Archive of Our Own

“What ams this," Toki sat at the coffee table, glancing up from his Model Planes Monthly magazine. "Trivias?"

Murderface stood near the entrance to the living room, putting on his jacket. He exhaled loudly through gritted teeth, as if one of his bandmates showing interest in his personal life didn't make him want to skip gleefully down the hallway and out into the snow.

"Well, you schee- "

"Y'know, trivia," Pickles interrupted, Toki's question somehow interesting enough to pull him from the throes of whatever substance he had consumed. Murderface hadn't been paying enough attention to care.

Pickles sat staring mostly at nothing, not continuing, under the assumption that he had said enough for Toki to understand.

"What, ams this another freakies religion things?" Toki directed a narrow-eyed, pointed glare at Murderface, who huffed in annoyance.

"Might as well be, the way ‘ We Come From Behind ’ is always on my assch.” Murderface looked out at his previously unresponsive audience, who now all shared similar looks of disgust. Murderface held up his hands defensively. “Wait– you don’t– itsch a trivia team name!”

“Moidaface, that ams disgusting.” Toki shook his head.

“No, I meant-”

“That was like… a quadruple ent… uh.” Nathan glanced over to Pickles, who furrowed his brows and stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling as he took a drag off his joint.

“Sex joke.” Nathan re-worded.

Pickles snapped his fingers and looked back at Nathan, “ Entendre. ” Nathan simply nodded.

“Dis ‘trivias’, sounds unterestings,” Skwisgaar pondered aloud, picking at his guitar. Toki shot him a look over his shoulder.

“Yous onlies interested ‘cause of this, ‘comings behinds’.” His tone was incredulous.

“Ja, ands?” Skwisgaar continued playing, crossing his legs languidly onto the coffee table, making a point to graze Toki’s shoulder. Toki quickly shoved his boots away, attention now back on his magazine.

“ Ands, sounds gay.”

“Pfft. Little Toki ams jealous of mine natural gifts with de ladies, nothing news.”

“Am nots.” Toki shook his head. “What ladies ams you talking abouts?”

“Trivia isch not gay.” Murderface glared at Toki, who sat scribbling something into his magazine, seemingly uninterested in the conversation now that Murderface had piped back up.

“Dunno man,” Pickles interjected, exhaling smoke from his lungs. “...‘s pretty gay.” Nathan nodded in agreement. Murderface sighed deeply, wishing he was in a room with more easily throwable objects.

“It’sch intellectually shtimulating .” Skwisgaar glanced up from his guitar. Murderface focused again on adjusting his jacket, heading towards the door. “But I can schee how that would disinterest you dipschits.”

“Intellekskial, you says,” Skwisgaar (technically) repeated. Murderface spared him a glance out of doubt for his almost genuine-sounding interest. “How sos?”

Murderface made a mental note of how close he was to just, walking right out into the hallway. He could leave. He should leave. He didn’t owe these fuckers any explanation ever, truthfully. But being the benevolent and generous man he was, he relented with a long sigh, turning around to face the inquisitive guitarist.

“They ask a buncha questions, moshtly about hishtory and war and…whatever. Shtuff like that. You gotta guess em’ correctly for pointsch and schit.” Skwisgaar raised a brow, processing this information before his look of confusion slowly morphed into a shit eating grin.

“Ha! There ams no ways, Moidaface of alls peoples, does dis… trivias. ” He gestured vaguely over to Murderface, barely making an attempt to stifle his laughter.

“Oh, pleasche,” Murderface spat out, eyebrow twitching. He swore he saw the Swedish bastard grin at that. “I could beat your boney assch at trivia anyday.”

“Pfft. Yous ons.” Skwisgaar stood and sauntered over to the living room entrance, bumping into Murderface’s shoulder as he did so. Murderface simply watched in confusion as Skwisgaar left the room, only to run after him in realization.

“You’re not coming with me!” Murderface shouted after Skwisgaar, who was already pretty damn far down the hallway. Long legged bastard. He stopped, turning to face Murderface, hand on his hip and eyebrow raised.

“Why nots? Afraids of losings?”

“What? No way!” Murderface caught up to him, tugging at the collar of his jacket uncomfortably. “Itsch kinda… gay?” He scratched his chin, avoiding eye contact with the taller man. Skwisgaar rolled his eyes.

“Whatevers. Don’ts be a pussies ‘bouts dis, ja?” He waved his hand at Murderface dismissively before continuing making his way to his room. “Ams just ‘trivias’.”

“Itsch trivia, ” Murderface glowered, crossing his arms like an angry toddler. “And I’m not a pusschy.” He followed Skwisgaar down the hallway, narrowing his eyes at him as if he had the power (read: the balls) to deny him from tagging along. Murderface groaned out loud.

“Alright. You can come with, but only becaushe I allowed it.” Murderface jabbed a pointed finger at Skwisgaar’s back (from a safe distance, of course). Skwisgaar didn’t bother acknowledging him until they arrived at his bedroom door. Murderface cocked a brow at the sudden stop.

“We’re gonna be late. What are you doing?”

“Am puttings on some…disguise.” Skwisgaar stood at the front of his room, crossing his arms and turning to look at Murderface.

“Dishguise? What for?” Murderface asked, baffled. “I’ve been there a million times. Nobody has the ballsch to come up to me.”

“Pfft. Balls, he says,” Skwisgaar leaned his hip against the edge of the doorway, crease in his nose deepening as a result of his growing smirk. Murderface was less pissed as he was suddenly acutely aware of their close proximity. And his own strangely observant behavior. He cleared his throat and took a noticeable step back. 

“Ams reallies ‘cuz yous… you knows.” Skwisgaar laughed haughtily, gesturing to the whole of the man standing before him, whose previous look of embarrassment had quickly morphed into irritation. “De bassist?” Skwisgaar finished with a grin.

“Fuck you.”

“Ja. You plannings to watch me change or somethings? Because dat woulds be pretty gays.” Skwisgaar asked Murderface in a mocking tone, who realized he was now standing in the middle of the guitarist’s doorway.

“You wisch, fruit.” Murderface scoffed, dramatically stepping out into the hallway as if Skwisgaar’s room had deeply disgusted him in some way all of a sudden. As soon as he was at a safe distance, Murderface pointed an accusatory finger at Skwisgaar. “And I’m not gay.”

Skwisgaar simply exhaled, brows raised, unconvinced. He swung his door shut. Murderface huffed and made his way to the opposite wall, kicking a boot clad foot up against it and shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. Somehow he could already tell this wasn’t going to be a very relaxing night.

—

“De fucks ams dis?” Skwisgaar eyed the rather dilapidated building that (barely) stood before them with disdain.

“Thisch is the only shithole around that hosts trivia.” Murderface shrugged. “At leasht the beer does its job.”

“What'ms dis,” Skwisgaar narrowed his eyes up at the sign hanging loosely above the bar entrance. “‘Mutilationsk Bar-beques ’ ?” He read aloud. Murderface snorted.

“You added like, 5 soundsch there– but…yeah. Thisch isch the place.”

Skwisgaar simply cocked an eyebrow at him before facing the building again, a look of disgust plastered on his face.

“Whats with de bars,” Skwisgaar pointed towards a row of metal bars that barely clung to the building’s exterior. “There ams not evens any windows.”

“Bricksch are probably worth protecting these days, in thisch economy.” Murderface pat Skwisgaar’s back empathetically, “Though I know a bigshot like you wouldn’t understand the subtle nuances of the commoner’sch way of life.”

