Chapter Text
The bag looked half-empty. James packed what he claimed were the essentials: compass, map, clothes, sleeping bag, blades, knives, extra ammo, binoculars, flashlight with extra batteries and bulb, waterproof fire starting kit, glasses, sunscreen, small towels, lip balm, a small notebook and two pens. But in comparison with the other hunting trips James packed for, the bag lacked considerably in size and items. It wasn't enough for a trip all the way not to Alaska, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Texas, Nebraska or Wyoming, but clear off the continent, far away from the areas Lars knew. Far away from home.
"I need a challenge," James reasoned last night. "We've been through this already. I've already hunted all over the Rockies, the Midwest and the South. I need something else."
"Why not Canada?"
"Already done it too. The guys and I went to Alaska for those two weeks, remember? I brought home some good bear meat and salmon."
James stood naked in front of the dresser, fresh from shower. Lars watched him from the bed, hands twisted in the blue sheets wrinkled in his lap.
"What's the difference between Canada's bears and Russia's?"
"Nothing but the location and the fun." James fished through the drawer for underwear and his favorite pair of pajama pants. "You don't need to worry. My buddy's done this trip before and his wife was totally fine with it. He came back in one piece."
He smelled the lie on James like usual, but Lars stayed quiet. In the years James left for hunting trips, Lars avoided arguments the night before a departure. He didn't want to break the streak when the location freaked him out worse than the others did.
The bed dipped besides him. James wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Seriously. Stop thinking about it. Go to sleep."
Lars nodded. He closed his eyes as James's lips kissed his temple.
He opened them again. The bag sat at the edge of the bed, right in front of him. James's voice fluttered up the steps from downstairs, excited and boyish as he spoke on the phone with his hunting partner.
Tradition worked hand-in-hand with superstition. Lars never escorted James to the airport; James never asked Lars to come. If either of them broke away from customs now, who knew what would happen.
Lars stared at the bag. James swore he knew what he was doing. He always planned the trips and packed for them alone. That was James's domain, something to escape into, far away from the world. Lars understood that. Art was his.
James's robe hung heavy on his shoulders, the sash unraveled. His hands twitched at his sides, arms taut with anxiety.
This wasn't like the other trips. It was far away, too far away from home, and the bag was too small, too empty. Lars knew he needed more.
The bag overflowed with all the items Lars stuffed inside: extra food -- all James's favorites, extra water, extra batteries, extra clothes, pencils and pens. There wasn't much room left for the extra notebooks Lars wanted to pack. Maybe five was overkill, since the trip lasted only a week; but who knew if James came up with lots of ideas for lyrics, stories, or drawings.
He stuffed two blue notebooks on each side of the bag, then laid the last three on top side by side. Zipping everything up proved a daunting task, sweat forming on his brow, under his chin. When the zipper reached the very end of the bag, Lars sighed in relief, the weight lifted from his consciousness. James will be okay now.
"What the fuck?!"
Lars leapt back from the bed, hands lifted up to his chest in defense. James paid no attention to him. He stomped forward and yanked the camping bag's handle, lifting it off the bed.
"What the fuck did you do to my bag?"
He stood there choking on his voice and his breath as James kneeled on the floor and ripped open the bag, staring at the three blue notebooks on top.
Blue eyes glared up at him.
Lars stuttered. "I... I was t-trying to help."
"The bag's going to fucking rip, you idiot!" James shoved his hands past the blue notebooks. He ripped out Ziplock packets of food and shook them. "I don't fucking need this shit! It's only for one goddamn fucking week!"
"I... I thought--"
The taxi cab beeped outside. James threw the bags down on top of the notebooks. "Fuck's sake, can't you get your nose out of my shit for once in your life? I've done this hunting shit before, time and time again, and I know how to pack, not you! Now I'm stuck lugging around all of this fucking shit in goddamn Siberia. Thanks!"
The taxi cab beeped repeatedly, again and again. Lars stood there as James cursed zipping the bag up again, reddening his hands.
James lugged the camping bag around his shoulders, snarling.
Lars reached a hand out.
"I'm sorry--"
"Whatever."
