Chapter Text
Kiss Of The Scorpion
You'll swim in the sweat of a million orgies
You'll live in the fire of the sweetest hell
Bear your soul to the rays of a mortal sun
And give your lips to the kiss of the scorpion
Monster Magnet – Kiss Of The Scorpion
1987. a riff.
It’s Tuesday.
Jason is lying under James, ankles on James’ shoulders, knees pressed to his chest, James’ cock up his ass, and feels bad.
Not because of what James is doing. Not at all. What James is doing feels fucking great. Every time he accidentally thrusts his dick against the magic spot in his ass, wild shocks of pleasure run through Jason’s whole body like an electric current, frying any kind of coherent thought, blasting away any other feeling. But when he comes around again to the echoes of his own rough moans and James’ deep, whiskey-heavy pants, he has the same thought over and over again: He’s a bad person for making James drunk.
Like, technically, he didn’t really make James drunk, but in Jason’s book, it counts that he didn’t try to keep James away from alcohol earlier when they all met in the bar. All being James, Lars, Kirk, Rebecca – Kirk’s girlfriend –, Eric Peterson - one of the two guitarists of Testament and good friend of Kirk - and Jason. When James downed his first glass of Jack, setting the tone for the evening, Jason thought about trying to change it by somehow talking James out of drinking more, because he knew James wouldn’t just leave it at that one glass otherwise. He never does.
But James doesn’t go home with him when he’s sober. And Jason is miserable when he doesn’t see the man every now and then. His man. Like really see. Alone. Only time when James dares to actually be his man. So he didn’t stop him. And now James is drunk and in Jason’s one room garage apartment and they’re fucking on the mattress in the back corner that Jason calls his bed.
On the record player sitting on the shelf next to the bed, The Doors’ first album is spinning. Morrison’s voice, the subdued, sexy tone of the Fender Rhodes and the ethereal fairground sound of the Gibson G-101 organ - it’s the right music to have sex to. And it also drowns out what they’re doing. Like, Jason’s landlady may be half deaf, but she lives in the house right next to the garage, and James said he doesn’t wanna take any chances.
There’s the spot again. Jason gasps, face scrunching up. “Goddamn!” His head rolls to the right, hair falling into his face, while he blindly reaches up around his folded legs to put his hands on James’ shoulder blades, pulling him closer.
In response, James leans down further, putting more weight onto Jason’s body, stretching Jason’s legs up even more, his long hair and rough pants skimming over Jason’s neck. It’s hard to breathe like this, and the strain on his folded up thighs is a lot, but Jason is flexible and he doesn’t mind the discomfort, especially in the sweaty, ecstatic closeness of James fucking him at the same time. James’ hand brushes the hair out of Jason’s face, before his warm, calloused fingers push against his jaw, soft, but insistent, prompting him to turn his head.
Jason does and opens his eyes. Directly above him are James’ irises, piercing blue with a dark rim, always talking to Jason about things James doesn’t wanna talk about: Fear, hope, sadness, loneliness, or, like in this second, love. Jason smiles at his man breathlessly.
James’ face lights up with a smile too, unguarded and dopey because of the alcohol. He presses his mouth onto Jason’s urgently.
Jason’s stomach does a wild loop.
Intimacy with James is a minefield. That’s the reason Jason isn’t drunk right now, only a little tipsy. He has to stay sane in this. Because if he doesn’t tread carefully, something’s gonna blow.
But every time James kisses him, he feels like they made a safe step across the field.
So Jason forgets about his bad conscience and opens his lips wide immediately.
The kiss is not romantic. It’s sloppy as hell and tastes like whiskey. But those wet sounds echoing between their lips and those strings of spit spanning their tongues connect more than their mouths. Like, maybe their souls or their existences or whatever. Also, Jason likes sloppy kisses. And they don’t talk about it – of course they don’t – but Jason is sure, like one hundred percent, that James likes them, too. Any kind of kisses, really. So they focus on kissing for a few minutes, the movement of James’ pelvis slowing down to a soft, irregular thrusting, Jason’s hands stroking James’ upper back.
Finally, James pushes his torso up again, taking some of his weight off Jason, inhaling deeply, and grins at him, his broad sunshine grin which makes his upper lip disappear, face framed by golden hair. “You good?” His voice is slurred at the edges due to the whiskey, but – as it often does – it gives Jason goosebumps anyway. Not only because it’s so full and deep, resonating within Jason’s head and sinking right down into his ribcage, but also because of what his man says. Because he cares. The first time he asked that while they were fucking, it made Jason so emotional that he could’ve cried. Of course that would’ve scared the shit outta James, so he didn’t.
But he really has no mind to reminisce about that now, because his legs are still pressed to his body and James is close and cares and his cock is still slowly pumping in and out of him and that feels fucking great. So he takes a deep breath and nods. “Yeah, James. I’m good, man, so good.”
“Sweet,” James replies simply and continues grinning, content and maybe even a touch smug, while he turns his head to kiss the ankle of Jason’s left foot, slowly pushing into him again, making Jason exhale a soft moan. Then he stills and fixes his gaze on him.
Jason sees the glint in James’ eyes, the blue almost grey in the light of the lamp that sits on the shelf at the head of the mattress. It makes him grin, too, and he cocks his head to the side questioningly, hands stroking James’ shoulder blades.
“Lemme rough you up, baby,” James says, voice husky, looking at him, grin baring more teeth, golden hair falling into his tanned face - Californian hippie boy with wolf eyes.
Wild arousal prickles in the pit of Jason’s stomach and evokes a shiver. He knows he’ll just never get over his man calling him “baby” or talking dirty to him. “Fuck yeah, James,” Jason rasps, looking straight into his man’s eyes, grasping at James’ back desperately. “Wreck me.”
James makes a sound akin to a growl and leans down abruptly, licking across Jason’s lips. “So eager,” he pants lowly against his mouth, combing a rough hand through Jason’s hair. “To let me have my way with you. My little slut.”
“God, yes,” Jason groans against James’ lips, because it’s all true. He is a slut. But he is not any slut. He’s James’ slut.
