Purple Lilacs
Kirk’s eyes crack open, but his eyelids feel impossibly heavy, like they’re being weighed down with lead. A harsh, blinding light forces him to squint, his vision burns white-hot no matter how hard he tries to adjust. His first, sluggish thought is that he's fucking dead. That he has finally slipped away, into something soft and endless.
Great job, Kirk. You're now just another rock star cliché, dead from heroin without even making it big first. Very clever, asshole.
But this isn't heaven. Can't be. Shouldn't be.
Heaven wouldn't feel like having concrete poured into your veins, wouldn't leave your mouth tasting like you've been licking the bottom of an ashtray. Heaven wouldn't have that familiar, hateful pressure of metal biting into his wrist.
And... he can still feel the bed beneath him. His body’s leaden, sinking into the mattress like it’s swallowing him whole. In heaven, there shouldn't be these things, he supposes.
Wait, do I deserve to go to heaven?
That's something else entirely.
He tries to turn his head to escape the light, and his weak movement finds some relief. The brightness dims as his gaze falls on something else, something darker; blurry lines of black– no, brown! They grow from the ground, stretching upward, fading in and out as if they were caught between reality and dream.
Then, movement. A figure approaching, long-limbed and slow, cutting through the haze like a shadow shifting over water.
Fluffy hair, light catching in the messy strands. Tall. Something in his right hand.
The figure crouches next to him. Their head blocks out the searing brightness, and suddenly Kirk can see. His breath hitches.
Huh, Dave.
Shirtless, his torso still wrapped in bandages, those crude white strips covering the wounds Kirk had left on his back days ago. He doesn’t look particularly concerned. Just watching curiously, as if he were just a little kid at a zoo, looking at an animal he's never seen before.
Kirk swallows. His throat is dry and his tongue feels too thick in his mouth.
“Dave?” He asks hoarsely.
Dave’s mouth quirks. “Yeah. That's me.”
His voice sounds distant, like Kirk is hearing it through water or after an explosion.
“Where… where am I?”
Dave snorts, tilting his head. “Take a wild guess.”
Dave and his games. Fine. Kirk forces himself to blink, as his vision is struggling to pull itself together. The light's still too bright, but Dave’s silhouette helps, his body blocks enough of it that Kirk can start to make out the world around him.
A big green mass spilled on the ground. Grass. The trees (yes, they're trees, the brown lines from before) stretch high above, their branches swaying gently in a breeze Kirk can’t quite feel yet.
A forest?
Kirk frowns.
“…Are we outside?” He asks, his voice barely more than a breath.
Dave raises his eyebrows, his is posture lazy, casual. “Yeah, kinda weird, huh?”
Kirk’s vision is still a haze of light and shadows, but the more he blinks, trying to bring the world into focus, the more pieces of reality he can put together: Dave is moving to sit next to him, with a beer in his hand. His wild hair catches the firelight in strange ways—in ways only Dave’s hair does—casting flickering shapes across his face. He isn’t looking at Kirk now; his gaze's on the trees, the sky, the way the leaves rustled in the breeze.
Dave turns his head, studying Kirk for a moment before tilting his chin towards the horizon. “The whole Junior thing stressed me out,” he admits, running a hand through his hair. “I just wanted to escape of routine for a day. So, I figured, why not make a trip out of it?"
He takes a sip from his beer. "Hey, don’t you think the view is nice?”
Kirk squints past Dave’s silhouette. Even with his dazed mind, he has to admit; yeah, it’s nice. The trees stretch tall, the leaves above swing nicely. The air smells clean, fresh, nothing like the smoke and stale beer of the house. There's something peaceful about it, even with the cold metal handcuff still around his wrist.
Dave smirks, satisfied with Kirk’s unspoken agreement. “Well, lemme tell you, you saved my ass with Junior. So, yeah, I gotta thank you for that, Kirk.” He nudges him.
Kirk shifts slightly, still feeling the weight of exhaustion in his limbs. He doesn’t want to talk about Junior.
Dave must’ve sensed it because he doesn’t push. Instead, he claps his hands together. “Well, you hungry?”
Kirk nods dumbly. His stomach has felt hollow for what seemed like forever, but only now did he realize how much he wants food.
“Alright, let’s get you sitting up.” Dave moves beside him, sliding an arm under Kirk’s shoulders and helping him sit. His movements are surprisingly careful, almost thoughtful. The world spins for a second as Kirk adjusts, but the warmth of the small bonfire nearby is grounding.
“It’s warm right now, but it’ll get chiller when the sun sets,” Dave says as he pours dirt over the fire, putting it out. “Then I’ll get the fire going again.”
Dave hands him a piece of food wrapped in foil, still warm from the fire. Kirk peels it open clumsily, his fingers slow, his brain still thick with the lingering effects of the heroin. He can barely focus on Dave’s voice as he talks, too busy chewing, too focused on the simple relief of filling the emptiness in his stomach.
It isn’t until a few bites in that he takes in his surroundings properly. The air mattress he’s been lying on, the tent Dave has set up nearby. And then, finally, his wrist; cuffed to the Dave's car wheel.
“How long was I out?” Kirk asks between bites, blinking.
Dave stretches his arms over his head, groaning, and his ribs stick out a little too much. Kirk doesn't know if he should be concerned.
“Eh, just a couple hours. Little longer than I thought, but not bad for your first time. At first I thought it would’ve been too much for you, but you did fine. And hey; didn’t even puke. Proud of you.” He grins like it’s some kind of accomplishment.
Kirk hums, too tired to figure out if that's a good thing or not.
Dave nudges him lightly with his elbow. “We could go for a walk, check out the place a little. Or–” he points to his car's trunk “–I brought my acoustic, at least. Thought maybe we could jam a little. And, look, I came prepared–” he points towards a bag by the bonfire “-marshmallows and all. ‘Cause what’s a bonfire without ‘em?”
