Chapter Text
Lars has a problem. There’s something wrong with him. Dave tells him as much when Lars spits his food directly into James’ open, waiting mouth, and James happily chews it up and swallows. His knee is digging into the top of James’ thigh, crowding him, pulling his head back by his blonde hair.
They’re drunk, and when they get drunk they get stupid. Rowdy, gross and petty. It’s so weird, so wrong, and for whatever reason James is way too ready and willing. That sends a little flare of heat up Lars’ spine.
“You need serious fuckin’ help.” Dave shakes his head, jaw slack. He’s thoroughly repulsed by their behavior, Lars can tell. Good. He’s delighted in freaking Dave out since the moment they met, can’t help being contrarian to all the things Dave is familiar with.
“You’re next.” James laughs around the mouth of his bottle, taking a swig to wash down the sandwich. No he isn’t. Lars will never let that happen.
“I’ll pass.” Dave sort of looks like he wants to beat the hell out of Lars, just for existing. He’s always had that air about him, since that first afternoon when he told Lars he found his house easy enough because his mom used to clean toilets in the neighborhood. “You two need girlfriends.”
“I already have a girlfriend.” James says referring to whatever chick he’s been hanging around with lately. Lars can’t keep track of them all, they come and go so fast. Sometimes in groups of two and threes.
“That’s even worse.” Dave grimaces.
Lars knows he’ll do some absolutely depraved shit to prove his devotion to James. He’ll stop at nothing to keep him in the little web he’s spun, to keep everyone else out of it. He’s just wondering how far James will go.
Dave is right. Lars does have a problem.
There is definitely something seriously wrong with him.
-
James bangs his fist against the hollow bathroom door twice, hopefully loud enough to be heard over the two hairdryers Lars is running at full blast. “Hurry up, Farrah Fawcett! Nobody gives a fuck what your hair looks like!”
The motors cut out and the bathroom goes quiet before the door is violently ripped open to reveal a pissed off Lars with a failed blowout. He brushes past James in the narrow hallway without sparing him a glance.
His bangs are curling up slightly, uncooperative and unruly layers framing his forehead. It’s now James’ duty to placate him in order to get him out of the house, knowing his bad mood will threaten to derail the whole night otherwise.
“It looks fine. C’mon.” James thinks Lars is just sore because there are girls going with them. He wouldn’t care if it was just the two of them going, James realizes with a pang of jealousy.
Wait, jealousy? No. It’s not jealousy. He doesn’t care that Lars doesn’t worry over his appearance trying to impress him.
That would be weird.
Lars starts digging around the ever-present pile of clothes at the foot of his mattress, throwing the discarded articles between his legs in search of his jeans. The tightest jeans known to man, James notices begrudgingly. Turning toward him, Lars unceremoniously drops his briefs and levels him with a gaze, silently asking James to cut the bullshit.
James falters under the stare, not sure where he should look. Eye contact feels like a dare, looking at the carpet feels weak, but looking at Lars’ body feels like showing his entire hand. Can’t do that. James isn’t sure what Lars expects of him in this situation. But now he’s standing there butt naked waiting for James to say something else.
Trying to shake it off, for both their sakes, James goes for a joke. “I mean, at least this time nobody will call you a fag.” Old hat, but whatever works, works.
“What? Who’s calling me a fag?”
Dave. But James won’t rat him out just yet. Because he remembers he laughed when Dave said it. Except now Lars has his hands on his skinny hips in an indignant stance, eyes bugged, and James made a mistake. Shouldn’t have gone for a joke.
“Okay, well they didn’t say fag exactly. They called you European.” James is lying. Dave definitely said fag.
“I am European!”
“Same thing.”
-
The idea that they’d go to the east coast to record an album was beginning to take serious shape, becoming more concrete than Lars thought possible in such a short amount of time. A guy in Jersey wants them on his new label. He’s good at brown-nosing his way up the ranks but so far this is his crowning achievement.
Except now they need to deliver, make an actual decent album. James has to actually sing. Lars needs to actually learn drums.
Most days the desire to make it—make this really happen for him and James—outweighs all his doubts and insecurities.
Today isn’t one of those days. They’re running through some material they’re sure will be used for the record, fucking around with cover songs here and there, when Dave asks for a beer break. Lars would rather just end the practice, so he can stew in self-pity.
But it takes Cliff and Dave an hour to drive to their house for practice. So even if they did end practice early, it's not like he’d get a moment of peace anyway. They’ll probably all end up crashing in the living room. Dave hates staying alone.
“So then she tells me her boyfriend loves to put steak sauce—”
Cliff and James gag in disgust at the story Dave is regaling them with a delighted smirk. Lars hates how close they all are sitting on the couch. There’s no room for him. He pushes a skin mag off the recliner and sits in it sideways.
They have to record this album and he feels woefully unprepared. The guys are obviously comfortable with the work they’ve done. He’s tuning out their chatter in favor of fantasizing about hatching an escape plan. Maybe it’s not too late to place an ad for a new drummer, pack a bag, and split for Denmark. They probably wouldn’t even notice he’s gone.
