Loyal Dog
The sun is barely setting but they are both already so tired, for some reason. For some fucking reason. They shared the last six-pack Dave brought for the trip; he didn't genuinely want to share, but fuck, it's the least he can do after everything. It has its bright side, though; drinking with Kirk is even more fun than eating roasted mashmallows with him.
The tent isn't much; just a faded blue dome that has clearly seen better days, just big enough to fit the small air mattress. Dave grabbed it off the clearance rack at Walmart when he was on his way here.
Kirk is shirtless again, wearing only Dave's sweatpants, as he lays on his stomach to avoid all contact on his back.
Dave is only wearing boxers to sleep for the first time in a long time, he normally liked to sleep completely naked, but this will do the job. He shifts his weight on the air mattress, feeling that particular squeak-and-give that cheap air mattresses make when you move. The sound is oddly loud in the nighttime hush of the forest. Seven feet away, the remains of their bonfire are occasionally popping embers up into the darkness. The smell of woodsmoke clings to everything, including the blanket that’s covering Kirk’s smaller frame. Dave's laying on his back, right next to him, their wrists still locked together.
“You almost fucking died today.” He isn’t looking at Kirk as he says it. He’s looking at the orange-blue shadows dancing outside the tent, cast by the last gasps of their dying fire.
Kirk’s eyes catch the dim light there is in the tent and reflect it back. Like a dog’s eyes. There is a gentle smile on his face again; but Dave doesn't enjoy it. It's obviously not genuine, just the kind you pull in an awkward situation when you don’t know what else to do or say. Like James does, pretty much.
“Yeah,” is all Kirk says back.
Dave rolls onto his side, facing Kirk now. For weeks, he’d kept this man handcuffed to his bed frame back home. And now here they are, supposedly enemies, sharing a tent in the middle of nowhere. Yes, the handcuffs are still between them. In a contradictory way, it feels like it's just them and the woods. No locks, no restraints.
Dave sighs. “We should get some sleep. Got a long trip back home tomorrow.”
Kirk doesn't want to leave. This environment feels normal, better than that small house.
When we get back, I’ll feel like a prisoner once again.
Dave closes his eyes, and the silence stretches between them. He wishes he could sleep, but he can still feel Kirk’s eyes on him. And God forbid him; but Dave doesn’t quite like being watched while he sleeps.
He cracks one eye open, and there it is, Kirk’s tired puppy eyes looking into his soul. “You gonna sleep or just stare at me all night?” Dave mutters and closes his one eye back.
Kirk wipes his nose with the back of his hand. The handcuffs jingled. “I’m tired… but, I don’t feel like sleeping yet.”
“Almost drowning will do that to ya.”
Kirk frowns. “Why– why'd you save me? Could’ve just let me die. Would’ve solved your problem.”
Dave snorts, and opens his eyes solely to shoot Kirk a glare. “A problem? C’mon, don’t be stupid. You ain’t a problem.”
Another silence. Kirk coughs gently, summoning courage like a man at the gallows.
“Dave, can I ask you something?”
“You just did.”
“What’s with you and James?”
The question slips from his mouth quietly but without control. Kirk immediately wishes he hadn’t run his mouth, but something about this whole situation—maybe it’s the isolation, the captivity, the near-death experience—is making him reckless.
Dave goes stiff and opens his eyes. “The fuck you talking about?” His voice lacks conviction, and they both know it.
For a moment, Kirk thought he’d crossed a line that would shatter whatever fragile peace they'd established.
“Sorry. It’s just that… that–that night. He was at your house.” Kirk swallows audibly. “I heard you two. I guess things got... kinda’ heated, right?” His tone is as gentle as possible, like trying to approach a deer without scaring it away.
Dave raises his eyebrows. “You eavesdropping on me now? That’s how you get your kicks?”
“No– sorry, I couldn't–” Kirk stammers.
Not like I could help it, Dave. Can't glue my fucking ears shut or not hear on command, is what he really wants to say.
“Sorry,” is he says instead, before looking away.
There are those stupid cute puppy eyes again. That soft, ashamed voice. And something softens in Dave’s heart.
“No,” he says, the word coming out hard and final, with probably more force than necessary. “It wasn’t like that. Listen, we weren't fuckin’– like, boyfriends or something like that.” Saying the word boyfriends with more disgust on his face that there probably should be.
Kirk nods. But Dave isn’t done.
“There was... something. You could say that, I guess. But nothing real. I was confused back then. We both were. On the road, y’know, and when you’re drunk, things can get weird sometimes.”
Kirk doesn’t look too convinced. Dave feels like he actually owes some kind of explanation to him.
“I told you, I ain’t queer,” he declares firmly. “And whatever it was, if it was something, it’s gone now. Dead and buried. Water under the bridge or… whatever.”
Kirk nods again, accepting the answer without comment.