He sounds excited, almost like a kid talking about his favorite vacation spot. Kirk wants to match his enthusiasm, but right now, food is his only priority. Still, he appreciates the effort, in a strange way. No yelling, no threats. Just Dave trying to make this whole fucked-up situation into something almost normal. Almost.
Kirk swallows, then glances at him. “Yeah,” he says, voice softer than he meant. “Sounds good.”
Dave’s grin widens, satisfied. “See? I told you we’d do fun stuff today.”
Kirk doesn’t answer, just focused on eating for now. He’s still a prisoner, wrapped up in a mess he doesn’t know how to untangle. But right now, with a full stomach and Dave rambling about roasting marshmallows, he isn’t sure he cares too much.
After a couple minutes, when they are both done eating, Dave walks towards the back of his Chevy and opens the trunk.
Kirk notices his throat feeling very dry as his eyes stuck to the beer on Dave’s hand. He swallows, but it doesn't help.
“Can I have a beer?” He asks cautiously, thinking he could get the situation to feel even more normal if they were both drinking.
Dave doesn’t even look up. "No. I only brought for myself." Not rude, not condescending. Just a flat-out statement of fact.
Kirk watches as Dave pulls the guitar from the trunk. He sits down and starts playing: Kirk supposes it as a new Megadeth riff; something complex and technical that Dave's still working out. The melody stumbles and stutters like a wounded animal. Notes that should bite instead bleed out sloppily, betraying that Dave's fingers aren't quite where his ambition wants them to be.
The alcohol isn't helping. With Dave, it never does.
But it's not the clumsy playing that's giving away Dave's drunk status; it's the transformation happening on his face. Each mistake tightens his expression like a ratchet being cranked. His brows furrow, lips pulling back to expose teeth in a grimace that's becoming more feral by the second. He curses under his breath, vicious little self-directed daggers: Fucking idiot, and The fuck is that, dumbass? muttered with the intimate hatred of someone who's been carrying these thoughts for years.
Kirk, feeling awkward, tries to reassure him: “You're doing good, Dave. Relax.”
Dave gives him an ugly look. “Shut up and lemme focus.”
Okay. Rude.
Kirk turns his gaze to the trees, ignoring Dave’s outburst. His wrists ache with a persistent, throbbing pain. He glances down at his free one; the skin mottled purple and green where the metal has repeatedly bitten into flesh. His right wrist, still shackled to the steering wheel, throbs in dull counterpoint to his heartbeat. He lets out a slow breath, flexing his fingers to maintain circulation. On top of that: he has to pee. Not badly, not yet. But it’s an opportunity to be freed for a few seconds from these stupid handcuffs.
“Uh, Dave?” He starts carefully, “can I take a piss?”
Dave sighs with exaggerated patience, like Kirk's asking for something unreasonable and extravagant. He sets the guitar aside with surprising gentleness before reaching into his pocket. The keys jingle, metal against metal. But before approaching, he reaches through the open window, retrieving the hidden revolver from the backseat.
Only then does he move to unlock the cuff.
The metal springs open with a click that sounds too loud in the forest quiet. Kirk immediately cradles his freed wrist, wincing as his fingers probe the tender flesh. He rises to his feet, legs shaky from sitting too long, and makes his way toward a large pine several feet away.
He unzips, relief flooding through him as he empties his bladder.
The sound of urine hitting the forest floor seems almost vulgar in the stillness; he feels a bit guilty.
To the wolfs and birds; sorry for peeing on your house, buds.
Kirk can feel the weight of Dave's gaze on his back, but when he dares a glance over his shoulder, he sees Dave's attention has wandered. He's looking down at the guitar resting across his lap, the revolver placed carelessly beside him on the hood. The beer can tilts precariously next to his thigh.
Kirk finishes, tucks himself away, and zips up. He takes a deep breath, and then-
Run.
It's that stupid voice again; the same one that urged him to stab Dave days ago.
What the hell are you waiting for? Standing there looking dumb as fuck just like you did with Junior-
His body launches into motion before his brain fully registers the decision, bare feet slapping against the earth, heart rocketing into his throat. Pine needles bite into his soles, but the pain is distant, secondary to the surge of adrenaline.
"KIRK!”
Dave's roar tears through the forest, primal and furious. Something in the back of Kirk's mind—something trained and broken—almost makes him stop, but his legs keep pumping, driving him forward through the underbrush.
A second later; a gunshot.
The whole world tilts– no, he's falling. Before he can realize, he's going down, mouth filling with dirt and grass as his chest slams into the forest floor. You might think Kirk is fucking stupid for falling at the most crucial moment like some victim in a B-grade horror movie, but in his defense, his body is still recovering from the effects of the heroin, and the gunshot truly caught him off guard. God, it was so loud it made his head hurt.
He groans, pushing up on shaky elbows, spitting earth from his mouth.
Then hands—Dave’s hands—fiercely snatch a fistful of his curls and yank his head up.
Pain explodes through Kirk’s scalp. He grunts.
“You stupid little fuck,” Dave hisses, half-laughing but furious. “You really thought that would fuckin’ work? You really thought I wouldn’t catch you?”
Kirk squirms, but Dave wrenches his head back farther, forcing him to look up.
“You’re fuckin’ pathetic,” Dave spits.
He hauls Kirk upward by his hair—scalp screaming in protest—and drags him back towards their spot. With a final savage motion, he shoves Kirk to the ground. The impact is so strong it knocks the wind out of him, leaving him gasping like a landed fish. Dirt and pine needles stick to his sweat-slicked skin.
Dave towers over him, chest heaving. Kirk's vision swims into focus, and he finds himself staring up at the revolver, the black eye of its muzzle regarding him with perfect indifference.
"Strip."
Kirk freezes, brain struggling to process the command.
“Now.” Dave's tone is low but firm, leaving no room for discussion.
The revolver makes a small but devastating click as he thumbs the hammer back.
Kirk's hands begin to move, shaking as they find the hem of his shirt. He pulls it over his head, skin prickling as the warm sunlight touches his bare torso. He pauses, hand hovering at his waistband, a part of him hoping that's enough.
