It speaks my name
After a couple days, the Sunday morning light sliced through the gaps in the dusty venetian blinds, falling in sharp geometric patterns across Dave's face. His eyes cracked open, a dull throb behind his temples reminding him of last night's whiskey. Three empty beer bottles stood on his nightstand, casualties of another sleepless night spent wrestling with melodies that wouldn't leave his head. His morning ritual awaited: coffee, cigarette, and tormenting the man tied to the chair in his living room. Dave swings his long legs over the side of the bed, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight; a sound that had become as familiar as his own heartbeat in this shithole house.
Stretching, he makes his way to the kitchen. But as he approaches Kirk, still tied to that chair, something seems off. Kirk's face is pale, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brows. His breathing is labored, and his eyes are oddly dull, lacking their usual spark of resistance or fear.
“What's the matter with you?” Dave asks, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Kirk mumbles something behind the tape covering his mouth.
Dave rips the tape off, his frustration mingled with concern. “Speak up.”
Kirk winces, licking his dry lips. “I… I just feel really bad. I’m sure I’ve got a fever or something.”
Dave frowns, leaning closer to place a hand on Kirk’s forehead. The heat radiating from Kirk’s skin is undeniable. Dave pulls back, a mix of irritation and worry crossing his face.
“Huh, great,” Dave jokes.
“Maybe it's because of all those cold showers, you know...”
But Dave doesn't answer him and just puts the tape back on his mouth. He grabs his keys and slams the door behind him, muttering under his breath about how he doesn’t need this kind of hassle.
After what felt like an eternity to Kirk, Dave returns, a small bag from the drugstore in hand. He pulls out a mercury thermometer and some fever medicine. Without a word, he rips the tape off and pops the thermometer into Kirk’s mouth, tapping his foot impatiently as he waits.
“I don’t know how long you’re supposed to keep it there.” Dave sighs. “But the lady at the drugstore told me that anything above ninety-nine degrees is fever or some shit like that.”
He waits a minute.
Pulling it out, Dave reads the result: 101.3°F.
He scowls, recalling what the lady said.
“Well, looks like you’ve got a fever,” Dave says nonchalantly. Kirk almost notices a hint of concern in Dave’s tone, but then decides it might be the fever making him hallucinate stuff that doesn’t make sense.
Dave rummages through the drugstore plastic bag. He pulls out a box of aspirin. “These should help.” He pops two pills out.
Kirk nods weakly, grateful for the small gesture of care, even if it was begrudging.
Dave puts the medicine on Kirk's tongue and allows him to drink some water, watching closely as Kirk swallows.
He freezes for a moment, unsure of what to say, before finally turning away. He goes to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast and Kirk’s.
Dave sets a plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in front of Kirk, his usual sneer replaced with something softer. "Here, eat up. You need to keep your strength up," he says, settling into the couch.
As Kirk picks at the food, Dave leaned back, arms crossed. "Oh, by the way,” he pulls a newspaper from a bag he had next to the couch, and shows it to Kirk. “Look,” he points, “I already set up the announcement in the newspaper. Looking for a lead guitarist and drummer.” He puts the newspaper down. “Things are finally fuckin’ moving."
Kirk blinks, the confusion evident in his tired eyes. "Wait... I thought you said I was going to be the lead guitarist."
Dave laughs out loud. "Why do you care? You didn’t seem all that excited when I first mentioned it. Thought you’d be relieved."
Kirk frowns, his mind muddled from fever and fatigue. “Well, ‘Megadeth’? Without the a?”
Dave’s eyes light up, and he leans forward, a spark of enthusiasm breaking through his usual demeanor “Yes.” He smirks. “It was the bassist’s idea. It’s more… aesthetic. Pleasing to the eye. You wouldn't get it.”
"Huh, you already got a bassist then."
