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Subterfuge	By : Xel Category: +M through R > Metalocalypse > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1109 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Metalocalypse or its characters and do not profit from this fic.

Chapter List
- 1-Subterfuge
- 1
Subterfuge

At first, once the sting of being undermined repeatedly has had some time to fade, he attempts civility. He doesn’t hide his distaste, but the man is too far gone at any given time to see it anyway, or at least to care. Too drunk. Too high. Too bloated. It’s been six days.

Ofdensen is prepared at last to try and meet him, even if not entirely halfway.

“You know what your problem is?” Melmord has been invited here this evening to discuss the members’ personal budgets; it should’ve been much earlier, but he’s only just fallen through the door after a night out with the boys. “You’ve got no fuckin’ idea what those guys are really about. You just don’t know how to have fun; that’s your problem. It’s like, here’s your shit,” he gestures grandiosely, “and here’s Dethklok’s shit,” he gestures again. “And the wavelengths don’t even touch, man. And they’re fuckin’ Dethklok, you know what I‘m saying?”

For the way Charles leans on the edge of the desk nearest him, arms folded, Melmord spares just the briefest glimmer of something like appraisal. He thinks Charles doesn’t see, but he does. He couldn’t be more transparent if he tried. Fjordslorn doesn’t want Ofdensen to be “fun”—he wants Ofdensen to be Ofdensen, stodgy and tired, ramrod-straight. He wants to be everything to those boys that Ofdensen isn’t.

“Yes,” Charles deadpans. “Yes, I do.”

“Listen,” breezes Melmord, almost before Ofdensen has gotten the words out, “maybe we can work something out. But if we’re being honest here… shit, man; I’m kinda the one out there getting my hands dirty, you know? I mean, I’m just saying, you really can’t even question that. Hey, I’m gonna smoke up while we talk about this. Thanks.”

The lighter clicks a few times and Ofdensen can taste the sweetish bite of pot in his sinuses as it penetrates everything in his office. Melmord inhales and exhales with a satisfied sigh that comes deep from his core, the sound of it gravelly as his throat constricts around it, ribbon of smoke wafting up and colliding soundlessly with the bleached stripe in his hair.

He holds his joint out to Charles like an olive branch as he chokes out an oh, fuck yeah, but there’s no sincerity there. And that’s probably why he gives Charles the most scalding look when he plucks it from his fingers and takes a long hit.

“Yeah, I think we can understand each other in a way that the guys can’t even know,” Melmord drawls at last, demeanor recovered—though he reaches out a little too quickly to repossess his gift. “And me and the guys understand each other. So it makes sense for me to be right here.” He takes another drag and studies Ofdensen some more, as though reconsidering something.

His laugh is abrupt and hoarse as he rises up out of the plush chair opposite the desk and mimics Charles’s position, contemplatively flicking ash onto Charles’s rug.

“Think about it,” Melmord starts, turning his bloodshot gaze back to him. He grins lopsidedly and Ofdensen knows the man isn’t quite thinking straight right now, but still something in his voice fails to synch with the rest of him. “If you knew Dethklok, I wouldn’t even be here. I’m here because you can’t loosen the fuck up when you’re hanging out with the fucking biggest band in the universe. Shit. I’m just saying, I’m feeling out this situation and it looks to me like you think it really matters what the fuck any of us wants to do. And I’m just trying to show you: that just isn‘t the case.”

Ofdensen just lets him talk. When Melmord coughs and passes him the joint like he just wants to see if he’ll take it a second time, he takes it, and Melmord’s smile is suddenly too wide. “Yeah. Fuck, yeah,” he says lowly. “That’s good shit. Isn’t it.” It’s not a question.

As Ofdensen is becoming increasingly aware, this is good shit.

“That’s beside the point,” he reasons. “It’s not my job to be the boys’ friend; that’s not what a manager does.” This argument has no fire. Melmord very much wants it that way. “They’re free to do what they like, within reason. I’m just here to see that they don’t, ah, go too far overboard.”