James kisses him again, softly this time, and strokes through Jason’s curls once more. Then he sits up, a little uncoordinated due to the alcohol, pulling out completely while wrapping a hand around his cock so the condom doesn’t roll off. He arranges his long legs so that he kneels between Jason’s, all the while looking at him with his broad grin.
Jason returns the look, smiling, and uses the opportunity to take his legs off James’ shoulders. He stretches them out on either side of James, breathing in deeply, before wrapping them around James’ waist, pulling him closer, smile becoming a cheeky grin.
James cocks a brow, smirking now. “Such a lil’ slut,” he murmurs, twining his arm around Jason’s leg.
Jason lifts his ass off the mattress, grinding it against James’ cock, gripped in hand. “Yeah, an’ you’re the only one man enough to deal with that,” he replies with a wink and a goofy grin.
James looks at him motionlessly for a moment, blue eyes glassy, then he laughs, throwing his head back. “Damn, man, not only a lil’ slut, but also a silly slut. Do you even listen to half of the shit you say?” he snorts. But there’s no malice in his words, just amusement.
Laughter immediately bubbles up in Jason, too. Fuck, he loves when James lets himself laugh. Like really laugh. It’s the best sound on earth. “Nah, man,” he giggles, voice rough. “It’s bad enough to think the dumb stuff first, you know.” He taps a fingertip against his temple, ass still rubbing against James’ hand and cock.
His man stops laughing and looks at him again, frowning, pensive and somehow cloudy for a second. But before Jason can worry, James starts grinning again. “You’re not wrong though,” he tightens his hold around Jason’s leg, “I can definitely deal with that.” He looks down, spitting on his cock, angling it with a hand, then he pushes into Jason’s body in one, sharp go, lifting his eyes, grinning hungrily while Jason’s head rolls to the side with a punched-out moan, “With you.”
Jason rasps, “Yeah,” because that’s all the communication he’s capable of right now, pulled under by the sensation of being opened up, breached and filled so abruptly. And so that James can go deeper, he unclamps his legs from his man’s waist and raises them, bending them at the knees, spreading them further.
And James goes deep. Hard and with that kind of glassy, semi-conscious hyperfocus reserved for drunk people.
Jason writhes underneath him, raw, untamed moans tearing from his throat. Every time his man thrusts into him, mind-blowing, body-melting pleasure washes over him. But it also hurts, because James crosses the point where Jason’s body is able to take him without pain every time, too. That’s not only because Jason’s thighs are open wide like this and not even because of the size of James’ cock, but mostly because James wants to be that deep. He wants to claim him, wants to own him, wants to make Jason his. Jason just knows it. That’s the reason for the hunger in James’ eyes, the reason why he holds his legs open so hard, the reason why his moans almost sound like growls, and the reason why he goes balls deep every time, slamming himself home. And that’s why the pain is not only tolerable, but fucking great. “James... God, yeah.” Because Jason wants to be taken and the pain is proof that he is. Also, mind-blowing, body-melting pleasure.
Still, the pain is too intense for Jason to come like this, even if he jacked himself off at the same time, and James probably won’t last much longer anyway. He’s the only man Jason knows that climaxes reliably while drunk. That all doesn’t matter though, because it feels so damn good either way. And he can still take care of himself when James leaves afterwards. Which James will do. Maybe--
Jason gasps loudly, face screwed up, and stops thinking about whether or not his man will stay for the night when James leans back, changing the angle so that it strikes Jason’s prostate harder. “Yeah, that’s what you like,” James purrs. Then there is the sound of spitting and he wraps a slick hand around Jason’s dick and begins jerking him off.
Jason opens his eyes with another wild gasp and looks down. There it is, James’ strong hand around his cock, moving up and down firmly while James continues fucking him. He lifts his gaze to James’, mouth half open with equal parts pleasure and confusion, and sees the roguish grin on his lips and in his glassy eyes. Damn, he knows what he’s doing. The heat in Jason’s stomach starts to pool. James has never touched his cock like this before, with the clear intention to make him come, and that he’s doing it now is an absolute monumental thing. Jason didn’t ask him... His man just wants to do it. Holy shit.
“Lemme get you off, baby,” James murmurs, deep voice coarse with lust, palm rubbing across the head of Jason’s cock, spreading a drop of precum, his dick pushing into him.
Jason moans, face scrunching up again. “Damn, James. Oh, god, yes!” James’ words alone get him so close already, and in combination with the hand around his cock and the next deep thrust, he’s almost there now. Pain be damned. He reaches down and digs his fingers into James’ thighs.
James gives a growling pant and intensifies the movement of his hand. “Yeah, baby. Come for me.” He pulls back and pushes into Jason again, shallow this time, his cock prodding against Jason’s prostate. Then he pulls back, only to do it again. And then again. And he grins. Goddamn. He fucking knows. How the fuck does he...
The heat condenses in one single point, and then it explodes. “James...” Jason comes with a raw moan, eyes screwed shut, back arching off the bed, cum splattering across his belly and James’ hand.
James pants loudly, and when Jason manages to open his eyes despite his orgasm, he is rewarded by the view of his man, who has pulled off the condom, standing on his knees between his legs, jacking himself off to completion with a few determined, fast strokes of his hand. He’s so beautiful. His eyes are closed, lips parted, features almost calm, until the moment his face suddenly screws up in wild lust, brows furrowed, teeth bared. And then he comes across Jason’s belly and chest with a throaty groan.
Jason looks down at his skin painted by James’ orgasm, breathing deeply, smiling with open lips. He also knows he’ll never get over the sight and feel of James’ cum on any part of his body. Knows he’ll never get over what it means - being one, being his, sharing this moment of pure, unreflecting ecstasy.
Afterwards, Jason uses his Overkill shirt to clean them off a bit. And then, as they lie on their backs next to each other under the one duvet, James’ arm pillowing Jason’s head, Jason’s arm wound around James’ shoulders, The Doors’ ‘The End’ in the background, Jason has a moment of almost surreal realization that this is actually happening. That James, the man, his hero, is really here, in his bed, together with him. He turns his head to press a kiss onto James’ bicep. And James lets him and grins.
