Hard Core Logo / Wilby Wonderful crossover story: Out of Exile (Joe/Duck, Joe/Billy, NC17)
Out of Exile
Hard Core Logo / Wilby Wonderful: Joe/Duck, Joe/Billy, NC17, 6500 words
Summary: Joe will take redemption any way he can get it. Warning for murky consent issues.
Written for highwaymiles prompt #223: Duck McDonald picks up a hitchhiking Joe Dick (during Duck's off-island years, while Billy was away from the band). Thanks to malnpudl and sageness for beta above and beyond, and to lamardeuse for Canadiana. Set pre-movie for both, so no real spoilers.
Now also on my website: Out of Exile
Iowa sucked. It had been easy enough to get there - the college boy who'd picked him up outside Chicago had taken him all the way to Dubuque - but trying to get out was another thing entirely. An hour of sticking his thumb out and he'd taken the first ride offered, from a couple who'd anxiously said they were only going to Prairie du Chien but they'd drop him at the intersection of US18 if that was okay, and he'd said sure, fine. But now Joe knew why they had been so fucking apologetic about it, because he was in the goddamned middle of nowhere, the late-June sun beating down on him relentlessly, and the only vehicles going by were semis and tractors, and he was probably going to die in fucking Iowa at this rate.
Fucking Americans and their fucking tractors, Joe thought, and when a pickup truck with a wooden bed pulled off the road ahead of him it seemed like the funniest goddamn cosmic joke in the world to see a Nova Scotia plate on it, Canada's Ocean Playground in the middle of cornfields and silos, about as far from the ocean - either one - as you could get. He'd have said something about it, too, as he opened the passenger door to ask if it was okay if he put his guitar in the back of the cab, he'd throw his duffel in the bed, but one look at the driver and all speech left him.
Holy shit, he thought. It's Billy.
It wasn't Billy, of course it wasn't Billy, Billy was still in Vancouver or maybe Seattle or maybe fucking L.A., looking for fame, trying to become a star. Billy wasn't driving a beat-up homebrew pickup with Canada's Ocean Playground plates, crap country music playing on the FM just loud enough to be heard over the engine. And when the driver turned his head a little and said, soft and low, "You want to get in?" he could see it wasn't Billy, but Jesus fuck, he looked a whole lot like him.
Stop staring, dickhead, Joe told himself firmly. He held up his guitar and gestured to the space behind the seats. "Can I put this inside?"
"Sure," said not-Billy. "Let me get some of this stuff out of your way." He slid out of the driver's seat and leaned it forward, then lifted things out of the back - clothes, some cans of paint, a toolbox - and swung them into the bed with easy motions. He wore a t-shirt and paint-spattered jeans, and Joe couldn't keep his eyes off the way the muscles in his arms flexed as he worked. Muscles in his biceps rather than his forearms, the kind you got from heavy lifting and hard labor rather than the kind you got playing a guitar. Not like Billy's wiry arms.
And his hair was shorter, and his voice was softer, and this wasn't Billy come to haunt him, to remind him of all his fucking mistakes. This was an angel from heaven, sent to rescue him from the shithole that was Iowa, and it was only a coincidence that he looked a hell of a lot like Billy.
Joe deliberately placed the guitar case in the back so that the maple leaf sticker was facing out, so that the driver would see it, and sure enough when they were both in the truck and the driver pulled back out onto the road, not-Billy said, "Saw the leaf on your guitar. You're Canadian too?"
"Yeah. Going back home to Vancouver. I don't suppose you're headed that way?"
"Not headed anywhere in particular. Winnipeg, maybe. Maybe Vancouver, I don't know." He gave Joe a quick, assessing look, a shy glance from under long lashes.
"But you're from Nova Scotia?"
"Yeah. An island off the coast, actually. Wilby, you probably never heard of it." The lines of his jaw tightened when he said it, although his voice never lost its casual tone.
"Nah," said Joe. "I didn't get that far east, anyway. Shit, Montreal was bad enough, all the fucking French. Nobody wanted to book me unless I'd sing Deux Autres Bières." The driver's response was a wordless grunt, and Joe could see the barest hint of a smile curving at the edge of his lips.
"What do you sing?"
"Used to be in a punk band, broke up a few years ago. Hard Core Logo." He waited a beat, to see if the guy said something. It was obvious he hadn't, but it was still depressing as fuck to get that blank look. "You probably never heard of it."
Not-Billy shook his head. "Sorry, no. Not my kind of music."
Yeah, he could fucking well tell that from the shit on the radio. At least it wasn't turned up loud enough for him to have to listen to the lyrics, my dog left me and my heart broke in two, all that crap. "My name's Joe," he offered, more because he wanted to hear the driver's name than for any other reason. Wanted to hear that it wasn't Billy.
And it wasn't: "I'm Duck," he said, and it took Joe a moment to process, because not only wasn't it Billy, it wasn't a fucking name. When it hit him, he said the first thing that came to mind, which was, "Well, fuck a duck," with a laugh, but Duck didn't laugh. Joe didn't want to make an enemy of the guy, not if he was going to work the ride as far as he could, get the fuck out of Iowa, so he shrugged and said, "Guess you get that a lot."