"Yeah, met him not too long ago. His name’s David too... but he’s younger than me so I just started calling him 'Dave Junior'. Sometimes only 'Junior'. He doesn’t seem to like it that much but, eh, I don’t care. He’s like a… like a twin but, like, younger. A younger, smaller version of me, y’know.” He smiles. “Anyway, he's got a killer style, solid as a rock. He's perfect for Megadeth."
He pauses, a faint smile on his lips as he recounts the memory. "Um, we met at some music shop. I was messing around on a guitar I wanted to buy, and he walked up, started chatting about gear. One thing led to another, and we ended up jamming for, like, fuckin’ hours. The kid’s got talent and, y’know, he’s got the right mindset. No bullshit, no ego. Just pure dedication."
Dave's gaze drifts, as if reliving the moment, before snapping back to Kirk. "So yeah, Megadeth's coming together. It’s going to be something big, I can feel it."
Kirk nods slowly, unsure of how to feel about being left out of this vision Dave had for the future.
If he doesn’t even want me in his band, why keep on having me here then?
The fever clouds his thoughts, but one thing is clear; Dave is as unpredictable as ever, leaving Kirk to navigate this bizarre relationship where control and moments of vulnerability are constantly shifting.
As the evening stretched into night, Kirk's condition seemed to worsen. His face was flushed, and a deep fatigue weighed on him, making even the smallest movements feel monumental. Dave noticed the change, his usual smugness replaced by a rare flicker of concern.
"How you feeling?" Dave asks, leaning against the counter with a beer on his hand, his voice unusually soft.
Kirk, too worn out to maintain any pretense, replied honestly: "really bad... worse than earlier." He sighs. “This headache's really killin’ me.”
Dave chews on his lip, deliberating. It's time to sleep, and it would be really cruel to let Kirk sleep in a chair, sitting down, taking his condition into account. Even in Dave's twisted mind that seems like too much of an asshole move.
"Fine. Listen... um,” he hesitates, “you should just sleep in my bed tonight.”
Kirk looks at him, frowning, taken aback by the strangely nice proposal. “What? Seriously?”
“Yeah… only-only for tonight though.”
Dave grabs his revolver as a precaution (as always) before freeing Kirk from the chair. He leads him to the bedroom, helping him sit down before cuffing one of his hands to the bedstead. Only one; a small concession of trust. Dave is tense, unsure how to navigate this somewhat softer moment, but he's committed now.
"So... goodnight," Dave mutters.
“Night,” Kirk said, with a smile on his face.
Dave nodded, leaving his room back and retreating to the couch.
Kirk, despite the discomfort of the cuff and the strange situation, found solace in the bed's warmth and the quiet. For the first time in days, he feels just safe enough to drift off. His body relaxed, the fever pulling him into a deep, restorative sleep, free from the usual torment of his captivity. He throws his head back, his body relaxing just slightly. He knows he should be plotting his escape, thinking of ways to get out of this situation. But for now, the urgency is dulled, his spirit momentarily quieted. His mind is so tired from thinking, panicking and stressing. Kirk’s brain and body give in to the overwhelming fatigue. As he drifts in and out of consciousness, fleeting images of better times flicker through his dreams; moments of laughter, music, and freedom. The shadows of his current reality faded into the background, allowing him a fleeting taste of solace.
Dave woke early the next morning, his mind surprisingly clear despite the uncomfortable night on the cheap couch. He stretched his arms, and remembered Kirk's situation. So he decided to head out for groceries.
At the supermarket, shrugging it off, he picked up some soup and anything else he thought might help Kirk feel better. Hm, he should’ve asked him what his favorite food was.
Returning home, Dave gently places the grocery bags on the table and walks over to his room. He quietly enters the room where Kirk is still cuffed but sleeping peacefully. For a moment, he just stands there, watching Kirk’s chest rise and fall with each breath. It's strange seeing him like this; so vulnerable, yet calm.
Uh, he doesn’t look too bad with that new haircut I did on him the other day.
