The idiot in question is sitting in the center of his bed, glaring at me with these bloodshot puppy-eyes. He’s wrapped so tight in a thin blanket, probably the only one he had in the house, that I don’t think he can move. He looks exhausted, and so utterly miserable that if his lower lip had been sticking out, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

With a sulky sniff, he asks in a rasp that makes me wince, “The hell are you doing here?”

I let my bag drop and lean against the door to look at him. “Lars called. He said you were sick.”

He groans, letting his head drop into his hands. “I told him not to call you.”

“Since when does he listen?”

Kirk just shakes his head and mutters a curse that’s admittedly pretty damned creative for someone half out of it. Nudging my bag out of the way with my foot, I cross the room to sit on the edge of the bed. My hand’s on his forehead, testing the heat of his fever before I can think about it. His skin’s clammy, too fucking hot.

I try to fight it, but my question comes out as an annoyed growl anyway. “Why didn’t you want Lars to tell me?”

The growl startles him. Looking up, Kirk blinks at me, then sits back against the headboard, looking wary. It occurs to me that I probably look like I’m going to kill him, but considering that I might do just that if he doesn’t give me a damned good answer, I keep glaring. It doesn’t bother him that much, though; he reaches out, trying to touch my cheek. I’m less than reassured, since his hand is shaking so badly he misses.

With a sigh, I resign myself to grabbing it with my own, holding him still. He smiles weakly up at me. “Didn’t want to bother you on your vacation. Besides, we usually can’t even find you when you go hunting God only knows where.”

My hand twitches on his. The little fucking moron. Taking a deep breath and trying not to growl again, I manage almost calmly, “I was in Calgary. Lars tracked me down.”

That alone had scared the hell out of me, before Lars had even gotten past the first word. By the time he mentioned the walking pneumonia, I was on the laptop ordering the next flight home. I just had this vision of Kirk laid up in a hospital, hooked up to wires and tubes and machines, maybe dying…

Finding him here, bitching at me, is almost reassuring. I’m torn between shaking him and kissing him senseless. Guess which one I’m planning to go for.

Kirk blinks again, then snarls and starts to struggle to his feet. “Shit. I thought you just came back early or something. He tracked you down? That asshole! I’ll-“

I never got to find out what he was planning to do, because his breath catches in his throat and he starts to cough. Hard, wrenching, frightening coughs, that would have made him slide off the bed if I didn’t grab him around the waist. He leans on me, still coughing so hard that I half expect to see blood on his lips. Christ…

By the time it finally stops, he’s trembling, gasping for breath and holding on to me for dear life. My voice is shaking about as bad as he is when I touch the back of his neck and ask, “Kirk?”

He takes a deep breath, then sits up, wiping his eyes, not looking at me. “It’s better than it sounds.”

 “What, like a rusty car engine turning over?”

With a sigh, he slides out of bed, steadying himself on the wall. The blanket slips down his legs to hit the floor, giving me a nice view of boxer-clad ass. He’s lost weight; the damned boxers are about to slide down his hips and trip him. Before I reach out and haul his scrawny little ass back into bed, he slumps against the wall to look at me. “The doctors said-“

“What doctors? When?”

Tugging a hand through his hair, he closes his eyes and admits quietly, “The doctors at the hospital a few days ago.”

“The hospital?” I’m on my feet before I realize it, my hands on his shoulders. Lars never mentioned this, the little prick. I’m not sure who to kill first, so I settle for snarling instead. “The fucking hospital?!”

“It’s nothing serious, dammit! Lars and Jase were in town, we went out for a few drinks, I started coughing and got dizzy, Lars overreacted and made me go to the hospital.” Trying to look convincing, he cups my face in his hands. It’s a fucking brave thing to do, considering the way I’m scowling and the way I usually act when he touches me. It also gives me a nice view of where they stuck the IV. My hands tighten on his shoulders, making him wince. “James, I’m okay. Really.”

Fuck. He’s the one wavering on his feet, shaking like a junkie in withdrawal, and he’s trying to fucking soothe me. The goddamn stupid little prick.

I’ve got a dangerous, psycho-killer stare, and I know it. I use it to my advantage, holding Kirk at arms-length to stare straight down into his eyes as I growl, “Walking pneumonia. And exhaustion.”

I don’t have to go on. Kirk winces, looking down. “I was gonna tell you.”

“When, exactly, were you planning to let me in on those little details? When you were on your fucking death bed?” My voice’s going up in volume, making him shrink down and wince, but I can’t make myself stop. I don’t want to make myself stop. “When?!”

He jerks away, staring up at me with wide eyes as he hisses, “I didn’t think you’d fucking care!”

For a moment, neither of us say anything. Then, with a sigh, I sit on the edge of the bed and mutter vehemently, “Shit.”

The little bastard keeps going. Sitting on the edge of his nightstand, he snaps, “I mean, fuck, it’s not like we’re on tour or anything. It shouldn’t matter to you whether I have a pulse.”

“Fuck,” I add helpfully, and put my head in my hands. “Hammett… look, man, we’re practically family. I know I ride you hard sometimes, but I don’t want you dead.”

He snorts, wrapping his arms around himself to calm his shivering. “Yeah, God forbid you have to hire a whore when you’ve got one in your own band.”

I can’t help wincing, both at the acid in his voice and at the fact that for the first time, one of us has actually mentioned… that. Those drunken, desperate fumblings in the dark, in anonymous hotel rooms, in the shower once everyone’s gone. I think I liked it better when we didn’t mention it.

“Kirk…”

“Go away, James. Just…” Lowering his head, he closes his eyes and shakes his head fiercely. For the first time, I see the tears on his eyelashes. I don’t ask for that to make me feel subhuman. Funny how it does anyway. “Just go away, okay? I’m tired, and I’m cold, and if you stay here much longer you’ll have to watch me hurl on your shoes.”

I snort, trying not to give in to the urge to reach out and gather him in my arms like a lost kid. Like I don’t feel like a pussy already… I don’t do this shit, damn it. “You haven’t eaten enough to hurl on my shoes.”

He gives a choked little laugh that’s somehow worse than when he was crying. Looking away, he asks wearily, “Why are you here?”

I consider that for a moment, tilting my head to study the watermarks on his ceiling. Finally, with a shrug, I give it up and admit grudgingly, “I was worried.”

“Yeah. Well, I’m breathing. Go back to Moose Ass, Canada and leave me the fuck alone.”

Wonderful. The bastard’s decided to start sulking. With a sigh, I climb to my feet and wander over to lean against the wall beside him. He tenses up, watching me out of the corner of his eyes. Folding my arms behind my head, I inform him, “That’s Calgary, actually.”

“Whatever. It’s cold and snowy and there are no people there. You should be real fucking happy. Go away.”

“No.” Leaning close to him, I sniff quickly at his bare shoulder, making him jump and turn to stare at me. As usual, he smells like new leather and something deeper, earthier. It never fails to make me want to throw him over something and fuck him slow, burying my face in that scent until it never slips away. But it always does.

This time, I manage to restrain myself. Maybe it’s because the scent is off tonight, tainted with sweat and sickness and this medicinal hospital smell strong enough to make my nose wrinkle. I hate that smell, the smell that comes with drugs and tears and death. It shouldn’t be on him.

Scooting away from me, he demands, “The hell are you doing?”

“When’s the last time you took a shower, Hammett?”

His lips set, and for a moment I think he won’t answer. Then, with a sigh, he runs a hand through his hair and looks away. “Since the hospital. I don’t trust my balance.”

I bite back a few more choice curses, then move my hand away. “Go take a shower. I’ll stand watch.”

This time, it’s his jaw that sets. Fucking wonderful. Normally Lars is our resident stubborn little fuck, but apparently Kirk’s decided to fill in for him, because he snaps, “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

And thus the end of my patience for the night. “Isn’t that just too fucking bad? Get your ass in the bathroom, now.”

“Will you go away if I do?”

Like hell. “Maybe.”

He glares, then slides off the bed and slinks to the bathroom. It might be more impressive if he didn’t have to prop himself on the wall to stay upright. Hearing the door swing shut, I have enough sense to yell, “You lock that door and I’m getting a fucking chainsaw!”

There’s just the slamming of the door, then silence in reply. Of course, I don’t hear the lock clicking shut, either.

With a sigh, I bend down and grab the bag I dropped on my way in, throwing it on the end of the bed. Various things rattle ominously. More than half of the shit in there isn’t clothes, just stuff I grabbed from a drugstore on the way in a blind panic. Because yes, I’m an idiot that way.

I can hear the shower groaning and rattling to a start, and force myself to my feet. Time to go deal with a tired, pissy and naked Kirk. Whooptie fucking shit.

