Metalocalypse - Alive (U)
Nathan Explosion's mind had never been one of the most organised in the world. Even at the best of times, he still carried his ever-present tape recorder in case a thought crept up that he didn't trust his brain to remember. Now, though, he had so many thoughts running through his head that he couldn't make any sense of the situation whatsoever.
Charles Offdensen was alive.
He sat on the edge of his bed, goosebumps rising on his skin in the cool night air. How was he supposed to sleep knowing that the man was in the same building, living and breathing? He had spent the last nine months struggling to accept the knowledge that he was dead, gone, had ceased to exist altogether – he had never been particularly religious, but even yesterday, he still couldn't handle the idea that there was simply nothing left of the man.
Nathan had hated the idea of giving him a Viking funeral – he couldn't bear the thought of not having somewhere substantial to visit, a grave to sit at and relay the latest news to. The ashes had been scattered at the roots of a silver birch that only the band knew the location of, hidden deep in the forests of Mordland. He had visited a couple of times – the first was after nearly a full bottle of scotch, and he had shouted and screamed in anger at the branches above, kicked the pale trunk of the tree, and fallen asleep among the roots in a drunken stupor. The second time he went he was considerably more sober, muttering an apology to anyone listening before sitting at the base of the birch and talking about everything and nothing – the news reports, the schedule for Mordhaus' repairs, the weather. He hadn't felt like anyone was listening, and after an hour of sitting and talking to the tree trunk he got up and headed back to the Haus, feeling worse than he had before.
In sitting among the solid roots and muttering to the grey bark, he'd felt as though he'd been doing just that – talking at a tree. Now, he wondered if perhaps part of him had known all along that Offdensen wasn't there in either spirit or ashes.
He wondered if any of the others in the band had felt the same. He knew that they had all been grieving in their own ways – he'd seen Toki thumb at a battered photo in his pocket and noticed the long evenings that Skwisgaar had spent alone with his thoughts instead of in bed with groupies; he'd watched Pickles toy with a new gold locket around his neck and, although he'd never opened it in front of him, he had a feeling he knew what was inside; even Murderface discreetly left the room red-nosed whenever the manager's name was mentioned, muttering a reason why he'd just realised that he should be somewhere else.
All of them had been there when it had happened; there was no reason why anyone should think that he might be alive. The memory was still as clear in Nathan's mind as it had been nine months earlier – the feel of splintered wood in his hands, the cold dread in his stomach as he gazed down at the prone body. The warmth of Offdensen's palm as he grasped it, the relief when his eyes opened a crack and a whimper of pain passed his lips.
He remembered the fear in his chest as those eyes slipped closed again. The creeping numbness as the steady beat of the heart monitor rang into a constant shrill tone and the band were ushered out of the makeshift room, never to see him again. He remembered the expressions on his band mates' faces when the attending doctor brought the news – Murderface's frown stoic and blank even as his chin trembled, Pickles' shoulders heaving in silent shudders as he sat against the wall with his head in his hands, Toki wrapped up in Skwisgaar's arms as the Swede rested his chin on Toki's head, tears rolling down his long nose.
How could there be so much grief for someone so alive?
Nathan bent down and picked his jeans off the floor, shaking the legs out and slipping them on. Quickly digging in his closet for a clean t-shirt, he made up his mind to go and talk to the man. He couldn't sleep tonight, and even if Offdensen couldn't tell him anything about where he'd been for the past nine months, he just needed to see that he was there – to remind himself that the man was still breathing. He pulled on a shirt and left his room, quietly making his way down the corridor in bare feet.
Walking past the main offices, he finally came to a stop outside an unassuming door and knocked firmly. When the door opened, the man inside seemed unsurprised to see Nathan despite the late hour, and he wordlessly stepped back to let the singer enter.
"Nathan?"
"Offdensen."
The manager briefly looked at the floor, his small stature emphasised by the long, dark dressing gown brushing against pyjama-clad ankles. "Charles," he corrected, looking back up with a reassuring nod. He had a feeling that this discussion wasn't going to be about professional matters.
"Okay," Nathan mumbled. "Uh, Charles. I just came to say that – I mean, I don't really know how to, uh..."
Charles watched the singer stumble over his words. "Nathan, are you alright?"
Nathan blushed. "Yeah, sure. I, uh – it's getting late." He quickly shuffled towards the door. "I'm sorry I woke you."
"You didn't wake me." Charles watched Nathan pause, the singer's back still facing him. "I can't sleep. I guess I'm not used to being back, yet," he muttered, looking down.
Nathan turned. "Me neither. I can't get my head around – I just can't believe that you're really here."
The manager shrugged awkwardly. "I'm here. I'm real."
At that, Nathan moved slowly from the door to Charles. He paused with inches to spare, looking down into the tired eyes in front of him, and gently raised his hands to grip the arms of the manager's glasses.
"Can I?"
Charles nodded slightly, closing his eyes as Nathan removed his glasses, and opening them to watch him gently fold them closed in his powerful hands. Meeting his eyes, the intensity at which the singer gazed at him was unnerving, but he found that he was unable to look away.