He leans, shaking Kirk’s shoulder. "Hey, wake up. Brought you some soup."
Kirk stirs, his eyes fluttering open. He looks up at Dave, the haze of sleep still clinging to him. Despite the exhaustion, there was a hint of gratitude in his expression.
"You always been this scrawny, man?" Dave chuckles. "You need to eat."
Kirk looks at him, caught off guard by the gentleness.
Dave helps him sit up against the headboard, movements careful as if handling something fragile. He hands Kirk the bowl of soup, steam rising in lazy curls. The spoon clinks against ceramic as Dave settles on the edge of the bed, watching Kirk take his first tentative sips. The room feels oddly quiet, almost domestic, as if the previous days of hell have temporarily slipped into another dimension.
"How'd you sleep?" Dave asks. He's trying for casual, but there's an undercurrent of genuine curiosity.
Kirk nods slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Surprisingly well," he says. "First time in days."
Dave's mouth twitches into what might be a smirk. "Yeah, bet that chair wasn't exactly a five-star hotel." He pauses, his fingers drumming an absent rhythm against his thigh. "Figured you might sleep better in a real bed... for now."
Kirk glances up, surprise flickering across his face at this unexpected consideration. The soup is warm in his lap, spreading comfort through his system. "Wait... why aren't you at work today?"
Dave shrugs, eyes dropping to a loose thread on his jeans. He tugs at it, wraps it around his finger until the tip turns white. "Just called in sick." Another shrug, this one almost defensive. "Took the day off."
"Why?"
"Um, well, just..." Dave swallows, eyes shifting to the window, the floor, anywhere but Kirk's face. "Someone should keep an eye on you. You looked like crap last night, still do."
A faint smile creeps onto Kirk's lips, unbidden. "That's... really nice of you. Thank- Thank you."
Dave scoffs, waving it off with a dismissive hand. "Sure. Don't get used to it," he mutters. "Someone's just gotta make sure you don't fuckin' keel over."
Kirk chuckles softly. "Well, thanks, I guess."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then: "So, what’s your favorite food?" Dave asks, out of nowhere.
Kirk blinks, caught off guard. "Uh... probably pasta or... like, sushi. Why?"
"Just thinking ahead. If you're gonna be stuck here, might as well get you something you like. Someday. When you actually behave."
Kirk's face stiffens, the brief moment of normalcy cracking. "...You're planning on keeping me here that long?"
"Who knows?" Dave's shoulders rise and fall in another shrug. "But if you are, might as well make it bearable."
Kirk doesn't know how to respond to that, so he just nods and continues eating his soup, the metal spoon scraping against the ceramic bowl.
Dave stands, stretches. "Gotta take a piss," he announces, and leaves the room.
Left alone, Kirk stares at the half-empty bowl in his hands. Despite everything this moment feels oddly normal, even comforting. The bed is soft beneath him, the soup warm in his stomach. The crushing weight of fear has, for this brief interval, lifted from his chest.
When Dave returns, he's carrying a glass of water and more medication. He holds them out to Kirk, his expression unreadable.
It almost looks like... care?
No, Kirk thinks. He just wants to keep his toy alive. His punching bag functioning. You can't take your anger out on a corpse.
As Kirk swallows the pills, Dave digs into his pocket, pulling out a joint. The flame from his Zippo briefly illuminated his face in golden light as he lights it. He takes a long drag, the cherry glowing bright red, before extending it towards Kirk. "Wanna hit?"
Kirk's lips curve into a slight smirk. "Sure, why not." He takes the joint between his fingers—the ones not limited by the handcuff still locked around his wrist—and inhales deeply. The smoke fills his lungs; it feels good. Warm and familiar. The scent reminds him of Cliff. He holds it, then releases slowly, watching the gray cloud dissipate towards the ceiling.
