Thirsty
Lars wakes to a sledgehammer pounding against his skull, and it's called "the sunlight"; streaming through the gap in the curtains. He groans, rolling onto his side and immediately regretting the movement. His mouth mouth and throat are as dry as they can be. He pushes himself up on his elbows, wincing as each movement amplifies the throbbing in his head. He gets up from the bed, the room tilts and spins before settling back into place. He then steps out of the bedroom, walking like a zombie. The hotel room materializes around him in fragments. Empty bottles stand like monuments to poor decision-making. Cigarette butts overflow from an ashtray on the nightstand. His drum sticks (how did they even end up here?) lie crossed on the carpet like fallen soldiers.
James is sprawled face-down on the carpet, one arm outstretched, fingers still curled around an empty beer bottle. His blond hair is a tangled mess, and he's missing one shoe. The other is inexplicably balanced on the small TV set across the room.
Cliff occupies the couch, his lanky frame seems too long for the furniture. One leg dangles off the edge, the other is propped up on the armrest. His face is peaceful in sleep, almost childlike; a stark contrast to the chaos around him.
Lars yawns, scanning the room. No Kirk. The bathroom door stands open, lights off.
"Hetfield," Lars croaks, his voice sandpaper-rough. "James. Wake up."
James doesn't stir.
Lars reaches for an empty beer can on the table and tosses it, hitting James squarely between the shoulder blades. "James!" He raises his voice, but it hurts; he winces. "Fuck. Get- get up, man. We have a flight."
James makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl. "Fuck off," he mumbles into the carpet.
"We have a flight in- in like—" he reads the nearby clock on the wall, squinting "—two... three hours..." He looks down on James again. "New York, remember? The album?"
James rolls onto his back, eyes still closed. "Two hours is plenty of time. Go back to sleep."
"Where's Kirk?"
James lazily cracks one eye open. "What?"
"Kirk," Lars repeats, looking around the disaster area of their hotel room again. "He's not here."
James pushes himself up to sitting position, the beer bottle rolling away across the carpet. He blinks slowly, processing. "Maybe he just found some chick."
"Maybe." Lars says, steadying himself against the wall. "But none of his stuff here, man."
"Alright." James rubs his eyes. "Probably went out for coffee or something," he suggests, running a hand through his hair and making it stand up even worse. "He'll be back."
Cliff stirs on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes to block the light. "What time is it?" He mumbles.
Lars checks the clock again, as if he forgot even after checking it literal seconds ago. "Almost eleven."
"Shit." Cliff sits up, his movements slow and deliberate. "We should get moving."
"You know where Kirk is?" James asks Cliff, a faint note of concern creeping into his voice. "Did he even get here? Yesterday?"
Cliff shakes his head. "Not since... he stepped out to smoke at the theater, maybe. I don't remember."
Lars moves to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. The shock helps clear his head, but does nothing for the jackhammer behind his eyes. He needs water. And aspirin.
"He better show up soon," Lars calls over his shoulder. "'Cause I'm not missing that flight just because Hammett decided to go... sightseeing or whatever."
Cliff is now on his feet, searching through his duffel bag for clean clothes. "He knows what time we're leaving. He'll be here."
But there's a new tension in the room, barely perceptible beneath the hangover haze. It's not like Kirk to disappear.
James sighs. "We should start packing. If he's not back in like an hour, we can try calling around."
Lars nods, but his stomach knots with something more than just the aftermath of too much alcohol. The feeling is vague but persistent; something isn't right.
"Yeah," he agrees, pushing the concern aside. "He'll turn up. He better."
Dave wakes up to the beautiful sight of Kirk tied up and gagged in a chair in front of him. He lets out a groggy sigh, rubbing his eyes. His pain is not too different from Lars hangover. Stretching and sitting up, he stares at Kirk, his expression oddly cheerful.
"Morning,” Dave says, his voice raspy from sleep. He stands up and reaches for the piece of cloth on his mouth. “You sleep okay?”
Kirk blinks at him, utterly baffled by the sudden change in demeanor. “No,” he says quietly. “I didn’t sleep.” It's true. Kirk had been awake for hours, not only from the storm, but also because his body would be stubbornly tense all night from the uncomfortable position in the chair. His eyes were heavy, but sleep had been impossible. Every creak of the old house, every slight movement from the couch where Dave slept, kept him on edge.