"A fair bit," said Duck, and Joe figured it would be best to just shut up for a while, so he slouched in his seat and watched the farmland go by.
Minnesota didn't look a whole lot different from Iowa. Joe asked if Duck minded if he smoked, which of course he knew Duck wouldn't because the pickup cab smelled of it, and anyway he could see Duck's cigarettes in a crumpled pack on the floor by the gearshift. Then Duck asked him if he'd mind handing him a cigarette, if he was going to get them out, and Joe lit him one of his own and passed it over, and whatever discomfort was left between them dissipated with the smoke as it drifted out the windows.
But Duck wasn't much of a talker, so Joe did a lot of looking at the incredibly boring lack of scenery and writing lyrics in his head, rhyming fuck and duck and truck, Minnesota sucks, getting low on bucks. From time to time he snuck glances at Duck (snuck a fuck, in a truck) and thought about Billy. About fucking Billy; the tape loop in his head that kept playing over and over again. Which by itself would have been okay, except for all the fucking baggage it brought with it, the tension and the fight and the pretending everything was normal except it wasn't, the invisible barriers that hung in the air between them from that day on. It was almost relaxing, though, to look at Billy's face without looking at Billy, to think about the good stuff and not have to deal with the fallout, so his eyes strayed toward Duck again and again.
Duck stopped in Rochester for fuel and Joe paid without being asked and without asking about it; that was the code of the road as far as he was concerned, even though Duck smiled and shook his head, saying, "You don't have to do that." They each bought their own sandwiches and soda pop and more cigarettes, and when they got back into the truck Duck rummaged under his seat and came up with a map, which he tossed into Joe's lap. "We'd better find a place to park before Minneapolis."
"Park?"
"For the night. I don't much like driving at night."
Joe glanced at his watch; just past eight. "Shit, the sun's not going to set for another hour."
Duck shrugged. "If you're in a hurry, you could find another ride, if you want."
Joe looked over, to see if this was a hint, a subtle request for him to get the fuck out, but Duck wasn't even looking at him. His face was calm and blank, like he didn't give a shit if Joe stayed in the truck or not, but there was a weird sort of tension in his voice. It was like he was keeping himself deliberately closed off, like he might explode if he got poked the wrong way, if Joe said the wrong thing. "No, it's okay," Joe said, watching him carefully, but Duck's expression didn't change. "I was just mostly staying in motels, but fuck, it eats your cash, you know?"
Duck nodded, still keeping his eyes on the road ahead. "I've got a mattress in back, and a tarp I rig up like a tent, and we can use my sleeping bag as a blanket. If you don't mind sharing."
"Sure, whatever. I've got a blanket in my duffle." Which he'd ripped off from the last fleabag he'd stayed in, along with a hand towel and the matchbox-sized bar of soap. He'd slept out under it a few nights before getting to Chicago. When he had gigs it was easy; usually the club managers knew someone who'd put him up, or let him crash on a sofa, or he'd find a girl who remembered Hard Core Logo and would let him fuck her and sleep in her bed.
It turned out there was a state forest about halfway between Rochester and Minneapolis. Duck pulled onto a side road when they hit Cannon Falls, and then onto a smaller road, and then, just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, into a dirt pull-out. Joe helped him move his tools and other stuff from the bed back into the cab, and watched as he set up the tarp and the mattress. It was pretty fucking basic, sleeping in the back of a pickup truck, but he wasn't going to argue if it got him a free place to sleep and highway miles in the bank.
Joe sat on the wooden rail and dug out the last of the weed he'd got from Chicago, tamping it into his pipe. "Figure I'd better finish this shit before the border," he said, lighting it and taking a deep drag. He passed it over to Duck, who took it with a faint smile.
Sunset came late and slow in the summer; the sky was shot through with red and gold for long minutes even after the sun had disappeared. Joe watched the clouds slowly fade from bright pink to a dull purple-gray, feeling the lassitude of the dope spread through his limbs. A fucking shame this was the last of it; maybe he could get Duck to stop at the Londoner when they got to Winnipeg, and he could see if Louisa had anything good. She was a lousy fuck but a great bartender, and she always had something, speed or weed or coke.
Duck sat with his back against the truck bed wall and his legs splayed out across the cushions, his eyes closed except when Joe pushed the pipe into his hand. "You know anyone in Winnipeg? Is that why you're going there?"
"Nah," said Duck. He took a puff and handed back the pipe, shut his eyes again.
"You been traveling long?"
"Yeah."
Joe laughed. "Fuck, man, you don't say a hell of a lot, do you. No, yeah, no, yeah. You sure as fuck don't talk for a living."
"Nah," said Duck, but he smiled a little. "Paint stuff. Fix stuff. Whatever someone will pay for."
"Yeah, I saw the toolbox. So you're not on vacation, huh? Working?" Duck nodded. "Why'd you leave Whatthefuck Island, then?"
Duck's face went hard again. "Family problems."
"Fuck, families are always problems," said Joe, but Duck just tilted his head back and blew smoke through his nostrils. "You left for good?"
"Maybe." Duck opened his eyes, looked off into the distance.
"Don't give me that shit," said Joe, sensing a story. "You get some girl knocked up, or something?"
