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Pop Rocks and Coke	By : sillyneko345 Category: +M through R > Metalocalypse > Slash - Male/Male Views: 2192 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the cartoon this fic is based on (Metalocalypse) and do not make any money for writing it.

Chapter List
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AN: I have no idea how long this is going to go on for. Might as well be up front about it. Isn’t admitting that you have a writing problem the first step toward… something? Yeah. I thought so.

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HarleyWartooth: I’m glad you enjoyed the cute. Thanks for reading!

Resplendentphobia: Pickles the cuddle-slut does need to jump and ravish Toki. Clearly he needs to be spoken to about this…

Krystal: Don’t worry—the plan is to continue until we run out of ideas. Pickles and Toki for the win.

PassiveAggressive: I’ll finish it, I promise! And Pickles’ accent is fun to write, haha.

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Characters: The boys belong to Small & Blacha. As we’re all aware, I’m sure.

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Mid-morning was strangely kind to Pickles. He woke up nearly all at once, for a change, rather than performing his usual agonizing crawl to consciousness through the battering pain of a hangover more than worthy of a veteran rock star. Yes, the headache was there, but it was manageable, and he did not feel the pressing need to throw up—a bonus! Perhaps even better, the cherry on the proverbial top of his oddly good morning, was the little cutie using his shoulder as a pillow.

Raising his head, the drummer smiled. Aww. The brunette was a snuggler. He didn’t remember having company last night, but this was certainly a nice surprise to wake up to. He shifted, pulling his bedmate closer with a happy smirk and half-lidded eyes.

The truth dawned like the sun coming up over the wastes of Mordland—just less majestically. Pickles’ green eyes widened in something akin to panic as strong arms came up to hug him back and the rhythm guitarist’s morning wood suddenly began rubbing against his own like it was determined to start a fire.

“Holy shit, Toki!”

“Huh…?” The reply dripped lingering sleep as ice blue eyes blinked up confusedly. “Whats is de matter, Pickle?”

Toki let out a yelp of surprise as he was pushed unceremoniously away and tumbled off the edge of the bed in a tangle of blankets. Pickles himself scuttled back against the headboard, grabbing the first pillow he came in contact with to cover his lap.

“What dids I do?” Toki wailed unhappily from the floor.

“Ya were fuckin’ grindin’ on me, jeezus!” The drummer tried to ignore the raging blush that lit his face. It was okay. It was just Toki. Nothing special. Nothing to be excited about. Stiffie can go away now, yep.

The brunette’s head slowly appeared over the edge of the mattress. He looked entirely contrite and very kissable. Shit.

“I sorries, Pickle,” he whimpered, looking the picture of repentance. “It was an ask-ski-dents. Dat just… ams happens some of de times, you knows, in de mornings? But it bes okay, right? We’s friends!” Suddenly he looked stricken, almost panicked himself. “We ams friends still, Pickle? You don’t hates me now, does you?”

At that particular moment Pickles couldn’t decide if he felt like a child molester, or like he had been molested by a child. Child figured in there somewhere, anyway, as he looked down at Toki’s sniveling face. If the kid cried, that would move on from wrecking the morning to destroying his whole day. So he said the only thing he could under the circumstances.

“A’course we’re still friends, ya little douchebag.”

“We ams?” Toki’s face lit up instantly. He scrambled back onto the bed, beaming. He still seemed rather happy in the starry pajama pants department. “Thanks de good-nests for dat! You’s such a great pal, Pickle. I sorries I rubs up on you and touches your ding-dong wit my ding-dong and—”

“Toki. Stop talkin’ and get out’a here.” The drummer’s headache was getting worse with the sudden vengeance of an avalanche.

The guitarist’s face immediately fell, like a puppy that had seen someone rolling up a newspaper with his name on it. “Gets out? But you says we’s still friends! Why you wants me to—”

“Ya can come back later, fer Gahd’s sake! Just leave fer right NOW!” Pickles pointed exasperatedly at the door, determined that he was going to chuck the bedside lamp at Toki’s head if the idiot kid didn’t take an immediate hike to somewhere far away in the next five seconds.