A strange, shared smile passes between them. Dave reclaims the joint, eyes following the smoke's lazy spiral. "Been thinking about Megadeth," he says, breaking the comfortable silence.
"Hm, really?"
He nods. “Yeah, when it's all done, I'll quit my fuckin’ job to focus completely on the band.”
“Uh, did… someone call to be on the drums or guitar?” Kirk asks, unsure of what to say, but he tries to keep the conversation going.
“Only a couple, but y’know, it’s only been a day,” Dave gestures vaguely. “I gotta… take it slowly.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“‘Cause good things take time and… Yeah, all of that shit.” He laughs and takes another drag, not entirely believing what he was saying.
He passes the joint back to Kirk, who takes another long drag. Dave watches him through the haze, studying the way Kirk's lips wrap around the paper, how the smoke clouds his face when he exhales. Then, realizing what he's doing, Dave looks away.
"I also thought about what you said," Dave says. "And... I really don't know why I care so much about Metallica."
Kirk glances at him, surprised by this admission. "I mean, it makes sense. They were a big part of your life."
Kirk nods slowly, the weed making his movements deliberate. "I get that. It's hard to let go of something that was so important."
Dave takes another drag, his gaze fixed on something distant, something Kirk can't see. "I just... I don't wanna be in their shadow. Megadeth needs to be its own thing, not just 'that band Dave started after Metallica.'"
Kirk passes the joint back, their fingers brushing briefly. "You are talented," he says, his voice soft but firm. "Megadeth can be something great, but you've gotta do it for you, not to prove something to them."
Dave looks at him directly then, the corners of his mouth twitching into what might almost be a genuine smile. "Yeah, you're probably right... Not that I'll admit it too often."
Kirk chuckles. "Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone."
They passed the joint back and forth, the air growing more relaxed.
Dave leans back, eyes half-lidded, joint balanced between his fingers. "You wanna, uh, maybe play some guitar?" The question is almost shy, as if he's afraid of the answer.
Kirk's eyes widen, a genuine smile spreading across his face like sunrise. "What? Seriously? Yes, yeah, I'd love to."
Dave grins, clearly pleased by Kirk's enthusiasm. He stands, takes the empty soup bowl, and leaves the room. When he returns, he's carrying two guitars and an amp. He plugs everything in with practiced efficiency, then hands one of the guitars to Kirk before taking the other for himself. "Let's jam a bit," he says, settling down beside Kirk, the joint now perched between his lips.
Kirk takes the guitar like it's a long-lost friend, fingers running over the strings with reverence. The single handcuff still around his wrist limits his movement somewhat, but he adjusts, finding his way around the restriction. He strummed a few chords, the sound filling the room. "Man, I’ve missed this," he admits, with a look of contentment washing over him.
They begin to play together, and something unexpected happens. Their melodies blend seamlessly, conversations held in notes rather than words. Dave leads with a riff he's been working on for Megadeth; aggressive yet precise, like the man himself; and Kirk follows, adding his own flourishes.
Their laughter comes easier now, loosened by the weed and the music. Yeah, they're fucking high.
After what could be minutes or hours—time stretches and contracts in the hazy room—they pause. Dave looks over at Kirk, face flushed with excitement, eyes bright in a way they haven't been since this shit began. For a moment, he doesn't look like a prisoner. He looks like-
a friend?
-a fellow musician.
"That was amazing," Kirk says, voice filled with genuine wonder.
Dave nods, with a satisfied grin on his face. "You’ve got some serious chops, man. No wonder you’re in Metallica."
Kirk’s smile fades subtly. “Well, after what you did, not anymore, I guess,” he tries to joke, but it still comes off the wrong way.
And the spell breaks. Just like that.
Kirk keeps playing lazily but Dave’s smile is already erased from his face. He looks at Kirk pitifully, but can’t bring himself to apologize, or do anything that could soften the fact that he’d, in fact, crushed Kirk’s dream brutally. His eyes flick to Kirk’s neck, where faint bruises still paint the skin; reminders of his own violent outburst just days ago. The sight twists something deep in his gut, a sickening mix of guilt and the dark satisfaction he hates to admit feeling.
