One million deaths
Kirk’s mouth opens, but before he could speak, Dave’s fist collides with his jaw. The blow sent him tumbling back, momentarily disoriented. Dave isn't done. Another punch lands in Kirk's stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a violent whoosh. Then another to his face. The force of the punches knock the wind out of Kirk, making him dizzy and desperate for air. His vision blurs, pain radiating through his skull as he struggles to stay upright.
He doesn't even have time to raise his arms before Dave shoves him against the wall. The impact rattles his body, Kirk's head connects with the plaster and for a moment, everything went black. The dizziness lingers and his head spins as he tries to steady himself. But in that instant, Dave seizes the opportunity. He grabs the knife Kirk had been reaching for, holding it tightly in his hand. He had forgotten the revolver was behind his belt this whole time.
“You think you can fuckin' run? You-you think you can get away?” Dave growls.
Kirk’s chest heaves as he gasps for air, the tears welling in his eyes despite his efforts to keep them at bay. He was so close, so close to breaking free. His mind screams for him to escape, to fight back, to do whatever it takes. But Dave is relentless, and with the knife in hand, he isn’t about to let Kirk slip away.
Before Kirk could react, Dave grabbed his wrists and forced him down into the chair. His legs feel like jelly, his body unwilling to cooperate as Dave tightens the handcuffs around his wrists, securing him to the chair once again.
Kirk’s breath hitches, a frustrated sob escaping his throat. He tries to twist in the chair, to break free, but the cuffs bite into his skin, and the weight of Dave’s presence on top of him makes every movement feel impossible. His body trembles, and tears spill down his face.
He had been so close. He had almost made it out. The suffocating frustration crushes him, and for a fleeting second, he feels like giving in to it all. His mind races, battling with the hopelessness of his situation. But he can’t; he refuses to.
“Fuck,” Dave whispers to himself. Dave paces the room, his fists clench at his sides. His mind is a storm of conflicting emotions. "Fuck," he says again, louder this time. His thoughts are a hurricane, battering against the inside of his skull. He had shown mercy, at least a bit. Let the guy eat, shower, even cleaned his wounds. Christ, he'd practically played nurse. And this is the thanks he gets? This betrayal?
But, he can't shake the awkwardness of what had just happened. The memory of their bodies tangled on the floor, of Kirk's naked form beneath him, and the unmistakable response of his own body. His dick is already softening, thank God.
Just the heat of the moment and the adrenaline, that’s all it was. Definitely.
He stops mid-step, staring down at the floor as his thoughts swirl. With a sudden burst of anger, Dave turns toward Kirk, who was chained to the chair again, naked, looking up at him with narrow eyes. While he's making an inhuman effort not to look at Kirk completely flaccid dick (unlike his) the words slip out before he can stop them.
“You’re such an ungrateful motherfucker. I tried to feed you, I let you shower, and I even took care of your damn wounds. And you still try to fucking escape? Why?!”
He can't believe it. It doesn’t make sense.
What the hell is wrong with him?
Dave was trying to do something... something decent, something humane. Yet, despite all the effort, Kirk still wants to run. He feels like a fool.
Kirk's eyebrows knit together, disbelief etched into every line of his face. He looks up at Dave, and when he speaks, his voice is low and steady.
“Are you seriously expecting me to thank you after-”
“What? You think you’re innocent?” He shakes his head. “Shit. Fucking fag.” His voice is soft but his words filled with venom.
“You calling me a fag?” Kirk’s voice rises. His eyes widen. “You're the one who got hard while you were under me. So who's the real problem here?”
Dave freezes, his mind racing. He feels the blood rush to his cheeks. His breath quickens, and his voice comes out strained. “No, no! I’m not the fucking gay one,” he snaps, trying to recover. “You were the one fucking… grinding on me.” His face twists into a disgusted expression. “And- and rubbing against me like a fuckin' dog while you were fucking naked!”
