Archive of Our Own

The summer heat clung to everything in their tiny college town — heavy, sticky, impossible to escape. James hated it. Kirk complained about it daily. Jason walked around shirtless in the dorm just to spite the weather.

But Lars… Lars acted like the heat didn’t exist.

Even on the hottest days, when everyone else’s clothes felt glued to their skin, he’d show up in long sleeves, sometimes layered, always loose. He’d tug the cuffs down over his wrists when he thought no one noticed. He’d laugh off the sweating with some dry joke about “Scandinavian blood” and pretend he wasn’t uncomfortable.

James noticed.
James always noticed.

He didn’t say anything at first — partly because Lars always looked like he’d shut down if someone pushed, and partly because they were all still adjusting to this weird new freedom of college life. They were supposed to be having fun. Meeting people. Being stupid and young and loud.

But every time they sat in the courtyard, Lars curled in on himself, sleeves dragged past his knuckles.
Every time they walked back from class, Lars kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tense.
Every time the sunlight caught his face wrong, he looked exhausted in a way James couldn’t explain.

James told himself he was overthinking.
He always told himself that — right up until the night everything went sideways.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
It was 2:13 a.m. when his phone buzzed on the nightstand. James jolted awake, blinking into the dark room lit only by the hallway glow bleeding under the door. For a moment, he didn’t even register the name on the screen.

Unknown number.
He debated ignoring it. He was half-asleep, head heavy, still tangled in dreams.

But something — instinct, dread, he couldn’t tell — made him swipe to answer.

“Hello…?” he rasped, voice rough with sleep.

“Is this James Hetfield?” a woman asked, too alert, too professional-sounding for two in the morning.

He sat up immediately, heart dropping into his stomach. “Uh—yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“This is St. Maren’s Hospital calling.”

The word hospital snapped the last bit of sleep out of him. He swung his legs out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor.

“We have a patient listed with you as an emergency contact. Lars Ulrich.”

James felt everything inside him freeze. Then crash. Then spiral.
For a few seconds, he forgot how to breathe.

“What—what happened?” He was already grabbing his keys, hand shaking. “Is he okay? Did he— what happened?”

“I can tell you he’s stable,” the nurse said carefully, “but he was admitted a short while ago and the attending physician would prefer to speak to you in person.”

Stable.
Stable wasn’t the same as okay.
Stable meant something had been wrong enough to make calling him necessary.

“I—I’m coming,” James said, barely aware of how strained he sounded. “I’m on my way right now.”

He didn’t bother changing. He didn’t even wake the others.
He just bolted out the door with his pulse hammering, adrenaline flooding through him so fast he felt sick.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The drive was a blur — red lights, empty streets, his own panicked breathing in his ears. The steering wheel felt too small under his hands, the silence too loud, every second too damn slow.

The nurse’s voice kept replaying in his head.

Lars Ulrich.
Emergency contact.
Stable.

James hadn’t known he was listed as anything important in Lars’s life.
He hadn’t known Lars needed anyone at all.

And yet here he was, tearing through the night toward a hospital, terrified of what he was about to walk into — and knowing, deep down, that whatever had happened, it wasn’t something new.
It was something Lars had been hiding for a long time.

He just didn’t know how bad it was.
Not yet.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
James pushed through the sliding doors as soon as he reached the hospital, breath still uneven from the drive. The bright, antiseptic lights burned his tired eyes, but he barely registered anything except the counter in front of him.

He hurried up to the nurse at the reception desk. “Hi— I’m here for Lars Ulrich. I got a call— he’s my— I’m listed as his emergency contact.”

The nurse gave him the kind of sympathetic look that instantly made his stomach twist. She checked the chart on her screen, lips pressing into a thin line.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “Lars asked for no visitors at this time.”

For a moment, James actually forgot where he was. The words didn’t hit all at once — they landed slowly, painfully, like someone was tightening something around his ribs.

No visitors.
Not even him.

He nodded stiffly, swallowed hard, and stepped back from the desk. He wasn’t sure how he made it to the row of plastic chairs against the wall. His legs felt hollow. His chest felt crushed.

He sat down and stared at the floor, elbows on his knees, hands knotted so tightly together his knuckles turned white.

Go home, a sane part of him whispered. Sleep. You can’t do anything right now.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t make himself stand up, couldn’t imagine driving away and leaving Lars alone in a hospital room with god knows what on his mind.

So he stayed.

Hours blurred by in silence. Nurses walked past him, doctors rushed down corridors, a baby cried somewhere down the hall — and all James could do was sit there, replaying every moment from the past few weeks. Every long sleeve. Every forced laugh. Every time Lars said he was fine.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The sky outside slowly shifted from black to deep grey to soft pink. Sunrise bled in through the lobby windows, but James barely noticed. He hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. Every time he closed his eyes, he pictured something worse.

When morning came properly, he was still there — exhausted, pale, and wired with dread.

“James Hetfield?” a voice said.

He looked up sharply. A doctor stood in front of him, clipboard in hand, expression calm but not cold.

“Lars has agreed to see you. If you’d still like to visit him.”

James didn’t even let the doctor finish before he blurted, “Yes. Yeah—please. Take me there.”

They walked down the quiet hallway together, the hum of machines growing louder with each step. James’s heartbeat kept climbing higher and higher, like his body knew he wasn’t ready for whatever waited behind that door.

The doctor pushed it open.

James stepped inside.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight — so suddenly, so violently — that an involuntary, choked gasp escaped him.

Lars lay curled slightly on the narrow hospital bed, half-buried in thin white sheets. His breathing was slow and uneven, the kind of sleep that didn’t look peaceful at all — more like someone who’d finally collapsed after fighting too hard for too long.

James stood frozen in the doorway at first. He couldn’t make himself move.
He couldn’t even make himself look properly.

But then he did.

And everything inside him dropped.

Lars looked… wrong. Smaller than he should’ve been, swallowed by the loose fabric of the hospital gown. His face seemed sharp in places it shouldn’t have been, shadows under his eyes deep enough to look like bruises. The feeding tube taped gently to his cheek made James’s stomach twist so violently he thought he might be sick.

But what truly knocked the air out of him were the bandages wrapped around Lars’s wrists. Clean, white, careful — but not enough to hide the truth of why they were there.

A sound tore out of James’s chest before he could stop it — raw, strangled, terrified.

He stumbled forward, practically tripping over himself as he rushed to the side of the bed. His knees hit the floor beside it, hands gripping the metal rail like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely.

“Lars—” he choked, voice breaking in half. Tears surged up too fast for him to fight. In seconds he was sobbing, shoulders shaking, forehead pressed against the edge of the mattress. “God—Lars, what—why didn’t you—why didn’t you tell me—”

The noise of it — the shaking, the crying, the desperate, muffled sounds — pulled Lars out of whatever restless sleep he’d been stuck in. His eyelids fluttered, heavy and slow. When he blinked awake enough to understand what was happening, he tensed.

“James…?” His voice was weak, hoarse, like it hurt him to speak. He lifted his head just slightly, eyes foggy with exhaustion and confusion until he understood. Until he saw James on the floor crying over him.

Something inside Lars crumbled at that sight.

He didn’t move much — he looked like even shifting a few inches required effort — but his expression twisted into guilt so sharp it hurt to look at. His throat bobbed, and he turned his face away, ashamed, overwhelmed.

James lifted his head, tears still streaking down his cheeks. “What happened to you?” he whispered, voice trembling. “Why didn’t you say anything? When did this— when did all of this even start?”

He didn’t stop there. The questions kept coming, spilling out too fast, too panicked to control.

“Were you hurting this bad the whole time? Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you— why did it get this far? Lars, what were you thinking? What— what—”

“James, stop—” Lars whispered, but it came out cracked and small. He tried to sit up and couldn’t. His hands trembled where they rested on the blanket.

James kept going, voice cracking with every word, desperate for answers to questions he was terrified to hear.

“Why didn’t you ask for help? Why didn’t you let me help you? Why did you hide everything? Why did you— why—”

“James, please.” Lars squeezed his eyes shut, chest tightening like every word cut him. His breath hitched, and the dam broke — he started crying too, but quietly, almost silently, tears slipping down his temples into the pillow. “I can’t— I can’t answer all that. I can’t— not right now—”

His voice dissolved, swallowed by shaky breaths.

He turned his head slightly, finally meeting James’s eyes — both of them crying now, both of them falling apart in the same tiny room.

“I’m sorry,” Lars choked out, barely audible. “I’m so… so sorry.”

And that was all he had the strength to say before he covered his face with one trembling hand and broke down completely.

Lars wiped at his face with the back of his hand, but it barely helped. His breathing was uneven, each inhale shaky and thin. James had managed to pull a chair up beside the bed, but he wasn’t sitting in it — he hovered forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on Lars like he was afraid to blink.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The machines hummed softly in the background, steady and calm in a way neither boy felt.

Finally, Lars swallowed hard.
His voice came out quiet, but painfully clear.

“I didn’t… feel safe with myself.”

James’s heart stopped. Literally stopped.
He sat up straight, every muscle tensing.

“What do you mean?” he asked, too quickly, too harshly.

Lars flinched — not dramatically, just a tiny, involuntary reaction that made James’s stomach twist with guilt. But Lars forced himself to keep going.

“I had cut myself,” he whispered. “Deep. And I didn’t trust myself to stay… okay. I didn’t want to do anything stupid, so I— I brought myself here.”

James stared at him like he couldn’t understand the words. “A relapse? Lars, what relapse? You never told me you were even—”

“Because you didn’t need to know,” Lars cut in, his voice suddenly tight, defensive, exhausted. “It wasn’t your problem. It was supposed to be handled already.”

“Handled?” James echoed, eyebrows flying upward. “Lars, look at you— this isn’t something you ‘handle’ alone. You should’ve said something. Anything.”

Lars shook his head weakly. “And say what, James? That I’m losing it again? That I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t get out of my own head? You guys are all starting college, getting your lives together, and I’m—”

“You’re my friend,” James snapped, louder than he meant to. “You could’ve told me.”

Lars let out a broken, humorless laugh. “Yeah, because you needed that burden on top of everything else you deal with.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” James shot back.

“Well it’s my life,” Lars snapped in return — the strongest his voice had sounded all morning, though it trembled with fear more than anger.

They stared at each other, breathing hard.
Not yelling, but dangerously close.

James ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands, trying to calm himself. “Lars… why didn’t you trust me?”

Lars looked away, jaw tightening.

“It wasn’t about trust,” he whispered. “It was about… shame.”

James froze. The anger drained right out of him, replaced with something heavier, something painful.

“Shame?” he repeated softly.

Lars nodded. Slowly. Miserably.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he said. “I didn’t want you to think I was… weak. Or broken. Or just a mess you’d have to constantly worry about.”

James opened his mouth, didn’t know where to start, shut it again, then finally spoke, voice trembling despite how hard he tried to steady it.

“You idiot,” he whispered, eyes stinging. “You absolute idiot… I was already worrying about you. Every damn day.”

Lars’s lip quivered— and he immediately looked away, shoulders curling inward.

Silence fell between them again, tight and fragile.
No one was yelling now.
No one was pretending.

Just two boys, hurting for completely different reasons but crashing into the same point of fear.

“James…” Lars whispered, voice cracking, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” James said softly, leaning forward, eyes fixed on him with raw intensity. “Well, you’re stuck with me now. So get used to the fact that I’m not going anywhere.”

Lars finally met his gaze — broken, terrified, but also relieved in a way he couldn’t hide.

And for the first time since the phone rang that night, James felt like maybe—just maybe—they were going to get through this.

Together.

James didn’t let Lars drift away into silence again.
Not this time.

He pulled the chair closer, close enough that their knees almost touched, and leaned forward with a determination that Lars didn’t have the strength to resist.

“Talk to me,” James said quietly — not angry, not demanding, but firm enough that Lars felt cornered in a different way. “I need to understand.”

Lars shook his head, eyes fixed on his hands, the bandages, anywhere but James’s face. “I don’t want to—”

“I know you don’t.” James’s voice softened but didn’t back down. “But you have to. Please.”

Lars’s breath hitched. He hated the way James looked at him — not disgusted, not pitying, but worried. Like something fragile might break if he wasn’t careful.

“Lars,” James murmured, “when did all of this start?”

The question hung in the air like a weight.

Lars squeezed his eyes shut. His mouth opened, closed, opened again — but nothing came out. His throat burned, and every instinct screamed at him to stay quiet, to shove everything back into the dark where it belonged.

James reached out, hesitated, then rested a hand lightly on the edge of the mattress. Not touching Lars. Just close, grounding.

“Please…” he whispered. “Please don’t shut me out again.”

Lars broke.

He inhaled a shaky breath, voice trembling so badly it barely held shape.

“Cutting started… about a year ago.”

James flinched like someone had hit him, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t look away. Didn’t give Lars a single excuse to stop.

“And the starving…,” Lars continued, almost choking on the words, “since I was fourteen.”

James’s face went pale, eyes wide with fear and heartbreak. “Fourteen? Lars— Jesus, that’s— why? Why would you— why did it start that early?”

Lars snapped — not loud, but sharp and raw.

“Because I fucking hate myself!” he burst out, voice cracking. “That’s why, James! Because every time I look in the mirror I just— I can’t—” His voice broke apart, and he pressed a trembling hand over his eyes. “I don’t know how to make it stop.”

James swallowed hard, throat tight. He wanted to pull Lars into a hug. He wanted to punch a wall. He wanted to go back in time and find fourteen-year-old Lars and tell him he didn’t deserve any of this.

But he stayed steady. Because Lars needed him steady.

They kept talking. Slowly. Painfully.

James asked questions, gentle but persistent, and Lars answered them one by one, each confession scraping something raw inside him. The more he talked, the more he felt that familiar disgust curling in his stomach — the deep, twisting shame that made him want to disappear into the sheets.

He hated himself for saying any of it out loud.
Hated how weak it made him sound.
Hated the way James listened like every word mattered.

After a long stretch of silence heavy enough to suffocate the room, James finally asked:

“How long are you gonna stay here?”

Lars sighed, the sound tired in a way that didn’t belong on someone his age. “Until I’m at a ‘healthy’ weight,” he mumbled, almost mocking the term. “Until they think I’m… safe again.”

James nodded slowly, staring at him with an expression Lars couldn’t decipher — a mix of relief, fear, protectiveness, and something heavier.

“Okay,” James said softly. “Then I’m staying with you through all of it.”

Lars swallowed hard, blinking fast.

He didn’t say thank you.
He didn’t know how.

But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel completely alone.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Morning settled slowly into the room, pale light stretching across the floor. James hadn’t moved from the chair since Lars told him everything. He watched nurses come in and out, checking vitals, adjusting the feeding tube, murmuring things to each other that made his stomach twist.

The longer he stayed, the clearer it became just how fragile Lars really was.

At one point a nurse came in with a tray — not much, just a small cup of yogurt, a tiny serving of oatmeal, and a bottle of something high-calorie. She smiled kindly at Lars.

“Let’s try a little breakfast, sweetheart.”

Lars’s entire body went rigid.

James saw it instantly. His hands tensed under the blanket, his throat bobbed, and his breathing changed — shallow, panicked. He didn’t touch the tray. He didn’t even look at it.
The nurse placed it on the rolling table and stepped out to give him privacy.

Silence thickened in the room.

James leaned forward. “Lars… you have to try. Just a little.”

Lars stared at the blanket, jaw clenched so hard it trembled. “No.”

James blinked. “What do you mean ‘no’? You have to eat—”

“No.” This time sharper, more desperate. “I can’t.”

James’s gut twisted. “You won’t know unless you try.”

“You don’t get it,” Lars snapped, voice shaking. “If I eat I’m going to feel disgusting. I’m going to— I’m going to hate myself even more, James. I can’t do it.”
James ran his hand over his face, fighting the rising frustration. “Lars, you’re in the hospital. You literally came here because you weren’t safe. You have to let them help you.”

Lars shook his head violently. “Stop saying that. Just stop—”
“I’m trying to help you!” James shot back.
“You’re making it worse!” Lars yelled, the sound cracking painfully.

They both froze.
Neither meant for it to get loud. Neither meant for it to hurt as much as it did. But something had snapped, thin and fragile as glass.
James stood up a little too quickly. “Lars, I’m terrified for you. I watched you sleeping thinking you might not wake up. And you won’t even try a bite? You won’t even try for me?”

The words came out harsher than he intended, and the regret hit instantly — but it was too late.
Lars’s face crumpled, eyes going glossy with fresh tears.

“That’s not fair,” he whispered. “Don’t— don’t put that on me.”
“I didn’t— I’m not trying to—”
“Well you did!” Lars’s voice was a strangled mess now. “You think I want to be like this? You think I want you sitting here watching me fall apart? I wish I could eat, James! I wish I could get better! But I can’t— I just can’t—”
James’s chest ached. “Then let me stay. Let me help—”
“No.” Lars looked away, tears sliding down his cheeks. “Go home.”

James’s breath caught. “What? No. I’m not leaving you like this.”
“You have to,” Lars whispered, voice breaking. “Because I don’t want to get better. Not right now. Maybe not ever. So please— just go.”
It felt like someone had punched James. Hard.

He shook his head, stepping closer. “Lars—”
“Please.” Lars curled in on himself, like he was bracing for impact. “I can’t do this with you in the room. I can’t eat. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Just— go.”
The last word came out so broken that James didn’t know how to argue with it.
His throat burned. His eyes stung. “If I go… I’m coming back.”
Lars flinched but didn’t answer.

James lingered in the doorway, waiting for any sign Lars wanted him to stay — even just a glance — but Lars kept his face turned toward the wall, shoulders shaking silently.

James left.

He made it all the way to the parking lot before tears finally hit — fast, hot, angry. He slammed his hands against the steering wheel, breathing hard, trying to force himself back into something that resembled control.

By the time he drove back to campus, he felt hollow.

Kirk and Jason were sitting in the dorm lounge, worry plastered across their faces the second they saw him.
“Where the hell were you?” Jason asked, half-panicked.
“You never came home,” Kirk added. “We thought something happened.”
James swallowed, voice raw. “It’s Lars.”

Both of them went still.

James sank onto the couch, burying his face in his hands.
Then, in a shaky voice, he told them everything.
Every horrible detail.

Every confession Lars had made.
Every word from the argument that he wished he could take back.
And when he finished, the room felt different.
Heavier.

Fragile.

Like all three of them suddenly understood how dangerously close they had come to losing him — and how close they still were.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
(FLASHBACK)
Lars sat at the kitchen table, legs pulled up tight against his chest, staring at the plate in front of him. The food was simple—just scrambled eggs and toast—but it felt like a mountain. His stomach twisted painfully, even though he hadn’t eaten since the previous afternoon.

His father paced behind him, muttering something under his breath, the sharp clink of a coffee mug hitting the counter making Lars flinch. His mother was already late for work and didn’t even look at him as she buttoned her coat, grabbed her keys, and left the apartment with a frustrated sigh.

The kitchen suddenly felt too big and too quiet.

“Eat,” his father said without turning around. “You’re slow enough as it is. I don’t have all day.”

Lars nodded quickly, but the nod didn’t help. His throat closed. He lifted a piece of toast with trembling fingers, but the smell of butter made his stomach churn violently. He lowered it silently.

His father turned around.

“Why aren’t you eating? Lars, for god’s sake.”

“I… I don’t feel hungry,” Lars whispered.

“You’re always like this,” his father snapped, voice rising. “You don’t try. You don’t do anything right.” He picked up the plate and shoved it closer to Lars. “You’re already small enough. Eat.”

Lars stared at the food again. His body felt hot, like he was shrinking in his own skin. He picked up a fork and forced a bite into his mouth. The texture was too heavy. His stomach revolted. He swallowed only half of it before gagging softly.

His father groaned loudly. “Unbelievable.”

Lars pushed the fork away and wiped his eyes. He didn’t want to cry—crying only made it worse—but his chest hurt, and something inside him cracked.

“I’ll eat later,” he whispered.

“No,” his father barked. “You’ll eat now.”

The shouting drew too much attention; it made Lars feel like every cell in his body was wrong. Too big. Too visible. Disgusting. He wished he could just vanish.

Instead, he stood so abruptly that his chair scraped across the floor. “I’m not hungry,” he insisted, voice shaking. “I said I’ll eat later.”

His father’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t follow him. He just muttered, “Fine. Waste away, then. Maybe that’ll teach you something.”

Lars froze. The words burned, seared themselves into his memory.

Waste away.

He went to his bedroom, shut the door quietly, and slid down against it. His hands were shaking so hard he curled them into fists until his nails dug into his palms.

He stared at the mirror across the room. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see—but he hated it anyway. Too soft. Too wrong. Too loud. Everything about him felt wrong.

That day, he didn’t eat lunch either. Or dinner.

And the strange thing was… no one noticed.

Not his father. Not his mother. Not the kids at school who already made fun of him for being small, for looking “girly,” for being loud and annoying when he got excited.

For a week, he skipped meals whenever he could, telling himself it was just stress, that he’d go back to normal soon. But every skipped meal made something inside him quiet down. There was a numbness that felt… controllable. Safe. Like he finally had power over one thing—himself.

The hunger pangs became a familiar rhythm, almost comforting. A punishment he felt he deserved. A way to silence the voice in his head repeating everything his father said, over and over, until it sounded like the truth.

And within two months, the routine was set.

Hide food. Pretend to eat. Lie about it.

Every victory felt like confirmation that he was fixing something broken. Fixing him. Becoming smaller, quieter, easier to ignore.

Becoming someone no one would yell at anymore.

Becoming someone no one would look at long enough to be disappointed.

At fourteen, Lars didn’t have the words for any of it. He didn’t understand that what he was doing would follow him for years. He only knew one thing:

Not eating hurt less than feeling unwanted.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
By the time Lars turned fifteen, the eating patterns he’d built at fourteen weren’t habits anymore—they were rules. Strict ones. Absolute ones. Ones he was terrified to break.

Breakfast was skipped entirely.
Lunch was “forgotten.”
Dinner was pushed around his plate until it looked touched, then thrown away or flushed down the toilet the moment his parents weren’t looking.

On the rare days his father insisted he eat at the table, Lars learned to hide food in napkins, sleeves, pockets—anything. He’d excuse himself to go to the bathroom and spit half-chewed bites into toilet paper.

It wasn’t about losing weight. Not really. It was about the control it gave him. The quiet numbness that felt like relief.

At school, things didn’t get easier.

He was small, yes—but now he was shrinking. Becoming almost fragile-looking. And instead of mercy, his classmates gave him attention—the kind he didn’t want.

“Are you sick?”
“You look weirdly pale.”
“You barely eat anything. Ew, dude.”
“No wonder you play drums like a maniac, you’re basically weightless.”

Every comment hit like another nail hammered into his ribs.

He started wearing baggy hoodies even in warm weather. He avoided eye contact. He isolated himself during lunch, saying he had homework to do. No one questioned it for long.

Through all of it, he kept drumming. Drumming was the only time he didn’t feel small. The only time he felt like his body did something right. But even that got harder. His arms shook more. His stamina tanked. After one long practice session, he fainted in his room.

He didn’t tell anyone.

He got used to the dizzy spells, the way the world tilted when he stood up, the constant cold in his fingers.

By sixteen, hunger wasn’t a feeling anymore—it was just background noise. Something he’d grown up with. Something familiar.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The first time he ended up in the hospital, it wasn’t because someone noticed the eating. It was because he collapsed at school.

He remembered bits—a crowded hallway, the spin of fluorescent lights, someone yelling his name, then everything going black.

He woke up in a hospital bed hooked to an IV. His body felt heavy, like the sheets were made of lead. His head throbbed. And a doctor, a young woman with dark hair tied back, was sitting beside him with a clipboard.

“Lars,” she said gently, “do you know why you’re here?”

He nodded faintly. “I passed out.”

“You didn’t just pass out,” she said, voice soft but firm. “You were severely dehydrated. Your blood sugar was dangerously low. And you’re underweight for your age. Very underweight.”

He swallowed hard. For the first time in years, he felt exposed—like someone had peeled back the layers he’d carefully built to hide everything.

“We need to talk about your eating patterns,” she continued.

Lars looked away. “I eat.”

“Not enough,” she said. “Not nearly enough.”

His mother sat in a corner, arms crossed, looking uncomfortable. His father wasn’t even there; he was “busy with work.” Lars didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

The doctor kept asking questions—questions Lars didn’t want to answer.

How long had he been skipping meals?
Why?
Did he ever make himself throw up?
Had he ever fainted before?

He lied where he could, deflected where he couldn’t, but the truth leaked out anyway. The shame of it burned.

Because starving had become normal.
Because he didn’t know how to stop.
Because the hunger felt like something he deserved.

They kept him for several days. Monitored him. Fed him carefully. Forced him to eat things he wanted to throw across the room. Nurses hovered, making sure he didn’t hide food or dump it.

He cried once—quietly, when the door was closed—because eating felt like losing control. Because being seen felt worse than starvation.

When he was discharged, the doctor recommended therapy, nutrition support, follow-up appointments.

His father said, “He’s fine now. He just needs to toughen up.”
His mother simply nodded.

And Lars…
He went home and pretended it was better.

For maybe two weeks he tried. Ate what he was told. Forced meals down. Pretended recovery felt okay.

But that numbness he’d lived with for years began to crack open, replaced by guilt, loud and relentless. The urge to skip meals returned like gravity pulling him back.

And by the end of the month, he was right back where he started—only now, he was better at hiding it.

More secretive.
More careful.
More determined to make sure no one ever dragged him back into a hospital bed again.

But he didn’t know yet that he would end up there again.

Worse. Much worse.

Because once he turned seventeen, everything got darker.
(END OF FLASHBACK)
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
James didn’t go back to the hospital for three whole days.

He wanted to. Every hour, every night, every time he stared at his phone waiting for a text from Lars—he wanted nothing more than to get in the car and go.

But he forced himself not to.
Lars needed space.
Lars had been overwhelmed.
Lars had said things he clearly didn’t mean… but they still hurt.

So James kept his distance.

He still texted him every morning, every night.

“You okay?”
“Did you sleep?”
“I’m still here for you, even if you don’t want to see me.”

And Lars always replied. Short messages, shaky punctuation, but replies nonetheless:

“im fine”
“dont worry.”
“pls stop apologizing.”

Sometimes at 3am.

Sometimes instantly, like Lars had been waiting for his name to pop up on the screen.

Kirk and Jason visited him once during those days—James only heard the summary afterward. Jason didn’t say much; he looked weirdly shaken. Kirk said Lars had barely spoken, just stared at the wall and mumbled that he was tired.

The moment Kirk described the feeding tube hanging beside him, James had to leave the room and breathe in the hallway.

By Saturday morning, James couldn’t take it anymore.

He drove to the hospital. His stomach twisted the whole way there, half expecting Lars to tell him to get out again. Half terrified something bad had happened during the days he stayed away.

When he walked into Lars’ room, Lars was sitting up slightly, blanket around his legs, eyes shadowed and exhausted. He looked smaller than the last time James had seen him—which shouldn’t have been possible.

Lars blinked, startled.
“James…?”

“Hey,” James whispered, taking a careful step inside.

To his relief, Lars didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense.
If anything, he looked like a weight dropped off his chest.

They talked quietly for a while—nothing heavy at first. Lars asked how classes were going. James lied and said “fine.” James asked how he felt, and Lars lied and said “better.”

They skirted around the argument from days ago, both hesitant, both afraid to poke the bruise.

But just when the conversation started to relax, the door clicked open.

Lars’ doctor—Dr. Haverly—stepped inside, clipboard under his arm.

“James Hetfield?” he asked.

James stood. “Yeah?”

“Could I speak with you for a moment? In the hallway.”

Lars stiffened immediately. His fingers curled into the blanket.
James hesitated, watching his face.

“I’ll be right back,” James said softly.

Lars nodded, but something in his expression said he was already bracing himself.

James followed the doctor out into the quiet hallway. The door shut behind them with a soft click that felt much heavier than it should have.

Dr. Haverly sighed, flipping the clipboard open.

“I thought it was important to update you, since you’re listed as an approved contact.”

James’ breath hitched. “Okay… What’s going on?”

“It’s about his nutrition,” the doctor began carefully. “Lars is still refusing solid food. Completely. Even with supplements and monitoring, he’s continued losing weight.”

James felt like his blood turned cold.
“He’s still losing…? But he has the tube—”

“He’s been disconnecting it at night,” the doctor interrupted gently. “Not fully, but enough that he isn’t getting the calories he needs. The nurses have caught it twice.”

James swallowed hard, vision blurring slightly.

The doctor continued. “If this keeps going, we’re going to have to transfer him to a psychiatric ward specializing in eating disorders. Not as punishment—just medical necessity. He’s becoming unstable, both physically and emotionally.”

James gripped the railing beside him until his knuckles turned white.

“He would hate that,” he whispered. “He’ll think he’s being locked up.”

“I know,” the doctor said. “But we’re reaching a point where choice may not be an option.”

James couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

Lars—who already felt trapped, ashamed, terrified—was on the edge of being taken somewhere even more restrictive. Somewhere he wouldn’t have James or Kirk or Jason whenever he needed them. Somewhere with stricter rules, harsher supervision, and no freedom.

It hit James like a punch to the chest:
Lars was worse than he let on. Way worse.

“Can I talk to him?” James asked, voice breaking.

“Yes,” the doctor nodded. “But don’t threaten him. Don’t guilt him. Just talk. He listens to you.”

James didn’t know if that made him feel honored or sick.

He walked back into the room slowly. Lars immediately noticed something was off. His eyes widened, searching James’ face.

“What did he say?” Lars whispered, voice trembling.

James sat on the edge of the bed. He didn’t touch him, but he leaned in close.

“Lars… they’re worried. You’re not eating. At all.”

Lars looked away immediately. Jaw clenched. Shoulders up.

James exhaled shakily. “They said if you don’t start eating soon, they’ll have to move you. To a psych ward.”

Lars froze.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. His whole body went rigid like he’d been turned to glass.

“No…” he whispered. “James, I—I can’t go there. I can’t—please—don’t let them—”

“I’m not the one making the choice,” James said, voice cracking. “You are. You have to eat, Lars. Please. Please don’t do this to yourself.”

Lars shook his head violently, eyes filling with fear.
“I can’t. I can’t eat. I don’t deserve—”

“Don’t deserve what? Food?” James snapped, voice rising before he could stop it. “Lars, you will die!”

Lars flinched. Immediately James softened his voice.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m scared. I’m fucking terrified.”

Lars wiped at his face angrily, tears slipping through his fingers.

