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The backstage area hummed with chaos. Roadies lugged equipment, voices shouted over the din of distortion checks, and somewhere nearby, a beer can exploded, drawing a round of half-hearted cheers.
The smell was a pungent mix of sweat, stale beer, hot asphalt, and the sharp tang of cigarette smoke—thick and inescapable. The sun, relentless and merciless, hung high in the sky, baking the festival grounds into a dust-choked cauldron.
Jason was feeling every second of it.
He shifted his weight against a stack of speakers, fiddling with his bass strap for the hundredth time. The leather creaked under his fingertips as he adjusted it, then adjusted it again.
He wasn't even supposed to be holding his bass—there was no reason for it, really—but it was better than standing there empty-handed. His heart was hammering harder than the band on stage, and he didn't know if it was the heat or the pressure or something else entirely.
He told himself it was the heat.
But his eyes kept flicking sideways.
Dave Mustaine stood just a few feet away, the very picture of disdainful chaos. His scuffed leather jacket hung open, his jeans slung low on narrow hips, and a cigarette dangled from his lips like it had grown there.
His copper-red hair was a wild mane, catching the sunlight and glowing like a crown of fire. He was tearing into a hapless roadie, his voice sharp and cutting as he gestured toward a gear case that had clearly been placed in the wrong spot.
The roadie looked about two seconds away from quitting.
Jason couldn't look away.
He knew he shouldn't.
The warnings had been burned into his brain from the day he joined Metallica. Don't talk to Mustaine. Don't look at Mustaine. Don't breathe near Mustaine. Hetfield's voice echoed like a ghost. „He's not your problem, Newkid. You don't want that drama. Trust me."
Jason trusted him.
But that didn't stop his eyes from wandering.
He watched the sharp lines of Dave's profile, the way his mouth curled in a perpetual scowl, the way his hands moved—quick, precise, almost elegant—as he pointed and jabbed at the offending piece of equipment.
His fingers were long, slender, but there was a tension in them, like they were meant for something more violent than holding a cigarette.
Jason felt a knot tighten in his chest.
He didn't notice when Dave stopped talking. He didn't notice the roadie scurry away like a mouse escaping a trap. He didn't notice anything until it was too late.
Dave turned.
Their eyes met.
Jason's breath caught.
For a moment, the world seemed to tilt. The noise, the heat, the chaos—all of it faded into a distant hum. All he could see were those eyes—sharp, piercing, brown eyes with a glint of something dangerous.
A smirk tugged at the corner of Dave's mouth, slow and deliberate, as if he already knew every secret Jason had ever tried to hide.
„You got a problem, Metallica?"
Jason felt his stomach drop to somewhere below his boots.
„No! I—I mean, no, sir... uh..." His mouth went dry, his tongue felt thick. He swallowed hard, eyes darting away, then snapping back like a moth to a flame. „No."
Dave arched a brow.
„Sir?" The word rolled off his tongue like it tasted bad.
Jason cringed.
Dave took his time with his cigarette, taking a long, slow drag before flicking it to the ground. He ground it under his boot with a lazy twist, the smirk never leaving his face.
„You always this nervous, or is it just me?"
Jason opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. „I'm not nervous."
The water bottle in his hand slipped from his sweaty fingers and hit the ground with a dull thud that sounded louder than a cannon shot in his ears.
Dave's eyes followed the bottle, then flicked back up to Jason's face.
„Right."
Jason bent to grab it, fumbling like a man trying to pick up marbles with boxing gloves. His hands felt huge and useless, and he was sweating bullets by this point. He cursed under his breath and shoved the bottle into the crook of his arm as he straightened.
„Relax, man." Dave muttered, shaking his head with a bemused sigh. He crossed his arms over his chest, the leather creaking faintly with the movement. „Jesus. You're wound tighter than a damn snare."
Jason forced a chuckle that sounded more like a death rattle. „Yeah, well... it's a big day."
Dave cocked his head. „Big day?"
„Big crowd." Jason blurted. "A lot of people."
Dave's smirk deepened. „You're scared of a crowd?"
„No!" It came out too fast, too loud. Jason flinched at his own voice. He tried to laugh again, but it came out strangled. „I just meant... it's different when you're... new."