“Never could look at a bottle of A1 the same way.” Dave and James are cracking up. Lars thinks as long as Dave is around, James wouldn’t even notice if he died. He’s bitter and endlessly jealous of their connection. Wants to plant a little flag in his territory, wants to say he was there first.
“Will you guys shut the hell up?” His outburst causes Cliff and James to look at him in confusion, causes Dave to sneer in amusement. “C’mon. Breaks over. Let’s get back to it.”
“Man. I think Lars is starting to regret quitting tennis.” Dave elbows James, and James just chuckles weakly while picking at the label on his bottle. He won’t even look at Lars.
“You guys are just wasting time, talking shit when we could be doing something productive. I’m over it.”
“Relax. We can play our instruments. If anyone should be getting back to it, it’s you.” Dave takes another pull of beer, settles further into his spot on the dirty brown cushions. It’s a move that means he’s not going anywhere.
“Let’s call it, man.” Cliff says to Lars gently. He probably wants to go out. He definitely doesn’t need to practice. He’s tight.
Lars scoffs. “James?” His eyebrows shoot up expectantly, but James just sits there. Still doesn’t look at him. He shrugs his shoulders a little, leg jiggling to an imaginary beat.
“Fine. Fuck you.” Lars gets up from the chair and heads to the room he shares with James, lets the door slam hard enough it rattles on the hinges.
-
The night before they embark on their cross-country road trip in a rented moving truck they’re all drunk off their asses. A few of the girls who hang around the band, feed them like stray dogs, are sending them off with a bon voyage.
The party’s been raging for hours with no end in sight, and things are starting to get sloppy. People are hooking up in the living room, puking on the lawn. James sees Dave huddled in a corner with some of his buddies doing God knows what. James doesn’t think they should be pissing what little money they have away on drugs.
But then again, Dave lives with Mark’s grandmother, and it’s hard to keep tabs on his every move. Dave is a bit of a loose cannon and sometimes things are tense enough with them in separate houses. He’s not sure how they’re going to survive all four of them living in the same house.
Fuck it. James will worry about it tomorrow. For now, he’s more concerned with where Lars has run off to, really hoping he doesn’t find him flirting with some girl. Or guy. Lars always swears he isn’t flirting with anyone, it’s just that in Europe boys aren’t raised to have the macho bullshit attitude James has. Whatever.
James shoulders through the screen door in the kitchen to scope out the yard, sees twenty people that aren’t Lars, and ducks back into the house. He doesn’t see him anywhere on this journey to the front door, so he tries the driveway.
Bingo. Lars is sitting on the hood of James’ truck with his elbows on his knees. He’s been in a weird mood all day and now he looks like he’s wallowing over something.
“Hey man.” James jumps onto the hood next to him, smiling a big goofy grin he knows is lopsided. He forces himself to reel it back in a little.
“Hey.” Lars won’t even look at him. James clears his throat on a cough.
“What… what's going on?”
“Nothing.” Lars shrugs his shoulders in a defeated gesture. “Just ready to go home.”
James nods a little in understanding. He’s no stranger to his own social battery running out. But for Lars it's a bit unusual, throwing him off his game. “Excited for tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Lars takes a sip of his beer.
“Okay.” James wants to try again, wants to restart the conversation but it seems like they're locked in a stalemate of miscommunication. “Hey, remember how I said people were calling you European?” James throws his elbow out with a smile, popping Lars in the ribs when he stares unflinchingly at the gravel on the ground about a yard out from the hood of the truck.
“Yeah.” Lars is picking at the label of his beer bottle. He’s so quiet, so unlike himself, like someone let the air out of him. James is worried he did that.
“I lied.” It’s silent for a beat too long and the apology that he should say after that gets stuck in his throat, clogging up. He takes a swig from his bottle and clears this throat, and he can't say sorry. He can’t. Lars doesn’t say anything either. So he lies again, “They were actually calling you smelly.”
At least Lars scoffs in disbelief at that, turning a bit to give James a scrunched up little face. James laughs, relieved that even for a second things seem normal. But the moment disappears as fast as it comes, and Lars looks back down to his shoes, feet swinging in gentle circles in front of the bumper. James feels he owes him another chance to unload if he wants. “You okay? Really?”
Lars lets out a heavy sigh, one that sounds long-suffering. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before ever speaking. “Sometimes, I just—I just wish—”
A cheer can be heard from inside the house, followed by the shattering of glass and some clapping. It's a miracle the cops haven’t been called yet. Both of their heads whip toward the house at the commotion, but James won’t let him off the hook that easily. He knocks the neck of his bottle against the one in Lars’ hand. “You wish?”
Lars throws his arm around James’ shoulders, sighing again. He uses all his dead weight to pull James back to lay on the hood of the truck with him. “Nevermind.”
They lay there huddled up in each other's warmth for a few minutes listening to music from the party leak out of every crack of the house into the otherwise quiet neighborhood. James gives up trying to drink his beer while horizontal and balances it with one hand on his stomach.