Dave raises his eyebrows, head tilting slightly; a silent command to continue.
Kirk draws a shaky breath and complies. He fumbles with his waistband, fingers numb and clumsy. The sweatpants come down, followed by his boxers. He immediately covers himself with one hand, the other braced against the ground for support.
His mind races with panicked speculation. Maybe Dave just wants to humiliate him, maybe force him to sleep outside naked. Maybe-
The thought shatters as Dave yanks him upward by the arm, his grip bruising.
Kirk stumbles on unsteady legs as he drags him toward a massive pine tree. Without warning, Dave shoves him face-first against the trunk, rough bark scraping his chest and cheek. Kirk barely has time to catch his breath before Dave grabs both of his wrists, jerking them around the trunk. The familiar metal of the cuffs snaps around his skin. He’s trapped, hugging the tree like some pathetic prisoner on display.
He's panting, heart hammering against his chest. He strains to watch Dave through his peripheral vision.
Dave exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. When he speaks, his voice cracks under the weight of what sounds almost like genuine betrayal: “You just don’t fucking get it, do you?” His breath reeks of beer. “I’ve been trying, Kirk. I’ve really been fuckin’ trying. Keeping my temper, being patient, feeding you, looking out for you.” He pauses, licking his lips. “I mean, look around!”
He flings his arms wide, gesturing wildly at the forest, the revolver still clutched in his hand.
“This place is fuckin’ beautiful. Fresh air, peace, quiet. And what do you do? You fucking run.”
Kirk can’t bring himself to answer. He’s still catching his breath, arms aching where they’re forced around the tree.
Dave shakes his head.
"I just don't fucking get it, man. I do all this for you, and you throw it back in my face." He taps the muzzle against Kirk's temple. "Makes me wonder why the fuck I even bother."
Kirk closes his eyes, feeling the pressure of the revolver against his head, and waits for whatever comes next. In this moment, naked and bound to a tree in the middle of nowhere, he understands that freedom was never as close as he thought.
Kirk gulps as Dave walks behind him, disappearing from view. There's a sound that freezes his blood; the unmistakable metallic slide of a belt being pulled from its loops.
His stomach drops. His body goes rigid with recognition before his mind can fully process what's happening.
Is he…?
Panic tightens in his chest like a vice. His breathing comes fast, uneven.
"No, no, please, Dave, listen—" The words tumble out in a desperate rush.
He tugs at the cuffs in desperation, the tree slams against his ribs, but Dave just sighs behind him, like he’s dealing with a misbehaving child.
“Relax and shut the hell up,” Dave mutters, his voice oddly gentle compared to the violence in his hands. “I didn’t wanna get to this point but, fuck, you're one hard-headed motherfucker. Don't know any goddamn limits... You did this to yourself, Kirk.”
The sound of leather sliding against itself brings a flash—unbidden, unwelcome—of Mr. Kessler from two houses down. The way he'd call Kirk over to help with "chores," the belt always visible on his waist.
Just a little more, kiddo. Don't you want that comic? The memory slams into him with such force that for a moment he's not in the forest anymore. He's ten years old, frozen in that musty garage, unable to move as rough fingers slide where they shouldn't.
Kirk knew it. Knew from the beginning that this was just a weird ass kink.
He squeezes his eyes shut. His breathing turns shallow. "Please don't-"
The first strike shatters the memory, replacing it with a new reality. He cries out, body jerking against the tree. White-hot pain blooms across his back.
The second lash falls before he can recover from the first. This isn't what he expected, and in some twisted way, for a second, it's almost a relief.
The third strike lands, and suddenly he's not with Mr. Kessler anymore. He's at home again, his father's face contorted with rage, belt already raised.
This'll teach you to talk back, boy. His siblings cowering in the corner, knowing their turns would come.
Dave doesn’t slow. The belt cuts through the air with a sickening snap, the familiar sound alone enough to make Kirk’s knees buckle.
The tree trunk is unyielding, its rough texture scraping his chest as he flinches with each hit.
There’s nowhere to go, no escape from the fire eating into his skin.
Another lash.
He forces himself to focus on something else; anything else. He tilts his head up, blinking through the tears. The sky. He realizes hasn’t looked at the sky in so long. Between the shifting leaves, patches of perfect blue peek through. It's so impossibly vast and indifferent.
Another lash.
The sky. He focuses on how the clouds drift, shapeless but somehow familiar. He and his brother used to lie in the grass, pointing out animals in the clouds, even when there was nothing there to see.
Another lash. A scream tears from his throat.
He can't hold onto the clouds anymore. Each strike drags him back to his father's den, to the smell of alcohol and cigarettes, to the way he learned to make himself small, to brace for impact, to stop crying because crying only made it worse.
Not again. Not again. Not again.
Another lash. Another sob rips from his throat.
He's really trying to think about something else, but the pain and the fucking sound of the belt connecting with the sensitive skin make it impossible.
Another lash.
And then another, and what feels like a thousand more.
His screams come unbidden now, a primitive response to pain he can't control. Tears stream down his face, stinging his eyes, blurring the world.
“Dave–" his voice shatters. "No, please–”
Dave doesn't stop. If anything, the lashes come harder, faster. Kirk's sobs turn desperate, his body convulsing with each impact. His legs tremble beneath him, threatening to give out entirely.
"Please," he gasps between ragged breaths. "Dave, Dave, stop-"
He can’t do this. He can’t take it.
Dave doesn’t stop, if anything, the lashes come harder, faster. Kirk’s sobs turn desperate, choked, his body wracked with tremors. His legs shake under him. He can’t breathe, can’t think; he just wants it to stop.
“Please,” he whines. “Please–”
Another lash, regardless.
His crying becomes so intense it's hard to breathe, each sob catching on the next.
Another lash, this one softer.
His knees begin to buckle.