“I’m trying,” he whispered. “I just… when I think about eating, I panic. I feel disgusting. I feel like I’m doing something wrong. It hurts to even think about it.”

James leaned forward, forehead nearly touching Lars’.

“Listen to me. You are not disgusting. You are not doing anything wrong. You don’t have to eat a full meal. You don’t have to force anything huge. Just… something. Something small. Something to show them you’re trying.”

Lars’ breathing hitched.
His fingers trembled.

“Will you stay?” Lars asked in a tiny voice. “If I try… will you be here?”

“Yeah,” James said instantly. “For as long as you need. I swear.”

There was silence.

Then Lars nodded, eyes still wet.

“O-okay,” he whispered. “I’ll try. I don’t want to go there. I’ll try… for you.”

And James felt his heart break all over again—for the wrong reasons and the right ones. For the fact that Lars was trying, but only because he was afraid of losing the little stability James gave him. For the fact that he was willing to fight, but not for himself.

For the fact that the only thing keeping him grounded was James’ presence.

And James wasn’t sure if that made their bond a lifeline…
or another kind of danger.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
James stayed in the room after Lars promised he’d try. The hospital bed sagged slightly under Lars’ weight, blankets still wrapped around him like armor. The tray of food sat on the rolling table beside the bed: a small portion of oatmeal, a few pieces of soft fruit, and a little glass of juice. It looked harmless enough, but James knew better.

Lars stared at it like it was a snake ready to bite. His hands trembled, fingers curling into fists, nails digging into the blanket. His breathing was shallow, rapid—each inhale trembling with panic.

“Okay,” James said softly, perching on the edge of the chair again. He didn’t touch the tray. He just leaned slightly forward, eyes gentle but unwavering. “You don’t have to eat it all. Just… pick up the spoon.”

Lars shook his head violently. “I… I can’t. I… I just… I can’t do it.” His voice broke halfway through. He buried his face in the blankets, shoulders shaking.

James swallowed, heart hammering. “I know. I know it’s hard. I know it feels impossible. But you can try. Just a little. For now. Just one bite.”

Lars peeked up, eyes wide and terrified. “Just… one? You don’t… you won’t make me eat the whole thing?”

“Never,” James said firmly, softening his tone at once. “One bite. That’s it. You try one bite, and I’ll be right here. I won’t leave. I swear.”

Lars hesitated, trembling. The spoon hovered in his hand like it was a foreign object, a weapon. Every instinct screamed at him to throw it down, to run, to disappear. James reached out slowly—not to touch, just close enough to offer quiet reassurance.

“You’re not alone,” James said gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

After several long, agonizing minutes, Lars lifted the spoon. His hand shook so violently the oatmeal sloshed slightly. James leaned in a little, keeping his voice calm.

“Good. That’s… that’s already huge.”

Lars took a tiny, tentative bite. Chewed slowly, eyes closed, shaking. James held his breath. When Lars swallowed, it was like a tiny victory, and James exhaled sharply, relief flooding him.

“You did it,” James whispered. “Just one bite… that’s perfect.”

Lars’ eyes glistened with tears. “I—I don’t know why this is so hard,” he said, voice cracking. “I hate myself. I hate feeling like I’m doing this wrong.”

“You’re not doing it wrong,” James said firmly. “You’re trying. That’s what matters. One bite. One step. That’s everything right now.”

Lars bit his lip, trembling, and after a moment, nodded. “I… I think I can do another. Maybe two.”

James smiled softly, reaching forward to gently touch Lars’ hand—but Lars flinched, pulling back slightly. James paused, letting him set the pace.

“You set the pace,” James said. “I’m not going to push. Not ever. But I’m here. Every step. Every bite.”

Slowly, tentatively, Lars continued, taking a few more bites. James stayed close, eyes locked on him, encouraging without forcing, praising without making him feel guilty.

When Lars finally set the spoon down, he leaned back against the pillows, exhausted, hands shaking, cheeks wet with tears.

“You… you didn’t think I could do it,” Lars whispered, voice raw.

James shook his head. “I always knew you could. You just needed to believe it too.”

For a long moment, they sat in silence. The hum of the machines, the soft beep of the heart monitor, the faint sounds of nurses moving in the hallway—everything faded around them.

“You… you stayed,” Lars murmured. “Even when I yelled at you. Even when I… said I didn’t want to get better.”

“I told you,” James said softly. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

Lars swallowed hard, trembling. He didn’t hug James, didn’t say thank you. He just let himself relax slightly, letting James’ presence anchor him for the first time in days.

It was messy. It was fragile. But for the first time since arriving at the hospital, Lars felt a tiny spark of control—and hope—that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to do this alone.

James didn’t let go. Not yet. He knew there would be setbacks, fights, moments of panic. But he also knew that sitting here, quietly, simply staying with Lars while he tried… that was worth everything.

And Lars, even if he didn’t admit it, needed it more than anything.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The day Lars signed his discharge papers, the sky outside the hospital was painfully bright—too bright, too warm, too alive. He blinked against the sun, the hospital doors sliding shut behind him with a final hiss, like a period at the end of a sentence he wasn’t ready to finish.

Recovery.

That was the word everyone used.
Doctors. Nurses. Jason. Kirk.
And especially James, who hovered so close during those last few days that Lars sometimes wondered if he ever left the hallway at all.

They all said it like it meant something good.
Like it meant progress.
Like it meant he was safe now.

But the truth was uglier.

Recovery was a foreign language to Lars—one he didn’t speak, one he pretended to understand so people would stop looking at him with those terrified eyes.

He had gotten his feeding tube removed.
He had reached the weight the doctors insisted on.
He learned to eat enough in front of them to keep suspicion low.

“I’m feeling better.”
“I think I’m learning to cope.”
“I know it’ll take time.”
“I want to stay healthy.”

Lies. All of them.

Everyone was so proud.
Everyone thought he was “on the right track.”

James had hugged him when he left, pulling him close like Lars was something fragile, something precious. Lars didn’t pull away. He didn’t want to. But the moment James let go, a cold certainty settled into Lars’ bones:

He would never look like that again—small, thin, delicate, disappearing.
He would never fit under James’ arms like he used to.
He would never get that concerned, protective look again, not the same way.

He felt enormous.
He felt ruined.

The drive back to campus was silent. Kirk talked a little. Jason asked if he was tired. Lars nodded even though he didn’t hear the question clearly. His mind was loud, drowning out everything around him.

His room felt too big when he walked inside.
His bed looked wrong.
Everything smelled faintly like dust and laundry detergent and normal life—something he’d forgotten how to live.

That night, as soon as the dorm hallways quieted and he was alone, he stood shirtless in front of the mirror and stared.

He hated it.
Every part of himself.

He ran his fingers over his stomach, flinched, pinched at his sides.
His chest. His thighs. His hips.
He stepped on the scale he’d hidden before going to the hospital and watched the number flicker into place.

Too high.
Way too high.

His throat tightened painfully.
He stepped off.
Stepped on again.
And again.
And again.

Each time, the number didn’t budge.
Each time, he felt more suffocated.

Everyone thought he was fine.
He was supposed to be fine.

He wasn’t.

He was planning again. Counting again.
Every calorie, every snack Jason offered, every meal James encouraged him to eat—he calculated and subtracted and punished himself for every crumb.

He didn’t eat breakfast the first morning.
Or lunch.
He pretended to eat dinner by pushing food around and throwing half of it away in the bathroom.

He told the others he was just tired.
His appetite was low.
Normal after a long hospital stay.

They believed him.

Why wouldn’t they?
He looked “better.”
He weighed “healthier.”

There was a sick joke hiding inside that word.

Healthy.

Lars touched the scars on his wrists that night. The ones mostly healed, barely visible beneath the new ones, the ones the bandages had been hiding. He traced them like old memories he wasn’t ready to let go of.

He wanted to cut again.
Wanted the release.
Wanted the numbness.
Wanted control—any kind of control.

But he couldn’t let them know. Not this soon. Not after James had cried into his hands the night before he left the hospital, whispering promises, begging him to stay alive.

So Lars hid everything.
The thoughts.
The hunger.
The disgust.
The counting.
The plans.

He woke up each day hating himself more than the last.
He walked through campus wearing long sleeves again, hiding shaking hands and weight he thought was unbearable.

Everyone saw recovery.
Everyone saw progress.

But inside?

Lars felt like he was drowning, slowly and quietly, and no one noticed—not even the people who loved him.

And the worst part was…

He wasn’t sure he wanted them to.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
It happened on a Tuesday.
A stupidly normal day.
Classes, practice room, cafeteria noise in the distance, the usual churn of campus life that felt miles away from where Lars' mind actually was.

He’d been spiraling all morning—numbers clawing at the inside of his skull, calories tallying up like sins he couldn’t wash off. By late afternoon, he felt too full, too heavy, too wrong in his own skin.

He skipped dinner again.

He told James he was tired.
Told Jason he had a headache.
Told Kirk nothing at all, just waved him off and locked himself in his room before anyone could question the way his voice shook.

The silence in his dorm room was sharp.
Painful.
Too big.

He paced.
He cried without meaning to.
He looked at the mirror again, hating what he saw—hating himself.

His hands trembled as he opened the bottom drawer of his desk.

He told himself he was just checking. Just looking.
Just making sure he still had the blades he hid months ago.

But the second he saw them—thin little metal pieces wrapped in an old guitar pick bag—his chest collapsed.

His body moved before he could think.
Before he could stop anything.

The blade pressed against his skin like a memory.
Too familiar.
Too comforting.

The first cut burned.
The second stung.
By the fifth, he felt nothing at all except relief and disgust tangled together.

He didn’t notice how deep one of them was until he saw the blood pooling too fast, running along his arm in thin rivers.

He panicked.
Grabbed tissues, pressed hard, shaking uncontrollably.

His door opened without warning.

“Lars? You left your phone—”
Kirk stepped in mid-sentence, holding the device, his voice dying the moment he looked up.

Their eyes met.

Lars froze.
Kirk froze.
The sound of blood dripping onto the floor was the only thing moving.

“Jesus Christ…” Kirk whispered, a breath punched out of him.

Lars instinctively turned away, trying to hide his arm, his face, everything.

“Don’t,” Kirk said softly, stepping closer. “Don’t hide from me.”

But Lars backed up anyway, choking on his breath. “Kirk, please—just—go. Please. Please.”

“No,” Kirk said, firmer now, voice trembling but steady enough to stand on. “I’m not leaving you like this.”

He approached slowly, like Lars was some terrified animal that might bolt. And in a way, he was.

Kirk crouched beside him and reached for his wrist gently, giving Lars every chance to pull away.

Lars didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Kirk lifted his arm, eyes flickering with horror but not judgment. “Okay,” he murmured. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He guided him to the bathroom, sat him on the edge of the tub, and grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink. His hands shook as he cleaned the blood, but he stayed calm—breathing slow, whispering grounding words even though Lars wasn’t listening.

“This one’s deep,” Kirk muttered. “But you’re okay. I promise. Just… breathe for me, okay?”

Lars stared blankly at the wall.
Tears streamed down silently.
He didn’t speak.

Kirk disinfected each cut, wincing every time Lars did. He wrapped the deepest one carefully, then wrapped the rest, layering gauze with a gentleness that made Lars feel sick.

When it was over, Kirk sat beside him on the cold bathroom tiles.
Not touching.
Just… there.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly.

“I—” Lars swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Kirk’s breath hitched. “You’re not disappointing me. Lars, you—Jesus, you’re hurting. You’re really hurting.”

Lars broke.

His hands came up to cover his face, shoulders shaking, breath collapsing into broken, ugly sobs. “I’m so sorry,” he choked. “I’m so, so fucking sorry, Kirk.”

Kirk didn’t hesitate this time.

He pulled Lars into his chest, arms wrapping tightly around him, holding him together while he fell apart.

“Don’t apologize,” Kirk whispered against his hair. “Don’t you dare apologize to me for being in pain.”

Lars cried harder.

“I relapsed,” he rasped. “I ruined everything. James—James will be so disappointed. I’m disgusting, Kirk. I’m—”

“Stop.” Kirk cupped the back of his head, grounding him. “Look at me.”

Lars didn’t.
Couldn’t.

“Lars,” Kirk said more firmly, hand gentle but guiding. “Look at me.”

Slowly, Lars lifted his eyes.

“You’re not disgusting,” Kirk said, voice shaking but sincere. “You’re not weak. You didn’t ruin anything. You’re struggling. And we’re going to help you. All of us. You’re not doing this alone.”

Lars let out a small, broken noise—half sob, half surrender.

Kirk tightened his hold around him, resting his chin on top of Lars’ head as the crying slowly quieted.

Guilt still gnawed at Lars.
Shame sat heavy in his stomach.
His arms stung under the bandages.

He felt worse than ever.
Raw.
Exposed.
Filthy with failure.

But Kirk didn’t let go.

Not once.

And for the first time that week—

Lars didn’t feel completely invisible.

He still felt awful.
Still guilty.
Still disgusted with himself.

But he wasn’t alone on the bathroom floor.
And that mattered more than he realized.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
James hadn’t meant to find anything. He’d only been searching for his damn guitar picks, tearing through his own drawers first, then under the bed, then finally—without thinking—moving to Lars’ desk. He muttered to himself while checking the first drawer, not expecting more than old sheet music or pens.

But when he opened the second one, he froze.

A small black bag sat shoved toward the back, innocent-looking until he picked it up and the weight inside shifted—metal clinking softly.

James’ stomach dropped.

He opened it.

Blades.

Three of them.

Clean, sharp, deliberate.

His breath stalled in his throat as reality crashed down like a fist. “No… no, no, no—fuck, Lars…”

The door opened behind him.

Lars stepped in, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp from a shower. He froze the moment he saw James holding the bag—eyes blowing wide, color draining from his face.

Neither of them spoke for a few endless heartbeats.

Then Lars whispered, barely audible, “Put that down.”

James didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.

Lars’ voice trembled. “James. Please. Put it down.”

Instead, James turned around slowly, lifting the bag slightly as if presenting evidence of a crime. His voice shook—quiet, but dangerous. “What is this?”

Lars’ throat bobbed. “I—I can explain—”

“You better,” James snapped, voice rising before he could stop himself. “Because what the fuck, Lars?”

He stepped forward, and Lars instinctively stepped back.

“James—”

“Roll up your sleeves.”

Lars stiffened. “No.”

“Roll. Them. Up.”

“James—please—”

James grabbed his wrist—not violently, but firmly—and pushed the sleeve up before Lars could pull away.

The bandages were fresh.
Still white, but with faint pink blooming through from underneath.
Raw.
New.

James’ face crumpled.

He didn’t just tear up—he broke. His eyes filled rapidly, jaw tightening to keep it together, but the pain in his expression was unmistakable.

“Lars,” he whispered, voice hoarse, “you told me you were doing better.”

“I—James, please just—just stop—”

“You lied to me!” James hissed, backing away like he’d been hit. “You fucking lied! After everything—after the hospital—after I sat there begging you to stay alive—why didn’t you fucking tell me?”

Lars’ breathing picked up, fast and shallow. “I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want you to think I was pathetic—”

“Pathetic?” James snapped. “You think hurting yourself makes you pathetic? No, Lars. Lying to me does. Pretending you’re okay when you’re falling apart right next to me does.”

Lars flinched like the words were physical blows.

James dragged a hand through his hair, pacing, wiping his face angrily. “Jesus Christ, Lars, do you even want to get better?”

Silence.

A heavy, awful silence.

Then Lars whispered, “I don’t know.”

James stopped dead in his tracks. “What?”

“I don’t know!” Lars shouted suddenly, voice cracking. “I don’t know how to get better! I don’t know how to eat like a normal person! I don’t know how to stop hating myself! I don’t know how to not fucking cut! I don’t know anything anymore, James!”

His hands shook violently.
His breathing was a frantic mess.

“And now,” Lars choked, “now you’re disgusted with me too.”

James stared at him, wounded and furious all at once. “I’m not disgusted with you,” he said. “I’m terrified for you.”

Lars shook his head, tears forming now. “You don’t understand. I’m trying. I swear I’m trying. But every day I just—I feel worse. And when I look in the mirror I want to crawl out of my skin. And you—you keep expecting me to magically be okay, James, but I’m not—”

“I don’t expect you to be magically okay,” James interrupted, voice low. “I expect you to stay alive.”

Lars looked away.

James inhaled sharply. “You need help. Real help. Therapy. Someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Lars’ jaw clenched. “I’m not going to therapy.”

“You are,” James insisted. “I’m done watching you kill yourself. If you want me in your life—if you want us to be okay—you’re going. You’re doing something.”

“Stop controlling me!” Lars yelled. “Stop telling me what to do! Stop acting like you know what’s best for me!”

“Someone has to!” James shot back.

“Then maybe I should just leave,” Lars snapped.

James froze.

Lars grabbed his phone from the bedside table with shaking hands. “I’m done talking about this.”

James didn’t move to stop him.
Didn’t reach out.
Didn’t call his name.

He just stood there, breathing unevenly, tears drying on his face as Lars walked out the door—slamming it behind him.

And for the first time in days—

James didn’t chase after him.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘Lars didn’t think—he fled.

His heart still pounded painfully from the argument with James, each echo of the door slamming behind him ricocheting through his mind until it blurred with the sound of his own pulse. The campus lights streaked across his vision as he walked, half-running, hoodie pulled tight around his trembling body.

Three kilometers.
He knew this path.
He shouldn’t walk it.
He shouldn’t even think about where he was going.

But his brain was a storm, and it whispered in that familiar cruel voice:

You need something. You need help. You need to forget.

He knew only one person who could give him that.

By the time he reached Dave’s old apartment building, his legs felt rubbery, his breathing shaky. The place looked the same—slightly grimy, dim hallway lights flickering, the faint smell of weed and cigarette smoke clinging to the walls. He swallowed hard, memories bubbling just beneath the surface.

God, he shouldn’t be here.

He lifted his hand, hesitated, then knocked.

The door swung open after a few seconds, and Dave Mustaine stared at him as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Lars?” Dave blinked twice, eyebrows shooting up. “Dude—what the actual fuck—?”

Lars didn’t answer. Didn’t greet him. Didn’t even attempt to explain.

He just walked past him, into the apartment like he belonged there.

Dave shut the door slowly, still staring. “Okay… yeah, so—what the fuck are you doing here?”

Lars turned around, face pale, eyes glassy. “I need something from you.”

Dave’s confusion deepened, and then—almost instantly—a smirk crept onto his face. Not a cruel one, but the kind of smirk that said he knew exactly what Lars meant.

“Well,” Dave drawled, “shit. Didn’t expect you to break before I did.”

He rummaged through drawers, metal scraping against wood, little clinks and taps filling the quiet apartment. Lars wrapped his arms around himself, clutching his elbows like he had to hold himself together.

Finally, Dave made a satisfied noise. “Found it.”

He held up a small baggie, the powder inside glimmering faintly under the kitchen light.

Lars stared at it like it was salvation.

Dave tossed it to him, watching his reaction carefully. “I’m feeling generous today. You can have that for free.”

Lars froze, eyes snapping up.

“But,” Dave continued, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, “you gotta tell me why you need it so badly.”

Lars sighed—a broken, exhausted sound—and sat down heavily on Dave’s old couch, the springs groaning under him. He stared at the floor.

And then the words spilled out.

Everything.
The relapse.
The starvation.
The hospital.
James’ anger.
The argument.
The blades.
The shame.

Dave listened without interrupting, surprisingly quiet, expression somewhere between stunned and unreadable.

“…and James hates me now,” Lars finished, rubbing his hands over his face. “He’s done with me. I get it. I would be too.”

Dave muttered, “No fucking way. Lars Ulrich has actual problems.”
A bitter laugh followed. “And here I thought I was the only trainwreck.”

Lars didn’t respond.
He didn’t need to.

He grabbed the baggie from the table beside him and stood up quickly. “I should go.”

He didn’t want to be here anymore.
Didn’t want Dave’s eyes on him.
Didn’t want to feel this weak.

But Dave stepped in front of the door, blocking his exit. “Nope. Not happening.”

Lars frowned. “Move.”

Dave shook his head firmly. “If you walk out of here like this, you’re gonna get yourself killed. Or arrested. Or you’ll show up on James’ doorstep looking like hell and make everything worse.”

Lars clenched his jaw. “Dave—”

“Stay the night,” Dave insisted. “Crash on the couch. You’re not okay, and James doesn’t need to see you like… whatever this is.”

Lars bristled. “Stop acting like you care.”

Dave’s expression sharpened—painful, defensive. “Don’t tell me what I care about.”

The silence between them stretched for several long seconds. Lars’ heart hammered. Dave’s stare was steady, surprisingly sober, surprisingly genuine.

“And…” Dave added, voice softer, “we can talk. If you want. Or you can just sit here and do nothing. I don’t care. But don’t go out there alone.”

Lars didn’t know why he stayed.
He didn’t know why his feet wouldn’t move.
He didn’t know why the idea of going back into the cold night suddenly felt terrifying.

Maybe it was the exhaustion.
Maybe it was the sick need for comfort.
Maybe it was the part of him that remembered Dave being there once—before things fell apart.

Or maybe… he just couldn’t face James again yet.

So Lars lowered his head, swallowed thickly, and whispered:

“…fine.”

Dave nodded, almost relieved. “Good. Couch is yours. You need food?”

Lars shook his head instantly, body tightening.

Dave didn’t push. Just grabbed a blanket, tossed it his way, then sat down on the other side of the room.

For a long time, neither spoke.

Lars sat hunched over, staring at the baggie in his hand.
He felt pathetic.
Weak.
Disgusting.
A failure.

He had promised James he’d get better.
He had promised himself he wouldn’t relapse.
He had promised Kirk he wouldn’t cut again.

And look at him now.

Dave watched him quietly, recognizing the spiral. He didn’t say anything comforting—he wasn’t that type—but he didn’t leave, either.

And somehow, that made the silence feel a little less crushing.

For the first time in days, Lars exhaled, long and shaky, and let his eyes drift closed.

He didn’t feel better.
Not even close.

But he wasn’t alone anymore.
Not tonight.

And that was… something.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
For a long while, Lars just sat there on the couch, staring at the baggie pinched between his fingers. The apartment around him hummed with quiet—only the distant noise of the street and the occasional creak of the building breaking the stillness.

Dave sat across from him on a battered armchair, one leg pulled up under him, elbows on his knees, watching Lars like he was some fragile, unpredictable animal. Not mocking. Not smirking.

Just… waiting.

Finally, Lars broke the silence.

“…can I use your bathroom?”

Dave didn’t ask why. Didn’t lecture him. Just jerked his chin toward the hallway. “First door on the right.”

Lars stood, legs heavy, stomach twisting, and walked toward the bathroom without saying another word. The door clicked shut behind him, and he leaned against it, breathing hard.

His hands were shaking.

He hated that.
Hated how familiar it felt.
Hated how desperately he wanted to feel numb—just for a few hours.

He slid down to the floor, knees drawn up, and pulled out the baggie. The sight alone made something dark twist inside him. Too much nostalgia. Too much pain. Too much everything.

He didn’t bother thinking anymore.

Just acted.

By the time he was done, his head felt lighter, his chest looser. The edges of everything softened, the noise in his skull quieting to a dull buzz.

He cleaned up quickly, splashed cold water on his face, and forced himself to breathe before he stepped out.

Dave hadn’t moved from the chair.

But the moment Lars came back into the room, he knew.
Dave’s eyes locked onto his, sharp, too perceptive.

“…how much?” he asked quietly.

Lars shrugged. “Enough.”

Dave exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus, you work fast.”

Lars didn’t answer. He sank onto the couch again, shoulders slumping, head tilted back against the wall. His body was wired but loose at the same time, a terrible comfortable balance.

Dave watched him for a moment, then got up and walked into the kitchen. Lars expected him to disappear, but instead Dave returned with two glasses of water, handing one to him.

Lars took it with a weak, confused frown.

Dave sat back down. “A high that fast hits like a truck. Drink.”

Lars did. His hand trembled slightly around the glass.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Dave sighed, slumping back in his chair. “You know… when you showed up at my door tonight, I thought it was a joke.”

Lars blinked tiredly. “Why?”

“Because you’re Lars fucking Ulrich,” Dave said flatly. “You’re the one who held everything together. The one who never cracked. The one who always had something to say.”

Lars stared at the water in his hands. “I’m not that guy.”

Dave gave a harsh little laugh. “Yeah, I’m starting to see that.”

Another silence. But this one felt heavier.

After a moment, Dave leaned forward, elbows on knees again. “You wanna hear something pathetic?”

Lars glanced at him. “What.”

“I’ve been clean for almost two years,” Dave said softly. “Two years without blowing my whole life up again. Two years without thinking I’d end up dead in some hallway.” His voice tightened, bitterness creeping in. “But then you walk in, looking like you’re about to fall apart in my damn doorway, and suddenly I feel like I’m 18 again.”

Lars’ stomach twisted. “Dave…”

“I’m not blaming you,” Dave cut in quickly. “I’m just saying… I get it. I get needing something to shut your brain up. I get the obsession with feeling small and wired and impossible. I get being so fucking miserable you’ll take anything that feels like control.”

Lars’ breath hitched.

He didn’t expect that.
Not from Dave.
Not from anyone.

Dave leaned his head back, eyes closing. “I’m not supposed to have that shit in my place anymore. I only keep it in case some old friends come by. Or in case…”
He hesitated.
“In case I get weak.”

Lars swallowed hard, chest tightening again. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Dave muttered. “I’m the idiot who made it easy for you.”

Another slow, heavy silence.

Lars suddenly felt nauseous—guilty and dizzy and overwhelmed. He wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, breathing shakily.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” he whispered. “I’m messing everything up. I’m dragging everyone down. Even you.”

Dave shook his head immediately. “You came here because you trusted me.”

“That’s not better.”

“It is,” Dave insisted, voice low but firm. “Because you came to me instead of going off on your own and doing something truly fucking stupid.”

Lars stared at him, pupils wide, expression unsteady. “I don’t trust myself not to do something stupid.”

Dave’s face softened—just a bit. “Yeah. I figured.”

Lars pressed a hand to his forehead, groaning. “James is going to kill me.”

“James isn’t your dad,” Dave said. “He doesn’t get to decide your every move.”

Lars laughed weakly, humorless. “He kind of does.”

“Then that’s fucked,” Dave muttered. “You’re not his project. You’re his friend. Or whatever the hell you two are.”

Lars didn’t respond.

Dave’s tone softened again. “Hey… Lars. Look at me.”

Lars forced himself to meet his eyes.

Dave held the gaze, steady and unexpectedly warm. “I’m not letting you spiral alone tonight. You stay here. You crash here. I’ll deal with the fallout if anyone comes looking.”

Lars’ lip trembled. He didn’t want to cry—not in front of Dave, not like this. But he was raw and exhausted and unsteady.

“Why do you care?” Lars whispered.

Dave shrugged, leaning back again. “Because someone has to.”

Lars shut his eyes.
And for the first time in days—maybe weeks—he let himself breathe without suffocating.

He didn’t feel safe.
He didn’t feel better.

But he wasn’t alone.

And with Dave—broken, reckless, understanding Dave—he didn’t feel judged.

Only watched.
Only understood.
Only held together by someone who knew exactly how it felt to fall apart.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars didn’t remember falling asleep, only the heavy crash that came afterward—sleep so deep it felt like he’d been dragged under water and kept there. His head hurt. His teeth felt weird. His stomach was a pit of cold acid. It was 10 a.m., the numbers on Dave’s flimsy digital clock glaring at him like a reminder of everything he was supposed to be doing right now.

He should’ve been in class.

He shouldn’t have been in this apartment.

He shouldn’t have taken coke again.

He shouldn’t have… everything.

Yet there he was—standing in Dave Mustaine’s cramped living room wearing the same clothes as last night, smelling faintly like stale sweat, shame, and the last traces of the drug still buzzing uncomfortably in his body.

He heard noise in the kitchen. Drawers opening. A pan clattering. The sound of someone humming off-key.

He walked toward it because he didn’t know what else to do.

And then he saw Dave.

But not the same Dave he’d seen last night. This one was wearing a loose, washed-out t-shirt, and the sleeves cut off just enough to reveal…

Scars.

So many scars.

Running from his shoulders, down his forearms, disappearing and reappearing like a roadmap of every bad moment Dave Mustaine had ever lived through. Thicker ones. Older ones. Shiny raised lines crossing over each other like broken stitches. And newer ones too, faintly pink. Lars’s stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from recognition.

Dave noticed him before Lars could fix his expression.

“Morning,” Dave said casually, flipping something in a frying pan.

Lars just stood there like an idiot, frozen in the doorway.

Dave glanced over. “You look like shit.”

“Yeah,” Lars murmured. His voice sounded wrong, like he hadn’t used it in years.

Dave returned to cooking. Eggs. Bacon. Something warm. Something heavy. Something impossible.

“Do you want something to eat?” Dave asked without turning around.

Lars stiffened so violently he felt it in his bones. His chest tightened instantly. His throat closed. The smell of the food made his skin crawl.

Dave paused.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Right. I forgot.”

Lars looked down, shame burning a hole straight through his ribs. It wasn’t even anger or disgust—from Dave or himself. It was something worse. Something familiar. Dave understood. Lars hated that.

“I should probably go…” Lars muttered, already stepping back.

Dave didn’t try to stop him. He turned off the stove, leaned his hip against the counter, arms crossed loosely—not blocking him, not pushing either way.

“Yeah,” Dave said quietly. “You probably should.”

Lars nodded, barely looking up.

“But—” Dave added, voice softer than Lars expected, “call me if you need anything.”

Lars froze in the doorway.

Dave Mustaine, of all people, saying something like that.

He didn’t know what to make of the warm, painful twist in his chest.

Lars swallowed, nodded once, and left the apartment before he could do something stupid like cry or fall apart or ask to stay.

Because for some horrible reason, part of him wanted to.

A lot.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars made it back onto campus around noon, exhausted and wired and hollow all at the same time. His head felt light, his body shaky, his throat dry like he’d swallowed sandpaper. Every step up the stairs felt like someone pulling the floor out from under him. He told himself he’d go straight to his room, lie down, pretend everything was fine.

He didn’t expect to run into Jason in the hallway.

Jason was locking his door, headphones around his neck, backpack thrown over one shoulder. He glanced over, ready to greet whoever passed—

And his face immediately changed when he saw Lars.

“Dude… what happened to you?” Jason said, removing his headphones slowly, like he was afraid one wrong move would make Lars break apart.