The handcuffs clinked as Dave scratched his chin. “I'm still mad at 'em though, not just for kicking me out. For everything. They were all fuckin’ assholes about it. And– and you know what that fucker did once? I brought one of my pitbulls to rehearsal; she was a good dog, never caused trouble, really. She put her paws up on Ron’s– the bassist’s car. God, I hated that guy. But anyways, James just…” Dave makes a slapping motion with his hand. “Kicked her, right on her side. Guess he thought she’d scratch the paint or some bullshit.”
Kirk giggles gently, and Dave smiles. He wants to hear more.
“And he told me– well, there was a big argument. But I ended up punching him in the mouth. I even threw Ron across the room.” Dave chuckles at the memory. “That’s when they fired me- well, actually, I quit. I mean, I came back the day after, and months later I got definitely kicked out but I think that was the whole, like, the beginning of the end.”
“Where are the dogs now? Your pitbulls?”
“Eh, chose to sell ‘em. After leaving, money got tight, y’know. And they eat like horses, those dogs. And I was spending more time at home anyway. Not like I needed them anymore. Two-hundred bucks for both of them, how ‘bout that?”
Kirk bites his lip. “Don’t you miss them sometimes?”
Who? The dogs or the guys?
Dave looks at him. “Huh?”
“The dogs, it didn’t hurt to sell ‘em?”
Dave is quiet for a moment. “Uh, yeah, I guess. They were the only company I had after everything went to shit. Loyal, you know? Unlike some people.”
Dave licks his lips and turns his head to look at Kirk. “Doesn't matter now though, does it? Now you’re with me.”
The words aren’t a threat, not exactly. But they weren't entirely benign either. They’re a statement of fact, a reminder of what they are to each other. Yet somehow, after today, after the river and the marshmallows and this conversation, those words carry a different weight than they would’ve a week ago.
“Yeah,” Kirk whispers.
Dave raises his eyebrows, satisfied with the response. There's silence as he shifts. He scratches his scalp. “Jeez, how the hell are you not sleepy?” He frowns. “I’d be at least a little tired if I had almost died.”
Kirk smirks. “I am. Just not ready to sleep yet”
Dave rolls his eyes. Another silence.
“You know what helps me sleep? Reading,” Kirk says.
“Reading?”
“Yeah. Comics.”
Dave raises his eyebrows.
“Horror comics. I collect them.”
Dave looks at him. “You never told me that.”
“Well, you never asked.”
“I would’ve got you one if you told me.”
Kirk grins. “Really?” He asks softly, not as in I-need-to-confirm-what-you're-saying type way, he doesn't really believe Dave would do that for him, but it's nice to hear Dave having good intentions.
“Of course, yeah. It’s just a comic, and I bet only watching TV every time I’m out’s gotten real boring. Maybe I’ll get you one on our way home tomorrow.”
Kirk's eyes sparkle. “Aw, thanks, Dave,” he says quietly and taps Dave’s shoulder, the handcuffs jingle. The physical touch, though really minor, makes Kirk want to hide his face in his arm on the pillow.
“S’ nothing.”
Dave stares at the ceiling of the tent, the fabric glowing dimly from the moonlight outside. A knot of something uncomfortable twists in his gut; something he doesn't want to name.
Guilt, probably.
The look on Kirk's face when he mentioned comics was too earnest, too appreciative of such a small promise.
“What– what do you miss the most?” Dave asks suddenly. “Y’know, from... before.”
Kirk turns his head, surprised by the question. “Huh?”
“From your normal life or whatever,” Dave mutters, cracking his fingers. “What d’you miss most?”
Kirk turns his head, surprise flickering across his features. He considers the question, scanning Dave's face for any sign of a trap or trick. “Uh, my family,” he says finally. “My mom, especially.”
Dave says nothing, looks away.
“I– I know the letter probably brought her some comfort, maybe, just a little. Knowing I’m fine and all that but… I bet she's worried anyway.”
Dave nods, pouting.
“Also miss taking long walks with my headphones,” Kirk continues, warming to the topic, “just me and music, y’know? And– and booze.” He smirks. “All the booze I want.”
But Dave doesn’t smirk. The picture of him shoving that whiskey down Kirk’s throat comes to mind.
“Friends. Playing guitar whenever I want. And…” Kirk pauses, then laughs softly. “Yeah, privacy.”
Dave frowns. “Privacy?” He looks at Kirk. “You got plenty of that. I literally leave you alone most of the day.”
“Not that kind of privacy,” Kirk says, a hint of amusement in his voice as he rubs his eye.
Dave’s frown deepens. “The fuck you talking about?”
Kirk sighs. “I haven't busted a nut in weeks, Dave. Since you- you- yeah.” He chuckles.
Dave clicks his tongue, processing. “Right.”
The tent suddenly feels warmer. A flush creeps up his neck, not from embarrassment at the topic but from the realization that he hadn’t even considered this aspect of Kirk's captivity.
“It’s just… just biology, man. Nothing weird about it.” Kirk shrugs against the mattress. “It’s like, one of those things you don’t think about until you can’t do it anymore.”