Then, silence. The only sounds are Kirk's broken sobs and his desperate attempts to pull air into his lungs. His entire body shakes as if caught in an earthquake.
Dave stands behind him, saying nothing.
The strikes have stopped, but there's no relief. Kirk's shoulders heave with each gut-wrenching sob, his back burning like he's been laid open.
The belt slips from Dave’s fingers and hits the ground with a dull thud against the beautifully green grass. His chest heaves, his breath is uneven, but it's not from exertion; it's from the maddening weight of what he had just done. He blinks quickly, as if that could erase this image burned into his mind.
Kirk, slumped against the tree, his body barely held upright by the rough bark digging into his raw, welted skin. Kirk is still crying; soft, choked, broken sounds that keep drilling into Dave’s skull like angry wasps.
Dave turns away sharply and presses his palms against his ears, squeezing his eyes shut until stars burst behind his lids, but nothing can block out Kirk’s broken sobs. Each hitched breath, each choked whimper crawled into his skull like snakes, forcing him to face what he’d become.
The sounds won't stop. Why won't they stop?
Is this what I've become? Is this really what I am now?
He'd convinced himself it wasn't about hurting Kirk; it was about control. About making him understand the hierarchy between them.
But is that actually true? He isn't certain anymore.
He didn't enjoy causing pain. He's mostly sure of that. But the power? The dominance? Knowing that Kirk had no choice but to submit to him? That, he craved. That, he needed.
It makes him sick.
His hands tremble as they grip his temples, fingers pulling at his own hair until his scalp burns. The pain feels right; he deserves it. Deserves much worse.
Is this why Metallica threw him out like garbage?
Is this why Kirk had slid so perfectly into his place, bringing light where Dave had only cast shadows?
His chest aches with a pain so deep it feels cellular.
This is why no one ever stays. Why no one could ever love him. He have to trap them, chain them, break them; just to keep them close.
He turns back slowly, hoping somehow the scene might have changed. That maybe Kirk had stopped crying, that his skin wasn't so badly damaged, that he could somehow undo what he'd done.
Kirk is still trembling, curled against the tree as much as the cuffs allow. His back is an angry landscape of welts, no blood drawn but somehow that makes it worse. The damaged skin pulses with heat visible even from where Dave stands.
This is real. This is who he is now.
Kirk's sobs come in breathless little hiccups that threatened to shatter what was left of his sanity.
He steps forward slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wounded puppy.
“It’s okay,” he whispers hesitantly, “it’s– it’s over.”
When he reaches out, Kirk hisses, and flinches so violently it feels like a physical blow to Dave’s chest. He feels his stomach drop to his fucking feet. The rejection, the fear; it crushes something vital inside him. Some final wall, some last defense.
He swallows the bile rising in his throat. His hands tremble as he brushes Kirk's sweat-soaked curls from his face, wiping tears away with a touch so gentle it's barely there. Even so, Kirk's breath hitches, his body still bracing for pain.
Dave can't bear the look in Kirk's eyes. Something snaps inside him.
He wraps his arms around Kirk from behind, pressing close, needing to hold him together because he himself is falling apart. His body shakes with the force of contained sobs.
"I'm- I'm sorry," he mumbles, but the words feel inadequate, pathetic. "Fuck- I'm sorry."
No response. Just more silent tears tracking down Kirk's face.
“I didn’t want to–” his voice cracks. He tries again. “I didn’t wanna do that. I– fuck, Kirk– I don’t know… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He rocks them both slightly, a primal motion of comfort, but Kirk remains limp in his hold. When Dave finally reaches for the handcuffs, fumbling with the key, Kirk's body simply surrenders. His legs buckle, and he crumples to the forest floor, broken and spent in a way that terrifies Dave.
Dave sinks down with him, pulling Kirk’s unresisting body against his chest like a shield against his own monstrosity.
“I didn't mean to,” Dave sobs, no longer able to contain the flood of tears. They ran hot down his face, dripping into Kirk’s hair. “I swear to God, I– I really didn't mean to, Kirk.”
The words ring hollow, even to his own ears. Because some part of him had meant it, hadn't it? Some twisted, broken part of him needs this dominance and control. He's like a child crushing butterflies, desperate to hold something beautiful, but only knowing how to destroy.
He clutches Kirk tighter, his tears falling faster now, his whole body wracked with the force of his breakdown. The forest seems to close in around them, silent witness to his shame, his guilt, his desperate need for forgiveness he knows he doesn't deserve. And Kirk still cries, those soft, broken sounds that will haunt Dave's dreams forever; proof that no matter how much he wants to love, all he knows how to do is hurt.
"I didn't wanna do this," Dave whispers into Kirk's curls, "I'm so fucking sorry."
Kirk doesn’t respond. Just breathes through uneven gasps. His head drops forward, eyes squeezed shut. He wipes his tears with the back of his hand and winces; Dave’s touch—though he knows has the best intentions—hurts.
Dave keeps holding him, keeps whispering apologies in a broken voice.
Kirk finally speaks: “Uh, Dave…”
No response. Just more apologies.
“D-Dave,” Kirk tries again, weakly.
Dave keeps crying, but the words start breaking apart. “I– I didn't wanna– I never wanted– I just– fuck, Kirk, I swear I didn’t...”
Kirk exhales shakily, his whole body trembling, every nerve still burning. “It– it hurts,” he manages, “your hug, it- it hurts.” He taps Dave's arm with what little strength he has left.
Dave freezes, gulping back a sob. He lets go, his hands hovering over Kirk like he wants to keep holding him but knows he shouldn't; knows he's lost the right to.
Kirk's head drops forward, eyes squeezing shut, hands gripping his thighs as he tries to control his breathing, the searing pain, and the nausea threatening to overtake him. He doesn't want to cry anymore. He's too tired. His body and mind feel hollowed out, scraped empty.
Dave quickly wipes at his own face, then reaches over and gathers Kirk's clothes, placing them carefully in his lap.
