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Toki sat on the beat-up couch in the Pickles’ room, the air always smelled like metal, blood, and something sweet from his ever-present candy. Wrappers were scattered everywhere. Toki acted like a lazy, spoiled kid who couldn't be bothered to walk to the trash can, which wasn't exactly wrong. It was way past midnight already, and the bottle of vodka on the table was almost empty — he and Pickles had been finishing it for half an hour. Or an hour? Toki had lost count. His head was spinning pleasantly, like after a good show, when your fingers still shake from the adrenaline. He giggled, swinging his legs in the air — a dumb habit he never tried to hide.
"Pickl," Toki drawled, stretching the name with that thick Norwegian accent that always got stronger when he was drunk. "Ams vant... heh... Angel Bites. Two holes. Right above my lip. Dat vould be so brutal, ja? I vould look… cools ."
Pickles, sprawled out next to him with the bottle in hand, snorted. His red dreads stuck out in every direction, and his eyes drifted around all drunk. Usually he was the most clear-headed one out of all of them, even drunk, but tonight the booze had done its job. A sarcastic smirk stayed glued to his lips.
"Angel Bites? Toki, are you serious? You're scared of needles, doode. Remember how you screamed when Nathan just showed you the tattoo machine? And now you want two holes right on your face?"
Toki pouted, but there was already drunken glee splashing in his eyes. That was just how he was — rapid mood swings: one second he could be whining, the next he'd be laughing till he cried, then back again. There wasn't a single second of stability in that guy. Right now he was in his "happy idiot" phase. He shoved Pickles with his shoulder, a little harder than necessary, and they both nearly tumbled off the couch.
"Ams not scared! Ams stabs myself vith insulins every day! Wells, dat's... in the thigh. But dis... face. Lip. It's so... sensitive. Ams don't feels goods when thinks about it. But ams wants it! For my image. Skwisgaars probably vouldn't be scareds of somethin' like dat."
The lead guitarist's name slipped out with a note of familiar jealousy, but it dissolved fast in the alcohol and was soon forgotten. Toki reached for the bottle, took a swig straight from the neck, and coughed. Pickles took the bottle from him, barely to stop him — just to take a drink himself. Their fingers brushed for a second, and Toki felt a strange warmth that couldn't just be blamed on the vodka. Pickles was always... closer. Not like Nathan or Murderface, who were his friends, but it felt like their relationships weren't as close and trusting. He could laugh with them, screw around, and do dumb crap, but sitting drunk like this with one of them was impossible. Pickles listened. Sometimes he even understood the stupid nonsense Toki spouted.
They talked for a long time. Toki waved his hands around, describing how the piercing would look, how cool and brutal it would be. Pickles teased him, but without any meanness, with that empathetic note he usually tried to hide behind the sarcasm.
The alcohol made the world softer and funnier. Toki felt something warm spreading inside him, but with a slight electric charge. He looked at Pickles — at his smirk, at the way he scratched the back of his head, at the drummer's hands covered in calluses. This was something more than just bandmates or friends. Next to him, Toki felt truly comfortable. Just... good. Warm. Like a teddy bear you hug after a bad day, except this teddy bear could curse you out and offer more vodka.
"Alright, doode," Pickles finally said, standing up. He swayed a little but kept his footing. "If you want these Angel Bites so bad, let's do it right now. I got some barbells here, threaded balls... a needle. And more vodka in reserve. Don't pussy out, I know my way around this."
Toki froze for a second. Fear stabbed him in the gut — sharp, like the very needle he imagined near his lip. He'd seen so much blood on stage, had spilled it himself off stage in those moments, violence wasn't something unusual for him. But a needle near his face... right inside his lip. That was completely different. Something more intimate and terrifying. He swallowed, but then giggled — loud enough to look confident.
"Yeah, let's do it! You ams the best, Pickl! Oh, you ams my favorites drummer!"
Pickles's room was a chaos of drumsticks, empty bottles, and cigarette butts. Pickles rummaged through a drawer, pulled out everything needed: a sterile (as much as it was even possible) needle and two little barbells with threaded balls. Toki sat on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs, and giggling to drown out the nervousness. His heart was beating fast, from anticipation and nerves. From the fact that the two of them, drunk, were doing something stupid.