Kirk interrupts his thoughts. “Hey,” he ventures cautiously, sensing the shift, “I think my fever’s gone, though.”
Dave stands abruptly. The floorboards creak beneath his sudden movement. He takes the guitar from Kirk's hands—not roughly, but firmly—and places both instruments aside with care. Without a word, he walks out of the room, leaving Kirk sitting there, the growing dread in his eyes visible even from the doorway.
Kirk tugs absently at the handcuff, metal biting into his wrist. The reminder of his situation—kidnapped, helpless—shatters whatever remained of their momentary connection.
When Dave returns, his expression is dark, unreadable, and in his hand, he holds a sharp blade. Not a kitchen knife, but a hunting blade, the kind that means business. His grip on it tightens as he steps closer. He hates the power he feels holding that blade, hates how it makes him look, but at the same time, he craves it. He despises the person he's becoming...
Yet, he can't stop the descent, can't pull out of this dive.
"You need to remember why you're here," Dave says, voice stripped of the warmth it held while they played. "You don't get to joke about Metallica. Not after everything."
Kirk's throat works as he swallows. He attempts a chuckle that comes out strangled. "Wha-what? Dave, c'mon," he whispers, fear threading through each word. "I- we were just playing, talking. I didn't mean-"
"I can’t let you forget," Dave mutters, as if convincing himself more than Kirk. "You’re here because I need you to understand."
Kirk shakes his head, eyes never leaving the blade. "Dave, you don't have to do this," he tries again, his voice steadying despite the fear. "We can just talk. We don't have to go back to this."
Dave sits beside him on the bed, close enough that Kirk can smell the weed on his breath. The mattress dips under their combined weight, forcing Kirk to lean slightly towards Dave; towards the knife. Dave brings the blade closer, letting the edge catch the afternoon light. It glints, almost beautiful in its deadliness.
"Dave, no-"
"Yeah, that’s right," Dave murmurs in an unsettlingly soft voice. "I like hearing you beg. It reminds me that you’re mine now."
Kirk’s breath catches in his throat. His brow furrows. “What?” He asks, hating how vulnerable and shaky it came out.
Dave's eyes don't blink, fixed on Kirk's with unnerving intensity. "You're mine now, aren't you? I can do whatever the fuck I want with you."
Kirk frowns again but forces his breathing to steady. "C'mon, don't- please, Dave, you don't have to do this," he says gently, though his voice betrays him with a tremor.
Dave ignores him, leaning in closer. His lips twists into a grim smile. “Yeah, yeah, I think I do. But you clearly don’t understand it, yet.”
"We can work this out. Just- let’s just- let’s just talk.”
That pulls a giggle from Dave's throat, high and unnatural. The weed has loosened him, but not in the way alcohol does. Alcohol makes him mean all the way through. Weed just makes the edges of him soft while the center stays dangerous. If only Kirk hadn't made that joke, they might still be playing guitar, creating something together instead of this... whatever this is.
"Talk? Nah, we've done plenty of talking." Dave traces the blade along Kirk's jawline, the touch disturbingly gentle. "But actions... Actions speak louder."
The metal is cool against Kirk's skin, a contrast to the heat radiating from Dave's body so close to his.
"And I don't know about you, Kirk, but I prefer actions."
Before Kirk can respond, Dave moves swiftly, the blade slicing across Kirk’s neck in one quick motion.
It isn’t deep enough to be life-threatening at all, but enough to send a hot line of pain shooting through him and blood trickling down his neck.