Duck snorted. "Christ, no. That would have been all right. My dad would have just loved to have…" An odd expression crossed his face as he trailed off; shit, thought Joe, that was probably the most words he'd let out of his mouth at one time. Probably didn't know what to do, talking so much.
"Loved to have what?" said Joe.
"Nothing," said Duck, and closed his eyes again.
Joe would have prodded more, but he was feeling too mellow from the pot, which was just about gone. He took a few last deep drags, then regretfully dumped the ashes. Down to just nicotine now, until he got some more.
Time for bed, he guessed; he jumped down from the bed and pissed against a tree, then brushed his teeth with a finger. Duck had a soda bottle half-full of water, and he used some to rinse his mouth. The bottle had been sitting in the truck under the sun all day, so the water was warm and tasted like plastic, but it was better than nothing, and he nodded his thanks as he tossed the bottle back to Duck and swung his leg over the wooden rim of the homemade truck bed.
Duck had made a nice little nest back there. He'd strung the tarp so it would protect them from the rain and trap a little of the day's warmth for the chill hours of early morning, but it was high enough that it didn't seem claustrophobic or smothering, with a pink rim of sky visible nearly all the way around it, a thick sliver of moon peeking through. A pale blue sheet was wrapped roughly around the mattress, and Joe's stolen blanket lay under an unzipped and opened sleeping bag on top; Duck had put Joe's duffel and his own rolled up clothes at one end, as pillows.
Duck had skinned down to underwear and a t-shirt, and Joe did the same, adding his jeans to bulk up his improvised pillow. "I get the right side, huh?"
"We can switch."
"Nah, I'm good," said Joe, crawling under the covers, feeling Duck slide in next to him, a warm presence, strange but familiar. He lay there on his back for a moment and then shifted to his side, propped his head on his hand. "So you gonna let me ride with you all the way to Winnipeg?"
Duck rolled over to look at him, and despite the growing darkness Joe could see the movement of his lips, his quick smile. "Maybe. Maybe Vancouver," he said, and Joe grinned back.
In the morning they disassembled the makeshift bed and drove in to Cannon Falls for coffee and donuts and cigarettes. Duck seemed to have warmed up to him some, Joe thought; maybe it was leftover mellow, or because they'd slept next to each other, or maybe it was just the passage of time, but he seemed a little less shuttered, a little more talkative. He'd left Nova Scotia a few years back, and he'd been on the road ever since, more or less, picking up odd jobs.
"Eight months in Kingston, probably the most I've spent in one place," he said, drinking his coffee. "A couple months in London. Did some work in Ann Arbor, but it's hard to work in the States. You know, legal stuff," he added, waving a hand.
"Yeah, fuckers haven't heard of NAFTA," said Joe, and they both laughed.
On the road north they alternated between conversation and companionable silence. Joe told Duck musician stories, stories about what it was like to be some kind of famous, to strut into a bar like you owned the place and have girls asking you to autograph their tits. He put Hard Knock High into the stereo; he could tell Duck didn't like it but was too polite to say anything, so after a few songs he hit eject and said that maybe he'd play him something on the guitar when they stopped. "A special stop on Joe Dick's Fucking Acoustic Tour, just for you."
Duck didn't talk much, but that was okay. Hell, Joe liked being able to tell his stories without being interrupted. And he liked watching Duck break into a grin at something he'd said, because it was kind of like watching Billy smile, and that was something he hadn't seen in a long time. Not since well before the band broke up.
They hit the border crossing late afternoon, almost into evening. Joe braced himself for shit from the border cops, but they didn't even search the truck. Fucking amazing, he thought; he always got hassled, it didn't seem to matter where he was. Crossing into the US at Detroit had been a nightmare, total pain in the ass. They didn't like his attitude - fuck, he didn't like theirs. But this time the border cops just looked at their driver's licenses, nodded their heads, handed them back and said, "Welcome home." Yeah, two thousand fucking kilometers to go, but it was Canada again, anyway.
Duck fumbled his license one-handed into his wallet as they drove off, and Joe caught sight of it, started laughing. "Your name is Walter? Fucking crazy parents, man, I don't blame you for going by Duck."
Duck shot him a glance. "You call me Walter, I'll break your arms."
"Walter. Shit. If my parents named me Walter, I'd have broken their arms."
"Came fucking close," muttered Duck, and Joe looked sharply over at him. His hands had tightened on the wheel and his face had that set look, like he was hanging onto his control by his fingernails. Joe had decided to start calling him Walter, just to piss him off, just for fun, but seeing that look he reconsidered; maybe Duck would break his arms.
He'd seen that look in his eyes a few times over the past couple of days. Usually it had been when Joe had pushed him a little more about the place he'd come from and why he'd left. That was when Duck got that about-to-explode look; it was always just a flash, short-lived, like Duck tamped it back down into its hiding place and covered it over, went back to his normal shy and quiet. It was at those times that he reminded Joe most of Billy. Maybe it was because it was the same kind of energy that Billy had, that he poured out into his guitar when they played.
They'd filled the tank with the cheaper American gas, but they stopped in Emerson to get sandwiches and chips for dinner, and on impulse Joe bought a twelve-pack of Molson. "To celebrate being back," he said as they got back into the pickup, opening two and handing one to Duck.
