Bandom One-shots book 3

Unspoken (Kirk Hammett x James Hetfield)

The lights are dim in the tour bus, the road stretching out endlessly ahead of us. We're somewhere in the Midwest—Kansas, maybe?—I'm not really paying attention. My head's somewhere else. It's been weeks since the Master of Puppets tour began, and everything is moving at a breakneck speed. The crowds are loud, the shows are bigger, and Metallica is more of a juggernaut than ever. But tonight, everything feels off-kilter.

I can't quite put my finger on it, but something's different. It's a subtle shift, something lingering in the air. Maybe it's because tonight we're alone in the back lounge of the bus, the others already asleep or scattered somewhere else. And it's just me and James.

I've spent countless hours next to James over the years—on stage, in the studio, on the road—and I've always known him. Or at least, I thought I did. He's a lot more complicated than I give him credit for. But lately... well, lately, I've been seeing him in a new light.

It started with the little things. His laugh when I cracked a joke. The way his hand brushes mine when we're tuning our guitars together. The way he looks at me, almost like he's searching for something, but then quickly looks away before I can figure out what. It's like this unspoken thing between us that neither of us has acknowledged, but it's there.

Now, as I sit on the edge of the couch, my guitar resting on my lap, I can feel his presence behind me. James is at the small kitchen counter, rifling through a bag of snacks, his hair falling into his eyes. The way he moves, so sure of himself, so James, it used to be comforting. But now, it feels like there's this tension pulling at the space between us.

My fingers mindlessly trace the strings of my guitar, the sound of a soft riff drifting into the quiet of the bus. I'm stalling. Avoiding.

James clears his throat from across the room. "You playing something, or are you just torturing that guitar?" His voice is light, teasing. But there's something else there too, something unspoken that I can't quite place.

"I don't know," I mutter, glancing over at him. He's looking at me now, a faint smile on his lips. I try to focus on the guitar, but all I can think about is the way his eyes are watching me, how they're suddenly so intense.

"You've been acting weird, man," James says casually, but I can hear the underlying curiosity in his voice. It's like he's been waiting for me to say something, anything. But I don't know how to say it.

I feel the heat rise in my cheeks and quickly look away, staring at the strings of my guitar, pretending I'm still in control. Just play something, Kirk. Anything. Get through this.

But I can't. The silence between us is too loud now. It's deafening.

I take a deep breath and set my guitar down on the couch beside me, my hands shaking slightly. James watches me carefully, his expression softening just a little.

"I... I think I need to talk to you," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

James raises an eyebrow, crossing the room to sit next to me. His presence is overwhelming, like it always is, but tonight it feels different. There's something magnetic about him right now, something I can't escape.

"Alright," he says, a little amused but also serious. "What's on your mind, Kirk?"

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out at first. How do you explain this? How do you explain the way my heart beats faster when I see him, or how my chest tightens when our eyes meet for just a second longer than they should? How do you explain that this—whatever this is—feels like it's been building for so long, but I've never let myself admit it?

"I don't know what's happening, man," I finally say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I can't stop thinking about you."

James doesn't say anything at first. His gaze is intense, like he's trying to figure me out, but then he looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. The space between us grows heavy, filled with the weight of my confession.

"You've been thinking about me?" His voice is quieter now, almost tentative. There's a vulnerability there I don't think I've ever heard before.

I nod, unsure of what to say next. The words feel too big, too raw to put into the air.

James shifts closer, his knee brushing mine. It's a small thing, but it feels like a spark, an invitation. "Kirk," he says softly, his voice carrying an edge I haven't heard before. "You're not the only one."

My heart stutters. I turn my head to look at him, my breath catching in my throat. He's so close now, his eyes dark and intense, searching mine for something. I'm not sure what, but I don't want to look away.

"Are you saying...?" I can't finish the sentence. I'm too afraid of the answer.

James looks down, like he's weighing his words, then back at me, his expression unreadable. "I don't know what this is, Kirk," he admits, his voice low and steady. "But I can't stop thinking about you either."

The confession lands between us, and for a moment, the world outside the bus fades away. It's just us, sitting here in this tiny space, trying to figure out what the hell is happening.

I reach out before I can stop myself, my hand brushing against his. It's the slightest touch, but it feels like a spark that ignites something inside me. He doesn't pull away, and instead, his fingers gently curl around mine.

"I don't know what to do with this," I whisper, my voice thick with uncertainty.

James looks at me with a soft smile, his thumb rubbing across the back of my hand. "We'll figure it out," he says simply, like that's the only thing that matters.

And for the first time in a long time, I believe him. We'll figure it out, whatever this is. Because right now, sitting next to James, my heart feels lighter, and for the first time in a long time, I don't feel so alone.

And maybe—just maybe—that's enough.

Without another word, I lean forward, my lips brushing against his in a slow, tentative kiss. It's not hurried or frantic, but instead, it's a quiet admission, a promise. And as I pull back, I see the same thing reflected in his eyes—the same confusion, the same need.

"Yeah," he murmurs, his hand still holding mine, "we'll figure it out."

And for once, I'm not scared.

~Unspoken~