Skwisgaar scoffed. “Wrongs. You ams de most pretentions bastard I knows.”

“Bullschit. Maybe if I had that 98%--”

“Don’ts start with dis shits agains or I’ll leave yous dildos ass here.”

“Hey, I desherve that money, Skwisgaar.” Murderface stuck a pointed finger into the other man’s chest, who slapped it away immediately and began walking inside. “And you don’t even have a licenshe.”

Murderface caught the door from closing as Skwisgaar stood at the entrance of the bar, which was pretty lively for a history themed trivia night. All chatter ceased and stares were immediately directed over to the two men standing awkwardly in the metal doorway.

Then just as suddenly, the commotion picked right back up as everyone became uninterested at the sight of a pair of seemingly normal guys. The two men glanced at each other.

“See, told yous,” Skwisgaar whispered in that smug lower cadence of his that made Murderface want to simultaneously throw a chair at him and… well, he didn’t know what. “De disguise ams workings.” He grinned. “And, yous de bassist. No needs for disguise, eh?” Skwisgaar began making his way to a nearby empty table. Murderface simply stomped behind him, visibly pissed off.

“Thatsch a lousy dishguise, anyways.” Murderface muttered mostly to himself, but with the man’s prevalent volume issue Skwisgaar guessed he would be able to hear him from across the building. “All you did wasch tie your hair up.”

“Whats, you wants me to puts on a fucking lady bra and haves you escorts me to mine seats insteads?” Skwisgaar sat down and tapped against the table, a pure look of agitation etched onto his features.

“You’re basically a girl anywaysch. You could pull it off.” Murderface crossed his arms and leaned into his seat with a grin.

“Ha! Right, ‘cuz it woulds be less noticek-ables dat you– ” Skwisgaar gestured over the bassist’s face. “--somehow has a hot lady dates.” Murderface immediately sat up and gripped the edge of the table defensively.

“Oh fuck you! I get sho much pusschy, you don’t even fucking know!”

“Ja, ja, sures.” Skwisgaar waved him off, more attentive to adjusting his ponytail and baseball hat. He glanced at a pitiful looking Murderface, slumped over in the chair across from him and refusing to meet his eye. Skwisgaar sighed when he felt a genuine twinge of remorse for barging in on the guy’s gay little alone-time hobby. He leaned forward on his palm, crossing his legs in a display of interest for…whatever this event was. He still wasn’t entirely sure.

“So, where’s dis… coming behinds, you spokings of?” Skwisgaar raised a brow at the man across from him. Murderface huffed, straightening in his chair a bit.

“Itsch “ We Come From Behind ”. And they’re over at the bar.” Murderface pointed behind Skwisgaar, who glanced over his shoulder and eyed down the gaggle of middle aged men wearing pop culture t-shirts and drinking from whatever disgusting looking concoctions they held. He looked back at Murderface, who had calmed considerably. Somehow.

“Nots what I had in minds.” Skwisgaar sighed out, messing with a napkin on the table. “You’d thinks dis whole, things ,” He circled his pointer finger around the room without lifting his chin from his other palm. “--woulds be more… astutes. What's with dis ‘trivias’ being intellekskials and whatnots.”

“Itsch bar trivia.” Murderface lifted an eyebrow in annoyance. “What’d you expect, a fucking chess match at Harvard?”

Skwisgaar hummed thoughtfully. “I ams startings to see whats Toki meanings. Ams… pretty gay.”

“It hashn’t even started yet!” Murderface held his hands out as if he were bargaining for the right to enjoy his stupid gay trivia. He regained composure (at least as composed as would be considered normal for Murderface) quickly, however, standing from his chair.

“I’m getting a drink.” He began making his way to the bar behind Skwisgaar.

“Ja, gets me somethings, wills you?”

“Get it yourshelf, fruitcake.” Murderface flipped him off without turning around. Skwisgaar rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue in annoyance.

Murderface stood at the bar, eyeing the bartender who was clearly busy with other patrons.

"Hey, barkeep." He snapped. She didn't even look his way. Murderface just knew her ass heard him. He smacked the counter a few times, not bothering to console the assholes next to him giving him looks.

The woman hung her shoulders and sighed deeply, slumping her way over to Murderface as if she was being held at gunpoint and forced to interact with him.

"What can I get you?" She asked, not even bothering to look up from the concoction she was mixing together. Couldn’t even fake a smile. Murderface groaned.

"Yeah. Old fashioned. And I cannot shtress this enough, just one glass."

She finally looked up at Murderface, snapping her fingers.

"Oh, oh my God. You're the one that came in with…" She glanced behind him at Skwisgaar, still sat in his chair and fucking with that napkin. Murderface figured the asshole couldn’t live without his precious guitar, even just for a night out.

"Here, on the house." She passed over two filled glasses. "Let him know it was from me." She giggled, making her way back to the end of the bar.

"Wait– I speshifically said–'' She was already out of sight. His eyebrow twitched as he snatched up both drinks, wondering how this night could possibly get worse.

"Does everyone get off on ignoring me or schomething?!" Murderface practically shouted, slamming the drinks on the table. Skwisgaar waved him off, before looking down at the glass before him.

"Aw. Dids little Williams feels remorskfuls?" Skwisgaar grinned up at the bassist, who collapsed back into his seat looking pissed as ever.

"Remorsh- what- fuck no!" Murderface felt his face go red. He quickly looked away. Skwisgaar cocked a brow. "It wasn't me! That bitch at the bar doesn't know how to lishten."

Skwisgaar looked over his shoulder, Murderface assumed so he could get a look at her. Not even two seconds later the guitarist stood, adjusted his hat and made his way over to the bar to presumably hail her down.

Yeah, Murderface figured Skwisgaar could sniff out his own kind within a crowd of millions. Why would it be any different at some shithole bar?

When he's supposed to be hanging out with his pal?

…Not that Murderface had even invited him in the first place. Which pissed him off even more.

Murderface huffed, lowering his chin onto the table between crossed arms. He observed the girl frolicking over to Skwisgaar as soon as his long fingers visibly grazed over the bartop. He furrowed his brows.

The least Skwisgaar could do was set him up with some hot chick. Murderface imagined the guitarist could convince their groupies to do anything, so why not convince them to do him?

Wait, scratch that. Let him do them . Murderface groaned loudly, burying his face in his arms before downing the rest of his drink.

Whatever. The last thing he wanted was to owe Skwisgaar anything. Not that it mattered, anyways. Murderface was just fine with his usual morning routine of jacking off and passing out, he didn't need some bitch to screw things up for him.

Murderface was still brooding by the time Skwisgaar had sauntered his gay ass back to his seat. He hadn't even noticed his bandmate had returned until he heard him bragging about whatever bullshit while swirling his drink. Murderface narrowed his eyes, observing the way Skwisgaar leaned. One arm splayed against the back of his chair, the other carrying his large hand and slender, calloused fingers currently working a straw into his drink and stirring.

The way he carried himself was appalling. All relaxed and loose looking, all the fucking time. Without even trying. The man looked straight out of a fucking James Bond film. Murderface hadn’t realized he was biting his bottom lip until the faint taste of metal hit his tongue. He also didn’t notice that Skwisgaar was now glaring in his direction.

“What ams you’s problems?” Skwisgaar paused his detailed, hypothetical rundown of how he planned to bang the lady bartender, to cock his eyebrow at a distressed-looking Murderface.

