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| The Hills Ran Red; James/Lars, very light Kirk/Lars, R | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: February 20, 2011, 2:57 pm (6,096 Views) | |
| Jungleland | February 20, 2011, 2:57 pm Post #1 |
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HUG PEOPLE
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This is the fic I started for NaNoWriMo. Needless to say, I lost. It's far from being finished mostly because 1) I'm slow, 2) There's so much useless descriptions I can add to get to the word count, 3) I'm still hesitating about tons of plot points. But have what's written so far, and enjoy if you will (or give me some crit)Warnings: some sex stuff happens in later parts. Set sometime in 1996. I kinda messed up with the timeline as far as gigs go (but you don't care, do you lol) Inspired by something that actually happened to poor Larsy. -- "I'll fucking call you back." He doesn't take the time to glare at the phone. Finally surrounded by silence, Lars sighs. His fingers press against the pulsing arteries of his neck. He counts, staring at his watch and the glowing numbers of the elevator rapidly taking him to the fourth floor. Nobody ever told him how to really be sure whether his pulse was normal or frantic or dangerously frantic. He feels it's helping, though. He feels he has some kind of control over it. Over his fucking life. He can feel it so well in the hollow of his throat, just something bouncing rapidly over and over and over, threatening to stop at any given moment. It feels like his heart is downright in that throat, stuck there and frantically beating its way out. Images of blood spurting out of him and on the elevator doors make his hand shake. He thought his heart would finally give out during the show. One or two beats sounding too loud, with that terrible sound accompanying them. Murmurs they call it. They're too loud to be murmurs. They're nothing sweet like murmured words in his ear. That's love. They're death. They're death coming slowly to catch up with him. He managed to run away from it all those times... That one time. He remembers the cold. To live is to die... Lars snickers and lets his back bump against the wall. To live is to die, and die he did. Surrounded by all those people, but alone. Alone. Alone. They only watched. His hand shakes again. Would they say that about him too after finding his dead body in his hotel room, alone in his bed? 'One of your friends didn't make it'. 'One of the guys didn't make it'. 'Some guy didn't make it'. 'Uh? Someone's not here?' His heartbeat suddenly becomes stronger against his skin and his other hand flies to his throat. His breathing speeds up. No, no. Don't go crazy. Don't speed up. Don't go crazy. Berolig dig. The doctor told him to take it easy. Well, easy to say. He's not merely some businessman, some golden boy killing himself on Wall Street, he's the fucking drummer of fucking Metallica, and the world isn't going to still and wait for him to have a peaceful heartbeat. There's no time to waste. He could die right now. No time to waste. The doors finally slide open. Lars gets a glimpse of his reflection stepping out of the elevator. Nice hair, good subtle make up, shiny earrings. It looks good. It looks scared. The carpeted floor is red, like most of the walls. A nice red, warm and somehow powerful. The red of kings. His favorite color. The red of the carpet for celebrities to walk on, and here he comes. Ready to be found alone in his bed. Dead. Heart attack. Thirty two years old. How young, some people would say. Should have known that would happen, he used, some others would say. Yet another rockstar, aren't they supposed to die at 27? Would they say that? Who would take care of the press release? His cellphone chirps, like life support going crazy when the heart stops. Not fully taking it out of his pocket, Lars clings to it. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to be alone when it happens. At least. The phone quiets down. He makes a note in his mind to check who called later. Many people to call tomorrow. For now, he only needs to finally go to sleep. He doesn't want to be alone. He needs life next to him. Another heartbeat. A heartbeat not threatened by anything. He needs to be wrapped up in warmth and maybe, maybe he needs to be told everything is going to be alright. Protection. Strength. Fearlessness. And as he makes his way through the corridor, looking at the golden numbers on the doors and stopping in front of 4357, one person immediately flashes through his mind. Shit. Shit. He could. And he couldn't. He has slept with James before, multiple times. 1982, after downing all those beers high in the grey sky of New York City, when firing another band member actually proved heartbreaking, as much as it was their decision. Lars wasn't alone in his bed that night. He wasn't the one needing comfort either. 1984, keeping warm in Copenhagen, when the weather was harsh and James was missing his California. 