Dave stretches his arms above his head, causing his shirt to lift up a little and show a little bit of his waist. “Hah,” he scoffs. “Yeah, I figured. Bet you’re hungry though, huh? Let me get you something.”
Kirk watches in stunned silence as Dave moved to the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets. The smell of coffee soon fills the air, and Dave returns with a plate of toast and a mug of coffee. He sets them on the table in front of Kirk, unties one of his hands, and gestures for him to eat.
Kirk hesitates, darting his gaze between Dave's face and the food.
“What? You want a fucking beer?” Dave asks sarcastically. “This ain’t a restaurant, new guy. So you eat whatever’s in front of you.”
“Why are you doing this?” Kirk asks in confusion. “Why are you acting like this?”
Dave furrows his brows, his good mood faltering. “Like what?”
“Like this,” Kirk says, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. “One minute you’re… threatening me, pointing at me with a gun and putting a blade to my face and the next you’re feeding me, acting like everything’s normal. Why? What’s your plan here? You expect to keep me here forever? Why you doing this?”
This guy just loves talking out of his ass, Dave thinks.
He frowns deeply, indignant. “I’m taking care of you, you don’t like that? You’d like it better if I left you to bleed out and starve to death?”
Kirk shakes his head, frustration bubbling over. “I don’t understand any of this! You kidnapped me, tied me up, and now you’re acting like you care? What do you want from me?”
Dave slamms his fist on the table, making the dishes rattle. “You’re nothin' but an ungrateful piece of shit,” he hisses. “I could’ve done this a lot worse for you. But I didn’t. And this is the thanks I get?”
Kirk recoils slightly. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
Dave glares at him for a long moment, then he took the old piece of cloth; gagged Kirk and tied both of his hands again. “I’m going out. Don’t go anywhere.”
With that, he storms out the door, slamming it behind him.
The front door creaks open, and Dave steps back into the room, his face still clouded with anger. He carries a bag, its contents rattling softly as he drops it onto the coffee table. Without acknowledging Kirk’s wary gaze, he started to take the items out.
Kirk’s eyes stick on them, his heart sinking as he caught sight of what Dave had brought: a pair of handcuffs, a roll of tape, and several bottles of alcohol. His mouth went dry, the fear he had miraculously managed to suppress now rising again.
“You didn’t eat when I told you to,” Dave says, his tone laced with irritation as he nods towards the untouched plate on the table. “Why?”
Kirk hesitated. “I’m not hungry,” he mumbles grudgingly.
Dave tqkes the newly bought whiskey bottle into his hand. “Not hungry, huh? After everything, you can’t even eat?”
Kirk doesn’t answer. Dave unscrews the cap of the whiskey bottle and takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving Kirk’s.
Dave coughs. “You think I’m the bad guy,” he says, setting the bottle down with a thud. “You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like to be tossed aside, to have everything ripped away from you by your family and friends.”
Kirk’s voice is shaky as he replies: “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, Dave. But you know this isn’t the way to fix it. Please, just let me go.”
Dave’s expression twisted with frustration. “You don’t fucking get to tell me what to do,” he snarls. He grabs the handcuffs, approaching Kirk with a menacing determination. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Dave frees Kirk from the rope, only to snap the new handcuffs around his wrists, securing him to the chair. The metal was cold against his skin. Then, he secured Kirk's ankles to the chair with the tape. Kirk struggles briefly, but it was no use.
Dave takes another drink of the whiskey, his grip tightening around the bottle. He tastes the liquid in his mouth like he was thinking his next move and clicks his tongue. He scoffs. “So, you’re not hungry.” He points at the plate again. “You think you’re too good for this shitty food, don’t you? Too good for me?”
"What?" Kirk shakes his head quickly. No, it’s not that-”
“Greedy little fucker," Dave sneers. "Well, if you’re not hungry, then maybe you’re thirsty.” He waves the bottle. “Let’s see how fuckin’ thirsty you are.”
Kirk’s eyes widen as Dave moves towards him, with the bottle in hand. “No, I don’t want-”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dave snaps, pressing the bottle against Kirk’s lips and grabbing his hair, really close to his wound from yesterday which made the already loosen patch on it finally fall to the ground. “Drink.”
Kirk struggles and squirms, trying to turn his head away, but Dave’s grip is firm. With a sharp jerk, he forces the neck of the bottle into Kirk’s mouth, tilting it back. The sharp, burning liquid floods Kirk’s throat, making him cough and sputter. Whiskey and saliva spills down his chin, soaking his shirt.