„New?" Dave's eyes narrowed. He tilted his head, his hair falling over one eye. „How long have you been with them now?"
Jason swallowed hard. „Almost two years."
„Huh." Dave's smirk faded a little, replaced by something closer to curiosity. „Still feel like the rookie, huh?"
Jason nodded. His grip on the bottle tightened. „Yeah."
„Figures.." Dave muttered. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His fingers tangled in it for a moment before he pulled free. „You've got Hetfield and Ulrich breathing down your neck all the time. That'll do it."
Jason didn't know what to say.
„I don't hate you, you know." Dave added, almost as an afterthought.
Jason blinked. „You don't?"
„Nah." Dave shrugged. „I've got beef with them." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the stage. „Not you. You're just... collateral damage."
Jason's heart skipped. He didn't know if that was better or worse.
„Oh."
„Yeah." Dave sighed, glancing away like he was already done with the conversation. „So stop acting like I'm gonna bite your head off."
Jason managed a weak smile. „I wasn't—"
„You were."
„...Yeah."
Dave's lips twitched.
„Relax, Newkid." He turned to leave, but paused, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk that was almost—almost—kind.
„See you around, Metallica."
Jason watched him walk away, heart still racing.
He let out a breath.
Oh, man... I'm screwed.
-
The festival grounds had finally begun to quiet. Most of the crowd had dispersed into the night—drunk, sweaty, and deafened by the onslaught of music.
The air still hung heavy with heat, but the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving a bruised sky in its wake. Lights strung up near the catering tents flickered lazily, casting long shadows over the tables strewn with half-empty cups and abandoned plates.
Jason lingered at the edge of it all, clenching a can of warm soda in his hand, staring into the dark, trying to shake the embarrassment of his earlier encounter with Dave.
His fingers drummed nervously against the aluminum, his mind replaying every stammered word, every fumbled movement, every painfully obvious sign that he'd made a complete fool of himself.
„Relax.." he muttered to no one. „You're fine. It's done. He probably doesn't even remember."
But I do.
He remembered the sharpness of Dave's smirk, the way his eyes seemed to cut right through him, the effortless swagger that Jason had no hope of matching. He remembered the smell of leather and smoke and something darker, something that made his stomach twist in a way he didn't entirely understand.
And now, standing in the flickering half-light, Jason spotted him again.
Dave was alone, seated on a folding chair near the edge of the catering area. A worn acoustic guitar rested across his lap, its strings gleaming faintly in the low light.
He plucked at them lazily, the sound soft and strange against the backdrop of distant laughter and clinking beer bottles. His head was bowed, red hair falling like a curtain around his face, his expression hidden.
Jason's heart stuttered.
He told himself to walk away. Leave it. Don't make it worse.
But his feet moved anyway.
Before he could stop himself, he was standing in front of Dave, the soda can sweating in his hand. His mouth went dry as he watched Dave's fingers slide over the frets with effortless precision, each note ringing out like a secret meant only for him.
Dave didn't look up right away.
„What do you want now, Newsted?"
Jason's breath caught. His brain short-circuited. Every carefully rehearsed line vanished.
„I think you're amazing."
The words hung in the air like a live wire.
Dave's fingers stilled. The strings buzzed softly before falling silent. He slowly raised his head, brown eyes narrowing as they locked onto Jason.
„What?"
Jason felt heat flood his face. His pulse thundered in his ears. Too much. You said too much.
„Your riffs!" he blurted, voice cracking. „Your solos. You. You're—brilliant. And I—" He swallowed hard, gripping the can like it might explode. „I can't stop thinking about you, okay? I know I'm not supposed to talk to you, but I couldn't help it, and now I'm making this worse, so I'm just gonna—"
He turned, ready to flee.
A hand caught his arm.
Dave's grip wasn't rough, but it was firm. His fingers curled just enough to stop Jason in his tracks.
Jason froze, his breath hitching as he felt the warmth of Dave's hand through his shirt. He didn't dare turn around. His heart raced so fast it hurt.
There was a long, heavy silence.
„You..." Dave's voice was quiet, rough at the edges. „You think about me?"