Shoving the bag to the center of the bed, I stride into the bathroom, fully prepared to yell at him again, and nearly end up choking on my own tongue. Figures that he’d have one of those clear shower curtains.

I look away like he’ll burn me if I look too hard or too long, biting back a string of curses. Even out of the corner of my eye, I can’t help watching him, a blurry golden shape behind the curtain. I want him, worse than before, like an ache in my fucking gut. Not just to touch him, either. I want him to look at me with at least a little trust again, maybe something deeper…

Shit. Time to stop that train of thought.

Another round of coughing from behind the curtain does it nicely for me, so I’m paying full attention when I hear the muted thump from the other side of the curtain. The Kirk-shape on the other side of the curtain slides slowly down the wall, still coughing weakly. Then the coughing dies away, and there’s only silence.

Okay. So I get a little nervous.

“Kirk?” Moving away from the counter, I touch the curtain with my fingertips. “Hey, Quirk, you kill yourself in there or what?”

No answer besides soft, ragged gasping.

“Great,” I mutter resentfully, and tug the curtain back.

He’s on his knees under the spray, getting drenched. One hand’s wrapped around the towel rack for dear life as he gasps for breath. His head jerks up as he notices that the curtain’s open, eyes widening when he sees me. For a second, his defenses are down, and I can see everything going on behind them. Everything.

Nobody should look that sad, or that scared, or that fucking tired. Especially not him. I try to touch him without thinking, animal comfort.

Then the walls snap down, and he jerks away to crouch against the wall. Trying to look fierce and managing to look only like a drenched and cornered wildcat cub, he snaps, “What?”

I back off a few steps. “Just checking on you.”

“I’m fine,” he shoots back, and hooks his hand in the towel rack for a better grip as he struggles to get his feet under him. Christ. He’s gonna fucking kill himself trying to be macho.

With a sigh, I reach through the spray, glaring at him when he tries to move away. My hands lock on his hips and ease him to his feet. It’s not gentle, it’s sure as hell not graceful, but it gets him upright again. I can feel his hipbones under my fingers, too goddamn sharp, and that worries me. Makes me want to grip harder, like holding on to him will protect him. After all, it’s worked so very well before…

I steady him and pull away. He just stares at me, not friendly but not exactly hostile, either.

Putting my hands in my pockets, I ask gruffly, “You gonna do that again?” When he shakes his head, I go on. “Fine. I’ll be in the other room. Yell if you need anything, and try not to kill yourself in here.”

He stares at me some more, then sighs. “You aren’t gonna go away, are you?”

“Nope.”

And he growls at me. Little, quiet Quirk Hammett growls at me. “Prick.”

With that, he yanks the curtain shut, dismissing me.

Well, this is just gonna be a fucking wonderful day.
---
I’m going to kill Lars.

Not quickly, either. Slowly. Painfully.

I should’ve known better, really. Lars can’t keep his mouth shut. It’s like a condition. The rest of us could go days, weeks without saying anything, but Lars runs like our own personal soundtrack in the background. And he was so concerned, white as a sheet when I ended up passing out in that bar.

I sigh, tugging a hand through my hair to get it wet. Damn, but that one went straight to hell fast. Lars was in a panic, and Jason was no help at all. He’s the one who practically carried me to the cab, just giving me those bassett hound eyes and shaking his head when I tried to tell him that I was fine. And I was. I just… got a little dizzy. That’s all. And I didn’t sleep well the night before.

Okay, so I didn’t sleep well the whole week before. I never sleep well right after tours. But this whole pneumonia thing was as much of a surprise to me as anybody else. It’s not like I was hiding it. Lars chewed me out the whole ride home anyway, while Jason just looked at me mournfully, like I’d hurt him by not saying anything. I hate that look, especially when he does it in combination with the little touches on my shoulder and the back of my neck to steady me. They took me home and walked me upstairs, Jason’s arm around my waist like he expected me to go toppling backwards again, Lars snapping out instructions like a Danish version of that damned Taco Bell chihuahua. I made him promise not to tell James, but the little bastard probably had his fingers crossed behind his back. He ended up storming off, swearing in a few different languages about thick headed Americans.

That, I could have survived. It’s Jase who ripped me up inside.

Still looking like a kid who just saw his puppy kicked, he leaned down and hugged me, messing up my hair only to smooth it down again. He just looked at me for a few seconds, then held on tighter and said roughly in my ear, “Take care of yourself, man. We worry about you.”

And then the bastard left.

That memory always makes something twist in my stomach. I don’t think about it too hard, but it’s there. It bothers me, that they could worry about me. It was probably a comforting lie, but… I’m not sure. Jase doesn’t seem like the type to just tell me what I wanted to hear.

Except that wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I was perfectly fine not knowing that, damn it. I was happy without...

Without hope.

With a sigh, I grab the bottle of shampoo and pour some out into my hand. The smell of lavender fills the shower while I work it into my hair. This feels ungodly good, the heat working through my chills, the steam easing my throat, the water washing away the sickness I was starting to smell on myself. Much as I hate to admit it, James was right.

James. The thought of him helpfully cancels out any calming down I might have pulled off. He’s still here, stalking around my house. I have no idea what he’s doing here. I don’t even why he’s so pissed at me. I just know that I want him to leave me alone.

Rinsing off the last of the soap, I twist off the water and climb gingerly out of the shower. There’s a surprise waiting for me on the counter.

Warm clothes, flannels and cottons, sit folded a little lopsidedly on the edge of the sink. They’re soft to the touch, well-worn. Without thinking, I pick the overshirt up and sniff it.

James’s scent, rich and dark and wild as the woods he likes to escape to, floods me, and I shiver. I rub my cheek against it, almost nuzzling the cloth, remembering nuzzling against the sweaty curve of James’s throat in the darkness, drowning .

The tears sting my eyes, and I curse roughly. Being sick always makes me like this. That’s the last thing I need, to give James one more weakness to use against me, one more reason to think I’m a puss.

Biting my lip, I unfold the clothes and start to pull them on. James has eight inches and almost fifty pounds on me, so his clothes hang off me like I was a kid playing dress-up in my father’s clothes, making me look even more pitiful. With a sigh, I roll them up as best I can and head for the kitchen. I can hear him banging around in there. The sooner he gets tired of yelling at me, the sooner he’ll go away.

I stumble into the kitchen, ready to curl up in a ball on the floor and sleep there if I have to, and stop dead in my tracks. The sight that’s standing in front of my kitchen sink makes me blink a few times, rub my eyes and blink some more.

Christ. I must be delirious.

James, our James, the Mighty Fucking Hetfield, is standing over a cutting board, slicing something, and humming. Fucking humming. I couldn’t have asked for something more surreal if I’d walked in to find my clocks melting.

As if he’d heard, he looks up. For a second, he almost seems to smile when he sees me. Then his expression hardens into a frown, and he straightens to demand defensively, “What?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Making some food. You’re starting to look like the fucking posterboy for Christian Children’s Fund.”

My mind scrambles for a second, trying to figure out what his angle is, then gives up. I couldn’t figure this one out even if I was thinking straight. Leaning against the doorframe, I mutter, “I’m not hungry.”

My stomach chooses that moment to grumble, loudly, betraying me. He quirks an eyebrow, doing that almost-smile again. Now I’m officially nervous. “Doesn’t sound like it, Quirk.”

With a sigh, I pull my hand through my still damp hair. “Don’t want to hurl again,” I admit grudgingly, and wait for him to snap at me.

He shrugs one shoulder and goes back to slicing. “It’ll hold until you feel like eating.”

Okay, where the hell did they hide the pod? With a weird horrified fascination, I move a little closer. Not close enough for him to grab me, but close enough to stare at his face. He doesn’t look drunk, and he’s never done drugs. A lobotomy would probably leave marks.

One side of his mouth tilts up as he notices me staring, but he doesn’t look up. “Need something?”

I stand on my toes, trying to see over his arm without getting any closer. Curiosity gets to me, and I ask, “What’s that?”

“Vegetables.” Lifting his arm, he lets me look. “I figure that if I broke out a can of chicken soup, you’d bitch for a week.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Amused, he looks down at me. Then, unexpectedly, he sobers, and I go cold. Colder.

His hand comes towards me, holding something, and I get ready to duck. There’s a loud thump, and for a second I wonder if I’m on the ground and just haven’t noticed it yet. Then I open my eyes slowly, and find myself staring at the bottle of antibiotics that the hospital sent me home with.

“Remember these?” His voice drops to a growl. “I found them in the trash.”

I wince. I barely touched the bottle; one dose and the screaming nightmares that came with it were enough. “James…”

“Don’t.” Thankfully, he sets the knife down before turning to look down at me. “Take it.”

