Quiet
He finally unlocks the door and swings it open. He scans James with a carefully crafted look of indifference.
“James?”
It takes a moment for James to finally talk. “Hey, Dave." He offers him that boyish grin he pulls in awkward situations, which in other circumstances, Dave would think it's cute.
Instead: Dave's not amused at all. He keeps a solid expression and stays quiet, eyeing him.
James erases his smile and rolls his eyes. "C'mon, I’m not here to fight.”
Dave’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t entirely believe that. "Then why the hell are you here?"
James shrugs. "I just wanna talk."
Dave snorts, giving James a once-over, his eyes dragging up and down with blatant suspicion.
“Talk,” he echoes, his tone dripping with skepticism.
"Yeah, talk." James widens his eyes mockingly. He clicks his tongue. "So, you gonna let me stand out here all day, or are you gonna let me in?"
Dave hesitated, glancing back toward the hallway where Kirk was locked away. For a moment, he thinks about sending James off, but curiosity won out. He steps aside, opening the door wider.
James smirks as he steps inside, Dave closes the door behind him. He turns to face him, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, why are you really here?”
“You drunk?”
“No.” Shameless lie!
“High?”
“No!”
James chuckles. “Then why are you so damn defensive? Acting like you don't know me and shit. Relax, I’m not here to start anything. Just… Wanted to catch up.”
Dave narrows his eyes. “Really? Huh. Can’t say that doesn't surprise me.”
James nods, moving further into the house. “It’s true. You’ve been on my mind lately. I just wanted to see how you’re doing, what you’re up to. And you gotta admit... There’s some things that we left unsaid.”
Dave stares at him for a moment before turning towards the kitchen. He'll need a drink to get through this conversation. He opens the fridge, grabs one beer- no, Dave, forever a gentleman, grabs two beers—the two last one's he has—and pops the caps off with a flick of his wrist.
“Didn't think you’d care anyway,” Dave mutters.
He walks back over to James, handing him one of the bottles.
James takes it, raising it slightly in thanks. He takes a sip, his eyes flickering around the room like he was trying to take in every detail.
"Uh, Cliff told us you talked."
Dave looks up, finally concentrating again. “Of course he did.” He scoffs, taking a sip of his beer.
“He said you’ve got a new band.”
Dave leans back against the counter and nods slowly. “That’s right.”
"...And?" James raises his brows.
“And… we already found a drummer today, soon we’ll get to work.”
James studies him. “Hm. You don’t sound too excited about it.”
Dave chuckles bitterly. “Yeah, well, I am. Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
“Really?” James takes another sip of his beer.
Dave nods.
“So you haven't got anything on your mind?”
“Maybe.” Dave shrugs. “Just like everyone does. It ain’t that deep.”
James smirks. “Same old Dave. Always keeping shit to yourself.”
Dave shots him a glare but doesn’t respond. Just takes another sip of his beer.
“You’re acting weird.” James sighs. “I’m telling you, I’m not here to mess with you, really. We split on a bad note, and I just… I just wanted to see you–"
“You’re an asshole, James,” Dave cuts him off. “Even when you try to be nice, you’re an asshole. And yeah, so am I, but I never try to act like I’m not. That’s what I hate about you, you’re so… fake.”
James exhales through his nose, almost amused. He looks around, unbothered.
He knew he was coming to see Dave. Not anyone else. And he was already expecting this behavior so he can’t even begin to be mad.
“I’m sure you don’t know, but our new lead guitarist, Kirk, he quit the band.”
Dave blinks slowly with a neutral expression. “Did ‘e?”
“Yeah,” James continues, swirling the beer bottle in his hand. “One night he just left, and days later called us to say he quits. Didn’t say much about it, didn't even say why, not really.”
James studies Dave’s face, searching for some kind of reaction, but Dave only blinks again, slow and indifferent.
“His mom called me, y'know. Said he sent a letter, telling her that, uh, he wanted to stay away from everything, that we shouldn't be looking for him, some bullshit like that.”
Dave nods.
James continues: “And I don't know if I believe that.”
Dave raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. He doesn't say a word.
“His mom does, but I can't help but think something actually happened to him. This isn’t something he would do.”