Luckily for both Toki and Pickles’ latest lamp, he took the hint. “Oh, okays. I comes back tonight den, after practices?”

“Sure. Absolutely. I’m dyin’ of anticipation. Now git.”

Mercifully, Toki got. He trotted around the bed and toward the door, only pausing to scoop the Slinky off the bedside table. “Cans I borrows dis? I still really likes it.”

“Yes, you can take the damn Slinky!”

“Thanks! Sees you later, Pickle.” Toki gave a good-natured wave and vanished, the heavy door shutting behind with a soft click.

Pickles stared after him for a long moment, unmoving. He wouldn’t trust Toki not to breeze back in with an exclamation or a question he had forgotten to ask. However, a full minute passed, then two, with no returning footsteps or knocks. It must have been an all clear.

The drummer jumped off the bed, grabbed a dirty magazine off the dresser, and hit the bathroom door at a run before he could talk himself out of what he was about to do. The day was off to a fantastic start.

- // - // - // - // -

Pickles’ day did not improve. Charles cornered the band at breakfast for another lecture about… something or other. After that Nathan pushed them into a brutal recording session that lasted all day and ended with three track deletions and a drumstick so far up Murderface’s nasal cavity that the bassist had to be escorted to the hospital wing.

“He had it comin’!” was all the redhead would say on the last matter. Clearly, it had not been Pickles’ fault that Murderface had taken it into his thick head to pick at Toki for the entire session, even moreso than Skwisgaar, for a change, and then had the bad judgment to make a jab at the drummer. Once was all it took.

Ah, well. Past was past. After a quick trip to the kitchens for a big sandwich and a bigger bottle of booze to go with it, Pickles was ready to spend the rest of the evening in his room doing absolutely nothing—that is, until he actually reached his room.

“Comes on, comes on! Just a little bits more!”

Pickles heard the muttering before he even opened the door, and knew immediately who it was. With a deep groan, he walked in. “Toki, what the hell are ya doin’ in here? Again?”

Toki glanced up from his seat on the floor and smiled. “Oh, hi Pickle! I got boreds, so I came back here to hangs out with you again. Looks what I found!”

The drummer sighed as Toki held up a foot crammed inside an old rollerblade. He really needed to get rid of all the junk inside his closet. “How’s that goin’ for ya?”

“They’s too small for mes,” the guitarist said forlornly. “I never hads no skates of my own whens I was a kid, and these is so cool!” The rollerblades were jet black with neon green and purple lightning bolts zigzagged up the sides. Though scuffed with use and dull from long storage, they had a definite gleam of past glory. “I was hoping I coulds wear dem for a little bit.”

Pickles had to grin. Of course the damn things were too small. They had been his when he was a teenager, and his feet were a lot smaller than Toki’s. “Dood. Just buy a pair online. That’s what the Internet’s for, right? Shoppin’ and porn?”

Toki brightened at the suggestion. “Hey, yeah, maybes I will! Den we cans go skating together, huh, Pickle? It woulds be lots of fun.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. We could skate all over the place. We could skate right across the golf course an’ be Meals on Wheels fer the yard wolves.”

“Ha, ha. You’s so funny, Pickle.” Toki stuck up his foot in Pickle’s general vicinity as the drummer padded over. “Cans you help me? I think it’s stucks.”

“Yeah, hang on. Gimme a second.” Dropping a bottle of good wine on the bed, he took a giant bite out of his sandwich. Ahhh. Turkey, bacon, and cheddar. Italian bread. Easy on the mayo and lettuce, with perfectly ripe tomato slices. He had needed that. The sandwich was placed lovingly on the nightstand. “Mmm. Okay, gimme yer foot. Better not break my ‘blades, ya little brat.”

“Don’t worry, I’s not.”

Pickles took hold of the skate and tugged. It was on tight. “Jeez, you really jammed it on there good, Toki.” He braced his feet and yanked while Toki pulled the other way. The rollerblade came loose with a pop, sending the drummer sprawling backwards on his bed with a loud “oof!”