James stomped down the stairs. Lars's hand dropped to his side.
The front door slammed closed.
His green eyes watered. They glanced to the ground.
James's favorite green scarf rested on the carpet.
Lars snatched it up as he scrambled down the stairs, flying open the front door. "Wait! James! You forgot--"
James's cab sped away as Lars stood in their driveway holding the green scarf, the edges dragging on the concrete.
He shut down the house thereafter, out of custom. The curtains drawn; the windows shut; the doors locked. But he couldn't distract himself with movies and music like usual. He sat on the couch in the living room and stared at the blank television screen for hours, his hands twined in the green scarf, something he bought for James years ago on his first winter hunting trip.
At dusk Lars left the living room and moved upstairs. He curled up on James's side, holding James's pillow, still wearing James's robe. Everything still smelled like him.
Tears pricked his eyes. He shouldn't have fucked with tradition. James knew what he was doing. He knew how to pack, how to prepare. And they had an argument. Why couldn't he leave the bag alone? Why couldn't he let James be in control? This was James's domain, not his.
His fingers dug into the pillow. But he was only trying to help. James was being a dick. It was Siberia for crying out loud. Not Wisconsin, Louisiana, or Canada. Fucking Siberia. He was only trying to help.
Lars sighed and buried his face into James's pillow.
It was just a week. Then James will be home. He will apologize for not asking James if he could help pack his bag for him. James will apologize for being a dick. They'll joke, laugh, make-up, kiss. James will show him his catch. Lars will cook it with him. They'll eat, relax, be together again... and it'll be okay.
Lars closed his eyes and reached out to shut off the light.
It'll be okay.
Three days later, Lars received a phone call from Russian police.
Twelve hours later, the press surrounded the house with reporters, cameramen, photographers and other crew, all pointing their microphones and equipment at the house like weapons.
Lars made one phone call from his cell all the way to Seattle, before he turned off all his phones and unhooked the house one.
"Dad?" Lars peeked out the window, where flashing lights of cop cars and camera crew danced in the night. "I need you."
He waited downstairs in the living room all night, hugging James's pillow to his chest, dressed in James's robe. Even in the middle of the night, the news crews rumbled like tiny earthquakes waiting to explode.
The loud knock on his door startled Lars awake. He scrambled out of the couch, shaking all over as he opened the door and peeked over the edge.
His father's worried expression eased Lars's anxieties. He stepped back, opening the door further, wincing as the crowd shouted and the cameras snapped.
Torben slipped through. Lars leaned his forehead on the door as he shut and locked it.
Warm arms gently wound over his waist, pulling him from the door. "Jeg er her," Torben whispered. I'm here.
He cried for hours in his father's arms, whispering, whimpering in his mother tongue. They laid together on the couch, Torben holding him together as Lars felt his whole body unravel. The past twenty-four hours caused too much damage and weighed too much guilt on his mind and heart. In the safety of his father's arms, he let it all go.
When Lars calmed down, Torben quietly helped him from the couch to the bedroom. Lars kept a hand in James's pillow, while Torben kept an arm around his waist up the steps to the bed.
Lars curled up around James's pillow on James's side of the bed. Torben tucked the sheets around him, kissing his forehead.
"I'll get some ibuprofen. It'll help with the headache, put you to sleep."
Lars coughed, sniffled. "Tak."
Another kiss pressed to his forehead. Lars stared blankly ahead as Torben rummaged through the bathroom behind him.
He swallowed three pills, drank the entire glass of water Torben gave him. His father kissed his forehead again, ran his hands over Lars's hair like he did whenever Lars was upset as a child.
"Rest now."
Lars stared at the wall as Torben circled around the bed for the door.
"I wish mom was here," Lars whispered.
Torben smiled. "She is." He opened the door. "She's with James too."
The door gently shut. Lars clung hard to James's pillow.
"Mama... please protect him."
He closed his eyes and dreamed of thankfully nothing.
By the afternoon, hundreds of media vultures swarmed outside his home, waiting to strike down at the first sign of the kill they were waiting for. Lars closed the blinds and followed the scent of homemade food waiting downstairs.