“How ‘bout the shower?” Dave offers, like he’s solving a riddle. “I’d do it in the shower. You’re alone there.”
“I don’t know, I don’t think about that when I’m taking a shower.”
“Why not?” Dave frowns.
“I don’t know, I- I-” Kirk shakes his head, thinking of a better answer, but he simply doesn’t have one. It’s probably just the fact that even in the stillest, calmest moments he has now, he’s still paranoid as shit. Can picture Dave walk in on him and catch him jerking off. Can picture Dave noticing a strange white liquid on the shower curtain where Kirk forgot or couldn’t wash it off.
“I don’t know,” he answers finally, defeated.
Dave stares at the tent ceiling, thinking. “You know what's fucked up? I haven't either.”
“Really?” Kirk can’t keep the surprise away from his voice. His eyes flick over to Dave's face, then quickly away. It’s not hard to notice certain things about Dave; his confidence, his height, the sharp angles of his face, the way his hair falls, the lean strength in his arms, plump and pink lips– not that Kirk’s looking, though. Not like that. But objectively speaking, Dave would be the kind of guy who shouldn’t have trouble finding chicks to get laid.
But what do I know, right? Kirk says in his head.
“Yeah, really,” Dave says, smiling. He’s silently proud about the fact that him not getting laid lately is hard to believe. “Why’s that so hard to believe?” C'mon Kirk, stroke my ego a little more, is what he means by that question.
“I don’t– I don’t know. You can go wherever you want. Do whatever you want.” Kirk keeps his other thoughts to himself. Dave's disappointed. “And when you have a metal band, you know, chicks go crazy over that.”
Dave smirks. That’s true. When he was in Metallica, he could pick and choose any girl he wanted, at any time of the day, and now…
“Yeah, but, Megadeth’s only getting started… And it ain’t that simple. Got too much shit going on right now.” He doesn’t mention that most nights, he's too drunk or high or both to even walk, let alone have sex. That his mind is a constant swirl of rage and ambition and, lately, confusion about the man beside him.
“The band, the dealing, you, um…” The money. The fact that I’ll probably lose everything soon, he thinks. “But outside, it's all business. And at home…” He glances at the handcuffs. "Can't exactly rub one out with you in the house, y’know. Would feel weird as fuck, even if I knew you were passed out or something.” He lets out a short laugh.
Kirk nods, though he doesn’t really understand. The idea that Dave—who holds all the cards, who can come (well, not really, apparently) and go as he pleases—faces the same basic frustration seems impossible.
Dave shifts uncomfortably. His back hurts like hell.
The conversation has stirred something in him, a memory. “You know what this reminds me of? When I was thirteen, at summer camp…”
He trails off, then seems to make up his mind to continue.
“Um, these guys in my cabin, they got hold of some porn mag. Just one. And there were like, six of us.” He laughs softly. “They were so desperate, so fuckin’ horny, they’d all jerk off together rather than wait for their turn to be alone with the magazine.” He giggles.
Kirk’s blinks. He finds himself unable to take his eyes from Dave's face.
Dave shakes his head. “Bunch of weirdos," he says, but there’s something forced in his tone.
There’s a very minor detail Dave forgot to add: that he was there too. That he sat in that circle more than once, that sometimes there were three or four of them. He also forgot about how his eyes would unconsciously drift, how he always seemed to finish right after the boy he thought was most good-looking did. Pure coincidence, he’d told himself back then.
“Yeah,” Kirk agrees, laughing. “That’s weird.” He sighs shakily.
Dave's eyes narrow as he notices something in Kirk’s expression. “What?”
“What?”
“What's that look for?"
“Nothing.” Answering too quickly.
“Bullshit. Your face is doing something.”
“What?” Kirk laughs. “No.” He thanks God there isn’t enough light in the tent, otherwise Dave would probably notice how all the blood inside him is rushing to his cheeks.
Dave frowns. “Yes. What is it?”
Kirk swallows. Dave's stare is relentless. He never accepts no for an answer, not really.
“I…” Kirk starts, then sighs. “I did that too. When I was younger. With, uh, friends.”
Dave's eyebrows shoot up. “No shit?”
“But it was a long time ago,” Kirk rushes to add, nodding. “Many, many years. And I didn't– I didn't really like it.”
The big fat lie sits heavy on his tongue. He can feel Dave's eyes on him, assessing.
“Huh,” Dave says finally, and there's something new in his face. Not disgust, as Kirk had feared. Curiosity, perhaps. “But it wasn't- y'know, not in a gay way, right?"
“No,” Kirk says firmly. “No, of course, it wasn’t gay. Just a friend thing. At least for me.”
Dave nods slowly, his eyes never leaving Kirk’s face. “Right.”
Kirk says it’s not gay, and that's enough to convince himself it’s not gay. He barely registers the next words falling out of his mouth: “You don't wanna, like, try it?”