1989, when they shared that groupie, and it ended up... It ended up with Lars waking up alone and James pretending nothing ever happened. His lower lip slips under his teeth. Can he go sleep with him now? With all that fucking tension between them? The insults and the King Nothings? And his body answers for him. That feeling in his stomach, it's fear. It's apprehension. It's the thought of James's glare. Of James's cheerful laugh. And it sends shudders down his spine. He's scared enough. His feet bring him to another room. Kirk will understand. Kirk will not care. A shaky breath, and Lars knocks. Nothing. He's reminded of the time they entered in Kirk's room still, interrupting his, what, cat fucking? He's reminded of Kirk shaking the life out of him and kicking him out. And like that time, Kirk doesn't answer the door. He chews on his lip some more. Sleeping with Kirk. It could fuel more interviews, more 'Lars and Kirk are totally gay for each others' rumors. They both take some kind of pleasure out of those. He likes kissing him. It feels nice. The guy is attractive. His lips are soft. He trusts him. And Lars knows it will never be anything more. He wouldn't be able to do the same with James because... James. It's gonna have to be James. There's no way he's asking fucking Jason for comfort. Slowly, one foot in front of the other and so on, he goes back to James's room. His fist hovers the thick door. His pulse knocks on the skin of his throat. He doesn't hear any sound from the inside of the room. Maybe James is out too. Fucking great. Everybody whines about being fucking sleepy but everybody goes the fuck out. His fingers fall on the door, three times. Lars wants to stop breathing. His heart thuds against his chest. No good. He's going to die there on James's doorstep. He imagines James checking how dead he really is with a kick of his boot. And the door opens without a sound. Blue eyes look him up and down. James frowns, sips on his beer and says, "What?" |
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| Isis | February 20, 2011, 2:59 pm Post #2 |
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TEA + CUDDLES
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alsdf;alksdglskjgaskl;jgkljigjes;lsmdlavkdflsjlkdsl;dk;lskfkdjslsj sdfjkgjfjgsd fjsdf sldjf ;______________________________;;;;; omg omg omg omg omg omg omg I LOVE YOU. I LOVE THIS. GODDAMN IT WOMAN POST AND WRITE MORE. |
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| ElisabethOrion | February 20, 2011, 3:18 pm Post #3 |
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I'm creatively constipated.
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SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL I luff this. CONTINUE!
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| Lilith | February 20, 2011, 4:49 pm Post #4 |
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♥ Jaimelicious ♥
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OMG! What is happening to Lars? ![]() More! :horns2
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| larscriancinha | February 20, 2011, 8:08 pm Post #5 |
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Larsybaby
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Sounds interesting so far, I love it. Can't wait to see what happends next.
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| Jik Hyun | February 20, 2011, 11:39 pm Post #6 |
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Poor Twisted Me
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awww our poor little pastry. |
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| Jungleland | February 21, 2011, 3:06 am Post #7 |
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HUG PEOPLE
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lol he is a poor little pastry. And glad you all like -- He thinks it's for band business. And how much has James changed since the last time they shared a bed. Almost the same changes he went through himself—at least physically. And there is that something in James's eyes lately, that little glow that makes him look... James clears his throat. Lars keeps his eyes on the wolf pendant. "I...You know how I went to see some doctor the other day because there's something wrong with my fucking heart and he told me I have those heart fucking murmurs and I'm just..." He passes a hand through his hair. "I also, I have palpitations and shit and, you know, it's when your heart beats so fucking loud and you feel it in your fucking throat and I'm, I'm scared I could have a heart attack or some shit like that and, um..." "Get on with it." Another noisy sip. "Can I stay with you tonight?" His eyes finally look higher than the wolf. The frown is still there, and the corner of James's mouth twitches. "You mean..." "Just sleeping with you. No—" "How's sleeping with me gonna change anything?" I'll feel safe. "I just don't want to be alone." James stares for a while. He glances at the corridor, behind Lars. Then, "What about Kirk?" Lars's eyes go to the red of the floor. "Not here." They both know where they stand now. James would rather have him sleep with Kirk. And he, he obviously went to Kirk first. Is that doing anything for James? He shouldn't have knocked on his door. He knew it. He can't even listen to his fucking self. "Um, okay. Fuck. I'm sorry, James. I shouldn't have asked. Of course it wouldn't change anything. You know better than me, uh. And I know you wouldn't be comfortable—" James's feet disappear from his view in the middle of his speech, with the door still open. Lars stands there, looking at James's back already far into the room. And James says, "Well?" Get in. Never looking away from James, Lars steps forward and closes the door behind him. The click is clear in the silent room. Never looking at him, James throws the can of Coors away and disappears into the little bathroom with one long stride. So here he is now. The pillows have already been shuffled around, bending a bit