Scandinavian Heartstrings, in Drop D.

Chapter 10.2 There's a fire!

Gravity was the only thing keeping Skwisgaar's feet moving down the stairs. He dared not give himself the slightest pause, or he would turn around and bolt straight back up to his room. His skin was washed clean of champagne, but he could still feel Pelle's hands on him, which made him feel dirty all over again.

Security hoods opened the doors to the great hall as he approached. The small gust of wind from the huge doors brushed over his face and neck, just like Pelle's breath. He bristled and suppressed a grimace. The night was far from over and every industry douchebag would be watching him. With a calming inhale, he pursed his lips into his most regal pout and pulled himself up to his full height.

Showtime.

A general murmur from the crowd greeted him as he strode into the main hall. Guests whispered into their drinks and canapes as he passed, but he would have been more nervous if they hadn't; the worst thing for a crowd to be, is silent. A flash of red blood on Polish snow. He bit the inside of his lip, correcting himself; silent was the second-worst thing.

He scanned the room for Toki clutching a half a bottle of Akvavit, but instead his eyes fell on an actress with flowing brunette hair standing a few meters away. She smiled at him and he thought that pushing her dress up on the Haus kitchen counter might be a suitable distraction from his swirling thoughts of the studio couch. Between the album and dealing with Toki, Skwisgaar hadn't had much quality time with the ladies. In fact, he was trying to remember the last pair of breasts he'd run his calloused fingertips over, when Charles rounded on him.

"Skwisgaar." Charles put a hand on the guitarist's back and guided him across the room, much to the actress's annoyance. "Are you, ah, alright? We need you on your A-game."

"Ja, ams fine." Skwisgaar lied. He glanced back at the actress apologetically as Charles pushed him farther away.

They stopped near what looked like a thirteen-year-old boy with pock marks and a foul attitude.

"This is the label head's son," Charles said and felt the physical deflation of Skwisgaar's lungs, "He had a few quick questions about guitar. You two have fun." He seemed confident that Skwisgaar would stick this conversation out so removed his hand and walked away holding the bridge of his nose under his glasses; They just had to get through tonight.

Skwisgaar stood there with a slight hunch in front of the kid and re-evaluated the speech he had given Pelle only moments ago. Even as a God, it was this shit that kept him in ruby metronomes. The feeling of Pelle's hand on his neck made him clench his back teeth. He crossed his arms against the imaginary touch.

"One day, I'm going to be the fastest guitarist alive." The boy said. Skwisgaar's body tensed even more. He tried not to take this as an open challenge but wasn't doing very well at it. "One day, I'm going to be the greatest guitar player ever!" The kid continued.

"Good, goods for you." Skwisgaar managed to get past his gritted teeth. He looked at the greasy, human equivalent of a TV dinner. He was no real threat, he didn't even have calloused fingers yet. Besides, just saying you are going to be the best is meaningless unless you follow through. That's what he had been trying to get through Toki's head for years.

Toki. He scanned the room again but couldn't see him. Murderface was holding his lower back and bragging to some other labelmate band members about his landslide victory for position as Band Fire-chief. Next to him was Nathan, who was looking very bored and strangely sober. Skwisgaar sighed and not-so-discreetly pulled out his Dethphone. He couldn't deal with his own shit and Toki's right now.

[Stuk talkings to Roys tieny Dildo. Can you checks on Toki?] - Skwisgaar, 11:28pm.

He sent the message and watched as Nathan reached into his pocket, read his phone then tapped out a reply.