He has a decent buzz going, probably mostly from drinking on an empty stomach. Man, he’s starving and could really go for some food, any food. But they don't have money to eat and drink, and the party was BYOB. Maybe they can get lucky and raid the kitchen when the party dies down a little more, when everyone is well on their way to blacking out.
He’s plotting his reconnaissance mission when Lars settles further into his side and slurs, “S’nice out here.” It’s not bad. Their bodies are sticking together from sweat where they’re flush, the metal of the truck warming under their combined heat.
“Yeah.”
“James?”
“Yeah?” he turns his head to the right and looks at Lars, has to look up since he’s lying in the crook of his arm still from when Lars pulled them down. Lars is looking up at the sky and for a second, his heart lurches in his chest. Feathered hair, snub nose, scar splitting the difference between his left eye and eyebrow, pink cheeks, gap teeth—James reflexively tightens around the bottle to keep himself from smoothing a clumsy hand down the side of Lars’ face.
Lars looks down at him then, and no his heart doesn’t skip a beat, it definitely does not. He thinks maybe he finally wants to tell James what’s up, what’s got him in such a mood. But he says nothing as he stares for a few more seconds before a sly grin takes up residence on his face.
The hand that’s attached to the arm curled under James' neck grips the side of his face suddenly and rolls him further, shoving his face into Lars’ armpit abruptly.
“Do I really stink?”
-
“Lars, you awake?”
“Fuckin’ kidding me? Like anyone could sleep with your bony elbows in their ribs.” Lars huffs in annoyance. They’re genuinely packed like sardines on a twin mattress in the back of the moving truck.
“You think Dave’s really mad at us?” They refused to stop when Dave said he needed to go to the doctor, said something was bothering his eyes. Lars pretended he didn’t hear him on the payphone complaining to his mom about the trip so far, about how much he wanted to come home.
“Of course he is, man.” He rolls over, and feels in the dark for where he thinks James might be, catching his right ring finger in his nostril. “Sorry.”
James makes an offended noise, jerks away from him, and hits his head with a loud thud on someone's equipment. Lars snickers at his curses of pain. It's silent for a few seconds before James speaks up. “Maybe we should’ve taken him to the doctor.”
“Listen. There’s a hierarchy. It’s our band, we write the music. You’re the one out there signing it, not him.” Lars waits, and when James doesn’t say anything, he continues in a whisper. “He wants to be the leader. The one in the spotlight. You can’t let him take that from you. Understand?”
“Yeah.”
“All that shit today, he’s just a drama queen. He wants to challenge you in front of everyone else. You gonna put up with that?” Lars questions.
“Dunno.” Lars punches him in the shoulder. “Ouch! What was that for?”
“Are you gonna put up with that?”
“No! Jesus, quit hitting me. No, I’m not gonna put up with it. Fuck.” James grumbles, while Lars chuckles and settles back into his tiny sliver of mattress he’s been so graciously allowed. James mutters something about him being crazy. “Go back to sleep.”
“Already told you, I wasn’t asleep. Need a fuckin’ quaalude to sleep next to you.”
“The last thing you need is a disco biscuit.” Lars laughs, shaking the mattress even more than the uneven road beneath the wheels. “Shut up.”
“Quit your griping. You’re the one who wanted to share slumber party secrets. Now what, a pillow fight? Braid each other's hair?”
“I never shoulda said anything.” James scoffs, rolling over hastily and butt-bumping Lars in the process. It's freezing in the back of the truck, the temperature varying wildly depending on the time of day and what state they were in. Lars attaches onto his back like a koala for warmth.
“Goodnight.”
“Whatever.” James says snottily, but pulls Lars' arm tighter around him all the same.
-
They’re halfway across the country, stopped at a chick’s house for the night. She offered to put them up and Lars is grateful for a shower and a home cooked meal. Spaghetti loaded with sauce and that fake Kraft parmesan that comes in the shaker. He’s picking at leftovers before it all gets boxed up for the fridge.
They’re all well on their way to being drunk, some heading there faster than others, when Lars hears James yelling for him from the living room. “What?” He barks back around a mouthful of pasta.
“Beer!” Lars feels like a disgruntled housewife for a moment as he gets two from the fridge and heads back into the room. All the guys are now chanting for beer in various octaves and cadences. He rolls his eyes and tosses a can to James, depositing himself next to him in the empty spot on the couch. James’ left hand squeezes his thigh in thanks and Lars freezes. Because James isn’t moving his hand. His eyes shift around the room quickly to see if anyone notices but they're too engaged in their own conversations.
“Where’s mine, Ulrich?” Except Dave, apparently, who is now staring Lars down with laser focus.
Lars scoffs. “Get it yourself.” Dave is so far past drunk it's unreal. “I just sat down.”
Dave looks down at James’ hand that still hasn’t moved. James is talking to someone on his right, gesticulating with his beer, and obviously unaware of Dave needling Lars. Dave’s eyes narrow a little before a bitter, twisted smirk pulls his mouth up. “Oh. I get it.”
The color drains from Lars’ face. “You don’t get shit.”
“You got no problem being his little bitch boy.”
Cliff claps Dave on the shoulder. “Relax, man. I’m going that way. I’ll get you a beer.”