Dishes his mother used to cook rested on the dinner table. Torben greeted him with a smile.
"I thought you'd be hungry."
Lars finished half a plate. Torben sighed, his own plate clean.
"I'm sorry," Lars whispered.
"It's fine. I'm glad you had some." He stood up. "At least there will be plenty of leftovers."
Lars weakly smiled. He watched his father pack all the food away.
"Dad?"
Torben looked over his shoulder from where he stood at the fridge. "Ja?"
"Call Kirk and tell him to do press duty."
Torben smiled. "He called me on my phone while you were asleep. He's already handling it."
Lars leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. "Thank God." He wiped his hands over his face. "I just don't have the strength right now to deal with them."
"Of course. That's why Kirk's been on top of this. He knew you needed the help."
"He's a great friend." Lars rubbed his eyes. "Heh. The only friend I have left, considering."
Torben slammed the refrigerator door shut. "Don't go down that route. You aren't in the right frame of mind."
Lars laughed. "Napster shit, Jason leaves, now James--"
"Lars."
His father's voice brooked no arguments. His eyes said the same thing. But there was thick concern. A Father's concern and love.
Lars sighed. He rested his head in his hands, elbows planted on the table. His chest welled up like his eyes.
Torben slid his arms around his son's shaking shoulders.
"Tell me he's alive."
"He's alive. It's only been a day. He's still alive." Torben held his son tighter. "Cliff won't let him die. Your mother won't let him die. James's own mother and father won't let him die." He pressed his forehead into Lars's temple. "And you. He won't die because of you."
Something broke inside, in his chest and his mind, hearing his father's words. Guilt warred with all his emotions as Lars buried into his hands. His father helped him up and guided him all the way from the kitchen into bed, where he was tucked in like he was a little boy again.
This time, he dreamed a memory as a nightmare. James and him, the camping bag, the blue notebooks. James's anger. James in the snow. Falling into the snow. Lars unable to catch him, unable to stop him, the green scarf still in his hand.
Torben anchored him as each day passed. He avoided the television, the windows, the doors. He heard to no radio, read no newspapers. His father became His Father again, protecting Lars from harm.
He convinced Lars to take off James's robe and shower, keep up his hygiene, on the condition he allowed Lars to wear James's clothes. To distract him, Torben gave him books to read, since most music reminded him of James. The stories varied in genre, from science fiction to absurdist comedy; in time period, from Renaissance to modern day. Torben made sure to avoid romances.
But the books weren't enough of a distraction. The facts haunted him between the pages. James left the cabin half-drunk on vodka. No one knew why. Some of his belongings stayed behind in the shack, including the fire starter kit, the compass and the map. He was dressed proper, albeit in the worst colors; dark browns blended too well with the trees.
Lars looked at the green scarf. If James had taken it with him, he wouldn't blend in with the trees. He would stand out, be seen... rescued.
By the end of the week, the reporters lessened in numbers outside his home, and Lars gave up the books for the scarf.
Torben knocked on his locked door the next day. "Please come out. I made you something to eat."
James's robe smelled freshly washed, not like him anymore. Lars didn't care. He didn't care about anything anymore.
"Lars? Please... you need to eat something."
He slipped on James's robe and tightened the sash.
"I know you want to be alone, but I need to know you're okay."
Lars's hands twisted in the green scarf.
"Just leave me alone dad."
Torben arrived at his door at mealtimes. Otherwise he was left alone. Torben never raised his voice, never pestered him. His calm demeanor annoyed him.
The sun rose and fell outside his window, telling Lars how much time had passed. How many days now James was gone. He never left the bed except for the bathroom; never showered, never cleaned himself up, never ate, never stopped wearing the robe, never let go of the scarf.
Little by little, the media disappeared from his front yard. The cameras stopped rolling. The microphones retracted. The reporters left with the photographers, the editors, the police men. All realizing a dead story. All realizing a dead man.
The news gave up on the news. They stopped caring. Until something new developed, no one cared anymore.