Kirk's stomach drops, and a harsh laugh escapes him; not humor, but pure disbelief.
"What the fuck are you talking about? You told me to get naked in front of you to fulfill your faggy fantasies, you were the one who started it!" His voice trembles, but there's steel beneath the shake.
Dave’s grip on the knife tightens.
He takes a step closer and put the knife in front of his face. “Say that again, I dare you, motherfucker.” Maybe he got a little too defensive. But, it wasn’t true. Like at all. He would never want to see Kirk naked, why would he? Fuck Kirk.
He feels the heat of his own shame mixing with his rage at this humongous lie. “Goddamnit, you’re dumb as shit,” Dave mutters, his voice suddenly flat. He couldn’t explain the mess of feelings swirling inside him, but the one thing he was sure of was his need to hold control, to dominate. So...
“Listen, shut your damn mouth, okay?” He snarls, even though Kirk was already silent. “Just... don’t say another fucking word.”
Kirk shifts uncomfortably in the chair, still painfully aware of his nakedness. Cold sweat prickles his skin, but he forces himself to stay calm. “Okay but, Dave... can you at least cover me up? This is... it’s humiliating.”
Dave looks over at him, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just stares at Kirk with a blank expression. Then, with a small, reluctant nod, he grabs fallen towel and tosses it over Kirk's lap.
“There,” Dave mutters, almost as if he was annoyed with himself for showing even that small bit of decency. The knife remains clutched in his hand, forgotten but not gone.
Kirk watches him carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly. He isn’t sure what to make of Dave’s sudden shift in demeanor. Whatever is going on in Dave’s head, it doesn’t matter. In this moment, Dave had given Kirk something; something small, but significant. The power of observation, of understanding, of seeing Dave’s cracks.
Kirk takes a deep breath, trying to steady his thoughts.
Dave glances over at Kirk, his eyes half-lidded.
“You wanna watch TV or something?” He asks, his voice gruff but lacking its usual bite.
Kirk blinks, unsure if he heard correctly. The absurdity of the situation hits him; here he was, tied to a chair, naked except for a towel, and Dave was asking if he wanted to watch TV. The contrast between the violence of moments ago and the mundanity of the offer was… jarring.
“Uh... sure,” he ends up replying cautiously.
Dave stands up and turned on the TV with a sigh. The small screen flickers to life, filling the room with the soft hum of static before he flips through the channels. He settles on something mindless, barely paying attention as he leans back into the couch. He clicks his tongue, and quickly stands up again and looks for something in a drawer next to the TV. For a little bag with a white powder. It's obvious what it is. And it becomes more obvious when Dave puts a little bit on the table and snorts it.
Kirk shifts slightly on the chair, his eyes flicking between the TV and Dave snorting fucking cocaine. The mindless chatter from the screen does little to distract him from the awkward silence that hangs between them. He decides to break it, his voice casual but laced with underlying tension.
"This is boring," Kirk says. His eyes drift to the electric guitar leaning against the wall. "I'd rather be playing guitar."
Dave chuckles and rubs his nose. He reaches for the whiskey bottle, takes a swig. "Yeah, I get that." His laugh changes, takes on an edge. "But you? Play guitar? Nah. You're not touching my guitars."
Kirk feels his jaw tighten but keeps his voice level. "Fine. Then maybe... you could play something."
Dave's eyes light up. "Sure." He stands, crosses to his guitar, and plugs it into the amp. His fingers find the strings, muscle memory taking over. "You can watch and learn, newbie."
Kirk wants to roll his eyes but doesn’t rise to the bait. He watches as Dave starts playing, and the notes are instantly recognizable. They are classic Metallica’s aggressive and powerful riffs. Kirk’s eyes narrowed slightly as he listened.
“Ah, 'The Four Horsemen',” Kirk says. “It has been my favorite since I listened to it, James is a fuckin’ genius for writing that.”