Dave clicks his tongue, uninterested. “Huh.”
That’s all he says.
James chuckles. “That’s it? Just ‘huh’?”
“What you want me to say? It ain't my fuckin’ problem.”
“Never said it was.”
And it might have been a little weird for Dave to say it wasn’t his problem if James didn’t already know Dave has always been defensive like that.
"Well, why are you here in L.A anyway?"
"Uh, we had a gig some weeks ago, the night Kirk disappeared." James sighs. "We stayed here looking for him, filled the papers for his disappearance or whatever. That whole process, takes longer tha you'd imagine, y'know." He chuckles nervously the way he always used to. Dave wouldn't admit it, but it's a nice sound for his ears.
James takes a swig of his beer, and Dave knows he isn't done, so he doesn't talk. "Uh, then, I don't know, these last days have been kind of a blur. We're looking for a new guitarist, L.A's where the big deal is, y'know."
"And how's that been?" Dave asks. And he's surprised to realize he's genuinely curious.
"Not so good." That nervous chuckle again. "Kirk wasn't easy to find, he was- he's one of a kind y'know. Wish you knew him."
Dave nods empathically, because that's the only thing he can do. The truth is, Dave had been thinking of Kirk as something he possessed. A thing; not a person with a network of love surrounding him. People who were hurting right now. Not only his family, but also these guys? He doesn't even dare to look at James' face anymore, instead, he stares down at his ratty sneakers; the one's he's had for years and should definitely be replaced.
Apparently, it's really easy for James to replace people but not objects. Got it.
James analyzes Dave’s face, still waiting for him to say something, or to show some at least some sort of expression.
And then he chuckles, quiet and to himself. “You know, I figured you’d at least have something to say... And- actually, knowing you? I even thought you’d even be quite happy–”
“Why the fuck would I be happy about it?” Dave cuts him off sharply.
James shrugs. “That’s just what you do, Dave.”
Dave doesn’t even understand completely what James means, but he surely doesn't like his tone. He bits his lip furiously, setting his beer down a little too hard on the counter. “What Ido? You really think I give a shit about your little band drama? That I sit around waiting for one of you to fuck up so I can celebrate? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“I think you care more about it than you let on. You don't show it 'cause you're still angry at us, I get that, but-” He cuts himself off.
That makes something ugly twist in Dave’s chest. He steps closer, pointing a finger at James. “You think you fuckin’ know me, James? Just ‘cause we spent a year drinking together? You don’t know shit about me.”
James puts his beer down. They’re face to face. “Right. Sure, Dave. You don’t believe a word that’s coming out of your mouth.”
“No,” Dave insists, almost cutting him off. “I mean every. Fucking. Word.”
“No, you don't, that’s what you always do, you say shit that you don’t actually mean and then regret it.”
“Like what?” Dave shakes his head, offended.
“Like–” James hesitates, glancing away, trying to think of an example. “I don't know! But don't you dare to tell me it's not true.”
“It's not true.”
“Yes it is!”
“Since when do you care about telling the truth anyway?”
James pauses and frowns. “The hell you mean by that?”
“Like you pretending to care about me while you were driving to the bus station?”
James’ expression stiffens.
“You were crying like a little baby. You already forgot about that?”
James’ jaw works like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.
“Yeah. You fuckin’ knew it wasn’t right. And you still let it happen.”
“I– what– shit.” James gulps. “I never wanted it to go that far. You fuckin’ know that. I tried– we all tried to make it work, but you didn't listen. You never fuckin’ listen.”
Dave clenches his jaw so tight it hurts. He can feel the anger bubbling, dangerous and hot: the way he already imagined it would if James was around one more time. That smug, self-righteous way he talks, like he’s got everything figured out, that attitude he shows to the public; but Dave knows this guy, and can read right through him.
“Dave, you know it destroyed me that we had to–”
“Fuck you,” he barks. “You got some fuckin’ nerve showing up here just to run your big fuckin’ mouth, I don’t wanna hear it. Now leave.”
He needs James gone. Before he loses his temper. Before he does something stupid.
James stares at him for a moment, his eyes dark and searching. Dave glares back, breath heavy, shoulders tight because of his anger.