Dave freezes. The question is already there, impossible to take back. He regrets it as soon as he says it, feels his heart hammering against his ribs. The silence stretches long enough that Dave starts planning his excuse; he was just joking, of course–
“Uh, like, right here? N-now?” Kirk asks quietly, timidly. Dave finally looks over, and luckily, Kirk doesn't seem grossed out, or even too startled. Just nervous.
“Ye-yeah, right here,” Dave says, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. Great, now Dave is also nervous and blushing. “I mean, you've tried it before, but I haven’t.” The lie comes out surprisingly easily. “Maybe, in this situation, we could try it. Just- just to try new things.”
His heart pounds so loud he’s sure Kirk can hear it.
This is stupid. God, this is so fucking stupid.
Kirk swallows audibly. Then: “Okay.”
The single word sends a jolt through Dave. He nods and moves before he knows what he’s doing, sits up, and rummages with one single hand inside of the small backpack in the corner of the tent for a flashlight. He doesn’t even know why. There’s no reason to light up this tent and make both of them see this shit they’re about to do.
His fingers close around the cold metal of the flashlight. He pauses, suddenly uncertain. A part of his brain is screaming at him to stop, to make an excuse, to forget this whole thing.
It’s not gay, right? So it’s fine.
He pulls out the flashlight and flicks it on, the harsh beam cutting through the darkness of the tent. He points it at the ceiling, creating a dome of ambient light that lets them see each other's faces. Both are careful not to make a lot of eye contact, finding sudden interest in the tent ceiling, the backpack, anywhere else.
Dave considers the situation. He could most definitely catch Kirk if he tried to escape the tent. With that reassurance, he pulls out the small key from his pocket and frees them both from the handcuff locking them together.
Kirk rubs the tender skin of his wrist, relief washing over his face.
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
Dave flexes his own wrist, surprised by how much better it feels. Only now does he realize how uncomfortable the cuffs have been. He sets them aside, the metal clinking.
Kirk sits up, wincing slightly. His back still aches. He clears his throat. “So, uh... do– do we just go at it, or what?”
Dave feels a smile spread across his face, grateful for the break in tension. “You should know. You’re the one with experience, right?”
Kirk smirks and mutters the smallest okay as he deliberately fumbles with his waistband. His fingers tremble slightly, and Dave pretends not to notice.
Dave supposes he should start as well. He’s only wearing his boxers and…
Should I take them off completely or just pull them down?
The question seems absurd given what they’re about to do, but he still hesitates. Fuck it. He takes them off completely but quickly lays back down on the mattress, covering his legs with the blanket, as if that would offer him some kind of dignity in this increasingly undignified situation.
Kirk is still sitting up, sweatpants already pushed down to his thighs.
What's embarrassing is that Dave’s not even completely soft. The thought of finally being able to shoot a load after so long is obviously exciting, he thinks to himself, unnecessarily. That’s all it is. Just the anticipation of release.
He spits into his palm and starts moving his hand up and down along his length, spreading the wetness.
Kirk begins as well, lazily playing with his dick, trying to coax life into completely limp flesh. Worry creeps across his features, painting a flush from his neck to his cheeks. Now with the light on, Dave notices it, and something about Kirk’s embarrassment makes his own anxiety lessen. He looks away, focusing on the tent ceiling.
Kirk forces out a laugh that sounds fairly natural. “Hey, you didn't by any chance bring a Playboy mag we could use right now?”
Dave forces out a laugh as well that doesn’t sound as natural. “Wish I did.” The response feels wrong as soon as it leaves his mouth, and he doesn't know why.
Kirk thinks about how Dave has seen him naked multiple times, but he had never seen Dave naked before.
The game feels a lot more fair now. He doesn't even know what he means by game.
Kirk looks at Dave, who’s got his eyes closed, moving his hand with increasing eagerness, biting the inside of his lower lip as he melts into the sensation. Kirk's mind screams at him: God, no, stop fucking staring, dumbass. He slams his eyes shut.
He wasn’t even staring. It was just a glance that lasted two seconds too long.
He opens his eyes again, praying that Dave hasn’t opened his. He hasn’t.
They’re both fully erect now. On his damn soul; Kirk’s trying not to look, but can't stop his eyes from darting over, catching glimpses of Dave's cock. He justifies it as merely wanting to compare to his own; a basic male instinct, like checking another man's biceps at the gym.
It’s veiny, thicker and longer than Kirk's, exceeding plain average by a good margin, but Kirk doesn’t feel embarrassed by the comparison. It seems fitting, inevitable even, that Dave would be bigger. He was already expecting it.
What he is embarrassed about—mortified, really—is the straight-up whimper that escapes his lips when his thumb swipes a little too roughly over his leaking tip.
Until now, there had been only soft panting between them, a symphony of restrained breathing. The sudden sound slices through that subtle harmony, causing Dave’s eyes to snap open.
Kirk can't remember ever being more embarassed in his life.
He screws his eyes shut instantly and jerks his head away, pressing his lips into a painfully thin line. He also really wants to stop moving his hand, but there’s a special force called lust and desire that’s keeping him from it.