Anger flares, and for the first time I don’t bother to choke it back. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“No. You’re a suicidal moron. Take the fucking pills, Hammett.” Eyes narrowing, he bites off, “Now.”

And I snap. “Just because I let you fuck me doesn’t give you the right to pull this shit with me, James! I-“

“Kirk.” His voice cracks like sudden lightning, shutting me up. He stares at me, and for a moment I wait for the slap, the punch, anything. Then, closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and grits softly, “Please.”

And that scares me.

Wide eyed, staring at him, I shake two of the pills out into my hand and set the bottle down. Backing away because I can’t predict his mood right now, not when he’s like this, I swallow them dry.

That’s not the reason why my throat is so dry I have to swallow twice before I can manage words. “James… are you okay, man? Seriously?”

He chuckles, but it’s not a very happy sound. “No.” Opening his eyes, he reaches for me, and I can’t help flinching. He freezes, then sighs, a soul-deep tired sound. I’ve never heard him sound like that. Shaking his head, he turns away. Without looking at me, he goes back to slicing vegetables. “I tried to make some of that tea shit you like. Can’t promise anything on the taste, but it’s hot.”

With a nod, I grab my tea and retreat to the living room. Curling up on the couch, more so I can watch the door that because it’s comfortable, I try to think through the fever. It would help if I could ever figure out James in the first place.

I want a lot of things right now. I want a drink and a good cigar. I want to breathe without that chest deep ache again. I want a fucking nap, so I can wake up to a nice, empty house and no need to analyze myself to death. I want a few goddamn weeks away from all the drama that seems to follow this band like a U-Haul of emotional baggage. I want…

I want James.

Damn it… no. I have to quit that. Stick with the things I can have.

A nap, then. That’ll be good. Maybe there won’t be nightmares this time.

And maybe Lars will declare his undying love for Jethro Tull.

With a sigh, I put my tea down and lay my head back on the arm of the couch. I take a deep, calming breath, slipping into the relaxation exercises yoga has drilled into my head. I get up to three breaths before I lose the clanking of the dishes in the kitchen, the rough fabric of the couch digging into my back, everything. Darkness swallows me, and I fall.
---
Well, that went well.

I can’t resist the urge to kick the cabinet shut, so I don’t. No one ever accused me of having a lot of self control in the first place.

Which is why it takes me all of three seconds, between dumping the vegetables into a pot with some broth and dropping the thing in the fridge with a clank, I’ve grabbed the phone and started dialing Lars. When in doubt…

It takes about five rings for him to pick up. I’m about to hang up with a growl when a sleepy voice with a European lilt mutters, “Ja?” from the other end of the phone. Fuck, forgot the time zones.

“Lars?”

“James?” That seems to wake him up, just a little. “Hey. Where the hell are you?”

“I’m at Kirk’s.”

“Ah.” Something rustles as he sits up in bed. Jason’s voice asks something in the background, and he shushes him. I hear a muted “It’s James.” Lars pauses for a second, his silence filled in by another question from the guy currently warming his bed and probably laying in the wet spot, then mutters, “I was going to ask him that anyway. Go back to sleep.”

When he turns his attention back to me, he sounds a little more alert. “How is he?”

I don’t bother asking which ‘he’. “Bitchy.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

I glance over the counter to see the bundle of my clothes and Kirk’s skinny body curled up into a tight ball on the couch. “Bitchy and out cold.”

“Better. So you glared him into submission, huh? Well done.” A pause. “When’s your flight back home?”

“Depends on when he’s going to stop coughing like he’ll hack up a lung.”

Another pause. “You’re not leaving tonight?”

“I’m not leaving until he’s better.”

Stunned silence.

Annoyed, I end up growling at him. “Christ, is it that fucking hard to believe? I haven’t been that much of a bastard, have I?”

No response.

“Uh…” Clearing my throat, I add awkwardly, “have I?”

“You really want an honest answer?”

“If you have to ask me that, then no, I probably don’t.”

Lars sighs the ‘stand back and take notes, moron’ sigh, then says, “Listen. You’ve got to understand something here. You’re dealing with Kirk and, much as I love him, he’s about as screwed up in the head as you are. And that’s saying something. He’s not used to anyone giving a flying fuck about him, especially not you.”

“Look, he knows I usually don’t mean it-“

“Does he? I hadn’t noticed.”

Fucking wonderful. It’s ‘Bash the Hetfield Day’. I’m tempted to tell him to shake Jason awake so he can join in. Instead, I count to ten, then lean against the counter and admit grudgingly, “I have no idea what to do.”

As usual, he decides to be of absolutely no help whatsoever. “Depends on what you’re trying to get done.”

“I want to…” Looking over my shoulder at the bundle of misery on the couch, I sigh. “I don’t know. I’m trying, man, I’m being as fucking nice as I know how to be, and he still flinches like I’m here to kill him.”

“He’s sick, and he’s feverish. People get skittish when they’re feverish. Not all of that is because of you-“

I don’t mean to say anything. The words burst out anyway, driven out of hiding. “It doesn’t matter! I hate seeing him like this. He acts like he hates me, and he’s hurting, and he won’t let me help him and it’s eating a hole in my fucking gut and I don’t know how to make it better!”

For a long few seconds after my outburst, there’s only dead silence from Lars’s end. It stretches on for so long that I can’t help shifting a little and asking, hating how anxious it sounds, “Lars?”

He lets out a long, slow breath, then mutters, half disgusted, “Damn. What a mess.”

“Thanks, dick. That’s real helpful.”

“When I get my degree in psychology, I’ll get back to you.” Bedsprings creak as he sits on the edge of the bed with a sigh. “What do you want me to tell you, James?”

“Whether it’s feed a cold and starve a fever or the other way around.”

Silence, then a wary, “Excuse me?”

Yes, Lars, I think I’ve gone around the bend too. Thanks for the second opinion. “You heard me.” Even to me, my voice sounds sulky. “I can’t do this… this taking care of sick people thing.”

“You’re really set on this.” The awe in his voice couldn’t be any less flattering if he tried.

My voice slips into a growl without my permission. “I wouldn’t be asking otherwise.”

“Fine, fine. Take it easy.” Sounding somewhere between amused and exasperated, he launches into a lecture with such ease that I blink. “Keep him warm, make him take the Nyquil and the antibiotics, try to keep the fever down, and keep his scrawny little ass in bed even if you have to sit on him to keep him there. Let him eat if he’s hungry, but he’ll probably hurl it up anyway. Feel free to growl at him if he tries to push it, and call the hospital if the fever gets over 104. Got it?”

Shaking my head, I lie, “Yeah.”

He sighs again, tolerantly this time. He’s so lucky I’m not there to smack him upside the head. “I’ll call back in the morning. This has been fun and all, but I’m going back to bed now.”

“Tell Jase I said hi.”

“Oh, I will.” There’s a twisted sort of glee in his voice that makes me smirk. And people wonder why we get along so well… “Why should I be the only one awake, after all?”

I laugh, relaxing for the first time in days. “Night, man.”

“Night. Oh, and James? One last thing.”

The little note in his voice should warn me, but I ask anyway. “What?”

“Just tell him you love him, you dumb fuck.”

I sputter, too startled to swear at him, and get only a low chuckle and a click as the little bastard hangs up on me.

Love. Me, in love with whiny, obsessive, femmy little Kirk Hammett. Right. That’s a fucking joke.

Funny how I’m not laughing, though.

Damn Lars, anyway.

Muttering plans for revenge, I hang up the phone and wander into the living room. Somehow, even though I planned to just drop into a chair and watch TV until he comes to again, I end up in standing in front of the couch, looking down at him, watching him sleep.

He really is too fucking pretty to be a guy. Ungodly eyelashes, high cheekbones, long, soft hair… the whole deal. His mouth is just a little open as he fights to breathe; I can hear his breath wheezing softly in his throat, even from here. The bruises under his eyes makes it look like somebody’s been smacking him around, hard. He’s pale, nearly gray under that year-long tan.

Even skinny and sick and exhausted, he’s gorgeous as all sin. Beautiful. And anybody who hasn’t been living in a cave since birth could tell you, that makes me the beast. I don’t have a chance of shaking this off.

I really wish I could con myself into thinking that his body’s all I want.

He doesn’t look very comfortable, curled into a ball like that with his knees against his chest. Yoga or not, a guy can only bend so far. Besides, Lars told me to keep him in bed. Not on the couch.

Not that I’m making excuses or anything.

Kirk doesn’t even twitch when I kneel down beside him and slide my arm under his knees. His forehead creases a little when I put my other arm under his shoulders and start to lift, a soft sleepy cat noise slipping between his lips. I lean forward and brush my lips along the lines, telling myself that it’s just because my hands can’t reach. His forehead feels hot.