"We get stopped, you pay the fine," said Duck, but he drank it down and held out his hand for another before they'd even got to Morris, where they had decided they'd spend the night. That was practically all the way to Winnipeg, but Duck had said it would be easier to find a place to pull off there, before they got into the city, and he was right; there was a small network of dirt roads and flattened areas of grass down near the river, the local party spots, and Duck found a place to park with no difficulty.
They hadn't talked about what would happen the next day, and Joe found himself oddly reluctant to bring up the subject as they sat out on a fallen log next to the truck, drinking beer and eating their chips. Duck hadn't said for sure if he was going to stop and look for work in Winnipeg, or keep going, or what. And for that matter, it wasn't like Joe had to get back to Vancouver right away. He didn't have anything lined up yet back home; he could check out the club scene in Winnipeg, talk to a couple of promoters he knew, maybe get a gig or two.
Not that he had to stay with Duck. And it sounded like Duck stayed around in places longer than Joe did, months instead of weeks, even if they both had itchy feet. But it was nice to ride in Duck's pickup, smoking and looking out the window, and not worry about what kind of asshole would give him his next ride. And yeah, it was nice to be with someone who looked like Billy.
He looked up to see Duck grinning at him. Duck was a hell of a lot looser with three, four beers in him, that was for sure, and Joe grinned back. "What are you looking at?"
"I was wondering if that guitar of yours is just for show," said Duck. He tipped his can into his mouth, leaning his head back and letting the dregs of the beer flow down his throat, and damn, that made him look so much like Billy, his long neck arched, the low red-gold sun glinting in his hair.
Joe slid unsteadily to his feet. "Just you fucking wait," he said, and he went to get his guitar out of the cab.
The sun had set some time ago, although there was still a bit of a glow from the west, and Joe figured it was pretty late. He'd lost track of how many songs he'd played, but his voice was getting hoarse and the beer was gone, nothing but empty crumpled cans in a pile in the bushes. Finally he picked out "shave and a haircut," then put the guitar down, back in the case. "That's all you get for free. Next time you buy the fucking beer." When he stood up he overbalanced for an instant, and Duck laughed.
"You're too drunk to walk, but not too drunk to play guitar, eh?" Duck sounded pretty damn drunk too, his voice harsher and coarser than it had been. All evening, he'd hardly paused between tossing one can into the bushes and opening the next.
"Fuck you, cunt, I can play in my fucking sleep," muttered Joe, but he was feeling the beer as he made his way back to the truck cab to put away the guitar, and when he stumbled out into the woods to piss he took long, deep breaths of the cooling air.
It had been good to play just for Duck, kind of like he was playing for himself, not for an audience. But he missed playing with the band. Working on a new song with the guys, making it come together. The jitters before the show, the horsing around on stage, and Christ, he missed that sweet moment when everyone was hitting hard and the notes were blending perfectly, hammering into the audience, sweeping them to their feet.
He missed Billy.
That was really what it came down to, because they were the heart of the band, he and Billy, the fucking heart of Hard Core Logo. It had been that way since forever, and he'd thought it was going to be forever, him and Billy, except Billy went too far with his fucking dreams of being a star, and then Joe went too far, and it all went to shit. They were so fucking polite to each other except when they were pounding each other's goddamned faces in, and that wasn't going to work, they all knew that, so when John said something about needing to take some time to get his head together, and Billy looked off into the distance and said he thought a musician couldn't really get anywhere if he stayed in Canada, Joe hadn't fought it. He'd let it happen. Fine, he'd said. Fuck that shit. Sayonara, Hard Core Logo.
But Vancouver hadn't been the same without the band, without Billy. He'd dicked around with a couple of other musicians, looking to put together another group but it didn't seem right. The energy wasn't there. And there was no fucking way he'd hook up with someone else's band, take a backseat to some asshole frontman; yeah, he had an ego, so what? He'd told people that he was doing a little solo touring because he couldn't stay away from performing, because Joe Dick was who he was. But the truth was that it had been a kind of exile, and he was fucking sick of it. It was time to go home.
Fuck Winnipeg, he decided as he zipped up his jeans. He had to get back to Vancouver, get the band back together, because this sucked, this was shit, this wasn't going to work, no fucking way. He had to get hold of Billy, make him understand that it wouldn't be right, it wouldn't be the same, he couldn't go off and play with another band because Billy was Hard Core Logo, it was in his bones and in his blood and he just fucking belonged there with Joe. They belonged together, forever, and Billy would get it; he just had to make him understand.
He made his way back to the truck and it took him two tries to climb up into the bed, stupid fucking high tailgate, and then pulling his clothes off was harder than it was supposed to be because he was so fucked up, the truck was spinning under his feet and he banged around a little, bumped into Billy, who put out a warm hand to steady him and said, "Take it easy."
"Sorry, Billy," he slurred, wriggling under the covers, up against Billy's warmth, and then Billy turned over and looked at him oddly, and it wasn't Billy. Right, dickhead. "Duck, yeah, right."
"Who's Billy?"
"Guy in my band. Friend of mine."
"Good friend?" There was an odd inflection in Duck's voice, a sort of wistful warmth, like he was missing someone too.
