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Title: Envy (Mythklok Interstitial)
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Wedding planning. And an exchange.
Warnings: Be careful of drummers bearing pie.
Notes: Was sick as a dog last week, so maybe that's where this is from. I don't know.


Ganesh looked up from where he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, cradling his sitar. He held up the joint, and then leaned forward when Skwisgaar, who was sitting opposite, gestured for it.

“From Pickle?” the guitarist asked, although he had already taken a pretty deliberate huff.

“Yes, although he assures me this one is more or less … pure,” said Ganesh. Actually, Pickles had said no such thing. He had intercepted Ganesh in the hallway, the frowning god lugging his hated sitar along, and had gone up on semi-tiptoe to hook an arm around Ganesh's shoulders (the pair of shoulders closest to him), holding up the cigarette, saying something like, “Doooood.”

Ganesh told himself it was Sariel: his husband knew he hated these lessons, these insufferable interludes with the narcissistic Swede, and, being of the caring-but-emotionally-distand-plus-terminally-manipulative sort, had sent off Pickles to take care of supplying a mood altering substance. Ganesh flat out refused to keep any good shit in their suite, not around their boy. Although, gods know, Eliu was exposed to it in virtually every other corner of the castle; the suite was his home, and they would keep him safe there.


“Yes?” What had they been talking about? And what the fuck was he smoking? Ganesh frowned, grabbing back the joint with one hand while continuing to tune his sitar with another pair of hands.

“I ams wishes I could do dat,” mused Skwisgaar, tilting the blond head, gesturing towards Ganesh.

“Tune a guitar whilst getting high?” asked Ganesh, taking a dramatic hit. He held the smoke in for a good long time, letting it become one with himself. And then he released it, the atoms expelled from his lungs becoming one once again with the universe. “I am certain you could manage it. Get one of your servants to hold your smoke for you....”

“Hadn't t'ought of dats,” said Skwisgaar, who actually did look to be thinking. “No, I ams means maybes if I ams da Hindu gods insteads of da Norse gods, I ams has da extra fingerses! I can plays twice da geetars. An' den we ams has no needs of Tokis,” he concluded with a smirk, gesturing for the spliff.

Ganesh handed off the cigarette, but scowled at Skwisgaar. “So now you wish to terminate you band mate?” he asked. “The one you are in love with?”

“Love? Love ams pfffts,” grumbled Skwisgaar. “Besides, we ams not cans Toki. I ams makes da jokes.”

“Aren't jests supposed to be funny?” asked Ganesh, narrowing his eyes.

“Ja. Likes your seetar playsing,” grinned Skwisgaar, causing Ganesh's scowl to melt down into a glower. “All dems hands, not knowsing what to do! Look, Ganoshes, you seetar ams like da womans....”

“I don't fancy women, Skwisgaar.”

“Ams caressings,” the guitarist obliviously continued, playing a nigh impossible run with those graceful, long fingers.

To his mild astonishment, Ganesh not only heard the music, he saw and smelt it: Skwisgaar was plucking out cinnamon-colored rainbows. It exploded his senses. It was tantalizing, like fresh-baked buttery pastries. “Amazing,” commented Ganesh, regarding the cigarette and wondering once again what from his big bag of tricks Pickles had splashed on the leaves before rolling it up.

“Maybes you ams takes da lesskons from me?” said Skwisgaar smugly, obviously thinking Ganesh was commenting on his playing and not the mouth-watering light show.

Skwisgaar’s music looked to Ganesh like an old movie: sepia-toned. “I’ve heard tell of your teaching methodology,” said Ganesh, trying to recall the last time he had eaten. He imagined his Auntie Sarasvati’s kitchen, warm from the oven, raw pie crusts burnishing to golden brown, and rubbed his suddenly hungry stomach.

“How ams you hears dis?”

“I read it in a book,” smiled Ganesh.

The music stopped. “Toki ams exaggeratsing! Dat ams nots da pigs blood in da buckets!” Skwisgaar declared darkly, snatching away the joint.

“What kind of blood was it then?”

Skwisgaar drew back on the joint, soaking it in. He closed his eyes for a long moment. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, “Ams razzleberry smashmallows,” he breathed out.

“What?” asked Ganesh.

“Ja, ams comes out of dat dragons,” concluded Skwisgaar. “When he gots da heads.”

“You are stoned,” said Ganesh, grabbing away the marvelous joint.

“You ams…. You ams….” Skwisgaar trailed off, eyes now two great black chasms rimmed by a tiny sliver of blue, staring full force at Ganesh.

“I am what?” snapped Ganesh.

“You ams gots da wings now,” marveled Skwisgaar, setting down his sitar, and leaning forward.

“You need to continue the lesson!” scolded Ganesh, one hand on Skwisgaar’s sitar now, wishing that the musician would pick up his mouth-watering solo. He put a hand on his rumbling stomach.

But Skwisgaar, ignoring the guitar, went on hands and knees to locomote closer to Ganesh, and now paused, his face uncomfortably close. Ganesh, feeling awkward as well as hungry, held up his own sitar protectively between them.

“Dey ams dark,” said Skwisgaar.