Jason experiences those moments often since he joined Metallica. And even more often since the thing with James has been going on. Like, whenever that started. Maybe in the motel. But does it really count as an actual thing when the other person then proceeds to ignore you for the next two months? Like, not completely ignore you, but ignore you in all the aspects it hurts to be ignored in when you love someone. So it probably really started on the Wednesday exactly one week before his twenty-fourth birthday, the day he came home from visiting his parents after Metallica finished the tour. When James just turned up at his garage apartment, bringing along a mixtape and a Rush shirt for him and some condoms.
James wasn’t only drunk that night, he was drowning, barely standing, reeking of beer and cigarette smoke, falling more than walking into his apartment, where he sat down heavily on one of the two chairs at Jason’s tiny kitchen table. He looked up at him with bloodshot eyes, blue irises filled with the desperate sadness of a man who’d wished he could’ve won the battle all by himself, but had failed big time.
“I brought gifts for you,” he slurred, barely comprehensible, and pulled the shirt and the tape from the pockets of his leather jacket, movements so uncoordinated that the whole process took like two minutes. “You motherfucker made me bring you gifts,” he added, after he had put both items on the table, voice lacking any kind of edge, but sounding more like he was making a confession. “An’ you made me miss you so bad. So fucking bad.” He brushed his straggly hair back with both hands, staring at him with an expression so forlorn that Jason’s breath caught in his throat. “An’ I feel like if I don’t get to hold you now... If you don’t hold me now, my heart’s gonna explode.”
“Same,” Jason said, immediately leaning down, throwing his arms around James in a tight embrace.
Afterwards, they didn’t talk about the motel or the two months or about the reasons why their hearts had almost exploded. Instead, they just held each other for a while with trembling breaths, James awkwardly reaching up from his chair, Jason awkwardly leaning down.
When it became too uncomfortable, Jason first convinced James to drink a glass of water, and then they relocated to Jason’s bed, where they both fell asleep eventually, arms wrapped around each other.
That was the first and only time James stayed for the night.
Jason learned about the condoms the next day. Sometime around noon, James woke up, like an hour after Jason, who’d used the time to just enjoy how good it was lying next to James, no matter how stinky. For a moment, James just blinked at Jason, a faint smile on his lips, then his eyes widened and he jumped to his feet and made a bolt for the bathroom, where he puked his heart out for the next fifteen minutes. Afterwards, while his man took a shower, Jason made coffee, prepped an aspirin and put everything on the shelf next to his bed. Then he turned on his TV, which sat on the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed, and laid down again. Eventually, James staggered out of the bathroom, wrapped in Jason’s bathrobe, which was too short for him, and just collapsed back onto the mattress next to Jason. And then they simply watched cartoons and drank coffee there together in Jason’s bed. James was mellow and relaxed - probably because of his hangover, but Jason decided to just ignore that thought for a little while and enjoy the moment. Finally, they got into a dispute about which skateboard team was the best - Jason insisted it was the Bones Brigade, while James argued for the Alva Posse - which culminated in a giggly wrestling match that Jason ended up winning when he got James in a headlock. That’s when James said, breathing heavily in Jason’s grip, “Can we fuck? I bought condoms.”
Of course, Jason said, “Yes!” First of all because he was so damn fucking horny, but also because James had asked and said “we” and because he had brought condoms.
And so, they had sex. Soft and slow and missionary, quite unlike their first time, tons of gentle kisses in between, holding each other, eyes locked. So goddamn good. So close and intimate.
James left shortly after, because it had been exactly that.
They still haven’t talked about any of the stuff that happened between them. First because James was too drunk, and then because he didn’t want to talk about it. And still doesn’t. He always gets angry and leaves when Jason attempts to. And it’s not like Jason tries hard anyways, because he’s worried about what James will do if he does. So the thing between them stays silent and nameless.
Jason’s thoughts are interrupted when James next to him says, voice still slurring slightly, “Have some riffs floating around in my head. For the new album.”
Jason turns on his side, so he can look at his man, cheek pressed to James’ bicep, and replies, excited, “Fuck yeah, man! Do you wanna gimme one?”
James turns his eyes sideways and looks at him for a brief moment, thoughtfully. Then he nods, closes his eyes and starts humming.
The melody James hums to life is sad and slow. It’s filled with deep melancholy. But in this melancholy lies a desperation and an intensity that gives it so much power. So damn much. And it’s not at all what Jason expected to hear from him right now. Not because he thinks James is incapable of imagining it, but because James is revealing something so fragile in this moment of vulnerable intimacy.
There’s a prickly sensation behind Jason’s eyes.
But he’s sure that’s nothing his man wants to know. So he says, after James finished humming, careful to not sound too emotional, “Fucking awesome melody! It’s so powerful!”
James smiles up towards the ceiling and nods. “Yeah, I agree. I’m glad it came to me.” His fingers start plucking at Jason’s hair, softly. “And you?” He turns his head and looks at him, brows raised curiously. “Did you think of something?”
Jason’s stomach tenses up and he shakes his head. “Not yet.”
“Okay,” James says simply, but Jason can’t help but think that he looks disappointed. So he assures, “I’m working on it.”
James nods, hand still busy with Jason’s hair. After a moment, he adds, “We can jam together. I come here with my guitar, we let the juices flow.” He grins at Jason, goofily. “Creative juices I mean.”
Jason giggles, pressing his forehead to James’ bicep. “Yeah, gladly! Whatever juices you want! But that reminds me...” He lifts his eyes again to look at his man. “We came together, man!”
James’ broad grin widens. “Yeah, we did! Shit, babe, when you came, it felt like your body grabbed my whole existence by the dick! That was insane!”
Jason laughs. “And mine left me through my dick!” He bites down playfully on James’ bicep, before looking into his man’s eyes again. “How did you know how to do it?”
“Know how to do what?” James asks, frowning in confusion.
“How to hit my prostate,” Jason clarifies easily.