Lars froze.
He could feel his hands trembling. He shoved them into his pockets.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

Jason stared at him for a second too long—long enough for Lars to know the lie didn’t work. Jason wasn’t stupid. He took in everything: Lars’ red-rimmed eyes. His pale face. His uneven breathing. The way he wouldn’t quite look at him.

“You’re not fine,” Jason said quietly.

Lars swallowed hard. “I just didn’t sleep.”

Jason stepped closer. “Bullshit.”

Lars felt something cold spread through his chest. He tried to push past him, but Jason stepped into his path again, arms crossed lightly—not threatening, just blocking.

“Let me go,” Lars murmured, voice cracking. “Please.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

Lars shook his head. “I can’t. I really—Jason, I just can’t right now.”

Jason looked at him for a long moment… then his expression softened. Not pity. Something gentler. Something honest.

“Then let’s go inside,” Jason said. “You don’t have to talk in the hallway.”

Lars hesitated. Everything inside him screamed run. Hide. Lie.
But he didn’t have the energy to argue.
His legs felt like they might give out anyway.

So he followed Jason into his dorm room.

Jason closed the door behind them. He didn’t turn on the bright overhead light—just the small lamp on his desk. The room felt warmer, quieter. Safe, almost.

“Sit,” Jason said softly.

Lars sat on the edge of the bed because he couldn’t do anything else. His whole body felt wrong—like he was floating above himself.

Jason sat on the floor across from him, close but not pushing, elbows resting on his knees.

“Your hands are shaking,” he said gently.

Lars immediately hid them under his thighs.

Jason sighed. “Don’t do that. I’m not judging you.”

Silence.

A painfully long silence.

Then Jason leaned forward a little.

“Did you use?” he asked. Not angry. Just worried.

Lars’ whole body tensed.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

“…yeah.”
Barely a whisper.

Jason’s shoulders dropped, the breath leaving him in one slow exhale.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay. How much?”

“Not a lot,” Lars said quickly. “Just… just once.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

Jason nodded slowly, processing. Not yelling. Not freaking out. Just absorbing the reality.

“Are you gonna… do more?” Jason asked quietly.

Lars shook his head too fast. “No. I’m done. It was just—just a moment. I fell back into it, but—I’m not doing it again.”

Jason watched him carefully, eyes soft but sharp.

“You promise?”

Lars felt his throat close. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I want to say yes, but I really don’t know.”

Jason didn’t move for a moment. Then he stood, grabbed a water bottle, and handed it to Lars.

“Drink,” he said gently. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

Lars drank because he didn’t know what else to do.

Jason sat next to him now, close enough their shoulders almost touched.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he asked quietly. “Or Kirk? Or James?”

Lars stared at the floor. “Because you guys would’ve stopped me.”

“That’s the point.”

“I didn’t want to be stopped,” Lars muttered.

Jason’s jaw clenched. Not in anger—just hurt.

“Did something happen?” he asked.

Lars closed his eyes. Dave’s voice echoed in his mind. His scars. The baggie. The numb relief. The guilt.

“Yeah,” Lars whispered. “But I can’t talk about it.”

Jason didn’t push. He just nodded.

Then, carefully—like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed—Jason put a hand on Lars’ back.

Lars flinched at the contact.
Jason didn’t move away.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” Jason murmured. “Just don’t shut me out like this. You scared the shit out of all of us.”

Lars’ breath trembled. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

Jason rubbed slow circles between his shoulders—barely there, but grounding.

“You can stay here awhile,” he said. “Lie down if you need. You look exhausted.”

Lars let out a shaky sigh and nodded, letting himself lean forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

Jason didn’t leave.
He didn’t ask more questions.
He just stayed beside him, quiet and steady, making sure Lars didn’t disappear again.

For the first time since waking up at Dave’s, Lars felt like he could breathe.
Not fully. Not comfortably.
But enough.

Enough to stay alive a little longer.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Jason hadn’t planned on telling James.
He really hadn’t.
But he knew James would find out eventually—and it was better coming from him than from anyone else.

So later that afternoon, after Lars finally fell asleep on Jason’s bed—curled up, exhausted, small in a way that scared Jason—Jason stepped out into the hallway and texted James:

“We need to talk. Now.”

James responded in less than a minute.

“Where is he?”
“What happened?”
“Jason answer me.”

By the time Jason reached the common room downstairs, James was already there—pacing back and forth, breathing hard, hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it nonstop.

As soon as he saw Jason, he stopped pacing.

“Where is he?” James demanded.

Jason exhaled slowly. “He’s… in my room.”

James’ eyebrows shot up. “In your room?”

“He didn’t want to be alone.”

James scoffed—sharp, bitter. “Oh, so he wanted to be with you?”

Jason stiffened. “Don’t start.”

“No, seriously,” James continued, voice rising. “He runs away from me, goes straight to you, and what? You just—what, let him stay like some kind of—some kind of fucking stray you took in?”

Jason’s jaw clenched. “James, he showed up high.”

That shut James up.

His eyes widened, his face draining of color.

“…what?”
A whisper. Almost inaudible.

Jason swallowed. “He used. He went to Dave yesterday.”

James stumbled back like someone punched him. “What—Jason—what the fuck—why didn’t you tell me right away?!”

“I was dealing with it—”

“No!” James shouted, voice cracking. “No, you don’t get to just ‘deal with it’ on your own! Lars is—he’s not—he shouldn’t be—fuck, if he went to Dave—Jason, you should’ve called me!”

Jason’s expression hardened. “He didn’t want you, James.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth.”

James took a shaky breath, chest rising and falling too fast.

“What else happened?” he asked. “Tell me everything.”

Jason hesitated. “It’s not my place—”

“JASON.”
James’ voice boomed across the room, sharp enough that a student passing by turned and stared.

Jason glared at him. “He didn’t sleep. He barely ate. He was shaking. He freaked out when I offered him food, he looked like he was about to fucking collapse—and he said he didn’t want to be stopped. He went to Dave's"

James blinked rapidly, his eyes shining with something he was trying too hard to hide—panic.

“He said that?”
His voice broke on the last word.

Jason nodded. “Yeah.”

James paced back and forth, fingers digging into his hair.

“What the hell was he thinking? Dave? Dave? After everything? Fuck—fuck, this is my fault. I pushed him too hard, didn’t I? I shouldn’t have yelled, I should’ve stayed with him last night, I should’ve—”

Jason stepped in front of him suddenly, blocking his path.

“James. Stop.”

“No, I—”

“STOP.”

James froze.

Jason sighed, rubbing his face. “You’re gonna make it worse if you go in there like this.”

James stared at him, eyes red. “I’m worried.”

Jason softened a little. “I know.”

“And scared.”

“I know.”

“And angry.”

Jason hesitated. “That one you should work on.”

James let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I’m pissed because he trusts you more than me.”

Jason frowned. “This isn’t a competition.”

“It feels like one.”

“Well, it shouldn’t.”

James swallowed hard. His defenses dropped for a moment, and he looked unbearably young—lost, even.

“I’m supposed to take care of him,” he whispered. “I promised myself I would.”

Jason’s expression gentled. “You can’t take care of him if he’s scared of how you’ll react.”

James flinched.

Jason continued, quieter, but firm:
“He came to me because I stayed calm. That’s it. He wasn’t choosing me over you. He was choosing the safest place in that moment.”

James stared at the floor.

Jason hesitated before adding:
“You can still fix things. But not by interrogating him. And not by yelling.”

James nodded slowly… but then his jaw tightened again.

“What is he doing right now?”
Still too forceful.

“He’s asleep,” Jason answered. “Completely out. He’s exhausted.”

James rubbed his face again, exhaling shakily. “Can I—see him?”

Jason thought for a long moment.

“Only if you stay calm.”

James swallowed. “I will.”

Jason looked doubtful. “…James.”

“I swear.”

Jason sighed. “Fine. But if you freak him out, I’m kicking you out.”

James nodded.

But his hands were still shaking.

And he had a thousand questions burning holes in his tongue.

As they walked toward Jason’s room, Jason prayed silently that James would not explode again.

Because Lars couldn’t take another blow.
Not today.
Not after everything.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The hallway outside Jason’s room felt impossibly long to James, even though he’d walked it a hundred times before. Every step was heavy, every breath ragged. He could hear faint noises from inside—Lars’ quiet, uneven breathing, maybe even the subtle shift of the blankets.

Jason opened the door for him, stepping aside with a small nod. “Go on. Just… be calm.”

James took a deep breath and entered slowly. The room smelled faintly of cheap air freshener, lingering coffee, and something familiar that was entirely Lars—sweat, exhaustion, guilt, shame. Lars was curled up on the bed, sleeves pulled over his hands, eyes closed.

James’ chest tightened. Not with anger. Not with fear, exactly. Something heavier—disappointment. He knew Lars was struggling. He knew the relapse had been possible. But seeing him here, like this, made it real.

“Hey,” James said quietly, stepping closer. His voice was soft, steady. Not accusing. Not yelling. Just… him.

Lars stirred slightly but didn’t open his eyes.

“I know you’re awake,” James continued, sitting on the edge of the bed carefully, not too close, not too far. “I don’t need you to answer me right away. I just… I needed to see you.”

Lars shifted under the blanket, eyes blinking open slowly. He looked small, fragile, like he could disappear entirely if James leaned too close.

James swallowed, fighting the lump in his throat. “I… I’m not mad at you, Lars. I’m… disappointed. I wanted you to trust me, and I wanted you to stay safe. I don’t know… I guess I just hoped you’d come to me first.”

Lars’ eyes darted down at his hands, hidden under the sleeve. “I… I didn’t want to bother you. Or—make you angry. Or—” His voice cracked.

James shook his head, gently. “You’re not a bother. And I’m not going to be angry at you for feeling like this. I just… I want to help. And I can’t if you hide things from me.”

Lars swallowed hard. He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell James it was his fault, that James couldn’t possibly understand. But he couldn’t. Not fully. He didn’t have the energy. He just sat there, breathing shallowly, letting James’ presence fill the room.

James reached out, carefully taking Lars’ hand into his own. It was small in his grip, cold, shaking slightly. “I don’t want to fight you,” James said quietly. “I just want you to be okay. I don’t care if it takes a hundred tries. I don’t care if it’s messy. I care about you.”

Lars felt his chest tighten even more. He wanted to push James away. He wanted to curl into himself and disappear. But part of him—a deep, small part—wanted to lean in, to let someone care without judgment for the first time in months.

“I… I don’t know if I can stop messing up,” Lars whispered, voice barely audible.

James squeezed his hand. “I know. And that’s okay. You’re allowed to mess up. Just… don’t do it alone. Not anymore.”

Lars blinked back tears he didn’t want to let fall. He nodded, just slightly. It wasn’t a promise. Not yet. But it was enough.

James stayed with him, quiet, just holding his hand. Not lecturing. Not yelling. Just being there. And for once, Lars didn’t feel the crushing weight of shame as sharply—just a quiet, fragile hope that maybe he could survive this with someone by his side.

They didn’t need to say more. Sometimes presence spoke louder than words. And in that small dorm room, amidst the exhaustion, fear, and guilt, it was enough for now.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The dorm was silent.

Lars lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of the air conditioner filling the empty space. His chest felt tight, his thoughts looping like broken records: the hospital, the relapse, James’ disappointed face, Jason’s quiet concern. Everything that should have calmed down only clawed at him harder at night.

Then his phone buzzed.

It was Dave.

“I need you. Now.”

Lars’ stomach twisted. His first instinct was to ignore it. He shouldn’t go. He shouldn’t get involved. He shouldn’t even talk to Dave anymore. But there was something in the urgency, something raw in the text, that made his fingers tremble.

He typed back automatically:

“I can’t. Not tonight.”

Seconds later, another message:

“Please… I need you. Please come.”

Lars froze. He could tell from the tone that Dave was either high, drunk, or some combination of both. Normally, that would’ve been a warning to stay away. But instead, something in Lars’ chest tightened, a strange mixture of fear and… responsibility. He couldn’t ignore it.

He typed back, hesitating over each letter:

“I’ll come. But only for a little. I can’t stay long.”

Almost immediately, Dave replied:

“That’s all I need. Just a few minutes. Please.”

Lars got up quietly, careful not to wake his roommate. His body moved almost on autopilot, cold and tense. He wrapped a hoodie over his pajamas and slid his shoes on, listening to every creak of the floorboards. He stepped outside, the night air hitting him like ice. Every shadow felt heavier, every sound amplified.

The streets were empty, the city muted in a way that made him feel both invisible and exposed. Each step toward Dave’s apartment made his chest pound—not just from fear, but from something else, something he didn’t want to name yet.

When he arrived, Dave’s door was already cracked open. Lars hesitated in the hallway, but then Dave’s voice called softly, ragged and urgent.

“Lars! Come in, quick.”

He stepped inside. The apartment smelled faintly of smoke and alcohol, tinged with something sweet and sharp, like perfume mixed with chaos. Dave was slouched on the couch, head resting back, eyes half-lidded.

“You came,” Dave slurred, relief in his voice. “I… I really needed you.”

Lars stayed near the door, arms crossed, trying to steady his breathing. “You shouldn’t be… like this,” he said, voice low. “You’re… messing yourself up.”

Dave blinked, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah… maybe. But you showed up. That’s what counts.”

Lars’ stomach twisted. He hated how much he cared. He hated how quickly his fear of being caught faded when Dave looked at him like that—like he was the only person who mattered.

“I didn’t want to,” Lars admitted quietly. “I shouldn’t even be here. If someone finds out…”

Dave waved a hand vaguely. “No one’s gonna find out. Just… be here for a bit. Sit. Talk. Don’t freak out. That’s all I’m asking.”

Lars stepped closer, though he didn’t sit. He perched on the arm of the couch, far enough away to feel safe, close enough to hear Dave’s shallow, uneven breathing.

“I… I don’t know what you want from me,” Lars muttered.

“Nothing,” Dave said immediately. “I just… wanted you here. You always make things… less bad. Even when I’m a mess.”

Lars swallowed hard. He didn’t respond. He just stared at Dave, feeling the weight of the last few months pressing down on him: the hospital, the feeding tube, the guilt, the fear, the drugs.

Dave’s eyes softened, even through the haze. “You don’t have to fix me, Lars. You just… existing here is enough.”

Something cracked in Lars’ chest. He wanted to say so many things—“I care,” “I’m scared,” “I’m tired,” “I hate myself”—but the words wouldn’t come. So he stayed, quiet, just breathing in the small, messy room, letting the chaos of Dave’s life and his own pain collide in the stillness of the night.

For the first time in a long time, Lars didn’t feel completely alone.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t want to leave.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Dave left to the bathroom, and he wasn't combing back for a long time. Lars decided to go check on him.

Lars froze in the doorway when he saw it.

Dave’s sleeve was soaked in blood. A jagged line ran across his forearm, deep enough that Lars’ stomach clenched violently. The smell of iron hit him immediately. Panic shot through him, sharp and burning. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected to see someone he cared about so… broken.

For a moment, Lars didn’t know what to do. His hands shook uncontrollably. His mind screamed at him to run, to call someone, to do anything—but he also knew he couldn’t leave Dave like this. Not like this.

Taking a shaky breath, Lars stepped closer. “Dave…” His voice was barely more than a whisper. He knelt slowly in front of him. “You—you need help.”

Dave blinked, half-lidded eyes unfocused from the mix of drugs and alcohol. “I’m… fine,” he slurred. “I just… stupid, Lars.”

“No,” Lars said firmly, his voice cracking despite his attempt to stay calm. “You’re not fine. Look at your arm.”

Dave made a weak attempt to pull his sleeve down over the wound, but Lars gently grabbed his wrist. Carefully, reverently, he rolled the sleeve up. The sight of the raw, bleeding cut made him flinch, his stomach twisting. Blood had already started to soak the fabric, and there was nothing covering it—no bandage, no cloth.

“Shit,” Lars muttered under his breath. “Okay… we need to clean this.”

He guided Dave, who was swaying slightly, toward the bathroom. Dave didn’t resist but wasn’t fully aware either. Lars had to support him by the waist, steadying him so he wouldn’t collapse. Every step was a struggle; the apartment felt suddenly too small, too quiet, too loud at the same time.

Once in the bathroom, Lars washed his hands quickly, heart hammering. He grabbed a clean cloth and gently pressed it against the wound, careful not to cause more pain. Dave flinched once, mumbling incoherently, but Lars stayed calm. He had to. For both of them.

“Okay… okay,” Lars said, his voice soft but steady. “We’re going to clean you up, alright? Just trust me.”

Dave let out a small, unsteady sigh. Lars wiped the blood carefully, then tore a small piece of bandage and wrapped it around the cut. He pressed gently, holding the fabric in place until it stopped bleeding enough. He tied it loosely so it wouldn’t restrict blood flow, all the while talking quietly, almost like he was talking to himself.

“There… there. Better. You’re going to be okay,” Lars murmured, though a part of him felt anything but okay.

After finishing, he guided Dave back to the bedroom. Dave sank onto the bed heavily, exhausted, eyes closing briefly. Lars sat beside him for a moment, letting the weight of the night settle in. He wrapped an arm around Dave, holding him loosely but protectively, letting him feel the warmth and steady presence.

“I… I should go,” Lars said softly, his chest tight, hands trembling. “You need to rest. You’ll be okay.”

Dave’s half-lidded eyes fluttered open, and for a moment Lars thought he was going to say nothing. Then, in a voice thick and muffled with fatigue, Dave whispered:

“Thank you, Lars… I love you.”

Lars froze. The words hit him like a punch to the chest. He felt something strange, heavy, and dangerous in his stomach—guilt, warmth, fear, confusion. He wanted to say something back, anything, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not in this fragile, raw moment.

He hugged Dave one more time, careful not to press too hard, careful not to let the moment shatter into something he wasn’t ready to face. Then, reluctantly, he let go. He stood slowly, backing toward the door, his heart hammering so loudly he was sure Dave could hear it.

Dave mumbled something incoherent, then closed his eyes again, drifting into sleep. Lars paused in the doorway for a long, tense second, staring at him. The air between them felt charged—dangerous, intimate, terrifying.

Finally, Lars turned and left. His steps were quiet, careful, measured, but inside, his chest burned with the weight of the moment, the words, and the dangerous closeness that had just passed between them. He didn’t know what would happen next, but he knew one thing for sure: he couldn’t stop caring.

And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars pushed open the front doors of the dorm building as quietly as he could, wincing when they squeaked just a little too loudly. His whole body felt heavy—like he’d been dipped in cement. His clothes smelled faintly like Dave’s apartment, like cigarette smoke and old wood, and the memory of the night before clung to him like a second skin.

The hallways were silent. Dark. Only a few emergency lights glowed along the floor, casting long shadows across the carpet. It was early—too early. Everyone was still asleep. Thank god.

He slipped down the corridor, shoulders tense, listening for any sign of life. Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. No doors creaking. Just the sound of his own heartbeat, too loud and too fast.

He reached his room and slowly turned the handle. It wasn’t locked—James never remembered to lock it. The room was pitch black except for the faint glow from James’ phone charging on the desk.

James was asleep in his bed, curled on his side, blankets half-kicked off. His breathing was slow and steady, oblivious, peaceful. Lars stood in the doorway for a long moment, feeling something twist painfully in his chest.

He looked terrible. Lars knew he looked terrible. His eyes were swollen and tired. His hair was a mess. His hands were still trembling slightly from the adrenaline of taking care of Dave. And worst of all—his mind was still replaying Dave’s tired, slurred voice:

'Thank you, Lars… I love you.'

Lars’ throat tightened. He swallowed hard, pushing the memory away.

He didn’t have the energy to deal with anything else right now. Not Dave’s confession. Not the guilt. Not the fear. Not the fact he had just taken care of someone who was bleeding and drunk and high and still somehow managed to tell him I love you.

And definitely not James.

Lars tiptoed inside, closing the door gently behind him. He set his jacket on the chair, trying not to make noise. He peeled off his shirt and threw it into the laundry basket, wincing at the faint spots of dried blood on the fabric—not his. He hoped James wouldn’t notice.

He crawled into his bed slowly, sinking under the blankets. His entire body ached from the long walk back and the weight of the night before. He curled up on his side, staring at the wall, unable to turn his brain off.

Why did Dave call him?
Why him, of all people?
Why did he say that—even if he was drunk and high?
Why did it feel… good to hear it?
Why did it scare him so much?

Lars squeezed his eyes shut.

He wanted to sleep. God, he wanted to sleep. But sleep didn’t come easily—not when the world felt like it was collapsing and his chest felt too tight and he could still feel Dave’s warmth when he hugged him.

Eventually, exhaustion took over. His breathing slowed. The dorm remained quiet. No one had noticed he’d been gone.

But tomorrow morning?
James would notice everything.

And Lars knew it.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘Lars barely slept.
Every time he drifted close to unconsciousness, the same sentence dragged him violently back awake:

'Thank you, Lars… I love you.'

It looped in his head like a broken record.
Not tender.
Not romantic.
Just raw. Slurred. Vulnerable.
And dangerous.

By the time the sun began bleeding through the blinds, Lars was staring at the ceiling with hollow eyes, blanket half-pulled over his chest, twisting a corner of it between his fingers. His stomach was tight with dread. His chest felt too small for the amount of panic packed inside it.

His phone buzzed on the pillow next to him.

At first, he ignored it. He didn’t even have to check who it was. Only one person had the nerve to blow up his phone at 6:40 in the morning.

Another buzz.
Then another.
Then a call.

Lars groaned into his pillow, grabbed the phone without looking at the screen, and immediately declined the call.
It stopped.

Five seconds later, it buzzed again.
A text this time.

I’m sorry.

The screen lit up again almost instantly.

I shouldn’t have called you last night.

Then:

Are you mad at me? Please answer.

Lars squeezed his eyes shut. His head pounded. His ribs felt tight. He dropped the phone on his chest and let out a long, shaky breath.

Of course Dave was apologizing.
Of course Dave remembered.
Or at least remembered enough to feel guilty.

Lars didn’t even know what he was supposed to feel.

Relief?
Fear?
Confusion?
Something warm and nauseating at the same time?

He reached up, covering his face with both hands.

Another buzz.
And another.

I didn’t mean to dump everything on you. I just— I didn’t know who else to call...
I’m sorry if I freaked you out. I shouldn’t have said that. Ignore it. Seriously. Just forget it.

Lars sat up, hair a mess, blanket sliding off his shoulders. His heart thudded painfully hard at that line.

Just forget it.

As if he could.
As if he hadn’t spent hours replaying it, over and over, analyzing every syllable, wondering if Dave meant it or if it was the drugs talking.

His hands trembled slightly as he picked up the phone. He didn’t type anything back, just stared at the messages until they blurred.

Another vibration.

Please tell me you’re okay.

Lars swallowed hard. His mouth felt dry.
He typed something. Deleted it.
Typed something else. Deleted that too.

Finally, he sent the smallest thing possible.

I’m fine.

He immediately regretted it, because Dave responded within seconds.

You’re lying.

Lars clenched his jaw, irritation and embarrassment mixing in his stomach.

Another message:

Please don’t hate me.

Lars shut his eyes again.
He didn’t hate him. That was the problem.

He pressed the phone to his forehead and whispered into the quiet room:

“What the hell are you doing to me…”

But the phone buzzed again, and the vibration shot straight through his nerves.

Can I call you? Just for a minute. I need to hear your voice.

Lars froze.

He wasn’t ready.
He wasn’t ready for anything.
Not for talking about last night, not for Dave’s slurred confession, not for the sight of his bleeding arm, not for the way it felt holding him while he fell asleep.

He wasn’t ready for whatever this… thing… between them was turning into.

So he did the only thing he could think of.

He turned off his phone.
Set it face-down on his desk.
And sat there in the silence of his dorm room, heart pounding, mind racing with the same words that wouldn’t leave him alone:

'I love you.'

And it scared him more than anything else that had happened.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The neon light from the bar across the street seeped through the blinds, casting Dave’s apartment in streaks of red and blue. Lars knocked lightly, then pushed the door open.

Dave looked up from the couch, bleary-eyed, hair messy, cheeks wet with traces of tears. For a second, he didn’t believe it. Then, when he recognized Lars, a shaky, relieved smile spread across his face.

“You came,” Dave whispered, his voice cracking immediately. “I… I didn’t think you would. I—God, I’m sorry, Lars. I’m sorry for… everything. For last night, for calling, for… all the texts. I didn’t mean to blow up your phone. I didn’t mean—”

He choked on his words, sobbing softly, shaking his head. Lars stepped forward instinctively, closing the door behind him.

“It’s okay,” Lars said quietly, his voice low, soothing, steady. “It’s fine. Calm down.”

Dave’s knees buckled slightly, and Lars guided him gently to the couch. They sank onto the cushions together. Dave’s arms trembled as he clutched at Lars’ shirt, pressing himself close. Lars wrapped an arm around him, holding him tight, whispering low, calming words that seemed to seep directly into Dave’s frayed nerves.

“I’m here,” Lars murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. Breathe, okay? Just breathe with me.”

Dave rested his head against Lars’ shoulder, letting out a shaky breath, then another, until the sobs began to slow. He tilted his head slightly, just enough for Lars to see his bloodshot eyes glimmering with vulnerability.

“You… you’re the only one who gets me, Lars,” Dave whispered hoarsely, voice barely above a gasp. “The only one I need. Nobody else… nobody understands… it’s you. Always you.”

Lars’ chest tightened at the raw honesty, at the weight of those words. He pressed his hand gently against Dave’s back, rubbing slow, steady circles. “I know,” he whispered. “I know, Dave. I get you. And you’re not alone.”

Dave clung tighter, face burying into Lars’ chest, his breath hitching. Lars could feel the trembling in his body, the fragile tension in his muscles, the desperation in his grip.

Then, Dave’s head lifted slightly, eyes fluttering open, and in a moment of chaotic emotion, he leaned forward. Their lips were almost touching, the air thick with heat and fear. Lars’ heart thundered in his chest. Dave pulled back instantly, eyes wide, panicked.

“I—I can’t… I’m sorry! I shouldn’t—” Dave stammered, shaking his head, hands flailing slightly.

Lars, however, remained calm. Slowly, he lifted his hand and pressed it gently against Dave’s cheek, tilting his head so their eyes met. His voice was soft, steady, impossibly intimate.

“Shhh,” Lars murmured. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Without overthinking it, without letting the panic take over, Lars leaned in and kissed him.

It was messy, chaotic, and perfect all at once. Dave froze at first, shock flashing across his face, but the tension melted almost immediately as he responded, wrapping his arms around Lars’ neck, pulling him closer.

Their mouths moved together with a mixture of urgency and gentleness—shaky, searching, and full of everything they hadn’t said aloud: loneliness, fear, longing, trust. Lars could feel Dave’s heartbeat racing against his chest, hear it in his ears, and somehow it made the chaos of the apartment, the world outside, and the nights they had both endured feel distant.

When they finally pulled back slightly, gasping for breath, Dave’s forehead rested against Lars’. Tears still glimmered in his eyes, but there was something softer there too—something like hope, something like relief.

“I… I didn’t mean to—” Dave began again, voice trembling.

“You don’t have to apologize anymore,” Lars whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Dave’s head. “Not for anything. Just… stay with me tonight. That’s enough.”

Dave nodded, eyes closed, resting fully against Lars’ chest. The world outside could wait. For now, they had each other—and it was messy, chaotic, and perfect in ways neither of them could deny.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars didn’t pull away after the kiss.
Dave’s breath hitched — sharp, shaky, almost desperate — and for a moment he looked like he might break in half right there in Lars’ arms.

“Don’t—” Dave whispered, voice cracking. “Don’t leave. Not tonight.”

Lars wasn’t planning on it.

Dave’s fingers curled into the fabric of Lars’ jacket, almost clawing, like he was terrified Lars might disappear if he didn’t hold tight enough. His face was flushed from crying, eyes red, lips trembling — but when he leaned in again, the hesitation was gone. The second kiss was deeper, urgent, almost hungry. Dave kissed like someone who hadn’t been touched in years, like someone starving.

Lars felt the panic and the want tangled together in Dave’s body — and he didn’t pull away. He let Dave cling, let him shake, let him breathe against his mouth like the kiss was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Lars…” Dave whispered, forehead pressed to his. “I don’t know why it’s you. It shouldn’t be you.”

“I don’t care,” Lars murmured.

Dave closed his eyes, exhaling slowly — and that was when something shifted. The air between them thickened, heavy and electric. Dave’s hands slid up Lars’ back, tentative at first, then firmer, grounding himself through touch.

There was nothing hesitant about Lars’ response.

Dave’s breath stuttered, a tiny, broken sound escaping him — the kind of sound that made Lars’ pulse slam in his throat. Dave looked overwhelmed, vulnerable in a way he’d never let anyone see him, ever. And he let Lars see all of it.

That alone felt dangerous.

Dave whispered, “Stay,” barely audible.

Lars nodded.

The tension snapped — not explosive, but fragile, trembling, like a thread finally giving way. Dave leaned in again, mouth finding Lars’ in a kiss that was softer but somehow even more desperate. His hands trembled as they trailed along Lars’ jaw, his neck.

It was the kind of closeness that made the room feel too small, too hot, too private.

Lars didn’t know when they crossed that invisible line — the one between kissing and something more — but once they did, Dave didn’t hide anything anymore. Every touch from him was raw, emotional, messy in a way that made Lars’ chest twist.

Dave was overwhelmed.
Lars was steady.

And the rest of the night blurred — not confusing, not wrong, but intense in a way that neither of them had expected. It was intimate, vulnerable, too much, and somehow exactly what they both needed.

When the lights finally dimmed, the only sound in the room was Dave’s shaky breathing easing into something calmer, steadier, softer — his forehead resting against Lars’ shoulder like he’d finally let himself collapse.

Fade to black.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars stayed the whole weekend.

He told himself it was because it was too late to go back Friday night.
Then because he didn’t want to deal with James' questions on Saturday.
Then because Dave asked him to stay for breakfast. Then lunch. Then dinner.

By the time Sunday morning came, Lars had stopped pretending he didn’t want to be there.

But the guilt sat like a weight in his stomach the entire time.

Every time Dave smiled at him, every time he brushed their shoulders together in that subtle, deliberate way — Lars felt sick. Sick that he’d kissed him. Sick that he liked it. Sick that Dave was effortlessly beautiful while he—

He couldn’t even look at himself without flinching.

On Sunday afternoon, Dave walked into the bathroom doorway and saw Lars standing in front of the mirror, shirt half-lifted, staring at his own reflection like he was dissecting it.

His face pale.
His ribs visible but not enough.
His frame small but never small enough.
He felt huge. Wrong. Disgusting.

He didn’t notice Dave move until arms slid around his waist from behind — slow, careful, like Dave already knew how fragile he was in that moment.