His hands shake. His whole body shakes. The reality of what he's done sinks in too fast, too deep. He remembers why this whole thing started: he was mad at Metallica for kicking him out and wanted to take his anger out on someone. And the truth is, he was never truly mad at Kirk. Why would he be? It wasn't Kirk's fault. Kirk was just an easy target. But even so, he can't bring himself to be mad at Lars, at James or Cliff or anyone else right now; only himself.
Deep down, you know you deserved to be kicked out.
"I'm sorry," Dave mumbles again, the words becoming a meaningless mantra.
Kirk swallows hard and shifts, pain flaring up his back like someone's pressing a hot iron to his skin. "Can- can you help me up?"
Dave looks up from the ground, red-rimmed eyes wide, like he almost didn’t hear him right. “You– yeah. Yeah, of course.” He scrambles to his feet, hands reaching for Kirk carefully, gently. He pulls him up, steadying him as Kirk winces and bites down a pained noise.
Kirk only pulls on his pants, leaving his back bare because the idea of more fabric touching him makes him want to straight up pull his skin off. He exhales, trying to steady himself, and when he looks at Dave, the man is staring at the ground, his strawberry blond bangs casting shadows over his face. But Kirk can still see the tears rolling down his cheeks, his down-turned mouth, and the uneven rise and fall of his chest.
Slowly, carefully, he wipes his own tears and, unsure, he speaks: "I'm not mad at you, if– if that's what you wanna know. I was just– just... scared."
Dave sniffs but says nothing.
Kirk hesitates before continuing, forcing the words out: "It- it wasn't the pain... itself. If it had been anything else, I wouldn't have cried like a baby." He chuckles nervously. "It's just..." He takes a shuddering breath, his throat tightening. "It reminded me of when my– my dad... you know."
Dave's head jerks up at that. He looks like someone just punched him square in the gut. He nods, swallowing hard, but the apology is already forming in his throat again. "I'm–"
"I know," Kirk says quickly, not sure why he feels the need to stop him. "I know you didn't mean–" He cuts himself off, because he doesn't know what Dave meant, really. He doesn't know what any of this means.
Dave wipes at his face aggressively, like he's trying to rub away his own existence.
He sighs. “Fuck. I– I just… I don’t want you to leave, okay? I’m– I want you to stay here with me," Dave pleads urgently. “And I don’t know why I care so much about you, and I know it’s pathetic, alright? I know. But you’re– you’re pretty much all I got now, and I can’t imagine it any other way. I just can’t.”
And despite himself, despite everything, Kirk feels something he doesn’t expect.
Pity.
He can't help it. This grown, six feet man has never looked this vulnerable and weak before. Not even through his other breakdown after Kirk's other attempt to escape.
Oh, God.
After connecting the dots, he doesn’t hesitate. He sighs and wraps his arms around Dave, pulling him in even though his own body screams in protest. His back burns like fire, but he holds on anyway. Despite the pain, despite the fear still lingering in his chest, he understands. More than he wants to admit, he understands.
Dave’s hands trail down to rest on Kirk’s shoulders, carefully avoiding his back. He squeezes them like he’s trying to ground himself. “I’m so fuckin’ mad at myself,” he chokes out. “I know I’m not a good person. God… ” He whines, his voice cracking again. “I’m such a fuckin’ asshole. I’m sorry.”
Kirk exhales, steadying himself before speaking. “Bad people don’t worry about being evil, Dave,” he explains softly, “they don’t care, and they sure as hell don’t regret it.”
Dave shakes his head against Kirk’s shoulder. “Then why do I keep doing this shit? Why do I keep fucking up?”
Kirk doesn’t have an answer to that. Not one that would make sense to Dave, not one that doesn’t sound like a shitty excuse. So instead, he just keeps holding him. Keeps whispering: “It’s fine. I’m still here, aren’t I?”
That’s the truth, isn’t it? For better or worse, it’s the truth.
Dave closes his eyes and melts into the hug for some seconds. It feels nice. He almost forgot how being comforted by a hug feels. Ah, yeah, his last hug was with James at that bus station. Asshole.
Then, when he considers it could get weirder than it actually was, he pulls apart and starts looking for the cuffs that had fallen to the ground when released Kirk.
There they are: the handcuffs laying like a silver serpent among the fallen leaves and dirt, catching fragments of sunlight that filtered through the canopy above. Dave picks them up, the metal warm from the sun, and for a moment he just stares at them.
The pad of his finger brushes against the little chain connecting the two loops.
Dave’s hands tremble slightly as he closes one loop around his own wrist. He moves slowly and gently, reaching for Kirk’s hand, closing the second loop around his right wrist, securing them both together.
Kirk’s wrist still hurts from the usual friction, but the psychological weight usn’t so heavy now that Dave is also confined to the object.
“Does… your wrist hurt?” Dave asks innocently, almost sounding like a curious child.
“No,” Kirk lies. After a moment: “No-not so much,” he corrects himself.
Dave nods. He looks up. The blue sky and leaves swinging in the wind. The day's warm and beautiful, so he thought about going to the lake that wasn’t so far away from their spot.
“We could go to the lake I saw on our way here… It’s not that far away.”
Kirk smirks. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Dave starts walking towards the special place, Kirk follows him, but their movements were awkward at first as they figured out how to move together.
The forest around them isn't silent; it's alive with small sounds. Twigs snap under their boots. Birds call warnings to each other about the strange two-legged creatures passing below. The wind pushes through the trees, making them creak and sigh like old men settling into comfortable chairs.
They don't talk. Don't need to, really. The woods fill in the conversation gaps with its own language. Kirk keeps stealing glances at Dave, at the way sunlight catches in his reddish-blond hair, at how different he looks outside the cramped confines of the house. Younger, somehow. Less dangerous.
From a distance, Dave thinks, they probably look like they're fucking holding hands. The thought makes something turn over in his gut. Not disgust, exactly. Something he doesn't have a name for. He isn’t too worried about it anyway. It’s not like someone is going to catch them “apparently holding hands” in the middle of nowhere.