Then, before Dave can shove him away or something of that nature, James moves—quick, reckless—and crashes their mouths together.
The kiss (if you can call it that) is violent, all teeth and heat, a battle both of them want to win. As they melt into it, James is just thankful Dave is following him instead of beating his ass up. It's been a long time since the last time and he wasn’t sure if Dave was going to accept him.
Dave’s hands move before he can think (as always), grabbing onto James’ shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. His teeth sink into the blonde’s bottom lip, hard. Too hard to even be enjoyable; it’s not playful, not teasing. It fucking hurts. He doesn’t even let go immediately. James' lets out a sharp noise and rips himself back, gently pushing Dave away.
He touches his lip, his fingers coming away with a smear of red. “Ah, shit, Dave,” he breathes. “What the fuck was that?” He questions, staring at Dave like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
Dave swallows. He gives James a once-over.
“Get the fuck outta here,” he snarls. His expression is particularly calm, but his voice is shaking with something that isn’t just anger.
James doesn’t move right away. He lingers, watching, parting his lips like he’s thinking about saying something else. Dave feels like he’s burning under that gaze, feels like James can see too much, like he knows something Dave doesn’t want to admit, not even to himself.
“What? You thought we were gonna fuck?” Dave asks sarcastically.
James stutters, without being able to actually get any word out.
Dave scoffs. “That’s why you came here, huh? You wanted me to fuck you.”
“What?! No!” James responds, clearly offended by the assumption.
“Yeah you fuckin’ did, you fuckin’ whore. You disgust me. Get the fuck outta my house, now. I don’t wanna see you ever again.”
James exhales, shoulders rising, then dropping. “I… Why? Why are you being like this, Dave?”
Dave doesn’t answer. He just stands there, fists clenched at his sides.
James swallows. “Alright. Whatever.” He shakes his head.
He turns on his heel and walks toward the door.
Right before stepping out, he turns slightly, parting his lips to say something, but he clearly regrets it and nothing comes out of his mouth.
The door shuts behind him.
Dave stays standing in the middle of the room, with his fists still tight.
He sure needs a stronger drink. Not just cheap beer.
What he should already know by now is that the taste of James' lips will still linger on his tongue and won't fade no matter how much alcohol he downs. Yeah, deep down he knows it perfectly. It's what's been happening since he got kicked out, though that whole subject has been getting more meaningless thanks to...
His fingers twitch, restless, a phantom ache where they had gripped the fabric of James’ shirt, where they had clutched too tight, when he was trying to hold onto something already long gone.
It’s too goddamn quiet in here. Kirk surely heard them. Dave knows he did. This house’s too fucking small for him not to have.
He grabs his jacket and goes to his room where Kirk is still confined.
Kirk hears the door being unlocked.
Dave walks in. “I’m going to work,” he says flatly, without even looking at him. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Don’t wait for me, just go to sleep.”
He starts looking in his closet for the pot he’s gonna sell tonight. He doesn’t want to see whatever’s written across Kirk’s face, doesn’t want to know if it’s pity or judgment or something worse.
Dave can feel his eyes burning into him. He wants to snap, wants to tell him to quit fucking staring, but then–
Kirk mumbles something under the tape.
Dave groans in annoyance as he rips the take off from his mouth. “What?”
Kirk licks his dry lips. “I… gotta pee.”
Dave sighs as he uncuffs Kirk and leads him to the bathroom with his usual revolver.
“Hurry up,” Dave says as he leaves the door of the bathroom open, standing outside and leaning on the wall next.
Fuck James. He’s a whore and Dave could bet his ass he only came to his house to taunt him and fuck.
So, Dave and James. Kirk thinks.
It wasn’t obvious at all, but it shouldn't surprise him too much. The way the Metallica guys talked about Dave… James definitely wasn’t the one talking the most shit, neither was Cliff, obviously. But that’s Cliff-like. Not because he’s really nice, he probably just doesn’t care about this subject enough.
But James was never afraid to talk shit about anyone. And Kirk thinks about the times he didn’t elaborate as much as he could’ve on Dave’s flaws and mistakes even after Lars kept pushing and pushing. Now Kirk knows why.