Infuriated, Dave pulls the bottle away. Dave's hand moves fast, delivering a harsh punch to Kirk’s jaw.
So hard that Dave wiggles his hand a little bit to shake off the pain on his knuckles. The blow left Kirk dazed, his head snapping to the side.
“Can’t even fuckin’ drink properly,” Dave's voice cold and devoid of empathy. “Useless son-of-a-bitch.”
Ignoring Kirk’s ragged breaths, Dave shoves the bottle back into his mouth brutally, forcing him to drink again. Kirk has no choice but to swallow if he doesn't want to drown. The whiskey burns all the way down. He can already feel the dizziness setting in, his vision blurring as Dave keeps pouring and pouring. Finally, Dave pulls the bottle away, now half-empty. Kirk gasps for air, his chest heaving, his head spinning from the quick effects of the alcohol and the assault. He's breathless, disoriented, coughing, and trapped.
Dave towers over him, his gaze filled with disdain, then, out of nowhere, he spit on Kirk, landing on his cheek. “Maybe now you’ll start showing me some respect,” he mutters before taking a swig from the same bottle, without giving a fuck if the neck of it is covered in Kirk’s saliva.
“Ah, this is some fuckin’ quality whiskey, new guy. You should be grateful that I'm sharing.” He sits down on the couch and his eyes remain fixed on Kirk, who is slumped in the chair. His head is still drooping, breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. The alcohol coursing through Kirk’s system is overwhelming, his throat and stomach churned violently.
Suddenly, Kirk’s body convulses, and he can’t hold it in any longer. He vomits all over himself, the chair and the floor beneath him. The room fills with the acrid stench of bile and whiskey.
Dave’s face twists with fury and disgust. He stands abruptly, his fists clenched at his sides. “Ugh! You disgusting motherfucker!” He growls. “Look at you, pathetic piece of shit. You can’t even fuckin’ handle a little drink.”
Kirk is too weak to respond, his body shaking, his head hanging low. His throat burns and the wound on the back of his head is starting to hurt again. He feels humiliated, sick, and utterly defeated.
Dave takes a deep breath, trying to rein in his temper. “Jesus fucking Christ,“ he looks at the mess with revulsion, then glares back at Kirk’s face. “You’re not staying like this." He shakes his head. "You’re getting cleaned up.”
Dave removes the belt around Kirk’s chest and uncuffs him. Getting his hands dirty with the vomit in the process.
He cleans his hands on Kirk’s shoulder and looks down to him pitifully. “Goddamn it. You’re fucking gross,” Dave says as he kneels and rips off the tape from Kirk's ankles.
He grabs Kirk by the arm, yanking him up from the chair with a rough pull. Kirk stumbles, his legs barely able to support him, but Dave doesn’t care. He drags him towards the bathroom, his grip firm and unrelenting.
“You’re gonna take a shower,” Dave says coldly. “And don’t think about trying anything stupid.”
Kirk doesn’t have the strength to argue or resist. His mind is too clouded and his body weak and trembling. All he can do is follow Dave’s lead, the humiliation and fear mixing with the effects of the alcohol. Dave shoves the bathroom door open, flicking on the light. Kirk steps in right behind Dave. Half-lidded and sweating, he looks around.
“Take off your clothes,” Dave demands.
Kirk looks at him in disbelief. The thought of undressing in front of Dave fills him with dread. “I-I… what?” He stammers with a tembling voice.
“What? Did I fucking stutter?” Dave’s eyes narrow, his patience wearing thin. “I said, take them off,” he repeats, stepping closer. “Now.
Reluctantly, Kirk looks away as his hands move slowly to the hem of his dirty jacket. He hesitates, his fingers trembling, but the cold, unyielding look in Dave’s eyes leaves him with no choice. Dave turns on the shower, the sound of the water echoing in the small space. Kirk takes his jacket off, and slowly, he peels off his shirt, followed by his shoes, jeans and then, with a quick motion, he takes his boxers off. His cheeks are blushing and burning with humilitation.
Dave stands there, watching him intently, his expression is unreadable. For a moment, the room is filled with the sound of the running water and the awkward tension hanging in the air.
Realizing how weird the situation had become, Dave suddenly averts his gaze, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Don’t take too long,” he mutters, stepping back towards the door. “And leave the door open.”
Without another word, he walks out of the bathroom, leaving the door ajar.
