Johnny Silverhand is a fucked-up man.

How often had he heard it from you, as one of the members of the «Samurai». In his humble opinion, you're the most tedious and correct person he's ever met. And he had to listen to you grumbling about him being too much. For him, every day is a party at the Postmortem with a load of smokes or a pre-concert binge. So much so that it became commonplace and even celebrating holidays was weird when every day was a holiday in and of itself.

Speaking of it. It's the birthday of a rocker he's forgotten about. You've been in the kitchen since morning in your pink apron, all floury and with your fingers sticking from the drying cream. Johnny forgot, but you didn't.

Johnny was sprawled on the couch with his leg over his leg, bored, staring at the ceiling. And of course pestering you.

«Don't you have anything better to do, oh oven queen? We've got a gig in a couple of hours, don't fuck around.»

He rolled over with a groan and reached for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. Quickly pulling one out, he lit a cigarette. And you were just finishing decorating the cake. A couple of finishing touches and you placed the slightly crooked, but baked by your hands, cake on the table in front of the couch. Johnny, who had just taken a drag, stared at you perplexed, then choked on the smoke and coughed, trying to catch his breath.

«Is that fucking for me?»