Dave rested his chin on Lars’ shoulder.
Their reflections looked strange together — Dave’s sharp, striking beauty pressed against Lars’ tense, self-hating silence.

“What are you doing?” Dave asked quietly, though he already knew.

Lars swallowed. “Nothing.”

Dave didn’t push. He slipped his hands up, fingers brushing under Lars’ shirt, not intimate — just grounding. Anchoring. His lips pressed softly to the back of Lars’ neck, warm and steady.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

Lars’ throat closed. “No, I’m not.”

Dave tightened his hold just enough to keep him from looking away.

“You don’t have to change for anyone,” Dave murmured. “Not Kirk. Not Jason. And definitely not James.”
The bitterness in his voice on James’ name was impossible to miss.

Lars stared at himself — at the angles he hated, the softness he hated more, the way Dave’s touch made everything confusing and worse and better all at the same time.

Dave kept going, quiet but insistent, like he needed Lars to hear every word.

“You’re beautiful the way you are,” he repeated. “I mean it.”

Lars shook his head, but Dave didn’t let him escape.

His lips brushed Lars’ neck again — slow, almost reverent — before he whispered, with a softness that somehow made the words even more unsettling:

“Actually… I like you that way. Thin.”
His voice dipped lower, velvet-sick.
“It’s sickly pretty.”

A shiver crawled up Lars’ spine — not fear, not disgust, but something twisted and warm and dangerously comforting.

Dave met his eyes in the mirror.

“And I mean that,” he said, almost tender. “There’s nothing about you I want fixed.”

Lars didn’t know whether to break or melt.
Dave held him like he could do either — and he wouldn’t let go.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The second Lars had stepped in their dorm room, James was already suspicious. Of course he was.

He’d been pushing for days, asking little questions, then bigger ones:

“Where were you Saturday night?”
“Why do you keep turning your phone over?”
“Why’re you ignoring half your texts?”
“Are you seeing someone?”

But Lars didn’t give a fuck enough to answer.

He was too tired, too overwhelmed, too tangled up in his own guilt and obsession and confusion. Every time James tried to dig, Lars just shrugged, muttered something meaningless, or walked out of the room.

James kept pushing.
Lars kept shutting down.
And the distance between them stretched thinner and thinner.

What James didn’t know—not yet—was that Lars hadn’t told Dave where the campus was. Not the address, not even the part of the city. Lars had been careful about that. Careful in the way someone is when they’re hiding something dangerous.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The next week felt like walking through static.

Dave kept texting, calling, blowing up Lars’ phone every few hours.
'Are you okay?'
'I’m sorry.'
'Please talk to me.'
'Did I scare you?'
'I miss you.'

Lars ignored most of it. Not because he didn’t care—he cared way too much—but because the guilt felt like a fist around his throat. Every notification made his stomach twist. Every apology made him remember the way Dave had whispered I love you. The way Dave’s hands had felt on his skin. The way Lars had kissed him back.

He kept telling himself it was just a weekend. Just loneliness. Just two broken people falling into each other.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

And James noticed.

He noticed the way Lars was quieter. The way his hands shook sometimes. The way he kept turning his phone screen face-down. On Thursday night, James finally asked,

“Is something going on with you? You’ve been acting… weird.”

Lars shrugged and didn’t even look up. “I don’t give a fuck right now, James.”

James opened his mouth to say something, but Lars pushed past him and left.

And then Friday happened.

It was early evening, campus was still quiet, and James was digging through his desk for a pack of strings when there was a sharp knock on the dorm door. Lars froze immediately. He knew that knock. Too confident, too impatient, too familiar.

James opened the door.

And Dave walked in.

Eyes sharp. Shoulders tense. Dressed in his usual denim jacket, messy ginger hair pushed back like he’d run his hands through it too many times. He looked tired, wired, like he hadn’t slept since the last time he’d seen Lars.

James’ face drained of color.

“…Dave?”

Dave looked straight past him. Straight at Lars.

“You didn’t answer,” Dave said, voice almost a growl. “You disappeared. What was I supposed to do?”

“Not this,” James snapped instantly, stepping in front of Lars. “We said we were done with you, Dave. After everything you put us through.”

Dave scoffed. “You don’t get to decide who he sees.”

“You hurt him,” James shot back.

Dave’s smile was sharp, humorless. “Funny. He didn’t seem hurt last weekend.”

The look James gave Lars was pure shock. Hurt. Betrayal.

“Last weekend?” James repeated. “Lars… what is he talking about?”

Lars didn’t answer. Or move. He just stared at the floor, palms sweating, breath shallow.

James turned back to Dave. “You’re not supposed to be here. Leave.”

Dave pushed past him. “I’m not leaving without talking to him.”

“Like hell you aren’t—”

“James, stop.” Lars finally said it, barely louder than a whisper.

But James didn’t stop. He grabbed Dave’s arm. Dave shoved him off. James shoved him back. And then they were yelling—loud, sharp, furious. Years of resentment ripping out of both of them.

“You think you’re helping him?!” James shouted.
“More than you ever did,” Dave hissed.
“You’re dragging him down!”
“He came to me.”
“You’re a fucking disaster!”
“Yeah? And he still chose me!”

Lars felt like he was watching a nightmare unfold in slow motion. He stepped between them, pushing their chests apart with shaking hands.

“Stop it. Both of you. Just—stop.”

But Dave’s eyes were locked on James, burning with something wild and possessive.

“You don’t get it,” Dave said, voice dropping. “He needs me.”

“He doesn’t,” James shot back. “He needed you years ago, and you fucked him up. And now you think you can come back and what—own him?”

Dave’s jaw tensed. His nostrils flared. And then he did something that made James physically recoil:

He smiled.

Not soft. Not kind.

But jealous.

Painfully, dangerously jealous.

“Maybe,” Dave murmured, stepping back toward the door. “Maybe he does belong to me more than you think.”

And he left.

The slam of the door echoed through the room like a gunshot.

James stood there breathing hard, shaking with leftover adrenaline. Lars’s heart felt like it was going to break out of his chest.

After a long, awful silence, James turned to him.

“…Lars. What the hell was he talking about?”

Lars swallowed.

James stepped closer. His voice was quiet, not angry—just disappointed in a way that hurt more than shouting ever could.

“You told me you stopped seeing him,” James said. “You promised. And now he shows up talking about last weekend? Lars… what did you do?”

Lars felt the weight of a thousand lies crushing him. He rubbed his face, exhaled, and forced himself to say,

“He’s… we’re… something happened, okay?”

James went still.

“What do you mean something happened?”

Lars sat down on the edge of his bed. Stared at the floor. He couldn’t look at James, couldn’t handle the reaction he knew was coming.

“We… are together now...”

The words dropped like a stone.

James closed his eyes and let out a slow, shaking breath.

“Jesus Christ, Lars…”

He didn’t yell.

That was somehow worse.

He just sat down across from him and said, voice almost breaking,

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

And Lars didn’t have an answer.

Only the sinking realization that whatever he’d just started with Dave…
It was going to ruin everything.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Dave was jealous.
So fucking jealous.

Way more than he should’ve been.
Way more than anyone had the right to be.

The texts were endless—calls, messages, missed calls, voice notes that shifted from anger to pleading to silence. Lars ignored most of them, but the guilt ate at him more and more until he couldn’t stand it anymore. So he came.

He shouldn’t have.

But he did.

Lars stepped into Dave’s apartment quietly. The air felt heavy, electric. Dave stood in the middle of the living room, pacing like a caged animal. His eyes were red, jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched. When he saw Lars, something inside him snapped tighter.

“You took long enough,” Dave said. His voice didn’t sound like his own—too sharp, too thin, stretched over something breaking.

Lars didn’t react. He just took a slow breath.

“Dave, I’m here now. Can we just—”

“Don’t fucking start with that,” Dave snapped. “You ignored me. You let him talk to you like he owns you. You let him touch you. And then you think you can just walk in here like nothing happened?”

Lars felt his stomach twist, but he kept his voice steady.

“James doesn’t own me. Nobody does. And I didn’t ignore you. I just needed space.”

“Space?” Dave barked a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “Space from what? From me? From the only person who actually understands you? From the only one who gives a shit about how you feel? Is that it?”

“Dave, calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down.”

Dave stepped closer. Too close.

Lars didn’t move.

“I came here,” Lars said quietly, “because you wouldn’t stop calling. Because I didn’t want you to do something stupid. I’m trying to help—”

“Help?” Dave repeated, voice cracking. “You think running off to him helps? You think letting him put ideas in your head helps?”

“I didn’t—”

Something in Dave’s expression changed.
Something fast.
Sharp.
Uncontrolled.

And before Lars could react—

Dave hit him.

A sudden, open-handed crack across the face.
Hard enough to snap Lars’s head sideways.
Hard enough to leave a bruise.

The room went silent.

Dave froze.

Lars staggered back, hand instinctively going to his cheek. His breath hitched—more from shock than pain.

Dave stared at his own hand like it belonged to someone else.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, fuck—Lars—shit, I didn’t—”

He backed up, hands flying to his mouth.

“Oh my god. Fuck. I didn’t mean that, I swear to god, I didn’t—I’m sorry—fuck, I’m so sorry—please don’t leave—please don’t—”

Lars didn’t speak.
He just stood there, shaking.

Dave rushed forward, reaching for him but stopping short, terrified to touch him again.

“Let me—let me see—please,” Dave begged, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. I’m such a fucking idiot. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Lars swallowed and let him. He wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t sure about anything.

Dave’s hands were trembling as he touched the bruising cheek gently, as if he was afraid Lars would break beneath his fingers.

“It wasn’t you,” Dave whispered desperately. “It was me. I lost it, I—I fucking hate myself—please don’t hate me. Please.”

Lars’s eyes burned, tears blurring the room. The pressure, the guilt, the fear—it all crashed over him at once.

And he cried.

Soft, shaking, exhausted tears.

Dave pulled him into a careful hug, whispering frantic apologies into his hair. He kept repeating I’m sorry until his voice broke completely.

“I’m so sorry… Lars, I’m sorry… please don’t leave… please…”

Lars leaned into him weakly, more out of shock than comfort.

After a long time, Dave helped him to the couch. He pressed an ice pack to the bruising cheek, hands gentle now. His own eyes were swollen, red-rimmed. He looked like he would collapse from guilt alone.

The adrenaline crash hit him hard.
Too hard.

And eventually, out of exhaustion—emotional and physical—Dave fell asleep on his couch, curled tightly like he was afraid of his own hands.

Lars sat there for a long time.

Breathing.
Thinking.
Not thinking.

He should have left earlier.
He should leave now.
He knew that.

But he also knew he wasn’t ready for the confrontation waiting back at the dorm… or the silence… or the questions.

So he stood quietly.

Looked at Dave one last time.

And slipped out the door into the cold night air.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
James noticed Lars' forming bruise the second he walked in.

It wasn’t even big yet — just a dark, reddish shadow blooming under the skin — but James’ eyes locked on it like it was screaming at him. He froze mid-sentence, his voice dropping.

“Lars… what the hell happened?”

Lars’ stomach twisted. He’d been trying all morning to keep his head down, to keep his collar slightly raised, to just survive the day without thinking about last night. But now James’ voice was a spotlight.

“I fell.”
The lie snapped out too quickly, too thin.

James raised a brow. “Where? Off what? A cliff?”
He stepped closer. Lars stepped back.

“I. Fell.” Lars said again, harder this time, even though his throat felt like it was collapsing in on itself.

James’ face tightened. “Lars, come on. You think I’m stupid? You don’t bruise like that from falling in your dorm.”

Lars felt a flicker of anger — hot, defensive, desperate. He hated this. Hated being looked at like some broken thing. Hated being interrogated every day, every hour. He wanted quiet. He wanted one person — just one — to stop picking at his wounds like they were puzzles to solve.

“Just drop it,” Lars muttered.

“No,” James said, voice cracking with something like panic, “I’m not dropping it. Because you’re acting weird, you’re disappearing for whole weekends, and now you’re coming back with bruises? Lars, what is going on? Did Dave—”

“James, shut up!”

The words exploded out of him before he could stop them. They echoed in the small room, too loud, too sharp. Lars saw the hurt flash across James’ face, but he couldn’t take it back now.

He was tired. So tired.
Of lying.
Of feeling guilty.
Of defending Dave even when he wasn’t sure he should.

“I can’t do this with you every single day,” Lars whispered, voice breaking. “I can’t keep fighting with you. I want things to go back to normal.”

James looked at him like that sentence physically hurt him.

“Normal?” he repeated quietly. “Lars… nothing about any of this is normal.”

Lars looked away.
He knew that.
But he didn’t want James to say it out loud.

Not yet.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars got… attached to the bruise.

It was messed up, he knew that, but he kept looking at it anyway. Every time he passed a mirror, his eyes flicked down to the mark blooming along his cheekbone. It was darker now — purple, red, a little shadowed at the edges — and it throbbed when he touched it.

He shouldn’t touch it.
But he did.

Not because he liked the pain.
Not because it felt good.
But because it made everything real.

It was proof that something intense had happened — that Dave had lost control, that Lars had stayed, that there were things between them now that nobody else could see or understand. A private, twisted secret pressed into his skin.

And he hated that it mattered to him.

He caught himself staring at it again in the bathroom mirror, fingers hovering over it like he was tracing the outline of someone’s handwriting. The bruise didn’t feel like a wound. It felt like a reminder — of the fight, the apology, the way Dave’s voice had cracked, the way Lars had cried into his hands, the way Dave had held him afterward with this desperate, shaking tenderness.

It made Lars feel something he couldn’t name. Something sick and warm and wrong and grounding.

He pulled his sleeve over his hand and pressed the fabric against the bruise, just to feel the ache. A quiet shiver crawled through him.

He didn’t know why it comforted him.
He didn’t want to think about why.

But when James yelled at him, when campus felt too bright, when guilt curled in his stomach — Lars found himself reaching up, touching the bruise lightly, as if it were the only thing that made sense.

He hated himself for it.
And at the same time… he didn’t.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars went to class for the first time in days, heart thudding like he’d swallowed a fist. He kept his head low, hood pulled up, praying no professor would call him out, that no administrator had a slip of paper with his name on it waiting outside the door. He felt sick thinking about being expelled — not because he loved school, but because he couldn’t handle one more thing collapsing around him.

He slipped into his usual seat. Kirk and Jason were already there.

He hadn’t spoken to them in days. Not a text, not a “hey,” nothing. He felt their eyes on him the moment he sat down. Kirk looked worried — the guilty, fidgety kind of worried. Jason looked confused, scanning Lars’ face, trying to figure out what the hell happened.

The bruise wasn’t easy to hide, even with the way Lars angled his head. The lecture started, but Lars didn’t hear a word. He could feel Kirk glancing over occasionally; Jason kept turning in his seat like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

After class, Lars tried to leave quickly, slipping his backpack over one shoulder, eyes down. But Jason stepped in front of him, not aggressively — just firmly enough that Lars couldn’t brush past without making it obvious.

“Dude,” Jason said quietly, “what happened?”

Lars froze. His throat tightened. He tried to swallow, but it felt like gravel.

Jason’s eyes flicked to the bruise — the dark, sick bloom spreading across Lars’ cheek. “Seriously. Who did that to you?”

Kirk hovered behind him, biting the inside of his cheek, staring at Lars like he expected him to crumble right there in the hallway.

“I fell,” Lars muttered automatically.

Jason raised his eyebrows. “Come on. At least lie better.”

Lars’ hands clenched around the strap of his bag. He wished the ground would swallow him whole. He hated how exposed he felt. He hated that they were looking at him with concern, like he was fragile. He hated that he didn’t know how to answer without unraveling everything — Dave, the fight, the kiss, the sex, the late-night calls, all of it tangled and sharp.

“We haven’t heard from you in a week,” Jason said, softer now. “We thought something happened.”

“Nothing happened,” Lars whispered.

Kirk stepped closer, voice barely above a murmur. “Lars… was it James?”

“What? No!” Lars snapped, too loud, too fast. A few people turned to look.

Jason and Kirk exchanged a quick glance — the kind that meant This is bad.

Kirk tried again. “Then who? Because that is not a fall, man.”

Lars’ stomach twisted painfully. He could feel the bruise pulsing under his skin, like it wanted to speak for him. Like it knew exactly who put it there.

He took a shaky breath.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, voice cracking in a way he hated. “Can… can you both just drop it?”

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Jason sighed, stepping aside. “Fine. But we’re not blind. And we’re not stupid. If you need something… anything… just say so.”

Lars nodded without looking up and walked away as fast as he could.

The bruise throbbed with every heartbeat, warm and familiar under his skin.
And for reasons he didn’t want to think about — it made him feel like Dave was still with him.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars hated himself for liking Dave back.

Not in the way James or Kirk would say — not because Dave was “wrong” or “toxic” or “bad for him.”

No.

Lars hated it because he was convinced he didn’t deserve Dave at all.
Dave was beautiful in a way Lars could never touch.
Sharp cheekbones, copper hair that looked like it belonged under stage lights, eyes that were too bright, too alive. Even when he was miserable, even when he was falling apart, Dave had this… presence. Like he knew how the world worked. Like he knew exactly how to get what he needed.

Lars didn’t have any of that.
He was big in the wrong ways.
He was loud in the wrong ways.
Too soft-skinned, too emotional, too breakable.
He didn’t look like someone who should be loved, touched, wanted.

When Dave kissed him, Lars didn’t understand how someone so light, so sharp, so impossible could want someone like him.

And the worst part wasn’t that Dave was dangerous or unpredictable or already bleeding on the inside. The worst part was that Lars wanted him anyway.

He wanted to text him first.
He wanted to show up at his door without thinking.
He wanted Dave’s hands on him, even when they shook.

He wanted Dave’s voice in his ear, whispering terrible, lovely things that made Lars feel sick and warm at the same time.
Lars hated himself for that more than anything.
It felt wrong to want someone who seemed so far above him.

It felt wrong to want someone who could destroy him with a single sentence.
It felt wrong to crave a person he thought he could never be worthy of.
But every time Dave called him late at night — voice shaking, asking for him, needing him — Lars felt something twist inside his chest.
Dave could’ve called anyone.
But he called him.
And that alone made Lars want to fold in on himself, hide under his blankets, and cry until he couldn’t feel anything at all.
He didn’t deserve Dave.

Not his eyes.

Not his voice.

Not his mouth.

Not his confessions whispered half-asleep.

But Dave kept choosing him anyway.

And that was the most terrifying part of all.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
James tried to intervene long before he had the full picture — because he didn’t need the whole truth to know something was wrong. He just needed to look at Lars.

Lars had gotten quieter.
More skittish.
More defensive.
And more unpredictable in that way that made James feel like he was watching someone slowly walk into a fire.

He tried to pretend it was stress.
Tried to pretend it was school.
Tried to pretend it was anything except what he suspected.

But then the bruise showed up.

And the lies started slipping through Lars’ teeth like something rehearsed.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
James didn’t plan the confrontation.
He wasn’t good with plans anyway.
He just walked into the dorm and saw Lars sitting on his bed, hunched over his sketchbook like he was hiding behind it.

The bruise on his jaw had darkened since yesterday.

“Lars,” James said. Quiet, but sharp.

Lars flinched. He didn’t look up.

James sat down across from him, elbows on his knees, searching Lars’ face. Lars kept turning so the bruise was angled away — a pathetic, heartbreaking thing.

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

Lars tensed. “Nothing’s going on, James.”

“You didn’t fall,” James said. “I’m not an idiot.”

Lars stayed silent.

James’s voice cracked a little, and that was what finally made Lars look up — not the anger, but the fear behind it.

“Why won’t you talk to me anymore?”

Lars swallowed, jaw tightening. “Because you don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand,” James pushed. “I’m trying, dude. I really am.”

Lars shook his head. “You’d hate me.”

“For what?”

“For… everything.”

James’s stomach dropped. “Is it the eating stuff again? The cutting? Lars, if you’re in trouble—”

But Lars cut him off, sharp and defensive: “I’m not in trouble.”

James didn’t believe that for a second.

He tried a different angle. “Is it someone? Did someone do this to you?”

Lars’s breath hitched — barely, but enough.
James saw it.
And his whole body went cold.

“Who?” James asked. “Tell me who.”

Lars stood up immediately, shaky and pale. “I’m not talking about this.”

James stood too. “Lars, you need to tell me if someone is hurting you.”

“No one is hurting me,” Lars snapped, but his voice trembled, betraying him. “Stop acting like you know anything.”

James took a breath, steadying himself. “Is it Dave?”

The way Lars froze wasn’t subtle.

James felt something in him break. “Jesus Christ, it is Dave.”

Lars ran a hand through his hair, pressing his palms to his eyes like he wanted to disappear. “James, stop—”

“How long?” James demanded. “How long have you been seeing him again?”

Lars shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t!”

James stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Lars… he’s dangerous. You know that. You fucking know that.”

“He’s not—”

“He hit you.”

Lars’s throat worked like he was swallowing knives.
Then he whispered, “It wasn’t his fault.”

James stared at him like he didn’t recognize him anymore.

“Lars… listen to yourself. That’s what people say when they’re—”

“Stop.” Lars’s voice cracked. “Just stop.”

James reached out to him gently, like touching a cornered animal. “You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve to be treated like—”

“James,” Lars interrupted, broken and exhausted. “Please. Just let me figure this out on my own.”

James stepped back. Not in anger this time — in heartbreak.

“You’re gonna get hurt,” he said quietly. “And I’m trying to stop it before it gets worse.”

Lars wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist, angry at himself for crying. “I don’t want you to fix me. I don’t need saving. I’m not your responsibility.”

“No,” James murmured. “But you’re my friend.”

Lars looked away.

And James realized, in that moment, that friendship wasn’t enough to pull Lars out of whatever spiral he was falling into.

Not when Lars had already chosen someone else to fall with.

James wanted to scream.
He wanted to shake him.
He wanted to drag him away from Dave and lock him in the room until he understood how wrong this was.

But all he could say was:

“If he hurts you again… you better fucking tell me. I’m not letting you go through this alone. Not again.”

Lars didn’t respond.
He just turned away, shoulders trembling, refusing to show his face.

And James stood there — feeling helpless, terrified, and more certain than ever:

Dave Mustaine was going to destroy Lars if he didn’t intervene soon.

But Lars wasn’t ready to be saved.

And James didn’t know how to help someone who didn’t want help at all.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars didn’t even wait for the door to fully stop shaking after James slammed it behind him.
He was done.

Done with the pity.
Done with the questions.
Done with the arguments that always ended with James looking at him like he was something fragile and stupid and broken.

As soon as he heard James’s footsteps fade down the hall — the familiar clink of his lighter flipping open — something inside Lars snapped.

Fine. You want to treat me like a child? Then fuck it. I’ll act like one.

His hands shook as he grabbed his backpack from under the bed. Clothes, charger, hoodie — he barely cared what he threw in. His mind was buzzing, angry and sharp, like a thousand thoughts shouting over each other.

He doesn’t get it. He never did.
Dave gets it. Dave understands.
Dave needs me.

The worst part was how true that last one felt.

Lars zipped the bag with a jerk, listening for the sound of James returning — nothing. Just silence and the faint echo of someone laughing down the hall.

Good.

He slung the backpack over his shoulder and stormed out of the room, ignoring the twist of guilt curling in his stomach. It felt good to run away. It felt right.

He needed out.
Out of James’s voice.
Out of his concern.
Out of the suffocating fear that maybe — just maybe — James was right.

Outside, the air was cold, stinging his lungs in that way that woke him up. He shoved his hands into his sleeves, walking fast, almost jogging. He didn’t care how he looked. Didn’t care if anyone from campus saw him.

He reached the bus stop, tapping his foot anxiously as he waited. The moment the bus pulled up, he climbed on like he’d been chased there.

He paid.
Took a seat by the window.
Stared at his reflection in the glass — jaw bruised, eyes tired, lips bitten raw from stress.

He looked like shit.

But he didn’t get off.

The bus rumbled through the city, streetlights flickering across his face like a heartbeat. Lars barely noticed anything passing by; his mind was already at Dave’s apartment — that messy living room, that shitty couch, the smell of stale smoke and cologne lingering on everything.

He shouldn’t go back.

He knew that.

He also knew he would.

Because Dave needed him.
Because Dave had said he loved him.
Because everything felt easier next to Dave — fucked up, twisted, wrong… but easy.

His phone buzzed suddenly.

James:
Where the hell did you go? Lars, answer me.

Lars turned the phone face-down on his thigh.

He didn’t reply.

He didn’t owe him shit.

The bus rolled into Dave’s part of town — narrower streets, graffiti on the brick, the kind of place where the air tasted like smoke and rain. Lars pulled the stop cord and got off, his heart thudding with something between dread and anticipation.

He walked the familiar path, recognizing cracks in the sidewalk, that stupid streetlight that always flickered, the smell of someone grilling meat at the corner.

He reached the apartment building and stared up at it.

He shouldn’t knock.

He already knew that.

But he climbed the stairs anyway — two at a time — and before he could talk himself out of it, his knuckles rapped against Dave’s door.

A pause.
Movement.
The click of a lock.

And then Dave opened the door, eyes wide, messy hair falling in his face, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Lars?” Dave breathed, stunned. “W-What are you—”

But Lars didn’t let him finish.

He stepped inside without waiting for permission.

Because at that moment, all he wanted was to be somewhere that wasn’t home.

Somewhere James’s voice couldn’t reach him.

Somewhere he didn’t have to face himself.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars stayed at Dave’s apartment that entire night, talking until his voice felt thin and dry. The conversation didn’t even make sense half the time — the two of them drifting between jokes, confessions, unfinished sentences — but Lars felt something loosen in his chest every time Dave looked at him like he was the only person in the world worth listening to.

When Lars finally said “I think… I’m done with campus. I wanna move here. With you.”
Dave froze, like he didn’t trust his ears at first. Then he nodded so quickly, so desperately, that it almost scared Lars.

“Yeah. Yes. Stay here. I’ll make space. I’ll fix everything. Just— stay.”

It sounded like a promise and a warning at the same time.

So Lars did.
He went back to the campus only to pack a bag and ignore James’ texts. He didn’t even tell anyone goodbye. He just left, walked across the city with that buzzing heat in his head, and went straight back to Dave’s building.

From the first night onward, the apartment didn’t feel like a place two people lived in — it felt like a cocoon. A strange, heavy one. Days blurred into each other. They ate when Dave put something in front of Lars, but Lars often didn’t. He didn’t know why. Some part of him felt like he needed to be punished, for something undefined, something festering under his ribs. Maybe for wanting Dave. Maybe for liking the way Dave touched him. Maybe for not deserving it.

He starved himself without even naming it.
Sometimes he’d force himself into the bathroom afterward and purge, the acid burn in his throat feeling cleaner than the guilt in his chest. And Dave… Dave didn’t stop him.

He held his hair back.

Whispered things like, “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” with a calmness that made something sick inside Lars feel soothed rather than alarmed.

James would’ve dragged him away from the toilet, yelled, cried, tried to fix him. Dave kneeled beside him, steady hands on his shoulders, as if this was normal. As if Lars had every right to ruin himself.

Dave made everything easier. Wrong, but easier.

At night, Lars curled up beside him on the couch, Dave’s arms around him like he was something delicate instead of something breaking. Lars felt safe in a way that didn’t feel safe at all — like sinking into water that was exactly his temperature.

One night, while the TV flickered quietly and the air felt too warm, Dave shifted beside him.

“Lars,” he said softly. “Wanna see something?”

Lars nodded, his cheek resting on Dave’s shoulder.

Dave rolled up his sleeve and held out his arm.

There, carved into the skin — not fresh, but still angry and swollen at the edges — was a deep, unmistakable L.

Lars stared. His stomach did something strange. Not fear. Not disgust. Something closer to flattery, twisted into his ribs like a hook.

“You… you did that for me?” Lars asked, voice smaller than he expected.

Dave smiled. Not a happy smile — a crooked, wild, needy smile.
“For you. I wanted— I wanted something of you on me.”

Lars swallowed hard, leaning in to trace the edge of the scar without touching it.

“Dude. That’s deep… but I like it.”

Dave’s eyes lit up at that, the wrong kind of light.
“You want to… I mean— I could help you carve mine. If you want. Only if you want.”

The way he asked it, so expectant, so hopeful, made Lars’ chest tighten. He didn’t feel scared. He felt chosen.

“Yeah,” Lars breathed. “I wanna. I do.”

Dave guided him through it — not how, just where, how deep emotionally, not physically. Lars didn’t see the sickness in the moment, only Dave’s face: focused, gentle in a way that made the room blur. When it was over, when Lars felt the sting and the warmth spreading under his skin, something clicked inside him.

He felt owned.
He felt like he belonged to someone for the first time in his life.

Dave wrapped his arms around him afterward, pressing a slow kiss to his mouth, then another one to his jaw, then a soft one to the bandaged initial on Lars’ arm.

They sat there breathing into each other, foreheads touching, their wounds throbbing in sync. The apartment felt smaller, safer, darker.

Like they had shut the entire world out — and sealed themselves into something only they understood.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars barely slept. His body felt hot and buzzy all night, the carved skin on his arm pulsing with that strange mix of pride and shame. Dave had fallen asleep with his head on Lars’ chest, and Lars had just stared at the ceiling for hours, wondering how he was supposed to feel. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore, except that he was here, and Dave wanted him here.

When the pounding started — loud, violent knocking — Lars jerked awake.

Dave didn’t move. He was still dead asleep on the couch, one arm thrown over his face.

The knocking came again, harder.
Lars groaned, rubbed his eyes, and dragged himself to the door. His head throbbed. His arm screamed. He didn’t care.

He opened the door.

Standing there was a tall guy, maybe in his late teens or early twenties. Sharp jaw, sharp eyes, hair a mess like he’d run his hands through it too many times. He looked over Lars like he was something blocking the view.

“Who are you?” Lars asked, irritated, squinting against the hallway light.

The guy chuckled — a low, mocking sound that crawled under Lars’ skin.

“No, no, no. Who are you?”

Lars’ patience snapped instantly.

“Just answer the damn question.”

“Fine.” The guy leaned against the doorframe like he owned the place. “David Ellefson. I thought this was Dave’s place?”

“It is,” Lars muttered, heartbeat rising. “What are you doing here…?”

David shrugged, casual but tense in the eyes.
“Well… we’ve been dating each other. And I haven’t heard from him in a while. Thought I’d check in.”

The words hit Lars like a slap.

Dating.
Each other.
We.

