Off a cliff
The loud echo of the door shutting leaves Kirk sitting in stunned silence, his heart racing, his mind spinning with emotions he can’t quite process. He can hear Dave's voice distantly, as he picks up the phone.
Moments later, he returns, his face emotionless, his movements mechanical. He grabs Kirk’s wrists, securing them with handcuffs to the bedstead. The click of the metal was final. Then, he rips a long piece of tape and presses it firmly over Kirk’s mouth, silencing any potential protest.
“I’m going out,” Dave says coldy and detached. There's no other explanation, no hint of the emotions that could reveal the events from just moments ago. With that, he turns and leaves the room, slamming the door. It shut with a soft click, leaving Kirk bound, silenced, and overwhelmed by the whirlwind of emotions coursing through him.
The intimacy of the act, the vulnerability it forced upon him, left him feeling more exposed than ever. And... he's still hard.
What the hell just happened?
Kirk tries to make sense of it all. The warmth of Dave’s breath on his skin, the way his body had responded; it was too much. Too surreal. He tries to focus, to rationalize, but the memories are still too vivid.
It was just my body, he tells himself. Just a natural reaction. He repeated the thought like a mantra, trying to convince himself. The sensitive area of his neck had been stimulated, and his body had reacted accordingly. That’s all it was.
It doesn’t mean anything.
It can’t mean anything.
But the shame and confusion wouldn’t leave him. His body had betrayed him, responding in a way that made his stomach turn over. Kirk isn’t too worried about being gay, he isn't one of those people that cares too much about that. But, fuck; the fact that it's fucking Dave, of all people, only makes it worse.
Turns out somebody called because they wanted to be the lead guitarist for Megadeth. His name was Chris Poland or whatever. That didn't matter much to Dave. What mattered is that he could finally picture his band in his mind. He could focus on something else. Despite that, it wasn’t too easy to ignore what just happened. But if he had the chance, he would take it.
Just like he said he would, he went out; both Dave’s went to see Chris play. Once Chris convinced them, they decided to spend the day together.
The bell above the door chimes softly, announcing their arrival. Dave feels a pang of nostalgia; it has been years since he's wandered into a place like this with anything but music on his mind.
Junior nudges him. "Dave, isn’t that the guy from your old band?"
Dave follows his gaze and freezes. Cliff stood by the bass section, casually plucking at strings, his long brown hair swaying as he nods along to the tune he was testing. The sight of him brings a rush of memories; some good, some bad.
Chris chimes in, grinning. "You should say hi. It’s not every day you run into an old bandmate."
Dave hesitates; part of him wanted to turn and leave, but another part—the part that misses the camaraderie—pushes him forward. "Yeah, maybe."
Cliff's a good guy, and Dave doesn’t have the worst image of him in his mind like with James. Or Lars. Especially fucking Lars. So with measured steps, he approaches Cliff, leaving Junior and Chris behind. The bassist looks up, his eyes widening in recognition. A little smirk blooms on his face; small, but genuine and warm.
"Oh, hey, Dave," Cliff greets, extending a hand. "How you been?"
"Good, good." Dave shakes his hand, with a strange mix of tension and relief settling over him. “How are you?”
“Uh,” he looks around, looking hesitant. “Good, I mean. A lot of shit’s happened.”
“Really? Like what?” Dave plays dumb.
"Well," Cliff nods, shiftitng his tone, "I sure you haven't heard, but our new guitarist, Kirk; he fuckin' quit the band.”
Dave frowns, trying to pretend he feels bad. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah, yeah, but it was… fuckin’ weird. He just called and said he was out. And nobody’s seen him in days. James even called his mom to make sure, and she said he hasn't called in so long." Dave’s heart skips a beat, but he keeps his face neutral. "Something definitely happened. Cops are now looking for him and all."
His plan of Kirk quitting Metallica on the phone probably only made things worse. He has to find a way to fix it.
"Seriously?” Dave raises his eyebrows. “That’s... Strange. Hope they find him.”
"Yeah, he’s been worrying everyone."
“And you haven’t found a new guitarist to replace him too?” That “too” comes out particularly personal and bitter. It wasn't on purpose, though. He just hopes Cliff wouldn't notice it.
“Uh,” Cliff sighs. “No, not yet. Not the right one. Kirk wasn’t easy to find, y'know?”
Dave scoffs subtly, as he doesn’t believe that last sentence. He was replaced with Kirk the same day he was kicked out, how long were they planning this then?
“Well, hope you… find the right guy soon.”
“Mm, yeah.”