With a sigh, he settles down, nearly curling into me, making the lift that much easier. My back protests ominously, then eases into silence, letting me know that I’ll feel this one in the morning. Joy.

God, he’s light. I make it up the stairs with almost no trouble, breathing in the smell of his shampoo. Some flowery shit that kinda suits him. His hair’s still wet from the shower, and it’s drenching my t-shirt where his head is tucked against my shoulder, but I can’t say I really mind. The shower and the drugs wore him out enough that he’s boneless.

I’ve never held him while he sleeps before. I never even gotten close enough to see his eyelashes flicker, the way his lips shape silent words. He doesn’t stay after we fuck, stopping just long enough to pull on clothes and run out the door. It’s not like I’ve been really encouraging about it, but I can hope, right?

Never mind what hoping for that might really mean.

I hate it when Lars is right.

Kirk twitches suddenly in my grip, yanking my attention back to him. His sleep doesn’t look that peaceful anymore. I pass it off as part of the fever, nothing I can help, and keep going. He’s still in my arms when the nightmares start.

A soft whimper makes me look down at him, giving me enough warning that I don’t drop him when he starts to squirm. It’s not the good kind of squirm, the odd restrained writhing he does when I fuck him. This can’t be good…

I move quicker to the bed, setting down as gently as I can manage. He moans low in his throat, a scared animal noise, his hands tightening on the sheets as the sounds slide back into words for a second. “No…”

Shit. Grabbing the uselessly thin sheet off the floor, I toss it over him and sit gingerly down on the edge of the bed.

His forehead creases, and this time I think it’ll take more than a kiss to make it better. Head tossing, he moans louder, his words clumsy with sleep, “God… please, no, not him too, please…”

Awkward, I reach out and push back the hair clinging to his face and coax, “Kirk, settle down. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He flinches like he’d been slapped, but his eyes don’t open. “Not him… let it be me…”

Christ, he’s out of it. He’s delirious, and I can’t leave him to go call an ambulance. Lars didn’t cover this; I’m left with my instincts, which leave a hell of a lot to be desired. Cupping his face between my hands, I try, “It’s just a nightmare. Take it easy.” A sudden shudder jerks him hard, and I flinch like I’m the one being hurt. “Don’t do this to me. Wake the fuck up!”

Words, more and more frantic, tumble past his lips, tripping over each other. “Burning, dying…”

I freeze, getting this horrible feeling that I know what he’s seeing. Praying that I’m wrong, I rub his cheek with my thumb. “Who’s dying?”

All I get in answer is an awful, choked little sobbing sound. His head jerks in my hands, so hard that I almost lose my grip on him. “Please… love you so much…”

“Kirk!” And suddenly my hands on are his shoulders, this sick feeling of mixed joy and horror twisting in my stomach. “Dammit, who’s dying?”

He shudders, trying to turn away, and this time I let him. Curling up into a tight ball again, knees pressed against his chest, he whimpers something again and again, muffling it in the sheets. I lean closer to hear, unable to help it, drawn. I nearly have to press my ear to the side of his head to hear it, and when I do I want to jerk away. It’s just one word, whimpered over and over like a prayer.

James.
---
I remember this.

I remember how it feels to have someone two inches shorter than me press me up against the wall. Lars is a damned good friend, one of the few people I trust with the position of on-again, off-again lover. Flighty little elf; I’m willing to pay good money to the one who cons him into settling down.

Except this is a long time ago, years ago. This was back when I was arrogant enough to think that I could keep him. There’s some reason why I remember this night especially, but before I can think it through I see Lars’ lips move.

His words fade into focus. “…a kiss for luck?”

And suddenly I hear my own voice, even though I didn’t speak. “Are you crazy? Axl’s a homophobe, and God only knows where James is.”

Lars gives me a Chesaire cat grin, all sleepy-eyed arrogance. “Why should it matter where James is?”

More words that I didn’t think up come spilling over my lips. My voice sounds younger, more genuinely anxious when I say, “He’ll fucking kill me, that’s why!”

I struggle for a second after the words stop, trying to add my own, trying to change the script. My words freeze in my throat. I try to jerk away, but my body doesn’t move.

Oblivious, Lars chuckles low in his throat. “Nah.” I can feel the warmth of his breath on my lips as he leans closer. His voice drops to a low whisper, almost lost in the roar of the crowd revving up in the background. “I’ll protect you.”

And his lips cover mine.

Ohh… that’s nice. I’d forgotten when it felt like to be kissed with soul instead of need. His hands feel ungodly strong as he cradles my face, stroking my jaw with his thumb. His tongue flicks out over my lower lip, and I forget for a moment that I’m trapped in my own body. I’d respond the same way I do anyway. My lips part on a hungry moan, and he takes full advantage, kissing me deeply. I melt, losing myself in him.

Neither of us look up at the softly cleared throat, though this time I hear it clearly. The less soft, nearly bellowed “For fuck’s sake!” does the trick, though.

I’m not sure which of us jumps higher. Both of our heads snap around, though. I can feel the dull ache as I stare at the man standing in the doorway.

James has never looked as purely dangerous as he did in this moment. His eyes are three shades darker with what looked like anger, narrowed to near slits. From the set of his jaw and the way his arms are crossed tightly over his chest, he’s not amused.

Judging from the bulge in his leather jeans, though, he’s sure as hell interested.

Lars moves away, leaving me cold, and offers James a teasing smile that I could never get away with. He’d beat my face in. “Sorry. My watch is off a couple of minutes.”

James just glares at him, but the tension passes out of him like a sickness breaking, and all is forgiven. “Right. Get your ass on the stage.”

And for a moment, as he moves to go, I see his eyes pause on me. I see the way his expression changes, for just a split second, into something much gentler and much more painful than anger. Then he turns on his heel, and the door slams shut behind him.

Everything passes in a blur, like it was underwater. I feel the guitar under my hands, hear the crowd screaming along with James as he leads them down the paths of his own design. He seems a little off tonight; not enough that anyone who wasn’t looking for it could see, but enough. Despite the distraction, he holds them in the palm of his hand.

His unscarred hand.

Realization hits me like a slap in the face, where we are, when this is. I look up, horrified, frozen in my own body as James’s eyes light on mine. A scream of warning rises in my throat, and I choke on it, turning it into a strangled moan in my head. God, not again, I can’t watch this again-

He steps right into the flames of the pyro.

Except the script has changed. The fire takes him this time, swallows him whole. I can hear him screaming.

By the time it fades, the smell has gotten to me, the sick sweetness of burning flesh. It gags me, makes my eyes water even as what’s left of him hits the ground.

I skid across the floor, dropping my guitar and almost tripping over it. Somehow I get there, kneeling beside him. His skin is still bubbling, but most of it is blackened. The smell rises up, choking me, and I can’t breathe anymore.

Nothing can survive that. He’s dying. He’s already dead.

I can hear myself babbling vaguely, praying, voice and body my own again now that it’s too late to stop anything. This is my fault. Just like Cliff. Just like everything.

It should have been me.

His eyes slide open, and the horror just gets worse, because he’s still in there. He’s still in there, and feeling the pain. His hand strains for my face, and I let him, even as the smell gags me, even as I feel ashes on my skin. Some tiny part of me argues that this can’t be real. The rest of me is too busy screaming to care.

“Don’t die.” My voice sounds small in the rushing crowd, the panic around us. “Please… I love you.” And the admission means nothing anymore, ashes like his on my tongue. I keep going anyway. “So much, I-“

His lips crack open, and a soft word, almost a sigh, slips through them. “Kirk…”

I freeze, swallowing thickly. “Yeah?”

He smiles then, sickly, and it ends up as something twisted. His hand tightens on my hair, jerking me down so suddenly that I let him without thinking. He pulls me close, close enough that I can feel the heat on him, close enough that I hear it when he spits, “This is what you deserve.”

His lips press hard on mine, and I taste ashes and blood and death on my tongue.

And I scream.
---
Whimpering, I can handle. Tears, I can handle. But screaming’s something else entirely.

The first scream makes me jump. By the time the second one rings through his bedroom a breath later, sounding torn from him like something deep inside went with it, I’m moving.

Grabbing his shoulders, I force him on to his back, sitting on his thighs to keep him from hurting himself by thrashing so hard. God, he’s so tense he’s shivering, straining up like he’ll bolt if I let him.

“Kirk! Kirk, it’s all right.” That same sickening helpless feeling spreads through me, making my voice sound weak as I try to command, “Stop it.”

Another shudder wracks him, and his next cry seems to shiver with him. Something in the plaintive sound breaks me. Tightening my grip on his shoulders, I shake him harder than I probably should, snarling, “Hammett! Wake the fuck up, now!”