Dave stops playing abruptly, his fingers hovering over the strings. His expression darkens, and he scoffs. “James?” He repeats. “Yeah, he’s a genius, all right.”
Kirk frowns. "What? C'mon Dave, I know you're mad at him but you gotta give credit where credit is due."
Dave turns to face him. His eyes burn. "James didn't write this goddamn riff. I did. Every fucking note. That was me."
Kirk's mouth opens slightly, mumbling, unsure of what to respond to that. "What? Really? But James never... he never said-"
“He didn’t have to,” Dave cuts him off coldly. “Why give credit to the guy you kicked out, right? Better to let everyone think he’s a useless drug addict.”
He felt a pang of sympathy, unexpected and definitely unwanted. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly.
"Yeah, of course you didn't," Dave says and his grip tightens the neck of the guitar. "Nobody does. But now you do. So don't give me that James is a genius crap. And it's fuckin' called 'The Mechanix'."
He resumes playing.
Kirk looks down. After a moment, he lifted his gaze back to Dave. “I didn’t know,” he said again, more earnestly this time. “And... I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, you’re actually a good guitarist. Better than good, actually.”
Dave pauses. For a moment, he looks genuinely taken aback. “Yeah?”
Kirk nods. “Yeah. I mean it.”
Dave scratches the back of his neck, his tough exterior cracking just a little. “Ah, well.” He shrugs. “Thanks, I guess,” he says, the word awkward and hesitant, as if it didn’t come easily to him. He keeps playing lazily.
A heavy silence of words fills the room, and then, unexpectedly, Dave stops and sighs. “Look,” he begins, “about earlier... I’m sorry. For, you know, hitting you. And throwing you against the wall. And... uh, cutting your face.”
Kirk blinks, caught off guard by the sudden apology. “Yeah,” he says, trying to keep up.
Dave’s face twists into a grimace, and he continues, his words rushing out. “I've been doing martial arts since I was a kid, I couldn't help it." Kirk blinks, struggling to find the correlation.
"And, uh, yeah, shoving that whiskey bottle down your throat. That was... not cool.”
Kirk couldn’t help it; a small, incredulous giggle escapes him. The sheer disparity between the reasons for their apologies is almost funny. “Yeah, not cool is one way to put it,” he says, chuckling despite himself.
Dave smirks awkwardly. “Yeah, well... I’m not exactly great at this ‘apologizing’ thing.”
Kirk shook his head, still laughing softly. “I can tell.”
Dave leaned back and sighed. “So, you think the guys are out looking for you?”
They're probably more worried about their hangover and buying booze and weed, Dave.
Kirk hesitates, then nods slowly. “They probably are... but I don’t think they’re too worried yet. You know them, they’re not exactly the type to panic right away.”
Dave smirks, a bitter edge to his expression. “Figures. They’ve always been more about the band than the people in it.”
“They’ll start worrying eventually. Maybe in a day or two.”
Dave’s gaze sharpens. “What about your family? Think they’re worried?”
Kirk sighs, glancing down at the floor. “My mom and siblings will start looking when I don’t answer their calls. Probably in a couple of days.” And that is one thing Kirk is sure about.
Dave tilts his head, a dark curiosity flickering in his eyes. “And what about your dad?” He asks softly.
Kirk’s chuckles, and he looks away. “Uh, no, he’s out of my life,” he said quietly. “He, you know, drank a lot, and he was... he’s an asshole. I don’t talk to him.”
For a moment, there's an awkward silence. And Kirk is used to that, people don't usually know how to respond to these things, and he would've avoided the question if it seemed like a possible option. It didn't.
Then Dave lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. “I can relate to that. My old man was an asshole too.”
Kirk glances at him, surprised by the sudden admission. “Yeah?”
Dave nods. “Mhm. He wasn’t much of a father. Just a drunk piece of shit who liked to take his problems out on everyone else.” He pauses, then shakes his head. “But it doesn’t matter. He’s not around anymore.