against the headboard of the bed. The mattress doesn't bounce when Lars sits on it as silently as he entered the room. He closes his fist on the brown blanket, and looks around. The shades aren't down. The TV is on, but on mute. A woman is talking excitedly about something that seems to be hilarious. He knows how to pretend someone important just said the funniest thing ever, himself. A bright smile. A look right in their eyes. A tap on the shoulder. You're so funny, dude. You're so funny and I need something from you. Eyes back at focusing on the pillows, his heart speeds up a little. He's going to sleep in James's bed. He's going to die in James's bed. Loud steps signal him James is coming back into the room. He throws his black t-shirt in the vinicity of the only chair of the room, and his hands go to his belt buckle. Lars starts undoing the buttons of his own shirt, one by one. "You're not sleeping in my bed fucking naked." Lars nods. He can only see James's back again. It feels like a bad, nervous first time. He had been too drunk to be nervous that night in 1989. Nervosity only came in the morning, with a nice female body curled against him but no James. His hip still remembered the weight of an heavy arm. He still remembered falling asleep with a breath smelling like beer and something else on his neck, his back glued to another body with sweat. And blue eyes are on him. Lars feels them as he slips under the white sheets. Like slipping into his own white shroud. His shirt is a red puddle next to the bed. The light goes off. James is still walking around, moving things, putting the sound of the TV back on. And then he's next to Lars, blanket and sheets only covering the lower part of his body. He bends an arm, rests his head against the headboard. Whatever is hilarious doesn't make him want to laugh along. Lars expected more questions—why are you scared, so what if you sleep alone, do you just want to get into my pants—but James doesn't ask questions, does he? And his presence feels so familiar. That warmth Lars wants to crawl into. It'd wrap around him. A shield of some sort. That's what he needs. Minutes pass, Lars absently looking at the moving pictures of the small screen. When his gaze shifts to James again, he sees the eyelids closed and his chest calmly rise up. James's heart is fine. The arm fell back down on the bed, reaching his own pillow. Then he turns, with a soft sound, maybe a word. The lights of the television dance on his naked back. It's tempting. To get closer. Lars watches him breathe, listening to the murmurs, listening to his own heart, and waiting for it to stop. He slides closer. The faint sound his body makes against the mattress is covered by the sound of commercials. Ear against his pillow like that, he can hear what's going on inside his chest so well. His heart beats loudly. The other sounds are right there with the beats. They go higher up, inside his throat. And his chest hurts. His breathing gets labored. His chest hurts. His neck hurts. Fuck. His hand shoots to James's back. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. He's dying. He's dying and he needs James to tell him that he's not. "Wake up," he whispers. A fake whisper, one as loud as any quiet voice. His hand shakes against a shoulderblade. What would James look like, waking up next to his dead body? He never even thought about that. What would James look like? Right now, James is rolling on his back, groaning. He squints at Lars, whose hand is lying close, so close to his own hand. "I-I think I am—" A gruff voice cuts him off. "You're okay, Lars." Knuckles suddenly touch his neck, pressing a little. They stare at each other. And Lars's breathing calms down, little by little. James's knuckles slide away. Lars wants them back. There's still a weight inside his throat, there's still a pulsing heart wanting to get out. Lights of the TV still dance on James, painting him white and blue. He says with the same voice, "Go back to sleep." He yawns, and his eyelids flutter shut. And Lars says, "Okay," eventhough he never fell asleep in the first place. Eventhough he doesn't want to close his eyes when he sees James doesn't roll back on his other side, but faces him, closer to him. Those fingers that checked his pulse, checked if he was going to live, closer to him. Lars lets his own fingers brush against them and stay there. Edited by Jungleland, February 21, 2011, 3:08 am.
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| Isis | February 21, 2011, 3:30 am Post #8 |
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TEA + CUDDLES
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NO AMOUNT OF KEYBOARD SMASHING CAN EXPRESS MY LOVE FOR THIS I HOPE YOU KNOW THAT. The imagery. Lars' fucking hypochondria. James. YOUR JAMES. THEIR DIALOGUE. I CANNOT EVEN klajsdf;salkdjfaklsjdf god. GOD. ;_________;
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| larscriancinha | February 21, 2011, 3:34 am Post #9 |
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Larsybaby
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Amazing. Plain and simple. Absolutely amazing.
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| ElisabethOrion | February 21, 2011, 4:00 am Post #10 |
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I'm creatively constipated.
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Just jklfhskdjhagefjkvngbbfgj *dead liz* Continue? I wanna see what happens in that bed....
Edited by Trinnyallica, February 21, 2011, 5:35 am.
