Metalocalypse - A Dreadful Meeting (15)
"Ow! Dammit Chuck, don't pull so hard!"
"I'm being as gentle as I can. There's so much loose hair here, I'm trying to separate it all into the right dreadlocks -"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, excuses, excuses," Pickles grumbled from his position sitting between his manager's knees, an indentation forming across his shoulder blades from the edge of Ofdensen's chair. "Dude, my back really hurts; doesn't yours? We've been doin' this for three hours now," he observed, lifting a hand off the carpet to look at his watch, before putting it back down again.
"A little," replied Ofdensen, arching his back slightly to pop out the kinks in his spine, all the while keeping hold of the dread he was working on in his left hand and the fine crochet needle in the right. Pulling a wisp of loose hair into the dread with the needle, he sighed as he noticed a twist of hair poking out of the auburn lock before being sucked back in again.
"Can you pass me the thicker needle with the red handle, by your foot? You have another loop."
"Sure."
A few minutes of silence passed, punctuated by frustrated sighs as Ofdensen struggled to tidy a few stubbornly messy dreads, and rheumatic cracks as Pickles straightened, then crossed, then again straightened his legs in discomfort.
"I don't know why you don't go to the hairdresser for this," Ofdensen stated, breaking the silence. "He only stays in Mordhaus for you band members."
"And let someone I don't know mess with my dreads?" Pickles snorted. "Dude, I only let people I trust play around with my babies." He felt the other man pause behind him, the thigh muscles against his upper arms tensing slightly. Feeling awkward and thinking he'd somehow offended Ofdensen, he began mumbling an apology.
"Sorry Chuck, didn't mean to offend you or nothin', I just call things as I see em' -"
"No," interrupted Ofdensen. "You didn't offend me, it was ... a sweet thing to say," he hesitated. "I appreciate it. Thankyou."
"Like I said, I call things as I see em'," Pickles shrugged, feeling Ofdensen relax again. The redhead stretched his back and cracked his neck to one side, before slouching back between the warm legs.
Ofdensen shifted slightly. "Are you getting uncomfortable down there?"
"Yeah, I guess a little," Pickles replied. "I can keep goin' though, I'd rather get all this done now instead a' leavin' it until it's a real mess again." Nonetheless, he arched his back again with an audible pop, his arms shaking with the tension.
"Would it be easier for you if you leaned your head to one side? I can work on the ones around your other ear, if you'd prefer."
Pickles leaned his head to the right, testing the sensation on his stiff neck. Feeling the muscles leading up from his left shoulder stretch out of their previously cramped state, the new position had a satisfying sense of relief to it, and his eyes closed in contentment.
"That better?"
"Mmmm," Pickles sighed blissfully.
Smiling, Ofdensen started working on the new section of hair by Pickles' neck. He pretended he didn't notice when the head in his lap relaxed to lie against his leg, Pickles' cheek resting against the top of his right thigh, preferring simply to appreciate the comforting feeling the gesture gave him.
"Hey, Chuck?"
"Mmhmm?"
"Why do you always do this?"
Ofdensen screwed his face up in confusion, a few extra lines faintly appearing on his forehead. "Because you always ask me to. What do you mean?"
"You don't have to do everythin' we ask, only thing you gotta do is all the official band stuff - make sure gigs happen, sort all the paperwork, bail us outta jail occasionally. Doin' the drummer's hair's hardly official band stuff, dude."
"That doesn't mean I can't be involved with other stuff, though."
"Yeah, but dude," Pickles continued, opening his eyes, "you don't get involved with other stuff with the other guys, that I seen. Just yesterday you wouldn't play with Toki's airplanes when he asked."
"Because I had paperwork to do, as I told him at the time. I'm still sorting out the mess with the riot in Iceland the other week."
"Is it sorted now?"
Ofdensen sighed, knowing that he wasn't going to win this conversation. "No, it's not sorted. I still have a few more forms to fill out and people to call. But I'm sure you knew that, anyway."
"So," asked Pickles, with a triumphant grin on his face, "why did you agree to do my hair instead of gettin' that sorted?"
