Hit the Lights

Title: Hit the Lights - Chapter 1
Author/Pseudonym: ScrewTheDaisies
Email: herself@heathergwells.com
Archive: Please ask
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction based loosely on the public personas of the members of the band Metallica. No harm or impeachment is intended by this work.
Summary: James and Lars: the early years.


Lars regarded James as he lay stretched across Lars's bed reading the July issue of Sounds Magazine. Rereading it, actually. This had to be the third time he'd poured over this particular issue. Sitting down on the bed next to him, Lars wondered if his album collection and the fact that all the good magazines showed up in his mailbox were the only reasons James even came around.

Oh, and then there was that track he'd secured them on Brian Slagel's new label. Hit the fucking Lights. Who the fuck else could have done that for him?

He reached over James's head and grabbed the bottle of Jack off the night stand. As he brought the bottle back over, intending to drink off it himself, James reached up, without even taking his eyes off the page, and snatched it out of Lars's hand. He took a good pull before handing it over, and then he went back to the article.

Lars leaned over and looked at the page James had the magazine open to. "A Diamond is a Hard Rock," it said right below the picture of Diamond Head. He wanted to ask him, sarcastically, if there was anything new in the article since last he'd read it, but he didn't bother. The music was blaring; he'd have to yell, and then James would say, "What?" and he'd have to repeat the question, only louder, and by the time he finally got all the words across to James, the joke would have fallen flat.

Fuck it. He swallowed back some Jack, turning his face away so James wouldn't see the grimace when he lowered the bottle. Nasty, nasty shit. Definitely an acquired taste. Give me brandy, give me gin, give me vodka, but please don't give me any more of this Tennessee crap. He could complain, but James'd just say, "Fine, we'll switch to Southern Comfort." Fucking yay.

Who was he kidding? He could have bought anything he wanted, but he bought this crap, and he did it because J lik liked it. He set the bottle on the bed between them and slid down until he was lying on his side, his head propped on his hand.

Holding the magazine in front of his face with one hand, James beat his thigh with the fingers of his other hand in time with Iron Maiden's "I've Got the Fire." Lars's gaze trailed from the faded, tight denim under James's fingers down to the soft threads that crisscrossed the hole at his knee and the patches of flesh that showed through.

Fuck. It was now or never. He'd come up with this plan weeks ago and had been waiting for just the right situation. If this wasn't it--with the liquor flowing and the music going--then the right situation didn't exist. Lars leaned the bottle against James's side, then he flopped over and felt under the bed. His fingers caught the corner of the magazine he'd slipped under there for just this occasion. He teased it out and laid his hand on it. This was it. Now or never. He picked it up, rolled back over, and slipped the magazine in front of James, on top of the page he was currently rng. ng. James's eyebrows slid up, a goofy grin split his face, and the Sounds Magazine went sliding to the floor.

Lars fell onto his back, his arm crooked under his head. He pulled the bottle of Jack Daniels next to him and stared at the ceiling, his foot tapping back and forth in time with the music. He wondered how long he should give it. He'd tried flipping through the magazine himself to see how long it might take a guy to get aroused by all the naked, busty Swedish women, but he'd been so excited thinking about _why_ he was looking through the magazine in the first place that it was impossible for him to judge the magazine's effectiveness.

He risked a glance at James, his eyes falling first on the page James had the magazine open to--two busty blonde Swedish women showing off their tits, which were spilling out of the cups of their matching pink bras--and then sliding down to James's crotch.

Lars's lips parted as his gaze traced the bulge in those tight jeans.

Fuck. Okay. He could do this. He sat up on one elbow and drew some more liquid courage out of the bottle of Jack, gasping after he swallowed it down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. James held his hand out, fingers curled, waiting for Lars to press the bottle into his palm. He did, and then he watched James drink, mesmerized by the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. James held the bottle back out to him and Lars shook his head, which James didn't see, so he pressed James's hand, and the bottle in it, to James's side. Then he settled on his side, stretched out alongside James.