Dave would never say it out loud. In fact, he hates even thinking about it. But really deep inside of him, he's hoping Cliff, for some magical reason, invites him back to Metallica. It isn’t only about missing his friends and the band, even if he thinks they were assholes, plus... isn't he an asshole too? But it's not like he's a psychopath, is he? He just wants someone to care. He wants to feel needed.
Dave clears his throat, eager to change the subject. "Actually, I’m starting a new band. Just put out an ad on the newspaper looking for members, like, yesterday."
Cliff’s expression brightens just slightly. "Really? That’s great to hear. I’m happy for you, man."
"Thanks," Dave says, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“What’s it called?”
“Huh?” Dave clearly isn’t paying too much attention to the conversation.
“Your new band, what’s the name?”
“Oh, it’s called ‘Megadeth’.”
“Hm,” Cliff raises his eyebrows. “Cool name.”
Cliff rubs the back of his neck, hesitating before speaking. The usual confidence Cliff exuded seems to waver, and Dave could see the internal struggle playing out.
"Look, Dave," Cliff begins, his voice quieter, more introspective, "obviously, I never got a chance to say this, but... I’m sorry about how things went down with Metallica. The way we fuckin' handled it, the way we… you know. I’m not saying I didn’t, like, agree. I ain't putting the blame on them, but, you know, we could’ve- I don’t know, it could’ve been different."
Dave feels a lump form in his throat. For weeks, he’d replayed the events in his mind, the betrayal, the bitterness. He’d wanted an apology, sure, but he never expected to actually hear one. He crosses his arms, playing it cool.
"It’s fine," Dave says nonchalantly. "I’ve moved on."
Yes, he plays it cool. But inside, it's like a weight had been lifted. Those words, Cliff’s admission of regret, touches something deep within him; a longing he doesn’t want to acknowledge he still harbors. It isn’t just about the apology; it was about his pain stopping being invisible.
Cliff nods, relief evident in his eyes. "I’m glad to hear that. You deserved better, man."
Dave offers a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Thanks. It means a lot, coming from you."
They stand in a moment of mutual understanding; the past is no longer as heavy, and the present a little brighter. Though Dave doesn't show it, he's thankful. More than Cliff would ever know.
When Dave came back home, he was pretty drunk, as always. The earlier encounter with Kirk is running around in his mind despite all the alcohol. He spent hours out, trying to distract himself with Junior and Chris. But no amount of small talk, drinking or music could shake the turmoil swirling inside him.
He sits the keys down on the kitchen counter, glancing around the dimly lit room. Everything is in its usual place, fortunately, yet the atmosphere felt different; tenser. He knew he couldn’t avoid it any longer.
He has to face what happened, has to confront whatever this was between him and Kirk.
Taking a deep breath, he walks towards the room where Kirk's still confined. His steps were slow, deliberate, he was very aware that each one brought him closer to something he wasn’t entirely sure he could handle. Inside, Kirk lays on the the bed, his hands cuffed, his eyes fixed on the floor.
The door stood before Dave. It's time.
Kirk looks up as Dave enters. He rips off the tape from Kirk’s mouth. Neither of them spoke at first, the silence stretching out, heavy and suffocating.
Dave finally broke it, his voice low: "hey."
Kirk licks his lips slightly, his gaze flickering between Dave and the floor. "Hey."
“How- how you been feeling?”
“Um…” Kirk isn’t sure about what to say. About anything. At this point, he's over-analyzing even one simple question.
“From your cold,” Dave clarifies.
“Oh, um… Yeah, I still have a headache, but, um, I’m fine.”
Neither of them dare to look directly into the other’s eyes.
Dave sighs and Kirk notices the familiar smell of alcohol.
“And… does your neck hurt?” Dave asks, pointing at Kirk's wound which had dried blood around it, without looking or sounding too concerned.
“No, no. It’s fine,” Kirk lied.
Dave finally stands as the tension becomes too much to bear. “I’ll… get you more medicine,” he says simply and leaves the room again.
It's weird. All of their exchanged words sounds so superfluous. And that won’t change until they addressed the… incident.
He brought a glass of water and medicine. He put the pills on Kirk’s tongue and brought the glass of water to his mouth, as he was still handcuffed.
Dave sits down, facing Kirk. He swallows hard, and decids to finally speak about it.
"I-I don’t fuckin’ know what’s going on," he admitted, whispering. "I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know why I’m doing it.”
Kirk gives him a once-over. “Yeah. It’s... confusing.”
Dave shakes his head, trying to dismiss the thought. "Um, I-I know I shouldn’t keep doing this shit. It’s fucked up. But for some reason, it’s just-" he pauses for a moment, and then: "I can’t seem to stop."