And, through some miracle God’s owed us for years, it works.

Kirk’s eyes bolt open, wide and black, staring right past me. It makes my stomach clench. I open my mouth to yell at him again, more for my sake than his, just to stop dead a second later. He has this look in his eyes… the look of a man who just saw hell, and hasn’t quite made it back yet. It’s a look I know pretty fucking well by now. I should, I see it in the mirror often enough.

Letting go of his shoulders, I sit back on my heels with a sigh. “Kirk,” I try again, as gently as I can manage considering that this isn’t exactly my most stable moment either. “C’mon, man. It was just a dream. Settle down.”

He blinks, his eyes finally coming into focus on my face. Unfortunately, seeing it makes all the color drain out of his. “James…?”

“Yeah.” I swat his cheek lightly, hoping that it’s the good kind of shock I’m hearing in his voice. “It’s me.”

“You… but you were…” Stopping suddenly, he lets his head drop forward to hide his face. One deep breath, then two, then ten, and he shivers one last time before muttering fiercely, “Shit. Let me up.”

“Kirk-“

“Let. Me. Up.” There’s an edge in his voice.

I let him up.

Rolling to his feet, he grabs something off the end table and starts to stumble to the balcony. Stupid little shit… I get up and follow him, catching the door when he tries to close it. He glares at me through the glass for a second, but he doesn’t mean it. He looks too scared to be really angry. Muttering something, his eyes suspiciously bright, he lets go of the door and turns away.

It’s nearly gray outside, ungodly cold for San Francisco. It just makes him look worse. It really doesn’t help that he looks about three seconds away from tears, either. If he starts crying, love or not, I’m going to… make vague threats and look uncomfortable. And probably end up begging him to stop.

Ooo. Scary.

Trying to distract myself, I look down the bottle he has clenched in one shaking hand as he struggles to get the plastic wrapping off the top with the other. Generic, Walmart brand Nyquil.

“You know, we’re kinda multimillionaires, Quirk. You can afford the real stuff now.”

He ignores me, fighting with the child-safety cap now, an unfamiliar snarl on his face as he gets more and more frustrated.

Finally, I offer quietly, “Want me to do that?”

“No, I do not fucking want you to do that,” he snaps back, not looking at me. With a particularly vicious twist, he jerks the cap into submission and tosses it over his shoulder. Holding up the dose cup, he looks from it, to the bottle, then sighs and throws the dose cup the way of the cap before taking a few sips straight from the bottle. Making a face, he coughs once, weakly, and tosses the bottle over the side of the balcony.
There’s a muted thump as it hits the ground, spilling the drugs out on to the grass. Leaning against the rail, mostly because he’d keel over otherwise, he watches the pool of green spread to the concrete, sticky and slow.

No one’s ever accused me of being a patient man. I wait just long enough for the silence to thicken before I ask, “You okay now?”

“No.”

“Okay.” With a pause, I lean against the railing beside him. I don’t have to look; I can feel him tense up. “You gonna be okay soon?”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Why? Getting sick of me already?” Any twisted humor in his voice seeps away. I almost miss it as he says flatly, “I never asked you to come here.”

“No. You didn’t.” Tilting my head to look at him, I watch him watch the ground. The shadows under his eyes are starting to look like gouges. “Do you always have nightmares like that?”

“It’s the drugs. That’s why I pitched them.” His mouth twists up into a bitter smirk. “The neighbors complained.”

“Jesus…” Wincing at the thought of him screaming himself hoarse, alone in an empty house, until somebody finally got sick of it enough to come and wake him, I demand harshly, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugs, sounding tired and horribly reasonable as he ignores me again and asks too calmly, just detached curiosity, “Why are you here, James?”

“You know why.”

I didn’t think his smirk could get any more bitter. Apparently I was wrong. “Yeah. I think I do.” Turning to look at me, an unreadable look flashes through his eyes for a split second. Then, his expression hardening, he drops to his knees. Deceptively strong hands grab my hips and turn me, then start to fumble with the zipper.

“Kirk!” My voice cracks like a whip, making him hesitate. I grab his wrists, tightening my grip when he tries to pull away. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He looks up at me through his eyelashes. “Giving you what you came for.”

Oh, shit. Biting back the urge to shake him again, I grit through my teeth, “Get up.”

For a second, he seems to consider rebellion. Then, with a weary sigh, he gets up to his feet and tries to pull away. I hold on to his wrists tighter.  “I didn’t get on a six am flight to cross a fucking border for a blow job. If I wanted to get laid, I could have found someone who wasn’t about to hack up a goddamn lung!”

He stares at me like I slapped him. The raw, bewildered look on his face makes my anger deflate. With a sigh, I let go of one wrist. “It’s that surprising?”

Blinking, he leans away from my touch and against the railing, looking almost hurt. “You don’t want me to…?”

“That’s not why I showed up.”

 “So why did you show up?”

I hate it when the words just decide to stop coming. It only happens at the worst possible times. I struggle for a moment, then growl a soft curse that makes him edge back.

Looking more nervous than I’ve seen him in years, he starts to babble. I’ve never seen him babble. “I mean, if you’re looking to fuck me, I’ll probably end up coughing on you or throwing up or something, and I don’t know what else you could be here for-“

I cut him off. “What in the hell do you mean?”

His eyes flinch for a second, betraying him. Then, with a soft noise of disgust, he turns away to stare down at the ground. He sounds sullen as he mutters, “You know.”

“Like fuck I do.”

With an impatient sigh, he yanks a hand through his hair and explains tersely, “I do two things in this world well. I play guitar, and I suck cock. Those are the only reasons you haven’t pitched me out a window yet. Pick one or the other.”

I stare at him for a long moment, watching him, waiting for him to take it back or the world to rewind, or some fucking thing. When he doesn’t even look at me, I slump against the railing. “You stupid little...”

 He laughs, an edge to it I don’t like. “The word you’re looking for is ‘slut’, James.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what words I’m looking for, Hammett.” This time, when I growl, I mean it. I’m having enough problems not grabbing him and shaking him as it is. “You’re not a slut.”

His smile is nasty. “What, can’t deal with it? Or hey, maybe you’re worried about catching something.” Brightening like the thought comforts him, he turns suddenly wide eyes up at me. All the anger is out of his voice when he asks, “Is that why you’re here?” Touching my arm, he soothes, “Don’t worry about it, man. You’re not gonna go down like Freddy Mercury because you decided to slum a little. This isn’t an HIV thing. I’m clean.”

I’d feel better if he wasn’t being completely sincere.

Putting my head in my hands, I stare at the chipped paint on the railing. My voice sounds strange even to me when I murmur tiredly, “Christ.”

“James? You okay?”

God, I’m not sure who I want to smack first. Him, for being this fucking screwed up, or myself, for never even seeing it. Taking a deep breath, I raise my head and tell him tightly, “I wasn’t slumming.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t fucking slumming!” Slamming my hand down against the railing so hard it stings, I snarl, “Damn it, Kirk, you’re acting like you’re just some whore we keep in the back of the studios or something!”

“Whores get paid,” he points out, so calmly that I have to fight not to slap him.

Another few deep breaths. Yelling at him won’t help anything. It’s already fucked him up enough. Instead, I reach out and put my hands on his shoulders. I can feel him shaking. “I want you to tell me something. You really hate me that much?”

His eyes go wide. “What? No! I-“

Cutting him off, I ask in a voice so low he has to lean forward to hear me, “But you think I’m only here because I either want a blowjob when you’re damned near coughing up blood, or I’m just worried about my own skin when you could be dying.”

“That isn’t what I meant-“ The edge of panic in his voice makes me wince.

“Shut up.” My hand slides up from his shoulder to his face. Touching his face with the backs of my fingers, I watch him try not to flinch. “Has it occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, some of us actually give a fuck about what happens to you?  Somebody has to, because obviously you don’t.”

“James-“

“I said, shut up. You’re gonna listen to me if I have to get the fucking duct tape.” Touching his chin with my fingertips, I tilt his face up and study him. He flinches when my fingertip brushes the dark bags under his eyes, his breathing shallow and too fast. Scared. “Has it occurred to you that’s why Lars and Jase called- and yeah, Jason called too. You didn’t tell him not to call. They were fucking worried, Kirk. And I can see why.”

“For the last time, I’m fine!”

“New definition of fine.” The more I touch him, the easier it gets. I’m not used to this; I feel like I can’t breathe deeply enough to get any air. Cupping his cheek, I inform him, “Fever’s getting higher, man.”

He tries to jerk away from my hand, so I hold the back of his head with my other. Panicky, he half-pleads, “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Whatever the hell you’re doing!” From panic to outright desperation. I give him about five minutes before he hits me. I don’t plan to let him have five more minutes. “God, James, what the fuck… you never do this shit!”

