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Five Finger Death Punch	By : mmarc56 Category: Celebrities - Misc > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1552 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know Five Finger Death Punch or any of its members, this story is a work of fiction, and I made no money writing it.

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Chapter Thirty-Nine: Remote Control

Ivan was seated on Chris’s couch with the television turned on late in the evening, and the large bassist slid in next to him and kissed his ear. Ivan tilted his head away.

“Do you wanna go to bed, baby doll?” he whispered before kissing his hair, which had been slowly growing longer with his beard. The yellow Mohawk was beginning to fade into the rest of his hair’s length and his brown roots were showing quite badly.

“Mm…” Ivan hummed negatively, his eyes still fixed on the TV. Chris rubbed his inner thigh.

“Come on, darling. It’s been a while,” he insisted gently.

“No, I’m tired,” he murmured.

The bassist exhaled through his nose heavily. “Then come to bed.”

“Mm.”

Chris let go of him and moved over. He sank back into the couch and stared grumpily at the show his partner was watching. Something had to be wrong with him to always be planted in front of the television, and it was getting on his nerves. He was never this lazy on tour or during the creation of a new album, but maybe this was the way he really liked to spend his time when he had the opportunity.

Chris stood up and left for the kitchen. After refilling his pug dog’s food bowl, he went back into the living room and stood over the singer with his arms crossed. He waited a couple of seconds before the younger man finally looked up at him.

“I’m getting real sick of always seeing your ass on my couch in front of my TV, Ivan,” he said angrily. The singer grunted and Chris gritted his teeth. He reached down, took the remote from him, and shut it off. Ivan opened his hands at him. “Get up.”

“No! Give me the remote back.”

“I said ‘get up’.”

Ivan stood up quickly and stepped right into the bassist’s personal space. “Give me the fucking remote!” he said, grabbing for the device which Chris held out of his reach. “Asshole!”

“I’m tired of always seeing you in front of that damn TV!” he shouted back.

“What’s your fucking problem?!” Ivan shoved Chris and clenched his fists.

After a second-long pause of disbelief, Chris retorted with, “Ivan! Don’t get violent with me! We’ve fucking talked about this!”

The younger man took a step back and yelled, “THEN GIVE ME THE FUCKING REMOTE!”

“You know what?” He chucked the remote at the floor and a crack was heard when it hit the ground. “FINE! TAKE IT!”

Chris stormed into the kitchen while Ivan bent down and picked up the remote control.

“You fucking broke it, shithead!” he shouted at him.

“Who the fuck are you calling shithead, motherfucker?” The older man planted both of his hands on the countertop and yelled at him from the kitchen, which was visible from the living room.

“You, shithead! You fucking broke your own damn remote!” Ivan tested the buttons dramatically to show him they no longer worked. “Way to go, asshole!”

“You know it’s just real obvious how you ain’t got any respect for me,” he said, “when you’re calling me names and shit.”

“Oh my fucking God,” he sighed irately, turning the broken device over in his hands to check the damage, “You’ve just got a problem with everything tonight… Look at this!” He held the remote control up so he could see the places where the plastic casing had broken off to reveal the circuit board.

“Get over it! Why’s it matter so much to you?”

“Oh, yeah! What’s it matter?!” Ivan said theatrically, “Let’s just break everything, why don’t we?!” He then used both hands to snap the thing into two pieces and throw it on the ground. “Who gives a shit, right?”

Chris was ready to hit the other man – punch him right in the jaw – and this anger propelled him to stomp back into the living room, return the disgusting favor, and get violent with him.

“YOU’RE A PIECE OF SHIT, IVAN!” he shouted, pushing into his personal space.

“GET OUT OF MY FACE!”

“YOU THINK I’M JUST GONNA LET YOU—”

“GET OFF YOUR FUCKING MANRAG!”

“—BREAK MY SHIT AND INSULT ME RIGHT TO MY—”

“YOU FUCKING BROKE IT FIRST!”

“—FUCKING FACE?! SHUT UP!” Chris screamed the last part as loud as he could – loud enough to alert the neighbors – and Ivan retaliated.

He struck him in the face.

Ivan’s usually icy eyes were on fire and Chris backed up as he walked towards him, as if the force of his stare was pushing him away. He raised a hand to his face and stared at his abuser with disbelief.

“Ivan…”

“Listen here,” the younger man growled, “I don’t know what your fucking problem is, but you better get over yourself. If I wanna watch TV, then by God I’m gonna watch TV because that’s what I wanna do. It ain’t affecting you, now is it? But oh, no,” he said mockingly, “you think you’re such a big man, don’t you? Well I’ll tell you something: you’re not. You’re a fucking bitch – my bitch.”