Kirk nods slowly, absorbing the words. Despite everything, a strange, fragile connection seemed to form between them; a shared understanding of past wounds that still lingers.
Dave’s voice softens slightly, losing its usual harshness. “You ever think about that? How much our past messes us up?”
“Uh,” Kirk hesitates, then answered quietly: “Sometimes. But I try not to let it control me.”
“Right,” Dave answers, the bitterness returning. “Good luck with that.” He puts the guitar aside and snorts the white line on the coffe table again.
Dave's gaze drifts over Kirk, and he notices, for the first time since their last confrontation, that Kirk is, in fact, still only covered by a single towel. A flicker of something (embarrassment, awkwardness perhaps) crosses his face.
"Uh, would you want to borrow some clothes? For now?" Dave asks, his tone surprisingly casual given the circumstances.
Kirk nods. "Yeah, that’d be... good."
Without another word, Dave walks to his room, leaving Kirk alone in the living room. He opens his closet and rummages through his clothes, carefully selecting items that could fit and, he thought, might even look decent on Kirk. After a moment of deliberation, he chose a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, simple but practical.
Returning to the living room, Dave sighs, rubbing the back of his neck with the clothes in his hands. "I’d leave you alone to get dressed, but..." He reaches for the knife on the coffee table. "I’m not taking any chances. I don’t trust you not to try something."
Kirk shakes his head. "I won’t. I swear."
Dave stares at him. The kid's face is pale, a cut on his cheekbone, a bruise already forming along his jaw where Dave's fist connected earlier.After a long moment, he nods. He moves forward, holding the knife steady as he unties Kirk’s restraints and removes the handcuffs. His eyes flick to Kirk’s face, gauging his reaction.
"I’ll give you a moment," Dave says quietly. "And if you try to do something… Well, you already know." He turns his back, facing the wall.
Kirk exhales slowly, relieved to be free from the bonds. He rubs his wrists where the cuffs have left angry red marks. He begins dressing quickly. He reaches for the clothes Dave has brought; a faded Black Sabbath t-shirt and a pair of jeans worn soft with age. As he pulls the shirt over his head, he's struck by how large it is. Dave is at least four inches taller than him, with broader shoulders and a more substantial frame. Kirk isn't so small, exactly, but he's always been on the lean side; "scrawny," as his father used to say with contempt. He glances toward Dave, noting the way he stood stiffly, knife still in hand, yet clearly trying to give him a semblance of privacy.
"I'm done," Kirk said softly.
Dave turns around again, his eyes briefly scanning Kirk, now fully dressed in his borrowed clothes. “Uh, you look good…” He realizes that statement could be taken the wrong way, so he fixes it, “...’Cause my clothes are fuckin’ awesome.”
He gives a small, approving nod, though his expression remains guarded. “Now sit back down."
Kirk complied, sitting on the edge of the chair. Dave bounds him to the chair again.
He reaches down and grabs the bundle of Kirk’s dirty clothes, wrinkling his nose at the sight and smell of the vomit-stained fabric. He holds them at arm's length and murmurs: "I’ll take these to the laundry tomorrow."
Kirk watches him, a strange sensation stirring in his chest at the mention of tomorrow. Dave’s next words, however, caught him off guard.
"And tomorrow," Dave continues, "you’ll be alone here. I’ve gotta go to work."
The words hit Kirk unexpectedly. For a moment—just a moment—something like unease flickers through him. Not fear of being alone in a strange place, but something more fundamental. Kirk has never liked emptiness, silence. Even terrible company has always seemed better than no company at all. The thought surprises him, makes him uncomfortable with himself.
What the hell? He thinks. I should be glad to be rid of him.
He tries to focus on the opportunity ahead; time alone, a chance to escape. But that instinctive reaction bothers him. It's not that he wants Dave around—God, no—but the prospect of hours in empty silence, with nothing but his own thoughts, feels like its own kind of prison.
