Metallica one shots and headcannons

Beyond the guitars-(Dave Mustaine one shot)

I don't think Dave ever understood just how much I wanted him to teach me to play his guitar. It wasn't just about the music or the instrument itself—it was about him, about us sharing something, something that we could bond over. But every time I asked, his response was the same. "My guitars are custom," he'd say. "They're expensive. I don't want you fumbling around with them."

At first, I didn't let it bother me too much. After all, I knew he was protective of his guitars—hell, I couldn't even touch them without him hovering in the background like a hawk. I could understand the value of his instruments; they weren't just guitars, they were pieces of art. But they were also a part of his life, his world, and I wanted to be a part of that world. I wanted to learn. I wanted to connect with him in a way that felt real, that felt ours.

So, I started to feel like I needed to find another way in. I wasn't giving up on this idea. I was determined to show him that I wasn't just some novice who would wreck his precious guitars. I wanted to learn, to prove to him that I was serious about it. But when he refused to teach me, I had to look elsewhere.

I found the ad in the paper on a lazy Saturday morning. "Experienced Guitar Teacher Available for Private Lessons." The ad itself was simple, but there was a picture of him—dark hair, a smirk on his lips, and a guitar in his hands that looked like he'd just pulled it from a rock 'n' roll dream. He looked... well, too attractive for words. And that caught my attention. I was feeling frustrated, and if I'm being honest, the idea of learning from someone who actually seemed open to teaching me sounded pretty good. Besides, it wasn't just his looks that made me call. He was skilled. People spoke highly of him, and I needed to get better.

When I called, he was polite and professional on the phone, setting up a time for a lesson later that week. It felt like a breath of fresh air. He wasn't dismissive like Dave; he wasn't making me feel bad for wanting to learn. He was welcoming, patient. I felt a little guilty, but I told myself it was just about learning. It wasn't anything serious.

The first lesson was everything I had hoped for. He had this calm, soothing way about him. He didn't rush me or make me feel awkward when I made mistakes. Instead, he was encouraging, teaching me at a pace I could follow. It was like I'd finally found someone who believed in my potential.

I found myself looking forward to the lessons more and more. He was a good teacher, and he had this ease about him that made it fun. And yes, he was undeniably attractive, but the way he made me feel when I played—like I was actually good—that was what mattered the most.

Still, there was a part of me that missed Dave. I missed him in ways I didn't quite know how to express. I wanted to share this part of myself with him, to tell him that I was learning to play, that I was getting better. But every time I thought about it, I hesitated. How could I tell him I'd found someone else to teach me? I was still hoping he'd come around. I wanted him to understand why it meant so much to me, to see that it wasn't just about the guitar—it was about us.

Then came the day I walked into the living room after a lesson, expecting to find Dave as usual, sitting on the couch with his guitar in hand. Instead, he was standing by the window, looking out at the street. The tension in the room hit me immediately, like something was off. I had a bad feeling, but I wasn't sure why.