They both sit there in silence.
Until one of them broke it.
“But, you know, I ain’t queer,” Dave feels the need to say it.
“Yeah, me neither,” Kirk replies quickly.
Dave gives a slight nod, almost relieved by Kirk’s words, even though he doesn’t fully understand why.
“Good,” Dave mutters, more to himself than to Kirk. "I’m not saying that- I mean, it’s just... This shit we’ve got going on here... I don’t even know what to call it."
Kirk bites his bottom lip. “We could just… forget about it.”
Dave nods and looks down, sighing.
Okay, the subject was already brought up and fixed more or less.
Dave wants to change the subject so bad now.
So he did: “I talked to Cliff earlier. He wanted to apologize, said they kicked me out of Metallica on a bad note, and he said he’s sorry,” he scoffs. “I didn’t know how to respond," Dave's voice softens slightly as he spoke of the interaction. “But… It felt good, though. To hear someone actually gave a fuck.”
Kirk’s brows furrow slightly. "Cliff... apologized? For kicking you out?"
"Yeah," Dave replies, his voice quieter now. "I didn’t expect it. I didn’t even think he’d fuckin’ remember about it at one point, but he did." He chuckles.
“Did he… say something about me?”
“No,” Dave lies immediately. “Only that you quit and that's it.”
Kirk looks down, disappointed, thinking nobody was looking for him. He tries to play it off. “The phone rang all day, by the way. I counted them, it was eleven times.”
Dave smirks, prideful. “Probably people wanting to ask about Megadeth.” He raises his eyebrows. “It’s fine. We already got a guitarist. They’ll... probably call again, if they don’t call Junior first.”
There's a silence between them after that, not uncomfortable but heavy with the weight of things left unsaid. Dave feels the need to fill it, but he isn’t sure how, like he's stepping through a fog with no clear way out.
Kirk shifts slightly, breaking the silence with a soft: "so, what now?"
The question wasn't worded in the best way, but somehow Dave knew exactly what Kirk meant by "what now".
Dave looks up at him, a long pause hanging in the air before he responds. "It's fine," he says finally, his voice low and tired. "Yeah. We’ll just fuckin' figure it out, one way or another."
He sighs and stands up.
“So, you hungry?” He asked nonchalantly.
Kirk smirks slightly. “Kind of.”
With that, Dave turned and left the room to cook dinner. Neither of them have the answers, but at least they aren’t alone in the confusion. The pain in Kirk's body from the beatings, the sickness and wounds still linger, but it's the crushing weight of this situation that's starting to break him.
He can almost taste it, a bitter, metallic edge that made him feel claustrophobic. He sits there, stiff on the bed, and his eyes suddenly get locked on the innocent enough glass of water on the nightstand.
Then, an idea—a desperate, reckless idea—blooms in his mind. He doesn’t know what he’d do after. He doesn’t know if it would work, but it feels like the only option left.
Do it, Kirk. Do it.
The voice in his head barely feels like his own anymore.
His fingers tremble as they close around the glass. The water inside ripple, like tiny waves in a tiny ocean, and for a split second, Kirk thought about his father's voice: Don't you dare break that glass, young man.
Funny how the mind works when you're about to do something terrible. Whatever. He ignores all the voices in his head that scream him not to, and obeys the ones that control his body, his hand; which with a quick motion throws the glass to the ground before his mind can realize.
The sound of the glass shattering and the water splashing is deafening in the otherwise silent room.
He stares down at the broken pieces, their sharp edges glint in the dim light, and his stomach twists with adrenaline.
Then, he hears footsteps from the other room; quick and purposeful. The sound of the door handle turning made his pulse spike. Kirk's fingers immediately found the largest shard, and Christ, it was sharp; sharper than he expected. Blood welled up where it bit into his palm, but he doesn't feel any pain. Adrenaline is a hell of an anesthetic.
He hides his hand gripping the glass under the sheets. The door bursts open and there's Dave, his face twisted into that expression Kirk had come to know so well; part rage, part concern, but all control.
“What- what the hell did you do?” He asks angrily, looking down at the broken pieces and spilled water.
“I’m- I'm sorry,” Kirk manages to say, his voice shaking. “I knocked it over by accident. I didn’t mean to…”
Dave doesn’t say anything, just shot him a judgeful glare that Kirk couldn't ignore; he could see already the faint flash of suspicion in his eyes (or perhaps there was none, Kirk might be just a bit paranoid right now). Dave kneels down, muttering curses under his breath as he starts picking up the pieces. And as his attention shifts, Kirk’s mind spun. He knows he has one chance, one opportunity.