“Don’t think he needs another.” Lars sneers. Dave pulls at the neck of the tee he’s wearing, shakes his hair out of his eyes, chin tipped up in a dare.
“No. I’m just tired of this faggot shit, that’s all.”
“Fuck you!” Lars shouts, eyes round and incredulous. Before Cliff can intervene, Dave shoots his hand out and hits Lars, something halfway between a punch and a slap. The force of the hit sends him colliding into James, who spills his drink on his lap and the couch cushion.
“What the fuck?” James stands suddenly and flicks beer off his hand before wiping it on the back of his jeans. He looks at Dave with a disdain he’d never let show sober, and shakes his head. “Fuckin’ retard.”
And Lars hears Dave's fist colliding with James’ jaw before he processes what he’s seeing. James stumbles back, recovering well for someone who can’t pass a breathalyzer. Cliff pulls Dave by the arm out the front door, presumably for some fresh air, before he can assault anyone else.
The whole room has gone quiet watching the show. Lars suddenly wishes he was invisible. Later that night, when the party has cleared out, and they’re restless on unfamiliar beds, Lars whispers in the darkness to James that Dave needs to go.
-
Typical of their nights out, someone got on the bar top and took a piss, which led to them being promptly kicked out of the establishment. Oh well, probably for the best. James was getting too sloppy to be in public anyway.
They’re settling in for the night, piled in the basement. James didn’t think anything could smell worse than their house in El Cerrito, but this is coming for the crown. The combined stench of their unwashed drunkenness is practically noxious.
“You guys reek, man.” James complains as he scrunches his nose.
“Funny coming from you.” Dave chimes in. “I’m not even sure how you keep getting laid.” After the guys all laugh at his expense, Dave keeps going. “I think your girl has meth mouth, dude. She’s a real dog.”
The guys pipe up with a round of barks and growls and he rolls his eyes. Pretty quickly after they arrived on the East Coast, James found a girl he could count on for a good time. She’s decent looking but has horrendous skin—something he’s never going to point out. Because he’s in the same boat.
“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” She definitely doesn’t do meth. Or at least, James hopes she doesn’t. But who knows, they’ve seen it happening at a handful of parties even in the last few days. She might do meth.
“Don’t stick your dick in crazy.” Dave laughs as he heads upstairs to take a leak. Too late, James laments. He already has, multiple times.
He looks over at Lars who’s just watching the scene unfold before him. He’s twisting the ends of his hair around his fingers, looking a little bored of the constant back of forth between him and Dave.
James watches Lars’ eyes follow Dave all the way up the stairs, calculating. James knows he’s up to no good. Can see it in the way Lars has been treating him lately. Sneaky. Underhanded. Not outright bullying like what he and Lars did to Ron, the poor bastard. They made Ron cry. Fuck it, he was too soft for them anyway.
He just wishes he hadn’t lost Ron as a long time friend in the aftermath of their childish antics. He knew they could be mean, secretive, obsessed with each other. They couldn’t help it. He and Lars were sort of trauma bonded from their time in the trenches together.
He couldn’t give Lars up now even if he wanted to. He just hopes he doesn’t lose Dave too.
-
James waits until the shower is running before tapping two knuckles on the door, pushing it open slightly. Leaving the door unlocked during showers is a house rule at Johnny’s due to the fact that there was only one bathroom and way too many guys in and out at all hours of the day. James pokes his head in, not before Lars barks out a hasty, full-volumed, “What?”
“Relax, it’s me.” James slithers into the small box of a room, hazy from the steam of the shower. He drags a heavy hand over the fog on the mirror over the sink, swiping a small path in the condensation to see himself. “Just brushing my teeth.”
“Well hurry it up or start paying, this show’s not free.” Lars is soaping up his armpits, James can tell as much through the shower curtain out of the corner of his eye, which is patterned with multicolored squiggles—absolutely hideous and not remotely opaque. Quit staring. James looks down at the drain of the sink, grumbling to himself as he squeezes toothpaste onto his toothbrush.
Don’t look. James scrubs his teeth harshly, letting his eyes slide to the toilet seat, where Lars’ discarded clothes are balled up on the closed lid. He shouldn’t, but he wants to. He wants to touch the pile, see if it’s still warm. He flicks his gaze up to Lars, can tell his eyes are closed as he shampoos his hair.
He goes for the obvious article of clothing, the shirt wadded up on top of the pile, and clutches it in his hand, only to hesitate when he sees Lars’ underwear. He stops brushing his teeth, heat rising to his cheeks as he seriously considers pocketing the dirty briefs. Stop, stop being a fucking freak. In the shower, Lars sputters under the water as he rinses his hair.
James spits his toothpaste into the sink and jams the toothbrush back into the cup on the counter, the t-shirt still in the vise grip of his fist. “All done,” he calls weakly, clearing his throat.
Lars pulls the curtain back a fraction and pokes his head out enough to see James. “Huh?” He demands, hair slicked back by water, pale chest and cheeks pink from the heat, and James’ brain kind of short circuits. Wet wet wet wet. He remembers he’s supposed to answer. Oh, and hide the shirt he’s pilfering. He pulls the door open and slides halfway through the gap before calling out again, this time with way too much enthusiasm.