For a moment it didn’t compute — his brain literally refused to process the sentence. His stomach dropped, hard and cold. Dave… dating someone else? While he was with Lars? After everything? After the bruises, the nights, the wounds, the carved letters—

“Dave?!” Lars shouted, voice cracking.

Dave stumbled out of the bedroom, hair messy, shirt half on, confused. When his eyes landed on David standing in the doorway, all the color drained from his face.

Fear.
Real fear.

He didn’t even look at Lars. He just grabbed David by the wrist so fast it shocked them both.

“Come here. We’re talking. Now.”
Dave yanked him into the hallway and slammed the door shut.

Lars stood frozen, staring at the wood grain of the door like it might open again and reverse everything.

Then he heard the voices.

Not the words, just the tones — tense, raised, cracking, angry. The hallway amplified every sound. David’s voice was furious, confused. Dave’s was a mixture of pleading and desperation. Lars couldn’t pull himself away. He pressed his ear to the cold doorframe, breath shallow.

“…why didn’t you just tell me—”
“…you weren’t supposed to meet him—”
“…how long was this going on—?”
“…I didn’t mean for it to be like this—”

Their voices blurred into a hot, sickening buzz behind Lars’ forehead.

He didn’t know what he felt. Rage? Hurt? Stupidity?
All he knew was a sudden, cold clarity: he wasn’t the only one. He never was.

After what felt like forever, the door opened again.

Dave walked in alone.

His expression was wrong — not guilty, not apologetic, not angry. Just… dark. Heavy. Like he’d come back to face a punishment he knew was coming.

“We need to talk,” Dave said.

Lars waited.

Dave stood in the middle of the living room, breathing hard. His hands shook slightly.

“I’ve been dating him too,” he said quietly. “David. I didn’t want you two to meet. I didn’t want anyone to meet. It wasn’t supposed to— I wasn’t gonna choose— I just—”

Lars didn’t hear the rest.

He didn’t even feel his body move.

One second he was standing there, and the next he was packing — shoving clothes into his bag, hands trembling so violently he could barely grab the zippers. His vision blurred but he didn’t cry. Crying would’ve made sense, and nothing in his head made sense anymore.

Dave followed him, reaching for him like a drowning man grabbing a life preserver.

“Lars— Lars, stop— please— I’m sorry— I didn’t mean—”

Lars didn’t respond.
Didn’t yell.
Didn’t look at him.

He just walked to the door, bag over his shoulder, arm burning under the bandage — the same arm that he carved for Dave. The same arm Dave kissed.

Dave’s voice followed him out into the hallway, shaky, cracking apart:

“Lars… don’t leave me. Please. Please don’t leave.”

Lars didn’t turn around.

The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt louder than all the shouting.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars didn’t remember the walk back.
It was like his body moved without him, like something hollow and mechanical walked the streets while his mind lagged behind somewhere else entirely.

His hands were ice cold.
His throat felt burned shut.
His bag kept slipping off his shoulder.

He didn’t even realize he’d arrived until he was standing in front of James’ apartment door, staring at the peeling paint like it wasn’t real.

He knocked once.

Then twice.

The door swung open almost instantly.

James stood there, hair a mess, wearing the same sweatpants he'd slept in. His eyes went wide when he saw Lars—bag on his shoulder, clothes wrinkled, face wiped clean of anything normal.

“Dude—where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling and—”

But James stopped mid-sentence when he really looked at Lars.

“You look like shit,” he whispered. Then he stepped aside. “Come in.”

Lars stepped inside and let his bag drop to the floor with a thud that seemed too loud for the small room.

James hovered in front of him, hands half-raised like he wanted to check him for injuries but wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

“Okay… okay. Start talking.”
His voice was low. Controlled. Too controlled.
“What happened? Where were you? Why did you leave? Why didn’t you answer my calls? Did something happen with him—?”

There it was.

Him.

Lars flinched.

James noticed. His eyes narrowed.

“What did he do?”
James’ voice sharpened like a blade. “Lars. What the fuck did he do?”

Lars didn’t answer. He just walked past him toward the couch, sat down, stared at the floor. His head spun. His chest hurt. Everything felt off, tilted, sour.

James followed him, circling around to face him.
He crouched down so they were eye-level.

“Talk to me, man. Please.”

Lars swallowed. His throat clicked painfully.

“I left,” he said finally. His voice sounded foreign, like it belonged to someone else.

“Okay,” James said carefully. “Why did you leave?”

Lars didn’t know how to explain it.
Didn’t know how to put into words the burn in his chest, the sickness in his stomach when David said dating each other, the way Dave’s face crumpled, the carved initial on his arm still throbbing under the bandage.

He barely remembered leaving the apartment.
He barely remembered breathing.

“I just… had to,” Lars muttered.

James dragged a hand over his face, exasperated.

“That’s not an answer. Did he yell at you? Hurt you? Threaten you? Did you fight? Did someone show up? Did you relapse? Lars, I can’t help you if you don’t just fucking—”

“James,” Lars snapped suddenly, voice tight. “Stop asking.”

James froze.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry.
It was worse—flat. Drained. Done.

Lars leaned back against the couch cushions and shut his eyes. His heart pounded like it wanted out.

James didn’t sit. He didn’t move from his crouched position. His hands curled into fists on his knees.

“You can’t just disappear and come back like nothing happened,” he said quietly. “You can’t expect me not to worry. You can’t expect me to just sit here while you—while this guy gets in your head and—”

“James,” Lars muttered again. “Stop.”

James exhaled shakily. He looked like he wanted to scream.

Finally, he sat beside Lars, leaving a few inches of space between them.

He tried one more time, voice soft, too soft:

“Did he hurt you?”

Lars didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

James saw the bandage on Lars’ arm.
Saw how carefully Lars moved.
Saw the exhaustion, the tremor in his hands.

James’ expression hardened into something dangerous and familiar—rage he didn’t know where to aim.

A long silence stretched between them.

Then Lars whispered, barely audible:

“Please don’t make me talk about it right now.”

That broke James’ anger instantly.
He nodded, jaw tight.

“Okay. Fine. I won’t. Just—stay here tonight. Please. Don’t go back.”

Lars didn’t promise.
He just looked at the wall, eyes unfocused, mind still back in the hallway, still hearing the muffled argument, still seeing Dave drag someone else out of the apartment.

James stayed beside him, watching him like he was afraid Lars might shatter or disappear again.

And Lars didn’t know what he felt.

Only that everything hurt.

Everything was wrong.

And part of him already missed Dave.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The first day, James held himself back.

He didn’t force anything.
He just hovered near Lars like a shadow—quiet, stiff, too aware, too alert. Lars pretended not to notice the way James’ eyes tracked every move he made, but he felt it like heat on his skin.

The second day, James started asking again.

Not yelling. Not accusing.
Just pushing.

“Did he yell at you?”
“Did he hurt you?”
“What made you leave?”
“What happened with that other guy?”
“Why were you gone that long?”

Lars dodged each question like a punch.
He learned to change the subject with mechanical precision.

But James wasn’t stupid.

He watched.
He collected details like evidence.
He waited for cracks.

The third day, James didn’t bother being subtle.

“You didn’t sleep,” he said over breakfast. “You’re shaking. Did something happen that night or not?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“Drop it, James.”

“I can’t.”

The fourth day, Lars woke up with bags under his eyes and a headache pounding behind his temples.
James didn’t even say good morning.

He sat on the edge of Lars’ bed, arms crossed, and asked:

“What did he do to you that you’re scared to talk about?”

Lars stared at the ceiling and didn’t answer.

James tapped his fingers against his knee, impatient, restless.

“Lars, I swear to God—”

“Why do you care so much?” Lars snapped suddenly.

James’ face twisted like the question physically hit him.

“Because I know what he’s like. Because I know what you’re like. Because you disappeared without telling me and came back looking like someone wrung you out and threw you on the ground. Because you’re my best friend, man. What the hell do you expect me to do?”

Lars didn’t answer.

On the fifth day, James got quieter.
That was worse.

He didn’t yell.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t demand.

He just… watched. Waiting.

A kettle always about to boil over.

Every time Lars walked into the kitchen.
Every time Lars checked his phone.
Every time Lars flinched at a loud sound.
Every time his sleeve slipped down, showing the edge of a bandage.

James noticed everything.

He didn’t need answers—he was pulling them out of Lars without words.

On the sixth day, Lars broke a little.

James found him sitting on the bathroom floor, staring at the tiles like they were moving.

“Talk to me,” James whispered.
His voice was soft but sharp enough to cut.
“Please, man. You can’t keep doing this. Just tell me something. Anything.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It matters to me.”

Lars shut his eyes.
His throat burned.

“He… lied,” he muttered finally. “He was with someone else too.”

James froze.

For the first time all week, he didn’t say anything back.
His mouth opened, then closed.
He leaned back like the words physically knocked him off balance.

On the seventh day, James kept going.

Because now he had a piece—something to pry at, something to dig into.

“He cheated?”
“Did he ever hit you?”
“Is that how you got the bruise?”
“Are you still seeing him?”
“Are you talking to him?”
“Lars, look at me. Did he hurt you?”

And Lars couldn’t keep blocking everything.
He couldn’t keep rerouting the conversation.
He couldn’t keep pretending he didn’t hear James’ voice sharpen each time he refused to answer.

By the end of the week, James knew pieces.
Not the whole picture—Lars would never give him that—but enough.

Enough to put pressure in the right places.
Enough to see Lars crumble little by little.
Enough to know exactly which questions made Lars tremble, or go silent, or look away.

James wasn’t bullying him.
He wasn’t trying to control him.

He was terrified.

And he was peeling Lars open without even realizing how much it hurt.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
By the seventh day, Lars couldn’t breathe right. His hands shook constantly. He couldn’t focus on music, on TV, on anything. Every sound in the apartment felt like a threat. Every silence felt worse. James asked again that afternoon. Knocked on the slightly-open door and said, “Look, I’m not dropping this. Tell me what went down.” Lars felt his chest twist so sharply he pressed a fist against it. His mind sprinted through every memory—Dave yelling, Dave smiling, Dave pulling him close, Dave pushing him away, Dave lying, Dave crying, Dave contradicting himself, Lars leaving, Lars coming back, Dave with another Dave, Lars leaving again—he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t take anything.

And then he remembered the little plastic bag shoved deep at the bottom of his backpack—the leftover drugs he’d pocketed on autopilot when leaving Dave’s apartment that second time. He didn’t remember packing them. He barely remembered taking them. But they were there. And suddenly the idea of quiet felt too tempting to ignore.

He closed the door, locked it, and sat on the floor. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, fast and chaotic. He dumped the drugs onto the carpet, hands trembling so violently he spilled half of it. His eyes kept watering—not crying, just overwhelmed, overstimulated, overstretched past the point of holding himself together. He took too much. He didn’t measure, didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. His mind was eating itself alive, and he wanted everything to go blank and silent.

The bitter taste burned his throat. His stomach lurched. The room tilted. His hands found the razor without even looking. A habit. A reflex. A move he learned from Dave. A move he copied without understanding until the consequences hit. The cuts weren’t planned. They weren’t clean. They weren’t even angry—they were desperate, sloppy, erratic. His breathing hitched, sharp, uneven, and he felt his limbs getting heavier, heavier, heavier.

His vision dimmed at the edges. The last thing he saw was the door bursting open so hard it hit the wall. James’ voice cracked through the haze—loud, angry, terrified all at once. Lars could barely make out the words—just tone, panic, the sound of someone dropping to their knees next to him, hands hovering, then gripping his shoulders. James shouted his name over and over like trying to force him awake, force him conscious, force him alive by sheer volume. Then came the sound of the phone, the number dialed, the rushed, terrified explanation: “He’s overdosing—my friend—he’s not waking up—there’s blood—please, please—” Or maybe Lars imagined that last part. He wasn’t sure. His consciousness slipped like water through fingers. Sirens. Maybe. Hands on him. Maybe. James still yelling. Definitely. Then everything went dark.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars woke up slowly, like dragging himself up through thick, dirty water. His body felt heavy, weirdly detached, like it didn’t belong to him. The ceiling above him was too white, too bright, too clean. Hospitals always smelled like guilt. He blinked a few times, confused. His mouth was dry. His throat burned like he’d swallowed smoke.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was.

Then he heard breathing. Not his own. Someone else’s—uneven, hitched, tired. Close.

“Lars.”

His name came out broken, like the voice saying it hadn’t slept in days. Lars turned his head, slow and weak, and saw James sitting in a hard plastic chair. James looked awful. Eyes red, hair a mess, clothes wrinkled, hands shaking even though he tried to hide it. He looked like he’d aged years since Lars last saw him.

“James?” Lars croaked. “What—what happened?”

James didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched. He looked down at his lap, like he had to think about how to explain something he didn’t want to say. Lars squinted around. There were tubes. A monitor. A bandage on his arm. His skin felt tender in places he didn’t recognize.

He tried to sit up, but James was on his feet instantly.

“No—don’t—just stay down, okay?” James sounded like he was begging more than instructing.

“Why?” Lars asked, throat scratchy. “I… I don’t get it. Why am I here?”

James stared at him with this expression Lars hated—fear, pity, anger, exhaustion, love, guilt, all mixed together. James rubbed his face with both hands, like he couldn’t believe he had to relive it again.

“You don’t remember anything?” James asked quietly.

Lars shook his head. “No. I was… in my room. I—I think. And then—nothing.”

James inhaled sharply, like he was holding down a scream.

“You overdosed, Lars.”

Lars blinked. Confused. Shocked, but not really. The words landed somewhere deep inside him, like they were supposed to mean something, but he couldn’t feel it yet.

“I overdosed?” he repeated, like he needed confirmation.

James nodded slowly. “Yeah. And you—you cut yourself. Badly. You were barely conscious when I came in. You weren’t responding. You weren’t breathing right. I thought—” his voice cracked in the middle. He swallowed hard. “I thought I was too late.”

Lars stared at him. His hands felt cold under the blanket. Something twisted in his stomach. Not guilt. Not shame. Just… emptiness. A kind of stunned numbness. He tried to think back, tried to remember what led up to it, but it was all static. Just blurred shapes and aching thoughts and desperation. Nothing clear.

“I didn’t mean to—” Lars started, but he didn’t know how to finish the sentence. He didn’t know what he meant, or didn’t mean.

James let out a bitter laugh. “You didn’t mean to what? To die? To scare the shit out of me? To make me think I was gonna walk into that room and find your body instead of you?” His voice cracked again. “Lars, I had to turn you over, keep you awake, hold pressure on—on everything. There was blood everywhere. Pills on the floor. You weren’t moving. You weren’t talking. I thought—fuck—”

He had to stop talking because his voice just vanished. He wiped under his eyes quickly, trying to hide tears that were definitely there.

Lars felt something shift in him. Not fully, not enough to process anything, but enough to know James had seen too much. Done too much. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

James sat back down. He exhaled shakily.

“When the ambulance came,” James said softly, “you kept fading out. They asked me questions. I didn’t have answers. I didn’t know what you took, how much, how long you’d been like that. I didn’t know if you did it on purpose or if you just…” He shook his head. “You scared me, man. You really scared me.”

Lars swallowed hard. “I… I don’t remember it.”

“I know,” James muttered. “But I do.”

Silence fell between them. Heavy, suffocating.

Lars stared at the blanket covering his legs. He felt detached from all of it, like he was watching someone else’s life. Someone else’s body lying in that bed. Someone else causing all this chaos.

Then, quietly, without thinking, Lars asked the question that formed in his chest before he could stop it:

“Does… does Dave know?”

James’s head snapped up so fast it was almost violent. His eyes widened, pain flickering behind fury.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” he asked, voice shaking, half-laugh, half-sob. “Dave?”

Lars didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The name was just there, lodged in his throat, his mind, like an instinct he couldn’t control.

James stared at him, and something inside him broke a little.

“You almost died,” James whispered, “and the first fucking name that comes out of your mouth is his?”

Lars looked away. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He just knew that the numbness inside him shifted when he thought about Dave. Not in a good way, not in a safe way, but in a way that made him feel something instead of nothing.

James leaned back in the chair, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “You’re gonna run back to the same guy who ruined your life.”

Lars didn’t respond. He just stared at the wall, blank, confused, aching, lost. The truth was simple and terrible:

He didn’t know why he wanted Dave.

He didn’t know why he almost died.

He didn’t know why James was the one crying when Lars felt absolutely nothing.

He only knew he was awake, hurting, and trapped in a body he hated.

And that the only person he wanted to hear from wasn’t sitting in that chair.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
James left quietly, promising he’d come back tomorrow. Once the room settled into that hospital hush again, a doctor stepped in, clipboard tucked under his arm. He spoke gently, but his words hit Lars like stones.

“Lars… you’re severely malnourished.”

Lars blinked at him, confused for a moment. Malnourished? That didn’t match anything he felt inside. His body felt heavy, wrong, too much. Every time he caught a glimpse of himself in a reflective surface, the only words that formed were big, ugly, disgusting. It didn’t matter what the doctor said—Lars’s head whispered something completely different.

The doctor continued, voice calm in a way that almost made it worse. “Your bloodwork is concerning. You’re dehydrated, your electrolytes are unstable… your body needs more support than regular meals can offer right now. We need to put a feeding tube in again.”

Again.
The word echoed.

Lars’s stomach twisted, but not from hunger. A heat crawled up his neck—shame, fear, a strange mix of anger and embarrassment that made him want to sink under the blanket and disappear. He didn’t feel sick enough for this. Didn’t feel thin enough. Didn’t feel anything enough to deserve all this attention.

“But I’m fine,” he muttered, barely audible. “I don’t… I don’t need that.”

The doctor didn’t argue, but the sympathetic look on his face made Lars flinch. “I know it doesn’t feel that way. But your body is struggling, even if your mind tells you something different. We can talk through the options, but you need nourishment soon.”

Lars looked away, jaw tightening. He didn’t want James to know. He didn’t want anyone to know. He didn’t even want himself to know.

And somewhere deep down, buried under layers of denial and disgust, there was the smallest flicker of fear—what if the doctor was right? What if something really was wrong?
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The feeding tube went in that afternoon. The nurses were gentle, explaining every step, but it didn’t matter. Once they left, the room felt too quiet, too bright, too aware of what was now taped to his face and running down into his stomach.

Lars spent the next days like a ghost. He didn’t sob—he didn’t even have the energy for that. It was just this constant, steady stream of tears that slipped down his cheeks whenever he was alone. No sound. No shaking. Just exhaustion and sadness leaking out of him because he had nowhere else to put it.

Every time a nurse checked on him, he swallowed the tears and pretended he was fine. And every time they left, they came back again—quiet, uncontrollable, numb. He hated the feeling of the tube. Hated the way his throat felt. Hated the way he felt weak. Hated himself for needing it.

By the third day, he couldn’t pretend anymore. He had so much stuck inside him—shame, anger, fear—that he didn’t know what to do with any of it. James visited once, but Lars had barely spoken. He couldn’t. The words got stuck behind the humiliation.

He needed someone who wouldn’t ask him too many questions. Someone who would just show up and sit with him without making him explain everything he didn’t understand himself.

His hand shook when he reached for the phone.

He scrolled past James. Past Kirk. Past everyone else.

And then he stopped at Dave.

Dave wasn’t soft, not really, but he cared in the way Lars could handle—rough around the edges, straightforward, not afraid of the messy stuff. If anyone could sit with him right now without looking at him like he was breaking, it was him.

Lars hesitated a long moment, thumb hovering over the call button. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, even though the tears were still forming.

Finally, he pressed call.

The ring felt endless. His heart pounded. He almost hung up.

Then Dave answered, voice scratchy like he’d just woken up.
“Lars? You okay?”

Lars sucked in a shaky breath.
“…Can you come? Please?”

There was a pause on the other end—surprise, maybe concern—but Dave didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah. I’ll be there.”

For the first time in days, Lars felt something shift—tiny, fragile, but real. A small thread of relief.

He wasn’t going to be alone when Dave walked through that door.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Dave stepped into the room and froze for a split second when he saw the tube taped to Lars’s cheek. His eyes widened, brows lifting—shock, surprise—but not the soft kind Lars had hoped for. Not concern. More like he’d stumbled onto something he didn’t know how to react to and decided not to react at all.

“Didn’t think they’d stick you with one of those again,” Dave muttered, sliding into the chair beside the bed like nothing was wrong. His foot tapped against the tile. “Hospitals love overreacting.”

Lars looked away. The tube felt heavier under Dave’s gaze, even though Dave wasn’t really looking at it. He wasn’t asking questions, wasn’t fussing—just existing like this was normal. And for some reason, that made Lars feel a little less exposed.

They talked for a long while. Not about the ugly parts—Dave never asked about them—but about where they’d been staying, what had happened in the days they weren’t speaking, the stupid little dramas around them. Their voices stayed low, close, almost conspiratorial. For a moment, it felt like old times, like the world hadn’t fallen apart under their feet.

Eventually, Dave leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms over his head with a sharp exhale.
“This place is depressing,” he said bluntly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Lars let out a humorless huff. “Yeah, thanks. Didn’t really come here by choice.”

Dave’s eyes softened—not a lot, but enough that Lars noticed.
“I’m serious. You don’t need this. You need… something else.”

Lars swallowed. “Like what?”

Dave leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping.
“Do you still love me?”

The question hit Lars like a cold rush of air. He blinked, caught off guard.
Did he? After everything? After the betrayal, the confusion, the mess?

He sat with it for a long moment, the room quiet except for the hum of machines.
Then he nodded. Small. Uncertain.
“…Yeah. I think I do.”

A slow grin curled onto Dave’s face—sharp, almost triumphant.
“Then we have to run away.”

Lars’s breath hitched. “Dave—”

“No, listen.” Dave stepped closer, resting a hand on the rail of the bed. “You and me. We leave tonight. I’ll sign you out or… whatever. They can’t keep you here. We start over somewhere else. No James, no drama, no doctors shoving tubes down your throat.”

Lars stared at him, heart pounding—not with excitement, not with hope, but with something tight and confused. The idea felt wild, impossible, frightening. A part of him wanted to cling to Dave’s certainty, to the escape he was offering… but another part twisted in his chest.

He wasn’t sure if Dave was trying to save him or just trying not to lose him.

And for the first time since the overdose, Lars realized:
He didn’t actually know what he wanted.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars hesitated for hours, circling the same sentence in his head—run away with me—until it stopped sounding insane and started sounding inevitable. Every time he said “I don’t know,” Dave just pushed again. Not yelling, not pleading—just relentless.

“Why stay here? For who? For what?”
“You don’t need them, Lars.”
“You said you love me. So come with me.”

And eventually, worn down by desperation, exhaustion, and that strange gravitational pull Dave always had, Lars nodded.

“Okay,” he whispered.
Dave’s grin was instant. Sharp. Victorious.

They knew the hospital would never discharge him. Not with the tube. Not with the weight he’d lost. Not after what the nurses suspected. So a plan formed between them in quiet, urgent whispers.

Lars would tell a nurse he wanted to go out for a smoke. He’d shuffle downstairs with the IV pole disconnected. Dave would be waiting in the parking lot. They’d get in the car. Drive until the hospital was nothing but a thought.

Evening came faster than Lars expected.

The sky outside the windows turned from grey to navy, that soft blue-black that made the world feel empty and conspiratorial. Nurses changed shifts. Carts clattered down hallways. Somewhere in the building, alarms beeped in steady rhythms.

Lars forced his hands to stop trembling long enough to press the call button.

When the nurse stepped in, he barely met her eyes.
“Can I… go out front for a smoke?” he mumbled.

She sighed—tired, annoyed, used to this. “Ten minutes. Stay near the entrance.” She disconnected him from the monitor and taped over his port. “Don’t wander.”

Lars didn’t answer.
He slid off the bed, the tube tugging slightly as he adjusted his jacket over it.

Walking down the hallway felt like walking through water—slow, sluggish, wrong. Every step echoed. Each passerby felt like a threat. He kept his head down, heart pounding loud enough he swore someone would hear it.

When he pushed through the main doors, cold air hit his face like a slap.

And there it was.

Dave’s old beat-up car, idling by the curb. Headlights off. Windows tinted. The engine rumbling low like it was holding its breath.

Dave leaned across the passenger seat, pushing the door open. “Get in,” he whispered with a smile that looked almost excited.

Lars took one final, shaky breath.
He stepped off the hospital sidewalk.
Crossed the asphalt.
Slid into the passenger seat.

The door shut.
Dave pulled away from the curb before Lars even had his seatbelt fully on.

The hospital shrank in the rearview mirror—first a building, then a glow of light, then nothing but darkness behind them.

Dave reached over, lacing their fingers together. His thumb brushed over the tape holding the feeding tube in place.

“You did the right thing,” he murmured.

Lars wasn’t sure.
His chest was tight, his stomach twisting, the trees blurring past outside making everything feel unreal.

But he squeezed Dave’s hand anyway.

“Where are we going?” he asked quietly.

Dave’s smile sharpened.
“Somewhere no one will find us.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars didn’t know how long they’d been driving.
He only noticed the highway lights melting into each other, the way his head pulsed with every beat of his blood. His body felt hollow, shaky, too light in a way that made him feel stupidly proud and horribly exhausted at the same time. The feeding tube tugged at his nose whenever the car hit a bump. It throbbed. It made him nauseous.

Dave didn’t talk much. He kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other tapping too fast on his thigh, agitated, excited, something chaotic brewing under his skin.

When they finally pulled into the parking lot of the crappy motel, Lars felt a cold, sinking sensation. The neon sign buzzed violently, flickering hot pink into the night. The parking lot was empty except for a couple rusted cars and a man smoking outside his door, staring blankly into nothing.

Dave jumped out of the car with a strange confidence, tossing a hoodie over the feeding tube to hide it. “C’mon,” he said, almost cheerfully, as if this was some adventure. Lars followed because he didn’t know what else to do. The world felt like it was tilting. His legs shook.

The motel room was even worse than he expected. One bed. One cracked lamp. Thin walls. The smell of bleach, sweat, and cigarettes. Dave tossed his keys on the table, kicked the door shut behind them, and turned to Lars with a strange, vibrating intensity.

“You did good,” he said, brushing his thumb over Lars’ cheek, like Lars was a kid he was proud of. “You got out. We’re free now.”

Lars nodded even though nothing felt like freedom.

Dave guided him to sit on the bed. He kept staring at the feeding tube, his expression twisting with annoyance. “They really did that to you again? They’re idiots. You don’t need this. You don’t need any of them.”

Lars hesitated. His throat felt thick. “I… I don’t want it anymore.”

Dave’s eyes snapped up, sharp and gleaming. “You don’t want it?”

Lars shook his head.

Dave stepped closer, crouching in front of him. “Say it clearly.”

“I want it out,” Lars whispered. “Please.”

Something dark and triumphant flickered across Dave’s face. He cupped Lars’ jaw, almost gently. “Then I’ll help you.”

Lars didn’t know if he meant to sound reassuring or threatening.

Dave stood, pacing for a moment, muttering under his breath, running his fingers through his hair. Then he grabbed a towel from the bathroom — thin, scratchy, still damp — and sat in front of Lars again. He made Lars tilt his head back, holding his chin with both hands.

“This might hurt,” Dave said, but he sounded more fascinated than concerned.

Lars nodded. He didn’t care. He didn’t want the tube reminding him of hospitals and doctors and James’ disappointed face.

Dave braced one hand on the back of Lars’ neck. Then, without warning, he started to pull.

Pain exploded through Lars' face and throat. Sharp, tearing, blinding. His breath hitched into a gasp. His eyes watered uncontrollably. The world dissolved into white noise and heat. He clawed at the bedsheets, his whole body shaking.

Dave didn’t let go.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered, but his voice had this strange edge — the thrill of control, of being the one doing this. “Almost done. Just don’t pull away from me. Stay still.”

Lars tried. He bit down so hard on his lip he tasted blood.

Then, with a sudden wet slide, the tube was out.

Lars doubled over, gagging, coughing, gripping the sheets like he’d drown without them. His throat burned. His stomach cramped. The world spun.

Dave held the tube in his hand, staring at it like it was a trophy. Then he tossed it aside and grabbed Lars’ shoulders, pulling him upright and into his chest.

“You did so fucking good,” Dave murmured into his hair. “So good for me.”

Lars’ breathing was a mess — shaky, uneven, painful — but when Dave wrapped his arms around him, something in Lars melted. It felt wrong and right in the worst way. Like this was where he belonged, even if every part of him ached.

Dave guided him to lie down, pulling the blankets over him. “Rest. You’re safe with me. No one’s gonna drag you back there.”

Lars tried to believe him. Tried to ignore the throbbing in his face and throat. Tried to ignore the small whisper inside him that said this wasn’t safety. That this was something else — something consuming and impossible and wrong.

But Dave laid beside him, curling his body around Lars’ like a cage.

And Lars didn’t feel scared.

He felt wanted.

Even if it was drowning him.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
James had barely been listening to the lecture anyway. His leg had been bouncing under the desk for the past half hour, his eyes unfocused, his mind stuck replaying the image of Lars lying in that hospital bed, pale and small and wired up to lines and pumps. The feeding tube. The shaking. The silence.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how Lars wouldn’t look at him that morning.

So when his phone buzzed in his pocket, he didn’t even check the caller ID before slipping it out. He almost didn’t answer — the professor was already annoyed with him this week — but something in his chest twisted sharply, like instinct.

“Sorry,” he muttered, standing up and pushing his chair back. “Emergency.”

He stepped into the hallway and answered.

“Hello?”

There was a pause, and then a woman’s voice — clipped, professional, but already carrying a warning.

“Is this James Hetfield? Listed as emergency contact for Lars Ulrich?”

His stomach dropped. “Yeah. That’s— yeah. Why? What happened?”

Her inhale was too long.

“Mr. Hetfield… Lars has left the hospital.”

James blinked hard, his throat tightening. “Left? What do you mean left? Like— like discharged?”

“No. He was not discharged.” Her voice softened, but stayed firm. “He is considered missing. He went outside with permission for a supervised smoke break, but he did not return. We reviewed security footage. He appears to have left the grounds with someone in a car.”

James’ heart stopped.
His breath disappeared.
His vision blurred for a second.

A car.
Someone.
Someone took him.

Or— he went with them.

“Who,” James rasped. “Who did he leave with?”

“We can’t identify the driver from the footage. We’re doing everything we can—”

He wasn’t listening anymore.

His mind had already filled the blank with one name.

Dave.

That sick, choking realization punched through him like ice water. It wasn’t even a thought — it was certainty. A horrible, heavy certainty that made his knees feel weak.

He pressed his hand against the wall, trying not to collapse. “I— okay. Okay. I’ll— I’ll go look for him. I know who he might be with.”