Murderface simply glared at him through furrowed brows.

“Whats. Yous jealous?” Skwisgaar leaned back into his seat, gently laying the straw against the table before crossing his arms. Murderface’s eyes flickering from Skwisgaar’s hand and erratically back up to his face did not escape his notice.

“No, fuck off.”

“...Moidaface, yous totallies jealous rights nows.”

“Isch a guy not allowed to be pissched off that his pal is too busy trying to shcore with some schlut, instead of actually hanging out?!”

“Ha! You says dis, as ifs yous owns me. Whats like, you ams jealous girlfriends,” Skwisgaar chuckled. Murderface sat up slightly, and Skwisgaar immediately noted the red flushing up his neck and cheeks. He grinned.

“Oh fuck you! Have you never heard the phrase ‘brosch before hoesch’?!”

“Jealousy ams nots a goods looks on you, Moidaface.”

“God, I fucking hate you,”

An unpleasant tapping noise echoed throughout the building. The men both halted their argument to flinch and glance around for the source of the sound. An “ahem” was heard through a microphone, the reverb painfully audible even from the back of the bar where they sat.

Skwisgaar stared over his own shoulder, Murderface leaning over slightly to see past him. A scrawny man stood on the stage beside the bar entrance, adjusting his glasses and smiling awkwardly at the crowd.

“Hello and welcome to this week’s Historoonie Trivia night! Can I get a round of applause?!”

A few sparse claps could be heard throughout the venue. The host cleared his throat.

“Thank you once again to, uh, ‘Mutilation Bar-Beque’ for graciously… uh… hosting us.”

Someone coughs, and then silence fills the room.

“Okay!” The host clapped, “Let’s begin? Everyone participating needs a score card, and be sure to write down your team names.” He nervously edged the mic closer to himself. “And, uh, no curses this time, guys.”

By the time the crowd started booing and throwing various objects at the stage, Skwisgaar had turned back towards Murderface.

“Who ams dis speskimens?” Skwisgaar laughed, pointing a thumb behind himself at the now cowering host covered in various condiments and chunks of food.

“Man, fuck if I know.” Murderface picked at his front teeth. “They get new piecshes of schit to do thisch every week.”

Skwisgaar just shrugged, turning to view the carnage once more.

Murderface simply observed, something he found himself doing a lot of that evening.

And then it hit him.

Watching the lean muscle in that fucking asshole’s upper back shift gloriously to accommodate his new sitting position. Those thin fingers grasping lightly on the edge of his chair, tapping inaudibly as if it were his stupid fucking guitar. The way those girls sitting at the table next to theirs ogled him as he crossed his legs, no doubt detecting the way his always too-tight pants perfectly outlined his every fucking move. It hit him.

He could beat this guy.

This perfect, beautiful, universally-loved and previously-thought-to-be-unbeatable guy.

Murderface forcefully slammed his drink onto the table. Skwisgaar whipped around, eyebrows raised in surprise. Murderface tried his best to hide the smirk that tugged almost painfully at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, Skwisgaar. Scho it beginsch.”

“...Ja?”

Murderface lowered his hands to the table, slowly interlocking his fingers together and giving the most intimidating look he could muster.

“Whats, you needs dis, ‘score cards’ or somethings?”

“What? No, shut the fuck up.” Murderface cleared his throat, quickly regaining composure. “I have an idea, you schee.”

Skwisgaar simply stared at him, looking even more confused.

“Let’sch make thingsch…” Murderface swirled his empty drink, observing it through the corner of his eye as if it was something worth contemplating. He tried hard to envision how badass he looked right then. “More intereshting, schall we?”

“Moidaface, what de fucks ams you talkingks abouts?” Skwisgaar snapped, clearly feeling impatient with this stranger-than-normal behavior Murderface was exhibiting.

“Okay, okay,” Murderface sat back in his seat a bit, holding up his hands defensively. “ Yeesch.” He mumbled, before continuing. “It’sch shimple, really. Whoever getsch a question wrong hasch to take a shot.”

Skwisgaar crossed his arms, leaning back.

“Dat ams it?” He huffed out. “Coulda just fuckins says dat, ja? Fuckin’ dildos.”

“Hey–”

“Fine, I’m ins.” Skwisgaar held a hand up to Murderface, effectively silencing him. “Anythings to makes dis nights more unterestings is fines with mes.”

“Fuck you, you weren’t even invited!”

“Ja, ja,” Skwisgaar waved him off and abruptly stood, making his way back to the bar to acquire the much needed alcohol.

Murderface simply watched as he chatted up the bartender again, leaning against the bartop this time. This fucking slut.

“You’ll rue thisch fucking day, Skwisgaar. I’m going to fucking deshtroy you.” Murderface spoke under his breath, tapping his fingers together like an evil cartoon villain.

—

When Skwisgaar returned to his seat, after Murderface had spoken at a moderate volume that he planned to “fucking deshtroy” him, he swallowed his laughter. He would play this coolly, like he always did. He figured there was no reason to ruin the fun so early by refusing to feed the bassist’s ego.

Each man wrote down their team names (“Planet Piss” and “ Drakdödare '' respectively), Murderface gets a punch in the arm for spouting some stupid shit (“ I’m pretty shure the hosht said no cusshing is allowed in your team name, Skwisgaar. ”) and then complains about it, per usual. The mic crackled a bit as the already completely disheveled host cleared his throat and read out the first question.

“Starting off simple tonight,” He pushed up his glasses. Skwisgaar grinned, feeling confident.

“During late 14th century Europe, a portable hand-held what was developed?”

Murderface scratched something onto his sheet in complete silence before he abruptly stood and made his way up to the stage to turn in his answer. Skwisgaar sat in silent horror, staring at his own sheet. Fuck, he was in over his head already and it was only the first fucking question.

He turned over the question in his head a few times, trying much harder than he normally would to actually translate an English sentence. Skwisgaar didn’t realize it was possible to audibly word a question like one of Charles’ illegible dildo business papers.

He could only assume Murderface was just bluffing. Or else Skwisgaar was truly and royally fucked. He groaned, fearfully eyeing the full bottles of vodka sitting nearby.

Skwisgaar slammed a fist against the table, jotting down some nonsense before turning in his response. It was only the first question. And he was up against Murderface of all fucking people. He refused to give in so soon.

When they both were back in their seats, Murderface sat with his hands folded, staring ahead and grinning. Skwisgaar crossed his arms, taking care not to let his worry bleed into his outwardly neutral expression.

“Alright everyone, tallies are in.” The host began, audibly flipping through something. Skwisgaar wouldn’t know, as he refused to take his eyes off of Murderface. He almost jumped when the bassist suddenly leaned forward, very slowly, cupped a single hand on the side of his mouth, and hoarsely whispered to Skwisgaar:

“It’sch a cannon .”

The host leaned toward the microphone stand, “The answer is: the Cannon.”

The crowd sounded mixed. Some cheers and applause rang throughout, and some groups booed and aww’ed, and others chose to forgo audible reactions for throwing shit at the host again.

But nothing came from Murderface, besides an infuriating little smirk that seemed to grow bigger when Skwisgaar could feel his immense disdain growing visible, his eyebrow twitching, crease in his nose deepening. 

The fact the dildo wasn’t even gloating, or making some stupid quip, or loudly pissing Skwisgaar off like he always did– it filled him with a deep, boiling rage he didn’t know was even achievable with anyone other than Toki. Murderface always managed to drag Skwisgaar deeper when he was down, but at least when he did that it was because he, too, was at a low point. Right now, Murderface was standing at the top, kicking the dirt over Skwisgaar’s hypothetical open grave, in complete fucking silence .