Slowly, he slid his hand across the space between them, the fabric of the bedspread feeling smooth and warm as his palm slipped over it. He tried not to look up at James for fear that James would feel his eyes on him and look over questioningly. Instead, he stared at the side of the magazine, the roll that the already flipped pages made. He saw part of a woman, mostly her ass. Then James turned the page and flipped the magazine over. Lars stared at the page edges now. One of his fingers bumped into James's thigh. Lars stopped, the muscles in his arm tense and already starting to ache. He held his breath. James took his hand off the bottle of Jack, swiped hair out of his face, and then let his hand fall back, his thumb hooking the neck, his fingers sprawling casually over the square body of the bottle.

Lars picked his fingers up and then set them down on James's thigh, right at the top. His thumb brushed James's hip bone.

Everything seemed to go quiet, despite the noise pouring out of the stereo. Lars felt James freeze beside him. He refused to pull his gaze up to James's face, but he imagined that if he did he'd be confronted by a pair of wide and horrified eyes.

Lars took a slow, deep breath and then moved his hand an inch--a _fraction_ of an inch--across the front of James's thigh.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

He heard it clearly, even over the music. James's hips slid away from him. Not far. Lars's fingertips still rested on taut denim. Barely.

James's voice may have carried over Iron Maiden, but Lars knew there was no way his own would do the same. And what would he say? Instead, he looked up into those uneasy blue eyes and pressed his finger to his lips. Then he took his fingers off James's thigh and pulled the magazine, which James was holding away, back. He raised it--still clutched in one of James's hands--up in front of James's face. James peeked out from behind it. Lars jerked the magazine back in front of his face.

Warily, James settled back. Lars gave him half a minute to get comfortable before placing his hand on the bulge that hadn't disappeared despite James's sudden panic. Lars saw the fingers that gripped the magazine--James was using both hands to hold it now--tighten. Emboldened, Lars cupped his hand and ran his thumb over the top of the bulge.

He'd lain in bed--this very bed--many nights and reached down and stroked his cock, pretending it was James's, always wondering just what exactly it would really feel like if it were James's. He pressed his hand down on the real thing now, squeezing it through the denim. He shifted his hips, his own jeans quite full at this point. He couldn't fucking believe this was happening.

His thumb slipped up under the button of James's jeans, then his finger came up and the button popped out of its hole. Lars froze, waiting for a response. A small crease grew slowly across the backside of the magazine.

Lars fumbled the zipper pull down. More than James's pants opened up in that moment; a whole world came open under Lars's hand. Lars slipped his fingers under the flap of denim and against the heat of James's body.

Suddenly, James's hand flashed down and closed around Lars's wrist. Looking up, Lars saw that James still hid his face behind the magazine. He chewed the inside of his cheek, contemplating, before deciding to take the chance. Ignoring James's grip on his wrist, he slid his fingers down over James's briefs, his fingertips almost going numb as they skated over the coarse cotton. Then he cupped his palm over James's cock and gave it a squeeze.

James's fingers loosened, just a little, but didn't let go. Lars ducked his head, even though James couldn't see him through the magazine, and smiled. Grinned. His face prickled, growing warm. He snuck a peek up at James, but saw instead a folded over page of the magazine.

How far could he go? Should he get his hand into James's underwear and jerk him off quickly before James came to his senses and decked him, or should he take advantage of what could be a once in a lifetime opportunity? His heart pounded. He felt like he was going to explode--not his cock, but his entire being. It was one thing to think up a plan and maybe arrange things so that you could set your plan into motion; it was another thing altogether to have the fucking plan work.

He told himself to calm the fuck down. This thing was a long ways from over and James, his hand encircling Lars's wrist, could put an end to it at any time. One wrong move and he'd find himself alone with his magazines and his record collection, and possibly a broken jaw.

Lars rubbed his thumb over the head of James's cock, biting his lip as a circle of moisture blossomed across the fabric that separated the two men. James's fingers tightened on his wrist again, but Lars didn't back off. He flattened his palm over James's cock and slid his hand upward, letting his hand curve over the head and pull at it as he brought his back down the cloth-covered shaft.

Then James took his hand back, apparently on the guise of having to turn the page of his magazine. The fact that James had been staring intently at the same page for the past two minutes hadn't escaped Lars's attention. He grinned again and this time, as he pulled his hand back down over James's shaft, he drew the band of his underwear back with it, if only an inch or two. Enough to expose the sensitive tip of James's cock. The next time his hand came back up the shaft, his fingers curved over flesh. James's cock twitched. James flipped the magazine over. Lars glanced up and grinned. The pages were starting to bend in the middle from the tightness of James's grip.