"You look so young," Nathan whispered, almost tenderly.
Charles smiled. "I'm barely older than Pickles."
"I wouldn't have known," the singer said, before realising how the comment sounded and backtracking on his words. "What I mean is, uh –"
He was cut off by a deep laugh. "It's the stress of the job," he grinned. "The occupational dangers are making me old."
Nathan's brow furrowed as the words hit home. "I thought you were dead."
"I'm sorry, Nathan. I wish I could have told you sooner. In time, you'll understand, but not now."
"I know," Nathan nodded. "It just hurt so much. You told us that we needed to discuss security and we didn't listen. I didn't listen." His breath hitched as his voice became a hushed whisper. "I thought I'd killed you."
"No," Charles shook his head vehemently. "No, don't ever think that. I'm here, alright?" He grabbed Nathan's shoulders. "I'm here. You didn't attack Mordhaus, you didn't break through the defences. Even if we'd discussed the situation in detail, you couldn't have done anything more than what you did." He squeezed the large shoulders under his palms. "From everything I've heard, you did a great job. And I'm here, alright?"
Nathan bit his bottom lip. "I had a dream."
Charles raised his eyebrows in question, wondering at the change of subject. "A dream?"
"We, uh – I was in a field. There was grass everywhere, really tall, like waist-height, but all gold like corn, you know? And I could hear you – I followed your voice and found you. You were on the ground, and the grass was all around you, and I – I grabbed your hand and pulled you up, and you disappeared. I dreamt it dozens of times, but you always disappeared."
The manager struggled to keep his expression passive. "You grabbed my hand," he nodded. He saw the same scene in his own head, remembering how the sun caught the stray strands of black hair blowing in the breeze as a solid hand pulled him up from the ground.
"Yeah," Nathan mumbled, gently taking the smaller hand into his own again. He felt the tendons moving under skin, and the warmth of the blood pulsing against his thumb.
Charles squeezed Nathan's hand tight, the first anchor he'd had to normality since the fire. Without looking up, he leant forward, pressing his face into Nathan's neck and wrapping his other arm tight around the singer's strong shoulders.
Nathan reacted without hesitation, pulling the smaller body tightly to his own, and burying his cheek against brown hair, sighing in relief. "Charles?"
"Yeah?" The voice came muffled from his neck.
"Don't, uh, you know – don't tell the others about this."
Charles moved to rest his cheek against Nathan's neck, his breath skimming the solid shoulder as he smiled. "I won't if you won't."
Despite the high-energy, rock and roll lifestyle that Nathan regularly indulged in, and despite the many dangers that Charles had faced and survived in years gone by; standing here, together, wordlessly holding each other, neither man could remember ever having felt so alive.
Charles Offdensen was alive.
He sat on the edge of his bed, goosebumps rising on his skin in the cool night air. How was he supposed to sleep knowing that the man was in the same building, living and breathing? He had spent the last nine months struggling to accept the knowledge that he was dead, gone, had ceased to exist altogether – he had never been particularly religious, but even yesterday, he still couldn't handle the idea that there was simply nothing left of the man.
Nathan had hated the idea of giving him a Viking funeral – he couldn't bear the thought of not having somewhere substantial to visit, a grave to sit at and relay the latest news to. The ashes had been scattered at the roots of a silver birch that only the band knew the location of, hidden deep in the forests of Mordland. He had visited a couple of times – the first was after nearly a full bottle of scotch, and he had shouted and screamed in anger at the branches above, kicked the pale trunk of the tree, and fallen asleep among the roots in a drunken stupor. The second time he went he was considerably more sober, muttering an apology to anyone listening before sitting at the base of the birch and talking about everything and nothing – the news reports, the schedule for Mordhaus' repairs, the weather. He hadn't felt like anyone was listening, and after an hour of sitting and talking to the tree trunk he got up and headed back to the Haus, feeling worse than he had before.
In sitting among the solid roots and muttering to the grey bark, he'd felt as though he'd been doing just that – talking at a tree. Now, he wondered if perhaps part of him had known all along that Offdensen wasn't there in either spirit or ashes.
He wondered if any of the others in the band had felt the same. He knew that they had all been grieving in their own ways – he'd seen Toki thumb at a battered photo in his pocket and noticed the long evenings that Skwisgaar had spent alone with his thoughts instead of in bed with groupies; he'd watched Pickles toy with a new gold locket around his neck and, although he'd never opened it in front of him, he had a feeling he knew what was inside; even Murderface discreetly left the room red-nosed whenever the manager's name was mentioned, muttering a reason why he'd just realised that he should be somewhere else.
All of them had been there when it had happened; there was no reason why anyone should think that he might be alive. The memory was still as clear in Nathan's mind as it had been nine months earlier – the feel of splintered wood in his hands, the cold dread in his stomach as he gazed down at the prone body. The warmth of Offdensen's palm as he grasped it, the relief when his eyes opened a crack and a whimper of pain passed his lips.