"Yeah, good friend," Joe said, and then it all seemed to hit him all at once, a dizzy wave of missing home and missing the band and missing Billy, and it spilled out in an unstoppable flood. Fuck, he was almost crying, telling Duck about him and Billy when they were fifteen, about putting together the band, touring together, about their first record and going out and getting trashed because they were just so high on it. About Billy's ambition pushing them, making Hard Core Logo what it became. About partying late nights after a show, the girls that came and went but it was always him and Billy, together, giving the rest of the world the finger.
He knew he was babbling, but he didn't care; alcohol always did this to him, made him feel sentimental and loose-limbed, made him want to drape himself over Billy and tell him ridiculous things. It was like being in a confessional, not that he'd done that since he was a kid, and he'd almost forgotten Duck was there until he'd blurted it out, that he'd fucked it all up when he'd fucked Billy, and he heard the indrawn breath next to him.
"Shit," he said. Come on, dickhead; backpedal, save it. "That wasn't what it sounded like. I mean, it's not like I'm a faggot or something."
With one swift motion Duck rolled up against him, pushed him up against the wooden truck-bed wall, pinned him there. He could feel the heat from Duck's hands right through his t-shirt, strong fingers hard against his collarbone, pushing, squeezing. In the pale moonlight Duck's eyes were all pupil, and the intensity in those eyes made Joe shiver and shrink back against the rough wooden wall. This was it, the beast uncaged. Fuck.
Duck leaned in close, and Joe smelled the beer on his breath underneath the sweet mint of his toothpaste. "Matter of fact, I happen to be a 'faggot or something,'" he said harshly, and the bottom dropped out of Joe's stomach. "You got a problem with that?"
Fuck, no, he didn't have a problem with that, because Duck's body was pressed up against his, hot and strong, and his dick jumped to attention like it had been waiting for an opportunity. Because it was Duck's body, but Billy's face in the dim light, Billy's energy shining out of those intense eyes.
And Duck must have felt his involuntary response, because his lips curved up in a bare hint of a smile. "Hell, no, you don't have a problem, do you."
"Fuck," whispered Joe, his throat suddenly dry. He was bigger than Duck, he could throw him off, probably. But his dick was hard, and Duck's words just made him harder, and when Duck ground against him roughly Joe's hands went of their own accord to Duck's hips and pulled him in.
"Yeah, you like that," Duck said, and he reached down to tug off Joe's underwear. As it slid below his knees Joe felt like he had a rope around his legs, tying them together, and he panicked for a moment, scrabbling at Duck's arms.
"Hey," he started, and Duck looked down at him, his eyes hard.
"Shut up. You want this or not?"
And Christ, he wasn't sure if Duck would stop if he asked. Duck had alcohol in his blood and that crazed gleam in his eye that made Joe's breath catch, made him think of Billy, high and triumphant after a concert. Duck gave his underwear one more tug, pulling it off; then Duck's big hand wrapped around his dick and fuck, yeah, he wanted this.
With a groan he acquiesced, gave himself up to Duck's hands - Billy's hands, he thought to himself, it might as well be Billy's hands stroking his dick and sliding across his ass. Billy's cock moving against his thigh, hard and insistent. Maybe it was Duck who rolled away for a moment and came back with lube and a rubber, but it was Billy who pushed his legs apart, Billy whose slick fingers prodded at his ass.
He tensed; he couldn't help it, the idea of a finger, hell, anything up his asshole freaked him out, but he'd done it to Billy, and so it was only right that Billy do it to him. That was what he needed to cancel it all out, to make it right, so he forced himself to breathe and let the fingers slip into him. In and out. Christ, it felt weird; kind of good, but kind of weird, and he wondered if it had felt good for Billy at all.
"Yeah, that's it," muttered Duck, and that made it all come crashing down again, because it was Duck's voice, not Billy's. Joe tensed again. "Come on, take it easy."
"You gonna talk, or you gonna fuck me?" Joe said, and Duck laughed and nodded and moved his fingers a little more.
"Anytime," said Duck. He gave one more thrust with his fingers, then pulled them away and gave his own dick a few strokes with the lube; Joe let his eyes go out of focus just enough so it was Billy again, stroking himself and looking at him with a lazy grin, Billy leaning over him and shoving his legs apart, Billy thrusting into him, grunting wordlessly, and it hurt like fuck but that was okay because it was Billy, Billy, Billy.
Joe reached out to grasp at Billy's hips and pull him in closer, harder, because it wasn't an apology if it didn't hurt to make it, it wasn't redemption if he didn't go through the fire. Billy had already ripped his heart out when he left the band; he had nothing else to offer but his body. When Billy pried Joe's hand from his hip and moved it to his dick, wrapped Joe's fingers around it, Joe shook his head, grabbed Billy's hip again.
He could feel the electricity jolting into him, the pain transforming into something else, something that felt dangerously good even as it burned, and he slid his hands around to cup Billy's ass, urging him to move even faster. This is me and Billy, he thought, this is Billy fucking me, this is Billy going to come because of me. Billy was breathing hard, great gasping ragged breaths, and his mouth fell open and his eyes squeezed shut as he slammed once, twice, three times hard into Joe's ass and then held there, shuddering as he came.