“You dids it! Thanks, Pickle. My foot was gettings sore all squished ups in dere.”

“I wonder why?” Pickles laughed a little breathlessly. Despite the fact that he’d just been drilled in the gut with a heavy object, and he still wasn’t eating that amazing sandwich, and tonight didn’t look any better than the last as far as relaxing went, he found he didn’t mind so much. At the very least Toki was entertaining.

“Ams you a good skater, Pickle?” the younger man wanted to know.

Pickles set the rollerblade on the floor beside its mate. “I wasn’t too bad. Been a long time since I was on ‘em, though. I might’a forgot how.”

“Shows me?”

“Oh, heck no. Uh-uh.” The drummer shook his head firmly, dreads swaying as he did. “I’m gonna sit here an’ eat my sandwich, is what I’m gonna do. And then I’m gonna drink that million dollar bottle of wine that belonged to Henry VIII. And then—”

“You just won’ts does it because you knows you ams bad at it.”

“Huh?”

“You’s a chicken! You don’ts wants to skate ‘cause you’ll falls down and hurts yourself! Bawk bawk bawk!” Toki was smiling hugely.

Pickles snorted. “Toki, cut the crap. I’m not Skwisgaar. Makin’ fun of me ain’t gonna make me—”

“BAWK BAWK BAWK!” The guitarist was up and flapping his arms now, running around the bed obnoxiously. “Pickle ams a chicken, Pickle ams a chicken!”

On Toki’s last pass Pickles picked up a pillow and casually bashed him in the face with it as he flapped by. “Settle down, douche-critter. If it’ll shut ya the hell up, I’ll put on the damn ‘blades. Only fer a minute, ya hear me?”

Toki gave a thumbs-up from behind the pillow molded to his face.

It had indeed been a long time since Pickles put on rollerblades. For the first time in his life he found himself wishing that he had the protective gear that was supposed to go along with them. However, he was hardly drunk at all yet that evening, so he was better off for the endeavor than he usually would have been.

“See?” he said as he rolled away from the bed, a little unsteady but gaining confidence as his body remembered how to move and balance. “Easy. Just like ridin’ a bike.”

“That’s good!” Toki chirped, keeping pace beside him. “Goes to de door?”

Pickles did, then decided to lap the room. Only because he already had the things strapped up, of course, and it would be a waste to only skate a few feet after the effort of getting them on. One lap led to two laps, two laps led to three, and by that time the drummer was grinning and going faster than he probably should have been. Toki stood in the middle of the room, laughing and clapping delightedly like a little boy at the circus as Pickles circled around him.

“Y’know, this is kinda fun!”

And it was. Until he hit the upraised corner of a stone block in the floor and pitched forward with a yelp. He had a split second to determine that the meeting between his face and the ground wouldn’t be pleasant before he crashed into something much softer than the floor.

“You okays, Pickle?” Toki had lunged to break his fall.

The redhead had to laugh. Turns out all those generations of adults that told people not to play sports in the house had been right. Now he was sitting in Toki’s lap with the rhythm guitarist sprawled across the rug, but his face was still in one piece and Toki seemed to be fine, too. “Yeah, I’m cool. Thanks, douche-critter.”

“I is nots a douche-critter!” Toki cried, slugging Pickles in the upper arm. “Why’s you gotta calls me dat all ofs a sudden?!”

“Cause yer buggin’ me all’a time, all of a sudden.” There was no hostility in the words, and Pickles chuckled as he watched Toki pout. The kid had an adorable pout when he got miffed. Which was a lot.

Toki huffed, shoving himself up to brace on his arms. “It ams still mean.” Then he caught Pickles’ eye, saw the little grin, and went still.

They stared at one another for a few beats, inches apart. The drummer swallowed unconsciously. Damn, Toki’s eyes were blue. Like some sort of tropical drink made with coconut rum and the barest hint of coloring to mimic the Caribbean Sea, or—

He was leaning forward. So was Toki. Their foreheads were actually touching before Pickles found his brain and realized what exactly he was doing. He was about to kiss the youngest member of their band. The one he should be thinking of as an annoying kid brother, if anything. The one he had jerked off to that morning. And he wasn’t so far under any kind of influence that it could be excused.

