Chapter Text
“Ams you fuckin’ serious?!”
Toki’s normally a pretty soft-spoken guy, but his screech is loud enough to make the cheap phone’s speakers crackle and hiss.
Jesus. Magnus grimaces and moves the damn thing away from his ear a few inches.
He’s already half blind, courtesy of Dethklok. He should probably try to keep whatever’s left of his hearing, since apparently he’s stuck with this whole being alive thing.
Also courtesy of Dethklok, for reasons he doesn’t understand.
“Well…yeah.” Magnus’ voice comes out shaky. He glares at the crappy phone for a second, clears his throat and tries again. Shit, what he wouldn’t do for just a shred of his old bravado. “Uh. Yeah, I’m—I’m serious.”
There’s a very ominous pause.
“Okays. Lets me get this straights den, Magnús,” Toki snaps at last. “Because I am findings it franklies unbesklievables: you calls me, out of the blues, after all de shits you puts me through, to says you...you wants me to...to hurt you like whats you hurts mes? Like that ams going to fix what hapspened betweens us. Has I gots dat right?”
Ugh. It does sound ridiculous, parroted back at him like that. Magnus runs a hand through his greying curls and takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Um.”
Boy, he is nailing this. “Basically. I mean that’s not…I know it’s kind of crazy, but I thought maybe it’d be satisfying or, or helpful to you or whatever—”
“Helskpfuls?” Toki stammers in furious disbelief. “H-h-helkspfuls? To mes?” He scoffs. “You shitsboot. Dat ams not helspkfuls, ams an incredibly fucksed up request!”
“I guess it ams,” Magnus mumbles, reflexively mocking the younger man’s muddled English before he realizes he’s doing that thing his therapist calls “deflecting”. Realizes that it probably isn’t funny or friendly or acceptable to tease Toki about his accent anymore, either.
Somewhere outside, a car alarm whoops. On the other end of the call, there’s only stony silence.
Yeah. He’s not entitled to that kind of familiarity anymore. Right. “Shit, dude, I didn’t even think...I just uh…sorry,” the disgraced rocker offers weakly.
“Oh, shuts the hell up.” Toki’s voice drops several octaves, shifting from that familiar near-hysterical screech to a snarl Magnus has never heard before. “Quit diggings the grave whats is your own. It’s too late for the apologizinks, anyway.”
...what the fuck?
The Toki he knows doesn’t snarl. That Toki is sweet, and naïve, and forgiving to a fault, and...it occurs to Magnus (probably way too late) that maybe he’s not the only one who’s suffered since that supernatural shitshow in the dungeon.
Fear punches up through his bony chest like a familiar blade.
Because somehow…somehow, he never believed he could really damage Toki. Not in any way that mattered, at least. He could rough the man up physically, sure, but there was something deep inside the younger guitarist—something bright and unbending that even in his darkest fantasies Magnus never imagined he could touch.
So, yeah. All this time, Magnus just kinda figured Toki must have been fine, after Dethklok rescued him. Cuts and bruises? Pfft. Small potatoes to a fucking protogod, right?
But no, maybe he was wrong. Again. Maybe Toki really isn’t fine, and it’s been—
“It’s has been almost a year since the Doomstar was borned, Magnús,” Toki growls, as if reading the older man’s mind. “You’s—you’re still on your little guilt trips, huh? Wants to helps poor Toki?”
There’s an explosive crash on the Norwegian’s end of the line.
Magnus winces, wondering which of the dude’s few, prized possessions just bit the dust.
“Den you should have beens a real friend in the forst place, maybes, instead of betrays me and puts me in the godsdamned punishments hole!” Toki grinds out, louder. “Because, you know, I still goes back there. Ins my dreams. In my awakings. Scared to go backs there right now.”
Another ringing crash.
Shit. He’s—he's literally retraumatizing the guy. Like, right now.
Man, what the hell was he thinking, reaching out to Toki like this? Magnus should hang up before he makes things any worse. But…
God. If he’s to blame for fucking up Toki Wartooth this badly (and oh, he’s got this nasty sinking feeling he is), the least he can do is stick around and take his fucking licks.
It seems like the Scandinavian’s on a roll, anyway; Magnus is pretty sure he’s never heard Toki string so many words together.
If the younger guitarist feels like reading him the goddamn riot act, he should listen.
Fuck, he should be grateful to get yelled at. He should be grateful to receive whatever punishment Toki feels like doling out, even if it isn’t exactly the one he called to ask for.