After a moment Joe squirmed toward the edge of the mattress, trying to get away from the weight of the body on top of him and the discomfort in his ass. "Hey, you okay?" said a voice in his ear; it was Duck again, his voice thick and sleepy, and suddenly Joe couldn't breathe until Duck rolled off him and moved to the side.
"Yeah," said Joe, pushing away Duck's hand when it reached for his half-hard dick. Sliding off the mattress, he reached up to grab the top of the wooden rail and pulled himself awkwardly to his feet. "I'm fine." Then he leaned out, sticking his head between the tarp and the side of the truck, and threw up.
His head hurt like a motherfucker when he woke up, far too early in the morning. The sun was already well above the horizon and slanting through the trees, rays of light like knifeblades in his skull; he wondered if Duck had any aspirin. Duck was still sleeping the sleep of the righteous, his head tucked half-under a flannel shirt that had come loose from the roll of clothes that made up his pillow, and Joe was careful not to disturb him as he slipped out from under the covers, stuffed his clothes into his duffel bag, and stepped down out of the truck bed.
He didn't find any aspirin in the cab, but there was a liter bottle behind his seat with a couple swallows' worth of flat ginger ale left in the bottom and he drank it down. It helped the headache a little, and at least it got the horrible taste of his own vomit out of his mouth. Taking the hand towel and soap from his duffel, he lit a cigarette and walked down to the edge of the river; he'd just been planning to wash his face, but the twinge in his ass reminded him of what he'd done last night, so he stripped off his t-shirt and waded into the shallows.
The water was swift and ice-cold, so he stayed by the edge and splashed it up onto his body, scrubbing it as quickly as he could with the soap before splashing more cold water to rinse it off. What he needed was a real shower, and to shave the lengthening stubble off his face so he didn't look like a bum, so maybe someone would pick him up when he stuck out his thumb. Maybe tonight he'd splurge a little, get a motel room. For now the river would do to wash the traces of Duck from his skin.
It had been easy to pretend that Duck was Billy, in the moonlit darkness with his senses blurred by the beer. But that was the whole fucking problem, wasn't it: you could do anything at night except remember that the sunrise was inevitable, that the harsh light of day would come no matter what you did to avoid it. You always forgot how shitty you felt the last time you had a hangover, the last time you got drunk, the last time you woke up in bed with a stranger and no fucking idea of how you got there.
Fucking asshole, he thought, rubbing himself dry almost savagely with his small towel. He could smash Duck's head in with his own fucking toolbox while he slept, roll him out of the truck bed and into the mud, take the goddamned truck and drive himself to Vancouver. He could do it. Fuck, he should do it, that would show him. Asshole.
He used his dirty t-shirt to clean the mud from his feet as he put his clothes back on and lit another cigarette. He could get back home in two days if he drove fast and didn't stop a lot; fuck, if Louisa was still running the Londoner in Winnipeg, he could score some speed from her and then he wouldn't need to stop at all.
But when he got back to the truck, Duck was already up and dressed, putting the truck in order. He looked up as Joe approached; he was as bleary-looking as Joe felt, his eyes red and his face creased.
"Sorry," Duck mumbled, looking somewhere over Joe's left shoulder. He lifted a hand to his face, rubbed his eyes. "Didn't mean to…I get a little crazy sometimes when I drink." He met Joe's eyes for a moment, then looked at the ground. "I should probably give it up."
Joe shrugged and blew out a puff of smoke. "It's okay." It was easier to lie than to let out the anger, with Duck up and not-quite-looking at him, embarrassment and remorse coming off him in nearly palpable waves. It was too fucking hard to look at Duck, anyway, because he looked like Billy and he wasn't Billy and it didn't make any sense, it was fucking ridiculous. He didn't want to think about it. It didn't matter. And if he did anything, if he hauled off and hit the asshole right in the face, it would feel good, yeah, but it would make what had happened meaningful in a way it shouldn't be. Duck was acting like he almost wanted to get hit, and fuck him, Joe wasn't going to give him a goddamned thing. Maybe if he just kept his mouth shut and got in the truck, it would all flow away like the river, going somewhere else, dead memories that didn't mean anything to anyone.
When they'd pulled out to the main road in Morris Duck offered to buy him breakfast; it was obviously another apology, but Joe didn't give a shit. He looked out the window, lit another cigarette. He wasn't hungry anyway.
It was twenty minutes of thick silence until they got to the Perimeter Highway. "You can drop me here," Joe said, and Duck pulled over.
He got his bag from the truck bed, and Duck handed out his guitar. "Good luck."
"Yeah, you too," said Joe. He watched the truck pull away, Canada's Ocean Playground driving across the prairie. Then he put out his thumb and started walking west, to Vancouver, and Billy, and home.
Hard Core Logo / Wilby Wonderful: Joe/Duck, Joe/Billy, NC17, 6500 words
Summary: Joe will take redemption any way he can get it. Warning for murky consent issues.
Written for highwaymiles prompt #223: Duck McDonald picks up a hitchhiking Joe Dick (during Duck's off-island years, while Billy was away from the band). Thanks to malnpudl and sageness for beta above and beyond, and to lamardeuse for Canadiana. Set pre-movie for both, so no real spoilers.