Pickles sat down across from him, really close. Their knees touched. Toki caught the smell of his sweat, mixed with the alcohol. Pickles wiped Toki's lip with alcohol — the movements were sloppy, drunk, but careful, as much as he could manage. The drummer's fingers lingered on the skin a little longer than necessary. Toki flinched, like he'd only just now realized what he'd actually signed up for.
"Sit still, Toki. This is gonna be crooked as hell, I can feel it," Pickles muttered with a smirk. "But you agreed to it, so..."
Toki closed his eyes, but then opened them. Not seeing what was happening to his lip was even worse than seeing it. Pickles's face was focused, his tongue slightly sticking out, like that helped him concentrate. The needle got closer. Toki tensed up, goosebumps ran all over his body. Pickles held his chin with one hand — a warm, rough palm. The contact was... intimate. Everything felt so soft, gentle, and drunk.
"Breathe, Toki. One... two..."
The first puncture. The pain was sharp but short — like accidentally biting your lip. Toki yelped, then Pickles swore: "Fuck, it's crooked!" A thin trickle of blood ran, but they were both too drunk to panic. Pickles put in the first barbell, his fingers trembled, the ball didn't screw on right away. Toki giggled, tears from laughter and pain mixing on his cheeks.
"Gotta be honest, it looks freakin' terrible," Pickles laughed, leaning back.
The second puncture went even worse. The needle went in unevenly, at some weird angle, Toki jerked instinctively, but Pickles held him in place.
"Easy, dude. Or it's gonna be even worse."
Toki felt stupid, Charles was definitely not gonna be happy about this. A total shitshow was happening on the rhythm guitarist's face, one that would heal painfully for a while. But Pickles was taking care of him, he looked focused, like he was really trying not to screw up. Even if the whole idea was doomed from the start.
The second ball went crooked. Both piercings turned out asymmetrical, one higher, the other a little to the side. Toki stood up, swaying, and looked in the mirror. The sight was awful — and beautiful. He looked like a complete dumbass. And he liked it.
"Pickl, dis is... dis is a total fuckeds up. Ams love its!" Toki turned around and threw himself at the drummer for a hug. The hug was awkward, drunk: arms wrapped around his neck, face buried in his shoulder. Pickles didn't push him away. On the contrary, he hugged back — one hand on his back, the other lightly ruffling his hair. Their bodies pressed closer than usual. Toki could feel Pickles's heartbeat — steady, calming. The smell, the warmth, the slight tension in his muscles. This was more than friendship. The other guys didn't like any displays of affection or sentimentality, but in these rare moments Toki could let himself have this. And Pickles, it seemed, didn't mind.
They collapsed back onto the bed, laughing. Toki touched his new "bites" with his fingers, winced from the pain, but didn't stop smiling. Pickles lay next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and commented:
"You look like you actually got bit by a freakin' angel. And it missed. But... cool, damn it. It suits you, doode."
The conversation drifted on — drunk, disjointed. Toki talked about his day-to-day life, random encounters and events he remembered. Mostly just fleeting things he'd wanted to share with someone. Pickles listened, throwing in his comments, sometimes adding something, sometimes just nodding in support. Pickles's fingers accidentally — or not accidentally — touched Toki's hand. They intertwined for a moment. The hands were heavy and warm, the tactile contact felt like a gulp of fresh air.
Toki turned his head. Pickles's face was close — stubble, a drunk and bleary gaze, but reflecting laughter and something else. Tenderness? Toki didn't know the right word. He just smiled — the purest and most sincere smile, contrasting with all the brutality that lived within the walls of Mordhaus.
"Thanks, Pickl. For everythings."
"Don't thank me yet. In the morning you're gonna look at that piercing with sober eyes and freak the hell out."
They stayed lying like that, shoulder to shoulder, while the alcohol lulled them. Toki felt a slight tingling from the piercings and a heaviness in his lip — a reminder of a stupid moment. Of how Pickles held his face. Of the warmth and weight of drunk hands. Deeper than friendship, something much closer, with a slight hint in the touches, in the glances, in how they giggled together instead of sleeping.
The room was quiet, only their breathing and the occasional little chuckles broke the night's silence. Pickles closed his eyes, feeling Toki shift slightly closer. Tomorrow there would be a hangover, crooked piercings that would hurt, probably mockery from the others. But right now — this was their time. Drunk and really damn stupid.
Toki fell asleep with a smile, his hand accidentally resting on Pickles's chest. Pickles didn't move it and soon dozed off himself.