"Because it's therapeutic, it makes a change from working in an office staring at a computer screen all day!" Ofdensen exclaimed. "Stop going on about it, or I'll accidentally tie your dreads to the chair leg!"
Pickles closed his eyes again and grinned at his manager's threat, knowing that it was idle. It wasn't often the man joked for any reason, but even if the only way was to irritate him, it was worth it. "Sorry dude," he said with a smile, "I didn't mean to get you worked up or nothin'." He tapped his palm gently on the outside of Ofdensen shin in reassurance, before leaving his hand there, his arm wrapped lightly around the man's leg.
Feeling flustered, Ofdensen continued working on Pickles' hair, his cheeks feeling warm. So what if he spent more time with Pickles than any of the other band members? Or even, he realised, more than anyone else at all, for that matter? Pickles was probably the sanest member of the band. The man had already worked the music scene years before, had lived the excesses of it, and had watched a lot of what was dear to him fall apart because of those excesses. Drinking aside, he was the only member of the band who didn't go wild and take their fame for granted, instead taking a much more rational view of it all.
Furthermore, the fact that he was letting the drummer wrap an arm around his leg without argument, and particularly the fact that he found it comforting instead of irritating didn't mean a thing.
Pressing his cheek against Ofdensen's thigh, Pickles started half-consciously drumming his thumb and little finger against the calf muscles under his hand in his relaxed state. Getting a rhythm in his head, his other hand soon joined in, beating against his manager's patent black Oxford shoe, while his own feet started twitching as they tapped imaginary pedals. He jumped when he felt a sharp tug near the nape of his neck.
"Dude, what was that for?"
"I didn't do anything, you keep nodding your head. You just pulled the dread out of my hand."
"Oh, sorry." He continued tapping his hands and feet, being careful to keep his head still.
"What are you doing?"
"Drummin', what's it look like?"
"Of course."
"Hey, Chuck?"
"Yes?"
"Why you wearin' shoes?"
Ofdensen paused. "Excuse me?"
"I just never seen you not wearin' shoes. They glued to your feet or somethin'?"
"No, they're not glued to my feet," Ofdensen replied, bewildered that he even had to answer the question. "People wear shoes to work. I just happened to live at work, so I'm usually wearing shoes here."
"You also sleep at work, you wear ‘em in bed?"
"I'm not even going to justify that question with an answer."
"Anyway," Pickles continued, "I work here too, y'know, and I ain't wearing shoes."
Looking down at Pickles' bare slender feet, crossed at the ankle, with a light covering of fine red hairs, the unbidden thought crossed Ofdensen's mind that the rest of his hair was probably the same shade - all of it. Mentally brushing the thought away, he tried to think of a reply to his comment, before being distracted by Pickles fiddling with his shoe.
"What are you doing?"
"Takin' your shoes off."
"What?!"
"I figured you'd probably be comfier without ‘em," Pickles replied, trying to slide the right shoe off, having undone the laces. "Dude, don't they make your feet ache?"
"Well, yes," stammered Ofdensen, utterly flustered, "but you can't just take them off!"
"Just did!" Pickles replied triumphantly, waving one shoe in the air before working on the other.
"I give up," the older man sighed, feeling the drummer struggle to pull the left shoe off before eventually succeeding. Even he couldn't deny that Oxford shoes weren't the most comfortable thing to be wearing for almost the entire waking day, everyday, but he had to be smart. He couldn't just wander around going to meetings wearing a suit and tie with slippers, could he? Nonetheless, he stretched his grey sock-covered feet, wiggling his toes, before pressing them into the shag carpet, pretending it didn't feel like bliss on his soles.
He also pretended it didn't feel like bliss when Pickles gently lifted the ball of his right foot slightly off the floor with one hand, while the fingertips of the other pressed lightly into the sole, just back from his toes. Having studied at university the finer points of consenting to any business agreement, he knew that by not even acknowledging the action, he wasn't officially giving permission for Pickles to continue, but he was also fully aware that in the real world, by not asking him to stop he wasn't exactly denying his permission either. The thought briefly occurred to him that he'd never really appreciated that small contradiction until now.
