Written for khemlab for the 2009 xmas_rocks exchange
| This story is a work of fiction and therefore completely untrue. No harm or libel is meant or implied about any of the individuals named within this work and it was written without their involvement or permission. No profit is being made. |
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"We went to upstate New York, and we began recording Kill 'Em All. We finished our parts, then Cliff and I took the Greyhound bus all the way back to San Francisco. Three days on a Greyhound bus! All we had was a bunch of booze. We were projecting, you know, about our future, like 'wow, what's the second Metallica album gonna sound like,' and, 'wow, what's the THIRD Metallica album gonna sound like... !'"
DAY ONE, 8:36AM They stood in the soon-to-be-former make-shift rehearsal-room-turned-bedroom, staring down at the last of the booze James and Lars bought (stole) from the store a few days ago. Their luggage flanked their sides, two bags per person. It was too early to be up. Too ungodly fucking early. Both of them sported thick bags under and dark circles around their drooping eyes. But the booze, and their bus tickets home, perked them right up. Cliff grinned, snickered and rubbed his hands in glee. Kirk pouted, crossed his arms and tilted his head. "You sure we should do this?" Kirk asked. Cliff stopped his hands, turned and glared at Kirk, frowning. "Uh, duh?" Kirk eyed Cliff, then the bottles, then back to Cliff. He blinked a few times, then stared at the bottles. He pursed his lips and shrugged.
"Good enough."
DAY ONE, 1:56PM BUUUUUUUUUURRRP! "Oh fucking gross!" Kirk squealed, his exclamation dissolving into hysterical slurred laughter immediately after. Cliff shrugged and threw the empty can into the duffle bag filled with other empty Buds and Coors. "You're one to talk, fart boy." A wounded look crossed Kirk's dusky features. He pouted. "I do not fart... that much." Cliff cracked open another can. He eyed Kirk and smirked. "Your farts stink worse than Lars." He took a few chugs before he continued. "Then again, anything smells better than Lars." More laughter spilled out of Kirk, high-pitched and squeal-level. He composed himself long enough to clink his can with Cliff's and take a drink.
The others on the bus glared and grumbled in their direction, the left hand-corner right in the very, very back. But Kirk and Cliff paid no attention. They were too butthoused to care.
DAY ONE, 10:19 PM Most of the people on the bus were asleep. Some were up, writing or reading something or another. Cliff was up too, listening to one of his tapes on his Walkman. He bopped his head in time to Geddy Lee's bass line while staring out the window and watching the stars zip by. It was a good thing his mom packed his tapes, or he would've been screwed on the way coming to New York. Listening to prog rock killed the time like nothing else could when he was driving that stupid U-Hal across the country. Especially Rush's 2112 on repeat. We are the Priests of the Temples of Syrinx, Geddy sang in his headphones. He mouthed along to the lyrics as the constellation Orion passed by in the window. He smiled at the beautiful dark surroundings outside. Rush was the perfect soundtrack, the best way to end the first chapter of this beginning. Going to New York with Geddy kept him awake; leaving from New York with Geddy seemed more than fitting. So lost he was in the music that he nearly jumped in his seat when Kirk slumped against his shoulder. He composed himself quickly and looked down at the sleeping form against him. Cliff stared at Kirk's open, guileless expression, a few stray curls moving back and forth over his parted lips. Kirk's snores competed for attention against Geddy Lee's voice. The blanket covering them both was littered in potato chip crumbs, their dinner for the evening. He noticed Kirk's limp hand holding an unfinished can of Bud and took it away before it slipped and spilled over their stuff on the floor below them. Cliff finished off the can, crushed it and threw it into the open duffle bag between his legs.
Orion still hung proudly in the night sky when he moved his attention back to the window. More instrumentation of 2112 blasted from his Walkman. Kirk shifted against him, coming closer to his warmth. He didn't shove him away.
