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Random Metalocalypse Musing Fic
Ever have an idea you like enough to write down but not really flesh out? Yeah. This is one of those. Stream-of-consciousness style almost.
Title: Listening to the Voices
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Charles/Pickles
Word Count: 1500
He’s not oblivious. Honestly, it’s a little insulting. More than a little if Pickles actually thinks about it. But that makes him angry and angry is not good. He’s not a nice man, never claimed to be, but he’s especially bastardly when he’s angry. That’s okay. Another drink or two, not more though, and he won’t be angry. A bit insulted still and more than a tiny bit curious, but…contained.
Seriously, though, can it be any more obvious? And Pickles knows there’s a brain in that head but clearly it’s not being used. C’mon. He’s been drinking and smoking and drugging since before he was out of that special pre-adolescent hell called middle school. His tolerance is fucking LEGENDARY, as it should be. It takes more than five or six beers to make him blind to the world around him. And it has been only two sixers so far for the day, has been around that same ridiculously low level for the past couple of weeks whenever he can stand to have his brain shouting at him nonstop all day long, just because he wanted to be sure.
The booze works better than the drugs but even he knows how it can fuck up perception well on its own. So it’s back to near-sobriety for Pickles and he hopes it’s worth it because it’s damn irritating being aware of the world without the soft, muzzy fog that drinking enough keeps him enveloped in, safe and insulated and slightly detached. Sure he’s an addict, never claimed to not be one, but at least he’s a FUNCTIONING addict and until he’s not, he’s not going to give it up. His mouth, his temper, reality…it all gets the better of him far too quickly when he’s not drifting around in a haze where all that matters is the music and not leaving his cocoon. Fuck, he’s a jaded, sadistic, bitter, misanthropic, bitchy motherfucker inside and damn Twinkletits was too irritating, didn’t last long enough to get him to break free and look at why. Besides, he knows why. He’s not a nice person and that’s all there is to it. He can find excuses aplenty in his past but, honestly, he’s just not a good human being.
Doesn’t mean he’s stupid though. Hell, he’s probably the smartest fucker in the band. God, sometimes the rest of them are so dense that he can’t help but drink, frustration that would get out of hand if he didn’t find their level. And sure he does stupid stuff then, but hey, that’s what being drunk is all about. And he’s a rock star, a fucking metal god. Stupid is what he’s REQUIRED to do. Still doesn’t mean he doesn’t know.
Pickles lived through the peculiar madness that was the 1980s in jeans that showed more skin than they hid, his ass and package tightly outlined for carefully calculated commercial gain. He KNOWS what it feels like when someone is staring at his ass. Hell, Skwisgaar leers at it often enough – as often as he leers at everything that fucking moves - that he’d have to be half-dead from smack to not know what eyes on his skin, eyes that WANT, feel like. It’s flattering, though he doesn’t need the ego-stroking. His ass is probably his best feature now that his damn hair has gone the way of glam metal. Tight and muscular and drumming is damn good for the lower body and the arms and too bad he’s too lazy for sit-ups or he might half-way begin to give Toki a run for his money. So, yeah, his ass gets looked at.
But he never expected it to come from that particular corner and he doesn’t know exactly when it started, just that lately it’s been getting out of hand. It feels like every time he stands up in the same fucking room those eyes are on him. And it’s weird because he never would have pegged him as interested. At least, not in him. Not in Pickles the drummer, Wisconsin accent and too-red hair combed pathetically over his head and an attitude of lethargic indulgence because he can’t be fucked to bother with much of anything anymore. He’s everything his watcher isn’t and maybe it’s just that whole opposites attract bullshit and maybe it’s just simple lust – his ass IS mighty fine – but those eyes on him feel like they want a whole lot more.
Charles has him nearly sober and that’s a power Pickles never intended to give to anyone ever again. It hurts too much, threatens too much, and if it were Chuck, even Charlie, he could laugh it off. Chuck is a nagging bastard of a manager, great guy who gets him out of trouble, cleans up his messes, and makes him sit through meetings that threaten to bore him into an early grave. Chuck is fun to harass but he isn’t interested in Chuck. Chuck is just doing the job he does so well and that they pay him an ungodly amount to do. Charlie, Charlie is a little better. If it was Charlie, he’d have jumped him already, gotten off, had a week-long fling maybe, and then gone back to the status-quo where they’re friends with certain common interests. Where Pickles isn’t completely wasted and can think about the world around him if it doesn’t hurt too much. They talk books and movies and especially music, all kinds of music, and sometimes they shoot pool together. Charlie is his friend and he likes him but, yeah, not enough to give up his lifestyle.