“Sir, please don’t engage directly—”

But James hung up.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t move.

For a solid ten seconds he just pressed his forehead to the cold wall, trembling, trying to swallow down the rising panic.

Lars was gone.
Gone with him.
Gone in his condition — weak, starving, freshly out of a suicide attempt, a fucking feeding tube—

James dragged both his hands through his hair and choked on a breath that almost became a sob.

He slammed his fist into the wall once, hard enough that his knuckles split, but he didn’t feel it. He just needed the pain to anchor him.

He needed to think.
He needed to act.

He pushed off the wall, shaking, and headed straight for the exit of the building. His mind was racing so fast he couldn’t hold onto a single thought.

He texted Jason and Kirk in a frenzy:

'LARS IS GONE.'
'left hospital. someone picked him up.'
'i think it was dave.'
'i’m going to look for him.'

He didn’t wait for replies.

He didn’t go back to class.

He didn’t even bother wiping the blood from his knuckles.

All he could think was:

He took him.
He took him.
He took him.

James got into his car and slammed the door so hard the window rattled. His breath was shaking again. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly the tendons stood out like cords.

He started the engine.

He only had one destination in mind.

Dave’s apartment.
Where else would that bastard run?
Where else would Lars go?

James backed out of the parking lot with a screech of tires and tore onto the main road, praying — begging — that he wasn’t already too late.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
James slammed the phone shut, his fingers shaking. “We have to go now. He’s at Dave’s place. He might be with him.”

Kirk and Jason exchanged a glance, their faces tight with worry. Without another word, they piled into James’ car, the engine roaring to life as he slammed the pedal down, weaving through traffic like a man possessed.

By the time they reached Dave’s apartment building, the sun was dipping low, painting the streets in orange and shadows. They practically ran to the door. James was the first to reach it, pounding on the metal with both fists.

When the door swung open, they didn’t see Dave. Instead, standing there with a cautious expression, was a man they hadn’t expected: David Ellefson.

“Who—?” James started, but Kirk put a hand on his shoulder. Jason stepped forward, sizing him up quickly.

“Are you here for Dave?” Jason asked first, his voice wary.

David’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah. I can’t reach him. I haven’t seen him in days. I thought I’d check in.”

Kirk leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “So… you haven’t seen him in a while?”

David shook his head. His jaw tightened. “No. Not since we had a fight about… another guy.” He hesitated, clearly trying to pick his words carefully.

James’ stomach dropped. He swallowed hard, voice sharp, almost cutting. “Was it… Lars?”

David’s eyes widened slightly, and then he nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”

For a moment, there was silence. The weight of what that meant pressed down on all of them. Lars. Dave. The chaos that followed.

“We appreciate it,” Kirk said finally, voice low. “Thanks for letting us know.”

David gave a small nod and stepped aside. “I hope he’s okay. I… really do.”

Jason, Kirk, and James left quickly, their footsteps echoing down the hallway, the tension in the car rising with every block they drove. No one spoke for the first few minutes; all three of them were lost in their own thoughts, imagining where Lars could be, what state he might be in, and what Dave had done to him.

James finally broke the silence. “We need to find him before… before anything else happens.”

Jason gritted his teeth. “Yeah. Wherever Dave is hiding him, we’re going to find them. And Lars isn’t going to be alone anymore—not if we can help it.”

Kirk glanced out the window, jaw tight. “We just have to hope we’re not too late.”

The car roared down the street, shadows stretching long in the fading light, as the three friends plunged back into the search. Every street, every corner, every car that looked vaguely familiar made their hearts hammer.

They didn’t know where Dave had taken him. They didn’t know if Lars was safe. All they knew was that they had to get to him before the night swallowed him completely.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Dave hadn’t expected it to happen so fast. One moment, Lars was sitting on the stained motel bed, breathing too shallowly, staring at the wall like he wasn’t fully there. The next, his eyes rolled back, his body slumped sideways, and he crumpled onto the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“Lars—Lars?!”
Dave slid off the bed so fast he scraped his knees on the carpet. He shook Lars’ shoulders, called his name, slapped his cheek lightly at first—then harder when nothing happened. Panic crawled up his spine, ice-cold and choking. Lars’ skin felt too warm, his breaths nearly invisible.

“Oh my god—no, no, no, don’t do this—don’t fucking do this to me—”

Dave pressed his ear to Lars’ chest. There was a heartbeat—weak, slow, but there. It kept him from completely breaking apart. Still, Lars wasn’t waking up. His head lolled. The feeding tube site looked red, maybe infected. Dave didn’t know. He wasn’t a doctor. He didn’t know anything except that Lars looked like he was disappearing in front of him.

Minutes stretched like hours.

Finally, a faint, shaky inhale, then another. Lars’ eyelids fluttered. He groaned, barely audible. Dave let out a strangled sound—half relief, half terror—and lifted Lars up, pulling him back onto the bed.

When Lars finally blinked up at him, dazed and confused, Dave’s relief snapped like a rubber band stretched too far.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded.
Lars tried to sit up, but Dave pushed him back down.
“You scared the shit out of me!” Dave shouted. His voice cracked, hoarse from panic. “How could you let this happen?!”

“I—I didn’t—” Lars whispered, but his voice barely worked.

“You’re starving yourself!” Dave’s hands shook as he gestured at him, at his sunken cheeks, at the tube taped to his face. “You look like a fucking ghost, Lars! And you just—you just collapse like it’s nothing? Do you have any idea—any idea—what you just—”

Lars winced, but he didn’t fight back. He didn’t even look up.

Dave’s fear boiled over into something hotter, sharper, something ugly that he couldn’t control. Before he even thought, his hand lashed out.

The crack echoed in the tiny room.

Lars’ head jerked to the side.
A red mark appeared on his cheek a moment later.

Dave froze, chest heaving.
He didn’t apologize. Didn’t gasp or look shocked at himself.
His face twisted instead—rage, fear, confusion all tangled together.

“This is your fault,” he muttered, voice shaking. “You’re doing this to yourself. You’re killing yourself and dragging me with you.”

Lars lifted a hand to his cheek but didn’t cry. Didn’t yell. Didn’t accuse.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

The words stunned Dave for a second.
But Lars wasn’t looking at him—he was staring at the floor, shoulders trembling.

“I’m sorry… I should’ve been stronger,” Lars said quietly. “I should’ve tried harder. I always ruin everything. I’m just—” His voice cracked. “I’m just disgusting.”

He folded into himself, small and hollow, arms wrapped around his own ribs like he could hold himself together by force.

Dave didn’t comfort him.
He paced instead—shaking, pulling at his hair, cursing under his breath—because the truth was, the sight of Lars collapsing had terrified him in a way he couldn’t process. He needed someone to blame, and Lars was the closest, easiest target.

Lars watched him silently, eyes glassy, expression empty.
He didn’t hate Dave for hitting him.
He hated himself for deserving it.

The room felt tight, suffocating.
Outside, cars passed. People lived normal lives.
But inside this motel, it felt like something was coming apart—fragile, dangerous, inevitable.

And Lars didn’t know if he could survive it.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
David didn’t go home after talking to Jason, Kirk, and James. He stood there on the sidewalk long after they left, staring at Dave’s dark apartment door like it would open again if he waited long enough. He kept pulling out his phone, scrolling through old messages, debating whether to call again. Every time he hovered over the call button, he remembered the last night they spent together at that motel — the stale air, the flickering neon sign, the way Dave’s hands shook when he talked about ruining things again.

Dave always went there when he felt cornered. When he was desperate. When he needed somewhere dirty and anonymous to hide.

David knew that.

And he knew something was wrong.

It was eating him alive.

Eventually, he clicked call. Once. Twice. The fourth time, Dave finally picked up.

The background was dim and muffled — maybe a TV in another room, maybe cars outside on the highway — but Dave’s breathing was harsh and uneven, like he’d been running or panicking.

“What?” Dave snapped. His voice was tight, shaken.

“Dave… are you with him?” David asked, keeping his voice low. “With Lars?”

There was a pause. A long one. Then the sound of something being knocked over on Dave’s end — maybe a chair, maybe Lars falling, David couldn’t tell.

Then Dave hissed, “I can’t talk right now, he’s— he’s barely breathing.”

David froze on the spot.

“What? What do you mean he’s barely breathing? What the hell happened? Dave—”

But the line went dead.

Just a click and then silence.

David stood there trembling, phone pressed to his ear long after the call ended. His stomach dropped into nothing. He knew that tone. Dave only sounded like that when he had screwed up so badly that he didn’t know how to hide it anymore.

He knew where Dave would go.
He didn’t even need to think.

There was only one place Dave ever ran when he felt like the world was collapsing on top of him — the Bluebird Motel, a shitty, half-abandoned place outside the city. They used to go there months ago, back when things between them were less complicated and more dangerous. The kind of place where the clerk didn’t ask questions and didn’t care either.

David knew it. He knew it with a nauseating certainty.

He immediately dialed James.

James answered on the first ring, breathless from rushing across campus.

“Did you find something?” James demanded.

David swallowed hard. “I know where he is. I know where Dave always goes when he’s— when he’s scared.”

Kirk and Jason were with James, huddled close, panic already setting into their faces when they heard David’s voice through the speaker.

“Where?” Jason asked, too sharply.

David took a shaky breath. “There’s this motel outside the city. The Bluebird. We… used to stay there. I think he’s there with Lars.”

James didn’t hesitate.

“Text me the address. Now.”

“I will,” David said quickly. “But listen— Dave said Lars wasn’t breathing well. Something’s really wrong.”

James went pale.
Kirk covered his mouth.
Jason’s hands curled into fists.

“Send the address,” James repeated, more tense, less human.

David hung up and typed the location out with shaking fingers.

And then he didn’t know what to do next.

Should he go too? Should he stay out of it? Should he warn them about how Dave gets when he’s cornered?

He didn’t even get the chance to decide — because when James received the text, he was already dragging Kirk and Jason toward the car.

Jason kept muttering, “Please let him be alive… please…” as he fumbled with the keys.

Kirk was silent, staring blankly, mind racing through every worst-case scenario he knew Lars was capable of.

James’ jaw was locked so tightly he couldn’t speak.

They pulled out of the parking lot so fast the tires screeched, the car barely holding its line as they flew onto the main road.

They didn’t talk.
No one could.

The whole drive was thick with terror, every second stretching too long, every red light unbearable. James kept tapping his foot against the floor, over and over, like he was trying to keep himself from breaking apart.

Jason gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
Kirk kept checking his phone for updates that weren’t coming.

David stayed behind, pacing outside Dave’s building, hands in his hair, guilt twisting through him like a knife.

He should’ve done something sooner.
He should’ve warned them earlier.
He should’ve—

But it was too late. The guys were already halfway across the city.

And Lars was somewhere inside a filthy motel room, barely breathing, with only Dave beside him — the last person who should’ve been there.

The Bluebird Motel sign flickered somewhere in the distance.

But James, Jason, and Kirk hadn’t reached it yet.

They were still on the road.

Still racing.

Still praying they wouldn’t be too late.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Room 204’s door slammed backwards against the wall with a hollow crack, and for a split second James really did think they had him — Lars lying on the filthy carpet, pale, limp, barely conscious but alive. His chest moved. His eyes flickered open when the light hit him.

But then a shape yanked upward from the corner of the room — Dave — and everything collapsed into chaos.

Dave’s arm hooked violently around Lars’ chest, pulling him upright against his body. His other hand held a knife—bright, sharp, terrifying in the dim motel light. He pressed it close enough that James felt his stomach drop, but Lars didn’t even tense. He just sagged against Dave’s chest like he expected this, like he accepted it.

James froze mid-step, breath caught in his throat.

Kirk’s hand flew to his mouth.

Jason looked like he’d stopped breathing altogether.

“Don’t you fucking move!” Dave’s voice cracked, unhinged, louder than the tiny room could handle. “Don’t come closer or I swear— I swear I’ll fucking kill him!”

The words detonated in the air.
James immediately lifted his hands, palms out, shaking. “Dave— Dave, you don’t want to do this. Just— just put the knife down, alright? Just talk to us.”

“No!” Dave spit the word out like a snarl. “You’re not taking him from me. You don’t get it. He needs me.”

Lars didn’t even try to pull away. His eyes didn’t move to James, didn’t plead, didn’t shake. He seemed almost… numb. A little dazed. His head lolled onto Dave’s shoulder like he wasn’t afraid, like he’d already decided something in himself.

Dave noticed that. He clutched Lars even tighter.

“You see?” he hissed at them. “He doesn’t fight me. He wants to stay. You’re the ones hurting him. You’re the ones who ruined everything.”

“Dave,” Jason said quietly, voice trembling but steady enough, “he’s sick. He needs a hospital. You’re not helping him. Just let us take him back—”

“Shut up!” Dave screamed, the knife jerked slightly and James flinched, stepping forward on instinct.

“DON’T!” Dave shouted again, pressing Lars back against him like a shield.

Lars blinked slowly, almost dreamlike. His throat bobbed a little, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t cry. He didn’t even seem confused. It was like he was floating above it all, watching his own body being held hostage.

Kirk whispered, shaky, “Lars, please… please say something…”

But Lars didn’t. His gaze drifted lazily to the wall like he wasn’t even in the same reality as the rest of them.

Dave began slowly edging toward the open door, pulling Lars with him step by step. His movements were frantic but careful, the knife never lowering. Every inch he backed up, the three guys mirrored with the slightest retreat, afraid of triggering anything worse.

“Dave,” James tried again, voice cracking, “listen to me—“

“No,” Dave snapped. “You had your chance. All of you. You never understood him like I do.”

He reached the doorway.

Then, without warning, he spun, shoved Lars tighter against his chest, and ran.

It didn’t look like normal running — it was pure instinct, pure terror, pure desperation. His feet slipped on the concrete walkway, almost dropping Lars, but he held on, dragging him in his arms and sprinting down the motel balcony as fast as he physically could.

“GO!” James shouted, bolting after them.

Kirk and Jason followed, lungs already burning.

But Dave moved like someone being hunted.
Like someone with nothing left to lose.
Like someone who would rather die than let them catch him.

His grip tightened around Lars’ body as he ran, dragging him along the long stretch toward the stairwell, knife still in hand, breathing ragged and furious.

And Lars let himself be carried, eyes half-open, not screaming, not resisting, not even startled.

Like he had known this would happen.
Like this was exactly where he was supposed to be.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The car slowed as they pulled up to Marty’s house. It was quiet, tucked away behind tall hedges, a kind of sanctuary that looked deceptively normal from the street. Dave killed the engine and sat for a long moment, chest heaving, hands still gripping Lars like he was afraid he might vanish if he let go.

Lars slumped against him, heavy, pale, and silent. His hair fell across his face in dark, damp strands, and every now and then he shivered. The tube in his nose, the bruises on his arms, the thin, hollow lines of his cheeks—he looked like he belonged somewhere else entirely. Somewhere no one would ever find him.

Dave opened the door and carried him inside without a word. Marty was in the kitchen when they stepped in, leaning against the counter, a cigarette dangling lazily from his fingers. His eyes flicked to Lars once, and then back to the smoke curling in the air. He didn’t ask anything. He never asked anything.

“Put him on the couch,” Marty said, voice low, indifferent, as if they were used to chaos walking through the door.

Dave nodded and eased Lars down gently. Lars let himself be laid back, not moving, eyes half-lidded. He didn’t speak. He didn’t blink at Marty. He barely even breathed like he wanted to disappear completely.

Marty’s gaze lingered for a few moments on Lars’ thin frame, the way the blanket couldn’t cover all of him, the faint marks that showed even in the dim light. And then he just turned away, flicked his cigarette out the window, and started making himself a coffee.

Dave crouched beside Lars, checking him over quickly—adjusting the blanket, brushing his hair from his face, making sure the tube hadn’t been pulled out in the chaos. “Hey… hey, you’re okay. You’re okay,” he murmured, repeating it like a mantra, though he didn’t sound convinced.

Lars didn’t answer. He just closed his eyes tighter, letting himself sink into Dave’s warmth, letting himself be carried by someone else for the first time in days. He didn’t feel shame or fear the way he might have if someone else had been in the room. He only felt small, hollow, and… strangely safe.

Dave ran his hand through his hair, chest heaving, eyes flicking toward the door every few seconds as if expecting someone to burst in and ruin everything. He muttered under his breath about James, about Jason, about Kirk, about how they’d never understand. About how no one ever did.

Marty didn’t say a word. He just moved around in the background, making coffee, opening cabinets, doing the silent things that kept the house alive. He occasionally glanced at Lars again, but each glance was quiet, neutral, detached. He didn’t need to ask questions. Sometimes silence was better than words.

Lars stayed there for hours, half-asleep, half-dreaming, letting Dave talk quietly to himself, letting the world shrink down to the small patch of couch and the steady rhythm of Dave’s breathing. He didn’t feel guilty. He didn’t feel afraid. He only felt… still. Like he could disappear completely and maybe, for a few hours, the outside world couldn’t touch him.

And Marty stayed silent, letting them exist like that, letting the house swallow the chaos without asking for explanations.

It was the first time in a long time Lars felt that kind of quiet, that kind of sick, warped calm.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Dave was getting furious—at Lars, at the situation, at the way everything had spiraled so fast. Lars sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, eyes half-hidden under messy hair, refusing to look up.

“Just eat,” Dave said, pushing the bowl toward him again. His voice wasn’t loud, but the sharpness in it made Lars flinch.

Lars obeyed in small, slow bites. Not because he was hungry. Not because he wanted to.
But because Dave told him to.

Because Dave was the only steady thing left right now. Because if Dave walked away, he wasn’t sure what would be left of him at all.

Dave watched him like he didn’t trust him for a second—arms crossed, jaw tight, almost vibrating with frustration. “You can’t keep doing this,” he muttered, pacing once, twice. “I didn’t get you out of that place just for you to—” He cut himself off, swallowing the anger down.

Lars’s heart thumped painfully. “I know,” he whispered. “I’m trying.”

But he wasn’t. Not really. He was doing what Dave needed him to do so Dave wouldn’t give up on him.

Dave finally sat down next to him, rubbing his face with both hands. “I just… I can’t lose you, man.” His voice cracked a little, betraying how scared he really was.

Something warm and desperate twisted inside Lars.
Right—Dave cared.
Dave had helped him run away from the hospital.
Dave had chosen him.

Which meant Lars owed him. He owed him everything.

“I won’t leave,” Lars said quietly. He set the bowl aside, then turned toward Dave, almost tentative. “I’ll do what you want. I’ll listen. Just… don’t stop caring about me.”

Dave froze for a moment, then exhaled slowly, softer now. “Then don’t make me worry like that. I’m serious.”

Lars nodded, leaning just barely into Dave’s shoulder. He didn’t dare more than that.
The closeness felt fragile, like too much pressure would shatter it.

Dave didn’t push him away.

For Lars, that was enough—for now.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Dave had locked himself in Marty’s bathroom for a long time—too long. Lars had been sitting on the hallway floor, knees pulled up, listening to the faint sounds inside: the running sink, the uneven breaths, the sharp little clinks that made his stomach twist. He told himself Dave just needed space. He told himself it was fine.

But something in the silence changed.
Something wrong.

Lars stood, hesitating only a second before pushing the door open.

What he walked into made his entire body seize up.

Dave was sitting on the tile, back propped against the cabinet, sleeves shoved up, his breathing ragged. His hands were shaking so violently he almost dropped the blade he was holding. There was fear in Dave’s eyes, but also something empty, something far away, like he wasn’t entirely present anymore. He hadn't cut himself, not yet.

Lars froze in the doorway, his heart climbing into his throat. “Dave…?”

Dave didn’t answer at first. His gaze slid toward Lars slowly, unfocused, like he had to fight through fog to recognize him. Then—out of nowhere—Dave grabbed Lars’s wrist and pressed something cold into his palm.

“Your turn.”

The words were barely more than a whisper, but they hit Lars like a punch.

He stared at the object in his hand and felt his stomach lurch. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t understand. Or maybe he did, and that made it even worse. Dave’s eyes were wide, desperate, pleading in a way Lars had never seen before.

“D-Dave… what are you doing? What—why would you—” His voice cracked. His fingers trembled so hard he nearly dropped what Dave had forced on him. “Please stop. Please, I don’t—”

Dave’s expression twisted, anger and despair tangled together. “If you don’t… then what’s the point? I helped you, Lars. I stayed. You said you’d listen to me. You said—” His breathing sped up again, shallow and frantic. “You said you wouldn’t leave.”

Lars felt like he was drowning. He stepped closer without meaning to, torn between wanting to grab Dave and wanting to run away. “I’m not leaving,” he whispered, shaking. “I’m right here. Just… put that down. Please. Dave, I can’t do this. I can’t do what you’re asking.”

Dave didn’t respond—his stare only got more hollow, more dangerous.

Before anything else could happen, the door slammed open.

Marty stood there, and for once, he wasn’t wearing his usual bored, irritated look. His face went pale, and for a second, he didn’t even breathe. His voice failed him before he managed to choke out, “Dave—what the hell are you doing?”

He moved fast. Faster than Lars expected from him. He knelt down, pulled Dave’s arms away from himself with a kind of frantic care that looked wrong on him—Marty never looked scared of anything. Not until now.

Dave tried to twist away, mumbling something slurred, but Marty grabbed his shoulders firmly. “Stop. Just stop, alright? Jesus, Dave…”

Lars stood frozen, still shaking, still holding the object Dave handed him. Marty glanced up at him, eyes dark with worry—real worry.

“Give me that,” Marty said gently. Lars did, almost dropping it as he handed it over. Marty tucked it out of reach, then turned his full attention back to Dave.

“Hey. Look at me,” Marty said quietly, his voice softening in a way Lars had never heard before. “You’re not doing this today. Not here.”

Dave’s expression crumpled—not anger this time, but exhaustion. Marty guided him to sit properly, then disappeared briefly, returning with a small first-aid kit he kept under the sink for completely different reasons. He worked with surprising care, steady hands, steady voice.

Lars sank down on the closed toilet lid, knees pulled to his chest, watching with wide eyes. His whole body felt cold. His breathing still hadn’t caught up.

Marty didn’t say a word about what Lars walked in on. He didn’t yell. He didn’t mock. He just worked quietly, jaw tight, eyes sharp.

When he finished, he stood and looked at Lars with a seriousness that made Lars straighten up.

“You need to eat something,” Marty said. Not a suggestion—an instruction. “Something light. Your system can barely handle anything, but you need something.”

Lars didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy. He followed Marty into the kitchen, still shaken, where Marty heated up a small bowl of broth—nothing big, nothing heavy, just something warm and simple. He placed it in front of Lars with a firmness that meant he expected him to actually eat this time.

Lars held the spoon with shaky fingers. He felt Marty watching him, not in a threatening way, but in a don’t-you-pass-out-on-me way. Lars forced himself to take slow sips, the warmth settling painfully in his chest.

In the bathroom, Dave was quiet now. Too quiet.

Marty kept glancing toward the door, as if making sure he didn’t disappear or try something again.

The apartment felt unnaturally still.

Lars swallowed, finally managing to speak. “Is he going to be okay?”

Marty didn’t answer immediately. He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion pulling at his features.

“I don’t know,” he admitted softly.
“But we’re not letting him go under. Not today.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Lars barely slept that night. After the bathroom incident, the image of Dave’s blood on the tile kept flashing in his head, sharp and relentless. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Dave’s hand slicing through skin, the blade catching the light, the way Dave didn’t even flinch when Lars walked in.

He told himself not to think about it.
He told himself to be quiet.
He told himself to stop crying.

But nothing worked.

By late morning, he was sitting at Marty’s tiny kitchen table, curled into himself. The sunlight was bright, warm even, but everything inside Lars felt grey, wet, heavy. His chest hurt in that awful, throbbing way it did when he was trying too hard not to cry.

He didn’t make a noise — not one.
Just tears sliding down his face, silent and constant.

He kept wiping them away quickly, as if someone would punish him for each drop. He didn’t want Dave to see. He didn’t want to be “weak” again. Weakness made Dave angry. Weakness made people leave. Weakness made messes.

But he couldn’t stop.

His hands were shaking. His breathing trembled. His throat burned from holding back every sound.

Dave walked into the kitchen with heavy footsteps, annoyed at something already — Lars could feel it like pressure in the air. He didn’t look up. He didn’t want Dave to notice.

But Dave did.

He stopped in the doorway, arms crossed, staring at Lars with a strange mix of confusion and irritation.

“…What now?” Dave muttered, voice hard, tired, sharp. “Why are you crying again?”

Lars shook his head fast, wiping his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, trying to swallow the panic tightening his chest.

“I—I’m not,” he whispered.

“You’re literally crying right in front of me,” Dave snapped. “Jesus, Lars. Why? What’s wrong this time?”

Lars flinched. He hated that he flinched. He hated himself for it. His shoulders curled up, and he mumbled, “I’m sorry. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Dave scoffed, throwing a hand in the air.

“You don’t know? You don’t fucking know? You walk in on me in the worst moment of my life and now you’re falling apart over it—”

Lars’s breath hitched. He tried to answer, but nothing came out. His throat was too tight.

Dave kept going, voice rising with every word:

“—I don’t get it. Why are you acting like you’re the one who suffered? I’m the one bleeding out in a bathroom, and you—what—start crying because you can’t deal with it? Because it scared you? God, Lars, seriously?”

Lars squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to breathe, but it hurt. Everything hurt. Guilt, shame, fear — all tangled together so tightly he couldn’t separate them.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, shaking worse now. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake—”

“Enough.”

The word cut through the air like a blade.

Both of them turned. Marty was standing at the threshold of the hallway, arms crossed, eyes locked on Dave. His voice wasn’t loud — but it was sharp, firm, colder than Lars had ever heard from him.

Dave stiffened. “What?”

“Stop,” Marty said. He walked into the kitchen slowly, deliberately, placing himself between them. “Look at him.”

Dave looked. Really looked. Lars wasn’t just crying quietly anymore — he was trembling, trying to breathe through a panic that was overwhelming him. His hands were pressed to the edge of the table, knuckles white, shoulders shaking.

“He’s terrified,” Marty said. “And he’s trying not to be. And you’re yelling at him for it.”

Dave’s jaw tightened. His lip curled in frustration.

“I’m not his babysitter,” he muttered.

“No,” Marty said, “you’re not. But you are the reason he’s like this right now.”

Dave’s expression cracked for a second — anger mixed with something rawer, something that looked like guilt but twisted into defensiveness as soon as it surfaced.

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s reality,” Marty replied. “You can’t drag someone through hell and then get angry when they shake.”

Dave looked down, jaw clenching. He didn’t respond.

Lars wanted to disappear. He hated being the center of this. He hated that he caused trouble. He hated that Marty was disappointed in Dave. He hated that Dave was angry. He hated himself for crying.

His breath stuttered, and he made a small sound he didn’t mean to make.

Immediately, Marty crouched next to him.

“Hey. Look at me,” he said gently.

Lars lifted his eyes, tears still falling silently, body trembling.

“You’re safe here,” Marty said, voice steady and calm. “Nobody’s going to yell at you for having feelings. Not in my house. Understand?”

Lars nodded weakly.

Dave looked away.

Marty kept his voice soft, but his eyes flicked sharply at Dave as he spoke again:

“You walked in on something traumatic. Anyone would react. Crying is human. It’s allowed.”

The last word hung heavily in the air.

Allowed.
Something Lars hadn’t felt in a long time.

Lars swallowed hard, a tiny, broken sound escaping him. Marty put a steady hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

For the first time since the bathroom incident, Lars actually tried.

He inhaled — slow, shaky.
Exhaled — slower.

Dave sat silently in the doorway, arms crossed tighter now, conflict written all over his face. Anger, guilt, shame, fear — all twisting together.

He didn’t apologize.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t move.

But he didn’t leave, either.

He just watched Lars — really watched him — and for the first time, the fury in his eyes softened into something that looked almost like heartbreak.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
A few weeks passed, blurred together in a strange, heavy mix of routine and quiet dread. Marty had done everything he could — slowly increasing Lars’ meals, staying patient even when Lars cried or froze or panicked. And somehow, against every part of Lars’ will, it worked.

His body reacted like any starving body would.
It held onto food.
It filled in the sharp edges.
It softened where it used to jut.

The weight came back.

Not fast, not dramatically — but enough. Enough that Lars saw it. Felt it. Hated it.

It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t right.
It wasn’t him.

Every morning, he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror until the disgust turned into nausea. He pulled at his skin, pinched at the soft places, dug his nails into himself until red marks formed. He grabbed his hips, his stomach, the thicker parts of his thighs, whispering, no no no no no until he ran out of breath.

His clothes fit different.
He walked different.
He felt different.

Too big.
Too heavy.
Too visible.

He didn’t want Marty to see. Marty had been the only calm, the only solid, the only one who treated him like he wasn’t broken glass. So Lars hid the new cuts — thin slices up his arms, deeper ones along his hips and thighs. He did them late at night, when Dave and Marty were asleep. He cleaned them with trembling hands, kept them covered with sleeves and blankets.

He got good at hiding.
He had always been good at hiding.

Dave noticed the weight first, long before Marty did — and he noticed with disgust.

One afternoon, when Marty had left to buy groceries, Dave cornered Lars in Marty’s hallway. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes raking over Lars’ body in that unsettling, assessing way he had.

Lars froze like a trapped animal. Dave smirked.

“You look different,” Dave said, voice low, almost teasing. “Bigger.”

Lars swallowed.

Dave stepped closer. “I liked you better when you were skinny.”

Lars’ heart caved in on itself.
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t even blink.

Because Dave was right.
Dave was always right.

Dave leaned forward, lips near Lars’ ear.

“Look at you now,” he murmured, venom disguised as affection. “You look… disgusting.”

The word stabbed deep, slicing cleaner than any blade Lars had ever used.

Something in him cracked.
But he didn’t fight it.
He absorbed it.

“Sorry,” Lars whispered, barely audible.

Dave pulled back with a satisfied smile, like he’d won something.

“That’s better,” he said. “At least you know how bad this looks on you.”

And just like that, he walked off, leaving Lars standing alone in the hallway, shaking.

After that day, everything got harder.

Meals with Marty turned into internal battles. Every bite felt like failure. Every swallow felt like punishment. Marty praised him for eating — but the praise only made Lars feel bigger, worse, more wrong.

The weight kept coming.
Slow.
Steady.
Unavoidable.

And every time Dave caught him alone, he’d say something new:

“You’re letting yourself go.”
“You’re getting soft.”
“Jesus, Lars, have some self-control.”
“You wanna be ugly forever?”