When the hand holding the ball of his foot starting moving up his leg, the fingertips gently grazing his calf muscles, he had to stop working on the current dread for the lack of concentration he had for it.
"Pickles?"
"Yeah?" The hand worked its way along the side of Ofdensen's knee to brush against his outer thigh, gently massaging the muscles with a warm palm.
"Nothing."
"Okay." Pickles shifted around slightly to face more towards his manager's leg, and began brushing his fingertips along the inside of his thigh – first conservatively, then sliding higher, feeling the muscles twitching beneath his fingers.
Still holding one of the drummer's dreadlocks in a slightly damp hand, Ofdensen kept his eye on Pickles' fingers, half hoping he'd stop before laughing at the look on his manager's face, and half hoping that he wouldn't stop for at least the next couple of hours. Realising that if the latter happened, Pickles would soon be able to feel Ofdensen's reaction in the back of his neck, he suddenly stood up and carefully stepped around the redhead.
"Hey, dude -"
"I need to stand up," Ofdensen quickly stammered before Pickles could continue. "I need to stretch my back for a few minutes, it's beginning to ache."
Pickles nodded in understanding of the other man's real reasoning. "I'm sorry dude, I dunno what -"
"It's okay," Ofdensen said quietly, avoiding eye-contact with the drummer.
The two stood in an awkward silence for a moment, neither sure what to say without making the situation any more awkward, before Pickles finally broke it, staring at the floor.
"Hey, when you've finished stretchin', I uhh -" he hesitated. "I mean ... it might be comfier in my room. If you sat on my bed, instead of a chair, that is." He raised his head slightly, glancing up at Ofdensen's expression.
"Are you drunk?" the manager asked.
"No!" the redhead exclaimed, slightly offended.
"In that case," Ofdensen sighed, pausing. "I don't think we should go to your room." He walked past Pickles to pick up his shoes and the crochet needles.
"Of course, sorry dude. I shoulda -"
"There's more light in mine."
Pickles looked up, to see Ofdensen waiting for him by the door. "Right," he murmured, struggling to restrain his grin, as he followed the manager out of the room towards the stairs.
"I'm being as gentle as I can. There's so much loose hair here, I'm trying to separate it all into the right dreadlocks -"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, excuses, excuses," Pickles grumbled from his position sitting between his manager's knees, an indentation forming across his shoulder blades from the edge of Ofdensen's chair. "Dude, my back really hurts; doesn't yours? We've been doin' this for three hours now," he observed, lifting a hand off the carpet to look at his watch, before putting it back down again.
"A little," replied Ofdensen, arching his back slightly to pop out the kinks in his spine, all the while keeping hold of the dread he was working on in his left hand and the fine crochet needle in the right. Pulling a wisp of loose hair into the dread with the needle, he sighed as he noticed a twist of hair poking out of the auburn lock before being sucked back in again.
"Can you pass me the thicker needle with the red handle, by your foot? You have another loop."
"Sure."
A few minutes of silence passed, punctuated by frustrated sighs as Ofdensen struggled to tidy a few stubbornly messy dreads, and rheumatic cracks as Pickles straightened, then crossed, then again straightened his legs in discomfort.
"I don't know why you don't go to the hairdresser for this," Ofdensen stated, breaking the silence. "He only stays in Mordhaus for you band members."
"And let someone I don't know mess with my dreads?" Pickles snorted. "Dude, I only let people I trust play around with my babies." He felt the other man pause behind him, the thigh muscles against his upper arms tensing slightly. Feeling awkward and thinking he'd somehow offended Ofdensen, he began mumbling an apology.
"Sorry Chuck, didn't mean to offend you or nothin', I just call things as I see em' -"
"No," interrupted Ofdensen. "You didn't offend me, it was ... a sweet thing to say," he hesitated. "I appreciate it. Thankyou."
"Like I said, I call things as I see em'," Pickles shrugged, feeling Ofdensen relax again. The redhead stretched his back and cracked his neck to one side, before slouching back between the warm legs.
Ofdensen shifted slightly. "Are you getting uncomfortable down there?"