Kirk hesitantly steps into the shower, the water cascading over him, doing little to wash away the fear and vulnerability that had taken root deep inside.
He stands motionless under the spray, watching as pinkish water swirls around the drain; his own blood and vomit and sweat mixed, disappearing.
The humiliation burns worse than his wounds. The memory of Dave standing there, arms crossed, ordering him to strip. The way Dave's eyes had lingered for a moment too long before turning away. The absolute powerlessness of it all.
Kirk closes his eyes. The hot water works its way into his rope-burned wrists, the cut on his face, the wound on his head. Each sting reminds him where he is. Who he's with. What's happening.
Minutes pass. The water keeps running. Kirk realizes this is the first time he's been alone since Dave grabbed him outside the bar. The first moment he's had to breathe, to think. He leans against the tile wall, suddenly exhausted. His legs want to give way. His chest tightens. He tries to hold it back. Tries to be strong. But alone, with the water masking any sound, something breaks inside him. The tears come suddenly; not dramatic sobs, but the quiet, desperate kind that speak of real fear. The kind that acknowledge: this is happening. This is real.
Fortunately, the water washes them away as quickly as they fall.
In the living room, Dave drinks straight from the bottle. The whiskey burns going down, but not enough. Nothing is enough to quiet the voice in his head.
What the hell am I doing?
He'd watched Kirk limp to the bathroom, still unsteady from the forced whiskey, skin marked by Dave's anger. Had seen the fear in his eyes, the wounded animal caution.
Another gulp of whiskey. His thoughts turn murky, confused. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He just wanted to confront the guy, make him understand what he'd stolen. Make him feel something of what Dave feels every day; the rejection, the replacement, the absolute fucking unfairness of it all.
But it had escalated. And worse—much worse—is the realization that he'd liked it. The power. The control. The way Kirk looked at him with fear instead of pity like when he was trying to convince Dave that "this isn't the right thing to do." He scoffs.
The sound of running water from the bathroom is constant, maddening. Minutes tick by. Five. Ten. How long has Kirk been in there?
Dave's patience, thin at the best of times, snaps completely.
"Kirk! Hurry the fuck up!" He shouts, the bottle sloshing in his hand.
Kirk’s heart jolts at the sudden interruption, his moment of fragile peace now shattered. "Yes," he calls back, his voice stronger than he feels.
He shuts off the water, sudden silence pressing against his ears. His hands shake slightly as he reaches for the towel. Every movement hurts. His skin is red from the heat, but it can't hide the marks; the scratches on his wrists from the rough ropes, the cut on his face, the tender spots where Dave's grip left impressions. He dries himself mechanically, mind racing.
What comes next? What new humiliation? What new pain?
The towel around his waist feels like inadequate armor, but it's all he has. He takes a breath, straightens his shoulders.
"Come here!" Dave's voice echoes through the small house.
Kirk tightens the towel around his waist, his body still damp, and hesitates for a moment before stepping out of the bathroom.
Kirk follows the sound, goosebumps rising on his damp skin in the cooler air. He finds Dave slouched on the couch, with that whiskey bottle on the coffee table. He's holding something small in his hand. It takes Kirk a moment to recognize it as a tube of superglue.
"Come here," Dave repeats, his voice lower now, slurred at the edges. The bottle on the table is significantly emptier than when Kirk last saw it.
Kirk approaches cautiously, like he's nearing a sleeping predator. "What's that for?" He asks softly.
“I heard you can close open wounds with this stuff. Figured I’d give it a shot on that gash on your head. Can’t have you bleeding all over the place.”
Kirk's hand moves to the back of his head without conscious thought. The wound is tender, wet. His fingers come away red. Something inside him calculates rapidly: the pain he's in now versus the potential pain of refusing Dave's bizarre offer of help.
Finally, he gave a small nod. “Okay.”
Dave gestures to the spot beside him. Kirk sits on the edge of the couch, his back to Dave, every muscle in his body tense. He flinches when Dave's hands touch his wet hair, parting it to examine the wound.
"Yeah, it's bleeding again," Dave says, his voice unexpectedly gentle.
Kirk hears movement, then feels something cold and wet pressed against the wound. The sharp sting of alcohol makes him groan, his body jerking involuntarily.
"Hold still," Dave murmurs. His touch is surprisingly careful, nothing like the brutal hands that had manhandled Kirk earlier. The contradiction is disorienting.
The alcohol stings, but the bleeding slows. Kirk hears the small click of the superglue cap being removed.