He’d heard every word between Dave and James. He heard even when Dave popped the caps of the beer bottles off. He heard—better said, felt—the venom in Dave’s voice, the way James had lingered, like he wanted to say something he couldn’t. And of course, he heard the kiss. The heavy breathing, the unmistakable wet sounds of two people kissing wildly. Dave kissed James. Or James kissed Dave. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Dave definitely kissed him back.
So, Dave is queer? It was something that had already crossed Kirk’s mind. This actually ended up being a sexual thing?
There was so much anger in their voices though. It wasn’t about love. It wasn’t even about lust. It was something else entirely, something that made Kirk want to ask so bad about it… But he knows better than being nosy about a fragile subject.
Kirk wonders just how deep Dave’s wounds go. Just how much of him has been twisted, broken beyond repair.
And if Kirk himself is just another piece in whatever fucked-up game Dave is playing.
Dave is going out for work; that means, the same conditions for Kirk.
Handcuffed to the bedstead. Long stripe of tape over his mouth. TV on but with low volume in case he wants to sleep. Bedroom’s door locked.
Four days later
The usual routine for the nights Dave sells pot.
It’s 2 AM. He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, shoulders hunched against the lingering chill, although the weather man wouldn’t say it’s an especially cold night. His boots slap against the pavement, dodging puddles where the streetlights shimmer dimly on the water’s surface. The puddles aren’t from rain or anything, of course, it's only May; they must be from a broken pipe or something.
His eyelids feel heavy and his head hurts: he realizes he hasn’t slept in a long time, at least not properly. Dozing off or passing out drinking with the boys for an hour or more doesn’t count. His body runs on drugs and nerves these days. His neck and back are killing him from sleeping on that shitty couch he has in his house. Especially his back because of Kirk’s stabs after his pathetic little attempt to escape.
Dave’s making his way down a quieter street, still running through the list in his head of the weird ass people he’s seen tonight (even though he only sells pot, what kind of people do heroin dealers run into?) when he catches sight of someone slouched on a bus stop bench.
He doesn’t think anything of it. Just another poor clueless bastard waiting for a bus that probably won’t come for another four hours.
Then the guy shifts, running a hand through his hair, and Dave stops in his tracks.
“Junior?”
David Ellefson blinks up at him, startled, then lets out a breath. “Oh. Hey, man.”
Dave steps closer, taking him in.
Honestly, on this particularly shitty night, he’s a sight for sore eyes. But Junior looks like shit; not in the junkie way, just in the rough night way. His clothes are wrinkled, his hair’s all over the place, and there’s a deep, tired crease between his brows.
“The fuck are you doing here at this time of night?” Dave asks, flicking ash off his cigarette.
“What are you doing here?”
“I asked first.”
Junior exhales through his nose, leaning back against the bench. “Had a little argument with my girl. She kicked me out.”
“Shit. What’d you do?”
Junior gives him a dry look. “What makes you think it was my fault?”
“’Cause you’re the one out here sleeping on a bench instead of in a warm bed?”
Junior sighs. “Listen. Let’s just say I made a little mistake by bringing a– chick into the apartment. Then she got home earlier than usual…”
Dave snorts a laugh.
“...And now I’m here. That’s it. Now, what you doing here?”
“Just sellin’,” Dave says calmly.
“Sellin’?”
“Sellin’, yeah. Pot.”
Junior raises an eyebrow. “Thought you had a job?”
“This is a job, Junior.”
Junior huffs, shaking his head. “Whatever. I just don’t have anywhere to sleep tonight,” he says it casually, like it’s just a fact, even though Dave can still sense his frustration.
And for half a second, Dave thinks about offering his place. It’d be the decent thing to do, right?
But for obvious reasons, he can’t.
“Shit luck, man,” Dave says, exhaling smoke. “You try any motels?”
“Yeah, sure, let me just pull fifty bucks out of my ass.”
Dave raises his brows. “Guess you’re fucked then.”
Junior lets out a dry laugh, rubbing his tired eyes. “Yeah. Guess I am.”
There’s a beat of silence between them as Dave takes a long drag of his cigarette, just the distant sounds of the city filling the space.
