80's Band Oneshots/ Imagines

James Hetfield x Jason Newsted - Hold Me Close

*A/N This may be a part one because I actually like this plot line*

1986

The first time I heard it was the third night I was ever on tour with metallica. No one had warned me, or maybe I was naive for not expecting it. The guys were still in the earliest stages of their grieving, the wound was so fresh it was still bleeding.

But that night, in the shitty motel we were staying in, I awoke to a fumbling bang on my door. Not like someone was knocking, but like someone had fallen against it. I sat straight up, my mind still groggy and unsure of my surroundings. My first thought was this was another hazing by the guys, adding onto the unrelenting "initiantions" they had been putting me through for almost a week. I still hadn't gotten the smell of eggs out of my favourite misfits shirt from their last merciless attack.

We were on the second level of the two level motel, our rooms opened onto the small walkway bordered by a railing overlooking the parking lot below. The only people on our level were our crew and us, so when the floor went quiet and the guys didn't appear kicking my door down to pelt me with eggs again, I assumed someone was just drunk coming home late from the bar. But then I heard soft cries, muffled as if buried in their own hands. The cries were followed by a screaming wail, at which I realized it was unmistakably James.

My heart was racing. Maybe this was normal for him? I was still feeling out the personalities of all the guys, but you didn't have to be a member of metallica to know James liked to drink.

I listened for more, my eyes staring out in front of me at the quilt bed spread, my breathing was the only other definite thing I could hear. The sobbing returned, as well as crashing that became more and more distant as it seemed as though he was stumbling his way down the hall. Then:

"Cliff! Cliff, where are you?!" This grabbed my attention. It seized me by my chest and spat in my face, gripping me tight and staring me in the eyes. Oh...

I crept from my bed to the window and pulled the curtain back, but he was too far down the hall for me to see. So instead I cracked my door, peeking out timidly.

"Cliff! Cliff! Where are you?! Cliff!" His sobs were desperate, his voice was slurred and shaking. I could see him now, leaning against the railing, bottle of some kind of liquor in his hand. His blonde hair was ratty and hung loose around him, he was in nothing but his socks and underwear. He was crying as he took occasional swigs from the bottle, screaming out for Cliff.

One of the room doors opened and two of the road crew appeared. They seemed unfazed and exhausted. They tried gently talking the bottle away from James without success. Followed by attempting to lead him back to his room, also fruitlessly. Finally one looked at the other and shook his head, whispering something that was very faint from where I was standing. But if I had to guess, sounded like:

"Get Lars" he turned to go, walking towards my room. This caused me to pull my head back into my room from the hallway, my hand still on the ajar door. The roadie caught my gaze as he walked past me, giving me a tired and sad look without saying anything.

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And so this was my first introduction to something that would become a very common occurrence on the road. They weren't all as bad as that first night, although sometimes they were worse. Somenights James would scream from his room, wander the halls muttering rather than yelling, yell as he did the first night, or go full blown screaming hysterics while smashing booze bottles in his panic to find Cliff. No matter what the night entailed, it never got easier to listen to, or break your heart any less.