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| Jik Hyun | February 21, 2011, 2:13 pm Post #11 |
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Poor Twisted Me
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this chapt almost made me cry. |
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| Jungleland | February 21, 2011, 5:43 pm Post #12 |
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HUG PEOPLE
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Flattered it moved you that much. Almost nothing happens in this part. lol -- His hand searches for a warm body before his eyes even open. The sheets are not cold yet, but the bed is empty next to Lars. He's alive, though. He made it through the night. And with the sun half-blinding him, he listens to his heart again. It beats at a normal pace--what seems to be normal, anyway. The murmurs are there, subtle. The planning of the day comes to his mind, each hour checked with each heartbeat. Wake up. Check calls. Call back. Eat--optional. Car. Setlist. Catering. Business. Call more. White wine. Tuning. Arguing with Jason. Break. Arguing with James. Sells. Setlist. Make up. Show. Encore. Taps on the backs. Trip back. Hotel. Heart attack. Noises behind him make him turn, spreading his arms and legs on the mattress. The bed is all for him after all. And it's too early to actually get up. Once again, the TV is on mute. James is standing next to it, towel going back and forth in his hair mechanically. Lars tries to focus on his face, and not to follow the path of soapy drops down his chest. There are slight shadows under his eyes. And that blank look. You won't know what the fuck is going through my mind, it says. Then his eyebrows go up. "Alive? Ready to go back to your own room?" Lars frowns. "Give me a few fucking minutes..." "So it turns into a few hours, uh. Get the fuck out of bed." He grumbles, but starts to move. One leg slips out. "You could have slept without your fucking jeans." And why is James more talkative in the fucking morning? "You said..." But James is already back in the bathroom. A roll of his eyes, and Lars picks up his shirt. It smells like the floor, a mix of dust and whatever they use to clean it. He's gonna have to go get another shirt in his room. Away from the safety of James's. And once he's ready to leave, still alone in the room, he slowly walks to the bathroom. He stops before he can enter, standing right where James was standing a few minutes ago. With his shoes on he can't feel if the floor is still wet from the water that was still dripping off the long legs. "James?" There's barely any sound inside. Water running. He can see the yellow light, a bit of the white wall. "Uh, thank you for letting me stay." Nothing. A sigh, and he goes to the door. ** It's now--now that he doesn't need him--that Kirk is here, waiting for the same elevator. All prettied up. Lars winces when the woman on the other end of the line snaps at him with a high-pitched voice. "I don't fucking care. You want Metallica, you do what Metallica wants." Not giving her the time to destroy his tympans some more, he smashes the grey button and abruptly stuffs the cellphone in the small pocket of his leather jacket. Kirk doesn't look away from the doors of the elevator when he steps close. "Where the fuck were you last night?" Now that makes him look at Lars. "That club we saw when we came here. At the other end of the city. Dark something. Why?" Can he tell him? Should he tell him? Can he sleep with James again tonight? "Nothing. I just like to know where my guitarist is." And Kirk laughs. "He was having tons of fun." As they eventually step in the small space, Lars gets another glimpse of his reflection. Looking good. And it doesn't look so scared. The restaurant is practically empty. Jason is already sitting there, looking intently at the menu while rubbing one of his eyes when Kirk sprawls on the chair next to him and takes a peek at his menu, leaning over his shoulder. Facing them, Lars simultaneously grabs another menu and his cellphone. Three calls off the list. One will probably never call back. And there's that woman he will never call back. Fuck. They're not just some new band from LA. His eyes skip over the black letters on white paper, and he frowns. "Why don't they have a fucking continental breakfast in there?" "Because it tastes like shit." Something goes wrong in his chest--and in his stomach--at the sound of that voice. Then there's that laugh. Unlike Kirk, James doesn't lean over his shoulder to see the menu (not that he would really need to lean in much), as if he already perfectly knew what he was going to get in his plate. He sits, taking as much space as possible. His elbow bumps into Lars. And "Yeah?" Lars says. "Fuck you. You fucking Americans have no tastebuds." Coffee. He can't drink his usual coffee. Bad for the heart. Bad for his life. The others give their orders to the blonde waitress who walked slowly to them and is giving them a lazy look. She doesn't know who they are, does she. Kirk asks for black tea. Right. Tea. Tea is better than coffee. "You have peach black tea, right?" "Uh... We probably do. Yes." Probably. Lars has the time to call the fourth person on his list before she comes back with their respective breakfasts. He finishes the call with the usual flow of polite words reserved for succesful conversations, and stares into his tea. Calm water. Next to him, James is already avidly munching on his bacon and pancakes and hot peaches. Peaches. The smells mingle between them. He lets his eyes close for a while. |
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| Lilith | February 21, 2011, 5:46 pm Post #13 |
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♥ Jaimelicious ♥
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I loved this... it's so 'them'. :horns2
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| Isis | February 21, 2011, 5:58 pm Post #14 |
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TEA + CUDDLES
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YES YES yeslkjfs;lkjaks;lhgjkl;s jLKFJL:SDj lsgkjsl; JFlsDJ F:S JLFKjslkdf jflsd;gljsl;ag jalsjg als jals jdlfj Lars. His dialogue. James. His actions. Their tension. Lars' angst. His mannerisms. I CANNOT EVEN. lSKDFJlkjf ;________; I think every time you update it's just going to be me going SLDKFJSLKDFJ the entire time. Just saying.
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| larscriancinha | February 21, 2011, 7:42 pm Post #15 |
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Larsybaby
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Love it. Love them. Continueee. |
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(or give me some crit)









8:47 PM Jul 10