Junior shifts, hesitates, and then—almost ashamed—finally speaks. “Listen, man... I know this is kinda embarrassing,” he chuckles awkwardly, “but, uh… You wouldn't happen to have space on your couch? Just for tonight?”
Damn, Dave knew this was coming. Could see it in the way Junior kept glancing at him, in the way his fingers twitched like he was debating whether or not to ask. And fuck, Dave feels bad.
But he can’t. If this were any other night, maybe he’d tell Junior to come back with him, crash on his shitty couch, drink a few beers, talk shit until they both passed out.
But instead, he’s standing here, trying to act normal while Kirk Hammett is handcuffed to his bed.
“Uh… Sorry. I can't, my place is a mess. Not fit for company,” Dave explains, the words feeling like gravel in his throat
Junior nods too quickly, forcing a weak smile. “Yeah, no, of course. Don't worry about it.” But his voice has that slight tremor, the one Dave recognizes from when Junior's trying too hard to act like everything's fine.
It’s not like Junior’s his responsibility, right? He’s not his dad. But hell, Junior's practically the little brother he never had at this point. They share the same name, for fuck's sake. If that meant anything. Well, it does mean something to Dave, because now thinking about it, Junior might be his only true friend.
He’s just a younger, skinnier, smaller, less fucked-up version of himself.
They only got each other this night. And seeing him out here, lost and alone like a beaten puppy with no hope, just like he looked in that shitty bus when he got kicked out of-
His back still screams in protest. He was thinking about taking the bed tonight anyway, even if it meant sleeping next to Kirk.
He flicks his cigarette away. “Alright, fine.”
Junior’s head snaps up. “Huh?”
“You can take the couch. Just for tonight.”
Dave watches Junior's face light up like a kid on Christmas morning, and something twists in his gut, half warmth, half dread. He stands up from the bench, and before Dave can react, he throws an arm around his shoulder, pulling him into a quick, rough side-hug.
“Really? Fuck, man, thank you so much!”
Dave grumbles, shrugging him off, but there’s no real bite behind it.
“Yeah, yeah, just don’t make me regret it,” he mutters.
Junior just laughs, still practically beaming, and his cute reaction almost makes up for possibly the worst choice of Dave’s life– no, he’s definitely made worse ones.
Dave wouldn’t say Junior is annoying. Not exactly. But he is definitely not used to an eighteen-year-old kid trailing him like an eager puppy as they walk through the night, chattering about nothing and everything, while Dave's mind races through scenarios, each worse than the last. It almost fucking reminds him of Lars. Though not nearly as smug and cocky and spoiled; thank God.
Still, he feels like he has a tail. A tail that answers to the name of Junior.
Dave already sold everything he had for the night, and the walk home feels like it should be longer. Every block closer to his place makes Dave’s chest tighter, his thoughts spiraling through all the ways this could go wrong.
Murphy’s Law has fucked with his mind since the first time he heard it. All good with Cliff, but respectfully; fuck him for telling him about it.
Junior's voice cuts through his thoughts: “You okay, man? You look paler than normal.” He chuckles.
“Just tired, been a long fucking night,” Dave only half-lies.
They're almost at his place now. There's no choice; Junior can’t know what’s in that bedroom. Still, as he glances at his bandmate's grateful face, illuminated briefly by passing headlights, Dave can't bring himself to regret it completely. The night wraps around them like a shroud as they approach his house, and Dave sent up a silent prayer to whatever God might be listening: Please let Kirk be asleep. Please let Junior leave without everything going to hell.
But in Dave's experience, Gods rarely listen. And when they do, they usually just laugh.
When they stepped into the house, Junior's eyes went straight to the couch. Dave's heart skipped a beat; he'd forgotten about the bedding still strewn across it, the blankets arranged just so, the pillows positioned exactly how he liked them. Evidence of habitation, clear as day.
But Junior just smiles, relief washing over his tired features. “Hey, looks like it's all set up already.”
"Uh, yeah, sorry about the mess," Dave mutters, watching Junior's reaction carefully. "Been crashing there myself lately. Back problems." The lie came easier this time, maybe because it wasn't entirely false; his back did hurt like hell from those nights on the couch.