The silence in the room are only filled with the sound of little pieces of glass crunching under Dave’s weight as he moves, oblivious to the danger.
Are you really gonna do it? Are you going to fight back, or are you going to freeze like every other time?
Kirk's fingers tightened around the glass.
He could see everything with crystal clarity: the sweat beading on Dave's neck, the way his shoulders tensed as he bent forward, the perfect target his back made. His mind screams for him to act before it's too late.
Time seems to slow down as Kirk raises the shard, his muscles tense with the fear of what might happen next.
With a fast motion (as fast as he could be given the fact that he was cuffed to a bedstead) he lunged forward, jabbing the sharp glass into Dave’s back and taking it right out, thinking he could use it again.
Dave's scream isn't the Hollywood kind; it's ugly and raw, ripped from somewhere deep inside him. The sound of true pain. He staggers back, his hand instinctively flying to his wound, shock and pain flooding his face.
Kirk didn’t wait to see how badly he had hurt Dave. His plan had been simple: hurt him enough, and in addition to his drunkenness, it would give him a chance to run, to escape this nightmare. The first stab felt like pushing through wet cardboard. The second one was easier. Muscle memory? Maybe, though Kirk had obviously never stabbed anyone before. With the second stab right after the first, Dave he tries to steady himself, but he was losing his balance, and before he could fully react, he dropped to one knee, his arm in a weird angle trying to clutching the wounds on his back.
Kirk's heart isn't just beating anymore; it's trying to punch its way out of his chest, like a trapped animal that senses Kirk's own chance for freedom. His eyes sere wide with panic, but there was a part of him, a part deep down, that felt something almost like relief.
It's working, it's finally working.
His loud heartbeat feels in his ears as he yanks his cuffed hand with all his might, desperately trying to break free from the bedstead, but the restraints are unforgiving, and the hole in the cuff seems too small to escape from. The only thing he seems to achieve with all of this pulling is to move the whole bed, scraping the woodfloor. His heart races, adrenaline coursing through his veins, urging him to keep fighting, to keep trying to get away.
But Dave was quicker than Kirk expected. He wasn't going to let Kirk get away with this. Of course he wasn't; this was Dave Mustaine. His movements were almost mechanical, almost looking like he was being driven by a feral instinct. So Dave sprang back to his feet, the wounds on his back momentarily forgotten, and Kirk barely had time to react as Dave’s fist collided with his face, knocking him sideways. Pain explodes behind Kirk's eyes, followed by the coppery taste flooding his mouth that's already so familiar by now. Another punch came, this one sharper, more precise. Kirk’s head spins and his vision blurs as Dave hovers over him with another blow, now straddling him, holding him down, pinning him in place. He punches Kirk's face again, and then one more time.
Then a weaker last time.
Then he finally stops.
"Why?" Dave’s voice cracks as he leans down, his fists still clenched but hovering just above Kirk’s chest, like he can’t decide if he wants to strike again. "Why do you wanna leave?"
Kirk—dazed and struggling to stay conscious—can only stare back at Dave. It's his eyes that truly terrified Kirk; they aren't even angry anymore. They're hurt. Betrayed. Lost and hopeless. He didn’t want to hurt Dave, not in this way. He knows he's already hurt enough. But he left Kirk with no choice.
Dave shakes his head as if he couldn’t believe it himself. "Fuck you, Kirk, fuck you. You hear me?" He growls, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "First the guys, now you?"
Dave's fists, once so tight and full of rage, began to slacken as he sat there, straddling Kirk. His head drops lower, and his body starts to shake. At first, Kirk thinks it's just the aftermath of their struggle, but then he realizes; Dave is crying. Not the silent, controlled kind, but deep, gut-wrenching sobs that rack his whole body.
Kirk doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to comfort him, or even if he should.
"I hate you so fuckin' much, Kirk," Dave murmurs, and if he wasn't right next to Kirk’s ear, Kirk probably wouldn’t have heard it. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”
This isn't the Dave Mustaine that Kirk had come to know; the domineering, volatile, unpredictable man who controlled every aspect of Kirk’s life now. This feels like someone else, someone broken.
Maybe everyone in his situation would want to push Dave off, to scream at him, to demand answers. But instead, Kirks lays there, frozen, watching the man who had tormented him crumble into pieces.
Dave mumbles something incoherent between sobs, words lost to the emotion that overwhelmes him. He finally rolls off Kirk, sitting up a second to remove the shard that was still stuck on his back before collapsing onto the bed beside Kirk. He whimpers from the pain and his sobs didn’t stop, though he's now quieter and more calm. The mattress shift under his weight, but Kirk remains frozen. His body's stiff and sore from the blows.
