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Fingers are down his throat, he catches a taste of iron and paint.
Fucking Dead.
They'd played well, all things considered. Pelle - Dead, he reminded himself - was, well, incredible.
Totally fucking evil.
Carved himself up, the fucker.
They'd treat it later, no words exchanged.
He spills his stomach into the toilet bowl, Dead's touch practically molesting his fucking tonsils.
"Getting off on it, fucker?" he'd groaned, accent already slurred from the alcohol, nevermind Dead's fingers.
He was silent for a moment. Then moved closer, huffing in his ear as he shoved his fingers back again, coaxing another gag.
"You're weird."
Oh, fucking rich coming from the guy gutturally screaming into a microphone all night, spraying his blood across over-eager listeners in the crowd.
Fucking hell.
Dead's fingers drag across his tongue once, twice, stomach acid and rum spill over the blond's fingers.
"That's why you're playing like shit. You drink too much."
Asshole. He hasn't had that much. Maybe three or four beers before the show. He knew what he was doing.
Greasy strands of Dead's hair fall into the toilet bowl alongside his dark ones.
They're gonna have to shower.
Dead won't.