27 bandshirts || a metallica fanfic

Bonus - The Exodus From Exodus:

“And you must... not like clothes.” He tried to lean in for a hug, but I insisted on a hand shake instead, getting a less-than confident laugh out of the guy I knew was named Lars.

He shrugged unashamedly, “Sorry. We're just getting up. C'mon in, I'll introduce you to the other guys.”

Just getting up? I glanced my wristwatch. It was night time, 6:48 to be precise. No one normal gets up at that hour. While I was checking the time, Lars discreetly placed a hand on my lower back, trying to usher me up the driveway.

“Why don't you help Kirk with the luggage instead?”

“Oh, right, of course! Kirky boy! How you doing, man?”

Kirk huffed in contempt. Metallica made it clear they wanted him, they mentioned nothing about me possibly stealing some of the attention. I giggled at how he tried to balance his boxed amplifier and guitar case in both hands behind the trunk of the taxicab.

I entered the house by myself. Though I never formally met the Metallica guys, they at least knew me as the girl who was always hanging out with Exodus. They wouldn't karate chop me out of there as if I was a complete stranger.

The front door opened directly into the kitchen. It was just as cold inside as it was outside. I felt the urge to cover my nose – the smell of marijuana, stale pizza and men's sweat was just too overpowering for my liking. I had to stop myself though, because in the corner someone was waiting for the microwave to warm up their food.

“Hi,” I greeted with uncertainty, not knowing if it was Cliff or James staring back at me.

He did respond, but his awkward shyness and the loud buzz of the microwave made it impossible for me to hear him.

“What was that?”

He was about to bring a beer bottle to his lips and looked annoyed that I had interrupted him, fully turning to me so I could see his lips move with his words, “I said hello.”

I nodded. Clearly that was a cranky one. With good reason probably, because I noticed a slight hue of blue around the outer corner of his left eye. That might've had something to do with why they needed a new lead guitarist. At least he was wearing more clothes than Lars – black sports shorts and a Misfits t-shirt. I was desperate to find out why none of them knew New York was still stuck in a post-winter haze.

Another quarter of Metallica showed up in the kitchen, just after the microwave's timer went off. He froze when he saw me, but didn't look too surprised.

“Oh shit. Kirk's here already? Right on!”

At least he had jeans on, even though they were bell bottoms and gave off the illusion of never-ending legs, “Cliff or James?”

“I'm Cliff. That's James.” He pointed at his friend who had just devoured more than half of a pizza slice in just one bite, “you didn't introduce yourself, man?”

“Hello, I'm James.” Someone didn't teach him it was impolite to talk with a mouth full of food.

Cliff sighed and rolled his eyes at his friend's poor manners. That acknowledgement put me at his ease a little. He walked over to the fridge and retrieved a can of beer.

“Your name? I'm sure Kirk told me, but I forgot.”

“I'm Dove.”

There was a short struggle between Cliff and James for the pizza, but James quickly gave up his possession. Cliff brought the plate over to me, offering me a slice while simultaneously wrapping an arm around my shoulders for a hug.

“Cool name.”

A hug from him was allowed – I wrapped my arms around him too, “thanks. Cool shirt.”