Lars stayed up all night. The shadows of his home formed ugly faces on the walls; the faces of the public, demanding for his blood, blaming him for the disappearance of James Hetfield. He ruined Napster, now he ruined James. It was all his fault. He never should've kissed James in '83, never should've touched James in '84. He should've left James alone, let him be. James was better off without him. James would still be here if it wasn't for him.
You shouldn't have touched his bag. You shouldn't have angered him. He left you Lars. He left you here to fucking rot, to teach you a lesson. That's why he left the shack. That's why he's lost in Siberia. It's because of you. He wanted to get far away from you, and when you packed his bag like an idiot, a bag he already situated perfectly for himself, you ruined everything. Now he's gone, and you're alone. He's never coming back, and if he does, he won't come back to you. Because no one likes you. No one cares about you. The whole world hates you, James most of all. And you know why? You're a selfish two-faced pig-headed money-grabbing pathetic piece of dog shit who never deserved James. He's always been better than you. He's the one who has it all, the talent, the looks, and you just sucked the life out of him like everyone says you do to the band, to the metal scene. You should be privileged he let you anywhere near him, let alone have him touch you. Now you've lost it all. You lost your fans. You lost Jason. And now you've lost James. Because of you. It's all your fault Lars. It's all your fault.
The faces disappeared when the sun rose high enough in the sky to melt them down the walls. But he heard them in his head, saw them in his mind. And they were right.
Torben knocked on his door. "Lars? I brought you some fruits and cheeses."
Lars stared at the ceiling. "Not hungry."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"You haven't eaten in three days..."
"I'm fine, Torben."
"Have you bathed?"
"I will."
"I haven't heard any running water from your room."
"I'm fine."
"I know you're not."
Lars's hand clenched around the scarf.
Torben sighed. "This isn't healthy. I've left you alone for three days. Not once have I seen you. I'm worried."
"Then go."
"What?"
Lars shut his eyes. "Just go then. I don't need you here."
"Lars..." Torben rattled the door knob. "Open the door."
"No."
"Open the door, Lars."
"It's my house. Get out."
"Don't be this way. You need help."
"I don't need anyone," he hissed through his teeth. No one needs me.
Torben sighed again. "I tried."
The doorknob rattled hard. Fist pounded with gusto on the wood.
"Lars. It's Kirk."
His eyes snapped open.
"Listen to me. I understand how you feel. But your dad and I are here to help you. I know we're coming up to almost two weeks since we heard any news about James and--"
Lars grabbed the nearest thing, a book on the nightstand, and threw it at the door. "FUCK OFF!"
"Lars!"
"I don't give a shit about James anymore!" He threw another item at the door. "I don't want any fucking news!" He threw another one. "That's all people care about, fucking headliners! That's all they care about outside!"
The doorknob shook. Kirk pounded on the door. "Open this right now!"
Lars ignored him. He threw more things at the door blindly. "They don't give a fucking shit if James is alive or dead. All they care about is the next fucking thing to report about. Fuck, they probably even want him dead-- it'd sell more, get more ratings. And what if he is, huh? What the fuck am I supposed to do but the fucking clean-up like I always fucking do?!"
"Dammit Lars, open the door right now, or I'm ramming it down!"
"Go ahead! More fucking things for the whole world to talk about!" Lars wiped at his red face. "First they get the headline they want -- James Hetfield, 38 years old, found dead in Siberia. Whole world fucking mourns. Everyone cries over James. Everyone wishes he was alive. There's a huge fucking celebration of his life at his funeral. His name lives on forever in his music. The world never forgets him."
Kirk pounded harder the door. Lars stopped throwing things. He landed backwards onto the bed, sitting on the edge, staring ahead, bloodshot eyes wide open.
"Then you know what happens? They get the other headlines from their favorite lapdog." His scratchy, raw voice lowered into a soft whisper. "Lars Ulrich, 37, suffers mental breakdown, sent to mental hospital. Lars Ulrich, 37, found in his bathroom, overdosed on drugs. Lars Ulrich, 37, dead."
More door pounding. The door creaked. "Lars!"
"No one cares. He has a funeral. Barely anyone attends. Why should they anyway, right? He's the most hated man in rock 'n roll. Killed Napster, ruined his band, always was a crap drummer. Good thing he's dead too. He fucked up everything."
