Chapter Text
1984
Lars had run out of cigarettes.
He crushed the empty box and threw it haphazardly into the back of the van, his nose scrunched with disdain as he faced another few hours without a hit of nicotine. He was sure he could bum a few from Kirk, he was nice like that, but Kirk was nowhere to be found.
In fact, Lars was entirely alone, draped across the bench seat of their van, wearing nothing but tennis shorts and socks, his shoes and shirt discarded in the foot wells. It was hot and he was tired, bored out of his mind, but these were the consequences that came with being the only one not to hook up with a girl the night prior.
Kirk, James and Cliff were off canoodling with whichever groupie had caught their eye, and Lars? Well, he’d been unlucky, and knew better than to try and go back to his and James’ hotel room, considering what would be happening inside.
So, he'd crashed in the van out back and had somehow gotten a few hours of sleep despite it all. The sun hadn't risen yet, but the night was thick with humidity and the stench of trash, and Lars knew he probably smelled just as awful. There was a nasty film on his teeth, and his tongue was dry, but all he had to drink was half a bottle of warm vodka and old Gatorade.
He knew James would come down to get him eventually, but he knew better than to get his hopes up that it would be soon.
With a groan, Lars sat up and slid his feet back into his sneakers, kicking open the door to clamber outside. The city was damp, but it felt more like sweat than dew, and his hair clung to the sides of his face and his bare shoulders. He glared up at the windows of the hotel, knowing that beyond two of them were James and Kirk, doing god knows what with god knows who. Cliff had run off somewhere else, as he had a habit of worming his way into places he probably shouldn't, but Lars had to admit he admired his talent.
Letting out a sigh, Lars leaned against the side panel of the van, picking at his nails. Thankfully, their little stint on the road was close to finished, but within a few months, they would be leaving the country.
It was slightly terrifying, but Lars felt good about it all the same, even if James, Kirk and Cliff were nervous about the journey. Sure, none of them had toured overseas before at all, but the others all turned to him as if he was some expert on European culture. He wasn't, of course, but he wasn't about to remind them of that fact.
No, he would take charge if that's what was required of him, and he would ensure they kept at least mostly sane for the journey.
There was a strange sound from above, interrupting Lars’ thoughts, and he glanced upwards, his top lip curling in disgust. It sounded like moaning, and he could only imagine what was going on up there, knowing how James tended to treat his girls.
He couldn't really talk, he supposed, it's not like he had the best reputation either.
Still, it was a bit dramatic, she almost sounded… pained?
Lars turned his face away and something sour settled in his gut at the idea, a sense of shame washing over him. Not wanting to hear any more, Lars pushed off the van, wanting to climb back in and at least try to get some sleep, but then he paused.
It was strange. The sound, the moaning, it almost sounded closer than it should, as if whoever it was wasn't in a hotel room at all, but outside. Somewhere above his head.
It happened within a blink.
Lars moved before he registered why he was moving, throwing himself forward onto the asphalt as the sound of crunching metal filled his ears. He hit the ground on his hands and knees, his chin bouncing off the rough surface, skin shredding and hot blood filling his mouth.
Gasping, he crawled forward as glass rained on his back, none of it penetrating, but the fear was enough to make him move, panic rising as unfamiliar sounds swirled around his head. His ears rang, the dank streetlights blurring as he turned to look over his shoulder, and found the van crumpled in the middle, as if a boulder had been dropped on it from above.
Lars stared, his skin stinging, tongue throbbing where he'd bitten it, his brain unable to comprehend what he was seeing. The images felt like a painting in a gallery, rough brush strokes coagulating into shapes and shadows, red and black and slate, the yellow glow of the lights, the murky illumination lent by the moon.
The van tilted, metal shrieking as something within the crater moved, pushing panels out of the way, freeing itself from its jagged cocoon. It was hard to decipher, but Lars was almost certain the thick, dark liquid pouring from the crevices of mangled steel was blood. He could see it pooling beneath the vehicle, spreading like a stain, crawling ever closer to the toes of his white Nike’s.
The thing disentangled itself clumsily, and Lars watched the black mass writhe, jagged shapes of its limbs reaching into the sky as it clawed its way to freedom. Joints cracked, flesh squelched, remolding and reforming, as if it had come apart at the seams.
It flopped onto the asphalt with a disgustingly wet sound, landing directly in the puddle of blood. Lars felt vomit rise in his throat, the scent of rot and iron seeping into his nostrils as it moved, his stomach churning in discomfort.
He watched as it stood, slowly, shakily, pushing to its hind legs, upright like a human. Like a man.