Very slowly and casually, Pickles got his legs under him and stood up. If he didn’t pitch a bitch fit they could smooth this all over. No need to get upset, or talk about anything, or kick anything out in the open.

“Pickle?” Toki asked quietly as two rollerblades hit the floor with a clatter, one behind the other. “You ams mad?”

“Mad? Why would I be mad? I’m hungry as hell and I want my sandwich.”

Toki got up from the floor as Pickles sat back against the headboard of the bed and tore into his sandwich. The redhead watched with a mouthful of turkey as the younger man silently collected the rollerblades and put them back in the closet without being told. He could tell Toki was nervous. The kid knew something was up. Shit. He could be clueless about everything under the sun, except what Pickles wanted him to be clueless about. Like a little sexual tension between non-drunk band mates.

“Cans I tells you something?” Toki asked, crawling hesitantly onto the bed to sit next to Pickles.

He should kick the kid off his bed, tell him he was being a bother, and throw him out with instructions not to come back. “Yeah, sure.” Well, when did Pickles ever do anything he should do?

“I likes hanging out with you, Pickle. I likes being around you. Even if I does annoys you.”

“Yer… not that bad.” Pickles crammed the last of his sandwich into his mouth, hoping he wasn’t flushing.

Dear God. Toki totally had a crush on him. It was as plain as the earnest expression on the guitarist’s face. Not pointing it out took a supreme effort, but Pickles managed. Just play it cool.

This wasn’t anything to get worked up over, anyway. Toki had clung to everyone in the band at some point. He’d had a thing for Skwisgaar since forever, followed Nathan like a puppy after the singer saved his life, and driven Murderface to locking himself in the basement after the bassist began to drag Toki along on his various ill-advised exploits. It was just Pickles’ turn, that was all. He just had to wait it out.

“Cans I ask you a question, Pickle?”

“Ya just did.”

“Can I ask you anothers question?”

“Ya just did.”

“Pickle!”

“Go ahead, Toki. What is it?”

Toki settled in, seeming to relax now that he hadn’t been kicked out. “What does ding-dongs taste like?”

“Ding-dongs?” Pickles was digging in his bedside drawers for a proper glass to pour his million dollar wine into. Normally he wouldn’t bother—historical accuracy was Murderface’s department—but this seemed to call for some crystal, at least. “I guess they taste like chocolate an’ frosting. You mean with all the sugary junk you eat you never ate a ding-dong?”

“No, I means the other kinds of ding-dong.”

A glass hit the floor and shattered as Pickles fumbled. “What?!”

“I finds dese old pictures in your closet, and I always did kinds of wants to know, and since we’s friend I thought I could asks—”

“They taste bad, okay? Very, very bad. So ya don’t need ta go findin’ out fer yerself. And you stay the hell out’a any pictures you find in there, got it?!” Christ, what kind of damning shit had he left in that closet, anyway? He was lucky Murderface hadn’t been the one to find whatever it was; he’d have sold said pictures on eBay already. Or even worse, Nathan, who would have killed Pickles already.

“Oh. Okays.” Toki wilted a bit under the flustered chastising before perking right back up again. “But maybe if you takes a fruit rolls-up, and rolls it around the ding-dong first, then it won’t tastes bad—?”

“Toki, stop! Jest stop!” Laughing so hard he could barely hold the bottle, Pickles poured out two mismatched glasses of wine. “Here ya go, douche-critter. Bottoms up.”

“You shares with me?”

“Why the hell not. Here’s ta forgettin’ all about this conversation!”

Toki was smiling happily as they clinked glasses. Despite every ounce of his common sense telling him otherwise, Pickles couldn’t help but think that having the Norwegian as a personal groupie might not be so bad after all.

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To be continued.

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(2nd)AN: I have no good excuse for why this took so long to update, so I won’t give one. Maybe sexytiems in the next chapter? I dunno! We’ll find out when it happens.

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Pop Rocks and Coke