From one second to the other, James’ eyes get dark. He grunts unwillingly and turns his head to look at the ceiling again.
It’s one of those tricky James moments. It’s pretty obvious. But Jason is so curious and he honestly doesn’t get why it would be problematic to talk about that. Like, how can it be a difficult thing to talk about if James deemed it good enough to do it? So he says softly, “Oh, come on, man, it was so damn good! I wanna know where you learned that.”
“I...” James starts and then immediately stops again. His frown deepens and he just stares at the ceiling for a moment. Then he gets up abruptly, pulling his arm out from under Jason’s head. “I gotta go,” he says brusquely while turning away - slightly swaying from the alcohol - to pick up his crumpled jeans from the floor.
Shit! Jason slings his arm across his eyes and curses himself internally for probing further, despite knowing fucking better.
James gathers his clothes in awkward silence and then disappears into the bathroom, holding his shirt in front of his dick as if they didn’t just have sex. Jason remains behind in bed.
Fuck. He’s never known when it’s time to shut up. And now James won’t stay for the night again because of it. If only he were smarter, if only he knew how to do this. Shit.
A part of him feels so defeated that he just wants to stay in bed, in the remaining warmth James has left behind. But he gets up anyways when he hears the flush and the sound of a running faucet. He wraps the duvet loosely around his body, holding it close with one hand, because sometimes James can’t deal with his nudity in these moments, and then he sits down on the kitchen table near the entrance, legs dangling, waiting for his man.
When James emerges from the bathroom again, he barely looks at him, his eyes glued to the ugly grey PVC floor that Jason tried to cover with as many rugs as possible, looking withdrawn despite the whiskey. “So...” he mumbles, “Will you go to Eric’s birthday party on Saturday?” Eric invited all of them today when they were at the bar. Well, all except for Rebecca, because the party is at a strip club and – as Eric put it – “a testosterone-only kinda deal, the hottest stuff ever”.
Jason nods, channeling a smile onto his face. “Yeah, man, of course I’ll go.” He grins. “As if I’d miss the hottest stuff ever! You?”
James nods too, while he gets his leather jacket from the coat rack beside the entrance door. “Will be lotsa tits and pussy,” he states decidedly, almost grim. “That’s what we need." He puts the jacket on, hesitates a moment visibly, then he goes over to where Jason is sitting on the table, and finally lifts his eyes to look at him. “Then I’ll see you there,” he says quietly and gives him a quick peck on the lips.
Jason doesn’t insist on more.
After James has left, Jason takes a shower, not only washing away the remnants of James’ cum and his smell, but also trying to fade out the sound of James’ voice saying that they both need tits and pussy. Shit. As if what they have is wrong. As if it’s deficient. As if it’s not enough. As if Jason isn’t enough.
He notices how his thoughts start spiraling, spinning around a pit of desperate helplessness. What can he do to be enough? What can he do to make James feel better about what they have? How does he fix this?
But he doesn’t wanna get sucked into that vortex. Not again. Not today. So he sticks his head under cold water for a second and tries to focus on something else.
Naturally, the first thing that pops in his mind is music. It’s always music.
It’s actually not true that he hasn’t had any ideas for the new album so far. He’s just not sure if they’re good enough. Like, in reality, he knows they are not good enough.
After the shower, he dresses in a fresh pair of briefs and the Rush shirt James gave him, then he walks over to the guitar and bass corner of his apartment - so like, half of the room -, and picks up his black ESP Surveyor from its stand next to the 84’ Gibson Explorer he bought a month ago. He basically put all the money he earned with Metallica so far into guitars and basses, so he has a nice collection going on by now. Only problem is to fit them all into his tiny garage apartment. And to use them to find the magical riff and line good enough for Metallica, of course.
Jason doesn’t plug his bass into his amp, because it’s 2 A.M. and he is not an asshole. Instead, he sits down cross-legged on one of the dark purple pillows he uses instead of arm chairs, his bass in his lap, wipes the damp hair out of his face, and plays a few bass lines he came up with.
So, like, technically, they’re not bad. They’re solid. They would be good enough for some garage Thrash band. But Metallica is not some garage Thrash band. Metallica is radical and a titan. So the bass lines have to be special, something massive. But the ones he’s playing right now aren’t. They’re just solid. And they don’t touch him.
Jason sighs and stops trying to do something coherent, instead he lets his fingers wander over the bass strings aimlessly and lifts his eyes to look at the Damage Inc. poster that hangs on the white wall above his basses and guitars. He studies the fanged skull, impaled by the two spiked clubs, follows the sharp lines of the red Metallica logo above it, grins faintly at the ransom note letters spelling out Damage Inc..
And then he has the same thought he has every time he looks at it: When it was printed, Cliff was still alive... The thought makes it difficult to breathe because of the rising sadness which constricts his throat. It always does. It feels like the fabric of life tore when Cliff died - even though Jason didn’t know him - and there is still a hole in the same fabric. A hole that Jason feels in everything. In the poster, in Cliff’s amp he used on tour, in interviews when they ask him how he feels about replacing him, in the others’ faces when they hear the question. It’s the loss, the absence. It’s so fucking hard to endure.
But then, in the middle of staring into the emptiness, Jason hears a familiar melody, and when he redirects his attention to what his own fingers are doing, he notices that he’s playing Orion, Cliff’s middle bass part. Again. He catches himself doing that unintentionally all the time. He doesn’t stop though, but lets his fingers continue to move over the strings, the tabs so familiar he doesn’t really have to think about them, awaking the melody, allowing it to flow. Okay, so there is the hole, he thinks, but there’s also this. The melody. And that means that in a weird way, although Cliff is dead, he’s still here somehow. Because he came up with this bass part. His mind and his fingers worked together to create this. This melody that is so glorious in the simple yet playful calmness, and that carries so many emotions - joy, but also longing - in such a triumphant way. This is the essence of Cliff. His being. And when Jason plays the melody, he conjures this part of him. In the music, Cliff will exist forever.
Jason smiles while his fingers continue playing for a moment longer, reveling in the comforting truth of the thought. When he stops however, he heaves a deep sigh.