After a couple minutes of peaceful walking, the lake revealed itself gradually, like a shy performer drawing back gauzy curtains. Clean. Pure. The kind of place normal people came to on summer afternoons with picnic baskets and love in their hearts.
"Holy shit," he whispers, and Dave feels that strange twist in his gut again. When he glances over, he sees Kirk’s eyes wide open, taking in the view. Dave feels that twist in his gut again. It probably is his pride being stroked. He’s brought beauty into Kirk’s life, hasn’t he? Even if it came with chains attached.
It's a big lake, with water clear enough to see rocks at the bottom near the shore. The surface ripples in the breeze, sunlight bouncing off it in white flashes that hurt the eyes if you look too long. No boats. No cabins. Just water and sky and trees.
Here, where the lake bent like a silver bow, time itself seemed to pause and hold its breath.
The water looks inviting to Kirk; cool and crisp, a perfect contrast to the lingering burn on his back. He lets out a soft breath, then turns to Dave, an almost playful glint in his eyes.
“Can I go in?” Kirk says, already tugging at the waistband of his pants.
“Huh?”
“Go in for a swim,” Kirk says warmly. “You-you should come, it’ll be fun.”
Dave glances at the water, then at his own body, the bandages wrapped around his torso like a pathetic attempt at holding himself together. The wounds underneath them were still raw, still healing. If they got wet, it’d be a mess.
“I don’t know if it’s a good idea for me,” Dave admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “You can go.” He pulls the key from his pocket, and releases them both from the cuff.
Kirk nods as if he already knew the reason why Dave didn’t want to go in. He didn’t, but it’s not like he was going to push. Then, without another word, he peels all of his clotheskicking them aside before stepping into the water. The lake swallows his legs first, then his waist, then the rest of him as he fully submerged, only to surface again with a gasp. Kirk is showing absolutely no shame despite having his dick out. That’s when Dave realizes why Kirk was covering himself minutes ago when he forced him to strip, it’s not that he was afraid of exposing his actual body; but exposing his weakness and vulnerability
“Shit, it’s cold.” Kirk laughs, shaking his head like a wet dog. Water drips down his curls, his shoulders. He turns to Dave. “You sure you don’t wanna come in?”
Dave just watches him. The way Kirk moves in the water, the way he laughs; it was like he has forgotten, even if only for a second, what happened just minutes ago. As if the river was washing it all away.
But Dave hasn’t forgotten.
“I’ll stay here,” he says. “I like watching.”
Kirk floats on his back, staring up at the leaves dancing above. “Suit yourself.”
The lake carries him a few feet away before he rights himself again, swimming back, droplets catching in the sunlight like scattered diamonds.
Dave exhales, relaxing slightly. He tries to pretend, just for a second, that they were two normal guys taking a break from the world. That there is no blood, no cuffs, no weapons, no past waiting to drag them back under.
His fingers curl around the revolver resting on his lap, his grip tightening for no reason at all. He wishes he could just watch Kirk without it.
"I hate you," he mumbles to the revolver morosely. He shoves it behind his belt and stands up, starting to pace along the edge of the lake. His old sneakers crunch over twigs and damp earth as he walks, hands shoved into his pockets. The lake stretches calmly and wide beside him, a mirror for the sky, the trees, the ghost of what the day could have been if things were different.
Then, something catches his eye: a burst of color against the green and brown. A small tree, thick with tiny purple flowers.
He recognizes them quickly. Purple lilacs; his mom’s favorite.
She has always loved flowers, even had a book lying around, full of pictures and meanings. She used to run her fingers over the pages like she could pluck the blooms right out of them. Dave never cared much, he barely remembers anything. He knew daisies were for innocence (his mother had crowned him with a daisy chain once, laughing at how it clashed with his scowl), and roses, well, everyone knows about roses. Purple lilacs; Dave has no fucking clue. The knowledge danced just out of reach, like a half-remembered song. He only remembers her voice, soft when she talked about flowers, like she was speaking in a different language only she and the plants understood. She used to say she wished she had a big garden, one of those pretty ones with neat rows of roses and tulips and ivy climbing up a white trellis. Dave told her once that gardens were only a rich people thing. She laughed and messed up his hair.
It brings many memories rushing back; not just the flowers, but the house. Her house. The one he's living in right now, the one she'd been paying for while he chased his dreams. The old house where he's kept Kirk kidnapped in. Every goddamn bill. Electricity, water, rent; all of it funneled through her hands like she was some kind of financial guardian angel.
Obviously, this wasn't free; there had been an agreement. A promise, better said. After knowing how the whole metal world is, she found out about the good things, and the not-so-good things. If he stayed sober, she'd keep supporting him. But Dave knew from the beginning how that would go, and he'd seen the disappointment in her eyes the last time she visited, seen how her hope had calcified into full resignation.
She had cut him off after that visit. No more money. No more safety net.
He's been trying to pay from his own money since then... but he knew that wouldn't last long. If you thought Dave's luxuries (all the booze and drugs, the handcuffs, the double breakfasts, lunches, dinners, showers, and this whole fucking trip) haven't majorly affected his wallet, you'd be very wrong. The house, everything would be gone soon. Without the house, Kirk would be free, and Dave would end up in prison for the rest of his life, if James, Lars and Cliff don't kill him first for kidnapping their lead guitarist.
One more month? Dave guesses, maybe a couple days more, a couple days less. If he had payed attention to the dates when this whole thing started, he'd know.
Then what, asshole?
Dave's mind races through possible futures like a slot machine spinning desperate combinations.
Kill Kirk and then myself?
Not the worst plan he's ever had. Such a shame, though. He really wanted to see Megadeth make it big. Bigger than Metallica. At least Junior could take over the band... right?
Fuck.
He should come up with another plan. Later, maybe.