“No, I don’t. So you should humor me.” I let my hands comb through the tangle of waves near the base of his skull, letting myself feel it this time. Soft hair. Tilting my head, I look down at him. My smile feels unfamiliar. “You know why I’m here? What I really want?”

He makes a soft, wordless, helpless sort of noise in his throat. I’ll take that as a no.

Cloth whispers as I slide my arm around him, pressing my hand to his back to feel his heart race. He shakes his head, frantic, and I ignore it. One quick tug and he’s pressed up against me, in my arms. Wrapping my arms tighter around him, trying to ignore the little voice in the back of my head protesting that this is a fucking wussy thing to do, I feel him and forget about how it must look. I forget everything, because he’s shivering and breathing like he’s about to cry if I keep this up, and it feels so fucking good to hold him like this that I might not ever let go.

Burying my nose in his hair, I murmur, wondering idly if he can hear, “This is what I came for.”

He shudders, muffling a weak protest into my chest. Apparently he can hear.

I rub at his arms, more for an excuse not to ease my grip a little than anything else. A sudden jolt of cold on my face makes me glance up. Rain. Fucking wonderful timing.

A drop hits him on the back of the neck, trailing down his spine, and he flinches. He shouldn’t be out in this. With a sigh, I give in to fate and bend down a little, hooking an arm under his knees again. Stiffening, he raises his head, his eyes a little too wild for comfort. I mutter something reassuring and scoop him up, nearly cradling him. Pain spikes through my back. Oh, this is gonna suck…

Somehow, we get inside. I pause against the doorway and glance down at him to be sure he’s okay. He’s paler than the fucking walls, rain on his eyelashes and face like tears, a bone-deep wound hidden in his eyes. Feeling, one I’ve been ignoring for years, rises up my throat in a rush, trying to come out in words I almost choke on. I can’t say this out loud, not what he needs to hear.

Well, fuck. Lars never said that I had to tell him with words.

Crossing the room with a sudden burst of energy, I lower him to the sheets as carefully as a kid. He blinks at me, watching me warily, waiting for me to move my hands out from under him. Instead, I lean between his legs and watch him thoughtfully, trying to figure out how to put this. I can’t scare him, not now.

Finally, I settle for blunt. Resting my hands on his stomach, feeling it rise and fall with each breath, I tell him, “I want you.”

He relaxes, looking somehow both relieved and disappointed, and I have to bite back a smirk. Think you know where this is going, Kirk? You have no idea.

I crawl up him, ending up with one hand on either side of his head and a knee between his thighs. Holding his eyes as he tenses, I watch the pupils dilate just a little more. He’s got pretty eyes, but they betray him. It’s to my advantage tonight.

Sliding my hand under his shirt, formerly my shirt, I feel his stomach twitch and smile. I lean close and growl in his ear, “You’re going to let me do this.”

He hesitates, so confused that even I can feel it, then nods. I can feel his heart racing under my fingertips, whether from fever or fear I’m not sure.

Please, God. I can’t afford to fuck this up.
---
Okay. This I know. This I can handle… damn, he almost had me for a minute there. I should’ve known better, yes, but my heart was still pounding. I’m not sure whether I was happy or scared out of my fucking mind when he wrapped his arms around me. I just know that I don’t want to think about it.

James leans his head back to watch me with an unfamiliar look on his face, his eyes even more intense than usual and fixed on my face. His hand rubs warm circles on my stomach, soothing. I have to fight not to close my eyes, because between that and the Nyquil, I won’t be able to get them open again. Okay, this is weird… I give him about thirty seconds before he declares that foreplay and goes straight for the kill. James is a master of the quickie.

Except that sixty seconds later, he’s still rubbing my stomach.

Raising my head, I frown at him. “The hell are you doing?”

He ignores me, moving one hand to wrap his fingers around my wrist. Without even looking at me, he brings it up to his lips, his breath warm across my palm. My fingers twitch, and I think I feel him smile before he starts brushing his lips against my skin. Across the inside of my wrist and over my palm, up my thumb, then each finger…

“James?” My voice sounds shaky.

“Quiet.” James’ voice is almost mild. “I’m thinking.”

I think I jump when his tongue flicks across the tip of my fingers, just a wet and warm swipe that makes me shiver. “Do you have to do that while you’re thinking?”

“No.” And he draws the tip of my index finger between  his lips, sucking on it idly. His tongue drags over the pad and the calluses left from two decades of playing. My strangled whimper makes him let go and glance up, amused. Something that he sees makes his lips tilt up into an evil smirk. “Like that?”

“What’re you doing?” The fact that I’m breathless probably answers the question I’m ignoring.

He just smiles and lays his head down again, resting it on my shoulder. For a second, I almost relax. That’s why I’m completely off guard when his lips find the spot under my ear. My startled gasp seems ungodly loud, but it’s still better than the way my hand clenches in his t-shirt. I don’t even know if I’m trying to get him to back off or never stop, but he seems to take it as a hint to do the second. Shifting, he lays half on me as he gives the spot his full attention, licking and sucking until I shudder.

With a last lick, he finally sits back a little, a smug look on his face as he touches with a fingertip the place he probably just marked. He’s never done that before. Turning his head to look down at me, he smirks, and for a second it looks almost fond. God, I must be more delirious than I’d thought.

Still stroking my throat, he comments, “Now, I know you liked that.” When I blink, he looks significantly over his shoulder.

Oh, shit. I’ve still got a handful of shirt, twisted so tight that I’m surprised he can still breathe. Letting go quickly, I mutter, “Sorry.”

He shrugs, that same smile on his face. That goofy-ass smile that makes him look like any regular guy, instead of our James Alan Hetfield. The surprisingly beautiful smile that never fails to make my chest tighten. “S’okay.”

With that, he nudges my head back to the pillows, more gently than I would have given him credit for. His hand slides out from under my shirt with a whisper of cloth. I blink up at him, bewildered. “James…?”

The note of anxiety in my voice makes me wince. Christ, like I can afford to show him weakness…

His eyes fix on mine, a small smile touching his lips when he notices the look on my face. “Easy. We’re not done yet.”

“Not done with what?”

Talented fingers brush across my nipples through the thin shirt, and I have to bite back a whimper at the sudden stab of pleasure. His smile widens to an evil grin. Repeating the touch a little harder, he nearly purrs, “Well, I told you that I wanted you. I want you shuddering under me while you come. And you're not quite there.” Tilting his head as he rubs slow circles around the nipple under his palm, the combination of his growl and his touch making me whimper again, he adds darkly, "Yet."

Oh, shit. Eyes widening, I squirm under him, trying to back away. “James-“

“What?” James lifts his head, a challenge in his eyes. “You scared of something, Quirk?”

There’s only one answer to that. Meeting his eyes, I lie. “No.”

“Mmm hmm.” Odd how a sound that isn’t even a word can convey both that he isn’t buying it, and that he’ll put up with it anyway. Patience from James is a damned rare thing; I should be happy to get it. Instead I’m about three seconds from having a fucking heart attack. This feels nice, the slow brush of his fingertips over my nipples making me shiver in a good way for the first time in weeks, but I can’t help waiting for when it goes bad. Letting it feel good, letting it get to me, is only gonna make it worse when the axe drops.

His hand curls around my chin, lifting my head until I meet his eyes. He’s frowning, but it’s not the angry scowl that means I should duck and cover. He looks… worried. “Quirk. Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Even if I want you to?” The words spill out, so bitter that even I wince.

James stares at me, his expression softening. Touching the side of my face with his knuckles, he just pets me for a moment, silent for so long that I get nervous. Finally, he shakes his head and turns his attention downwards. His hand feels good, heavy against my stomach as he pushes the shirt up past my ribs, so warm that I don’t flinch from the chill of the room.

Shifting down, he rests his cheek on my chest, the stubble on his face scratching lightly over my skin as he nuzzles me. That’s about when I pass this off as a hallucination, because no fucking way would James nuzzle me. Too intimate for the Mighty Hetfield, thank you. Hallucination or not, though, it makes my  breath hitch in my chest.

Shit. Time to get a grip on reality again. Closing my eyes, I let my head fall back and try to breathe past the ache in my throat. A second later, my eyes are flying right back open as a hot mouth fastens around my nipple. My whimper sounds strangled.

James raises his eyes, the sides of his mouth tilting up as he notices the look on my face. He doesn’t let go. His tongue flicks over my nipple as he suckles on it, drawing a hard shudder out of me. Without letting up, he slides his other hand up to toy with and stroke my other nipple until it’s a hard peak under his fingertips. I bite my lip, but little broken noises slip through anyway, giving me away piece by piece.

