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December. When had it become December? Charles found himself staring at the calendar on his desk, trying to remember the progression of weeks. Instead, all he found in his mind was a blur of half remembered meetings, memos, and phone calls - an endless stream of things to be put in order, fires to be put out, and numbers to track down. He knew the details were in his memory, but right now, all he could do was wonder at the passage of time. Too fast, he thought, its moving too fast.
Things never moved at a normal pace around Dethklok, but December was always its own special kind of hell. Every year, somehow, it seemed to sneak up on Charles, and every year, he spent equal parts of his few spare moments willing it away, and trying desperately to keep his thoughts off it. In general, the holidays stayed out of the Haus, except for the monstrous Douglas Fir in the main dining room, and Toki's inexpert cavorting. But the rest of the world inundated the band with the holidays. There wasn't much to be done about it.
This year, however, was proving to be particularly difficult to deal with. While, for once, Nathan and Pickles seemed content to stay out of trouble, Murderface and Knubbler - of all people - were trying to plan a Christmas special. Charles had looked over the paperwork, and quickly assigned someone else to deal with the entire project. He wanted nothing to do with it.
That was the real problem, Charles though as he shuffled a stack of expense reports on his desk. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with the holidays. He hated them, and they made him miserable and cranky to the point of being unfocused. And so every year, he did the same thing to get through them - he put on his best cheerful front, and soldiered forward through the hail of tinsel and fake snow. This year would be no different.
* * *
This December felt like it would be the death of him. He was strung out, too stressed to even sleep more than a few hours at a time, and growing, it felt, more frustrated by the moment. That clown was in the building, again. The boys' mothers were in the building, again. Murderface was being, well Murderface, again. And it was December, again.
But no one would see this frustration leak out, Charles would make sure. He had a meeting to go to, things to get done. He would put on the smile, tight and manic though it was starting to feel, and be cheerful in the midst of all the stress and misery of the month. Under the smile, his jaw was clenched.
* * *
Ever since his return, the thoughts kept creeping back into his head. It was worse at night, alone in his bedroom, with nothing to distract him from the churn of thoughts in his mind. The cold weather and the relentless stress of the last week hardly seemed to help.
How much longer, he wondered. How much longer will I have with them until... The thought wasn't the worst of them, but it was the most frequent. He sat on the edge of his bed, dressed for sleep but unable to, the thoughts pushing his head into his hands. How little time did he have left? How much longer could he keep the boys innocent of their fates?
Those thoughts he could almost deal with, however. He'd wrestled with them for nearly a year now. But there were darker thoughts lurking, deeper doubts than just his own ability to protect the band. The incidents with Nathan still troubled him, more so perhaps now than they had at first, simply because of how long it had been since something had occurred. He swallowed hard, for a moment feeling the strong, calloused hand around his throat again, then sighed as he rubbed a hand across the exposed flesh.
Nathan worried him, particularly with how withdrawn the singer seemed to be of late. He wanted very little to do with anything, or anyone, after returning from the Thunderhorse fiasco. And yet every time Charles found himself in a room with Nathan, he could feel those green eyes accusing him, confronting him with his absence.
What do you want from me, Nathan? What more can I give you and the boys than the happy obliviousness of your lives? What else can there be but this, until it is time? Charles swallowed again, this time trying to clear the lump of emotion from his throat. Even if you won't trust me, Nathan, I'll still do everything to protect you.
He turned off the light, knowing that sleep would be elusive, once again, with those green eyes watching him.
* * *
Nearly over. He could count the days left in the month on one hand. To see the back of this December would be a weight off Charles' mind and schedule. Yet somehow, the work always piled up.
The aftermath of the Christmas special had been spectacularly horrific, to say the least. Toki had been uninjured, thankfully, and Murderfaces' grandmother had sustained only minor injuries, unfortunately. The same could not be said of the contractual agreements Knubbler had gotten the band into with that church, nor with the various individuals who had to be strategically dealt with, nor with the various public relations disasters which had resulted. But Charles had taken over, pushing aside his dislike of the entire fiasco to clean up the mess which had been made.
It was his job. And December was almost over. Now if only he could be rid of that bloody clown.