DAY TWO, 2:33PM Blasphemy. Utter fucking blasphemy. This man was no guitarist. No human being even. Probably didn't even have a goddamn soul. And what the fuck, he wasn't even joking. There wasn't a trace of fibbing at all in his voice, on his face. Nothing. Holy how the fucking cow. Cliff released a stream of garbled, stuttering mess until he threw his hands up into the air and screamed on top of his lungs: "You've never heard Rush before?!" Kirk sported the most perplexed, amused expression ever as he shrugged nonchalantly at Cliff's high-pitched exclamation. "They don't really... interest me," he explained cooly. He laughed as Cliff's jaw dropped even further. "S-Sorry?" Cliff continued to stare at Kirk bug-eyed, gaping like a fish. His head shook as his face turned from one of shock to one to confusion to one of disgust. In a flash, Cliff produced a tape and his Walkman. He shoved them into Kirk's chest hard enough to leave a tape-shape and Walkman-shape bruise there. He pushed them into Kirk's chest with more force. "Listen," he barked, no nonsense in his voice. He narrowed his eyes. "Fucking now." Kirk didn't argue. There wasn't a reason to. Cliff never got this way until he was really, really serious about something. And the last time that happened was when he insisted on buying Coors instead of Bud a few weeks ago in Queens.
So Kirk opened the Walkman, put in this tape called Moving Pictures, situated the headphones over his ears, and listened to the album. Cliff sat crossed-arm, expectant and anxious.
DAY TWO, 8:55PM Kirk hit the stop button to the Walkman. He took out the tape and laid the eighth album of Rush he listened to today, Fly By Night, on top of the others in his lap. He stared at them for a few seconds, then turned to Cliff with a solemn expression. "I'm an asshole," he murmured. Cliff rose an eyebrow, his lips twitch in the corner. "So... amazing, right?" "Fuck yes," Kirk agreed with no hesitation. He picked up the Moving Pictures tape. "This is the best album I've ever heard... ever!" Cliff finally smirked triumphantly. "It's okay, I still love you." He took the tape of Moving Pictures and kissed it sloppily and nosily. "Not as much as this album though." All Kirk did was laugh and playfully punch Cliff's shoulder. Cliff tugged on his curls in retaliation.
The rest of the night they discussed Rush while sharing the last of the booze, much to the chagrin of those on board.
DAY THREE, 7:17AM The bus stopped at a mom-and-pop diner so everyone could get something real to eat. But Cliff and Kirk never heard the announcement, nor felt the bus come to a stop. They had spent so much talking all night that by dawn they finally fell asleep, exhausted, drunk and spent. Kirk and Cliff both had their heads tilted back on their head rests, jaws wide open, loud snores coming through their mouths and noses. The Walkman and Rush tapes laid scattered on their shared blanket and laps. In his sleep Kirk slumped against Cliff again and shifted closer for warmth and comfort. A few seconds later, Cliff's head tilted down and to the side. His chin collided into Kirk's head, and the two murmured in protest at the sudden jolt. But they settled quickly back into a deep sleep right after.
Neither were disturbed from their positions, even when the bus revved up again and returned to the bumpy, open road once more. They slept on, blissfully unaware of anything but comforting warmth and big dreams.
DAY THREE, 11:01PM Again, everyone was out of the bus, this time eating dinner at a mom-and-pop diner. Again, Kirk and Cliff were on the bus, side by side. But they weren't asleep, slumped over each other. Kirk, crossed-armed, sat as far as he could on his seat, staring out the opposite window. Cliff, slouched over, crouched as close as he could to the window, staring down at the floor. The blanket they shared laid crumpled over their duffle bags. Kirk drummed his fingers on his arm. Cliff ran his hands through his hair, over his face. On both of their lips, the residual burning sensation still remained, pulsating. In both of their heads, the faint memory of ghosting brushes and tempting heat still lingered, haunting. "I'm sorry," Cliff murmured from underneath his mop of red hair. "Don't worry," Kirk whispered, not turning away from the opposite window. "It was an accident." Cliff sat up and stared ahead. "Yeah. Okay." He licked his lips, the burning sensation still there. He closed his eyes. "An accident," he sighed. Behind his eyes, Cliff still saw Kirk, still watched the smooth skin and closed eyes accidentally brush against his own face. He could still feel his breath on his mouth, against his nose. He turned his head to the window and opened his eyes, observed the night sky and desperately wished they were home already. Orion glittered in the dark sky, still visible despite the town's light pollution. The half-full moon resided a good distance away from it. Cliff kept his focus above, and tried to block out everything in his mind. A hand laid down over his own, right on his jean-clad thigh. Cliff jerked a bit in surprise, but calmed when the fingers clasped tight over his own. Warm breath tickled his ear. "Did you not want it to be?" Kirk whispered, squeezing his hand again. There was tell-tale anxiousness, doubt and hope in Kirk's voice, all mixed together, all sending mixed messages to Cliff. They matched the million and one thoughts running through his own mind. The questions and doubts, the worries and exclamations, the encouragements and hopes. Cliff gazed at Orion, trying to sort them all out, to figure out what to do. But he soon gave up; Kirk's anxious, warm breath on his ear stopped him short of doing anything. He turned to Kirk and gazed straight into his brown eyes. And he was utterly shocked to see the reflection of Orion, big and bright and illuminated, in the brown hues. People began to mount the bus once more. The driver announced from the front there was only one more long haul, and everyone cheered, done with this trip and eager to be in San Francisco already. Kirk and Cliff didn't exclaim with the others. They stared at each other, Kirk gripping Cliff's hand.