He purrs against my chest, a low and self-satisfied noise that makes my stomach twist. Turning his head to nuzzle me again, he flicks his tongue against my nipple in jolting little laps as his free hand slides lower. Before I can tense up, sudden feeling jolts straight through me as he painstakingly gently closes his teeth around my nipple and drags them up. I’m not sure whether I’m yowling in pain or pleasure. Whatever it feels like, my hips jerk up into him hard.

Amused blue eyes lift to meet mine. Raising his head, James smirks down at me. If it was anyone else, I’d say he was shaky. Flicking hair out of his eyes with a quick jerk of his head, he makes up for the way his hand is shaking on my stomach by growling, “You like that?”

I nod helplessly, too dazed to lie. He’s got me pinned, by the growl, by his hand, by that look in his eyes. With a satisfied nod, he props himself up on one elbow, his other hand slides down to run along the top of the waistband. Stray shards of pleasure jerk through me as his free hand plays idly with my nipple, making my breath catch. His smirk comes back lazily, then fades as he gives his attention back to running his finger along my stomach. The muscles twitching under his fingers seems to amuse him.

I’m holding my breath, trying not to pant, by the time he finally gives in and unbuttons the jeans. My pulse is pretty much pounding in my head, so loudly that I’m kinda surprised I can still hear the zipper drag down. And I mean drag. It seems to take a short eternity.

James, or my own hallucination of James, or what the fuck ever, gets this look on his face when the zipper gets low enough to show that I didn’t bother pulling anything on under the jeans, this startled look that gives me the hysterical urge to giggle. Eyes jerking up, he stares at me, and the giggle dies on my lips. God, the look in his eyes...

Just a hallucination. Just a hallucination. Just a... oh, fuck.

And I stop caring about whether this is real or not, because his hands are sliding the jeans halfway down my hips. I’m not sure whether my shivering is from the cold of the room or the heat of his hands as they cup my hips. He’s got such nice hands. I know that’s not what part of his body I should be fixating on when he’s got my jeans- his jeans, technically- around my knees, but nobody ever said I was normal. His hands fit on me, I guess, his fingers curling in all the right places even though he’s never done this before either. It feels… safe, weirdly enough. I’m not used to safe.

Trying to shake the feeling off, I look down, seeing my tattoos peek around his fingers. Even in the half-light, the scars on his hands are painfully clear. I swallow hard, shivering a little as the memory of the nightmare even as part of me jeers that I’m a coward, a pussy, for letting the weakness show.

Hallucination James blinks at me for a second, then leans down without a word and starts flicking his tongue against the tats between his fingers. The memory jerks away pretty damned fast. I whimper at him again, arching up into the movement only to get my ass shoved flat against the bed. He growls softly against my stomach, warning, then goes back to what he was doing. His hands slide down to give his mouth full access, curling around instead to go under my thighs. A few insistent nudges make me pull my knees up without thinking, and suddenly my legs are draped over his shoulders.

“James…” That sounds a little more desperate than I’d like, but there’s not much I can do about it.

He scrapes his teeth lightly along the edge of the tat without looking up at me, the twinge of pleasure-pain making me gasp. “Tell me when to stop,” the figment of my twisted imagination murmurs, his stubble brushing and dragging along my skin, and starts sliding lower. His lips brush the base of my cock on the way down, and I think I sob or something because he breathes, “It’s okay. I’ll get there.”

The fact that he breathes it into the place just above my balls is less than reassuring. At least he didn’t growl it…

His tongue flicks out, hot against my balls, so sudden that I gasp again. He growls, the vibration going straight through me, and does it again. My hand tangles in the sheets, twisting it up in my fingers so I don’t end up grabbing his hair. Hands twitching on my hips, Hallucination James shifts closer, putting a little more pressure behind his licks. I shudder under him, and try not to arch into his mouth; God only knows how he’d react to getting choked. His lips move against me, and it takes me a second to understand his actual words past what his mouth is currently doing to me.

He’s babbling, moaning. I can’t believe he’s actually moaning. “God, you taste good. I didn’t know… I didn’t think… Jesus, Kirk…”

My heart stops. For a second there, he sounded almost… tender. He just keeps whispering nonsense, kissing my skin over and over, my thighs, my balls, like he’s doing his damnedest to memorize the taste before something jerks me away. The fever must be higher than I’d thought; I’m reading too much into this. Christ, even my hallucinations are mind-fucking me now.

Except. Except the hallucination’s voice sounds a hell of a lot like James’ while he whispers nonsense I can’t even hear anymore against my skin. Except it feels like his mouth sliding over my balls and down, lower, into places that ‘no real man’ would willingly put his mouth. Except, God help me, I think the man sprawled between my legs really is James Alan Hetfield, about to do something he can’t possibly be doing. He wouldn’t do this, he can’t, I’m not worth this-

“Oh, God, James!”

His mouth is on me, in me, every-fucking-where and so hot… I barely recognize my own voice, high and strung out and keening as he darts his tongue inside me.  Somehow my hands end up on his shoulders, gripping so hard that I’ll probably leave bruises. It doesn’t discourage him. Nearly purring while he kills me slowly, he keeps going, kissing and licking and doing things with his mouth that should be illegal. I think I stop breathing for a while.

I come back to him making little shushing noises at me, and realize with a jolt that my voice is hoarse from begging. With a last lick to remind me why, he pulls back to look up at me. His voice is husky and his breath is hot on my hip when he asks with a smirk, “You like that?”

My words come out as a whimper, but I don’t think he was expecting an answer anyway. He can see for himself. I’ve never been this fucking hard, and the hungry glint in his eyes isn’t helping me any.

Sliding up my body until his cheek rests on my stomach just over the tattoo, he drags his hand up the inside of my thigh, watching my face as he does it. His touch meanders up over where his mouth had been, so light I barely feel it, then presses carefully inside me. Careful… fuck, I’m not used to careful. It was easier when it hurt like a bitch.

He gets that look of deep concentration on his face as he rocks his finger inside, easing it deeper, the same look he gets while he writes lyrics or plays guitar, the one that’s reserved for the important shit. It’s starting to scare the hell out of me, no matter how good this feels.

His finger curls up on the next thrust, and… God. I forgive my body for the coughing and the fever and every screaming hangover I’ve ever had, because the way he’s rubbing at my prostate just wipes it all clear away. Pleasure so sharp and clear it’s nearly pain skitters its way through me.

I can’t get in the air to make any noise besides short, frantic noises in my throat. He growls softly back and kisses my stomach, which is incongruous as all fuck, but I wouldn’t complain even if I could because he adds another finger anyway. My hips jerk into it, trying to make him move just a little faster, just a little harder…

He lifts his head to watch me, his head tilted. A smile curls up the corner of his mouth as his fingers stroke deep.

Like he flipped a fucking switch, I start begging. “James… God, please, please, harder, need-“

Making little soothing noises, he shushes me, keeping up the steady thrusts anyway.

“You’re killing me!”

His low laugh sounds unfamiliar, dragging up my spine like velvet. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“James, I need-“

“Shh.” Shifting until he’s half-laying on me, he kisses his way down my stomach, tracing the outline of my scar with his tongue. His mouth’s so close to where I want it… “Hold still.”

With a moan, I squirm anyway, against his hands and my own better instincts. It feels like my body’s on fire, and I can’t tell if it’s the fever or what he’s doing to me. Hell, I can’t even tell if I want it to stop or keep going forever. Pathetic.

James raises his head to look at me, a strange look on his face that makes me wonder if I said that out loud. Apparently not, though, because he just pushes my hips flat against the bed and growls, “Told you to hold still, Quirk.”

I want to scream at him. I want him to hit me, hurt me, give me what I deserve for trusting him to get this close. Instead, I’m lucky to even get enough air to whimper. Shaking his head, James gives me a private smirk, then shifts. His finger stroking my prostate with light little touches that make me pant, he leans in close enough that I feel his breath hot and cold on my cock. He tilts his head, studying me so bluntly that I have to shut my eyes and wait for the insult. The sudden drag of his tongue up my shaft nearly scares the hell out of me.

Nearly bolting upright, even with him laying half on top of me, I end up forgetting what I was about to yelp because the room starts spinning. He pushes me back down with one strong hand on my chest, muttering something soothing. I can’t help the soft whining noise that comes out of my throat, any more than I can help squirming under him. My voice sounds thready, pathetic. “James… please…”

Apparently he notices that I’m about three seconds from passing out, because he finally takes pity. With a last deep breath, he seems to brace himself for a moment, then moves and takes me in. All the way in.