“Get out of my house,” Chris grumbled, his eyes going black, “now.”

Ivan cocked his head and sneered, “No.”

He then walked over to the television and shut off it off by the monitor, and then strolled confidently past the older man and into the kitchen where he raided the fridge for alcohol.

Chris couldn’t move from his spot and his hand felt glued to the place Ivan had hit him. It took a monumental amount of effort to move his feet, but he finally managed to do so and walk into the bedroom. His pug dog was sitting on the bed with her head on her paws and her wrinkly face looking up at him with big, sad, puppy-dog eyes. He rubbed her ears and sat next to her.

After a long while of reflection, Chris retired beneath the covers with his pug laying by his feet, but he was still as awake as before. He stared through the dark room at the wall near the door, breathing shallowly as time slipped away. He felt like he was in the impending silence before a storm, which was strange feeling to have after the storm had supposedly already passed.

But then Ivan entered the room.

The smell of alcohol was not overwhelming, but it was present, and the singer only stumbled a little as he walked. Not sure if he was going to confront him in a drunk stupor or not, Chris waited until the other man began to get into bed.

“Oh no, you’re not sleeping in here,” he said, startling him. Ivan grumbled something and awkwardly attempted to slip under the blankets, which ended up to be more of a languid struggle than an everyday accomplishment. “I mean it, Ivan.”

He gave up on getting underneath the blankets and settled for laying on top of the mattress as Chris got out of bed and walked around to his side to stand him up again. “I told you ain’t sleeping in here.”

“Piss off…” he mumbled, jerking his arms away from his touch.

“No! If you like being on that damn couch so much than you can go sleep on it.” Chris may have walked away from the battle earlier, but he was determined not to lose the war. He had too much pride to be the bitch Ivan thought he was. “Take a pillow and get out.”

“Goddamn, you’re such a woman!” The singer’s drunken rage was beginning to burn through his tipsy drowsiness. Chris pointed at the door harshly without repeating himself. “Okay, alright, that’s fine, Chris,” Ivan said, holding up his hands in a derisive surrender, “You aren’t the first bitch that’s ever made me sleep on the couch.” The bassist gritted his teeth and clenched his fists as the younger man stole a pillow from the bed.

On his way out of the room, Ivan picked the pug dog off the bed as he went by, which caused Chris to freak out more than he should of and step up to him. “Oh, no! No! The dog stays in here!”

“No way! If you get the bed than I get the dog’s company.”

“No! She’s my dog; she sleeps with me! Put her down!” Ivan defied him and stared at him blankly. “Put her down!”

The younger man put a smile on his face and turned to leave without obeying Chris’s order to return the pug to the bed. Something exploded then in the bassist and he lunged at his partner and grabbed him from behind, causing him to drop the pug dog and the pillow as he was wrestled to the ground.

Chris may have had more initial control over his anger than Ivan, but when he was pushed over the edge he became just as bad as him.

All he wanted to do was get even, like that would make the singer realize he shouldn’t hit and disrespect him.

The bassist pinned him down as the pug ran from the room and hit him in the face with as much force as he could possibly muster. A loud, cringeworthy slap rang out when his large palm made contact with his cheek, and though Ivan hadn’t hit him nearly that hard, he served it back ten times worse.

“YOU WANNA FUCKING HIT ME, HUH? WELL WELCOME TO KARMA, SHITHEAD!” He raised his hand again and slapped him in the same spot with the same force. Ivan screamed and struggled, but Chris shook his shoulders and continued to yell at him. “DON’T YOU EVER DISRESPECT ME AGAIN, BECAUSE I AIN’T YOUR BITCH!”

“GET OFF!” The immobilized man’s voice cracked and he tried desperately to fight off the bigger, stronger man. He couldn’t seem to manage any effective punches to the abdomen and he couldn’t push him off, but Chris eventually stopped abusing him and stood up above him.

“GET OUT OF HERE!” he screamed, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BEDROOM!”

Ivan was hurting and he curled up into a ball and hid his face. Chris’s fire hadn’t died out yet and he grabbed the singer roughly and pulled him up with brute strength. He then dragged him by the underarms into the living room and dumped him by the couch. After leaving briefly to retrieve a pillow for him, he tossed it at the shivering man still in the fetal position on the floor and then gently picked up his pug, which was hiding in the kitchen by her food and water bowls.
Ivan remained curled up on the floor shaking long after Chris had returned to bed with his dog, and as he laid there murderous thoughts overtook his mind. This was no longer an unpleasantly rough patch in a dysfunctional relationship: it was a war.
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Five Finger Death Punch