The door cracked at its edges. Kirk slammed the door harder.
Lars's bloodshot green eyes waver.
"I fucked up everything."
The door caved in with a loud bang. Kirk landed sideways on his shoulder. Torben scrambled in after him, right to the bed where Lars sat, still staring at the wall.
"Jesus Christ," Kirk muttered, running his hands over Lars's wet face, through the beard coming in. "I didn't know..."
Torben hugged him from the other side. He said nothing.
Lars's whole face crumbled. "I...I'm s-sorry." He bowed his neck, a hand flying to his mouth.
Kirk touched his arm. "Lars..."
He sobbed hard into his hand. More spilled out uncontrollably, bubbling up from deep inside, welled up tight for too long.
When he calmed down, Lars cooperated. He ate some bites of food, drank some water, showered, dressed in James's clothes, shaved. Kirk and Torben monitored him from far, still giving him his space, but no door separated them any longer.
Lars walked downstairs with the two of them, feeling weak and pathetic. He sat with his father in the living room, curled up in his father's arms, his body as empty and numb as his mind.
Kirk flanked the other side. He twined their hands together. "Look... I'm sorry I did that. I know you only wanted your dad here, but I had to do something when he told me you hadn't left the room in three days."
"It's okay."
"No, it's not okay. Nothing's--"
Torben gave Kirk a pointed look. He shook his head no.
Kirk sighed. "Okay. I... I don't know. Things are just... fucked."
Lars closed his eyes. "I'm sorry I dumped this on you."
"No! It's fine, really. I'm glad to help you."
"It's my responsibility."
"Lars--"
"It's my fault."
"It's not! You--" The ringtone to his cellphone cut Kirk off. He growled under his breath. "Goddammit, why can't these fucking assholes get a life..." He pushed off the couch, flipping open the cell as he walked clear out of the living room into the garage. "Hammett speaking, what the fuck do you want now?"
Lars felt awful. Kirk looked too stressed out for someone who regularly appeared calm and collected. He did this to him.
Torben ran his fingers through Lars's hair. "What are you thinking, my son?"
Lars drifted his attention elsewhere. "How fucked up I am."
"Why?"
"Because it's all my fault. I caused all of this. Kirk's stress, your time wasted, me being a general ass to you, just like I've done..."
He trailed off. Tears burned his eyes.
Torben pressed his forehead into Lars's temple. "Why do you believe this?"
"Because... James is—“
The garage door slammed wide open.
"He's alive!"
Lars snapped his head around to Kirk standing bug-eyed in the middle of the doorway, the phone still open in his hand.
"I'm not shitting you. I've got Russian officers on the other line. They found him. I can get us a plane to Moscow fast. They're transporting him over to some hospital in the Siberia region, but fuck if I know how to say the name, who cares. Get dressed, get ready, let's go."
Whatever Lars found first in the closet ended up in his suitcase. He didn't care what he put. Torben packed his hygiene essentials, but Lars wasn't paying attention.
James was alive. James was fucking alive.
He scrambled down barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt, his leather jacket in one hand, his socks in the other, the green scarf wound tight around his neck.
Kirk grabbed his shoulders, stopping him at the base of the stairs. "You can't go to fucking Siberia like that!"
"It's okay, I helped pack his winter gear," Torben announced.
Lars could barely stand still. "Do we have the plane ready?"
"Yeah, I booked us an emergency flight to Moscow out of SFO. But calm down bro. At least put your fucking shoes on." Kirk looked over his shoulder. "Does he have extra socks, Torben?"
"Multiple."
"How about long johns and some turtlenecks?"
"I took care of those too."
"And what about--"
"Who gives a fucking shit, let's go!" Lars pushed past Kirk for the front door.
“Get back here!" Kirk yanked him back by the collar of his shirt, steering him to the couch. "You still have some reporters outside, and you know what they would do if they saw you running out the door shoeless and half-dressed?"
"I don't give a fuck!"
"You better because they'd smell blood and hunt us down worse because they'd see you and wonder why the fuck Lars Ulrich ran out the door-- unless the obvious thing happened and there was a development about James. You almost tipped them off, idiot!"