Kirk tries to think back to the last time he saw someone break like this, someone so consumed by their own demons that they couldn’t hold themselves together anymore: yeah, that would probably be his own father, one of the many times he drank too much and started fighting with Kirk's mom. He remembers the yelling, the crashes, the sound of furniture breaking. And then, inevitably, the breakdown. The sobbing apologies, the promises to change that he never seemed to keep.
Kirk squeezes his eyes shut, trying to push the memories away, but they come rushing back, relentless. He remembers how he—small and terrified—would run to to hide in the closet, covering his ears to block out the sounds. He remembers the confusion, the fear, the innocence.
And now, even after about fifteen years, here he was: feeling those same emotions again, trapped in a cycle he thought he could escape with a stupid shard of glass.
A sob caught in his throat, and before he could stop it, tears began to spill from his eyes. The pain, the captivity, the violence, the fear, the failed attempt to escape; crashes down on him all at once. He can’t hold it in any longer. His body shakes as the sobs break free, and he cries, truly cries, letting it all out, next to Dave.
Dave’s sobs had already quieted, and now he lays there silently. Unlike Kirk, who can’t seem stop.
The tears flow freely. He cries for himself, for the child he had been, and for the man supposed to be now, but still trapped and helpless once again. He cries for the confusion, the mixed emotions, the overwhelming feeling of being here forever.
The room is filled with the sound of Kirk’s cries now. He feels exposed and embarassed, but he can’t stop. Dave doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. He just lies there, breathing heavily, his own tears finally beginning to dry. But Kirk’s sobs continue, his body trembling as the tears wracked through him, with his one hand still cuffed to the bedstead.
Dave glances at him, hesitating. The silence stretches out between them, punctuated only by Kirk’s cries.
Finally, Dave decides to speak: “Hey… if you keep crying like that, your headache’s only gonna get worse.”
It isn’t a mocking tone, not like Kirk might have expected. It was… genuine. Concerned, even. Kirk sniffs, wiping at his face with his free hand. He's unsure if he could trust the comfort, unsure of what Dave’s intentions are, but he feels too exhausted to question it.
Kirk finds himself trying to slow his breathing, to calm the storm within. It isn’t easy, and the tears still slip from his eyes, but he tries. He doesn’t know why, but something in Dave’s tone, something in the moment, made him want to at least try.
Dave shifts uncomfortably, grunting in pain.
“Kirk, listen, I’m- fuck,” Dave starts, then stops. Gulps. Starts again: “I’m not… good at these type of things,” he admits softly. “But… you’re fine. It’s really not as bad as it seems.”
Kirk turns his head, glancing at Dave through his tear-filled eyes. The man who had caused him so much pain now lies there, attempting to offer some semblance of comfort. It's confusing, but somehow, Kirk feels a strange sense of relief. Yeah, he isn’t alone, and that should terrify him, coming from Dave. But no, he just doesn’t want to keep fighting.
“It’ll… probably take a long time for you to get used to it, but... it'll be fine. I can promise you that.”
With that, Kirk felt something touching his hand. He looks down. Dave's holding his hand. The touch is tender, almost hesitant; nothing like the hands that had beaten him moments before.
“I’m sorry about everything,” Dave whispers, almost sounding ashamed of himself. “And I’m… I’m here,” he adds awkwardly. “For- for whatever that’s worth.”
Kirk nods slightly. He swallows hard, his throat with a knot from crying. He doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know if he even could. What could he say anyway? Thank you for not killing me? Sorry I stabbed you? It's better to stay quiet. Accept the gesture, the attempt at comfort, it's better if it feels like it means something.
It has to. Because right now, he has no one else. Only Dave.
Kirk still doesn’t understand him, and he isn’t sure if he ever could. The contrast is like two different car collectionists, both fighting to drive this luxurious automobile named Dave’s body. One second Dave was beating the shit out of him and the other he was holding his hand, saying he’s sorry, even though Kirk just stabbed him-
Kirk can tell Dave is trying to be better.
He isn’t sure if he's forgiving Dave, yet he accepts the moment for what it is.
“You… still hungry?” Dave asks wearily.
Kirk sniffs, tasting salt and copper. “Yeah…”
Dave stands with a soft groan of pain, leaving blood flowers blooming on the bedsheets where he'd laid. He leaves the room, and his back is still bleeding. He'd take care of that in a minute, but the pasta should be ready by now. He made Kirk’s favorite food.