out just a millimeter from the corner of his lips as he adds a green stroke for the husk. "And I don't cook for just anybody. Appreciate the craft, JD."
The heavy hiss of the pneumatic bus door breaking its seal cuts through the low hum of the refrigerator. The metal frame shakes slightly as James "Munky" Shaffer and Brian "Head" Welch trudge up the narrow steps. Both of them carry the distinct, high-voltage nervous energy of opening night, the sheer frantic anticipation of a massive, multi-band campaign that is only a few hours away from launching its very first set.
They have come with a purpose—specifically, to remind the two frontmen that the production crew expects them at the Blue Cross Arena in exactly thirty minutes for soundcheck. Instead, they halt dead in the narrow corridor, blinking against the sudden assault of the pink faux fur and the domestic serenity. Munky stops first, his arms crossing over his chest as his eyes travel from Fred’s pink shoulder, down to Jonathan’s sticky, cheese-covered fingers, and finally to the tiny bottle of polish. A flat, deadpan expression settles over his face.
"That’s gay," Munky says, the words dropping like a heavy stone into the small kitchen.
Jonathan doesn't even pause his chewing. He swallows hard, his throat working against the thick dairy, and points his unpainted thumb toward Fred. "I’m not gay," he says, his voice thick and casual, completely unbothered by the sudden audience. "I just like dick. I like Fred’s little dick."
Fred doesn’t miss a beat. He doesn’t look up from the miniature ear of corn, his hand remaining perfectly steady as he dips the brush back into the yellow lacquer. "We like men," he adds, his tone entirely level, as if he is explaining the weather or the tracklist of their upcoming split single.
Head tilts his head, his brow furrowing into a massive, confused knot beneath his chaotic mass of hair. He looks genuinely derailed by the sheer semantics of the defense. "The hell does that mean?"
Fred finally raises his eyes, flashing a slow, smug grin that crinkles the edges of his goatee. He shifts his weight inside the massive pink coat, the synthetic fur rustling loudly. "Crack open a dictionary and look up bisexuality, Brian."
Jonathan bursts out laughing. The sudden movement is violent enough to send a stray crumb of toasted crust flying from his lips, bouncing off the laminate table. "Dick-tionary," he wheezes, his shoulders shaking so hard that his hand jerks completely out of Fred’s grasp.
"Yo! Sit still!" Fred snaps, though there is no real heat in it. He snatches Jonathan’s wrist back, his grip firm but careful to avoid the wet polish. "You're gonna smudge the kernel. I just spent five minutes getting the contrast right on your middle finger."
"But my pee-pee itches," Jonathan complains, his voice dropping into that distinct, high-pitched whine he usually reserves for backstage arguments with management.
He squirms uncomfortably against the sticky vinyl booth, his leather skirt creaking loudly with the movement. Fred lets out a heavy, dramatic roll of his eyes, the absolute picture of a long-suffering spouse. Without a single trace of hesitation or self-consciousness, he reaches his left hand—the one not holding the nail polish brush—across the table. He slides it down past the edge of the leather skirt, completely disappearing into the folds of fabric to give Jonathan’s groin a solid, matter-of-fact scratch through his underwear.
Jonathan instantly thaws. He leans his head back against the windowpane, a look of pure, unadulterated relief washing over his pale face. He closes his eyes for a brief second before opening them to beam a warm, entirely shameless smile up at Munky. Munky stands frozen in the aisle, his face twisted into a complex grimace of half-disgust and profound exhaustion. He looks like a man who has walked into the wrong room but realizes he is legally obligated to stay there.
Before anyone can say anything else, the bus door hisses again. Wes Borland steps up into the cabin, looking like an alien entity in his civilian clothes—clean, quiet, and completely detached from the chaos. He doesn’t say hello. He just moves with a singular, quiet purpose toward the small refrigerator tucked into the kitchenette wall, looking to grab a Coke before the madness of the arena swallows them whole. Wes stops directly behind Head. His eyes track the scene in front of him with a slow, clinical precision: Fred, wrapped in a cloud of pink fur, methodically painting a tiny vegetable onto Jonathan's fingernail with his right hand, while his left arm is buried to the elbow beneath Jonathan's waistband, rhythmically scratching.
Meanwhile, Jonathan is happily taking another massive bite of his grilled cheese. Munky shifts his weight, his eyes darting from Wes back to the couple, his jaw slightly set. He waits. He waits for the inevitable punchline, the judgment, or at least the standard bandmate ridicule that usually keeps them all in check. Wes stands perfectly still for a long, quiet moment. He adjusts his glasses. Then, he looks directly at Jonathan’s lap.
"Is that a leather skirt?" Wes asks, his voice entirely flat, devoid of any mockery, dripping with genuine curiosity.
Jonathan looks down at his own lap, his mouth still partially full of cheese. He swallows, shrugs his shoulders beneath his oversized black shirt, and offers a calm, matter-of-fact explanation. "I have gay tendencies," Jonathan says simply.
Wes gives a slow, solemn nod of approval, his expression completely earnest as he reaches past Head to finally grab his soda. "It’s nice," Wes says, and walks right back off the bus.
Munky stares at the empty doorway where Wes just disappeared, his jaw dropping in sheer incredulity. He looks back at the kitchen booth, gesturing wildly with one hand. "Are you serious right now? That's it? 'It's nice?' He just walks away?" Munky shakes his head, running a hand over his face. "You guys are breaking his brain before the tour even starts."
Head, completely ignoring Munky’s existential crisis, steps a bit closer to the table, his eyes locked onto the heavy pleats of the dark fabric pooling around Jonathan's knees. He points a finger at it. "Where did you even get that skirt, anyway?"
"I bought it for him," Fred answers for his husband, a note of pride slipping into his low rasp. He doesn't look up, his fingers still steadying Jonathan's wrist. "Found it at some boutique in Philly. Real leather. Fits him like a glove."
Head nods slowly, shifting his gaze from the skirt to the last corner of golden-brown crust remaining on Jonathan’s plate. His stomach gives a loud, poorly timed rumble. He eyes the stove wistfully. "Hey, is there any grilled cheese left?"
"No," Fred says instantly, his tone flat and fiercely protective of his culinary output. "I only made enough for him. Go find your own catering, Brian."
Jonathan lets out another soft, amused snicker, his hips shifting slightly on the vinyl seat as he tries to reach for his cup of soda. The movement causes his hand to twitch. Fred doesn't hesitate. Beneath the leather skirt, his left hand shifts from a scratch to a firm, warning-only squeeze right around Jonathan's dick. It’s a completely casual, domestic gesture, but it delivers the message perfectly.
"I said hold still, Jon. Just two more minutes and the corn is done."
Jonathan immediately freezes, his eyes going a little wide as he sinks back against the cushions. "Okay, okay," he murmurs, completely submissive to the command. He obeys, keeping his hand perfectly rigid on the table.
Munky lets out a loud, visceral groan of pure defeat, throwing his hands in the air. "I can't deal with this right now. I'm going to go tune my guitar before I lose my mind."
He turns on his heel and stomps down the bus steps, desperate for the relatively normal atmosphere of the venue. Head looks between the door and the kitchen, realizes there is definitely no food coming his way, and lets out a heavy sigh, following Munky out into the Rochester chill. As the heavy bus door hisses shut behind them, the cabin falls back into its warm, isolated quiet. Fred eases the pressure of his grip, his thumb resuming its slow, soothing scratching beneath the leather skirt, while his right hand carefully applies the final green stroke of the husk. Jonathan just leans his head back, a comfortable, sleepy smile spreading across his face as he enjoys the peace before the storm.