Skwisgaar breathed, cleared his throat, and regained his composure as best he could. He slowly leaned his crossed arms against the table.

“...You’s just luckies.” Skwisgaar finally spoke, his tone low and menacing. “Ams only de first questions, afters all.”

Murderface simply chuckled, leaning back in his seat.

“Whatever. Doeschn’t shound like you got it.” Skwisgaar narrowed his eyes. Murderface laughed once, throwing his arms behind his head and giving a smug grin. He nodded his head towards the bottles on the table, “Do usch the honor, then?”

—

The fifth question came and went, and with it went a good portion of the alcohol sitting on the table. Murderface scowled, sucking down his first shot of the night (some stupid question about a president’s favorite food, he didn’t bother contemplating it. Simply jotted down a crude ‘who fucking cares’.) He was joined of course by Skwisgaar who tossed his shot back, blonde hair slipping off his shoulder, managing to look at least somewhat undeterred. Murderface had to admit, he was taking this loss admirably well.

It just wasn’t quite enough to be devastating yet. 

Murderface crossed his fingers for a night-ruiner, but kept his hopes low. It wasn’t often he got what he wanted. No– what he deserved .

Skwisgaar blinked slow as the trivia host audibly neared the mic once more, clearing his throat to read out the final question of the first round.

“The AT4, considered to be the most common anti-tank weapon in the world, was invented and distributed by what country’s military?”

Murderface damn near shit his pants.

Skwisgaar looked oblivious as ever.

Oh, this was delicious .

He bit back a grin, watching Skwisgaar give a defeated sigh and push his answer sheet to the side, already eyeing the bottle closest to himself.

Murderface barely, just slightly felt bad for the guitarist, but nevertheless wrote down his answer and flipped over his sheet. Skwisgaar simply watched him in a tipsy, unfocused haze, raising an eyebrow when he realized Murderface wasn’t immediately getting up to turn in his response.

Murderface sighed, briefly thanking whatever God was out there for the sweet retribution he was gifted that night in the form of a history trivia question, but decided he would be merciful towards his half-inebriated bandmate. Just this once.

“Skwisgaar.” He spoke, tone wavering in the way a disappointed parents’ would when catching their child being naughty. “Dude. Come on. ”

“ Whats. ” Skwisgaar snapped, tone venomous. “Yous gots me. I amsn’t knowins dis, whatevers...bullshits…” He held his head, voice trailing off. Murderface shrugged. Welp, he tried.

A few moments passed, Murderface skipping gleefully to the front of the bar to turn in his response, Skwisgaar already preparing to pour himself another shot, half-listening as the host began to speak again.

“And the answer is:”

Skwisgaar looked up just in time to see Murderface’s expression: a wide grin tugging at the corner of his lips. It looked almost painful. The microphone crackled.

“...Sweden.”

–

Whatever question they were on at that point, Skwisgaar did not know. He leaned his chin against the table, one hand fiddling with the ends of his hair splayed out before himself, the other gripping an empty shot glass.

Skwisgaar had clearly given up on this bet, albeit wordlessly, but it was obvious in the way he dejectedly tossed back every shot that Murderface remorselessly forced him to take.

Realizing far too late that Murderface was actually speaking to him, Skwisgaar didn’t bother acknowledging him until he had stopped talking, and even then he only looked up without moving his head.

Murderface inspected his fingernails distractedly, clearly feeling powerful. Even drunk, it pissed Skwisgaar off to no end that admittedly, he earned it. For once in his pitiful, stupid life, the bastard earned it. His lip curled in disgust at this internal observation.

Murderface sighed, contentedly, not aware of Skwisgaar’s impending rage (or at the very least ignoring it). “I shuppose it’sch safe to say I won thisch particular little bet,” He grinned down at Skwisgaar, who was somehow blinking one eye at a time. In an instant, Skwisgaar shot up and grabbed the neck of the nearest bottle, smashing it against the table and jabbing it once towards Murderface.

Murderface paused the shitting of his own pants to contemplate how Skwisgaar, despite his drunkenness, had expertly pinpointed the bottle’s location, and with complete accuracy– all while keeping full eye contact with him. Murderface hummed thoughtfully, nodding in a display of respect.

“I swears to Gods,” Skwisgaar slurred, pausing to blink as he feared if he spoke and blinked at the same time he would probably throw up everywhere, “Yous a fuckingks cheaters, Moidaface.”

Murderface clapped his hands together and leisurely stood from his seat. “Alllll right, buddy. I think this guy’sch had a bit too much to drink.” He thumbed towards a wobbly Skwisgaar and glanced around at the horrified bystanders. He made his way over to Skwisgaar’s side, who, as pissed as he was, couldn’t stop himself from dropping the remains of the bottle on the table and leaning against Murderface.

“I thinks, am gonna hurls,” Murderface’s grip on his shoulder faltered. 

“That’sch fucking nashty, wait until–”

“So fuckingks– HOT.” Skwisgaar pulled on the collar of his flannel before ripping the hat off his head, which immediately let loose the ponytail that had admittedly only been hanging on by a thread at that point anyway. Some girl at a table nearby, who not even two seconds ago looked terrified at the entire interaction that had just occurred, shot up to her feet and pointed at the blonde fuck with all of the poise of a banshee spotting its next victim.

“OH MY GOD, IT’S SKWISGAAR SKWIGELF!”

Aaand shit hits the fan.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!”

Murderface bolted, dragging Skwisgaar into the (thankfully) nearby bathroom and immediately locking the door behind them. He sighed to himself, relieved he had the foresight to do so as the door immediately began shaking with frantic knocks and bangs. He looked to Skwisgaar, and almost jumped out of his skin when he instantly met his gaze. Skwisgaar was staring daggers through him.

“Uh, can you schtand?” Murderface slowly began to retract his arm to give himself some distance from the guitarist, but Skwisgaar grabbed tighter.

“Toilets.” Skwisgaar choked out, his voice lower and much raspier than it usually was. Murderface didn’t have to hear it twice and immediately made his way to the largest stall in the back of the bathroom, throwing Skwisgaar in first and locking the stall door behind them for whatever reason. Instinct, he supposed. Or just in case the rabid fans broke their way in but were somehow incapable of breaking through a shitter stall.

Murderface shook his head, turning his attention to Skwisgaar once more. He pushed him lightly to the general direction of the toilet and tried to keep his distance by leaning against the stall door, but Skwisgaar was still very much standing less than a foot away.

“Do, uh, do what you have to do,” Murderface mumbled, looking away. He was better at dealing with vomit when he didn’t know it was actively imminent. I mean, Pickles puked at least 5 times a day, but they were random events that nobody had the exact times to.

Skwisgaar leaned against the stall directly to the left of Murderface. Their shoes brushed against each other, but Skwisgaar did not make an attempt to move them and instead resumed his intense staring.

Murderface didn’t dare turn until he hadn’t heard any noise besides the other man’s quiet exhales, and no vomit hitting a toilet bowl. And of course the shouting fans outside, but who gives a shit about those assholes? He only turned when he could physically feel the holes Skwisgaar was drilling into his head.

“...Do you have to schit or something? Want me to leave?” Murderface reached behind himself for the stall handle, but Skwisgaar’s hand darted out and stopped him. Murderface flinched, preparing for his grip to be murderous in its intent, but found himself even more terrified that it was… normal. Gentle, even. He could feel the guitarist’s heartbeat through his fingertips. 