“Yeah, I hear you, man. I hear you.” In the past few minutes Melmord has turned to face him, legs crossed toward him, mirroring his posture. “And you work hard. I can appreciate that.” Ofdensen allows himself a moment of pleasure at the words despite their hollowness. “Because at the end of the day, this is your band just as much as theirs. So, maybe, you wouldn’t even have to work that hard if you just met ‘em halfway. And we’re doing that right now, right?”

Ofdensen looks hazily back at him and raises a brow, his throat burning. “Yes, I, uh, suppose we are doing… that.” A little smoke spills from his mouth as he says it.

Whatever gentle wheedling Melmord is prepared to serve next is cut short by a small exclamation of pain as he burns his fingers on what’s left of the joint. He tosses it onto the safe by the wall where it smolders into nothingness, then picks right back up where he left off. “Look, I can see that you’re not one hundred percent convinced. And that shit’s all on me, man, and I apologize for that.” He stares heavy-lidded at a spot on the far wall for a second. He abruptly snaps back to attention: “Cuz I’m just chilling out with you, and I think we really have a special thing going, you and me. We understand each other. And that’s cuz deep down, we’re the same. And I can tell that you’re actually really cool if you just let it happen.”

“Yes, well.” Ofdensen’s usual crisp mien has slowed somewhat in the past few minutes. “I’m not particularly interested in this,” he pauses in search of the right phrasing, “sort of thing. There are usually more important things to take care of.” Like Dethklok’s budget, he reminds himself. “Like Dethklok’s budget. Remember that? That, uh… still needs doing.”

“You’re not actually serious, right?” Melmord snorts.

“Ah… no. Not really.” All told, Charles couldn’t care less about it tonight—because this man won’t be staying around nearly as long as he thinks. At this moment, Charles is sure of that beyond all semblance of doubt as he floats through this conversation with impeccable ease and skill. At this moment, Charles knows everything is going to work out fine.

“Good, that’s good.” He sits fully on the desk now, bringing up one foot so he can rest his arm on his knee. His tone is laced with deep empathy when he speaks next, like this has been weighing on his mind for quite some time. “You can’t be a good manager, wasting all your time on bullshit like that. You really have to be there. And you’re a smart guy, so I bet you’re starting to see that. But what I want you to know is that I know exactly where you're coming from. It's not easy—I know it's not easy, you know it's not easy… Take pussy, for example. All the pussy in the world right at your fingertips, but they don’t want you, they just wanna fuck Dethklok. That's what’s brutal. They can’t know what that‘s like.”

Ofdensen concedes immediately. “That is very true.”

“How long’s it been since you hit that shit? Really.”

With a wary look, Ofdensen replies, “I don’t really keep track.” Melmord just smirks and nods while idly playing with his goatee.

“Ah, shit. That long, huh.”

Ofdensen registers Melmord’s hand behind him on the desk, close to where he sits. He doesn‘t need to look in order to be sure. Melmord probably isn’t even conscious that he’s doing it yet. All Melmord believes now is that he’s got him right where he wants him to be, so he shifts closer; what he’s sharing with him now is a powerful secret, and it’s clear it’s only because he trusts and respects him so much.

“But that’s just it, man. They wanna play you, but you can play them riiight back. Let ‘em think they can get to the guys through you. You won’t believe the kinda shit these girls’ll do if you tell ‘em you’re their manager. They will do literally anything for a shot at Dethklok.”

Charles feels a great inner peace.

“So I have an idea,” says Melmord. As though he hasn’t been working toward this all along. “I’m aware of your concerns, and I think the best thing to do is get you out there, doing what you deserve to be doing. What I think we should do is head out somewhere and start talking to some ladies, and just see what happens from there. I’ll show you the ropes since you’re probably kinda out of practice, but you can bet it’ll be a good time.”

“Actually, I was never that thrilled by the, uh… women. Here.” Ofdensen begins, slowly, allowing a short silence for the sake of thought or perhaps hesitation. Melmord is so eager to hear his answer that he physically leans in, obvious and unnoticing, but Ofdensen just follows up by peering sidelong at him over the rim of his glasses. And Melmord, face altogether too close to his, too damn stoned to realize he’s visibly calculating—Melmord will read into it whatever he likes.