“What is?”

“Your wingses.”

“I don’t have any wings,” protested Ganesh, scootching back as Skwisgaar continued to lean forward.

“You ams has. Dey ams darks. And magicksal. Like da night….”



“Don't sit on my desk!”

“Like that's gonna work,” giggled the little angel, kicking her small legs and putting fingernail to emery board. “Have you had a chance to review the latest version of the guest list yet?”

Charles made a growling noise. It came from somewhere deep in his throat, but opened his laptop.

“Bidchure, Daddy?” came the voice from just below him. Charles wasn't entirely certain how Elias had come to stand beside him when his little son had been playing happily on the floor just an instant before. Some kind of sixth laptop sense? Ganesh, of course, had proposed just getting the boy his own laptop computer. Charles had turned that one down flat. He saw the effects of overindulgence every day, and he sure as hell wasn't going to see Elias turned into a tiny spoiled death metal musician!

“You can sit in Daddy's lap, but he needs to use his computer right now. All right?” Charles told him. “I need to discuss something with your Auntie Raziel.” Elias gave his implied consent by wriggling into his lap, so Charles considered the deal to be signed and notarized. Elias instead set down his electronic pad and continued on his latest masterwork. As long as he's front and center, thought Charles.

But now his computer had been snatched away by a different culprit: Raziel, who had scooted it around and rudely clicked open the file in question.

“My laptop,” Charles grunted at her, spinning the computer back around.

“Boonie, you should teach your daddy to share!” Raziel told Elias.

“Sharin' id powite!” Elias piped up, not tearing his eyes from his pad.

“Boon, you should teach Auntie Raziel that chairs are for sitting.”

“Hmpf!” tutted the little angel, who had already returned her attentions to her nail file. “I never know what you guys get up to in those chairs!” she said, pointing the file at the chairs, a look of distaste on her face.

“Oh is that so? Well, do you know what we get up to on my desk?” asked Charles.

“Oooo. What do you get up to on your desk?” she grinned.

“Well. Ah,” said Charles, frowning at Elias in his lap. “Maybe another time,” he whispered, now peering at the laptop.

Raziel snickered.

“Uh, Raziel, would you be better off sending me a list of people you're not inviting to Phanuel's wedding?” asked Charles, after he'd clicked over several pages.

“My Father is Lord of Hell! I don't wanna forget anybody,” said Raziel.

“But these are Elder gods!”

“Yes, they're from the bride's side. And we have to invite Nodens, he's one of Wotan's distant cousins.”

“Everybody is Wotan's distant cousin. But are you sure about this Kthanid guy? He's Chtulhu's brother for chrissakes!”

“Yeah, and they get along about as well as Pickles and Seth, so they say,” said Raziel. “I'll just have to make sure catering brings plenty of krill.”

“Raziel,” said Charles, pushing himself back in his chair and distractedly watching Elias draw. “Are you sure about this? It seems like you’re just asking for trouble.”

“So what if I am? It’s my father’s realm. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Oh, don’t say that!” said Charles.

“And we can try out our demon Forms again! That would be cool.”

“Demon wings are itchy,” complained Charles, involuntarily arching his back at the memory. He looked up to a soft mewling sound. Hobbes, who had apparently just woken up, had just leapt up on his desk. The small tiger sauntered over to the laptop, where he immediately plopped back down for another contented catnap.

“Damn, I need some pie,” cursed Charles.

“You’re hungry again already?”

“No, for the tiger!” said Charles, indicating Hobbes. “It's the only way to get him off my computer!”

“Your tiger eats pie?” asked Raziel.

“Don’t yours?”

Raziel laughed and picked up Hobbes, holding him on her lap. The tiger cub yawned and went back to sleep. “That figures. Oh, and don’t move,” she added, pointing behind him.

“Let me guess,” said Charles blowing fur off his laptop. “Now the dog is under my chair?”


Charles heaved a deeper sigh.

“I am in grave need of pie!” pleaded Ganesh, who had suddenly appeared in one of Charles’ guest chairs.

“Baap!” greeted Elias, who nevertheless did not look up from his drawing tablet.

“Is everyone in your family now part angel, Sariel?” laughed Raziel.

“What’s going on?” Charles asked Ganesh. He consulted his Vacheron Constantin. “I thought you were doing sitar lessons with Skwisgaar this afternoon?”

Ganesh looked carefully around the room, and then leaned forward towards Charles’ desk. Charles and Raziel leaned forward as well, although Elias quite happily ignored him.

“Skwisgaar became … distracted. By my glorious wings!”

“Your … what?” asked Charles.

“Weens, Daddy,” supplied Elias.

“Yes, but Baap doesn’t have wings,” said Charles.

“Does Baap usually smell like an incense factory?” grinned Raziel.

“Look, Daddy, look!” said Elias, sliding his electronic pad over so Charles could see it. Charles frowned, and dialed his phone. “Pickles? Yeah, Pickles. Pickles. PICKLES! What did you give him? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” Raziel looked questioningly at Charles, who shook his head. He shoved Elias' electronic tablet over so Raziel could see Elias' drawing as well. She blinked, and then held up the tablet, first looking at it, and then over to Ganesh for comparison.