Lars didn’t cry.
He didn’t defend himself.
He didn’t run.

He believed every word.

Sometimes, late at night, he’d unwrap the bandage around his arm and stare at the fresh cut, the blood beading slowly. For a moment — just a moment — it felt quiet inside his head.

Then he’d feel guilty.
Then he’d bandage it again.
Then he’d pretend nothing happened.

Dave never noticed the cuts — or maybe he didn’t care. Marty didn’t notice either… yet. Lars made sure of that.

But the weight?
Everyone noticed the weight.

Lars could barely stand to be in his own skin anymore.

Each day that passed, he felt more trapped — in his body, in the house, in Dave’s sick approval/disapproval cycle, in his own spiraling thoughts.

And Dave’s voice stayed with him, echoing through every mirror, every meal, every step:

“You look disgusting.”
“You were better when you were starving.”
“You’re just… gross now.”

Lars didn’t argue.
He took the words and carved them into himself — not literally, but somewhere deeper.

Because he believed them more than anything else.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Dave waited until Marty left the house again — some late-afternoon errand, nothing unusual. Lars was sitting on the couch, knees pulled up to his chest, oversized hoodie hanging off him like a curtain even though it couldn’t hide the way his body had changed. He felt swollen, obvious, like he took up too much space.

Dave watched him from the doorway for a long time. Too long.
Lars could feel it.
That cold, sharp stare sliding over him, judging, weighing.

“Stand up,” Dave said finally.

Lars did. Automatically. Like it wasn’t even a question.

Dave walked a slow circle around him, his eyes scanning him the way someone might inspect a broken piece of equipment. His lip curled.

“You ate again today, didn’t you?”

Lars swallowed. “Marty made—”

“Marty,” Dave snapped, cutting him off. “Marty coddles you. He’s ruining you.”

Lars forced himself to breathe. “I’m trying, Dave…”

“Trying?” Dave hissed, stepping in closer. “This—” he grabbed Lars’ waist through the hoodie, fingers digging into the soft new flesh, “—is trying?”

Lars froze.
His breath hitched.

Dave squeezed harder, cruelly, like he wanted to bruise him. “You’re getting disgusting again.”

Again.

Like Lars had ever stopped being disgusting.

Dave let go, wiping his hand on his jeans like he’d touched something dirty. Lars felt the tears forming but tried so hard not to blink, not to let them fall.

Dave leaned in, voice low, poisonous.
“You know what fixes this.”

“…what?” Lars whispered, though he already knew.

Dave smirked. “What you used to do. What you were good at.”

Lars’s stomach dropped. His throat closed.

“No—Dave, Marty can’t find out if—”

“He won’t,” Dave said flatly. “He never does. You hide everything else.”

Lars felt dizzy.

Dave reached out and tapped two fingers under Lars' chin, forcing him to look up.

“You want me to still want you, don’t you?”

The question hit Lars like a blow to the chest.

“…yes,” he whispered.

“Then go,” Dave said, jerking his head toward the bathroom.
“Fix it.”

Lars stared at him for a long, breathless moment — torn between fear and desperate, shaking, carved-into-his-bones obedience.

“Now,” Dave added, voice sharp.

Lars walked to the bathroom.
His legs felt like they were filled with stones.
His hands shook as he closed the door.

He turned on the faucet first — too loud, too obvious — then lowered it to a quiet trickle, the way James had once taught him to hide the sound. The guilt stabbed him, sharp and sudden, but it didn’t stop him.

His body protested immediately, violently, like it remembered what he’d done to it before. His stomach cramped and twisted. His throat burned. His eyes watered. He pressed his fingers harder, harder, harder—

It finally happened.

He choked, coughed, gasped, gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles went white. Everything felt wrong. Weak. Shaky.

And yet—
some part of him felt relief.
A sick relief.

The kind Dave wanted.
The kind Lars craved in the moments he couldn’t stand himself.

When he finally stumbled out of the bathroom, pale and trembling, Dave was waiting with that satisfied, victorious expression.

“There you go,” he murmured, pulling Lars into his chest. “See? You still know how.”

Lars pressed his forehead into Dave’s shoulder, eyes stinging.
He wanted comfort.
He wanted love.
He wanted someone to tell him he wasn’t disgusting.

He didn’t get any of that.

He only got Dave's hands smoothing over his back like he was something Dave owned.

Something Dave could mold.

Something Dave could break however he wanted.

“Don’t make me tell you again,” Dave whispered.

And Lars nodded, because he didn’t know how not to.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Kirk had been pacing around James’ living room for almost an hour before he finally forced himself to sit down. The guys had searched through Lars’ house again, desperate for anything they might’ve missed the first time. James was exhausted, Jason was furious, and Kirk just felt… hollow.

While the others crashed on the couches, Kirk kept wandering, unable to settle. Something in Lars’ room kept tugging at him — something small, something they hadn’t checked because it looked too insignificant at the time.

A drawer.

He went back into the bedroom. The smell of old cologne and dust lingered. Lars’ bed was unmade, like he’d left in a rush or been taken out of it. Kirk sat on the floor and pulled open the nightstand drawer again — empty, like before.

But the bottom of it… didn’t look right.

He slid his fingers along the wood. The base wasn’t nailed down. Slowly, carefully, he lifted the thin piece of plywood.

A notebook lay underneath.

Small, black-covered, edges bent, elastic band stretched out. The kind of notebook someone hides because it holds things they don’t want anyone to see.

Kirk’s breath caught.

He opened it slowly. The first few pages were song ideas — sloppy riffs jotted down, messy tempo markings, fragments of lyrics. Normal. Familiar.

But then he reached the middle.

The handwriting changed — tighter, shakier. The sentences shorter. Pages filled with frantic notes, crossed-out lines, scratched-out paragraphs that still showed through.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“He says I’m easier to deal with when I don’t eat.”
“Maybe if I get smaller everything will stop hurting.”
“I think he’s right.”
“I can’t tell anyone. No one would care.”

Kirk felt something cold crawl up his spine.

He flipped more pages. The entries didn’t mention Dave’s name directly, but the descriptions were disturbingly clear — comments about weight, pressure to be obedient, guilt, fear. Then:

“If Dave ever finds this, I’m dead.”

Kirk shut the notebook like it had burned him.

His hands were shaking.

James walked in at that moment, rubbing his eyes. “Dude… you okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

Kirk didn’t answer. Instead, he held out the notebook.

James’ face fell as he skimmed the pages. His jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his neck bulged. Jason came in too, drawn by the silence, and Kirk handed the notebook over without a word.

Nobody spoke for a long time.

Finally, Jason whispered, “We need to find him. Not just because he’s missing — this is worse than we thought.”

James nodded, eyes dark. “Someone got him to believe all this shit. Someone made him scared enough to hide it.”

Kirk swallowed hard. “This isn’t just running away. Someone’s keeping him close. Someone he trusted.”

Jason’s expression sharpened. “Dave.”

James closed the notebook. “If he’s with Dave… then Lars is in real danger.”

The room felt colder suddenly, like something had shifted.

Kirk stood. “We go through everything again. Anything in here that connects Lars to Dave — old addresses, old friends, old photos — whatever. We follow every thread.”

Jason nodded. “Because this notebook? This is the first real clue we’ve had.”

James pocketed it gently, like it was something fragile.

For the first time in days, they had direction.

And for the first time, they understood just how deep this mess ran.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The police station felt colder than it should’ve. Too bright, too quiet, too clean — nothing like the chaos inside the three of them.

Kirk sat hunched in one of those hard plastic chairs, gripping Lars’ notebook so tightly his knuckles were white. James paced in a tight line in front of him, jaw locked, hands shaking even though he kept stuffing them into his pockets. Jason leaned against the wall, arms crossed, face blank with anger that was one crack away from shattering.

When the officer finally called their names, they followed him into a small room with a metal table and two chairs. It looked like a room meant for suspects, not desperate friends. But they didn’t care.

James sat down first. “We’re here to report a missing person.”

The officer nodded slowly. “Name?”

“Lars Ulrich,” Kirk answered quietly.

The officer typed the name into the system. “Age?”

“Twenty.”

“When was he last seen?”

Jason exhaled sharply. “A week ago. Maybe a little longer. He was in the hospital before that.”

The officer paused. “Hospital? For what reason?”

Kirk and Jason looked at James. James clenched his jaw but didn’t hide any of it.

“He was struggling. With eating. With mental health. He was in rough shape, and then suddenly he was gone. Someone helped him leave.”

The officer frowned. “Do you know who?”

Kirk slid the notebook across the table. “We found this in his room. It… it doesn’t say names. But it describes someone who’s been hurting him. Manipulating him.”

The officer opened the notebook. He didn’t even need to read more than a few lines before his expression shifted — his brows drawing downward, lips tightening, eyes turning serious.

“This is concerning,” he said quietly. “Has he ever mentioned harming himself to any of you?”

Kirk swallowed. “He didn’t have to. We… we saw enough.”

The officer nodded, took a breath, and continued typing.

“We’ll file the missing person report immediately. Given the medical vulnerability described here, this will be treated as an urgent case.”

Jason stepped forward. “We think we know who he might be with.”
His voice hardened. “Dave Mustaine.”

The officer glanced up. “And what is Mr. Mustaine’s relationship to Lars?”

James answered, voice shaking with anger. “Complicated. Toxic. Whatever word you want. Lars… trusted him. And Dave took advantage of that.”

The officer typed faster now. “Do you know of any locations Dave Might take him?”

“No,” Kirk said, frustrated. “But Dave knows how to disappear. And he wouldn't have done it alone.”

James leaned forward, eyes burning. “Check security cameras. Traffic cams. Anything. If he drove Lars out of the hospital, someone had to see something.”

“We will,” the officer said firmly. “But I need you all to prepare for a possibility.”

They stiffened.

“What possibility?” James asked.

“That Mr. Ulrich may not be in physical condition to travel far. Whoever removed him from the hospital may be keeping him somewhere secluded.”

Kirk’s stomach twisted.

Jason’s fists clenched.

James stared at the table, breathing hard.

“We’ll contact you the moment we find anything,” the officer said, closing the notebook and sliding it back. “You did the right thing coming here.”

As the three of them stood to leave, the weight of everything felt heavier. But for once, they weren’t fighting blindly. They weren’t alone. Something official, something real had finally begun.

Outside the station, Kirk looked at James and Jason.

“This is it,” he said quietly. “We’re not stopping until we find him.”

James nodded. “Yeah.”

Jason’s jaw tighten. “And when we do… no one’s ever hurting him again.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The knock on Marty’s front door echoed through the whole house — firm, rhythmic, unmistakably official.

Dave froze.

Lars did too, shrinking into himself, breath catching in his throat. They were in Marty’s bathroom, the door locked, the light off except for the thin strip of yellow glowing under the door.

Marty’s voice drifted through the house, calm but tight.
“Coming.”

Dave grabbed Lars’ wrist and pulled him closer, whispering sharply, “Don’t make a sound. Don’t breathe too loud. Got it?”

Lars nodded, shaking.

They heard the door open. Heavy boots stepped inside.

“Mr. Friedman?” an officer asked.

“Yeah,” Marty replied, way too casual. “What’s this about?”

“We tracked a phone belonging to David Mustaine. The signal places him within thirty meters of this house. We’re looking for him, and for another missing person — Lars Ulrich.”

Silence. A long one.

Dave pressed Lars back against the tiled wall. Lars could feel Dave’s hand shaking. Not from fear — from anger.

Marty cleared his throat. “They were here earlier. A few hours, maybe. They left. I told him to go home. They’re not here anymore.”

The officers didn’t buy it. They stepped deeper into the house — boots clicking against the floor, radios crackling softly.

Dave mouthed a single word to Lars:

Quiet.

The officers moved down the hall.

One stepped close enough that Lars could see the shadow beneath the bathroom door — heavy, still, listening.

Lars covered his mouth with both hands, terrified his breathing would give them away.

Dave’s grip tightened on his shoulder. Too tight. But Lars didn’t pull away.

The officer paused… then turned.

Another one spoke from the living room.
“Is it okay if we check the rest of the property?”

Marty hesitated — just for half a second — then said, “Sure. Go ahead.”

Dave glared at the closed door, eyes wild. Lars felt it — the shift, the trembling rage building under his skin.

“They know,” Dave whispered, barely audible. “They’re onto us.”

Lars wanted to comfort him, to say we’ll be fine, but his voice wouldn’t come out. His throat felt sealed shut.

Another pair of boots passed the hallway. A radio clicked again.

“We’re not finding anything inside,” an officer called. “We’ll sweep the yard, then keep moving. They couldn’t have gone far.”

Dave finally exhaled, almost collapsing back against the wall. His hand slid down his face, shaking.

“See?” he whispered to Lars. “I told you. I told you we had to be careful.”

Lars nodded, trembling. He couldn’t tell if it was relief or dread or both tangled together.

Through the walls, they could hear Marty walking the officers out, voice steady — maybe too steady.

The front door closed.

Silence.

Dave looked at Lars, chest rising and falling fast.

“We’re leaving tonight,” he said. “We’re not staying here. They’ll come back. They’ll bring more cops next time.”

Lars swallowed, barely managing a whisper.
“Where will we go?”

Dave didn’t blink.

“Somewhere they’ll never find us.”

And Lars didn’t argue.

He didn’t believe they could go anywhere safe.

But he followed Dave anyway.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The moment the front door closed, Dave yanked Lars out of the bathroom.

“Go,” he hissed. “Get your shit. We’re leaving in ten.”

Lars stumbled after him, still shaky from holding his breath for so long. His legs felt weak, like they didn’t remember how to work after all that fear.

Dave dragged him into the guest room where they’d been staying.
“Move, Lars. Pack your clothes. Pack everything.”

Lars tried. His hands were trembling so badly he kept dropping things — a shirt slipped off the bed, a small bag fell open on the floor.

Dave’s jaw clenched.
“Stop messing around. We don’t have time.”

Before Dave could snap further, Marty appeared in the doorway — blocking the room with his body, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Dave,” he said quietly.

Dave didn’t look up. “Not now.”

“Yes. Now.”

Dave finally whipped his head toward him, rage sparking instantly.
“What? You wanna lecture me?”

“No,” Marty said. “I want to know the truth.”

Dave scoffed. “There is no truth. The cops are tracking my phone for no reason. They’re just—”

“That’s bullshit,” Marty cut in, voice still calm but iron underneath. “They said Lars is missing. They said he’s been gone for weeks. They said he was hospitalized. They don’t put that many cops on some random case unless it’s serious.”

Lars froze mid-movement. He pulled the bag toward his chest like a shield, staring at the floor.

Dave’s voice sharpened.
“Marty. Don’t start.”

“Dave,” Marty said, stepping forward, “stop dragging that kid around and let him go home.”

Dave moved so fast it startled both Marty and Lars — he shoved himself right in Marty’s space, eyes burning.
“You don’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m telling you what’s right.”

“And I’m telling you to stay out of it,” Dave snapped. “We’re leaving. Tonight. End of discussion.”

Marty didn’t move out of the doorway.

For a second, it felt like they were about to fight.

But before any of them could move, there was another sound:

Three sharp knocks.

Then a voice:

“Mr. Friedman? Sorry to bother you again. Could you open the door?”

Lars almost dropped the bag.

Dave’s face went pale — then twisted into something furious, paranoid, desperate.

Marty swore under his breath. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

Dave grabbed Lars by the arm, hard, dragging him toward the window.

“They came back,” he whispered harshly. “I knew they would. I knew they didn’t believe me.”

Lars felt his heart hammering uncontrollably.
“Dave—what do we do—?”

“Out,” Dave said. “We’re climbing out.”

The police knocked again, more firmly.

“Mr. Friedman? Please open the door. We need to clarify a few things.”

Dave pushed the window open, scanning the outside like a hunted animal.
“They know. They know we’re here.”

Behind them, Marty finally moved — stepping out of the hallway, toward the front door, buying them a few seconds.

“Stay quiet,” Marty called over his shoulder, voice tight. “Don’t make a sound.”

Dave shoved Lars gently out the window first, then followed, landing hard but silent on the grass.

The police were seconds from being let inside.

Dave grabbed Lars’ hand and tugged him into the darkness of the yard, whispering urgently:

“Run.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Dave practically dragged Lars across the backyard, moving fast, barely giving him time to get his feet under himself. The grass was wet and cold, sticking to Lars’ socks. His legs felt heavy, too heavy, like they belonged to someone else. He kept tripping, and every time he faltered, Dave yanked him forward harder.

“Come on,” Dave hissed. “They’re right inside. We don’t have time.”

Behind them, through the cracked window, they heard Marty open the front door.

“Evening,” Marty said, voice steady but… tight. Lars had never heard Marty sound tight.

“Sorry again to disturb you,” one of the officers said politely. “We just need to confirm a few details from earlier.”

Dave pushed Lars toward the tree line that bordered Marty’s backyard. In the dark, the woods looked endless — a black wall waiting to swallow them.

Lars’ breath shook.
“I—I can’t run, Dave…”

“Yes, you can,” Dave snapped. “You don’t get to fall apart right now. Move.”

Lars forced his feet forward.

They slipped into the woods. Leaves crunched under them, loud as gunshots to Lars’ ears. Dave tightened his grip and steered him deeper, weaving between branches, ducking under low trunks, not caring how many sticks hit Lars’ face or scraped his arms.

“It’s okay,” Dave muttered, more to himself than to Lars. “It’s fine. They won’t find us. They’re too slow.”

But Dave kept looking over his shoulder like he didn’t even believe his own words.

Back at the house, Marty stepped aside to let the officers in.

“What’s this about?” he asked, playing clueless, but his hands were shoved deep in his pockets — hiding the tremble.

“We reviewed the logic of your timeline,” one officer explained. “Something didn’t line up. We just want to double-check a few details.”

“Sure,” Marty said. “Ask away.”

He guided them into the living room, away from the hall, away from the back door, away from the sound that had just come from the woods — a snapped twig, loud enough that even Lars froze.

Dave shoved him again.
“Don’t stop.”

Lars kept going, stumbling as branches slapped against him. Every breath hurt. His chest felt squeezed from inside, like his ribs were too tight around his lungs.

Meanwhile, the police continued speaking with Marty.

“You said they visited earlier but didn’t stay the night. Is that correct?”

“Yeah,” Marty said. “Just passing through. Haven’t seen them since.”

The cop’s eyes drifted toward the hallway. “Would you mind if we take a quick look around?”

For one second, just one, Marty hesitated — and one of the officers caught it.
“You said you didn’t mind us coming in earlier,” the cop added. “If you have nothing to hide, this won’t take long.”

Marty forced a small smile.
“Yeah. Sure. Go ahead. Knock yourselves out.”

He followed them, trying to appear casual, but every muscle in his body was tense. He kept positioning himself in front of the hallway leading to the back rooms, subtly blocking it with his shoulders, his stance, anything.

He was buying Dave and Lars time.

He just didn’t know how much time they had left.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Back in the woods, Lars collapsed to his knees. His whole body shook.
“Dave—wait—please—”

Dave crouched in front of him, breath harsh.
“We can’t stop. They’ll check the yard next.”

Lars pressed a hand to his stomach, trying not to retch from anxiety and exhaustion.
“I’m trying… I just—can’t—”

Dave’s expression flickered — frustration, panic, fear, all tangled into one.
“Okay. Fine. Five seconds. Then we keep going.”

Lars nodded, miserable.

Dave wiped sweat from his brow.
“Once we get far enough, we’ll circle around. There’s another road past the treeline. If we make it there, we’re safe.”

He said it confidently.

Too confidently.

Like he believed running forever was a plan.

Back at the house, one officer paused near the bathroom door — the same bathroom where Lars and Dave had hidden earlier. Marty’s stomach dropped.

“Mind if I check this room?”

Marty stepped forward quickly.
“It’s just a bathroom. Nothing interesting in—”

The officer opened the door anyway.

The bathroom was spotless.

Not a hair, not a towel, not a trace of two terrified people hiding on the floor just minutes ago.

Marty exhaled.

The police kept searching — slowly, methodically — but they didn’t check the backyard yet. Not yet.

The second officer turned to Marty.
“Do you own the woods behind your property?”

Marty swallowed.
“No. Just ends at the treeline.”

The cops exchanged a look — unreadable.

They hadn’t found anything. Not yet.

But they weren’t done.

Far into the woods now, Dave helped Lars stand again.
“Come on,” he whispered. “We’re almost far enough.”

Lars leaned hard into him, dizzy, stumbling, but still moving.

The police still thought they were inside.

But the night was only getting darker.

And Dave had no intention of stopping.
The sky was already turning that washed-out late-evening blue when Lars and Dave finally reached the bus stop. They’d been walking fast, barely talking, both of them tense and breathing hard. The street behind them was empty, but Dave kept glancing over his shoulder anyway.

The bus stop was just a small glass shelter with peeling stickers on the panels and a crooked timetable screwed into the pole. A weak yellow streetlamp flickered above it. Lars sat down on the metal bench and pulled his hood lower over his face, trying to calm his heartbeat.

Dave stayed standing for a moment, pacing in a tight circle, running a shaking hand through his hair.
“Okay… okay, we’re good,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“You sure?” Lars asked quietly.

“No,” Dave admitted, finally dropping beside him. “But it’s the only place they won’t expect us to be yet.”

Lars didn’t argue. He just hugged his knees to his chest, staring at the empty road, listening for the sound of sirens that never came.

A bus growled in the distance. Dave dug into his pocket, fingers trembling, counting the crumpled bills he had left.
“We’ve got enough,” he said. “We can get far. Like… really far. There’s this old abandoned village a few hours out. Nobody goes there.”

Lars blinked at him.
“Why that place?”

“No one will find us there. And it’s quiet.” His voice softened. “We need quiet.”

The bus pulled up, brakes hissing. The driver barely looked at them. Dave nudged Lars gently.

“Come on.”

They climbed aboard, sat in the very back. The bus was almost empty — a woman asleep, a guy with headphones, and an old man staring out the window. Nobody cared who they were.

As the doors closed and the bus rolled forward, Lars exhaled shakily, realizing this was the first breath he’d taken in minutes. Dave leaned his head back against the seat and shut his eyes.

They rode for hours, the world outside turning darker, emptier, stranger.

When the bus finally stopped in that half-abandoned village, the air felt heavier. Cold. Quiet in the wrong way.

They stepped off the bus, bags slung over tired shoulders, and started walking down the cracked pavement. Hardly anyone was around — a few scattered houses, a dead, overgrown field, a sagging billboard missing half its letters.

After a short walk, they found a run-down motel with a buzzing neon sign.

Dave sighed, relieved.
“We’ll stay here,” he said. “Just for a while.”

Lars nodded, even though the place gave him a weird feeling. But he followed Dave through the door anyway.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The bus ride felt endless — not because of the distance, but because of the way Dave kept glancing over his shoulder every few minutes, tapping his foot with a jittery rhythm that made Lars’ stomach twist. The fluorescent lights above them flickered, bathing the nearly empty bus in a sickly greenish glow. Lars sat pressed against the window, breathing shallowly, trying to steady himself. His arms stung from old cuts, newer cuts, all hidden under his sleeves. His legs ached. His head throbbed.

He didn’t know where they were going. He just knew Dave said run, and he followed.

After what felt like forever, Dave elbowed him gently.

“We get off here,” he whispered.

Lars blinked at the window. The bus had slowed to a halt in the middle of nowhere — a wide stretch of cracked asphalt under a dead streetlamp, surrounded by trees so thick they looked like a wall. A rusty sign read the name of a village Lars couldn’t pronounce. Below it, someone had graffitied half the letters away, leaving only shadows.

They stepped off the bus, the doors hissing closed behind them. The air was damp and cold.

Lars rubbed his hands together.
“It’s… empty.”

“Good,” Dave said. “Means no one will look for us here.”

There were people, technically. A couple of old men smoking by a broken bench. A woman dragging a shopping bag with a torn bottom. A teenager on a bike staring at them like they were ghosts. But no one looked interested. No one cared.

Dave grabbed Lars by the wrist — not gently — and pulled him forward, deeper into the crooked little streets lined with leaning houses, shattered windows, and abandoned gardens overgrown with weeds taller than Lars’ knees.

After a few minutes of walking, they found it.
A motel.

If you could call it that.

The building sagged under its own weight. The neon sign that once said “ROOMS AVAILABLE” now flickered “R S A AIL L E”. The windows were clouded with grime. The paint peeled in long strips. A smell of mildew hung in the air.

Dave stared at it with relief.
“We’ll stay here.”

Lars didn’t know how long here meant. A night? A week? Forever?

They stepped inside the lobby — a cramped room with a dusty counter and a half-broken television playing static. A man sat behind the desk, hunched, his eyes half-open, like he hadn’t slept in years. He didn’t even look up.

Dave took out the last of his money — crumpled bills, coins mixed in — and dumped it on the counter.

“One room,” he said. “Doesn’t matter which.”

The man counted the money with slow, heavy fingers, then pushed a key toward them without asking for names, IDs, nothing. Like he’d seen worse things than two messed-up kids on the run.

Dave grabbed the key and turned to Lars.

“Come on.”

They walked down a dim hallway. The carpet was sticky under Lars’ shoes. The walls were stained with shapes Lars didn’t want to identify. Something dripped from the ceiling in slow, rhythmic drops.

Dave opened the door to their room. It creaked like it was in pain.

The room was small — one sagging bed, a broken lamp, peeling wallpaper, a bathroom door hanging crookedly off its hinges. The air smelled like mold and dust and old cigarettes.

But Lars didn’t complain.

Dave threw their bags in the corner, shut the door, and locked it. Then locked it again with the chain.

Inside the room, silence pressed around them.

Lars sat on the edge of the bed, numb. Exhausted. His hands shook in his lap. His throat felt tight. He didn’t know if he was hungry or nauseous; he didn’t know what his body wanted anymore.

Dave closed the blinds quickly, tugging them down so hard one almost ripped off.

“We’re safe now,” he said, finally turning to face Lars. “No one will find us here.”

Lars nodded, even though it didn’t really feel true.
But Dave seemed calmer now — like being in this rotting room gave him oxygen.

Dave sank onto the bed beside him. Not touching him, but close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“This is good,” Dave said quietly. “This place… no one comes here. No cops, no friends, no Marty. Just us.”

Lars stared at the floor, his vision blurring.

He whispered, “Dave… what are we gonna do?”

Dave smirked, like the question didn’t worry him at all.

“We hide. We live. We fix everything.”

Lars swallowed hard. He didn’t know what “fix everything” meant to Dave. He wasn’t sure Dave knew either.

But he didn’t pull away when Dave leaned in.

He didn’t question anything when Dave told him to lie down, to rest, to stay close.

The motel room felt like a tomb.

But Dave thought it was salvation.

And Lars thought Dave’s voice was the only thing he had left.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Their motel room was quiet except for the buzzing heater and Dave’s exhausted breathing. Lars lay awake long after Dave crashed, staring at the ceiling, chest tight and thoughts spiraling. The stress, the running, the feeling of being trapped between fear and guilt — it all pressed on him at once.

He got up quietly, rummaging through his bag with shaking hands. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew. But the pressure in his chest felt unbearable, like something was about to burst.

He slipped into the tiny bathroom and shut the door.

He relapsed.

He didn’t mean for it to go so far. He didn’t mean for his legs to feel weak afterward. But he’d crossed a line before his brain registered what he was doing. Panic rose quickly — his hands were trembling, his breath uneven. Blood spilling out of the wound quickly.

“Dave…” he whispered, then louder, “Dave. I need—”

He stumbled out of the bathroom, dizzy, leaning on the wall.

Dave blinked awake instantly — not with concern, but with irritation.
“Dude, what the hell?” he groaned, sitting up. “Why are you—”

Then he saw Lars’ face. The state he was in. The bathroom light behind him. His wrist.
His expression shifted — not to worry, but to anger.

“Are you serious right now?” Dave hissed, throwing off the blanket and standing. “You wait until we’re hiding in a motel in the middle of nowhere to do this? And you don’t even tell me?”

Lars flinched at the sharpness in his voice.
“I—I didn’t mean— I just needed help…”

Dave let out a harsh breath and grabbed the first-aid kit from his backpack. His hands were rough and impatient as he cleaned and covered what he could. He wasn’t gentle; every movement felt like a frustrated accusation.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to us?” Dave snapped under his breath. “To me? We’re already screwed enough.”

Lars swallowed hard, tears forming.
“I’m sorry… I just didn’t know what else to do.”

Dave stood abruptly, pacing, anger radiating off him.
“You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You can’t just… fall apart whenever you feel like it and expect me to fix it. I’m not your—”

He cut himself off, running a hand down his face.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Dave’s anger smoldered; Lars looked small and ashamed, wrapping his arms around himself, avoiding his eyes.

Dave finally sat back on the edge of the bed, jaw tight.
“Just… don’t do that again without saying something,” he said sharply. “You can’t keep putting me in that position.

Lars nodded silently. His pulse was still shaky.
The fear wasn’t fading.

He had wrapped Lars' arm, before going back to sleep

And now, something between them felt cracked.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The atmosphere in the police station shifted the second the officer stepped back into the room with a folded printout in his hand.

“We’ve traced activity from one of the missing boy’s phones,” he said, glancing at the three of them — James, Kirk, and Jason. “It pinged near a residential address. Belongs to a… Marty Friedman.”

Kirk’s head snapped up.
“Marty? He knows Dave. He definitely knows Dave.”

James stood so quickly his chair scraped the floor.
“So what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

The officer exchanged a look with his partner, hesitant.
“Normally, civilians don’t come on welfare checks—”

“No,” Kirk cut in, sharp and desperate. “You don’t get it. They’ll hide. Lars will run. Dave will lie. You won’t know what’s normal for him. You need us.”

Jason nodded fiercely beside him.
“They trust us more than they trust cops. If Lars sees uniforms, he’ll panic. He’s terrified already.”

There was a tense moment where the officers weighed protocol against urgency. And then the older one sighed.

“Fine. But you stay behind us. Understood?”

All three of them nodded instantly.

The drive to Marty’s house was suffocating. Rain hit the windshield in slow, heavy sheets, turning the outside world gray and smeared. No one said anything at first — the air too full of worry to speak through.

James stared out the window, hands shaking slightly in his lap.
“This is my fault,” he muttered. “If I hadn’t—”

Kirk shut him down immediately.
“Don’t. You didn’t make Dave run off with him. You didn’t make Lars disappear.”

Jason leaned forward from the backseat.
“And we’re not doing the guilt thing right now. Not until we find him.”

James exhaled shakily, nodding but not convinced.