Charles, though. Fuck. Charles is a mystery. Layers there, hidden underneath Chuck and Charlie, and there’s something dark and heavy in the eyes that watch him from behind wire frames, protected by light glare on lenses. Charles sometimes looks as though he wants to devour him, beat him senseless and then lick his wounds and then do it all over again. Charles might want to crawl inside his brain and examine every secret, every thought that rages in his mind, make him spill and bare himself, stop hiding who he really is. Charles isn’t a nice man either and he doesn’t seem to care that Pickles is an asshole, a self-absorbed rocker too afraid and too angry to be fully himself. Charles is interesting and he’s driving Pickles crazy. That and it’s still a bit insulting that he thinks Pickles can’t see him watching. Or maybe he can and it’s all a ploy. And that’s the kind of circular thinking that gets him in trouble, the doubts and second-guesses that alcohol drowns.
Shit. He’s at that point again. Act or do nothing. Or rather, act or get drunk and pretend he isn’t curious, burn that interest away along with some more brain cells, make his liver fucking WORK. He’s seriously getting too old for this bullshit and he KNOWS Charles’ game. He’s not stupid. But he’s going to play into Charles’ hand because Pickles has a feeling that getting drunk won’t end this stand-off and he can’t be completely wasted all the time because he has drums to play and a strong, somewhat violent lummox of a lead singer to placate and because, yeah, being that far gone has never led to anything good. Still, he’s been painted into a corner and that grates on his nerves. Regardless of Charles’ intentions, the man is going to have to pay for this. Somehow. Probably. Pickles HATES being sober enough for all the voices in his head to talk at him and yet he’s done little else but listen to them for days. They’re annoying, especially the taunting one that sounds too much like Seth, and if he can’t drink them away, well, those eyes have been on his ass. Sex is good for temporary thought stoppage. He could kill two birds with one stone…It’s all just a matter of making the move Charles is no doubt expecting of him.
So, with flair or simplicity? Coy or direct? Or does it even fucking matter? Hmmm, one more drink. A shot of liquid determination. Yeah, whiskey. It burns and warms him and the noise of the bottle hitting the table is loud enough that he catches that same intense gaze, this time slightly startled. It’s enough, that single moment of vulnerability. He goes, grabs Charles’ hands, and wordlessly plants broad warm palms on his ass. Gives him ten seconds, gets a squeeze finally just as he begins to pull away.
“Not my fucking douche bag room. Too many bottles. Yours will have to do.”
Pickles saunters down the hall, not waiting for the other to get up but grinning a little at the sudden sharp burst of laughter. Bet Charles didn’t even know he knew where it was. Heh. It was his damn house and he wasn’t stupid. He knew a hell of a lot, especially when he was sober. Charles was going to get what was coming to him.
Title: Listening to the Voices
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Charles/Pickles
Word Count: 1500
He’s not oblivious. Honestly, it’s a little insulting. More than a little if Pickles actually thinks about it. But that makes him angry and angry is not good. He’s not a nice man, never claimed to be, but he’s especially bastardly when he’s angry. That’s okay. Another drink or two, not more though, and he won’t be angry. A bit insulted still and more than a tiny bit curious, but…contained.
Seriously, though, can it be any more obvious? And Pickles knows there’s a brain in that head but clearly it’s not being used. C’mon. He’s been drinking and smoking and drugging since before he was out of that special pre-adolescent hell called middle school. His tolerance is fucking LEGENDARY, as it should be. It takes more than five or six beers to make him blind to the world around him. And it has been only two sixers so far for the day, has been around that same ridiculously low level for the past couple of weeks whenever he can stand to have his brain shouting at him nonstop all day long, just because he wanted to be sure.
The booze works better than the drugs but even he knows how it can fuck up perception well on its own. So it’s back to near-sobriety for Pickles and he hopes it’s worth it because it’s damn irritating being aware of the world without the soft, muzzy fog that drinking enough keeps him enveloped in, safe and insulated and slightly detached. Sure he’s an addict, never claimed to not be one, but at least he’s a FUNCTIONING addict and until he’s not, he’s not going to give it up. His mouth, his temper, reality…it all gets the better of him far too quickly when he’s not drifting around in a haze where all that matters is the music and not leaving his cocoon. Fuck, he’s a jaded, sadistic, bitter, misanthropic, bitchy motherfucker inside and damn Twinkletits was too irritating, didn’t last long enough to get him to break free and look at why. Besides, he knows why. He’s not a nice person and that’s all there is to it. He can find excuses aplenty in his past but, honestly, he’s just not a good human being.
Doesn’t mean he’s stupid though. Hell, he’s probably the smartest fucker in the band. God, sometimes the rest of them are so dense that he can’t help but drink, frustration that would get out of hand if he didn’t find their level. And sure he does stupid stuff then, but hey, that’s what being drunk is all about. And he’s a rock star, a fucking metal god. Stupid is what he’s REQUIRED to do. Still doesn’t mean he doesn’t know.