What. The. Fuck. Was that. Did that sound really come from you?
Dave's gaze falls to Kirk's hand, not the one that’s pumping his cock, the one that’s now nothing but a clenching fist on the blanket, knuckles white with tension. His entire body has gone rigid as a board, except for the hand stroking himself. Dave assumes Kirk isn’t enjoying this at all, that he’s only going through the motions to please him, as always.
As if you could say no when you’re kidnapped.
Fuck. Dave stops the motion of his hand, guilt washing over him. Really, he likes controlling and having power over Kirk, but this just seems all too fucked up to the point where Dave thinks he must be even more uncomfortable than Kirk right now.
He isn’t sure how to stop this gracefully. After considering for a moment, he does nothing fancy, merely reaches over and taps Kirk's clenched fist, calling his name with unexpected gentleness.
“Kirk.”
And for some reason that defies all logic and reason, the simple touch and the sound of his name apparently triggers another sound from Kirk's throat; a breathy moan, unmistakable and unrestrained.
Kirk’s moving hand stops abruptly.
Now he just wants the earth to open up and swallow him whole. It's fine, he thinks bitterly, because Dave will probably kill him anyway for making this gay.
Dave’s expression shifts to something so confused it borders on fear; furrowed brow, mouth slightly agape.
God, just please let a bear attack the tent right now, Kirk thinks. Let an asteroid hit the earth. Let anything happen to end this moment.
“Um.” Dave’s mind works overtime, processing the moan as a sound of pain or fear. That makes sense. Kirk is scared, or maybe hurting, and Dave’s the cause of it. Always the cause of it.
Kirk wants to apologize for everything—the sound, the situation, his existence—but Dave beats him to it.
“I'm sorry,” he says before Kirk can speak. He yanks the blanket over his erection, hiding the evidence of his arousal like it’s something shameful.
Kirk blinks, genuinely confused. “What? Why?” he asks between ragged breaths.
Dave frowns like the answer should be obvious to anyone with eyes and ears.
“You felt pressured,” he says, not looking at him. “You don’t have to do this shit just ‘cause I asked.”
“What?” Kirk’s brow furrows, confusion replacing embarrassment. “No- no, it's fine–”
“It’s not fuckin’ fine.” Dave doesn't believe him, shakes his head. “You look tense. And you sound uncomfortable. We– we should just stop this.” His voice carries a note of resignation. He’ll have terminal blue balls now, but god, he can't do this shit.
Kirk thinks Dave's gesture is kind of sweet, unexpected. But Kirk, for reasons he can’t fully articulate even to himself, wouldn’t like this to stop. The release he's been craving is within reach.
“I don’t wanna stop,” he says directly. No room for misinterpretation.
Dave wants to look Kirk in the eyes after he says that, but it’s difficult. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to stop either, but admitting that means acknowledging a hunger that goes beyond simple physical release; because he knows he could go to his car, take three or four minutes, and be done. He stays quiet, scratching his chin in that way he does when he's trying to figure something out.
“Sorry for making this weird,” Kirk says, rushing to fill the silence. “I’ll just– I’ll try not to make any stupid noises.”
Dave finally looks at him. “No,” he says, surprising himself with his vehemence. With this new context, Kirk's sounds are fine. Well, not fine. Not like Dave enjoys them... of course not. But they don’t bother him at all. They feel right with this clarification. “It's... it's okay.”
Dave's mind races ahead, considering the absurdity of their arrangement.
It’s fucking dumb to do it next to each other if we’re doing it alone. He remembers how he and this childhood friend he used to have, helped each other jerk off and finish on a few occasions. He could never forget it, because his very first orgasm was with him. They wanted to explore the new worlds of their sexuality, teenage curiosity and need overcoming their uncertainty.
“I was lying before,” Dave says suddenly, the confession bursting out of him. Fuck it. There's no reason to hide anymore. “I’ve actually jerked off with friends before. I just denied it ‘cause I thought you’d judge me.”
Kirk lets out a sort of relieved laugh, soft and genuine. Not mocking. Understanding. "I wouldn't do that, it's- it's normal."
Dave takes the statement as encouragement and tells the story about the boy and him, how their hands found each other, how they learned the rhythms that worked, how it felt both wrong and completely natural at the same time.
And because nothing in this stupid fucking forest makes any damn sense anymore, the next spoken words are: “Maybe we– we could try it,” Dave says.
Kirk thinks about it for a second, and Dave immediately regrets everything. Jesus Christ, obviously, he crossed the fucking limits. He went too far, because he's constantly going too far–
“Yeah, okay,” Kirk replies, nodding his head slowly, deliberately.
Dave pauses, needing just one final confirmation. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s not a big deal. Just for fun, right?” Kirk says softly, trying to convince both Dave and himself.
Dave gulps. “But if you don't like it, just say it, man. We stop right away.”
Kirk grins. "Okay."