Kirk gasps, his free hand instinctively flying to the wound, but Dave is faster. He grabs Kirk’s wrist, keeping it away. He places the blade on the bed, and slowly, he dips a finger into the fresh blood. Dave stares at his fingertip, watching the crimson liquid coat his skin. His gaze is fixated, almost entranced. Behind the finger, Kirk's shocked face blurs in and out of focus. He brings the bloodied finger to his slightly parted lips, then touches it to his tongue.
The taste is coppery, alive. It speaks to something primitive in him, something hungry.
He turns his gaze back to Kirk, who shakes his head in disbelief. Kirk's heart pounds so hard it's visible in the pulse at his throat, right beside the fresh cut.
"D-Dave..." He whispers.
Dave doesn't respond. His eyes remain focused on Kirk's neck, on the mark he's added to the collection. The cut isn't deep, but it's his, his signature on Kirk's body. Kirk's neck now has a bloodied cut in addition to the bruises.
Yes, it practically speaks my name.
Kirk closes his eyes. If Dave wants to kill him right now, he just doesn't want to see any of it.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion that seems to exist outside of time itself, Dave leans in. His lips press against the pulsing wound on Kirk's neck. The contact is gentle at first, almost reverent, before he begins to suck on the cut, drawing more blood to the surface.
Kirk opens his eyes and gasps as he feels the warm mouth on him. The sensation sends lightning through his nervous system, a confused tangle of signals his brain can't properly sort. Pain blooms bright and hot where Dave's mouth meets his flesh, but beneath it runs something else; a current of unwanted pleasure that makes his skin prickle with goosebumps. The wound throbs against Dave's lips, each pulse synchronizing with Kirk's racing heartbeat.
His body reacted instinctively, but his mind screamed in protest.
This is wrong. This is Dave.
Kirk's breath hitches in his throat, catching on something that might be a moan or might be a sob. Who knows which one. He doesn't want to think about it.
"Dave... S-stop."
Dave doesn't stop. If anything, the plea spurs him on. His lips work against the wound with an unsettling combination of tenderness and dominance, the kind of paradox that exists only in his fucked-up nightmares or fever dreams. Kirk wants to push him away, really, but his options are kind of limited; one hand cuffed to the bedstead, the other still firmly in Dave's grip.
Kirk squirms at the feeling and his mind raced, the confusion building as his body betrays him further. Heat pools in his lower abdomen.
Fuck, no-
"Please, Dave, stop," he tries again, this time more firmly.
Kirk might as well be speaking in Chinese, for all Dave cares. He brings his free hand to the other side of Kirk's neck and starts licking his wound softly, tasting the blood and inevitably spreading it across the cut.
Kirk can feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, can hear the rush of blood in his ears; the same blood Dave is tasting, consuming, making part of himself.
His breathing becomes quicker, more ragged.
And his boner presses against the fabric of his pants, impossible to ignore or hide.
"This isn't fuckin' right, Dave, stop!" His voice cracks, desperation lending it a sharpness that finally cuts through Dave's trance.
Dave pulls back, red smeared across his lips like obscene lipstick. "Jesus, what?!" The irritation in his voice shifts to something else as his gaze drops downward.
Both men freeze.
Dave's eyes linger on the obvious bulge in Kirk's pants. For a suspended moment, there is nothing but silence and the sound of their uneven breathing filling the space between them.
Kirk blushes and looks away, unable to maintain eye contact.
Dave's gaze remains fixed, and for a fleeting moment, it seems like he would actually reach out, his hand moving slightly toward Kirk's crotch-
The shrill ring of the phone shatters the silence.
Dave stops, fingers curling inward as if physically restraining himself.
The sound jolts Dave back to reality, and his expression shifts abruptly, confusion and frustration washing over his features. He closes his eyes briefly, clenching his hand into a white-knuckled fist.
Without a word, he abruptly releases Kirk's wrist. He stands, moves to the door in three quick strides, and exits the room. The door slams behind him with a finality that makes the walls shake.
The ringing phone is a very convenient distraction from whatever was happening, they both think from the back of their minds.