“All done.” A cheesy grin cracks his face in half, not convincing even himself for a second. All Lars does is raise his brows once in acknowledgment, unimpressed, and retreat back into the shower. James pulls the door closed and half runs back to the basement to hide his loot before Lars returns. He kneels on his mattress, lungs heaving as he surveys the area for a hiding spot, shoves his nose into the armpit of the dirty shirt while he glances around.
As if one whiff wasn’t bad enough. James expels his breath in a puff from his mouth and takes another deep inhale through his nose. This is probably the weirdest non-sexual thing he’s ever done, but deep down he sort of has to admit that it probably is sexual with the way he’s sporting a half-chub in his jeans.
He rubs the shirt on his face and his right hand moves instinctively to his waistband but the water in the shower squeaks off. James thrusts his hand instead between the wall and the mattress, hitting a few porno mags he forgot were there and starts to hide the shirt, but stops midway, thinking better of it. Lars might try raiding his magazine stash and find it.
Realizing he’s running short on time, he stuffs the shirt into the corner of his pillowcase and flops back to cover his tracks just as he hears Lars' feet padding down the hallway. His chest is heaving and he crosses his ankles to look casual—arms behind his head to conceal the lump the shirt created in his pillowcase—and uncrosses his legs when he realizes it draws too much attention to the bulge in his jeans.
He’s pulling a blanket over his crotch when Lars tears into the room with a towel around his waist, dropping his dirty clothes at the foot of the mattress. His face is screwed up in a grimace as he takes inventory of James awkwardly scrambling to cover himself. “Jerking it or what?”
Just about.
James scoffs, “Fuck off.” When Lars smirks, he squawks indignantly. “I’m not!”
“Don’t let me stop you.” Lars drops his towel and steps into a fresh pair of briefs. His chest was still glimmering with stray water droplets running from his hair. James doesn’t have to look to know the slope of Lars’ narrow shoulders, his scrawny waist giving way to scrawny hips and scrawny thighs. He already has the lines memorized. So he looks at the ceiling instead.
“I’m not, Lars!”
-
Lars looks around at the sad excuse for an apartment. It's actually their practice space that they’re technically not even supposed to be living in. But Marsha and Johnny kicked them the fuck out, right on their asses when they destroyed some of the furniture directly after they drank the entire liquor cabinet. He supposes they deserved that.
He regrets it even more when they realize they all have to share the room like squatters and they don’t have a place to shower. They need to get rich, fast. Because this isn’t going to cut it for long.
Understandably, morale is low. It’s pretty cold in their room, a pipe running through the floor and ceiling is all the heating the place has to offer, so Lars drags his mattress closer to the pipe in a futile attempt to stop shivering.
He’s staring out the window at the overcast skyline when James’ gruff voice pulls him from his reverie. “Beer?” A room temperature can taps his bicep.
He nods in thanks and cracks it, wishing he had something stronger to warm him up. “Some fuckin’ life, huh?” He laughs a little, can hear in his own voice how beat down he sounds. James motions for him to shove over on the mattress, and both of their bodies squish on the too-small bed. “Jesus. It’s freezing.”
“Here. Try some of this.” James hands him a bottle of Everclear. “It’ll put some hair on your chest.”
“Where’d you get this?”
“Swiped it.”
Lars takes it skeptically. He remembers a story he heard about a kid dying from drinking half a bottle of this shit. Swallowing a healthy gulp feels like getting punched in the gut, and he coughs a little as he gasps for air. James laughs and grabs the bottle from him, taking his own drink before depositing it on the floor next to them.
“Do you think we did the right thing? Coming out here? This whole fuckin’ mess… is it worth it?” Lars questions in the quiet of the room. They’re alone. Dave and Cliff are out gallivanting somewhere. Probably chasing skirts. James wasn’t up for going out and Lars opted to stay behind to make sure James didn’t kill himself, either purposely or accidentally.
Lars never questions the band's future in front of Dave or Cliff. He has an aura of unfailing confidence to maintain. But here, in the cold, shoulder to shoulder with James, he doesn’t mind letting his guard down.
James snatches his hand, lacing their fingers together. Lars blames the grain alcohol on the heat that flashes through his entire body the instant their skin touches.
“Yeah.” James mumbles, staring resolutely ahead. “It’s worth it.”
-
They’re crammed inside the private booth of the payphone on the corner of their block. The coins are warm in James' hand, where he’s gripping them for dear life. They’re taking so long to make the call, someone waiting to use the phone taps on the door of the booth, points to their wrist watch with a sour expression.
James flips him off and the stranger just rolls his eyes.
He can tell—now that Operation Kill Dave is in full swing—Lars is a little worried. Not worried as in second-guessing his instincts about replacing Dave. No, he’s worried that they’ll get caught. Found out.
They’re not just tossing the idea around like a football anymore. They’re actively working behind his back to get him the fuck out of there. Toxic terror twins, bolstering each other up. It’s just them, together. Until the end. Fuck everyone else.