He gently caresses the flowers with the calloused pads of his fingers and remembers how Kirk himself had mentioned his own mother a few days ago, voice soft with longing. He doesn’t quite like remembering the fucked up letter he made Kirk write to her, and how by the time Dave sent it to the address in San Francisco Kirk had given him, the letter was already all crumpled from being inside his pocket all day.
She might have deserved better than a short ass explanation on a crumpled paper.
But James told me she believed it? Right? So she might be at peace now, he tries to convince himself.
Kirk had said he wanted to visit her, that he hasn’t seen her in a long time. That’s when Dave thinks: when was the last time he had seen his mom on good terms? Had called her without only asking for money to buy booze and drugs?
If you had payed attention to the dates when this whole thing started, you'd know.
How long ago had he swung that bottle and put Kirk in his car's trunk? Dave feels like it could be his whole life. But unfortunately, that's impossible. Damn, time surely has a way of slipping past, doesn’t it? Like water through cupped hands, like–
Water.
Kirk.
Dave’s head snaps up. His eyes quickly scan the lake’s surface. Nothing. No dark curls breaking the water, no splash of movement, no sight of–
“Kirk?” The word comes out strangled.
Silence answers.
The air goes razor-sharp. His body moves before his brain catches up, feet pounding against the packed earth as he runs around the lake.
“Kirk!”
The lake stretches out before him, sunlight dancing on its surface like the universe is fucking laughing at him. Dave’s eyes dart everywhere; the shoreline, the deeper water, the far bank where trees dipped their branches like searching fingers.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
His lungs and calves burn as he runs faster, circling the lake’s edge. The stupid purple lilacs forgotten now, their sweet scent replaced by the sharp tang of panic. Each second stretched like taffy, like those moments right before a car crash when time seems to slow down just to let you appreciate how thoroughly fucked you are.
“Kirk!”
The silence feels like a physical thing now, pressing against his eardrums. Has Kirk finally done it? Finally escaped? Or worse, had Dave's trust, his moment of distraction, led to something more permanent than escape?
His mind spirals through possibilities, each worse than the last. Kirk dragged down by weeds, Kirk hitting his head on a rock, Kirk–
“No,” he finds himself whispering as he tries to suppress the negative thoughts.
Would this be how it ended? With purple lilacs and memories and a body in a lake?
He doesn't run; he fucking sprints, legs stinging, lungs clawing for air. He barely sees where he’s going, his vision flickering between the trees, the blur of the lake beside him, the empty space where Kirk should be.
Up ahead, the lake narrows. And maybe it’s been a minute of sprinting around the shoreline, maybe it’s been ten; time doesn’t make sense when your chest feels like it’s caving in.
Dave's heart stops when he sees it; a dark shape against darker rocks, too still, all wrong.
The current; stronger here than he had realized, pulling like unseen hands beneath the surface. And Kirk is caught in it, his body limp, half-submerged, with a thin ribbon of red threading through the water from a gash on his temple.
He moves without thinking, splashing into the water, barely registering its icy bite.
He grabs Kirk under the arms and yanks, dragging him onto the shore with a force that scrapes the skin off his own knees.
“Kirk?” His voice sounds strange in his own ears, high and tight. “Kirk, come on.”
Nothing. No movement.
He leans down, hovering his ear over Kirk’s nose.
No breath.
Next thing Dave knows, his hands are moving, positioning themselves over Kirk’s chest, muscle memory from some long-ago first aid lesson in a martial arts class kicking in. He starts compressions, counting in his head, trying to keep rhythm while panic clawed at his throat.
He stares at Kirk's face while he does it—closed eyes, lips blue, skin waxy—and something inside him cracks. Without hesitation, he puts his hand on Kirk’s forehead, inevitably brushing the wet hair away from his face. He tilts Kirk's head back, pinches his nose, and presses their lips together to breathe into his mouth.
One breath. Two. Back to compressions.
“C’mon,” he hears himself mutter, the word slipping out between counts. “C’mon, Kirk.”
It's like his body was physically working on its own, he can barely process what his own next move will be, because his mind is too busy narrowing everything down to one single thought: breathe, motherfucker .
Another round. More breaths. Kirk’s chest rose and fell with each one, but only because Dave is forcing it to. Otherwise, he lays there naked, probably freezing, and without breathing, and still as dead, and oh God, is this really happening?
“No, Kirk, don’t–” His throat tightens, and there’s a burn behind his eyes. He swallows hard, doesn’t let himself feel it. “Don’t you fucking die on me.”
Compress. Breathe. Compress. Breathe. It barely feels real, but still, it's as scary as it gets. It’s like watching a movie from his own eyes; his hands on Kirk's chest, his breath filling Kirk’s lungs, his voice breaking on desperate pleas he barely realizes he's making.
His fingers tremble as he pinches Kirk’s nose shut again, gives another breath, and then one more breath–
Kirk convulses. Water spurts from his mouth—into Dave’s mouth—as he coughs, harsh and wracking. Dave quickly pulls apart and rolls him onto his side, supporting him as he keeps expelling what felt like half the lake. He spits the fucking water Kirk coughed into his mouth. Dave lets out the biggest and realest sigh of his life; the relief is so overwhelming it makes him dizzy. His hands grip Kirk’s shoulders on instinct, like he needs to feel that he’s real, that he’s alive.
Dave lets out a shaky, breathless laugh. “Jesus fucking Christ, man.”
Kirk tries to say something but ends up just coughing more. Dave taps his shoulder, grounding himself, grounding both of them.
He doesn’t know if the shaking in his hands is from adrenaline or something else, all he knows is that Kirk is okay; that’s all that matters.
“You okay?” Dave’s voice comes out rougher than he meant it to, watching as Kirk gingerly touches the gash on his temple. His hands twitch with the urge to check the wound himself, to make sure it isn’t too deep, but he holds himself back.
“Ye-yeah,” Kirk mumbles, though his eyes look a bit unfocused. “I’m fine.” His fingers come away with a fresh smear of red, but the bleeding doesn’t seem to be major.
