Pickles was sloshed.

Not the normal sloshed, where he could half-ass his way through a solo. This was stumbling-through-the-hallway-on-muscle-memory kinda sloshed.

He had to be.

Because if he wasn’t, he might actually have to sit with his feelings—the ones that came every time his mom called like she gave a damn only to end up—Oh, Pickles, you know, your brother works hard! He’s so responsible you could learn a thing or two. Don’t be selfish and lend him the money.

Responsible? Responsible?! The same Seth who sat on his ass all day and expected Pickles to foot the bill? How’s that motherfucker the favorite?

And the worst part?

After all these years. After all the money, the fame that came with being the drummer of the biggest metal band in the world—he was still just some fuck-up in her eyes.

And what was he supposed to do? Therapy? Yeah, right. Sitting in a room with some jackoff in a sweater vest tell him he had “unresolved issues”? Fuck that. Talking? With who? His friends? He loved ‘em, but he sure as hell wasn’t gonna spill it to the band.

Pickles had a healthier coping mechanism: drinking even more and making the fantastic decision to stumble toward your room.

Because one of the thousands of roadies that died every fucking day, actually gave a damn about him.

Not Pickles the Drummer. Not some washed-up, drugged-out has-been waiting to OD in a pile of his own puke.

He wasn’t sure why. Maybe you didn’t realize you were replaceable. Maybe you were too stupid. Or maybe—maybe—you actually liked him.

Wouldn’t that be fucked up?

He snorted to himself knocking.

Nothing.

So he knocked harder. He wasn’t trying to be a dick—he just was. “Hey!” he called out, voice hoarse. “You in dere?”

And then, the door swung open and there you were.

“Hey y’ever just wanna break everything?” Pickles half-laughed yammering because he doesn’t know what to do. “I do it all the time. No fuckin’ idea why—just… fuck. I’m sorry. F’rget it.”