“This is a nice picture of your Baap,” Raziel told Elias. “I like the work on the feathers.”

“I ams gots da geetar now!” announced Skwisgaar from the doorway. He was wearing a custom double guitar. “I ams now plays boths at da same times!”

“Uh, it's a nice guitar, Skwisgaar,” said Charles. “But how are you playing both?”

“Da arms, Daddy!” said Elias, who had wriggled off his lap to run around and take a look.

“What?” asked Charles.

Elias pointed to Skwisgaar. “Arms, Daddy!” he said again.

“He has two pairs of arms now, can you not see?” said Ganesh, rising in wonder. “And his playing....”

“Uh, no I cannot see,” grumbled Charles.

“We're not high as kites, Ganesha,” laughed Raziel. Ganesh had now wandered over towards Skwisgaar, where he was standing uncomfortably close to the guitarist.

“Your playing has the aroma of exquisite pie,” Ganesh told Skwisgaar, his face now near the Swede's, his eyes closed, a look of sweet pleasure on his face.

“You ams lovely wit' da angelses wings, Ganoshes” purred Skwisgaar, who suddenly lurched closer to Ganesh

Ganesh gasped and stood back, clutching his own ass. “Hands!” he scolded.

“What?” asked Raziel.

Charles was already up, over the top of the desk, and standing between Ganesh and Skwisgaar, his finger in Skwisgaar's face. “Skwisgaar! Keep your imaginary hands OFF MY HUSBAND.”

“Pfft,” said Skwisgaar.

“Okee, doods, I brawght pie!” said Pickles, who had just appeared in the doorway.

“PIE!” said Ganesh, who lunged for the tin, Skwisgaar's tempting music now forgotten.

“Uh, Pickles, how long are they gonna be like this?” asked Charles.

“Wit' da wing and da arm t'ings?” asked Pickles.

“What? You can see it too?” asked Charles, who now seemed a bit left out.

“Of course. He's always high,” giggled Raziel.

“Pie,” sighed Ganesh, who had seated himself with the tin in his lap, Murgatroyd and Hobbes at his feet.

“What abouts me?” Skwisgaar demanded of Ganesh. Charles stubbornly stood in front of him, blocking him.

“Uh, might be best if we keep these two separate for the duration,” Charles told Pickles.

“Yeh. C'mawn, ahkty-geetar, we'll go lay down sahm tracks fer da new album.”

“Ja, I cans double solo now!” said Skwisgaar enthusiastically as Pickles led him off.

“Just don't let him smite anything with his third eye!” Raziel yelled after them.

“What do I do about him?” asked Charles, indicating the blissfully eating Ganesh.

“That's easy! He's an angel. Just keep him in pie.”

“That's all?” asked Charles.

Raziel shrugged. “He'll wake up with a tummy ache. Meanwhile, enjoy the turnabout.”

“Angels. You get into a lot of mischief!” Charles scolded Ganesh, who looked up, grinning, his teeth stuck with blueberry filling.

“And maybe he could give Toki flying lessons?” suggested Raziel.

“No way! I do not need more trouble!”

“I want to eat pie! And then kill things with a sword!” volunteered Ganesh.

Raziel laughed. “Want me to take Boonie for the duration?”

“That would be great,” sighed Charles, pinching the bridge of his nose as Raziel grabbed his kid.

“Look, Daddy!” said Elias, holding up his sketch of a multi-armed Skwisgaar.

“How does he see this? He's not stoned. At least I don't think so.”

“Who knows?” said Raziel. “Wanna come play with your cousins?”

“Uh-huh!” said Elias.

“Look over my list, OK Sariel?” said Raziel. “Come on guys!” And then she and Elias, along with his pets, vanished.

Charles sat down next to Ganesh. “Is there any left for me?” he asked.

“Get your own pie!” Ganesh told him amiably.

Charles puffed air. “Damn. You are an angel. You know, Raziel is inviting Elder Gods to the wedding.”

“Can we kill them with swords?” wondered Ganesh, wide-eyed.

“Only if you give me some pie,” answered Charles.

Ganesh scowled long and hard at Charles. And then, only reluctantly, he reached into the pie tin and handed the very last, very gooey piece over to his husband.

Charles, who was too afraid of Indian giving (himself being an angel and knowing their ways) to risk first grabbing a napkin out of his desk drawer, cupped the slice in his hands as best he could and then shoved all of it at once into his mouth. “Mmmm, no' ba',” he mouthed, spewing crust crumbs and bits of blueberry. He picked a blueberry from his teeth. It tasted really good. He wondered what Jean Pierre had done? Some secret ingredient? “Wanna go to the kitchen?” he suggested.

“Why?” asked Ganesh suspiciously.

“See if there's more pie.”

“More pie!” said Ganesh. “Yes! Yes! Let us get more pie.”

Charles rose and began to walk to the door.

“No, we do not walk!” said Ganesh, springing after him.

“What?” asked Charles, stopping and turning around.

Charles blinked.

Dark wings flashed.

“We fly!”
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