Jason Newsted lives in a small town where the people aren't as nice to him as they are to everyone else. They tend to push poor Jason around for being superstitious, believing in witchcraft and sorcerey as well as mythical and mystical creatures. His favorite pass time is walking down a path in the wooded area behind his house. But this time, as this walk seems more lonelier than it normally has, he comes across a fight in nature between a bear and an extremely abnormally large wolf. The bear leaves the wolf and Jason rushes to help, but he doesn't know that his life is about to change, as well as the lives of the townspeople.

He was alone. At least, he thought he was. Was he? He didn't know. He couldn't see anyone. He couldn't see him. He started to panic. He started trying to call for him, but couldn't hear or see him. Then, like sunlight shooting through the darkest thundercoulds, he saw him there. He reached for him... Then he woke up, next to him. It had been a dream. He looked at him there, sleeping peacefully, and smiled. He gently ran a hand through his blonde curls, then laid back down, wrapping his arms around him and fitting his body against his, then slowly drifted back into his mind, his world of stars and constellations.

Even now as I walk these streets alone I can sense the fear of many people. But it's not fear of me. Many I can see are paranoid. They've heard of what I do. What I've done. It's not a fear of me exactly. I can see some of them frantically look around. I can feel their hearts beat as I move. I sense it. Even when I am something of the dark, I move in broad daylight. But if I didn't have the pendant of light around my neck and hidden under my shirt, I'd burn and become ash as if any other of my kind would. It's just another day. Nothing is out of the ordinary. Or so it would seem. As I walk, I'm suddenly grabbed by the hood of my black sweatshirt and yanked backwards off of my feet. The force of is a dead giveaway of who's grabbed me. The name rolls into mind and I immediately seeth with rage. James Alan Hetfield. The werewolf. Mangy fucking mutt.

I turned my head towards him slightly, my hair sweeping over the back of my neck. Our eyes were downcast, he was looking at our hands while I admired his lips. I turned my head again and he lifted his head to press his forehead against mine. Our breathing quickened, we both inched our faces up towards each other, as if daring the other to make the first move. Unlike any time we kissed before, there was no sense of fear, no sense of confusion within ourselves. Just us. Finally I tipped my head just enough to kiss him. Softly, eyes closed, filling our noses with the smell of each other, intertwining. KLARS FANFIC* March 1985; Ride the lightning tour.

Really dumb chats from four drunk guys.