If only he could come up with something that would have made Cliff proud. A bass line as big as Orion. Something that will make all of them proud. Will make them see that they chose the right bass player to fill the hole in the fabric.
So, he stays up till 5 A.M., trying to find the massive bass line good enough for all of them.
Saturday comes and Jason has had no breakthroughs whatsoever. None regarding the music, none regarding his man. One thing he is pretty sure of, however, is that James doesn’t wanna show up at the party together, so he doesn’t even try calling him to ask. Instead he takes his time getting ready, brushing his hair, dressing up in a real, proper black shirt and the one pair of dress pants he owns. He doesn’t have fancy shoes though, so Nikes will have to do. And like, the situation is what it is, but that doesn’t mean Jason has to be happy about it and so, he decides that today will be the day to get smashed real good. He’s two beers in before he leaves his apartment at 10 P. M., taking a cab to the strip club.
The Soft Spot strip club is housed in the first floor of a flat-roofed, three-story redbrick corner house on Broadway in North Beach. There is a huge sign mounted on the top two stories, trying to attract the attention of passersby with a drawing of a blonde, curvy woman in a pink bikini encircled by a ring of lights that glimmer and flash. But the street is buzzing with activity, overflowing with people, cars, more signs and other lights in all colors of the rainbow, so Jason needs a moment anyways to spot the club when he leaves the cab.
Man, apparently, Eric has rented the whole damn place, because when Jason approaches the red and white double door, a bald bouncer, something like a foot taller and broader than him, a clipboard with a sheet of paper in hand, steps into his path and points at a note on the door saying private party. When Jason tells him that he is an invited guest, big baldie asks for his name, and then starts scanning the guest list in his hand. Jason waits, looking at the sheet of paper too without really paying attention. That changes though when his subconscious recognizes a specific name, right above his.
Dave Mustaine.
Shit.
He feels the tension in the air the moment he steps into the club. Heavy, aggressive. But it’s not because of the location. The location is cool. This tension is entirely man-made. So Jason scans the room for its origin.
The club looks like a mixture of a 1920’s lounge and the inside of a circus tent: dim light, red wallpaper with golden floral patterns, partly covered with drapes in the same style, a crimson carpet with yellow flowers, booths and benches in dark brown leather arranged in a semi-circle around the stage, and a huge mirror with diamond-shaped lines backing the stage. A white grand piano hangs from the high, black ceiling next to a brass chandelier with glass crystals and a disco ball, and erotic vintage photographs in red passe-partouts and black frames decorate the walls. The club has an intimate, almost cozy feel... Or had if it didn’t ring with this human dissonance. Jason barely notices the lady hanging upside down on the pole on the stage, her dark brown hair flowing through the air, holding on to the metal only by her legs, opening her hippyish, crocheted bra to the sound of You Can’t Judge a Book by the Cover. Instead he continues trying to feel out the source of the bad vibe.
That gets interrupted though by Kirk’s unmistakable soft, high voice greeting him from the left, “Hey, Jase.”
Jason turns his head and sees Kirk sitting alone in the closest booth, slouched deep into the seat, knees braced against the edge of the table, half-concealed by the open magazine he holds in his hands, only his big brown eyes peeking across. The cover reveals the title Monsterland and depicts a trashy photomontage of King Kong holding a seductively smiling woman in a scanty, black dress.
“Hey, Kirk,” Jason replies, the corner of his mouth pulled up into a lopsided smile, and sits down next to him. “Don’t tell me the show is that boring.” He points at the magazine.
Kirk takes a peek at the stage where the woman is now swirling around the pole, his dark brows folding into a considering frown. “Dunno, actually.” He looks back at Jason and shrugs. “Becca told me to have fun, but, you know... It’s kinda cheating to look at naked women. So I brought something to read.” He pointlessly lifts his hands with the magazine, continuing to talk while Jason orders a beer from the sparsely clothed waitress passing the booth, “But it’s really lame, actually. The review of Waggner’s The Wolf Man totally misses the point and the photos of Chaney as the Wolf Man are, like, really bad and blurry.” He takes a sip from his glass, and when he lowers the magazine at that, Jason notices that he hasn’t dressed for the occasion, wearing black jeans and a sleeveless Bride of Frankenstein shirt. “So,” Kirk continues, voice his usual monotone sing-song, examining the woman on stage more thoroughly now, “I thought whatever, I can just as well leave, but then...” He interrupts himself and turns to Jason again, his eyes wide now, “Do you know that Dave’s here?”
Jason nods. “Yeah, saw his name on the guest list. Did he make a scene?”
Kirk closes his magazine and puts it on the table. “Not yet! But it’s gonna happen, man!” He gestures with both hands to underline how convinced he is. “That’s why I decided to stay! When Dave came in, he straight away gave me the shittiest look ever. Jeez! Thought he would instantly go for my throat. As if it’s my fault he can’t keep a job.” He shrugs. “But he didn’t. Instead he waltzed through the room and spread some serious Carrie vibes and now I’m so sure that the evening will, like, completely escalate.”
Jason smiles at the waitress serving him his beer and thanks her, then he looks at Kirk, brow furrowed questioningly. “What makes you so sure, man?”
“It’s like...” Kirk stops and purses his lips pensively. Then his face lights up. “Do you know the fable about the scorpion and the frog?”
Jason sips at his beer and shakes his head.
“Okay, so...” Kirk also takes a sip of his beer. “There’s a scorpion who wants to cross a river. Dunno why, just does. But, like, scorpions can’t swim. So he asks a frog if he can carry him across the river on his back. But the frog is like, ‘You gonna sting me while I carry you.’ Dunno if scorpions can shake their heads, but this one can, and he shakes his head and replies, ‘Nah, man, that would be stupid, ‘cause then you gonna die and I will drown, ‘cause I’m on your back.’ Okay, so that convinces the frog. The scorpion gets on his back and the frog starts swimming across the river. But when they’re halfway, the scorpion stings the frog. The frog is dying, but also massively confused, so he asks, ‘Why did you do that? Now you will drown.’ And the scorpion answers, ‘I just had to, man. It’s in my nature.’ And then they both die.”