"Aight, this might sting," Dave warns, almost apologetic now.
The glue is cold, then quickly burning as Dave applies it to the edges of the wound. Kirk grips the couch cushion, knuckles white, jaw clenched so tight his teeth might crack. But he doesn't move. Doesn't make a sound.
Dave's fingers hold the edges of the wound together with unexpected precision. His hands are steady despite the alcohol. Guitarist's hands, Kirk thinks distantly. The same hands that created those brutal, intricate riffs Kirk had spent hours trying to learn.
"There," Dave says after a moment that stretches like taffy. "That should hold for now."
Kirk turns slowly, meeting Dave's eyes. What he sees there confuses him. The rage is still present, but it's muted now, overlaid with something else. Something that looks almost like concern, like regret. It's gone quickly, shuttered away behind Dave's usual hostility, but Kirk saw it. He's certain.
"Uh, thanks," Kirk says, unsure of what else to say.
Dave grunts in reply, leaning back and taking another deep pull from the whiskey bottle. His eyes are unfocused, movements slow and imprecise. Kirk watches him carefully, calculating. It almost seems like he's forgotten he has his prisoner next to him and should act like it. He seems too chill. No weapon in his hand; except that you want to consider that bottle as a weapon, and it would make sense, Dave has used a bottle as a weapon before.
The alcohol has dulled his thoughts, softened his edges, Kirk thinks.
This might be his only chance.
Kirk's eyes scan the room, searching for the revolver from earlier. Nothing. His gaze shifts to the kitchen where a knife block sits on the counter, black handles jutting up like beckoning fingers. Ten feet away. Maybe less.
Summoning his courage, Kirk clenches his fists.
Do it, Kirk. Now.
Kirk pivots and swings, his fist connecting with Dave's jaw in a solid crack. The impact sends pain shooting up his arm, but there's no time to register it. Dave's head snaps back, a surprised grunt escaping his lips as he tumbles against the couch cushions.
Kirk bolts. The kitchen tile is cold under his bare feet as he scrambles toward the knives.
Three more steps. Two.
The impact comes from behind, Dave's full weight crashing into him like a wave. An arm locks around Kirk's throat, cutting off his air. They both hit the floor hard, Kirk's elbow striking tile with a sickening crack.
"Fuckin' asshole!" Dave roars, his breath hot against Kirk's nape, whiskey-sour and dangerous. "You think you can just fuckin' walk outta here?"
Kirk thrashes in Dave's grip, desperate for air, for freedom. “Let me fuckin’ go, man!” Kirk shouts as loud as he can, but it comes out strangled due to Dave's arm around his neck. His elbow drives back into Dave's ribs. They wrestled on the floor, fists and elbows flying, both men yelling and groaning.
They roll across the kitchen floor, a violent tangle of limbs. He claws at Dave's arm, trying to break the chokehold. Dave's grip loosens just enough for Kirk to twist, to face him. In the chaos, Kirk's towel snags on something and tears away, leaving him naked and vulnerable, but survival trumps modesty. They grapple chest to chest now, Kirk's bare skin against Dave's shirt, both men breathing hard. Kirk's fist connects with Dave's side.
Dave's eyes drop, just for an instant, taking in Kirk's exposed state.
“What the-” Dave whispers shakily. His expression was no longer angry but uncomfortable, disgusted, even. Still, he didn’t stop fighting.
Kirk seizes the distraction. "Get the fuck off me! Psycho!" His teeth find Dave's shoulder, biting down hard through the fabric of his shirt.
Dave howls, more in shock than pain. His grip loosens further.
Their fight continued, a brutal clash of will and strength. With Kirk now on him, apparently winning the battle, his leg inadvertently brushed against Dave’s crotch, feeling something; and Kirk freezes.
He looks down.
Damn.
Dave is hard.
His erection (though he's obviously not rock-hard) is very evident as it strains against the tight jeans.
The realization hits him like a freight train.
Time seems to stop. Sweat cools on Kirk's skin.
"What the..." Kirk can't finish the thought, can't process what's happening. His eyes meet Dave's, looking for denial, explanation, anything.
Dave's face flushes dark red. Shame and fury battle in his expression. His grip on Kirk loosens, not in surrender but in profound discomfort. "Shut up," he groans. "God. Just... shut the fuck up."
The fight was almost forgotten, replaced by a surreal and uncomfortable silence that stretched between them.