"Yeah, I guess a little," Pickles replied. "I can keep goin' though, I'd rather get all this done now instead a' leavin' it until it's a real mess again." Nonetheless, he arched his back again with an audible pop, his arms shaking with the tension.
"Would it be easier for you if you leaned your head to one side? I can work on the ones around your other ear, if you'd prefer."
Pickles leaned his head to the right, testing the sensation on his stiff neck. Feeling the muscles leading up from his left shoulder stretch out of their previously cramped state, the new position had a satisfying sense of relief to it, and his eyes closed in contentment.
"That better?"
"Mmmm," Pickles sighed blissfully.
Smiling, Ofdensen started working on the new section of hair by Pickles' neck. He pretended he didn't notice when the head in his lap relaxed to lie against his leg, Pickles' cheek resting against the top of his right thigh, preferring simply to appreciate the comforting feeling the gesture gave him.
"Hey, Chuck?"
"Mmhmm?"
"Why do you always do this?"
Ofdensen screwed his face up in confusion, a few extra lines faintly appearing on his forehead. "Because you always ask me to. What do you mean?"
"You don't have to do everythin' we ask, only thing you gotta do is all the official band stuff - make sure gigs happen, sort all the paperwork, bail us outta jail occasionally. Doin' the drummer's hair's hardly official band stuff, dude."
"That doesn't mean I can't be involved with other stuff, though."
"Yeah, but dude," Pickles continued, opening his eyes, "you don't get involved with other stuff with the other guys, that I seen. Just yesterday you wouldn't play with Toki's airplanes when he asked."
"Because I had paperwork to do, as I told him at the time. I'm still sorting out the mess with the riot in Iceland the other week."
"Is it sorted now?"
Ofdensen sighed, knowing that he wasn't going to win this conversation. "No, it's not sorted. I still have a few more forms to fill out and people to call. But I'm sure you knew that, anyway."
"So," asked Pickles, with a triumphant grin on his face, "why did you agree to do my hair instead of gettin' that sorted?"
"Because it's therapeutic, it makes a change from working in an office staring at a computer screen all day!" Ofdensen exclaimed. "Stop going on about it, or I'll accidentally tie your dreads to the chair leg!"
Pickles closed his eyes again and grinned at his manager's threat, knowing that it was idle. It wasn't often the man joked for any reason, but even if the only way was to irritate him, it was worth it. "Sorry dude," he said with a smile, "I didn't mean to get you worked up or nothin'." He tapped his palm gently on the outside of Ofdensen shin in reassurance, before leaving his hand there, his arm wrapped lightly around the man's leg.
Feeling flustered, Ofdensen continued working on Pickles' hair, his cheeks feeling warm. So what if he spent more time with Pickles than any of the other band members? Or even, he realised, more than anyone else at all, for that matter? Pickles was probably the sanest member of the band. The man had already worked the music scene years before, had lived the excesses of it, and had watched a lot of what was dear to him fall apart because of those excesses. Drinking aside, he was the only member of the band who didn't go wild and take their fame for granted, instead taking a much more rational view of it all.
Furthermore, the fact that he was letting the drummer wrap an arm around his leg without argument, and particularly the fact that he found it comforting instead of irritating didn't mean a thing.
Pressing his cheek against Ofdensen's thigh, Pickles started half-consciously drumming his thumb and little finger against the calf muscles under his hand in his relaxed state. Getting a rhythm in his head, his other hand soon joined in, beating against his manager's patent black Oxford shoe, while his own feet started twitching as they tapped imaginary pedals. He jumped when he felt a sharp tug near the nape of his neck.
"Dude, what was that for?"
"I didn't do anything, you keep nodding your head. You just pulled the dread out of my hand."
"Oh, sorry." He continued tapping his hands and feet, being careful to keep his head still.
"What are you doing?"
"Drummin', what's it look like?"
"Of course."
"Hey, Chuck?"
"Yes?"
"Why you wearin' shoes?"
Ofdensen paused. "Excuse me?"
"I just never seen you not wearin' shoes. They glued to your feet or somethin'?"