Wet, sweet, soft heat and my hands are suddenly on him, on his shoulders and tangled in his hair, but it just makes him suck harder, flicking his tongue on me and burying his fingers deep in me, and I’m not breathing because if I open my mouth I’m going to howl, and he’s growling something against my cock about love, and I think I’m dying, and he’s crooking his fingers in just the right way-

And I scream so loud it tears something out of me, and come so hard the room just goes black.
---
Shit. I think I killed him.

Swallowing the last of his cum, I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and lift my head to look at him. Kirk’s shaking, hard, making these little hitching noises while he tries to breathe. Christ, just make the guy with pneumonia hyperventilate… real fucking smooth, Hetfield.

I crawl up him, trying not to fumble and end up falling. Miraculously, neither of us gets hurt in the process. Leaning over him, I study his face. His breathing’s too shallow, but his eyelashes are still fluttering. I guess that’s a good sign.

Stroking his cheek more because I like feeling his skin than because I want to check his temperature, I murmur down at him, “I’m gonna go get some stuff to clean you off, Quirk. I’ll be back in a sec.”

He doesn’t twitch, except to keep shivering. The moment I ease off him, though, he curls up into a tight ball, knees to his chest. It leaves his ass in a nice, vulnerable, very tempting position, which incidently makes my cock throb, reminding me that it’s been neglected all night.

Okay, so molesting Kirk now would be bad. Nobody said I can’t plan ahead.

I settle for stroking the curve of his spine, then back off. He doesn’t move, eyes still squeezed shut while I go into the bathroom.

Flipping on the light, I wince at the expanse of cabinets. Knowing Kirk, it’ll take me an hour to find a simple washcloth in here.

Doesn’t matter. First things first.

The sound of my zipper easing down sounds loud in this too cramped little room. Bracing myself on the wall, I reach in and pull out my cock. I’m not in the mood to draw this out; my hands are shaking even while I curl my fingers and stroke. A few firm jerks, and I have to bite my lip to keep from roaring while I come.

Shit. I needed that. Letting out a slow breath, I shake my head to clear it, then start pulling open cabinets with my clean hand. Naturally, the washcloths are in the last cabinet I open. It doesn’t take me long to wet it down and ring it out; I’m not that surprised to see that Kirk hasn’t moved.

He makes this sleepy little noise when the washcloth touches his stomach, rubbing away the traces of what I didn’t manage to swallow. His eyes flicker open, hazy and nicely sated while he tries to blink into focusing. I look up at him, moving my hand in slow circles just because it makes his stomach twitch. “Too cold?”

Kirk shakes his head a little, clears his throat. His voice is still a dry rasp as he comments, “Feels nice.”

Obligingly- yeah, for once-, I leave the cloth there while I prop myself up to feel his forehead. “How ya doing?”

He smiles at me, his lips still swollen and his eyes half-lidded, generally giving off the aura of a well-fucked and sleepy Quirk. It’s one hell of an improvement over the pale, miserable wretch I found when I got here. I like it. A lot. “M’okay.”

“Cool.” My hands end up in his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. He closes his eyes and damned near purrs. It worries me. This is too easy, way too fucking easy. I expected protests, or a least a lot of whining, over what I just pulled on him. This can’t be normal. “Kirk…”

His lips twist, turning the smile just a little bitter. “Yeah, I know. I ought to get some sleep. The tv’s downstairs, and the couch folds out.” Closing his eyes, he adds pointedly, “See you in the morning.”

So much for easy. “Actually, I was gonna say ‘scoot your skinny ass over’.”

It makes him open his eyes, at least. Looking a lot more alert, he asks warily, “James?”

With a patient sigh, I tell him one more time. “Move over. It’s not fucking Chaucer, man.”

For a second, he looks like he wants to argue. Then, slumping down with a look of utter defeat, he shifted over far enough to let me sit on the bed. Before he could pull away, I grab him. He’s a skinny little fucker; it doesn’t take much to haul him backwards, even with him squirming. Sitting against the headboard, I wrap my arms around him, holding him on my lap. Wide-eyed, he pushes against my chest with both hands. “What the hell-“

“I’m not going downstairs.”

He stares at me, caught off guard. It gives me enough time to grab the blanket and wrap it around his shoulders. I could wrap the blanket around him twice, maybe three times. Might keep him from trying to fidget his way across the room so he can scour his skin clean or whatever the fuck he does. It’s a tempting thought, because Christ, I don’t want to watch him break down. This was supposed to hold him together, not fuck him up worse.

And even while he sits here staring at me, and I know that every second he doesn’t say anything just means that what he will say eventually will be worse, all I want to do is bury my nose in his hair and breathe him in, feel his heartbeat on my chest and smell myself on his skin. Nobody ever claimed that I wasn’t an idiot. Plenty have claimed otherwise, in fact. But I’m his idiot.

Funny how that didn’t actually hurt. Being the masochist that I am, I try that again.

His. Kirk’s. Of Kirk, I am. Property of Quirk Hammett. Wonder if I match his décor. Maybe I should grow a second head. Or a third, rather. He’s already got a grip on both of the ones I have already.

Wonder if he wants me. Important little detail there.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Kirk sounds so wary that I want to kiss him. Might catch whatever he has. Might get my lower lip bitten off. I’m tempted to do it anyway. Give me a little sign of life here, man, even if it is bitchslapping me. “I’m not going to blow you-“

“Took care of it in the bathroom.” I think the perverse cheer in my voice would disturb the fuck out of me if I could hear it. “Close your eyes, Quirk. You were taking shots of Nyquil.”

“I remember,” he informs me with just a touch of haughtiness, then pushes against my chest again. His eyes are very dark like deep still water when he asks, that same note of fatigue worn into his voice, “What do you want, James?”

“Got it already. But thanks for asking.” I slide my fingers along his side, just in case he doesn’t get it, and he’s stunned enough that he lets me. “You sure you don’t want painkillers?”

“Don’t push me-“

“It was an honest question, Hammett.” Biting off the curse I really, really want to tack on to the end of that sentence, I tap my fingertips against his hip. Bony fucker. “Do you want them or not?”

Those eyes go narrow. “You’re not going to pull macho bullshit?”

I shrug. “Look. I’m tired, you’re tired, everybody’s fucking tired. Take them or don’t, you’re the one who’s breathing like a car without a muffler.”

That makes him hesitate a little, tilting his head to stare at me. I can’t read a damned thing behind that pretty mask of his. Not even a decent fracture to peer through.

“Why?” he says finally, his voice rough with more than the coughing. It comes out a rasp. He isn’t talking about the painkillers.

Fuck. C’mon, Kirk, I just showed you that. Pay attention. Isn’t non-verbal communication good for anything anymore?

Apparently not.

Drumming my fingers absently on the nightstand, I stare at the sheets for as long as I think I’ll get away with before mumbling, “Because.” Then, louder, “You think I’d cut my vacation short for just anybody? And in no way am I the nurturing, mothering type. I walked into a damned organic food store for you!”

He blinks. Once, twice, three times, his long dark lashes that most chicks would at least maim for flickering across his eyes. Then, slowly “An organic food store.”

“Yeah. You’re eating that shit if I have to get a siphon, that’s all I’m saying.” I pick up a few strands of his hair off his throat, rub it between my fingertips, and talk to the bare curve of his shoulder for a while. “Wouldn’t have gone into one of those for Lars, I’ll tell you that fucking much.”

“You wouldn’t have had to.”

“You know what I meant, Hammett.”

“Maybe. So you-“

“Yeah.” Wow. That was impressively eloquent, Hetfield, next let’s go for Homer. The Greek guy, not the cartoon. Fuck.

“Me?” And there’s this note of something in his voice, something very small and very fragile, nudging a hand out into the light for the first time in years, waiting to get it bitten off.

I look up at him, meet his eyes and inform him, very seriously, “Yeah. Deal.”

Kirk gives me another of those long looks, gauging, considering. Then, haltingly, like he expects the backhand and cursing at any moment, he puts his head down on my shoulder and lays there, tense as a cat.

It’s something.

I don’t sleep at all. I spend most of the night staring at the ceiling, studying all the weird-ass stuff he has strewn around this room, afraid to touch, afraid to move. The Mighty Hetfield, scared as shit that he might wake the very male and very exhausted guitarist slung across his chest up by twitching a finger. My back hurts, as does my leg, as does about a dozen other places that protest this position, but I’m not moving. Only my mouth, forming silent words in the dark. Not a prayer; practice. Tasting the shape of them. Building my nerve.

One of us is going to have to say the words eventually. And I think it’s gonna have to be me.

His breathing is loud and labored in the dark, his body almost pliant in sleep. He fits against me, weird looking fucker that I am. It took him hours to sleep, lying still without a word, but he got there. We got there.

Yeah. I can live with that.