Dave shifts his weight, suddenly very unsure of himself in a way that felt foreign. “Kirk, listen, uh... want me to carry you back? To the camp? You took a pretty hard hit.”
Kirk hesitates—since the thought of his completely exposed body being so close to Dave feels a little weird—and for a moment Dave thought he’d say no. But exhaustion won out; Dave could see it in the way Kirk's shoulders slumped, in how his hands trembled slightly.
“Okay,” Kirk says.
Dave moves carefully, sliding one arm under Kirk’s knees, the other supporting his back.
Kirk’s lighter than he remembered (quite different from when he carried him from the bed to the car when he was unconscious because of the heroin), or maybe it’s just that doze of leftover adrenaline making everything feel different.
Kirk has both of his hands between his legs, consequently covering his privates, though he doesn’t look like he’s trying to hide anything anyway, like he’s just trying to warm up his hands. His eyes are closed, his dark curls are still dripping, and his head rests against Dave’s chest. He can feel Kirk’s uneven and rattled breath. It's fine, his expression seems peaceful despite everything.
The walk back to their campsite felt longer than it should have. Dave found himself hyper-aware of Kirk’s weight in his arms, of the slight tremors still running through both their bodies, of the way Kirk's breath sometimes hitched when Dave's stride jostled him.
When they reach the car, Dave sets Kirk down carefully in the back seat. He grabs a duffel bag from the trunk, rummages through it before pulling out some dry clothes; Kirk’s Iron Maiden t-shirt (the one he was wearing the day he was kidnapped) a pair of sweatpants and socks.
“Here.” He shoves them toward Kirk, eyes flicking over him, still assessing, still making sure he’s breathing, still there. “Get changed.”
The late afternoon sun filters through the trees, casting dappled shadows across their path, and Dave cannot shake the thought that they'd both almost lost something irreplaceable today; though he isn't quite ready to examine exactly what that something is.
Kirk blinks at him, still out of it, but nods weakly and takes the clothes.
While Kirk dresses inside the car, Dave busies himself with the tent. He moves the air mattress inside, smooths out a blanket and pillows. The campsite’s starting to look warm, almost cozy; something soft, something safe, like a place where a kidnapped guy didn’t just almost fucking drown.
Dave can't deny it, he looks back every two seconds to make sure Kirk isn't trying to run away (even though it seems impossible, he definitely has no energy to escape), he doesn't trust him not to.
By the time he’s done, he glances toward the car once again. Kirk is out, dressed, standing there in his new cozy outfit.
Dave sighs. “Come on,” he says, walking over. “Before you start freezing again.”
Kirk watches him carefully, something unreadable in his gaze, but steps forward without a fight.
Dave pulls out another pair of handcuffs. He left the other one he had near the river, but you gotta be prepared; he has extra ones.
Kirk tenses for half a second, but then—maybe to Dave’s surprise, maybe not—he just bites his lip, holding out his wrist. Dave doesn’t say anything, just clicks the cuffs into place, locking them together again.
They sit by the small fire, its warmth licking at their faces. Dave stabs a marshmallow onto a stick and hands it to Kirk before taking one for himself.
It’s quiet. The crackling fire, the distant chirp of insects, the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.
Dave holds his marshmallow stick over the fire, but his eyes weren't on the sugary puff slowly roasting at the end. Instead, he's catching glimpses of Kirk's expression unconsciously, who is turning his own marshmallow with the peculiar precision, like a man defusing a bomb.
You ever noticed how a person can suddenly look different? Not exactly because they've changed, but because you're finally seeing them?
Dave found himself watching Kirk’s face—a small, contented thing—as he watches his marshmallow turn golden brown. He smirks with his mouth closed, until his lower lip goes down gently, allowing Dave to catch the sight of Kirk’s teeth.
It’s weird to stare at anyone like this, but shit, there’s something oddly fascinating about that smile. Kirk’s teeth aren’t perfect; not like those poster boys on MTV with their orthodontist specials or whatever. His aren’t especially crooked but they also aren’t really even, with sharp little canines that look almost vampiric, and central incisors that seem just a touch too small for his mouth. Somehow, those imperfections fit him. They belong to his face in a way that perfect teeth never would. They are... Christ, it's wrong to think about it, but they are cute.
The firelight has already won over the now weak daylight. It plays across the angles of Kirk's boyish face; cheeks still full of baby fat, eyes that reflect the flames like they hold fires of their own. Dave would've never expected to feel guilty as he sees Kirk's black eye and the (now a bit fainted) bruises on his cheekbone and jaw, all because of Dave.
He wants to focus on something else. Kirk’s eyelashes cast tiny shadows when he blinks, and Dave notices how his lips curl at the corners when he concentrates. How his bottom lip is much plumpier in comparison to the top one (just like Dave!). All these small details that he’s never had the time or inclination to catalog before are suddenly demanding his attention. The firelight catches Kirk’s still-damp hair. A single defiant curl had escaped the wet mass, hanging over his forehead like a question mark. Dave wishes he hadn’t cut Kirk’s hair so short back then, or at least that he hadn't cut it so carelessly. That way, he would probably look even more handsome–
“Dave, you're burning it.” He points vaguely at Dave’s marshmallow.
Dave looks down with a frown. His marshmallow isn’t just roasted; it's a blackened meteor, engulfed in blue flame.
“Shit,” Dave mutters, pulling it from the fire and blowing on it forcefully. The tiny inferno went out, leaving behind a charred, smoking husk of what had once been a perfectly good marshmallow.
And then it happened. Kirk giggled; not a nervous chuckle or the guarded smirk Dave has occasionally glimpsed. It was a genuine gentle laugh that started somewhere deep and bubbled up, unconstrained and unfiltered. It transformed his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes and showcasing those endearingly imperfect teeth in all their glory; then it quickly faded.
“This is nice,” Kirk’s voice is still a little hoarse from coughing up all the water.
Dave huffs, shifting slightly, looking away. He won’t say it, but yeah, it is.
And God help him, he wants to see Kirk’s smile again.