Pickles lived through the peculiar madness that was the 1980s in jeans that showed more skin than they hid, his ass and package tightly outlined for carefully calculated commercial gain. He KNOWS what it feels like when someone is staring at his ass. Hell, Skwisgaar leers at it often enough – as often as he leers at everything that fucking moves - that he’d have to be half-dead from smack to not know what eyes on his skin, eyes that WANT, feel like. It’s flattering, though he doesn’t need the ego-stroking. His ass is probably his best feature now that his damn hair has gone the way of glam metal. Tight and muscular and drumming is damn good for the lower body and the arms and too bad he’s too lazy for sit-ups or he might half-way begin to give Toki a run for his money. So, yeah, his ass gets looked at.
But he never expected it to come from that particular corner and he doesn’t know exactly when it started, just that lately it’s been getting out of hand. It feels like every time he stands up in the same fucking room those eyes are on him. And it’s weird because he never would have pegged him as interested. At least, not in him. Not in Pickles the drummer, Wisconsin accent and too-red hair combed pathetically over his head and an attitude of lethargic indulgence because he can’t be fucked to bother with much of anything anymore. He’s everything his watcher isn’t and maybe it’s just that whole opposites attract bullshit and maybe it’s just simple lust – his ass IS mighty fine – but those eyes on him feel like they want a whole lot more.
Charles has him nearly sober and that’s a power Pickles never intended to give to anyone ever again. It hurts too much, threatens too much, and if it were Chuck, even Charlie, he could laugh it off. Chuck is a nagging bastard of a manager, great guy who gets him out of trouble, cleans up his messes, and makes him sit through meetings that threaten to bore him into an early grave. Chuck is fun to harass but he isn’t interested in Chuck. Chuck is just doing the job he does so well and that they pay him an ungodly amount to do. Charlie, Charlie is a little better. If it was Charlie, he’d have jumped him already, gotten off, had a week-long fling maybe, and then gone back to the status-quo where they’re friends with certain common interests. Where Pickles isn’t completely wasted and can think about the world around him if it doesn’t hurt too much. They talk books and movies and especially music, all kinds of music, and sometimes they shoot pool together. Charlie is his friend and he likes him but, yeah, not enough to give up his lifestyle.
Charles, though. Fuck. Charles is a mystery. Layers there, hidden underneath Chuck and Charlie, and there’s something dark and heavy in the eyes that watch him from behind wire frames, protected by light glare on lenses. Charles sometimes looks as though he wants to devour him, beat him senseless and then lick his wounds and then do it all over again. Charles might want to crawl inside his brain and examine every secret, every thought that rages in his mind, make him spill and bare himself, stop hiding who he really is. Charles isn’t a nice man either and he doesn’t seem to care that Pickles is an asshole, a self-absorbed rocker too afraid and too angry to be fully himself. Charles is interesting and he’s driving Pickles crazy. That and it’s still a bit insulting that he thinks Pickles can’t see him watching. Or maybe he can and it’s all a ploy. And that’s the kind of circular thinking that gets him in trouble, the doubts and second-guesses that alcohol drowns.
Shit. He’s at that point again. Act or do nothing. Or rather, act or get drunk and pretend he isn’t curious, burn that interest away along with some more brain cells, make his liver fucking WORK. He’s seriously getting too old for this bullshit and he KNOWS Charles’ game. He’s not stupid. But he’s going to play into Charles’ hand because Pickles has a feeling that getting drunk won’t end this stand-off and he can’t be completely wasted all the time because he has drums to play and a strong, somewhat violent lummox of a lead singer to placate and because, yeah, being that far gone has never led to anything good. Still, he’s been painted into a corner and that grates on his nerves. Regardless of Charles’ intentions, the man is going to have to pay for this. Somehow. Probably. Pickles HATES being sober enough for all the voices in his head to talk at him and yet he’s done little else but listen to them for days. They’re annoying, especially the taunting one that sounds too much like Seth, and if he can’t drink them away, well, those eyes have been on his ass. Sex is good for temporary thought stoppage. He could kill two birds with one stone…It’s all just a matter of making the move Charles is no doubt expecting of him.
So, with flair or simplicity? Coy or direct? Or does it even fucking matter? Hmmm, one more drink. A shot of liquid determination. Yeah, whiskey. It burns and warms him and the noise of the bottle hitting the table is loud enough that he catches that same intense gaze, this time slightly startled. It’s enough, that single moment of vulnerability. He goes, grabs Charles’ hands, and wordlessly plants broad warm palms on his ass. Gives him ten seconds, gets a squeeze finally just as he begins to pull away.
“Not my fucking douche bag room. Too many bottles. Yours will have to do.”
Pickles saunters down the hall, not waiting for the other to get up but grinning a little at the sudden sharp burst of laughter. Bet Charles didn’t even know he knew where it was. Heh. It was his damn house and he wasn’t stupid. He knew a hell of a lot, especially when he was sober. Charles was going to get what was coming to him.
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