“Is not so funs, living with the consekswenses of Magnús Hammersmith’s actions, is it?” The brunette lets out a real shrill, unhinged kind of laugh. “But yous was happy enough to makes everyone else dos it! Coward!”
An impact that sounds more like a thud, this time, and an echo, and Magnus’ racing thoughts connect the sound with the visual memory of Toki’s bedroom door slamming shut.
“And nows, afters all dis skilence, you sticks yourself back in my life with ans—an sproposition you says is to helps me, when we both know damn well it ams really alls about you, ja? Yous stills need for to be the victims, gettinks what you thinks you deserves?”
Oh.
Oh.
Clarity comes down like a fucking guillotine.
Magnus sags and stumbles, barely able to breathe all of a sudden, and slumps onto his ratty couch, face in his free hand.
Toki’s right. Of course.
This is all about Magnus. This whole conversation, the entire idea.
He told himself he was doing it for Toki, generously offering himself up to give the guy closure or some shit, but…deep down, it’s still just selfish desire. For absolution, or attention, or…
“Maybe you’s hoping I ‘accidentally’ kills you, Magnús?” Toki asks, sickly-sweet and breathing hard, like he’s running. Maybe he is running. “Like you were never mans enough to do to me. Mr. I-ams-no-murderers, hah! De old poetic justikses. Is dat ams what you wants?”
“Christ, Toke, I—I…” He doesn’t know what to say. Has to give up trying, anyway, because there’s an awful lump forming in his throat that makes it damn near impossible to speak.
Toki hums, an ugly little satisfied noise. He obviously knows he’s hitting home, has the older man on the ropes. “I must admits it ams an appealingks ideas. However….”
Another echoing boom on the other end of the call. Toki keeps panting, harder now.
Magnus curls deeper into the threadbare cushions, hanging on the other man’s harsh breathing. His guts twist, his eyes burn—
“I am nots de knife whats you can turns on yourself,” Toki spits.
And then there’s an earsplitting clatter and a staticky hiss and Magnus screws his eyes shut, struggles to ignore the convulsive hitch in his chest and thinks shit, no, please don’t go until he realizes the call…hasn’t actually ended?
The faint sound of footsteps tickles his ear.
Magnus swipes angrily at his cheeks and stares down at the phone. Sure enough, the 'call' screen is still lit and counting up seconds.
From the speaker, there's a growing whirlwind of muffled slamming and shouting.
“Hey—what’s—oh my gawd, Toki—”
“Holies shits!”
“Nate! NATE! Git yer ass in here, dood—"
“Ballsch. Where’sch his inschulin? Schkwisgaar, do you—”
“Amments dats, I don’ts tink. Toki, cans you—”
“OH MY GOD. PICKLES. WHAT. IS UHHHHHhhhh. Oh. Shit.”
Fuck, those assholes do actually sound worried. We Don’t Care About Each OtherTM Dethklok has apparently turned over a new leaf in the last year, and in this exact moment Magnus can’t even hate them for it.
“—wait, that’sch hisch phone, ischn’t it?”
“Yeuuughh. Hey, little Tokis, I’s ams goink to picks dis up, okay?”
“—you guys. Hang on. Is that—"
“NO! WAITS! DON’T!" Toki screams, voice cracking.
“—whats the fuckings hells—”
“Magnusch?!”
Frantically, Magnus slams his thumb down on the screen’s little red X.
Lets the phone fall from his numb fingers onto the floor, and for the first time in—shit, oh, probably fifteen years?—he lets tears slide freely from the corners of his…eyes.
Eyes, plural. As in, both of them. Huh.
Wait, so his dead eye can’t see, but it can still cry? God, that’s bullshit.
The greying guitarist chuckles to himself bitterly, figures fuck it and gives himself up to grief. Like, actually leans into it, sobbing hard and ugly into his hands, wiping his snotty nose on his sleeve occasionally.
Ugh. Twinkletits is gonna be so stoked that he finally managed to have an ‘emotional release’ or whatever.
Personally, Magnus just feels like a disgusting sack of feelings and fluids.
It takes a good half hour for him to wind down. Whatever weird electric clarity possessed him before fades steadily along with his tears, leaving him empty and spent and just as confused as he was when he woke up alone in the Mordhaus hospital almost a year ago.
When he can’t stand to wallow in his own face-juices anymore, Dethklok’s original rhythm guitarist peels himself off the couch. Stumbles to the bathroom, stripping off his clothes as he goes, and climbs into the shower.
Magnus turns that shit up hot, like he’s practicing for an afterlife he doesn’t believe in, and lets the water wash away his weakness.