"No, they're not glued to my feet," Ofdensen replied, bewildered that he even had to answer the question. "People wear shoes to work. I just happened to live at work, so I'm usually wearing shoes here."
"You also sleep at work, you wear ‘em in bed?"
"I'm not even going to justify that question with an answer."
"Anyway," Pickles continued, "I work here too, y'know, and I ain't wearing shoes."
Looking down at Pickles' bare slender feet, crossed at the ankle, with a light covering of fine red hairs, the unbidden thought crossed Ofdensen's mind that the rest of his hair was probably the same shade - all of it. Mentally brushing the thought away, he tried to think of a reply to his comment, before being distracted by Pickles fiddling with his shoe.
"What are you doing?"
"Takin' your shoes off."
"What?!"
"I figured you'd probably be comfier without ‘em," Pickles replied, trying to slide the right shoe off, having undone the laces. "Dude, don't they make your feet ache?"
"Well, yes," stammered Ofdensen, utterly flustered, "but you can't just take them off!"
"Just did!" Pickles replied triumphantly, waving one shoe in the air before working on the other.
"I give up," the older man sighed, feeling the drummer struggle to pull the left shoe off before eventually succeeding. Even he couldn't deny that Oxford shoes weren't the most comfortable thing to be wearing for almost the entire waking day, everyday, but he had to be smart. He couldn't just wander around going to meetings wearing a suit and tie with slippers, could he? Nonetheless, he stretched his grey sock-covered feet, wiggling his toes, before pressing them into the shag carpet, pretending it didn't feel like bliss on his soles.
He also pretended it didn't feel like bliss when Pickles gently lifted the ball of his right foot slightly off the floor with one hand, while the fingertips of the other pressed lightly into the sole, just back from his toes. Having studied at university the finer points of consenting to any business agreement, he knew that by not even acknowledging the action, he wasn't officially giving permission for Pickles to continue, but he was also fully aware that in the real world, by not asking him to stop he wasn't exactly denying his permission either. The thought briefly occurred to him that he'd never really appreciated that small contradiction until now.
When the hand holding the ball of his foot starting moving up his leg, the fingertips gently grazing his calf muscles, he had to stop working on the current dread for the lack of concentration he had for it.
"Pickles?"
"Yeah?" The hand worked its way along the side of Ofdensen's knee to brush against his outer thigh, gently massaging the muscles with a warm palm.
"Nothing."
"Okay." Pickles shifted around slightly to face more towards his manager's leg, and began brushing his fingertips along the inside of his thigh – first conservatively, then sliding higher, feeling the muscles twitching beneath his fingers.
Still holding one of the drummer's dreadlocks in a slightly damp hand, Ofdensen kept his eye on Pickles' fingers, half hoping he'd stop before laughing at the look on his manager's face, and half hoping that he wouldn't stop for at least the next couple of hours. Realising that if the latter happened, Pickles would soon be able to feel Ofdensen's reaction in the back of his neck, he suddenly stood up and carefully stepped around the redhead.
"Hey, dude -"
"I need to stand up," Ofdensen quickly stammered before Pickles could continue. "I need to stretch my back for a few minutes, it's beginning to ache."
Pickles nodded in understanding of the other man's real reasoning. "I'm sorry dude, I dunno what -"
"It's okay," Ofdensen said quietly, avoiding eye-contact with the drummer.
The two stood in an awkward silence for a moment, neither sure what to say without making the situation any more awkward, before Pickles finally broke it, staring at the floor.
"Hey, when you've finished stretchin', I uhh -" he hesitated. "I mean ... it might be comfier in my room. If you sat on my bed, instead of a chair, that is." He raised his head slightly, glancing up at Ofdensen's expression.
"Are you drunk?" the manager asked.
"No!" the redhead exclaimed, slightly offended.
"In that case," Ofdensen sighed, pausing. "I don't think we should go to your room." He walked past Pickles to pick up his shoes and the crochet needles.
"Of course, sorry dude. I shoulda -"
"There's more light in mine."
Pickles looked up, to see Ofdensen waiting for him by the door. "Right," he murmured, struggling to restrain his grin, as he followed the manager out of the room towards the stairs.