Lars wrings his hands and grabs the phone off the cradle. It’s April Fool’s day, and he wishes they called sooner. Kirk is gonna think it's a joke. But they need to replace Dave fast, and get Kirk on lock before they actually kick Dave out so they aren’t screwing themselves.
He laughs a little. “Fuck, I’m nervous. You call him.”
“What's the big deal? Got a crush on him or something?” James wags his eyebrows. Lars punches his shoulder.
“You're the one who got naked the first night you met him. Slut.” He grumbles, affronted. They already sent Kirk a tape of their shit in the mail. Now it’s just about gauging his commitment to the cause. Lars needs to woo him. He always does the wooing, he’s good at that.
“It was a dressing room. Where the hell else was I supposed to change?”
“You know he told me later he thought that was so bizarre. That you just dropped your pants without even talking to him.” James remembers that night. It was the first time they played with Exodus, the night that planted the seed of their espionage against Dave.
Kirk is the follower they need. He won’t challenge the authority Lars and James have given themselves over everyone who dares to question them. He’s willing to take the backseat.
James thrives on that type of utter devotion.
“Whatever.” He snatches the phone from Lars' sweaty hand. “I’ll do it. Pussy.”
-
It stings to see Lars and Kirk chatting happily in the corner. Of course they get along, Lars is really easy to talk to. He seems genuinely interested in whatever the hell Kirk is talking about. He doesn’t even try to interject into the conversation, lest he receive an exasperated look from Lars. At least he has Cliff, his brother in stonewalling everyone around them, who he can always count on to radiate unfriendly vibes with him.
“So, what do you think?” Cliff asks quietly.
“Good. I think it’ll work.” By it he means Kirk. “You?”
“Yeah. He’s cool.”
Lars and Kirk crack up in laughter, pulling faces, and James doesn’t even want to know what’s so knee-slappingly funny. He can be funny. He makes Lars laugh. He thinks for a second that Lars doesn’t need any more friends. He has James. The idea that maybe he isn’t enough cuts through him razor sharp. He sniffs a little and sips his beer.
And why does Lars have his hand on Kirk’s shoulder? James can't think of a single reason he’d need to be touching him like that, all gentle and lingering. He wants to know why he isn’t touching James like that.
-
Lars is in a hotel suite bathroom with James. They’re celebrating God knows what, as if they need an occasion to get drunk. He’s got a sewing needle he found in Gallagher’s road case and an earring one of the chicks from the party volunteered from her own lobe.
“Wait, which ear is the gay ear?” James asks with mild alarm as the needle is half way through his earlobe. Lars has his face scrunched, trying to focus his eyes and steady his hands, but it’s all a little blurry after a few drinks.
“The other one.” Lars mumbles unhelpfully.
“You hesitated.” James starts swatting Lars’ hands from the side of his head like a pesky fly. Beer sloshes from his newly cracked can, soaking the left leg of his jeans. “Go get Kirk, I’m serious. He’d know.”
“Fuckin’ hold still! I’m almost done.” Lars gripes, stabbing an earring through the fresh and bloody wound.
“Lars, which ear is the gay ear? Fuck, man! Take this shit out!” James hollers from his perch on the closed toilet seat. Lars steps back to admire his handiwork, James’ left earlobe dripping blood onto the white Anthrax tee he’s wearing.
“I did the right one, relax!”
“Right as in correct, or right as in my right?” More concerning to Lars is that apparently James is so trashed he can't tell his left from his right, and his hand flies to his new piercing with a look of despair.
In all honesty, Lars has no idea what ear he was supposed to pierce. He didn’t even know there was a way to tell someone liked guys from the jewelry they wore. If that's even true, and not just James being paranoid, he wishes he had known sooner. Would’ve saved him a lot of time and trouble.
Still, it's fun to watch James flounder. He starts yelling for Kirk to get his ass in the bathroom with newfound urgency and Lars can’t help the giggle that slips past his lips. It’s just that James is so wasted, neither of them really know how they ended up with the idea to do this in the first place, and he’s so close, and kind of cute when he’s mad.
Lars grabs the Smirnoff he brought for sanitation purposes and takes a healthy gulp, trying to clear that thought from his brain, before turning it to James’ wound.
Kirk seems to appear out of thin air as Lars is straddling James' left thigh with both his skinny legs. Lars doesn’t remember taking his shirt off but he realizes he is indeed shirtless when James’ disheveled blonde waves whip across his chest as he turns to Kirk in a panic.
“Kirk, which ear is gay—y’know? Like, for the earring, c’mon.” James all but begs.
Kirk leans against the door frame of the bathroom, seemingly propped up by that alone. Jesus, nobody in the room is sober. He has enough sense about him to narrow his eyes, momentarily affronted by the suggestion he’d know anything about it.
“Yeah, it’s the left ear.” Kirk nods sagely. Lars guesses he isn’t actually all that insulted after all. He can’t think about it too much because in the next instant, he’s propelled into the towel rack on the wall opposite the toilet as James stands up, bucking him off his thigh to check his ears in the mirror over the sink.