He remembered the fear in his chest as those eyes slipped closed again. The creeping numbness as the steady beat of the heart monitor rang into a constant shrill tone and the band were ushered out of the makeshift room, never to see him again. He remembered the expressions on his band mates' faces when the attending doctor brought the news – Murderface's frown stoic and blank even as his chin trembled, Pickles' shoulders heaving in silent shudders as he sat against the wall with his head in his hands, Toki wrapped up in Skwisgaar's arms as the Swede rested his chin on Toki's head, tears rolling down his long nose.
How could there be so much grief for someone so alive?
Nathan bent down and picked his jeans off the floor, shaking the legs out and slipping them on. Quickly digging in his closet for a clean t-shirt, he made up his mind to go and talk to the man. He couldn't sleep tonight, and even if Offdensen couldn't tell him anything about where he'd been for the past nine months, he just needed to see that he was there – to remind himself that the man was still breathing. He pulled on a shirt and left his room, quietly making his way down the corridor in bare feet.
Walking past the main offices, he finally came to a stop outside an unassuming door and knocked firmly. When the door opened, the man inside seemed unsurprised to see Nathan despite the late hour, and he wordlessly stepped back to let the singer enter.
"Nathan?"
"Offdensen."
The manager briefly looked at the floor, his small stature emphasised by the long, dark dressing gown brushing against pyjama-clad ankles. "Charles," he corrected, looking back up with a reassuring nod. He had a feeling that this discussion wasn't going to be about professional matters.
"Okay," Nathan mumbled. "Uh, Charles. I just came to say that – I mean, I don't really know how to, uh..."
Charles watched the singer stumble over his words. "Nathan, are you alright?"
Nathan blushed. "Yeah, sure. I, uh – it's getting late." He quickly shuffled towards the door. "I'm sorry I woke you."
"You didn't wake me." Charles watched Nathan pause, the singer's back still facing him. "I can't sleep. I guess I'm not used to being back, yet," he muttered, looking down.
Nathan turned. "Me neither. I can't get my head around – I just can't believe that you're really here."
The manager shrugged awkwardly. "I'm here. I'm real."
At that, Nathan moved slowly from the door to Charles. He paused with inches to spare, looking down into the tired eyes in front of him, and gently raised his hands to grip the arms of the manager's glasses.
"Can I?"
Charles nodded slightly, closing his eyes as Nathan removed his glasses, and opening them to watch him gently fold them closed in his powerful hands. Meeting his eyes, the intensity at which the singer gazed at him was unnerving, but he found that he was unable to look away.
"You look so young," Nathan whispered, almost tenderly.
Charles smiled. "I'm barely older than Pickles."
"I wouldn't have known," the singer said, before realising how the comment sounded and backtracking on his words. "What I mean is, uh –"
He was cut off by a deep laugh. "It's the stress of the job," he grinned. "The occupational dangers are making me old."
Nathan's brow furrowed as the words hit home. "I thought you were dead."
"I'm sorry, Nathan. I wish I could have told you sooner. In time, you'll understand, but not now."
"I know," Nathan nodded. "It just hurt so much. You told us that we needed to discuss security and we didn't listen. I didn't listen." His breath hitched as his voice became a hushed whisper. "I thought I'd killed you."
"No," Charles shook his head vehemently. "No, don't ever think that. I'm here, alright?" He grabbed Nathan's shoulders. "I'm here. You didn't attack Mordhaus, you didn't break through the defences. Even if we'd discussed the situation in detail, you couldn't have done anything more than what you did." He squeezed the large shoulders under his palms. "From everything I've heard, you did a great job. And I'm here, alright?"
Nathan bit his bottom lip. "I had a dream."
Charles raised his eyebrows in question, wondering at the change of subject. "A dream?"
"We, uh – I was in a field. There was grass everywhere, really tall, like waist-height, but all gold like corn, you know? And I could hear you – I followed your voice and found you. You were on the ground, and the grass was all around you, and I – I grabbed your hand and pulled you up, and you disappeared. I dreamt it dozens of times, but you always disappeared."
The manager struggled to keep his expression passive. "You grabbed my hand," he nodded. He saw the same scene in his own head, remembering how the sun caught the stray strands of black hair blowing in the breeze as a solid hand pulled him up from the ground.
"Yeah," Nathan mumbled, gently taking the smaller hand into his own again. He felt the tendons moving under skin, and the warmth of the blood pulsing against his thumb.
Charles squeezed Nathan's hand tight, the first anchor he'd had to normality since the fire. Without looking up, he leant forward, pressing his face into Nathan's neck and wrapping his other arm tight around the singer's strong shoulders.
Nathan reacted without hesitation, pulling the smaller body tightly to his own, and burying his cheek against brown hair, sighing in relief. "Charles?"
"Yeah?" The voice came muffled from his neck.
"Don't, uh, you know – don't tell the others about this."
Charles moved to rest his cheek against Nathan's neck, his breath skimming the solid shoulder as he smiled. "I won't if you won't."
Despite the high-energy, rock and roll lifestyle that Nathan regularly indulged in, and despite the many dangers that Charles had faced and survived in years gone by; standing here, together, wordlessly holding each other, neither man could remember ever having felt so alive.