The bus revved up and left the diner. People relaxed into their seats for the last haul. Cliff's hand moved away from Kirk's, only to clasp their fingers together, tight and firm.
DAY FOUR, 9:12AM "Gimme that pancake!" Kirk shouted, waving his fork. Cliff twirled his own fork with the large piece of pancake in his hand, a shit-eating grin on his face. "How about.. no?" "Cliiiiiff!" he whined, a muffled puppy-like noise coming from behind his pouting lips. "It's my last ooone." With a shrug, Cliff ate the piece whole from the fork, and in five bites, swallowed it down. He grinned from ear-to-ear, proud of his small juvenile triumph. Kirk threw his fork down onto his plate, the silver clinking with china. He crossed his arms and grumbled in his seat, glaring accusingly at Cliff. That was a tell-tale sign, as Cliff was learning. Kirk was about non-verbal language, and he was catching on quick. This sign meant Kirk was gonna hold a grudge, again. And Cliff didn't want to ride the last of the trip, a mere one hundred miles, with a pissy Kirk. He wasted no time letting Kirk simmer in his anger. Cliff slid closer to him in the booth, put his arm around Kirk's shoulders and brought their lips together. Thankfully they got a seat in the shadows, at the far back of the diner, or he wouldn't do this in the first place. And Kirk's reaction was a usual one. He squirmed a bit, shoved his shoulders, whined a tad, then finally acquiesced and responded just as enthusiastic. They parted lips and teased each others tongues, tentative and soft, unsure and careful. They took their time, hands roaming, lips moving, warmth bringing them together as it always did. They pulled back at the same time, pink blossoming on their cheeks. Shy smiles donned their faces. Kirk snickered, Cliff chuckled. All so new, all so undiscovered. But they'd learn, and they'd do it together. Cliff twined their fingers together under the table. "You know what?" "Hmm?" "I don't know how I ended up with a Rush-retarded person like you." Kirk rolled his eyes and shoved Cliff's shoulder with his free hand. "Fuck off." Cliff snickered, leaning in closer to Kirk. But as he glanced out the window, his eyes bugged-out and his jaw dropped. Realization chilled the warmth between them. He met Kirk's confused look straight-on. "Um... when did the driver say he was leaving?" "9:15," he answered slowly. His eyebrows rose high, his brown eyes widening. "Why?" "The bus is gone." As one they turned to the wall on the far end of the small diner, where the hanging cat-shaped clock hung. 9:20. "Shit!" they shouted together. They scrambled out of the booth, stuffing the last of their pancakes into their mouths. Kirk hopped out first, dashing to the front door. Cliff threw whatever money he had in his pocket on the table and stormed out of the diner right on Kirk's heels. In the distance they saw the bus holding all of their belongings drive down the empty road to San Francisco. They chased it down, waving their arms and hollering on top of their lungs for it to stop. But they were still hysterically laughing in between their frantic screams, laughing and snorting along with the cries and shouts.
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