Lars's eyes widened. He slumped backwards into the couch, all the excitement, desperation and anxiety deflated and gone.
Kirk knelt down. He rested his hands on Lars's knees and squeezed hard. "I know you're excited. But you need to stay calm. Get dressed. Put on your shoes, wear an undershirt, eat a little something and we'll go."
He did what Kirk asked. Torben flanked his side, helped him out. Soon he felt ready, his nerves still shot, but his mind calm by the simple thought running constant in his mind: James was alive.
On the plane Kirk and Torben squeezed each of his hands. Lars barely stayed still. He wanted to pace around the plane, yell at the pilot to go faster, call up Russian airspace so they could have clear skies on the way to Moscow. Instead he willed himself to sleep an hour, just to shut off his mind, stop it from going crazy.
Russian media welcomed them with their flashing lights, camera snaps, roar of reporters as they left the plane. Word spread fast. They followed them to the private limo waiting on the airstrip; followed it all the way to another plane to take them into the heart of Siberia.
Three hours later they landed in Novosibirsk, the largest city in Siberia. Lars's anxiety returned full force. He thought only of James, his mind taking it out on his body. Kirk and Torben tried to touch him, but he was too jittery, too wired. He focused on his breathing to calm himself as they drove to the hospital in their limo.
More flashing lights waited for them, more microphones aimed their way, more camers shoved into their faces. Military personnel kept them at bay as they exited the limo. Lars paid them no attention. He led the charge through the sea of vultures to the hospital's entrance.
A nurse greeted them. She pulled Lars's arm and pointed. "This way, down there. Last room."
He raced down the hallway, his father and Kirk at his heels, his heart and head pounding in tandem.
Doctors fluttered over a long body on the bed, covered in pounds of heavy wool, IV hanging, tubes everywhere, gas mask on, pumping oxygen, steady heart beeps from an ECG. Hunting clothes, dark brown like trees, surrounded the floor of the bed.
Pale blue skin, sick and scaly. Burned cheeks, red-purple fingers. Lips so chapped the skin peeled off in patches.
Blue eyes met his across the room.
Lars's vision blurred as he stumbled forward to James laying there in all that whiteness.
A hand on his shoulder. A doctor stopped him.
"I'm sorry, but you can't--"
"N-N-Nooo..."
James's frostbitten hand reached out for him. It shook.
Blue eyes pleaded for him, scared and frightened, like a lost little boy who was away from home for too long.
Lars looked into the doctor's eyes. "Please."
The doctor's eyes softened. He nodded and released his hand.
Behind him Kirk and Torben spoke to the hospital workers and the military officers. Around them the curtains closed, leaving him alone with James.
Their eyes stayed on each other. James's breathing and the heart monitor filled in the silence.
Lars stepped close to the edge of the bed.
He tentatively brushed his fingertips over the back of James's hand.
So cold.
James gazed up at him as Lars unravelled the green scarf around his neck. He gently wrapped it around James's neck, tucking it tight into his new warm wool clothes.
His hands shook as they cupped the edge of James's cheeks, brushed the plastic of the oxygen mask.
"I'm sorry James. I'm sorry I drove you away. Please... please don't leave me alone again. I know I made you leave. I shouldn't have touched your bag. I know it's my fault and that, that I deserve this. I, I didn't mean to argue, I was just worried. I don't like to make you mad. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I hurt you. But please... please don't do this again. Please don't leave me again. I l-love you James. Just... p-please..."
James whole body trembled as his cold hands lifted up from the bed.
"L-Larsss..."
His hands flew up, helping James press them into his cheeks like he knew he wanted. He pressed them hard so he could feel them, feel the cold, feel him alive.
Beneath the mask James's torn lips shook and his teeth chattered. His face scrunched up in such excruciating pain Lars hurt with him.
"N...Nooo... ah... I... I'm the s-sorry one."
Tears rolled down his pale blue cheeks.
"You... have... nothing... to feel... g-guilty about."
James smiled weakly underneath the mask.
"You s-saved me, baby."