As the cruiser turned onto a quieter, older street lined with leaning wooden fences, Kirk’s leg started bouncing uncontrollably.

“That’s his place,” he whispered when he saw the familiar driveway.

The house came into view — small, dimly lit, blinds shut tight. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t natural.

The officers stepped out first, hands on their belts, eyes scanning every window. The boys followed closely behind.

Kirk’s heart pounded so hard he felt it in his throat.

What if Lars was hurt?
What if Dave had dragged him even deeper?
What if they were too late?

They reached Marty’s front door. One officer knocked firmly.

“Mr. Friedman? Police. We need to speak with you.”

There was the faintest sound inside — movement, something shifting. Jason stiffened.

The other officer knocked again, louder.
“Mr. Friedman, open the door.”

A long, unbearable pause.

Finally, the handle clicked, and Marty cracked the door open just enough to show his face.

He looked startled, tired — and on edge.

“...What’s this about?” he asked, forcing calm.

“You have two missing minors connected to your address,” the officer said. “We have reason to believe they may be here.”

Marty’s breath hitched only slightly — but Kirk saw it.
And so did the police.

James took a step forward before the officers could stop him.
“Where is he? Where’s Lars? Just tell us. Please.”

Marty swallowed, eyes flicking briefly — too briefly — toward the hallway behind him.

“I don’t know where they are,” he said. “They were here earlier, but they left hours ago.”

The officers leaned in.

“We’re coming in to check.”

Marty hesitated — only a second — then stepped aside with a resigned sigh.

“Fine. But I’m telling you, they’re gone.”

Kirk shot a panicked look at the others.
Because if Marty was lying…

Lars and Dave could be only a few steps away.

Maybe behind a door.
Hiding.
Listening.
Terrified.

And this time, all of them were under the same roof again.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The officers spread out through the house, checking each room. James, Kirk, and Jason stayed close to Marty, not trusting him for a second. Marty stood stiffly in the living room, arms crossed, eyes distant — like he knew it was all finally catching up to him.

James stepped closer, voice trembling.
“Marty… you knew something. I can see it. Just tell us what happened to Lars. Please.”

For a moment, Marty didn’t answer. His jaw tightened. His breathing wavered. He looked like a man balancing a truth he didn’t want to say out loud.

Kirk took a step forward.
“Marty… he’s our friend. We need to know what Dave’s done.”

Something cracked in Marty’s expression — a mix of guilt and disgust, directed mostly at himself.

He sank down onto the arm of a chair, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I didn’t want to get involved,” he muttered. “I never do. Dave… he drags people into his messes, and I learned a long time ago to stay out of them.”

Jason’s voice sharpened.
“So you just watched?”

Marty flinched.
“I didn’t watch. I tried to look away. That’s not the same thing.”
But even he didn’t sound convinced.

James stepped closer, fists clenched but shaking.
“What happened to Lars?”

Marty stared at the floor for a long moment. And then, with a quiet, defeated breath, he spoke.

“When they showed up at my place… Lars could barely stand. He looked—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and tried again. “He looked like he’d been starving for weeks. Eyes sunk in. Could barely speak. Shaking like his body couldn’t keep itself up anymore.”

Kirk covered his mouth, eyes wide and horrified.

Marty continued, voice lower, ashamed.
“Dave kept talking for him. Kept saying Lars was ‘fine,’ that the hospital was overreacting, that everyone else was making it worse. But Lars… he looked scared of him. Not in the way you’re scared of a stranger. In the way you’re scared of someone who thinks they’re saving you.”

James felt something break inside him.

“He—Dave—would tell him when to eat,” Marty said. “And when he did… Lars barely took a few bites. You could tell he hated it. You know how someone looks when they’re fighting their own body? That was him. Every second.”

Jason stared at Marty, horrified.
“And Dave didn’t help?”

Marty let out a bitter laugh.
“Help? No. He pressured him. Pushed him. Kept saying he ‘liked him better before.’ Kept telling him he was ruining everything. I told him to shut up once, and he snapped at me like I had no right to say anything.”

Kirk’s breathing quickened.
“Why didn’t you call the police?”

Marty closed his eyes.
“Because Dave is my friend. And I thought… I thought he was just spiraling again. I didn’t think he’d take Lars down with him.” His voice cracked under the weight of that truth. “By the time I realized how bad it was… they were already running.”

The room went silent.

James stared at Marty, voice hoarse.
“So Lars was suffering. And you let them leave.”

Marty didn’t deny it.
“I did. And it’s the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.”

Behind them, one of the officers called out:
“House is clear. No sign of either of them.”

Kirk closed his eyes in despair.
Jason punched the wall.
James felt his knees threaten to give out.

But then Marty straightened, something uneasy flickering behind his eyes.

“They’re not gone for good,” he said quietly. “I know Dave. I know how he thinks. If you want to find them… I might know where he’d take Lars next.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The hotel room was quiet — too quiet for three exhausted men who hadn’t slept properly in days. James sat on the edge of the bed, shoes still on, elbows on his knees, staring at the cheap carpet like it had answers. Kirk paced back and forth between the window and the dresser, running a hand through his hair every few seconds. Jason lay flat on the other bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, too wired to rest but too drained to move.

Nobody spoke.
Nobody could.

The silence felt like it was choking them — the heavy, stale hotel air full of worry, guilt, fear, and that awful sense of helplessness that didn’t let any of them breathe.

It was almost midnight when James’ phone suddenly lit up.
He flinched — all three of them did — like the sound had cut straight through bone.

“Pick it up,” Kirk said, voice strained.

James hesitated only a second before answering.
“Hello?”

“Mr. Hetfield?” a calm voice said on the other end — one of the detectives assigned to Lars’ case. “We’ve found something. Evidence.”

James stood up so fast the bed creaked behind him.
“What evidence? What happened? Did you find him?”

Kirk froze mid-step.
Jason was suddenly sitting upright, staring at James’ face like he could read the whole conversation from his expression.

“We can’t confirm a location yet,” the officer continued, “but we recovered footage we believe shows Lars and Dave Mustaine boarding a bus two days ago.”

James’ heart dropped into his stomach and twisted.
“A bus? Where? Where did they go?”

“We don’t know yet. The footage is extremely blurry, and the timestamp doesn’t match the real departure time — the security system at that station is messed up. But the important part is the direction.”

“The direction?” James repeated.

“They boarded a long-distance route heading south-east. We’re checking the stops one by one. It’s a rural line, mostly small abandoned towns and villages. Hard to pinpoint where they got off.”

Kirk squeezed his eyes shut.
Jason clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt.

“What about Lars?” James asked quietly. “Was he— did he look okay?”

There was a heavy pause on the line.

“We can’t say ‘okay’. The footage shows him leaning heavily on Mustaine. He looks… weak. Malnourished. And the timestamp suggests he was bleeding at the time. There were blood droplets found at the bus stop consistent with Lars’ medical profile from the hospital.”

Jason muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

James pressed a shaking hand to his forehead, pacing toward the window.
He felt sick — a deep, twisting nausea in the pit of his stomach.

“So they tracked the blood to the bus stop?” he said, barely able to speak the words.

“Yes. And the blood stops there. Which means they boarded the bus before he lost too much.”

“So what now?” James asked. His voice cracked at the end, a sound he never made.

“We need you three to stay put. If we get a confirmed hit on the next camera or a witness, we’ll call you immediately. But right now all we have is the direction and the route number.”

James swallowed hard.
“Okay… okay. Just call the second you know anything.”

“We will.”

The call ended.

James lowered the phone slowly, like it weighed fifty pounds.
He didn’t move for several seconds.

Kirk broke the silence first.

“What did they say?” His voice was thin.

James finally looked at them — eyes red, expression hollow.

“They found blood.”
He had to stop and breathe.
“They know Lars and Dave took a bus. But they don’t know where they got off. Just… somewhere out there.”

Jason whispered, “So he’s alive.”

“Yeah,” James said. “Alive. Hurt. Being dragged God knows where.”

Kirk sank down on the bed like his legs couldn’t hold him.
Jason covered his face with both hands.

James stayed standing, jaw tight, shoulders shaking ever so slightly.

“It means we keep going,” he said. “They’re out there. And we’re gonna fucking find them.”

The room filled again with silence — but not helpless silence.
Restless, burning, desperate silence.

They were closer now.
Closer than they had been in days.

And the search was only getting tighter.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The police meeting ended late, far past midnight, and the three of them — James, Jason, and Kirk — dragged themselves back to the hotel the investigation team had booked for them. James barely slept. He kept seeing Lars in every dark corner of the room, pale and shaking, the feeding tube still taped to his cheek in his nightmares.

They woke up around six-something, exhausted but wired. They were halfway through the weak hotel breakfast when James’ phone rang. Unknown number. His whole chest tightened.

He answered immediately.

“James Hetfield?”
“Yeah—”
“This is Officer Krawczyk. We think we might have something.”

James stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor.

Kirk and Jason froze.

“What? What did you find?” James asked, voice rough.

“This morning,” the officer continued, “a bus driver from route 67 contacted us. He saw the missing-person posters we distributed yesterday. He’s… fairly certain he recognized Lars.”

James felt the world tilt. His fingers went numb around the phone.

“When?” he breathed.

“Four days ago,” the officer said. “He remembers because it was the night his shift got extended.”

James covered his mouth with his hand, pacing, heart hammering.

“Did he see Dave with him?”
“Yes. He described a red-haired man pulling Lars onto the bus. He said Lars looked… weak. Half conscious. The driver assumed drugs.”

Jason inhaled sharply, knuckles white.

“And… did he say where they got off?” James asked.

There was a pause.

“That’s the part we’re following now. The driver said they got out somewhere around the northern outskirts. Near towns that basically died out years ago. Old mining villages. Very few residents. Very few cameras.”

James dragged his hand down his face. That meant they could be anywhere in that wasteland of forgotten places.

“But he said something else,” the officer added. “Something important.”

James forced himself to stay calm. “What?”

“He said Lars fell when they were getting off. Collapsed. The red-haired man dragged him by the arm. He said Lars didn’t resist. Didn’t even look fully awake.”

Kirk swore under his breath. Jason stepped back, pressing both hands to his head.

James felt like puking.

“So what now?” he whispered.

“We’re sending teams to the abandoned towns along the route. But we think you should come with us. You know Lars. He might respond to your voice before he responds to ours.”

James didn’t hesitate. “We’re coming.”

He hung up, turning to the others.

“They found footage,” he said, breath shaking. “A bus driver saw him. Lars was with Dave. And—” his voice cracked for a second, “he collapsed. They dragged him off the bus. Officer said… said he didn’t look conscious.”

Jason looked like he was about to break. Kirk grabbed his jacket without a word.

James shoved everything into his bag.

They ran out of the hotel before any of them processed the fear properly.

They met the officers in the parking lot. The town map was spread across the hood of a car. Several villages were circled — small, dying, barely populated, forgotten by everyone.

Except, apparently, by Dave.

“We’ve narrowed it to this area,” one officer said, pointing at a series of cracked roads leading into forest. “Your friend’s description matches someone the locals occasionally see passing through. Motels, abandoned hostels, old campsites. If Dave dragged Lars off that bus, they could’ve walked to any of these buildings.”

James stared at the map like it was written in another language.

“How many places are we checking?” he asked.

“Eleven,” the officer replied. “And that’s just today.”

But then another officer jogged toward them, holding a phone.

“New info,” he said. “The bus driver texted. He remembered something else.”

James’ heart punched against his ribs.

“The blonde kid — Lars — kept touching his stomach like he was in pain. The driver thought it was withdrawals. But he said he also noticed… something taped to his face. He thinks it might’ve been a feeding tube.”

James almost fell backwards.

That was it. That was the clue. Lars couldn’t be far. He wouldn’t last long. Dave had no supplies, no medical shit, nothing except his delusional loyalty to Lars.

“We have to hurry,” James said, voice hoarse. “If Lars still had the tube then… then he’s even worse than we thought.”

The officers nodded grimly.

They split into two cars, sirens off — stealth search mode. James sat in the back, staring out the window at the endless forest, praying Lars was still breathing.

They drove deeper into the region. The asphalt turned to gravel and then to broken patches of road. Old buildings appeared — half-collapsed barns, rusted metal roofs, places that smelled like rot and loneliness.

It was exactly the kind of place Dave would hide.

James’ stomach twisted.

Somewhere out there, Lars was starving, bleeding, collapsing, and Dave was dragging him from place to place like a broken toy.

And now there was only one thing left for them to do:
start searching every abandoned shell of a town until they found him.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The next morning, the hotel room was quiet except for the soft hum of the AC. James hadn’t slept; he paced back and forth with his phone in his hand, waiting for a call that didn’t come. Kirk and Jason were half-asleep on the other bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. The cops had promised to reach out as soon as they had anything solid.

It happened at 6:47 AM.

James’s phone rang.

He snatched it up before the first ring finished.
“Yeah? Did you find something?”

The officer on the other end cleared his throat. “We analyzed the security footage from the bus terminal and the surrounding areas from yesterday. We didn’t have anything at first—cameras were glitchy, some didn’t record. But around 3:24 AM, we noticed two silhouettes near the edge of the station. One matches Dave Mustaine’s height and build. The other… looks a lot like Lars.”

James felt a wave of cold rush straight through his chest.

“And that’s not all,” the officer continued. “We traced a transaction made on a prepaid card Dave has used before. A bus ticket. Destination: a near-abandoned village about two hours from here.”

Kirk shot up on the bed.
“What village?”

“It’s called Redwater Hollow. Barely anyone lives there. And—” The officer hesitated. “We also checked roadside cameras. A bus fitting the schedule arrived there late last night. Two passengers got off. We can’t confirm it’s them. But the timing lines up perfectly.”

James didn’t even realize he was already grabbing his jacket.
“We’re coming with you.”

“We figured you’d say that,” the officer replied. “Meet us downstairs in ten minutes.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
It took almost an hour to reach the outskirts of Redwater Hollow, and the closer they got, the worse everyone felt. The village looked like something forgotten by time. Half the houses were rotting, windows smashed, paint peeling. Dead trees clawed at the sky.

Everywhere was quiet.

Too quiet.

The police cars rolled to a stop near what used to be a market square. James climbed out fast, scanning every building, every shadow.
“You’re sure this is where they got off?” he asked one of the officers.

“Yes. From here they could’ve gone in any direction. But we have a lead.”

Another officer unfolded a map on the hood of the police car.
“Someone used the same prepaid card again early this morning. At a vending machine two blocks from here. This means they’re still nearby.”

Kirk’s breath hitched. Jason clenched his fists until his knuckles went white.

“But we didn’t approach the location immediately,” the officer continued. “Didn’t want to scare them off. Also, the transaction indicates they might be staying somewhere with access to local utilities… possibly a motel.”

“Motel? Here?” Jason scoffed, looking around the decrepit buildings.

“One of the officers asked locals. They said there’s an old motel still operating at the far end of the village. Very rundown. Most tourists avoid it.”

James’s stomach twisted.

Lars could be in that building right now. Hurt. Starving. Scared.

But the officers shook their heads.
“We can’t go straight there yet. If they see us coming, they’ll bolt. We need to check the surrounding areas first—make sure they haven’t wandered out into the abandoned sections.”

James hated it. Every second felt like a year. But he nodded.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
They split into teams.

James, Kirk, and two officers headed toward the old residential street. The houses looked like corpses: emptied, gutted, left to rot. Each creaked under the slightest wind.

Kirk pushed open one door and winced at the smell—wet wood, mold, and emptiness.
“Lars?” he called gently. “If you’re here… please say something.”

Silence.

They searched the entire house, floorboards groaning under their steps. Nothing but dust.

Jason’s voice crackled through the police radio:
“We found cigarette butts behind one building. Fresh. But could be anyone.”

James swallowed hard. He walked into the next house, this one darker, the windows boarded up. His flashlight caught peeling wallpaper, a broken chair, footprints in the dust—old ones, too faded to tell who they belonged to.

“Please be okay…” he whispered.

Every room they checked made him more frantic.

Every empty corner made him feel sicker.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The ride to the motel had been silent except for the low hum of the police radios and the occasional muttered instruction from the lead officer. James gripped the edge of his seat so tightly his knuckles went white. Kirk and Jason were similarly tense, their eyes darting between the officers and the passing scenery. Every cracked fence, every faded sign, every empty lot felt like it could hold Lars and Dave, waiting for them to make a move.

When they arrived at the motel, the building looked even worse than from the distance. The paint had peeled from the walls, and the sagging rooflines made it look like it would collapse under the slightest pressure. James’s stomach tightened. Every second they wasted could mean Lars was farther away, farther out of reach.

Inside, the receptionist’s office smelled of stale coffee and disinfectant. A small bell on the counter jingled as the lead officer explained the situation. He showed her a photo of Lars and Dave, giving precise descriptions. After a tense moment, the receptionist nodded.

“Room 12,” she said. “They checked in three days ago. Paid cash, didn’t give a name. The guy with the red hair… tall. Blonde kid with him, looked kind of… fragile. They haven’t been seen leaving.”

The officers relayed the information to James, Kirk, and Jason. The three of them followed closely as the officers moved down the dimly lit corridor, their shoes scraping lightly against the worn linoleum. Each step made James’s heart beat faster, anticipation twisting in his chest.

They stopped in front of Room 12. The officers exchanged glances. One of them took a deep breath and gestured toward the door.

“Ready?” the officer asked.

James, Kirk, and Jason nodded.

The officer’s hand slammed against the door, swinging it open with authority.

Silence.

Empty.

No Lars. No Dave. Not a trace of them. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled, a half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand. A small, folded piece of paper rested on the pillow.

The officer picked it up carefully and unfolded it.

It was a map of the surrounding area, a rough sketch of roads, paths, and abandoned buildings. In the corner, a scribbled note: “We’re not staying. Too many eyes.”

James felt like the ground had been pulled from beneath him. His fists clenched at his sides, shaking with frustration. Kirk muttered a curse under his breath, his jaw tight. Jason pressed both hands to his face, exhaling sharply through his nose.

The officers began to sweep the motel thoroughly, checking every closet, bathroom, and storage space. They found empty food wrappers, two sets of shoes by the bed, a few discarded wrappers of medication—evidence of Lars and Dave’s presence—but nothing more. They had vanished without a sound.

James’s chest tightened. He imagined Lars somewhere nearby, alone with Dave, maybe hiding in a dark corner, maybe still weak, still hurting. He wanted to run, to search every building in the village, but the officers held him back.

“We’ll track them,” one officer said, holding up a small device. “We have a few leads, and their patterns from the past days help. They’re moving together, but they’re leaving traces—small things, but enough for us to follow.”

James exhaled shakily, trying to calm himself. “We can’t lose them. We can’t let them disappear again.”

The officers nodded, serious. “We won’t. But we need to be patient. We follow the trail carefully, or they slip again.”

James’s eyes lingered on the empty room one last time. The bed looked abandoned, but he could almost see Lars lying there, fragile and pale, and Dave’s arm reaching out to him, protecting, controlling, whatever twisted thing they had become together. He swallowed hard, feeling both dread and determination.

“They’re close,” he muttered. “I know they’re close. We just need to find them before…” His voice trailed off.

Before what? Before Dave dragged Lars further into that chaos? Before Lars got worse? Before it all became irreversible?

The thought made his chest ache, but he knew they couldn’t stop now. The trail was there, faint but real, and James would follow it until he found Lars—wherever he was hiding, with whoever he was with.

The officers led them back into the hall, ready to track their next lead. James glanced down the corridor, glancing at the empty Room 12 once more. His fists clenched, jaw tight.

“They’re not gone yet,” he whispered to himself. “They’re not gone yet…”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
James’s stomach knotted as he looked at the empty room. “He’s still here,” he muttered under his breath. “He can’t have gone far. Lars wouldn’t leave without something. He couldn’t.”

Kirk and Jason exchanged glances, their expressions tired but understanding. The police officers, however, looked skeptical. “Sir, we’ve already searched the room,” one of them said. “There’s nothing—no one. You have to trust us.”

James’s hands curled into fists. “No. You don’t understand. Lars doesn’t do things like this rationally. He hides. He waits. He suffers. He might be in the storage closet, the bathroom, the laundry room—anywhere!” His voice cracked, frustration and fear spilling out. “Please… just let me check every corner of this motel!”

The lead officer sighed but nodded reluctantly. “Alright. But you stay with us. We can’t risk anything.”

James nodded frantically. “Yes. Thank you.”

They split into teams. James, Kirk, and Jason took the main building. Two officers went to check the basement and the service areas. Every floor, every hallway, every locked and unlocked door was methodically searched. James’s eyes darted to every shadow, every corner where someone could be crouched or hiding.

He opened the linen closet, peering inside. Nothing. He checked the small storage room behind the reception. Empty. He even went through the laundry area, moving baskets and racks of clothes aside, his heart hammering in his chest.

The officers checked the utility rooms and the boiler room. Every time they called out “Clear!” James’s stomach sank a little more. Lars could be here… somewhere.

Jason knelt by a pile of boxes in the corner of one of the hallways. “James… look,” he said quietly. He held up a small, discarded water bottle and a crumpled snack wrapper. Fresh.

James’s pulse quickened. “He was here,” he whispered. “He’s still close. I know it.”

They continued the search, opening every drawer, checking under beds, behind furniture. James felt like his hands were shaking all over again, like he could feel every second Lars had spent here, hiding, waiting.

In the tiny, dimly lit bathroom of one of the rooms, James stopped dead. A faint scrap of paper was taped under the sink. He carefully peeled it off—it was a crudely drawn map, lines leading from the motel to nearby roads and forests. Lars’s handwriting.

“He’s planned something,” James said, voice barely audible. “He hasn’t left… not yet. He’s still here, just waiting for the right moment.”

The officers radioed in, adjusting their sweep of the motel. James refused to leave their side, moving room to room with them, checking closets, cabinets, and hidden nooks. Every time he saw a half-opened vent, a shadowed corner, or a suspicious stack of furniture, he froze and leaned closer, hoping, praying.

Hours passed. Exhaustion clawed at him, but James refused to stop. Kirk and Jason were breathing heavily, eyes red from frustration and fatigue. James didn’t notice any of it. All he could feel was the gnawing certainty that Lars was close—maybe just behind the next door, just around the next corner, just out of sight.

Finally, the lead officer radioed. “All areas clear, James. We’ve been thorough. We need to regroup.”

James’s hands shook as he lowered his flashlight. “No… he can’t be gone. He’s not gone. I know it. I can feel it. He’s hiding… he’s hiding somewhere here.”

Kirk put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find him, James. I promise. But we need a plan for the next move. He’s smart. He won’t just wait in the open.”

James exhaled shakily, scanning the empty halls one last time. Every shadow, every creaking floorboard, every faint sound of the old motel seemed to whisper Lars’s name.

“He’s here,” James muttered again. “I know he’s here…”

The officers exchanged tense glances, understanding the stakes. Lars had left signs. He had left traces. And James knew that somewhere, just out of sight, Lars was waiting—and whatever happened next, they couldn’t afford to lose him again.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
James’s chest felt like it was being crushed as he climbed the worn stairs of the hotel. Each step creaked under his weight, echoing loudly in the empty stairwell, but he barely noticed. His hands trembled, his heart pounded so violently that he was sure Lars could hear it if he were close. He begged silently, praying that they hadn’t missed him, that he would finally find Lars before it was too late.

The other officers moved quickly, their radios crackling faintly, but James’s focus was entirely on the rooftop. He could feel the weight of the past days pressing on him—the fear, the guilt, the helplessness—and the thought that Lars could be just up ahead made it almost unbearable. Tears threatened to spill, but he swallowed them, unwilling to let anything distract him from finding his best friend.

At last, one of the officers reached the door to the roof. The handle rattled as it was pushed open, and the harsh wind rushed past, carrying the smell of rain and asphalt. James’s eyes widened immediately.

There.

Lars.

He was sitting, slumped slightly forward, too weak to stand on his own. His hair fell in his eyes, and he looked smaller somehow, fragile and lost. James’s throat tightened, and he felt a wave of emotions crash over him all at once: relief, fear, guilt, and an overwhelming desire to hold him, to protect him, to make all of this right.

“Lars!” James screamed, his voice raw and desperate.

Both Lars and Dave turned at once. Lars’s eyes widened, startled, and James could see the exhaustion and strain etched across his face. Dave’s expression hardened immediately, alarm flashing in his eyes as he stood protectively near Lars.

James’s chest ached, tears welling up unbidden. He wanted to run forward, to sweep Lars into his arms, to feel that he was finally safe. But Dave’s presence made the moment tense, electric with uncertainty. For a split second, time seemed to freeze: the three of them locked in the raw, unspoken fear and emotion of the rooftop.

James’s gaze never left Lars, and his heart hammered in his chest. He could feel every ounce of the struggle, every second of pain that had led them here. His hands shook as he reached out instinctively, but he froze, unsure how to bridge the distance safely without alarming Dave or scaring Lars further.

The wind whipped around them, carrying James’s desperate, unvoiced pleas. And in that suspended moment, nothing else existed except Lars sitting there, exhausted and vulnerable, and James realizing that he had finally found him—after all the chaos, after all the fear, after all the running.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Dave’s eyes snapped wide the moment he saw James. His entire body tensed, every muscle coiling like a cornered animal. Without hesitation, he yanked Lars closer, pressing him against his chest like a shield, his hand gripping Lars’s arm so tightly it made Lars wince.

“Don’t come any closer,” Dave barked, voice cracking through the cold air. “Or I swear, I’ll fucking kill him!!”

James froze in place. The world tilted for a second. His stomach dropped. Terror clawed at his throat so violently he could hardly breathe. Lars wasn’t even struggling — that was the part that made James’s heart shatter. He just leaned slightly into Dave’s hold, hollow‑eyed, limp, as if this were nothing new.

“Dave, please,” one of the officers stepped forward slowly. “You don’t need to do this. Just let him go. We can talk—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Dave shrieked, his voice razor‑sharp. “You don’t get it! None of you get it!”

James tried next. His voice cracked helplessly.
“Dave, please—please, just stop. He’s sick. He’s exhausted. Let us help him. You don’t want to hurt him, you don’t—”

Dave’s laugh cut through the wind. A horrible, manic, triumphant laugh.
“Yes I do,” he hissed. “I always do when people try to take him from me.”

He began backing away, dragging Lars with him. Step by step. Toward the edge. The rooftop gravel crunched under his boots, slow and deliberate, the way someone walks when they’ve already made their decision.

James felt like his lungs were collapsing.
“Lars,” he whispered, hoping—praying—for something. A reaction. A flicker of fear. A plea for help. Anything.

But Lars only stared at him. Empty. Silent. His expression unreadable, doll‑like. Those deadened eyes staring straight through James like he wasn’t even there.

“Lars,” James tried again, broken. “Please… please don’t—”

Dave tightened his hold on him.
“Look at him,” he taunted. “He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t need any of you. He’s mine.”

James shook his head violently, tears blurring his vision.
“Lars, please—stand up, move, do something—please—”

But Lars didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t resist.
Not even when Dave reached the very edge.

Dave looked back at James one more time, a grin spreading across his face — something twisted, sick, victorious.

“You lost,” he whispered.

And before anyone could react—

He turned.
He pulled Lars with him.
And he jumped.

James screamed—raw, animal, unlike anything he’d ever heard come from himself—as the officers surged forward, too late, far too late—

And then there was nothing.
Just James falling to his knees, hands in his hair, unable to breathe, unable to process, unable to understand whether he had just watched the worst moment of his life—

Or something even stranger beneath it.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The rooftop was silent except for the sound of James’s ragged breathing and the distant wail of sirens growing closer. The wind whipped around the building, carrying the echo of that final, impossible moment. James’s knees hit the gravel as he collapsed, hands clenching at his hair, unable to move, unable to think. His scream had echoed across the city, raw and guttural, and now it left him hollow, trembling, broken.

The police officers moved quickly, shouting for medics over their radios. They ran to the edge of the roof, looking down at the street below. The world seemed frozen, stretched thin between disbelief and horror. The pavement was a jagged, unyielding certainty, and nothing could have softened the fall.

James crawled forward on the rooftop, unable to stop himself from leaning over the edge, peering down. The sight that met him made his stomach turn, bile rising, a weight in his chest that threatened to crush him entirely. He saw them lying still. Too still. The life that had been in Lars—the chaotic energy, the reckless courage, the fearless silence—was gone. And Dave… that manic fire, that obsessive need, that twisted devotion—it was gone too.

James couldn’t comprehend it. His mind spun, desperately clawing for some explanation, some fragment of hope. Maybe they were moving, maybe it was temporary, maybe he could reach them—but the stillness of their forms told him otherwise. The crowd gathering below, the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulance, all felt unreal, like a cruel dream from which he couldn’t wake.

Kirk and Jason joined him, faces pale, mouths moving but no sound coming out. James shook his head violently, tears streaming down his face, slipping over his cheeks in hot, angry lines. “No… no… this can’t be happening. It can’t,” he whispered, voice breaking. “They… they can’t… it’s not possible…”

He tried to call out their names again, though it meant nothing now. “Lars! Dave! Lars, please! Wake up! I’m here! I—” His voice shattered into a strangled sob as he realized the truth he had refused to acknowledge. Both of them were gone.

The paramedics arrived, moving quickly, but there was no life to save. They spoke in low, professional tones, but James couldn’t hear them. Every word became muffled, distant, swallowed by the grief that was already devouring him. The world seemed to tilt, color draining into gray, sound muting, time stretching unbearably slow.

James sank to the ground, hands over his face, rocking slightly. Kirk and Jason knelt beside him, silent, unable to speak. The reality was too heavy, too sharp. They had failed him. Failed Lars. Failed Dave. The screaming panic, the running through the stairwells, the rooftop confrontation—it all led to this.

In the street below, officers tried to secure the area, but James felt nothing, saw nothing. All that existed was the image burned into his mind: Lars and Dave, still, lifeless, final. He felt the weight of the world collapse on his shoulders. Every fight, every moment of chasing, every desperate plea—it was all gone, meaningless.

And yet, even in the grief, James’s mind kept spinning, replaying the moments over and over, searching for a mistake, a way he could have stopped it. But there was none. The cruel reality was absolute.

The rooftop, once filled with tension and fear, now felt hollow, echoing with the absence of two lives that had burned too brightly, too recklessly, too painfully. James, Kirk, and Jason stayed there, frozen, as the sirens closed in, as the medics tried to do what couldn’t be done, as the world around them carried on despite the hole that had been torn into their hearts.

And James knew, deep in the pit of his chest, that nothing would ever be the same. Not the campus, not the world, not himself. Lars and Dave were gone, and the silence they left behind was deafening.