Holding James's underwear out of the way with his thumb, Lars leaned forward and set his other hand lightly on James's stomach, feeling the soft cloth of James's t-shirt under his fingers and the edge of the magazine lighting scraping on top. Without giving James a chance to get upset about the fingertips poking out from under his magazine, Lars ran his tongue over the head of James's cock. James's stomach jumped a little under his hand. He smiled and slipped his tongue over it again.

Then he rolled over a little, sliding one of his legs off the bed, trapping his own cock between his body and the edge of the mattress. He ground his hips and dug his fingers into James's t-shirt. Then he slipped his hand underneath, letting it rest on James's warm flesh. Twisting his head, he shoved his tongue under James's cock and pulled it up into his mouth.

Shit. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He rubbed his cock against the edge of the mattress again. Holy fucking Jesus fucking shit. He had James's cock in his mouth, just an inch or so but it was fucking there, dripping fucking precum onto his tongue. Holy fucking shit. His thumb jerked at the underwear band, freeing another two inches of cock, which he gulped into his mouth. He sealed his lips over it and ran his tongue around the head, circling it, exploring it, memorizing it, all the time thinking "holy fucking shit." He slid his free hand, the one on James's stomach, down to hold the underwear out of the way, pulling it back another two inches and gobbling up the newly exposed area of shaft. That freed up a hand to reach down and rip open the button on his own pants. Then he tried to stuff his hand inside, but it was too tight. He had to back up and force the zipper down. He'd skipped underwear that morning--had skipped underwear a lot of mornings since coming up with this pland and his cock bounced free of its confines on its own. He closed his fist over it and moaned as he pushed his nose into James's underwear, his jeans. One flap of the fly brushed his cheek while the zipper on the other flap pressed into the other side of his face. And that all made it that much fucking better: these were James's jeans, _James's_ fucking faded, tight, holey jeans, and James's BVD briefs, and this was James's cock in his mouth and James wasn't doing a thing to stop this.

Fuck: how far could he go? He slipped his mouth off James, sliding his hand up the shaft and holding it. How far? He slid his body up alongside James's, keeping James's cock firmly in his fist. This was the first look he had of James's face since he'd really gotten started. It was stony, staring straight into the magazine. His jaw was clenched. The triangle of forehead that showed through his hair shone.

Sensing he'd studied James about as long as James would allow, Lars ducked his face under James's shoulder. Then he slid his shin over James's leg and stroked James's cock a few times. Then, without raising his head, he let go and reached up for James's hand, grabbing it by the side, next to the thumb, and guiding it off the magazine and down to his own cock. He closed James's fingers around it and gave a squeeze of encouragement before letting go and returning his attention to James's cock.

It took a few seconds, but then James's hand started to move, slowly at first, and too loose, but Lars moved his hips into James's fist, encouraging, and James's technique improved. Soon he was matching Lars's strokes. Lars bit down on the pillow. The air between James's arm and the pillow was hot. He felt like he was suffocating, but no way was he going to move. James's shoulder pressed into the back of his cheekbone with every upstroke. God, it was too fucking good.

Suddenly, James's cock swelled in Lars's hand and James's hips thrust upward and stayed there. And then Lars felt warmth running over the side of his thumb as James's body shuddered. Holy shit. Holy fucking--

James let go of Lars's cock, rolled off the bed--spilling the magazine to the floor--and dashed out of the room.

"Shit," Lars said, rolling onto his back, his hand falling to rest lightly on his cock. "Shit."

He sat up, swung his legs off the bed, pressed his elbows into his knees and ran his hands over his face. His nostrils flared at the s of of sex drying on his thumb. He rubbed it with the fingers of his other hand.

"Shit."

He stood and did up his pants. Then he opened a drawer in his dresser. How many times had he been hot and horny over some warped thing, then jerked off and suddenly...bam!, whatever he'd thought was so fucking hot crawled away from his mind, leaving him feeling half embarrassed? And that was fucking masturbating. This was...this was a whole other deal. And James was a whole other person. Lars couldn't even pretend to comprehend the enormity what had just happened in James's mind.