“You know? It might come as a surprise to you, but…” He pulls back some, and Ofdensen’s eyes are drawn to the worrying of a red button between his fingers as he speaks. “I’m actually pretty happy to hear that.”

Ofdensen begins to shrug off his jacket, and as he walks off a few steps to a hanger his voice is casual, conversational. “Getting tired of it, are you?”

When he turns around he can see that Melmord is back in the chair with his blazer abandoned over its arm, gaze positively riveted upon him.

“Sometimes you feel like something else. Am I right?”

He comes back and props himself against the desk again, head tilted. “You could be right.”

Melmord reaches out and drags his index finger across the leather of Ofdensen’s belt. “That’s nice.”

Ofdensen doesn’t move. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

That’s all the invitation Melmord needs to brush his knuckles against Ofdensen’s fly, followed shortly with the solid weight of his palm. Under normal circumstances Ofdensen might not have done what he does now, subtly pushing in reply against the pressure of it, but these circumstances are a far cry from normal—his ever-working mind rosy with complacency—and Melmord’s hand is very warm. Melmord scoots forward a little, fingertips slipping under the fold that hides his zipper.

It comes down with a quiet grind, tooth by tooth by tooth. Melmord’s eyes flick up again briefly, another unmistakable assessment. Ofdensen raises an eyebrow at him, so he half-shrugs and slides from his seat to his knees on the rug below.

Ofdensen exhales harsher than expected when he first sets to work. Maybe it’s the length of time it’s been or maybe he’s just ever-so-lightly toasted but it’s good, and he feels distinctly aware of his own body. It’s not the awareness of an assassin or soldier—it’s something more liquid than that. Insidious. Or maybe Melmord is just that talented, because it seems more and more apparent as the minutes pass that he’s done this a few times before.

The edge of the desk digs into his ass some, but he doesn’t notice for a while and doesn’t mind when he notices: all the more fruitful to stand as he is, peering down half-lidded through his glasses at Fjordslorn’s face buried in the gray wool of his slacks. A faint sound escapes on his breath as again Melmord takes him right down to the hilt so he feels his stubble catch a little on the fabric. He’s going to need to have this suit dry-cleaned to get the smell of the man’s cologne out of it, he thinks to himself. One of his hands slides into Melmord’s hair and rests there for now, neither pulling nor pushing, but he can’t quite keep his hips still or maybe he can but he certainly doesn’t want to with the wet soft pull of it and sporadic humming and it is better than good, and as sensation mounts and mounts and begins to topple he wrenches that fistful of hair hard against his body with a ragged not-quite-snarl because it’s Melmord Fjordslorn who’s choking on his cock and that is exactly where he belongs and this is wonderful.

Melmord takes a minute on the floor to catch his breath, swallowing loudly. Then, with a Cheshire smile, he gets to his feet and rummages through his jacket for a cigarette. His lips are flushed dark pink and his hair has tangled and sticks out strangely in a couple places. His voice is rough, but his tone is mild. He’s half-hard. “Seriously, I think this is gonna be really good for you, my man, really good. So now how ‘bout you go out there and hang with the guys for a few days, just check it out, and just let me take care of things in here when the time is right.”

Ofdensen zips up and rearranges himself, cocking his head a little as he steps over to a drawer and slides it open. His expression as he glances briefly over is guileless. Distantly, fatuously, he wonders whether it’s possible to die of repressed glee. “Mmm, no, I don’t think I’ll be doing that.”

Fjordslorn looks like he’s just been thrown in front of a train.

For a second his expression shifts over to something much darker, caustic, hateful—and then his phone chimes and it’s gone again, masked by his standard inoffensive mellow. His thumb clicks against the keypad while he talks; he’s already meandering over to the exit. “Well, you could probably use some time to think about it. The guys wanna hit the town again, so yeah. I’m gonna go do that. Have fun with your paperwork or, you know, whatever…”

Ofdensen sets the bottle of brandy down on the desk with a heavy clunk at the exact same time the door slams.

end.
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Subterfuge