"It’s fine. This is perfect." Junior sank into the cushions with a contented sigh. "Thanks again, man. Really."
Dave nods. “Bathroom’s down the hall if you need it. Goodnight, Junior.”
He made his way to the bedroom, each step measured, careful. He unlocked the door as quietly as possible, and there was Kirk, bathed in the weakest moonlight. Sounds asleep, peaceful as a child despite the tape across his mouth and the handcuffs binding his wrists to the bedstead.
He touches Kirk’s shoulder gently. Big dark eyes fluttered open, instantly alert but not afraid. Not anymore. Dave presses a finger to his own lips then carefully peels off the tape on Kirk’s mouth.
“Don’t say a word,” Dave whispers, so low it was barely a breath. “I’ll uncuff you, but you need to be very quiet, okay?”
Kirk nods immediately.
Dave reaches for the key in his pocket, freeing Kirk's right hand. The metal clinked softly against the bedstead.
“Move,” Dave murmurs. “I'm sleeping here tonight.”
Without hesitation, Kirk moves and rolls onto his side, making space. The bed isn’t huge by any means, but it’s much better than the couch. Dave lays down, his body sighing in relief as the mattress (which is practically new, he bought it after his last gig with Metallica) accepts his weight. He could feel Kirk’s warmth at his back, and hear the soft rhythm of his breathing.
The absurdity of it all hit him then; lying in bed with the kidnapped man who’d replaced him in Metallica, while his bassist slept unknowing on the couch. But absurd or not, as Dave’s muscles finally began to unwind, he couldn’t bring himself to care. The bed is soft, Kirk is quiet, and for the first time in days, his back doesn’t feel like it's trying to crawl out of his body.
They both drift off like that, back to back, sharing warmth and silence, while somewhere in the living room, Junior dreams his own dreams, blissfully unaware of the strange tableau just a wall away.
Dawn creeps through the window (barely, Dave had nailed wooden boards over the windows a couple days ago so that nobody from outside could have a chance to see the fucking handcuffed guy with tape over his mouth) when Kirk’s bladder began its urgent protest, waking him. He looked to the side, and Dave was still sleeping. Hopefully he’d wake in a bit. So he laid there, watching the subtle dust motes dance in the pale, weak light, trying to will away the pressure.
But biology shall not be denied.
After ten excruciating minutes, he knew he had two choices: wake Dave or wet the bed.
“Dave,” he whispers, tapping the sleeping form beside him.
Dave groans, and ignores him. Well, “ignores” sounds ugly, he just doesn’t think it’ll be important enough to listen.
Kirk shakes his shoulder. “Dave, please. I needa' pee real bad.”
Dave’s eyes finally flutter open with an annoyed sigh as reality reasserted itself.
The handcuff key felt cold in his fingers as he freed Kirk, mind still foggy with sleep.
Dave stood sentry outside the bathroom door, ears straining for any sound from the living room. The familiar creak of old pipes filled the silence as Kirk relieved himself. Everything would be fine, Dave tells himself. Junior is probably still asleep–
“Morning.”
The voice hits Dave like an electric shock. Junior stands at the end of the hallway, his long hair mussed from sleep, wearing yesterday's wrinkled clothes and a grateful smile.
Dave’s heart hammered against his ribs as he shepherded Junior back toward the couch, trying to keep his voice steady. “Oh, uh, hey. Sleep okay?”
“Better than a bus stop bench.” Junior chuckles. “Listen, man, I owe you one, really.”
“No, no, it’s fine. It’s the least I could do.”
“You think I could use the phone? Maybe try to smooth things over with Sarah?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Dave’s words tumble out too fast, his eyes darting between Junior and the hallway. “It’s over there.” He points at the phone next to the hallway.
Junior stands up, and so does Dave. He follows Junior as he sees him walking towards the phone, copying every movement he makes.
Crossing the hallway, the fucking toilet flushed. They both pause. The sound wasn’t that loud by itself, but the actual implication echoes through the apartment like a gunshot.
Time stretches like taffy as the bathroom door opens. Kirk steps out: messy hair, wearing Dave's borrowed t-shirt and sweatpants, and the world holds its breath.