What the fuck is happening right now.

“Nothings.” Skwisgaar rasped out. Murderface hadn’t realized he said that out loud. He opened his mouth to object to the hand that still gripped his, but was effectively silenced by Skwisgaar’s sudden change in position. He lifted himself off the side of the stall, and instead parked his feet between Murderface’s. He leaned an arm beside Murderface’s head, against the stall he had been backed up against for the past few seconds. Hours. Years? Holy fuck what is going on?!

“Thisch is kinda… faggy.” Murderface furrowed his brows, his face so hot he couldn’t even feel it anymore.

“Shuts ups, befores you ruins dis, atoms-atms…” Skwisgaar slurred, his gaze still locked onto Murderface.

“Uh… atmoschphere?”

“Ja,” Skwisgaar leaned closer, lifting his other hand on the opposite side of Murderface’s head, slightly grazing his neck. “Dats.”

Murderface didn’t know when exactly it happened, but they were kissing. He sure as hell knew he didn’t close the gap, though. His eyes remained wide open, the distorted image of his bandmate far too close and currently macking on him.

Another man. Kissing him.

Skwisgaar was kissing him.

Murderface shoved his hands against the taller man’s chest, causing him to stumble backwards. Just as quickly as they had separated, Murderface involuntarily reached out and grabbed his arm, making sure he didn’t land ass backward into the toilet.

“Why the actual fuck did you do that?” Murderface, aggressively wiping the back of his free hand against his lips, trembled with an overwhelming feeling of… something. Whatever emotion that caused him to simultaneously want to beat the shit out of Skwisgaar and cower in embarrassment at himself. Skwisgaar held his head, glancing down at the hand gripping his arm.

“Ugh...am drunks.”

“Yeah,” Murderface sighed out a bit too quickly, hands quickly returning to his sides. “Of coursche.” Skwisgaar furrowed his brows.

“Don’ts be actin’s dis ways,” He stepped forward, closing the distance between them that Murderface had worked so hard to create. He slammed his hands on either side of Murderface’s head, pitting his knee between the bassist’s legs. Murderface resembled a deer in headlights, focus erratically shifting from Skwisgaar’s knee to his face. “Likes you knows nothingks.”

“I do know nothing!”

“You knows de trivias.”

“Well, yeah , but not– whatever thisch is.” Murderface turned his head to the side, wishing he could wipe the sweat off of his forehead without inevitably grazing against Skwisgaar. “God thisch is so fucking gay–”

“I’ms callins de bullshit.” Skwisgaar pointed a finger into Murderface’s chest. “I sees de way you’s lookins, at me,” He paused, swallowing loud thanks to his exceedingly dry throat, “You’s got de… googles-ky eyes. All nights.”

“You’re the one who kissched me ,” William cringed at his own words. “Fag.” His eyes flickered from his eyes to his lips.

Skwisgaar scowled, leaning in once again, cupping Murderface’s cheek as they resumed kissing. This time, Murderface squeezed his eyes shut. Whatever the fuck was going on, he could at least say he tried to stop. He tried not to think too much when Skwisgaar’s hand lowered to his neck, tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

Or when he realized how satisfying it felt when Skwisgaar’s thin, soft lips clashed against his own, chapped and bitten.

Or how he could taste the cheap vodka on his tongue, which he hadn’t realized had snaked its way into the equation until just then.

Or how disgustingly ok he was with another human being touching him as he was. Was he drunk enough for this to be okay? He gripped the stall handle tightly when the thoughts became overwhelming.

Then all of a sudden, Skwisgaar ripped himself back, and stared past Murderface at the stall door.

“Uh… Skwis-”

Skwisgaar suddenly whipped around, dropping to his knees and retching loudly into the toilet bowl.

“Oh, that’sch foul,” Murderface observed his bandmate in disgust, leaning as far back into the stall door as he could.

Leaning back, Murderface turned his head and inadvertently caught a glimpse of a slightly-opened window. He looked back to the door, still being assaulted, and then to the tiny window. He sighed, aggressively wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and set to work dragging this stupid gaywad off the toilet bowl.

—

Murderface wondered, as he began crawling atop the diaper changing station-turned-needle disposal to reach the small window, what he did to deserve this hell.

He was quickly reminded, however, by the guitarist at his feet currently gripping onto his leg to stay balanced. It wasn't even Murderface's burden to bear. It was this asshole’s, and Murderface was just an innocent bystander getting sucked into it all.

Murderface watched with little remorse as Skwisgaar swayed side to side, obviously struggling to stay upright. On the one hand, he did realize there was more risk to pulling the guitarist up rather than pushing him out (he really didn’t want to get projectile-puked on at the moment), but on the other hand… he wanted to relish his interrupted win for as long as possible. Even if it meant watching a drunk and disoriented and unbelievably gay Skwisgaar get trampled on by a bunch of rabid fans.

But then that was also not so appealing, watching a bunch of girls fight over the so-called guitar “God”. Murderface rolled his eyes to himself.

Speaking of fans, as he looked up, he noticed the bathroom door was practically hanging on by its hinges at this point– actually, it was. Murderface watched in mild annoyance as the top hinge of the door clambered onto the floor preceding a particularly powerful bang.

“Can you climb by yourshelf?” Murderface sighed.

Skwisgaar stared for a long moment, still fighting to keep his balance, before he slurred out; “Does its fuckingks looks like its?”

“Okay, I don’t need the sass, asschhole.” Murderface jumped back down to the floor and begrudgingly helped Skwisgaar up and out the window.

“Quits touchin’ my ass,” Skwisgaar spoke, and it pissed Murderface off that even while he was piss-drunk, Skwisgaar still managed to annoy him with quips that required at least some cognitive thinking.

“Trusht me, I don’t want thisch any more than you do,” Murderface groaned with the physical effort of pushing Skwisgaar up, trying very hard not to think about the fact he was, in fact, grabbing his full ass. Instead, he thought about how utterly ironic Skwisgaar’s statement was. As soon as the taller man was half-in half-out of the window, balancing on his torso, unmoving, Murderface snatched his hands back and wiped any shadow of Skwisgaar’s assage that remained onto his shorts.

Up to this point the bathroom door had taken the insane fans’ banging like a real champ, but of course like any object being violently beaten it was making some unnatural noises. A previously unheard, much more alarming sound of wood splitting made Murderface begin to panic.

“Dude, jump out already,” Murderface exclaimed, slapping the back of the guitarist’s shins to get him to move.

“Fucks off– ams seriouslies gonna throws ups again,” Skwisgaar spoke, somewhat muffled as he was half outside. Murderface could feel his calves tense in his hands, quickly releasing him.

“Oh my God, who fucking caresch?! I’m gonna die in here!”

Skwisgaar coughed, “They ams not lookins’ for yous,” the fucker still managed to get a chuckle in. Murderface wished his lungs would come out the next time he threw up.

“Fucking, whatever!” Murderface violently shoved Skwisgaar up and out of the window by the bottoms of his shoes. The guitarist only groaned, an audible schlap of a body hitting concrete traveling its way into the bathroom.

Murderface scrambled up the window as fast as he could, being somewhat drunk and entirely panicking at this point, but managed to climb his way out onto the concrete at the exact moment the fans’ screeches were at their loudest, accompanied by the sound of what the bassist could only assume were the scattered wooden remains of a door whose crime was separating Skwisgaar Skwigelf from the masses.