Now also on my website: Out of Exile
Iowa sucked. It had been easy enough to get there - the college boy who'd picked him up outside Chicago had taken him all the way to Dubuque - but trying to get out was another thing entirely. An hour of sticking his thumb out and he'd taken the first ride offered, from a couple who'd anxiously said they were only going to Prairie du Chien but they'd drop him at the intersection of US18 if that was okay, and he'd said sure, fine. But now Joe knew why they had been so fucking apologetic about it, because he was in the goddamned middle of nowhere, the late-June sun beating down on him relentlessly, and the only vehicles going by were semis and tractors, and he was probably going to die in fucking Iowa at this rate.
Fucking Americans and their fucking tractors, Joe thought, and when a pickup truck with a wooden bed pulled off the road ahead of him it seemed like the funniest goddamn cosmic joke in the world to see a Nova Scotia plate on it, Canada's Ocean Playground in the middle of cornfields and silos, about as far from the ocean - either one - as you could get. He'd have said something about it, too, as he opened the passenger door to ask if it was okay if he put his guitar in the back of the cab, he'd throw his duffel in the bed, but one look at the driver and all speech left him.
Holy shit, he thought. It's Billy.
It wasn't Billy, of course it wasn't Billy, Billy was still in Vancouver or maybe Seattle or maybe fucking L.A., looking for fame, trying to become a star. Billy wasn't driving a beat-up homebrew pickup with Canada's Ocean Playground plates, crap country music playing on the FM just loud enough to be heard over the engine. And when the driver turned his head a little and said, soft and low, "You want to get in?" he could see it wasn't Billy, but Jesus fuck, he looked a whole lot like him.
Stop staring, dickhead, Joe told himself firmly. He held up his guitar and gestured to the space behind the seats. "Can I put this inside?"
"Sure," said not-Billy. "Let me get some of this stuff out of your way." He slid out of the driver's seat and leaned it forward, then lifted things out of the back - clothes, some cans of paint, a toolbox - and swung them into the bed with easy motions. He wore a t-shirt and paint-spattered jeans, and Joe couldn't keep his eyes off the way the muscles in his arms flexed as he worked. Muscles in his biceps rather than his forearms, the kind you got from heavy lifting and hard labor rather than the kind you got playing a guitar. Not like Billy's wiry arms.
And his hair was shorter, and his voice was softer, and this wasn't Billy come to haunt him, to remind him of all his fucking mistakes. This was an angel from heaven, sent to rescue him from the shithole that was Iowa, and it was only a coincidence that he looked a hell of a lot like Billy.
Joe deliberately placed the guitar case in the back so that the maple leaf sticker was facing out, so that the driver would see it, and sure enough when they were both in the truck and the driver pulled back out onto the road, not-Billy said, "Saw the leaf on your guitar. You're Canadian too?"
"Yeah. Going back home to Vancouver. I don't suppose you're headed that way?"
"Not headed anywhere in particular. Winnipeg, maybe. Maybe Vancouver, I don't know." He gave Joe a quick, assessing look, a shy glance from under long lashes.
"But you're from Nova Scotia?"
"Yeah. An island off the coast, actually. Wilby, you probably never heard of it." The lines of his jaw tightened when he said it, although his voice never lost its casual tone.
"Nah," said Joe. "I didn't get that far east, anyway. Shit, Montreal was bad enough, all the fucking French. Nobody wanted to book me unless I'd sing Deux Autres Bières." The driver's response was a wordless grunt, and Joe could see the barest hint of a smile curving at the edge of his lips.
"What do you sing?"
"Used to be in a punk band, broke up a few years ago. Hard Core Logo." He waited a beat, to see if the guy said something. It was obvious he hadn't, but it was still depressing as fuck to get that blank look. "You probably never heard of it."
Not-Billy shook his head. "Sorry, no. Not my kind of music."
Yeah, he could fucking well tell that from the shit on the radio. At least it wasn't turned up loud enough for him to have to listen to the lyrics, my dog left me and my heart broke in two, all that crap. "My name's Joe," he offered, more because he wanted to hear the driver's name than for any other reason. Wanted to hear that it wasn't Billy.
And it wasn't: "I'm Duck," he said, and it took Joe a moment to process, because not only wasn't it Billy, it wasn't a fucking name. When it hit him, he said the first thing that came to mind, which was, "Well, fuck a duck," with a laugh, but Duck didn't laugh. Joe didn't want to make an enemy of the guy, not if he was going to work the ride as far as he could, get the fuck out of Iowa, so he shrugged and said, "Guess you get that a lot."
"A fair bit," said Duck, and Joe figured it would be best to just shut up for a while, so he slouched in his seat and watched the farmland go by.
Minnesota didn't look a whole lot different from Iowa. Joe asked if Duck minded if he smoked, which of course he knew Duck wouldn't because the pickup cab smelled of it, and anyway he could see Duck's cigarettes in a crumpled pack on the floor by the gearshift. Then Duck asked him if he'd mind handing him a cigarette, if he was going to get them out, and Joe lit him one of his own and passed it over, and whatever discomfort was left between them dissipated with the smoke as it drifted out the windows.