Three men, three sets of eyes, one frozen moment.
No one spoke, it was like a second that lasts forever.
Dave feels his blood fade away, like God, or The Devil, or both, were sucking the life out of him to make him pay for all of his sins.
Then Junior smiled; that genuine, warming smile that made him look even younger than he was. “Uh, hi, I’m- I'm David.” He hesitantly walked towards Kirk and extended his hand.
Kirk stands there, still as a statue, his face a mask of careful neutrality. His hand moves deliberately to shake Junior’s, but despite his expression, his eyes stay perpetually worried. His gaze darts between both Dave’s; searching for direction, for explanation, for anything. Both have the same name but they mean something completely different to him, don't they?
He parts his lips to speak to Junior but–
“This is Scott,” Dave jumps in, quickly finding an excuse for Kirk’s existence, and especially; for his beaten up look. “Friend of mine. He got into a big fight and needed a place to stay.”
Then, quickly, he casually speaks to Kirk: “Yeah, and this is David, my bassist, I told you about him. Junior, weren’t you gonna make that call?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah.” Junior’s eyes linger on Kirk for a moment; was that curiosity there? Suspicion? Even if he doesn’t recognize Kirk from anywhere, and Kirk’s expression isn’t giving much away, him not saying a word and especially his bruised face and neck were strange at the very least.
Whatever it was, it doesn’t last long. Dave practically pushed him towards the goddamn phone.
Dave grips Kirk’s arm, gentle but firm, steering him back to the bedroom. Kirk moves like a sleepwalker, his face still frozen in that careful blank expression that spoke volumes to anyone who knew how to read it.
The handcuffs clicked shut around Kirk's wrists, the usual tape being ripped was an impossibly loud sound in the morning quiet. Dave could hear Junior’s voice from the other room, soft and pleading into the phone. He looked down at Kirk, seeing the questions burning in those dark eyes. Maybe he would explain later.
Dave leaves the bedroom, leaving Kirk alone.
And yes, Kirk sits with both of his wrists cuffed to the bedstead once again, but the restraints aren’t what truly imprisoned him in that moment. His own mind had become the cruelest jailer of all.
The scene replays in his head: Junior’s friendly smile, the extended hand, the perfect opportunity slipping through his fingers like sand. His mouth had simply... Stopped working. As if someone had reached inside and stolen his voice, leaving nothing but a hollow space where his words should have been.
Why hadn't he screamed? Why hadn't he mouthed “help” or given Junior some sign? He’d stood there instead, docile as a lobothomized lamb, shaking the hand of a man who could have been his salvation. The absurdity of it made him want to laugh, but what came out was a sob instead. The tears started slowly at first, then picked up momentum like a summer storm. They ran hot down his cheeks as frustration and self-loathing crashed over him in waves. Each tear felt like an admission of weakness, of failure, of a deeper feeling that he couldn’t quite name.
He barely recognizes himself anymore.
When Dave returned to the room with Junior already gone, Kirk didn't even try to hide his sadness. What was the point? Dave stands in the doorway for a long moment, watching him with an expression Kirk had never seen before.
“Hey, hey,” Dave says urgently, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and taking the tape off of Kirk’s mouth. “Why– why are you crying? What is it?”
Kirk wants to tell him that he feels useless and dumb, that his body doesn’t feel his anymore, that he doesn't know what to do anymore, but his throat closed up again, betraying him just like before. Dave seems to understand anyway.
“Okay. Listen,” Dave talks, his voice gentler than Kirk had ever heard it, “we’ll just- we’ll do something fun today, alright?" He reaches out, hesitates, then awkwardly pats Kirk’s shoulder. “Just– just don’t cry, okay? Please. ”
The kindness in Dave’s voice makes Kirk want to cry harder, but it doesn’t happen; and wasn’t that the strangest thing? Here's his captor, trying to comfort him, and somehow it's working. The tears began to slow, his breathing steadied, and the world started to make a weird kind of sense again.
“There you go,” Dave says, watching Kirk’s tears subside. “See? It’s– it’s gonna be okay. We’ll make it okay.”