Jason has to grin while replying, “Okay, and you wanna say Dave is the scorpion?”
“Exactly, man,” Kirk nods vehemently. “He just can’t help himself. As soon as he hears the name Metallica or sees one of us, he just has to sting. And now we’re all here! So I just know this will end in a massive disaster.” He sighs and his big eyes stare into nothing. “Especially because Lars and James suck at de-escalation. As soon as Dave starts pissing, they gonna piss back. So I figured I better stay and try to talk them out of it when it happens. You know. Maybe.” He looks back at Jason, shrugging, doubt written all over his face.
Jason shifts in his seat uneasily and starts scanning the room again. “Shit. Do you know where they are right now?”
Kirk grabs a handful of salted peanuts from a bowl on the table and stuffs it into his mouth, then he points at a table close to the stage and mumbles, “Lars and James are at Eric’s table. Dunno where Dave is, maybe plotting his revenge at the bar.” His finger swings to the left, where a doorway leads to another room.
Jason opens the buttons on his cuffs and slowly rolls up his sleeves while he looks at the indicated table. A nervous shiver runs through his body, nerves straining. There’s the origin of the tension. The first thing he notices is Lars in a dark turtleneck talking animatedly to Eric, who is wearing a fancy black suit that doesn’t mix well at all with his black, straight mullet. Lars seems pretty relaxed despite Dave’s presence at the club. James next to him however... With the white button down shirt, the dark tie and his hair brushed properly, he seems so civil. Looks like he isn’t drunk, either. And at first glance, his face appears to be calm and completely devoid of expression, staring at the lady on stage. But Jason knows this, has seen it a lot in his life, has looked past it with James, too, past the eerie silence that lies in his unmoving facial features and right at the violent roar in the depth of his wolf eyes. It’s the gnashing of teeth before they are bared. It’s the cracking of knuckles before fists fly. It’s bad. Fuck. Jason has to try to snap him out of it somehow, otherwise James will get himself into trouble tonight.
“Dave or not. Don’t forget to tip the jar,” interrupts Kirk his thoughts, grinning with a mouthful of peanuts.
“Hm?” Jason frowns and looks back at Kirk. For a second, he’s so preoccupied with worry that he has no idea what the guitarist is talking about.
“The tip jar for the party! Instead of presents?” Kirk supplies and points at a glass vase on a table near the entrance.
“Oh, yeah, sure. I’ll keep it in mind.” Jason nods. Then he gets up, forgetting his half-full glass of beer on the table. “Gonna go over and say hi and congratulate Eric now.”
“’Kay, man!” Kirk leans back and reaches for the magazine again.
The hippie lady on stage is dancing to Hit Me With Your Best Shot now, fearlessly rotating around the pole in her straw high heel sandals and crocheted thong. If only the circumstances were better, like, relaxed. Jason would enjoy this. She’s really good.
When he comes up to the table, James turns his head and looks at him immediately. He just stares for a moment, and Jason can see by how his mouth twitches and by the slight furrow of his brow that he doesn’t know how to react to his appearance. So to make it easier for James, he just smiles and turns to Eric, “Hey, man, happy birthday! Best location ever! They’ll tell the story of this epic party for years and years to come. They’ll sing songs about it! Thanks for inviting me!” From the corner of his eye, Jason can see his man fall back into the tense silence, his hands in fists on his knees.
“Thanks, man!” Eric replies, grinning drunkenly. “Glad you like it!”
Jason needs to drag James away from the verge of the raging cacophony now. His man is so close to tumbling in and if he does, he will lose control of the roar. Jason can feel it. All it needs is a little push by someone who’s looking for trouble. Someone like Dave. And all James is broadcasting right now is ‘Come on! Gimme a fucking reason’. Jason’s throat tightens with dread. This is so, so bad. Maybe... maybe some easy conversation to distract James from his anger.
So Jason sits down at the table next to him and starts talking with Lars and Eric, who turns out is already so hammered that he can barely follow the conversation. They chat about the venue, about how cool it is renting a strip club for your birthday and about how Eric got the idea. James doesn’t participate at all and remains silent. He’s sitting in his armchair pretty motionlessly and watches the stripper taking the stage after the hippie lady, an East Asian looking woman with a short, low-cut black kimono, who the DJ introduces as Kitsu. At least James’ hands on his knees relax at one point.
“And now imagine,” Eric says finally, looking at Kitsu with a dreamy smile while she skillfully undresses to Love is a Battlefield, “Having strippers at your gig! That would be hot shit!”
Jason laughs. “Man, don’t think I can focus on playing bass with some ladies getting undressed right next to me. And then instead of ‘master, master’ I’d grunt ‘tits, tits’, ‘cause I’d be so distracted. Though ‘tits of puppets’ sounds right.”
Lars snorts a short laugh, leaned back in his armchair, confident posture as usual, but already shakes his head at the same time. Then he says, “Nah, dude, no strippers at our concert. Everybody would only stare at them! Like, the focus should be us, you know, not some naked women or whatever.”
James clears his throat, which directs Jason’s attention at him immediately. His man has turned his head now, looking at them, his posture more relaxed than before. Then he says, voice still hoarse from not talking for a while, “Yeah. I mean... The idea of having naked women around is cool.” His lips spread into his big grin. “I’ll have them after the gig. But during...” He thinks for a second, eyes narrowed pensively. Then he continues, his gaze intense while he looks from Lars to Eric and then to Jason, his deep voice passionate, insistent, “It’s a goddamn concert. It’s not about the show, it’s about the music. Playing together, creating something so goddamn real and true, feeling it here,” he presses a fist to his chest, gaze lingering on Jason.
Jason looks into James’ eyes and smiles. He loves him.
James returns the smile with sparkling eyes.
“Hallelujah,” drawls someone from the left.
Jason turns his head towards the voice the same second Lars rolls his eyes and says,” Hey, Dave.”