Murderface was unsurprised to see Skwisgaar sprawled out on the concrete below, moaning in pain but unmoving. He held in his laughter (he didn’t), grabbing him by his upper arm and pulling him to his feet in one swift motion, with a surprising amount of strength.

“C’mon, drama queen,” Murderface groaned, carrying most of the taller man’s weight as he walked them farther down the alleyway. “We gotta get out of here before those freaksch find usch.”

Skwisgaar said nothing, opting to let himself be dragged along by Murderface who appeared to know where he was leading them. They shuffled down a few alleyways, all of them very similar in appearance but assumedly leading them farther away from the carnage. They were in their fourth or fifth alley (Skwisgaar wasn’t sure), Murderface exhaling harshly, when Skwisgaar felt a familiar, dull ache rip through his upper chest that threatened to climb further.

“Moidaface, stops walkins’,” Skwisgaar ordered, and Murderface immediately did as he was told. Skwisgaar unwrapped himself from the bassist’s arm, taking one wobbly step over to the brick wall beside them and immediately pushing his full weight against it as he retched onto the concrete below.

“Aw, shick!” Murderface yelled, stepping backwards and covering his eyes with a raised arm.

“Moidaface,” Skwisgaar breathed harshly, sharp inhales of air and audible swallowing of saliva interrupting his… bodily functions. “Holds my hairs,” He pointed vaguely behind himself, towards his own back.

Murderface scoffed aloud, “No way, dude,” He held his hands up. “That’sch some lady bullschit. Totally fucking gay.”

“This ams you’s fault,” Skwisgaar exhaled thickly, “Quits bein-”

“Okay, It’sch not my fucking fault that you’re horrible at trivia.” Murderface interrupted.

Skwisgaar threw his head back, offended. “You’s, you’s– what's dey say– lets me bring knifes to… not knife-fights!”

“Hey, I fucking told you I could beat you, and I did!” Murderface pointed at him aggressively. “It’sch not my fault you all think I’m schtupid!”

“Wells, you don’ts gives us much else whats to contemplates with!”

“Whatever.” Murderface huffed, Skwisgaar finding it somewhat uncharacteristic of him to just…give up in silence. Usually he was more annoying about these things. He furrowed his brows, turning back to dry heave for a few seconds. Once he felt he was in the clear, he turned back to Murderface.

“You rights.”

“Huh?”

“I ams, unders-estikmates yous.” He huffed. “Am sorries.”

“...Are you drunk?” Murderface was mouth agape. “--Well, okay, obviously, but like– drunker than usual?”

“Moidaface, holds my fuckingks hairs.” Skwisgaar turned towards the brick wall again, back arching with his muscle spasms. Murderface hesitated for a moment, thinking hard, before doing as he was told. He gently picked his hair up by the nape of his neck, holding it as though it would fall out if he gripped too hard. Murderface was suddenly aware of the roughness of his hands as they held Skwisgaar’s unusually soft hair. He furrowed his eyebrows, forcing himself to hold back his blush even though Skwisgaar wasn’t even facing him. I bet thisch fruit uses some girly schampoo.

As Murderface held Skwisgaar’s hair back, he did his best to collect himself, and clear his mind of any questionable thoughts. He took a breath, then whipped out his dethphone and struggled to type in a few numbers with his only free hand.

“Ams you– ough,” Skwisgaar made a guttural noise that Murderface did not bother turning around to witness.

“I’m calling the driver.”

Skwisgaar audibly wiped his lips, “Charle?”

“Yesch.” Murderface shushed the man behind him as soon as he heard the dial tone cease. “Yeah, we need a car, pronto, at my uh…” Murderface leaned into his phone, cupping his mouth and whispering, “my usual place.”

“Murderface?” A distinctly mid-western accent drunkenly yelled into the phone line.

“Picklesch? What the hell are you doing with Charles’ch phone?” Murderface held the phone away from his ear a bit.

“Awh, dude, get a load’a this,” The phone crackled as Murderface assumed it was being handed off to someone.

“Hello?” A gravelly voice snickered into the microphone. Nathan.

“Okay, very funny guysch.” Murderface tapped his foot impatiently. “I need the dethbus. Skwisgaar isch fucking washted-”

“No cahn do,” Murderface heard Pickles yell, somewhere nearby the phone. “Yeah, not happening. We’re using it.” Nathan quickly backed him up.

“What- are you fucking kidding?” Murderface picked up volume, throwing his free hand up. “It’sch my fucking trivia night! I alwaysch use the dethbus to-”

“We’re mid-bender Murderface, don’t be such a douchebag,” Pickles drunkenly shouted near the phone, way unaware of his volume. Murderface flinched, holding his phone back even further. “I mean, I know that’s hard fer you an’ all, heh…oh, gahd,”

“Oh I do not need to hear more fucking puking tonight–” Murderface held his head, pulling the phone back to his ear. “Lishten, asscholes. Skwisgaar is puking hisch fucking guts out all over the shtreet and his whore fansch have been chashing us all night–”

“Murderface. Get a fucking taxi.” Nathan growled into the phone, Pickles no longer audible, save for his incessant groaning.

“Your lead fucking guitarisht is dying on the shtreet,” Murderface yelled, gesturing towards Skwisgaar as if Nathan could observe the bastard’s anguish through the phone call. “And you expect a fucking taxi to take him?”

He was met with a monotone beeping.

“Fucking– ASSCHOLES!” Murderface threw his phone down, enraged. He quickly crumpled in on himself, regretting his actions. “Fuck, we needed that.” He sighed, “Couldn’t even order usch a fucking car…”

“Moidaface,” Skwisgaar finally spoke, sounding winded. “Why amsn’t you just… drives us youselfs?”

Murderface whipped around, eyebrows worriedly upturned. “Skwisgaar.. . ” His tone was pathetic. "You know I would. " 

What world was Murderface living in that his bandmate assumed he wasn’t always down for a good drunk driving session?

"We jusht don't have a car."

All because of those stupid drunk bastards and their dumb gay benders. Murderface would rag on them about why they chose to do benders only once everyone else had left, if it didn’t hurt him so much.

"We shoulds just, steals ones." Skwisgaar chuckled in that low and breathy way of his. Murderface paused his incoming quip in favor of staring at him.

"Skwisgaar, um."

"Mm?"

"Why did… you, uh. You know." Murderface thumbed behind himself. "Back there. Why'd you uh… do that?"

"Eh?" Skwisgaar cocked a brow. "Just felts like it."

" Sherioushly? " Murderface resisted the urge to scrub his lips again.

"Ja, I dunnos," Skwisgaar shrugged, still leaning against the brick wall. "Yous goods at de trivias." He blinked slowly. "Was kinda hots."

Murderface's brows turned, lip curled in disgust. He tried so desperately to keep his blush down.

"Hey, nows," Skwisgaar pointed at him accusingly, clearly offended by his expression. "I was justs havin's an off-days. I cans beat you ats de trivias any day."

Murderface scoffed, crossing his arms.

"Yeah, you really showed me, huh."

"Ja. Don't lets it gets to you's heads, Moidaface." Skwisgaar straightened himself, languidly throwing a hand on his hip. His confident stance, of course, was betrayed by the puddle of two bottles worth of Vodka sitting at his feet. Murderface rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, I'm trying not to think about it at all, acshually."