And the truly terrifying thing is, part of Kirk believed him.
“Uh, we can– we can maybe–” Dave looks around. “You ever done heroin?”
Kirk looks up at him. “No.”
“Okay, we can–” Dave stands up. “You can try it, just a little, you’ll feel better.”
Kirk watches Dave rummage through a drawer, the sharp clatter of miscellaneous junk punctuating the silence. His wrists ache from the cuffs, his mouth still tastes like duct tape, and his head is full of horrible thoughts.
He should've fought. He should've done something about it. But he hadn’t, and now here he is, so he might as well do something to deal with it.
Heroin.
The word itself has a weight to it. He knows what it can do. He’s not an idiot. He’s seen people fucked up on it before: musicians, roadies, random guys hanging around the clubs, hollow-eyed and slack-jawed, looking like their souls had packed up and left their bodies behind. But Dave isn’t one of those guys, right? He’s still here. Still talking, still moving, still alive. Clearly the drug isn’t controlling his life, and it's not like Kirk can afford to be addicted to heroin in his situation anyway. Plus, if Dave said it would help, maybe it would. Maybe it would take the edge off this screaming, gnawing thing inside of him that felt too big for his ribs to contain.
It could make this whole fucking nightmare a whole lot easier to swallow.
Dave turns back to him, a small bag pinched between his fingers. “Okay, you gotta trust me now.”
Kirk blinks. Should he really? No, he knows perfectly he shouldn’t. Not in any normal, sane version of reality. But his reality isn’t normal or sane anymore, is it? The walls of logic and reason have already cracked and crumbled, leaving him standing there, exposed, with no protection. And Dave is the only one reaching for him, offering something to dull the sharp edges of his world.
Kirk gulps and mutters the smallest okay.
“Alright,” Dave says, softer now. He sits on the edge of the bed and uncuffs one of Kirk’s hands. “It’s really not as scary as people make it out to be.” He puts a belt around Kirk’s arm, squeezing it tightly.
A spoon. A tiny, precise amount of powder. A lighter and cotton, and then, the needle. The sickly-sweet scent of melting tar hits Kirk’s nose, curling in his gut like nausea.
Kirk wets his lips, staring at his own raising veins on his arm, and at Dave’s hands, steady as they worked.
“Hey,” Dave’s voice is gentle, coaxing, “it’s nothing. Just a little bit. It’ll make things quiet, that’s all.”
Quiet, that is exactly what Kirk needs. His body aches with exhaustion. His thoughts are too loud, his ribs too tight as his heartbeat drums a song of failure. He’d had his chance and blew it. Just like he always did.
Dave is only being kind and merciful.
Kirk nods, barely.
So Dave takes Kirk’s arm, fingers pressing against his skin, trying to find a vein like he’d done it many times before. He doesn’t seem excited, not the way he did when he talked about music or revenge. His eyes are clear, focused, as if he was doing Kirk a favor; maybe he is.
The needle slips in, a tiny prick of pain before warmth blooms in its place, creeping up Kirk’s veins like ink in water.
When Dave slides out the belt from his arm, Kirk notices the major effects pretty quickly. The warmth spreads through his whole body, like stepping into a sunbeam on a cold day and a soft, as golden haze blurs the edges of the room. His breath hitches as a wave of something enormous and sweet and wrong crashes over him, dissolving the edges of his panic into a golden, syrupy fog. His limbs feel heavy, too heavy to lift, too heavy to fight.
And for the first time in God knows how long, his mind quiets, just like Dave had said.
His lips parts as a slow, breathy sigh slipped free, and somewhere beyond the haze, he could feel Dave watching him; not grinning, not laughing, just watching, as he gently helps him lay down. Studying. Kirk feels a ghost of something move through him, the tiniest whisper of unease, but it's distant, unimportant. Half-remembered.
He is warm, he is light, he is nothing at all.
“See? Told you. Feels nice, huh?”
The room feels softer, dreamlike, like something out of a movie. Kirk’s fingers twitch. He thinks about Junior’s hand in his. The voice in his head. The voice that wanted to scream about how he should’ve begged Junior, should’ve fought, should’ve done anything but stand there like an idiot; had already gone quiet.