Eyes bulging at his discovery, James turns to Lars and socks him in the arm as Lars pathetically tries to shield himself from the hit, reflexes sluggish from the alcohol. James rears back to wail on him again as Kirk suddenly guffaws loudly with a honk of laughter.
“Fuckin’ Lars, you dumbass!” James lands another hit, this time in his kidney as he turns halfway toward the shower in an aborted act of self-preservation. Kirk is still laughing in the doorway seemingly oblivious to Lars’ suffering.
“James, James!” Kirk’s laughter dies down as he pulls on the back of James’ stained bloody shirt. “I’m fucking with you. The right ear is the gay ear. You’re fine.” He lets out a few more chuckles. Lars rubs at his throbbing arm, glad his buddy got a good laugh at his expense. Thanks a fucking lot.
James’ eyes catch his after a beat, stony despite his drunkenness as he realizes he’d become the butt of a joke. Lars averts his gaze, tries to gather some dignity and stand up straight, but not before James can land one final slap to the side of his head, his skull bouncing off the wall next to him. He hisses in pain as James storms out of the bathroom, tired of the game.
Kirk still has that dumb grin on his face. Lars refuses to be the victim here, so he shoves Kirk out of his way with two hands on his shoulders. Kirk gasps at the needlessly aggressive move. Lars’ ears burn, ashamed he let himself get pushed around in front of Kirk. It was all Kirk’s fault anyway. So he doesn’t feel any worse when he shoves him again. “Dick.”
-
James is nursing a gnarly hangover. They’re supposed to be rehearsing but Kirk and Lars are messing around with some stupid toy they’d found somewhere on tour. Cliff is nowhere to be found. God, he feels miserable. It’s his own fault for drinking so much, but damn it if he isn’t going to take it out on everyone else. It’s just who he is.
Just as James slumps down further into the ratty couch cushion, Kirk jumps onto Lars’ back and tackles him to the ground. They’re entirely too happy for no reason. Lars holds the toy out of Kirk’s reach, but that only eggs him on further. Soon, Lars is on his back under Kirk, and James has to put an end to this shit fast.
“Hey are we practicing, or what?” His question goes unanswered, but he sits up straighter when he notices a sliver of skin showing between the waistband of Lars’ underwear and his shirt which is steadily riding up under the friction of Kirk’s thighs. Anger flashes through him hot and his fingers clench into a fist at his side.
Lars manages to get the upper hand, is now straddling Kirk's back, and as Kirk attempts to crawl out from under him, Lars gooses him over his jeans, earning a yelp and a giggle. Jealousy and rage morph together in James to make a seriously hideous beast that’s rearing its head—jealous that he can’t touch that way, he won't let himself, and he’s angry that he even wants to.
Before he could register it, he’s up and off the couch closing the gap between him and Lars in two strides, hands closing around his shoulders to throw him in the opposite direction of Kirk. Both he and Kirk stare up at him from the floor, panting and out of breath from their play-fighting.
“Knock it off.” James spits coldly, doesn't have it in him to raise his voice. His head hurts bad enough from the hangover, no need to add insult to injury. “Where’s Cliff? We’re supposed to be practicing—not whatever the fuck it is you two are doing.”
Lars smirks at Kirk, not knowing when to leave well enough alone. He knows James isn’t in the mood for his shit but he clearly can’t resist being a pill. “Kirk’s fault.” He shoots his arm out to junk punch Kirk before catching a stray foot in the thigh for his efforts.
James grabs Lars by the hair and pushes his head flat to the floor, pointedly ignoring Kirk's confused protests at his outburst. “Enough. I’m fucking sick of this shit.” James digs his thumb into Lars’ temple, pissed off at how even grimacing Lars still looks good. He thinks he might just shatter a molar with how hard he clenches his jaw. He pushes off of Lars to stand, rougher than necessary, taking a little satisfaction in his groan of pain at the extra pressure. Kirk is staring at James a little wide-eyed and breathless, probably a little scared.
James sniffs. There's a stifling silence between the three of them, and Lars is stuck to the ground where he tossed him. That was crazy, batshit behavior he needs to get in check before something bad happens, like knocking Lars unconscious or worse, kissing him.
“Come get me when you two are done playing grab ass.” He refuses to look back, having to physically restrain himself when he hears Kirk cooing to Lars in a precious voice, asking him if he’s okay.
He’s not sure but he thinks Lars calls James a bastard.
-
The garage in El Cerrito is stuffy and, yeah, it definitely does smell like a dead body is decomposing somewhere in the walls. James' memory served him correctly. That was definitely one thing he didn’t miss about home while they were gone.
They’re arguing over an arrangement of a song they're working on. James is super fucking eager to get into the next album, since everything off the first album was just cobbled together bullshit that had been in the mix since they met. He’s ready for something new. He even took a few of Cliff’s suggestions into consideration.
He’s just that mature. Sometimes.
Lars however is intent on ruling with an iron fist regarding his drum parts. He refuses to cut a needless fill. James is about to lose his mind. “Why don’t you just focus on playing in time? That’d be a good fuckin’ start.”