Dave nods, unable to find a single reason to stop now. He sits up, wincing and grunting softly in pain as he does. He shifts his weight to position himself directly in front of Kirk, both of their legs folded in front of them.
Kirk’s eyes drift to Dave’s chest, now fully acknowledging the white bandages wrapped around his torso. The memory surfaces like a corpse in water, and guilt bubbles up unexpectedly in his throat.
“Sorry for stabbing you,” Kirk says, the words tumbling out before he can consider them.
Dave looks down at the bandages, as if just remembering they’re there. “It's fine.” It's not fine. It's been hurting even more these last days. “I told you, I get it.” He said that, but it was an exageration. He said it back then mostly to be polite, but now he does get it. He deserved that, and worse.
Kirk nods. Dave nods back. A silent understanding passes between them, an acknowledgment of the bizarre circumstances that have led them here. Dave looks down at his own cock, then at Kirk’s. Both rock hard, waiting.
“Do you want me to…” Dave doesn't finish the question, the words evaporating on his tongue.
“Uh, sure,” Kirk says. “Just wait a second.”
He thinks somehow Dave seems vulnerable being completely naked while he still has sweatpants halfway down his thighs. It creates an imbalance, makes the whole situation even more awkward. He tugs them off completely, kicking them aside with his feet.
They’re completely naked now, only a couple inches separating them, inside of a tent in the middle of nowhere, about to masturbate each other.
If you put it like that...
Dave hums unsurely, his hand slowly reaching for Kirk's hardness. Kirk tries to play off the way his breath hitches in his throat when Dave touches him by quickly reaching for Dave’s cock right after, the movement a bit too eager.
Dave’s hand almost dwarfs Kirk’s cock in size, unlike Kirk's hand, which not only looks like a girl’s, Dave thinks, but also feels like it. Surprisingly soft. Guitarists’ hands usually aren’t, but Kirk’s palm feels smooth against the sensitive skin. Dave thinks it might be from not playing guitar in a while, who knows. But he is suddenly self-conscious about the roughness of his own hands, years of hard living etched into every callous and crack in his skin.
“Sorry,” Dave mumbles, his thumb unconsciously stroking the underside of Kirk’s shaft. “My hand might be a little too rough. Not feel nice-” unlike yours, is what he wanted to say next, but quickly catches himself.
Kirk lets out a shaky laugh, the vibration traveling through his body and into Dave’s palm. “It’s fine.”
Their eyes meet briefly before darting away again, like skittish animals at a watering hole.
They stay like that for a moment, hands wrapped around each other, neither moving. The air in the tent feels thick, almost solid. The only sounds are their breathing; Kirk's quick and shallow, Dave's deliberately measured, as if he's trying to maintain control of at least this one thing. Somebody has to get the upper hand, and naturally, that won’t be Kirk. Dave is the first to move, his rough palm sliding up and down Kirk’s shaft with tentative care. The sensation is electric. Kirk gasps, the sound small but impossible to hide in the quiet tent.
“Too rough?” Dave asks, misinterpreting.
Kirk shakes his head quickly and laughs shyly. “No. It’s... it’s good.”
Encouraged, Kirk begins to move his own hand, fingers wrapping more firmly around Dave’s thickness. He tries to focus on technique, on doing this right, but his mind keeps slipping. This is Dave. Dave fucking Mustaine, who's been holding him captive, who’s beaten him, who’s also treated his wounds and shared his joints and played guitar with him. And now they’re here, doing this.
Their strokes find a rhythm, awkward at first but growing more confident, up and down at a satisfying peace, hands turning with the slightest twist towards the cockhead. Dave's finger swipes over Kirk's tip, spreading the glistening bead of precum that was threatening to spill down. Kirk’s hips jerk involuntarily at the sensation.
“Sorry,” Kirk mumbles hoarsely, embarrassed by his body's needy response.
Dave just shakes his head. “S’okay.”
A soft grunt escapes Dave’s throat as Kirk’s grip tightens slightly. The sound sends something hot and urgent through Kirk’s veins. He takes it as a challenge to see if he can make Dave go more about it, strip him of all of his pride. So he moves his hand faster.
Dave lets out a breathy moan and his free hand reaches up, hovering uncertainly for a moment before landing on Kirk’s knee. The touch is simple, almost innocuous, but it anchors them together in a way that feels more intimate than what their other hands are doing.
“God, this is so fucked up,” Dave whispers, but he doesn’t stop. His hand moves faster on Kirk, thumb circling the sensitive head with each upstroke.
Kirk doesn’t trust himself to talk, but goddamn, he agrees, so he just makes a high-pitched noise of acknowledgement, matching Dave's pace.
The flashlight beam flickers slightly, as if the batteries are starting to fade. The dimming light makes it easier somehow, creates a softening veil over what they're doing.
Dave's breathing grows heavier, his chest rising and falling with increasing urgency. Kirk can feel the tension building in Dave's body, the way his thighs have tightened, how his grip on Kirk's knee has strengthened to the point of almost-pain.