Skwisgaar stepped (stumbled) forward, Murderface quickly reattaching himself to his shoulder. Murderface supposed this was as good a time as any to silently resign to their fate of finding a taxi that would accept… this.

As they exited the alleyway and headed down the street, Murderface intended to find a more populated area of this shithole– preferably with more than one car that isn’t all-windows-down blasting Imagine Dragons while going 50 over the speed limit.

After dragging Skwisgaar along for a few minutes, Murderface found himself getting caught up in his own thoughts. Thoughts he deemed unworthy of his conscious time, but also consumed him so darkly that keeping quiet would probably make him spontaneously combust. So, he spoke.

“Do you, uh… you really think I’m hot?” Murderface almost whispered, not daring to make eye contact with the man he was quite literally embracing. Well, from the side at least. It didn’t count.

“Wells, I wouldn’ts goes dat fars,” Skwisgaar scoffed. “I means, it did takes two wholes bottles of de alcohols.”

“Fuck you.” Murderface growled, and Skwisgaar laughed aloud. The bassist tried hard to stay mad at that, but he was drunk, and it was a decent noise, he thought. Best to be gay when he was drunk, that way it didn’t count.

“Moidaface, ams onlies messings.” Murderface could feel Skwisgaar’s grin on him.

“...Huh.” It was silent for only a moment. “Scho, you think the ladiesch might like my trivia prowessch?”

“Abskolutlies nots.”

“Ah.” Silence again. “But, you do?”

“Don’ts rubs it ins, please,” Skwisgaar begged, embarrassment palpable. Murderface wasn’t used to hearing Skwisgaar like this. Like him. Murderface had to admit, it was a very interesting thing– pulling Skwisgaar down to his level. It was also very fun, despite it being at his own expense. Most things were, anyway.

Caught in his own thoughts again, Murderface didn’t realize that he had actually managed to drag them to a much more populated area– and that at least 3 taxis had looked right at the two and yet continued on their merry way.

“Dude,” Murderface looked over to Skwisgaar, and jumped for a second time that night at the fact his gaze was instantly met. “God! You gotta schtop doing that! Like a dead fucking fisch.”

Skwisgaar opened his mouth to speak, no doubt in Murderface’s mind that he was about to say some infuriating bullshit, so he shushed him aloud. Poor guy was too drunk to really formulate a response to that.

“Schut the hell up for sec.” Murderface spoke, “You gotta get off me. They’re not schtopping because you’re leaning on me like a drunk guy.”

“I ams drunks.”

“Yeah, but they don’t need to know that.” Murderface lightly pushed Skwisgaar off of him, and led them closer to the edge of the sidewalk. “Just… schtand on your own for a minute.”

Murderface stepped away from Skwisgaar to hail down a taxi, which surprisingly did not take that long– he chose to ignore Skwisgaar’s palm lightly pushing between his shoulder blades, probably thinking he was clever for finding a way to not collapse into the street in a way that was invisible to any weary taxi drivers. Actually, now that Murderface thought about it, it was pretty smart. Not that he was okay with ruminating so deeply over the implications of another guy touching him.

Murderface, for the millionth time that night, it seemed, did not notice that someone had actually pulled up to the curb and was now speaking at them. Shouting, more like.

“Dude, is that Skwisgaar Skwigelf?!” The driver in the seat, some greased up soyboy actively pushing up his glasses whilst pointing at Skwisgaar like he was the fucking holy messiah standing (wobbling) on earthly ground, yelled through the passenger side window.

“Yesch. Dear lord in heaven, it’sch fucking him!” Murderface ceremoniously threw his hands in the air before ripping the back door open, throwing Skwisgaar in first and finally clambering in after he settled. “Now fucking drive.”

Murderface didn’t have half a mind to bother with explaining to this little bastard that he could not give him their direct address lest he want to be interrogated and tortured, and he seemed off put by the fact he’d be driving with vocal directions given by a man with a prevalent speech impediment, but Murderface just fished some cash out of Skwisgaar’s wallet and that shut him up for the rest of the night. (Save for the “Oh God is he gonna puke back there?” that Murderface chose to forgo answering audibly and simply handed him more cash.)

Around 10 minutes into the drive, Skwisgaar was leaning on his elbow against the car door, and he suddenly inhaled slowly and deeply.

“Jusht keep your eyesch shut.” Murderface pat the Skwisgaar’s shoulder before dropping his hand to the middle seat. “It’sch a right up here.” Murderface called out to the driver, the car swerving suddenly.

“Ugh,” Skwisgaar groaned, pinching his bridge, before speaking. “Thinks I left my hats at de bars.”

“Whatever. You’ll find it on ebay by tomorrow.” Murderface grumbled. “Take another right here.” The car veered dangerously into the right lane at the last second, Murderface holding in a smile at the honking from nearby drivers.

“Moidaface, you coulds at leasts gives a 5 minutes warnings to de guys.” Skwisgaar hissed, holding his head in pain.

“Schorry.” Murderface couldn’t hold back his grin.

“Such an assholes,” Skwisgaar groaned. He dropped his free hand from his lap, directly onto Murderface’s. The bassist tensed.

“You’re scho fucking drunk.”

“Mhm.” Skwisgaar squeezed his hand.

“...Take a left on thisch road. QUICK!” Murderface shouted suddenly, and the taxi swerved instantly, Skwisgaar’s hand shooting up to his mouth.

—

They made it back to Mordhaus unceremoniously, save for the 50+ trained snipers on the taxi who sped off the minute Skwisgaar’s foot hit the concrete. Murderface figured if he didn’t have to pay then it was a win (he didn’t count Skwisgaar’s money, of course). This did unfortunately mean that they were dropped off at the bridge entrance rather than the front door, so it meant like, what, a 5 mile hike at least?

Murderface figured they’d made it this far, as he continued dragging Skwisgaar along by his shoulder. He quickly slumped over, though, and Murderface slapped his bare arm a few times but he wasn’t budging. He groaned aloud, the echo of his voice almost comical, and heaved Skwisgaar onto his back to continue onward.

“Jesusch Christ, thisch is bashically a workout.” He groaned in between harsh exhales, finally beginning to spot the front door to the haus.

“Dat’s good for yous, eh?” Skwisgaar pat his shoulder from behind, chuckling in his ear. Murderface mumbled a “fuck off” and sped up, trying not to think about how that hot breath on the shell of his ear really made him feel things that weren’t appropriate to act on whilst traversing a gigantic metal bridge with an unreasonably heavy man on his back.

“Do you have a brick in your shtomach or shomething?” Murderface asked, finally making his way up the steps to the front door. Skwisgaar simply turned his other cheek against Murderface’s back and made a small noise of content. “God you’re heavy.” Murderface continued shit-talking as if the man would respond.

As soon as he stepped onto the top stair, the doors to Mordhaus opened inward, as if their drunken arrival was scheduled. Murderface figured it was some magical Charles induced bullshit. He didn’t bother thanking the two buff Klokateers holding each door and greeting them with a “welcome home, sires”. He just continued on the treacherous journey to Skwisgaar’s room.

Walking in relative silence, besides Skwisgaar’s soft breathing against Murderface’s ear that he was ignoring with all of the strength of a monk in a titty bar, Murderface observed the rooms he passed. Seemed like nobody was home. Well, besides Toki in his bedroom probably making some poor groupies play twister or whatever it was he liked to do, and the hundreds of thousands of Klokateers under their employment. Murderface always liked the eerie silence that Mordhaus’ stone halls provided.