Jason closed his eyes. He wanted to disappear. But instead, he nodded.
„All the time."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. The truth, raw and out in the open, hanging between them like a dare.
Dave's hand didn't move. His thumb brushed Jason's sleeve, almost absently. His expression shifted—something unguarded flickered across his face, gone before it fully formed. He let out a slow, shaky breath, and Jason realized for the first time that he was as off-balance as Jason was.
„That's..." He trailed off, his gaze softening as he studied Jason's face. „That's not what I expected to hear tonight."
Jason managed a weak smile, feeling his nerves start to melt just a little.
„I know." He shrugged, his voice quieter now. „I'm not good at this. At... talking to you, I mean."
Dave's eyes flickered with something uncertain—surprise, maybe? Whatever it was, it disarmed him in a way that made Jason's heart race harder.
„I like it." Dave muttered, more to himself than to Jason. „You're... not what I expected."
Jason felt a rush of relief flood him. „You're not what I expected either."
Dave's eyes flickered up, meeting Jason's with an intensity that made Jason's stomach flutter. He wasn't used to this. Not from someone like Dave. Not from anyone. His hands were shaking, but he didn't move to hide it.
Jason let out a shaky breath. „I—I know I've been a total mess around you. It's just... you're you. I don't know how to... I don't know what I'm even saying."
Dave reached up, running a hand through his wild hair. He laughed softly, but it wasn't mocking. It was soft, almost fond. „You're not a mess, Newsted." His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. „You're just... different."
Jason's heart skipped. Dave's words lingered between them like a slow-burning fuse, pulling them closer without a single touch.
He swallowed. The quiet stretched out, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Not anymore. The tension was still there, sharp and electric, but there was something else now. Something softer.
„I don't know how to act around you.." Jason admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dave stepped a little closer, the space between them shrinking with every breath. His lips curved into a soft, almost playful smile, but there was something sincere in his gaze, something Jason hadn't seen before.
„You don't need to act." Dave's voice was quieter now, low and rough in the dim light. His thumb brushed over Jason's wrist, a touch so light it sent a shiver down his spine. „You just need to be."
Jason's pulse pounded in his ears. He was close enough to feel the heat radiating off Dave's skin, close enough that the air between them practically hummed.
His hand was still gripped by Dave's, and it felt like he was holding onto a lifeline. His words—his confession—were still there, hanging in the air, waiting to be caught.
A moment passed.
Then another.
Jason's breath hitched, and before he could think, before he could second-guess himself, he leaned in.
The kiss was soft, tentative, like a question asked without words. Their lips met in a barely-there press, a whisper of contact that made Jason's chest ache with something unfamiliar. He felt Dave's hand slide up to his jaw, fingers brushing through his hair, and for a heartbeat, the world around them disappeared.
Jason pulled back just enough to breathe, their faces inches apart.
Dave's eyes were wide, lips slightly parted, his breath as shaky as Jason's. For a split second, neither of them moved, suspended in the soft moment of shared vulnerability.
Then Dave spoke, his voice low and uncertain, as if he couldn't believe what had just happened. „You're insane."
Jason smiled, still reeling, still trying to process everything. „You're telling me."
Dave let out a small, breathy laugh. He leaned in again, this time with purpose, pressing his lips to Jason's in a slow, deeper kiss that sent a wave of warmth through his chest. It wasn't urgent. It wasn't wild. It was soft, sweet, a quiet confirmation of everything that had been left unsaid.
When they finally pulled away, both were flushed, their faces inches apart.
„Jesus." Dave muttered, shaking his head with a soft laugh. „You're something else."
Jason chuckled, his hand still resting gently on Dave's. „I'm not that bad."
Dave raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a small smirk. „You're lucky you're cute, Jase."
Jason's smile was easy, genuine, as he leaned back just a little. „You don't have to keep saying that."
Dave met his gaze, his expression softening in a way that made Jason's heart stutter. He leaned forward again, resting his forehead against Jason's, the quiet night air wrapping around them like a secret.
„Yeah, I do."
And in that moment, it was enough. The world, the chaos, the mess of the day—none of it mattered. Just the two of them, here. Quiet. Together.