Kirk feels the oh-so-missed sensation of his balls tightening, and he decides it should be better to let Dave know, make sure he doesn’t break the possible unspoken rule of not cumming on his hand.
“Dave, I’m–” Kirk starts, then cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath, only hoping he just got his point across.
Dave nods, understanding. “Yeah,” he groans. “Me too.”
They're racing toward the edge now, hands moving with purpose, pretense abandoned. Kirk’s head falls forward, his forehead nearly touching Dave's as they pant into the small space between them. The tent spins around him, reality narrowing to just this; the feeling of Dave's hand on him, the hardness of Dave in his own palm, the heat building at the base of his spine.
Dave cums first, his whole body tensing. He forces himself to bite his lip, and manages to make no sound beyond a sharp, strangled intake of breath, but his face in that moment—eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in silent release—burns itself into Kirk's memory forever.
The feeling of Dave pulsing in his hand, the warm wetness spilling over his fingers, sends Kirk tumbling over the edge after him. With a choked cry, his own orgasm tears through him with surprising force, a wave that’s been building for weeks finally crashing over him.
In the aftermath, they don’t move apart immediately. They stay there, foreheads nearly touching, breathing the same air, hands still loosely holding each other. The reality of what they've just done hangs between them like smoke, impossible to ignore but difficult to see clearly.
Finally, Dave is the one who pulls back. He grabs a t-shirt from backpack—probably dirty already, Kirk thinks—and offers it to him first.
“Here,” Dave says, voice gruff again, the momentary vulnerability sealed away.
Kirk takes it, cleaning himself with mechanical movements. When he’s done, he hands it back to Dave, who does the same.
What do you say after something like this? Kirk wonders. Thanks? That was nice? Let’s never mention this?
Dave solves the problem by saying nothing at all. Knowing their relationship, they’ll probably never talk about this ever again, just like every awkward and weird moment between them.
Dave tosses the shirt to the corner of the tent. His eyes fall on the handcuffs lying where he left them. Reality rushes back in. He picks them up, the metal cool against his palm. Kirk watches, understanding dawning on his face. For a moment, he thought maybe something had changed, but of course it hasn’t. Dave clicks one loop around his own wrist, then reaches for Kirk's arm. There's hesitation in the movement, a reluctance that wasn’t there before.
He wants to say he's sorry, the words burning behind his teeth, but he can't bring himself to speak them. Instead, he closes the second loop around Kirk's wrist as gently as he can, avoiding the purple bruises from earlier.
They lie back down on their respective sides of the air mattress.
Dave flicks the flashlight off, plunging the tent into darkness. “Night, Kirk.”
“Night, Dave.”
Kirk closes his eyes, wondering what tomorrow will bring.
For Kirk it had always been tradition to jerk off before bed. A nice orgasm to help him sleep. It's been his routine since he was a teenager; a reliable way to quiet his mind. Under normal circumstances, he’d be drifting off already, but these are hardly normal circumstances. His kidnapper just jerked him off, and now is lying naked beside him, connected by a chain of metal. Still, sleep comes fairly easily for him. His body is spent, tension released after weeks. His breathing deepens, steadies.
Dave’s case is different. He lies awake, eyes fixed on the darkness above him. Minutes, several minutes, even hours pass as he thinks about what he had done, what he's doing, and what he's going to do. About who he is. About who Kirk is. About what all of this means.
Questions spiral through his mind like vultures. Is he still the same person he was when this started? Was he ever that person to begin with? The revenge that seemed so clear, so necessary long ago, after today feels hollow, pointless.
The steady sound of Kirk's breathing beside him is both comfort and accusation. The metal cuff on his wrist, once a symbol of his control, now it’s quite literally trapping him too.
What he knows, is that he's going to try to be better. How exactly, he isn't sure. But for fuck’s sake, he’s sick in the head, and something has to change. Something already has.
Now that Dave watches Kirk’s chest quietly rise and fall, he realizes, with a clarity that terrifies him, that he can hardly think of a memory where he was more scared than in those moments when he thought he’d lost him.
Kirk floats in the gentle current of sleep, his mind drifting through clouds of soft color. He’s on stage again—not with Metallica, not with Dave watching from the wings with murder in his eyes—but somewhere safe. Somewhere the music flows from his fingers without fear. Gigs are never this quiet and peaceful, and he likes it that way, but-
“KIRK!”
The name explodes like a gunshot in the small confines of the tent.
Kirk’s body convulses as if electrocuted. His eyes fly open and a strangled whine tears from his throat as his limbs flail beneath the blanket, his brain unable to process where he is or what’s happening.
Dave kneels at the tent entrance, morning light haloing his wild red hair. His face contorts with uncontrollable laughter, his whole body shaking with it. He claps his hands together in childish delight at Kirk's terror.
“Jesus Christ,” Kirk gasps, pressing a trembling hand to his chest. “What– what–”
Dave’s laughter only intensifies, bending him slightly at the waist. “Your face,” he mumbles between bursts. “You should’ve seen your fucking face!”