Blood dripped from his sleeves, caked to the shining leather of his jacket, and to the tight denim of his jeans. His own white shoes were now red, splattered with darker shades and clotted clumps that clung to the laces. Lars could make out a torn t-shirt beneath it all, a band shirt, and the sharp, jagged shape of their own logo.
Kirk Hammett stood within the carnage of their van, blood coating him from the top of his head, all the way to his feet, the gleam of razor sharp fangs catching in the light of the moon.
Lars lost his battle to keep his vomit down and turned to throw up.
XXX
1994
Kirk called him at midnight, but luckily, he hadn't been able to sleep.
Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, to be torn away from the blank walls of his hotel room, to pad down the wall in just his shorts and baggy t-shirt with the spare key-card to Kirk’s room clutched against his chest. Anything would be better than wallowing in his restlessness, even a late-night tryst with Kirk and his eternal hunger.
It had gotten easier over the years, Lars had learned to be grateful for the progress, rather than ruminate on the burdens they still had to carry. Something like this, it wasn't just Kirk’s cross anymore, it was the band’s as a whole.
Still, it was often Lars that Kirk went to when he needed someone, and Lars was happy to oblige. Maybe that was stupid, but he couldn't help it - Kirk was his best friend, how could he let him go hungry?
Lars reached Kirk’s door quickly, swiping the card and letting himself inside, instantly scrunching up his nose as the smell of rot accosted him. It was typical at this stage during the cycle, when Kirk had gone too long without feeding, and his body began to break down again.
If he’d fed, he would appear normal, as normal as he always had been, but the longer he went without, the more time and nature would take its toll.
Now, Kirk was pallid, almost grey, sitting on the couch in front of the television, his dreads in disarray, weakly pressing the button to switch channels. His eyes had gone yellow-ish, his lips blue, and there was the telltale colour of bruising across his knuckles and fingers, blood beginning to pool in his extremities.
He looked up when Lars entered, and smiled that crooked smile, but his skin seemed to stretch uncomfortably and he quickly let it fall.
“Hey,” Kirk croaked, licking his lips and setting the remote aside. “Sorry to call so late.”
“It's cool,” Lars closed and locked the door behind himself, placing his keycard on the little table nearby. “You know I'm always happy to help, man.”
And he was, truthfully. Maybe that was foolish of him, but whenever he looked at Kirk in this state, so frail, so empty, his chest began to ache again, in the same way it did at the start. Back when they all realised what exactly had happened when Kirk fell from the top of that stupid fucking building.
“Uh, I just need a bit,” Kirk continued, shuffling over on the couch, slowly and gingerly, the way an old man would. Lars felt a pang in his heart, and took the empty space next to his friend, ignoring the smell of decomposition as it filled his sinuses.
“Doesn't look like it, man,” Lars said with concern, reaching up to gently touch Kirk's face, feeling the smooth, marblesque texture of his skin. He was cold, like a wax model, and it made Lars uneasy. “You need to fill up.”
Kirk looked as if he wanted to argue, but they both knew Lars was right, there was no way he could last the next show on just ‘a bit’.
“I just - I hate making you feel sick,” Kirk mumbled, his face crumpling. “God, I fuckin' hate this.”
Lars sighed, wrapping his arm around Kirk’s shoulder to pull him in, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. Even with the smell, Kirk was still Kirk, that gentle, soft soul Lars had fallen in love with years ago, and knowing he struggled the way he did, only made Lars wish he could fix it for him.
He couldn't, none of them could, and they'd certainly tried over the years. But, a curse was a curse, and Kirk’s penance would be served, no matter how much it pained them to witness it.
“C’mon,” Lars prompted gently, lifting his free arm to Kirk’s face, nudging the tender skin of his wrist against those cold, plump lips. “Do it, and I'll sleep through the worst of it, alright?”
Kirk let out a warbled little sob, but Lars felt his mouth open, and the icy swipe of his tongue. The fangs came next, pinpricks against the flesh that only hurt for mere moments, and then the burn of torn skin faded into that strange pull as his blood was sucked from the wound. Kirk never made it hurt, though he had said that he knew he could. It was something about his saliva, but Lars tried not to think too hard about it, considering it was meant to lull him into a false sense of security as his life was drained away.
They'd learned these things over the years, from both research and trial and error, but there was still much to discover, Lars was sure.