Lars doesn’t say anything, just stomps on his bass drum a few times. He’s not actively trying to be a douche, it’s just that James knows how to play drums. And waiting around for Lars to figure it out gets old as hell. He wants James’ sympathy but he wont get it.
“It’s too busy. It’s confusing the guitars.” He goes on when Lars doesn’t cop. He chugs half his beer. He looks to Kirk, who stares resolutely down at his guitar. “I just don’t like it.”
“You don’t like it. Okay, sure. Nobody else is allowed to have an opinion. Got it.” Lars says with a smart ass look on his face. One that James wants to smack off him.
“Not about this.”
“Go fuck yourself. It’s my fuckin’ band.” Lars scoffs. “You’re lucky you’re even here.”
Something inside James just snaps, and he grabs the China cymbal stand off the floor and throws it into Lars’ kit. The edge of the cymbal catches Lars on his hairline, at the perfect angle to split his skin open. Lars curses, slides his hand under his bangs, stares at the blood on his fingers when he retracts his hand.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” The way Lars looks at him makes his heart fall into his stomach.
“I—I didn’t—”
“Stay away from me.” Lars spits with a sneer as he leaves the room. He exchanges looks with Cliff and Kirk. Cliff just raises his hands, palms out, shaking his head like he wants nothing to do with their shit. He sighs, racks his guitar, and slinks off after Lars.
He finds him with ice cubes wrapped in a dish towel pressed to his head, lying on the couch. He looks impossibly tiny. James feels regret, doesn’t understand his own rage. Doesn’t understand what they do to each other.
“Lars?” James squeaks like a mouse.
“Thought I told you to get lost.”
“You okay?” He takes his chances and sits next to Lars’ hip on the couch, props himself up with an arm next to his head. He hesitates a second, reaches out to take the rag of ice, winces at the blood that stains the fabrics.
“I’ll live.” Lars scowls. “My ego, on the other hand. That may never recover.” He takes the ice back and holds it over the swollen cut. He’s not giving James an inch. He deserves it.
“Really. I didn’t mean to do it that hard.” James lets himself collapse forward, fits his head under Lars' chin. Tucks himself into that space and feels like a child, desperate for affection. For forgiveness he can’t ask for. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Okay.” Lars says easily, but doesn’t sound like he really buys that.
“Lars.” James squeezes his rib cage, trying to get closer yet. Lars’ arm that isn’t securing the ice to his wound curls around James’ shoulders.
“Okay.”
-
James and Lars hit the street looking for food. Recording all day worked up an appetite. They don’t wanna waste their money on the train, don’t wanna get busted for jumping the turnstile again, so they just walk until they happen upon some hole in the wall fast food place.
It’s not too busy at this time of night and it doesn’t take long for James to place their orders, pooling both their money together, while Lars snags them a seat. He stares at the back of James’ head as he waits at the pickup counter, all blonde waves, tight jeans, and thrashed sneakers. He duct-taped the sole back to the upper on one of the shoes. Lars thinks maybe they can skip beer for a week and buy James some new sneakers instead.
“Fucking finally. I’m starving.” Lars complains as James returns with the tray of food. Four burgers, two fries, two Cokes. James grunts in response as he plops down on the bench opposite, bathed in the neon glow of the burger joint sign. The leather of his jacket-clad elbows squeaks against the table top as he starts in on his half of the food.
“Holidays are coming up. Any plans?”
“My family wants nothing to do with me. What's left of it anyway.” James waves a dismissive hand before peeling back the bun on his burger to take off the pickles he specifically did not ask for.
“Why?”
“Dunno. Never really got along. I used to beat the fuck out of my little sister.”
“Kinda harsh, man.” Lars doesn’t have siblings, but he can’t really imagine treating them like that if he did. He can definitely imagine James doing it, though. Sometimes it seems like they couldn’t be any more different.
James shrugs, chewing a massive bite of his burger. “She gave it as good as she got it. She’s fine.” Lars gets a good look at the food in his mouth as he talks, grimacing as he watches James tear through the meat with all the subtlety of a zoo animal at feeding time.
“I think I might go home.” Lars drags a fry through a blob of ketchup in the corner of the cardboard boat.
“Newport Beach?” Fuck that. There’s a reason Lars split. He couldn’t stand the perpetual pissing contest that crowd was stuck in. Everyone was way too concerned with who his parents were, how much money he had, with how he dressed. And although he was on good terms with his parents, the wound of his father laughing in his face over his new life path was still a little too fresh.
“To Denmark.” James doesn’t say anything but his eyebrows pull together, low over his eyes. James’ eyes have a sort of dopey, sleepy quality to them naturally that Lars is enamored by. He takes a bite of his own burger and James sips his soda.
“You can’t.”
“Why not?” Lars can’t stop a little grin from splitting. “Miss me too much?” He makes kissy lips and smooching sounds over his burger at James who appears entirely unaffected by his antics.
“Band shit.”
“Oh. Band shit. Right, okay.” Lars laughs. “How could I forget?”