Kirk’s breathing hasn’t slowed. His heart is still hammering against his chest. His eyebrows furrow. “Not funny,” he mutters, but the words come out weak, pathetic.
Dave's laughter finally subsides, though his boyish smile remains. “Yeah, sure,” he says, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Get dressed, we’re heading out before noon.” He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns and ducks out of the tent entrance.
Only then does Kirk realize he’s still completely naked beneath the blanket, his clothes scattered somewhere in the darkness of the tent. The cool morning air raises goosebumps across his skin.
Last night comes back in flashes; desperate fingers, harsh breathing, shame and relief mingling together in the darkness. Kirk closes his eyes and exhales slowly. He doesn’t know what this is anymore. Doesn’t know if he’s a prisoner or something else.
He reaches for the sweatpants with shaking hands. Dave seems to be in a good mood today, but his emotions shift like Chilean weather, and Kirk has learned to navigate them as best he can.
Outside, birds are singing. Kirk listens to them as he pulls on his clothes, and wonders if anyone is still looking for him.
After the rude awakening, Kirk stumbles through the motions of breaking camp. His fingers are clumsy as he folds the blanket, still warm from their bodies.
Dave then works with practiced efficiency, deflating the air mattress with hard, impatient stomps. The sound is like muffled gunshots in the morning quiet.
They work in relative silence after that, Dave occasionally humming fragments of a melody Kirk doesn’t recognize.
When everything is packed and loaded into the trunk of Dave's beat-up Chevy, Kirk stands awkwardly by the passenger door, waiting. There’s always this moment—this hesitation—where he wonders if he should run. Just take off into the trees and never look back. But where would he go? Miles from anywhere, weak and hungry, and Dave would catch him anyway. Dave always catches him. And Kirk gets harder punishments for every escape attempt, so he really isn't looking forward to finding out what Dave would do next.
“C’mon. Get in,” Dave says, unlocking the passenger side.
Kirk slides into the seat, the vinyl cool against his back. He pulls the seatbelt across his chest, clicking it into place. His eyes drift to the rearview mirror, watching Dave rummage through a bag in the trunk. This is when Dave figures out what part of the car he’ll handcuff him to for the journey, Kirk supposes.
But when Dave returns and drops into the driver's seat, he's not holding handcuffs. Instead, his hands are filled with items that make Kirk’s mouth go dry: a lighter, cotton, a needle, a spoon, and a small plastic baggie containing white powder.
He watches, bewildered, as Dave pours the powder onto the spoon. The lighter flicks to life, its small flame dancing beneath the metal.
“Why?” Kirk manages, his voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing?”
Dave’s lips curl into that familiar smirk; the one that never reaches his eyes. “Don’t want you awake for the trip.”
He says it so casually.
Kirk stiffens as Dave draws the now-liquid mixture into the needle. He remembers the last time; the house, the overwhelming dread, the chemical numbness that followed, and the sickness at the end. He'd felt like his soul had left his body, like he didn’t exist anymore. That was the whole point back then. To disappear. This is something else entirely.
“Please don’t,” Kirk murmurs. “I don’t wanna do that shit again.”
Dave looks at him pitifully but doesn’t pause. He slides off his belt, the leather hissing through the loops, the sound alone is enough to make Kirk's heart race by this point.
“It's a long trip.” He nods towards Kirk’s bruised wrist. “You want more of that? Or you want to sleep peacefully through it?” He pauses, waiting for Kirk's expression to change.
It doesn't. He sighs. “Relax. With this…” he taps the needle with his fingernail “...we’ll be home before you know it.”
Home. The word sounds wrong in Kirk's ears.
Heroin is such a depressing drug. Kirk always thought so. It’s not like coke, where people do lines and think they’re kings. Heroin is for when the party’s over. It drags you under in silence. People die in such a misable state from it. Just slipping away and never waking up. What if that happens to him? What if his body’s too tired, too weak this time?
And what if he starts to crave it?
The thought makes him feel nauseous. Still, Kirk doesn’t protest further. What's the point? He sits still as Dave wraps the belt around his arm, pulling it tight until the veins rise beneath his skin. Kirk turns his face away, staring out the window at the trees.
The needle slides in with a small, sharp pain that he barely registers after everything. The heat travels fast; starts at his arm and floods outward, making the world ripple. But instead of the false bliss he felt last time, it’s shame that hits him first.
The forest outside begins to blur, trees melting into one another like watercolors in the rain.
His head lolls back against the seat, and he sees his own face reflected in the rearview mirror; distorted, eyes half-closed, mouth slack. It's awfully scary. He wants to look away, but doesn't have any strength left to move his head. A stranger's face is the last thing he sees, before the world fades to black.
But Dave doesn't see a strangers face behind all of those curls when he brings the engine to life, not anymore. This trip is what he would call a major success. He knew from the beginning that Kirk, slowly but surely, would start to come out of his shell.