The first thing they'd learned for certain, was that Kirk was dead - or at least, close to it. He had aged, he had even grown a little, but every month his body would begin to degrade, to rot, to stink and ooze, and the only way to stop it was for him to drink blood. They'd only made the discovery after the first few days, when Kirk stared at himself in the mirror for the umpteenth time, prodding at his fangs with his tongue, and wondered aloud: “Maybe I'm a vampire?”
By then, everyone was so exhausted, so terrified of what had happened, that Lars offered up his arm without a second thought, and Kirk had latched on like a suckling pup. The first time had been awful, Kirk was so hungry he'd almost sucked Lars dry, but thankfully, Cliff and James had torn him off and slapped sense into him.
Kirk still felt guilty about it, but over time, they learned how much he needed to feed in order to last thirty days without incident. From then on, they all took turns, even Jason once Cliff had passed away, stepping up to take on the burden the way a brother would, saying Cliff would be pissed at him if he didn't.
It wasn't easy, but it worked, and Lars didn't care, as long as Kirk was still functioning and still able to live… If that's what was truly happening.
Thankfully, the actual process of Kirk feeding on him wasn't so bad. It didn't hurt, it just felt like having blood drawn, but the after-effects certainly weren't as pleasant. To Lars, it felt like a rancid hangover. He would be lethargic and nauseous, usually having to take a long nap and then a three course meal just to feel normal again.
Kirk always took care of him, or whoever he fed upon, buying them food to help recover and even tucking them into his bed when they couldn't get back to their own. It was sweet, really, but that was just Kirk.
Even in death, he was still a sweetheart.
“Ah,” Lars let out a wheeze, feeling Kirk’s teeth jostle slightly in his arm as he adjusted. Sometimes it was hard to get a good vein on Lars, and they'd have to resort to his throat, but Kirk preferred to avoid it if he could. He said it was too romantic, which only ever made Lars laugh, considering the amount of times they'd kissed by this point.
“Sorry,” Kirk slurred, blood spilling from his mouth and slowly dripping down Lars’ arm, down to the dip of his elbow.
Lars bit his lip and turned his head, a little queasy at the sight. “It's cool, man,” he said, still rubbing Kirk’s back with the unoccupied arm. “Just - uh, take your time.”
Kirk hummed, his lips vibrating along Lars’ skin, and then his fangs penetrated once again, and the slow drag resumed.
Lars drifted, allowing himself to fade into the motions of Kirk’s mouth, into the subtle sound of him swallowing, and eventually he felt himself become loose, floppy, and he slumped back against the couch. Kirk’s cold hands grasped his arm, holding it to his mouth as he lifted his eyes to check on him, the yellowed scleras having regained their natural, white gleam.
Lars gave him a weak smile, assuring him he was okay to keep going, and Kirk grunted in response.
It was still so fascinating to watch life return, to watch his skin gradually fade back to his natural, creamy tan, and to sense as the smell of rot dissipated. His skin became warm, warmer than Lars as he slowly drained him, and Lars felt himself leaning into his heat, seeking the comfort only living, breathing Kirk could give.
“That's enough,” Kirk gasped, unlatching his teeth, and pulling his mouth away with a wet smack. “Fuck.”
He was panting, wiping at his mouth with the back of his arm, and quickly adjusting himself, planting his knees on the couch to lean over Lars and peer into his upturned face.
“Hey, man,” he said, shaking Lars’ shoulder roughly. “Larsie.”
“Mhmm,” Lars blinked up at him, squinting when he went a little fuzzy around the edges. Like this, Kirk appeared angelic, with the white light of the hotel room above his head, glowing like a halo. Lars smiled lazily, and reached up with his uninjured arm, gently tucking one of Kirk’s dreads behind his ear.
“I’ll take you to bed,” Kirk whispered, smiling softly. “Thank you for doing this.”
“S’cool,” Lars slurred, his eyelids growing heavier. “Anytime.”
He felt Kirk scooping him into his arms, his dreads tickling his cheek as he was carried across the room. He was warm, just like he used to be, back before it happened, before his body crumpled like a tin can in a wreck of metal and blood.
Sometimes he still saw it, the mangled mass of bone and meat, and he had to remind himself it wasn't real, not anymore. Kirk wasn't just a corpse, he was living, solid and tangible, just like before, only with a few extra quirks.
“I'll order room service in the morning,” Kirk told him as he laid him down on the mattress. “Pancakes?”
“Yeah,” Lars said, his eyes closing as Kirk pulled the sheets up to his chin. “Cool.”
“Cool,” there was a smile in Kirk’s voice when he said the word. “Night, Lars.”
“G’night,” he mumbled, just as sleep whisked him away.