The reaction isn't about Dave at all. It's about Kirk. Always has been. Back home, he'd fill silence with guitar, with music, with anything to keep the empty spaces from growing too large. His father had called it weakness.
Maybe it was...
No. This is different, he tells himself. This can't be about needing someone around. This is survival. Take it seriously, Kirk.
Dave tosses the dirty clothes into a plastic bag. When he turns back, his face has softened slightly. "I don't work that many hours anyway," he says. "I won't be gone for long."
Kirk nods, not trusting himself to speak. He doesn't want Dave to see how the thought of being completely alone in this unfamiliar place unsettles him; not because he's grown attached to his captor, but because solitude has always been his quiet enemy.
Dave smirks gently. "Listen, there’s something I’m excited about." He hesitates for a moment, then continued, "I’m starting my own band."
Kirk raises an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Dave says, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. "I’ve already got a name for it. It’s going to be called ‘Megadeath’."
"Megadeath?"
"Yeah," Dave repeats, smiling widely, wider than Kirk’s ever seen (not that he’s known him for too long, but still).
"It’s going to be faster, and heavier, and more metal than Metallica ever was."
Kirk hesitates, choosing his words carefully. "That’s... that’s great, Dave. But, maybe you shouldn’t do it just out of spite, or with the sole goal of being better than Metallica."
Dave’s expression darkens instantly. "What?" He snaps.
"I’m just saying," Kirk continues, trying to keep his tone calm. "If your band is only about outshining Metallica, it’s going to be stuck in their shadow. It should be its own thing, not just a-a reaction to them."
Dave’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. "You think…” Dave shakes his head, looking at Kirk as if he were stupid. “No, of course you don’t fuckin’ get it." He scoffs.
Kirk sighs, sensing the conversation spiraling. "Look, Dave, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just think you’re talented enough to do something incredible on your own terms, not just to prove a point."
Dave takes a step back, the hurt evident in his eyes. "You’re the first person I’ve told this to," he mutters, his voice tinged with disappointment. He's thinking out loud.
Kirk doesn't deserve to be the first one to know about it, what the hell are you doing?
"And that’s an honor, Dave," Kirk says honestly, trying to bridge the gap. "That’s why I’m being honest with you."
Dave clenches his fists, torn between his anger and the sting of Kirk’s words. "You don’t get it," he finally says. "This isn’t just about them. It’s about me, about what I can do."
"I believe in you," Kirk says, meaning it. "But you need to believe in yourself for the right reasons."
Dave shakes his head and turns away. He walks to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door as he unzips his fly to take a piss.
Huh, the revolver was there the whole time. He snorts.
The conversation had cut deeper than he cared to admit, leaving him reeling. Not just a shadow... not just a reaction. It stings because, deep down, he knows Kirk has a point. But admitting that? No way. Impossible.
He glances back at Kirk, still tied to that chair, looking small and lost in Dave's clothes. The sight sparks something in Dave's mind; a way to regain control, to make his mark. His eyes narrow as a plan begins to form.
They took everything from me, Dave thinks, his anger a living thing inside him. But I can take something from them.
The thought grows, taking shape with each passing moment. Kirk could be his weapon, his tool to strike back. If Kirk called the Metallica guys and told them he was quitting because he can't handle the pressure, it would be a blow they wouldn't expect. And if Kirk said he didn't want to see them ever again? It would leave them reeling.
Yeah. That’ll hit them where it hurts.
His mind races with the possibilities.
Kirk's voice, delivering those words of rejection, would be the ultimate revenge. It wouldn't just be about Dave's pain anymore; it would be about taking control, about showing Metallica they weren't untouchable. Dave's eyes harden as the plan solidifies in his mind. He will make Kirk do it, and in doing so, he'll reclaim a piece of what had been stolen from him. Perfect, poetic justice.
He would make Kirk do it, and in doing so, he’d reclaim a piece of what had been stolen from him. It was a perfect, poetic justice; one that he would savor.