Skwisgaar observed idly how Murderface’s cheekbones shifted when he smiled to himself. He opted not to make Murderface aware of his consciousness, mostly because he really liked that he didn’t have to walk this way– but he could admit that this view was interesting, too.

Finally coming to a stop at Skwisgaar’s room, Murderface pushed open the door, shut it behind them with the heel of his boot, and sped-walked over to Skwisgaar’s bed. He threw the guitarist down, half-heartedly pushing his legs up and onto the bed (he didn’t want to go near his vomit-covered boots). When he was finally satisfied with his work, he threw his hands on his hips and sighed, collapsing onto the edge of Skwisgaar’s bed. The constant chill of his room always satisfied Murderface, seeping deep into his bones, and this time was no different. Even if the circumstances were a little gay.

Skwisgaar propped himself up on his elbow, silently watching Murderface’s back arch with each inhale and exhale of cold air. He felt his lashes lower against his will– sleep was a very promising sounding option for him right now. Skwisgaar grinned to himself— in what world was being near William Murderface relaxing? He was too drunk to really contemplate it further.

“Moidaface.” The bassist straightened his back, whipping towards Skwisgaar.

“Of coursche you’re awake.” Murderface furrowed his brows, “Could’ve told me scho I didn’t have to carry your heavy assch all the way here.”

“It was a very goods rides.”

“Don’t shay it like that. Soundsch awfully gay.” Murderface stood up abruptly, dusting off his shorts and turning to leave.

“Moidaface.” Skwisgaar repeated. Murderface stopped in his tracks. “Come heres.”

He debated this for a moment. He was already stopped. He might as well just turn around. But this also sounded incredibly homosexual in nature. Skwisgaar’s tone was all weird and he was too drunk. But rarely did Murderface find himself in the center of drama, he was usually just chiming in from the sidelines to make everything worse (and therefore more entertaining).

He relented with a groan, turning around and making his way back to the side of Skwisgaar’s bed where he was now sat up and watching Murderface like he could read every thought in his mind.

“What?” He hissed out. “You want a bedtime shtory? A kissch goodnight?”

“Nej.” Skwisgaar spoke softly. Murderface blinked. “...Just wanteds to sees if you woulds obeys.”

“Go die.” Murderface flipped him off and immediately spun around to walk out, but was quickly caught by the wrist and pulled back. Before he could audibly object to whatever that was about, Skwisgaar had him in his arms, long, blonde hair curtained over the confused bassist’s face as he looked down at him from where he was being held.

“I hads fun with de trivias.” Skwisgaar smiled down at him, and Murderface couldn’t help but stare back. How did this guy manage to stay this hot even after puking three times (at one point in the back of a cramped taxi)? Murderface could honestly say his breath wasn’t even that noticeably bad. At least nothing compared to Pickles. He was distracting himself. “We shoulds does its again, ja?”

“Uh… okay.” Murderface spoke, mouth still slightly agape. Skwisgaar’s face scrunched as he chuckled, and leaned down slowly, lips meeting Murderface’s for a third time that night. Upside down like a fucking superhero flick. For as stupid as it was, Murderface sourly admitted to himself that it was pretty decent.

When Skwisgaar lifted himself again, Murderface hated himself for feeling like he lost the touch of a God, and hated himself even more for wanting it back. He rubbed his cheek where Skwisgaar had held him not even a moment ago.

“Now, gets outs. Gotta sleeps.”

“Oh, gee, thanksch princessch.” Murderface spun his heels, speed walking to the door with his shoulders up to his ears. He really hoped Skwisgaar couldn’t actually read minds.

“Uh,” Murderface grunted, standing in the now open doorway of Skwisgaar’s room, “Thanksch. For, uh, coming out with me.” Skwisgaar simply stared at his back, before he glanced over his shoulder and pointed at the guitarist accusingly. “Even though you are a total pain in my assch.”

And with that, the door was slammed shut, and Skwisgaar simply sighed and flipped over.

—

The next morning’s meeting consisted of 3 incredibly hungover men, and Toki. Once Charles had collected his stolen (and broken) dethphone, he realized there was absolutely no way to get a productive meeting out of the band, given the state they were in. So he unceremoniously stood up and left the room.

“Skwisgaar!” Toki shouted from across the table. Skwisgaar gripped his head in pain, Toki’s screaming being as helpful as expected for his nasty hangover. “Checks dis outs!”

“Whats? Quits you’s shoutings.”

“Gahd, yeah, Toki. Show some respect to yer elders.” Pickles groaned out, clearly hungover as well. Skwisgaar shot him a glare. 

“Sorries,” Toki quieted some, “I’s gots to shows ya this! It’s hilarious.” He giggled.

Skwisgaar wagged his finger towards himself, gesturing for Toki to bring whatever it was over to him. No way in hell was he standing up in these conditions.

Toki practically shot up and ran his laptop over to Skwisgaar, scooting the nearest chair closer to him and placing the laptop before them both. It took a moment for Skwisgaar’s unfocused eyes to adjust, and of course having to slap Toki’s pointing hand away from the screen, but he finally computed that it was an ebay listing.

“Heh,” Skwisgaar laughed flatly. “Very interestingks.”

A moment later, Murderface stumbled into the meeting room, groaning something like “where’sch Charlesch” before immediately slumping into his seat across from Skwisgaar.

“Wells, wells. Speaks of de devils.” Skwisgaar grinned.

“Theresch only one devil, asschwipe.” Murderface quipped, looking up. “What’re you ladiesch gosshiping about?”

“Comes heres and looks!” Toki was brimming with energy. Murderface groaned, picked himself back up and trudged over to their side of the table, where Skwisgaar stood to let him sit down and view this phenomenon in comfort.

“Holy schit,” Murderface gaped at the screen. “That’sch my shcore card!”

There on Toki’s grimy ass computer screen was an ebay listing titled:

 “WILLIAM MURDERFACE’S TRIVIA SCORE CARD: REAL; CONFIRMED BY DNA ANALYSTS!!! NO LOWBALLS OR I’LL SEND A SWAT TEAM TO YOUR ADDRESS!!! $5,000,000 H/O.” 

Murderface broke into an ear-to-ear grin, crossing his arms and looking over at Skwisgaar with an expression of triumph.

“Well, that’sch unexpected, huh?” Murderface flinched a bit, his confidence faltering when Skwisgaar sidled up next to him, one hand on the table dangerously close to touching his own, and the other resting on the back of Murderface’s chair. There was no way out. God.

“Yes. Verys.” Skwisgaar grinned. “Guess it was a nights of winnings for you, after alls.”

Murderface laughed aloud, “The fuck do you mean ‘after alls’?” He mimicked Skwisgaar’s tone. “I beat your assch lasht night–”

“Moidaface, Skwisgaar tolds me everythin’s. Bouts how yous totallies lost at de trivias and got shits-faced!” Toki laughed, pointing at Murderface. “Classics!”

Murderface shot to his feet, whipping around to glare at Skwisgaar. “What?! You lying bashtard–”

“Murderface, it’s no use, we all know what happened.” Pickles backed him up. “Accept yer loss like a man!”

“Yeah, Murderface. I mean, you and trivia… just doesn’t mix.” Nathan spoke up.

“Oh you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Murderface yelled to the sky. “My life isch a fucking nightmare!” He stomped out of the meeting room, silence resting in his wake.

“...Such a drama queen, thet one,” Pickles snorted.

Skwisgaar grinned. “Seriouslies.”