And there he is – Dave Mustaine – standing next to the table on James’ side. White shirt, jeans, Nikes, bullet belt. Strawberry-blond hair open, lips pursed, one hand on his hips. His eyes are half-closed like he’s either high as fuck or really, really bored. “Didn’t know preachers are allowed to visit strip clubs,” he mumbles, words bleeding into each other, barely audible over the music like he doesn’t care if he’s being understood. He’s also not looking at James, although his words are clearly directed at him. Instead, his eyes are turned towards Eric, who is completely entranced by Kitsu’s acrobatics on stage anyways.
Yeah, that’s the fucking push.
Jason looks back to James right in time to witness the moment his expression darkens again, how he glowers up at Dave in silence, brows furrowed deeply, grinding his teeth, jaw muscles tense. Shit.
“So... Any more inspirational words, father James?” Dave mutters. “You know, people tell me I have no manners. But maybe I’m not past redemption yet.”
James’ nostrils flare and his eyes are so damn dark, but he stays silent.
What to do? What to fucking do? Jason’s eyes search for Kirk at the other table, hoping to see something inspiring or helpful there. Only to find the guitarist stare at what’s happening at his table with wide, brown eyes anxiously, looking as paralyzed as Jason feels.
“You know...” Dave lazily scratches the side of his neck, casting James an infuriatingly bored glance. “Maybe if you give me a piece of your eternal wisdom, I’ll finally see the light and start wandering on righteous paths.”
If James gnashes his teeth any harder, they will splinter.
“So, how’s it going, Dave?” Lars asks nonchalantly, still leaned back, legs crossed, seemingly unperturbed by Dave’s behavior. And that’s definitely in Jason’s top five moments of Lars is the fucking best, because he immediately grabs all of Dave’s attention.
“I’m excellent, Lars,” Dave says, voice dragging with smugness, “Sold a shitton of records this year. Life’s good!”
“Cool.” Lars says and takes a slow sip of his beer. “The only thing I heard is that you have problems with your drummer. Again.”
When Dave’s eyes narrow and his lips press together angrily, Jason stops paying attention and instead turns to James who is still glowering at his former bandmate. The tension is so violent and aggressive it makes his hair stand on end. “Come on, James,” Jason lets his voice sound playful, but vehement, and places a soft hand on his man’s shoulder, because he’s got no time to be subtle. James actually turns his head and looks at him immediately, wolf eyes softening a tiny bit. “Let’s go to the bar. I’ll buy a round!” Jason gets up, hoping to inspire his man to do the same. And after a second, in which he casts Dave another scowling glance, James nods and rises from his armchair. Thank god!
They make it two steps away from the table, before Dave aims his words at them again. Fuck.
“And who’s that, James? Your boyfriend?”
James whips around, eyes burning, head low, shoulders squared. But before he can do or say anything, Jason shifts in front of him, looking Dave straight in the eye, and says as calmly as he can, “I’m Jason, Metallica’s new bassist. Hey!”
Dave eyes Jason up and down slowly without a word, appraisingly.
Jason returns the look unflinchingly, head raised high. He knows those types, knows you can’t show weakness if you don’t wanna be picked apart ‘til the end of days. Doesn’t matter how much he actually just wants to grab James and flee, only thing that matters is not to show Dave.
Finally, Dave grins. “Well, damn,” he mumbles, the corner of his mouth curled upwards dismissively, “You fit right in here.” He points at the stage while he turns back to Lars. “Guess when you searched for a ‘versatile’ bassist, you didn’t only mean music. Was stripping part of the selection process?”
Behind Jason, James spits, “Fuck you, Dave!” And then... Jason is not sure what actually happens then.
A wild grunt near his ear, James’ hard body pushes painfully into him from behind. In front of him, Dave turns his head again and his eyes widen. Jason gets shoved to the side forcefully and stumbles backwards across something. In the periphery of his panicked vision, he sees James lunge at Dave, Lars getting up, Eric looking confused. A second where he realizes he’s losing his balance. Then he falls. Something collides hard with the back of his right thigh. The sound of shattering glass and surprised yells. Sharp pain at the back of his head. Darkness rapidly approaches him from the sides and overwhelms him.
The music is quieter. Carpet underneath him. He blinks. James’ face hovers above him, eyes wide with fear. “Jason? Jason?” His voice sounds muffled. “Yeah,” Jason croaks, blinks again, tries to expel the remnants of unconsciousness. Disco ball twinkling above him at the ceiling. Kitsu’s face and her naked tits appear in his vision too, next to James. “Let me look at him. I’m a med student and trained in first aid.” Careful hands at the back of his head. “No blood, but hella big bump. Do you know where you are?” Her voice is soft and has a Californian accent. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “At the strip club.” Something soft is shoved underneath his head. Something that smells like James. “Do you know what happened?” She looks into his eyes intently. Hers are so brown they’re almost black. “Fell an’ bumped my head,” he says. She nods. “How do you feel? Any nausea?” Jason concentrates on his body for a second, tries to feel past the painful pounding of his head, then he answers, “No nausea. But my head hurts.” She nods again. “Okay. Doesn’t sound like a concussion.” Turns to James who is still looking at him with restless eyes. “Does he live alone?” James nods. “But someone needs to take him home and stay with him for the night to check if he’s really okay. Like, if he starts acting weird or starts vomiting, someone’s gotta take him to the ER.” James looks at her and nods again, vigorously this time. “Yeah, sure, okay, will do that.”
Shortly after, James and Kirk walk Jason over to James’ Mustang, supporting him left and right with an arm wrapped around his middle, and Jason ends up lying folded in the back seat, James leather jacket pillowing his head, while his man drives him home.
“Did you hit him?” he asks, eyes closed. His head hurts and his right thigh is throbbing painfully too now.
Silence, then from the driver’s seat in front of him, “Got one hit in. Stopped when I saw you on the ground.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Nosebleed. He’ll be fine.”
Jason hesitates for a second, but the pain distracts him, so he asks anyways, “What happened between you and him?”
“What do you mean?” Jason can hear James shifting in his seat. “He’s pissed, ‘cause we threw him out of the band.”