There wasn't much he could do now, but he was willing to try anything. Thank God you could half the time only get concert t-shirts in large. He grabbed one from his drawer, changed his mind and rooted for a better one, and then cranked down the stereo and left the room.

He rapped on the bathroom door.

"Go away."

Lars dropped his head, stared at the crack at the bottom of the door. "I brought you a clean shirt. Hand out your other one and I'll put it in the laundry."

A long moment passed, and then he heard shuffling. The door opened a few inches. James's hand came out, offering a wadded up shirt. Lars replaced it with the clean Judas Priest shirt from his dresser.

"Okay, I'm going to go put this in the laundry, then," he called as the door closed. He listened for another minute. He heard soft sounds, then water being turned on. He wanted to rap on the door again, call out "I'm sorry," but he forced his feet to carry him down the hall instead. He wasn't sorry, and he wasn't ready for this to be the end of it, either.

In the utility room, he smoothed James's shirt on top of the washing machine. For a minute he considered balling it back up and hiding it in a corner, telling James that it would have to wait until there was a full load or some bullshit, but he didn't want a fucking souvenir; he wanted a next time. He picked up the lid of the washer and dropped the shirt in. After adding soap and setting the dial, he brushed his hands together and turned around.

James, hulking in the doorway with the bottle of Jack dangling from his fingers, startled him, he recovered quickly.

"Looks good on you." He nodded at the Judas Priest shirt. "You should keep it." Keep it. Keep anything. How pitiful can you get?

James reached up and slammed the door frame with his open palm. "Why the fuck did you have to do that?"

"I--"

"We were getting our fucking shit together. The fucking track on the compilation album, we were gonna get gigs...why the fuck did you fuck it up?"LarsLars was relieved: this was talking and talking was good; he could talk his way out of anything. Even this, he was sure of it. Hitting he wasn't so good at, but this....

"I know. I fucked up. Too much fucking Jack and I was daydreaming about groupies and the Swedish women in that mag and I got a fucking woody, then I looked over and--"

"Mistook me for a chick?"

"--and saw that you were in the same predicament."

"So...what? You didn't think of saying, 'Hey, James, lets go pick up some chicks?'"

Lars grimaced. "Fucking-A. You know what that's fucking like. We spend half the night trying to find two that'll give us the fucking time of day, and then we spend the other half of the night watching them giggle into their hands and whisper to each other. Finally we decide to make a move and we're lucky to get our tongues down their throats. They complain about us being octopuses with our hands everywhere, but I don't know what they're fucking complaining about because their hands are always there first, blocking the fucking way. Then all of the sudden they cut you off and say, 'I need to go home now. I have to get up in the morning and go to school or work or whatthefuckever.' It's fucking frustrating and we both drag ourselves home with blue balls. Fuck, James, our dicks were hard and it had nothing to do with each other, we're just guys and that's the way it is. I guess I thought...you know, just fucking take care of it and get on with shit. Right? I didn't mean to fuck up our whole careers. I don't even fucking think I did fuck up our whole careers. It was a fucking incident, that's all. It's behind us. Right?"

James lifted the bottle to his mouth, tipped his head back, and took three long swallows. Then he lowered the bottle back to his side and leaned against the doorframe.

"Come on, James, you're fucking right about where we are. Shit is coming together. Don't let my fucking stupidity get in our way."

James shook his head. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I don't like that shit." His eyes came up to meet Lars's, flashing for a moment. "I'm not a fucking queer. I'm not into men."

Lars put his hands up. "I know. I fucking...me neither."

James nodded. Stuffed the fingers of his free hand into the front pocket of his jeans. He studied the floor. Finally he said, "So no more of this shit."

"No more."

"And nobody ever fucking hears of this."

Lars pantomimed zipping his lips shut. Then he said, "Not a word. Ever. I promise."

James took another pull off the bottle. Then he handed it to Lars, who took it and held it.

James said, "I've gotta go."

Lars nodded. He followed James out. At the front door, he said, "So, I'll see you for practice tomorrow. Your place, with Ron and Lloyd. Right?"

James lifted the back of his hand on his way out the door.

~Continued in chapter 2~