City lights seep through Jason’s eyelids. “I know. But all his jabs at you specifically... Why?”
“We... We were friends.” James’ voice sounds strained. “But he fucked up. Behaved like a massive asshole. He... I... There was no way of dealing with it.”
The silence that follows is thick and loaded with stuff too heavy for Jason’s aching head.
“You shouldn’t have hit him.”
“Yeah, I should! And more than fucking once! Asshole deserved far worse for insulting you.”
Jason feels bad about the warmth spreading in his heart then, but he falls silent anyways.
After James parks the Mustang in the former driveway of Jason’s garage apartment, he insists on carrying Jason inside. Since his face is grimly determined and also kinda desperate, Jason doesn’t object.
Then, when Jason starts undressing, James stands next to him, drops of blood - probably Dave’s - on his white shirt, looking so lost that Jason asks him to open the laces of his Nikes to give him something to do. James does it immediately.
And when Jason lies down on the mattress, James quickly strips down to his briefs, gets under the duvet next to him and switches off the lamp on the shelf at the head of the mattress.
It’s pitch-black and the darkness is filled with the low humming of the fridge in Jason’s kitchenette.
“You okay?” James’ voice pierces the black.
“Yeah. Just a bit of a headache.”
“Tell me when you’re not okay, ‘kay?”
“’Kay.”
“Okay.” Just darkness and humming, then, “You... you always get hurt.”
“Uhm, yeah... I... I... Sorry.”
“No! I mean, I’m...” Another pause. “You should sleep now.”
“Yeah. ‘Kay.”
James shifts closer ‘til their shoulders are touching.
That’s the second time he stays for the night.
The next morning, Jason wakes up with no clear memory of what happened yesterday evening, but with the awareness that James should be in bed with him, but isn’t. When he reaches for the empty spot next to him, he can still feel a residue of warmth lingering below the duvet. Then he sees the note on the red carpet next to the mattress. It’s the receipt for his Gibson Explorer, on the back the hastily scribbled words Getting breakfast. Don’t move ‘til I’m back. “Don’t move ‘til I’m back...” Jason wonders what that means, but then he notices that his head and thigh still kinda hurt and remembers the scuffle in the Soft Spot. He carefully lets his fingertips brush over the back of his head. Yep, the bump’s still there and still pretty big. But fact is Jason needs to take a piss, so he can’t stay in bed until his man comes back. And he figures James’ words are more like a figure of speech, anyways. So he gets up.
No nausea and no vertigo, but when he inspects his thigh in the bathroom mirror, he sees the bruise reaching from right above the hollow of his knee up to his ass cheek. He still has no idea what exactly he collided with when he fell, but the bruise is massive and dark blue.
Still... He’s had it worse. Yeah, it hurts. Sure. But it’s not that bad. Really isn’t.
He pees and takes a quick shower afterwards to wash off the sour stench of old beer that clings to his hair. And then he sits at his kitchen table in briefs and the Rush t-shirt, staring at the door, waiting for James’ return.
Only Jason can’t wait sitting like this, because his thigh hurts too much. So he shifts his weight onto his left ass cheek, perching on the chair like a goddamn chicken about to fall off the roost. Stupid and ridiculous.
All because he was too retarded to step aside.
James’ right. He always gets hurt. Like a moron. Because he’s totally incapable of doing the smart thing. He always is. Always goddamn was. Paying attention to what teachers are saying. Finishing school. Giving people a reason to stay. Taking a fucking step to the side. He’s too goddamn stupid for all of it.
“Shit...”
He gets up, ball of his hand pressed against his forehead, walks two steps in one direction, almost running into his fridge, turns around, paces three steps in the other direction, before reaching the wall with the Damage Inc. poster alongside his guitars and basses. He stares at the impaled skull.
In the end, Jason had asked, “Please tell me why you’re so angry. I just don’t understand.” And Sean had yelled, “Because you’re so stupid. Holy shit, nobody can be with someone as fucking braindead as you are.” And he’d grabbed his leather jacket and left.
It hurt like a motherfucker. His chest being ripped open, heart stuttering, dripping blood everywhere.
However, he still had shelter. Because of the music.
But now...
He can’t produce a cool bass line anymore.
The only thing he never had to be smart about, because it always just bloomed within him and elevated him above everything and everyone, was music. But it’s silent now. So what can he even do?
And what if it’s true...
And what if they knew...
What if James knew...
Jason reaches for his bass. But his hand is shaking.
“Shit...”
What if it’s true... What if it’s just Orion again...
Instead he picks up the Gibson Explorer. It’s the same model James has, only that James’ is white while Jason’s is black. He feels braver with it.
He plugs it in and slings the strap across his shoulders. Then he shakes his head. I never had to be smart about it. Feels for the pain at the back of it. Grounds himself in it. Don’t try to be smart. He gets a pick. Just let it flow. His fingers move over the strings. Don’t think. Fast. Don’t think. Don’t think. Faster. He stumbles over the strings. Doesn’t matter. He closes his eyes. Don’t have to be smart about it. His fingers are rushing now. Brutal downstrokes. Again and again. So fast.
And there it is.
A riff.
Condensed desperation, but absolute refusal to back down. Frustration hammering. Raw anger about the status quo. Jason screams it all in through his fingers. And the music opens up and he sinks in.
It’s the best feeling ever.
Pure adrenaline. Energy.
In touch with himself. And with something bigger.
Finally, however, he notices that his hand starts hurting. So he stops and opens his eyes.
James is standing there, looking at him, the plastic bag with some kind of breakfast next to him on the kitchen table. He’s wearing Jason’s Ministry shirt to his dress pants. His head is tilted and his wolf eyes shine with excitement. “That’s massive,” he states, not a hint of doubt in his voice. “What is it?”
“Mine,” Jason says and smiles.
“Yours.” For a second, James is silent and just looks at him, searching his eyes with hungry intensity. Then he smiles his big smile. “It’s awesome, man. Show me how to do it!”
Jason laughs a laughter of pure happiness. “Hell yeah!”