But Duck wasn't much of a talker, so Joe did a lot of looking at the incredibly boring lack of scenery and writing lyrics in his head, rhyming fuck and duck and truck, Minnesota sucks, getting low on bucks. From time to time he snuck glances at Duck (snuck a fuck, in a truck) and thought about Billy. About fucking Billy; the tape loop in his head that kept playing over and over again. Which by itself would have been okay, except for all the fucking baggage it brought with it, the tension and the fight and the pretending everything was normal except it wasn't, the invisible barriers that hung in the air between them from that day on. It was almost relaxing, though, to look at Billy's face without looking at Billy, to think about the good stuff and not have to deal with the fallout, so his eyes strayed toward Duck again and again.
Duck stopped in Rochester for fuel and Joe paid without being asked and without asking about it; that was the code of the road as far as he was concerned, even though Duck smiled and shook his head, saying, "You don't have to do that." They each bought their own sandwiches and soda pop and more cigarettes, and when they got back into the truck Duck rummaged under his seat and came up with a map, which he tossed into Joe's lap. "We'd better find a place to park before Minneapolis."
"Park?"
"For the night. I don't much like driving at night."
Joe glanced at his watch; just past eight. "Shit, the sun's not going to set for another hour."
Duck shrugged. "If you're in a hurry, you could find another ride, if you want."
Joe looked over, to see if this was a hint, a subtle request for him to get the fuck out, but Duck wasn't even looking at him. His face was calm and blank, like he didn't give a shit if Joe stayed in the truck or not, but there was a weird sort of tension in his voice. It was like he was keeping himself deliberately closed off, like he might explode if he got poked the wrong way, if Joe said the wrong thing. "No, it's okay," Joe said, watching him carefully, but Duck's expression didn't change. "I was just mostly staying in motels, but fuck, it eats your cash, you know?"
Duck nodded, still keeping his eyes on the road ahead. "I've got a mattress in back, and a tarp I rig up like a tent, and we can use my sleeping bag as a blanket. If you don't mind sharing."
"Sure, whatever. I've got a blanket in my duffle." Which he'd ripped off from the last fleabag he'd stayed in, along with a hand towel and the matchbox-sized bar of soap. He'd slept out under it a few nights before getting to Chicago. When he had gigs it was easy; usually the club managers knew someone who'd put him up, or let him crash on a sofa, or he'd find a girl who remembered Hard Core Logo and would let him fuck her and sleep in her bed.
It turned out there was a state forest about halfway between Rochester and Minneapolis. Duck pulled onto a side road when they hit Cannon Falls, and then onto a smaller road, and then, just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, into a dirt pull-out. Joe helped him move his tools and other stuff from the bed back into the cab, and watched as he set up the tarp and the mattress. It was pretty fucking basic, sleeping in the back of a pickup truck, but he wasn't going to argue if it got him a free place to sleep and highway miles in the bank.
Joe sat on the wooden rail and dug out the last of the weed he'd got from Chicago, tamping it into his pipe. "Figure I'd better finish this shit before the border," he said, lighting it and taking a deep drag. He passed it over to Duck, who took it with a faint smile.
Sunset came late and slow in the summer; the sky was shot through with red and gold for long minutes even after the sun had disappeared. Joe watched the clouds slowly fade from bright pink to a dull purple-gray, feeling the lassitude of the dope spread through his limbs. A fucking shame this was the last of it; maybe he could get Duck to stop at the Londoner when they got to Winnipeg, and he could see if Louisa had anything good. She was a lousy fuck but a great bartender, and she always had something, speed or weed or coke.
Duck sat with his back against the truck bed wall and his legs splayed out across the cushions, his eyes closed except when Joe pushed the pipe into his hand. "You know anyone in Winnipeg? Is that why you're going there?"
"Nah," said Duck. He took a puff and handed back the pipe, shut his eyes again.
"You been traveling long?"
"Yeah."
Joe laughed. "Fuck, man, you don't say a hell of a lot, do you. No, yeah, no, yeah. You sure as fuck don't talk for a living."
"Nah," said Duck, but he smiled a little. "Paint stuff. Fix stuff. Whatever someone will pay for."
"Yeah, I saw the toolbox. So you're not on vacation, huh? Working?" Duck nodded. "Why'd you leave Whatthefuck Island, then?"
Duck's face went hard again. "Family problems."
"Fuck, families are always problems," said Joe, but Duck just tilted his head back and blew smoke through his nostrils. "You left for good?"
"Maybe." Duck opened his eyes, looked off into the distance.
"Don't give me that shit," said Joe, sensing a story. "You get some girl knocked up, or something?"
Duck snorted. "Christ, no. That would have been all right. My dad would have just loved to have…" An odd expression crossed his face as he trailed off; shit, thought Joe, that was probably the most words he'd let out of his mouth at one time. Probably didn't know what to do, talking so much.
"Loved to have what?" said Joe.
"Nothing," said Duck, and closed his eyes again.
Joe would have prodded more, but he was feeling too mellow from the pot, which was just about gone. He took a few last deep drags, then regretfully dumped the ashes. Down to just nicotine now, until he got some more.
Time for bed, he guessed; he jumped down from the bed and pissed against a tree, then brushed his teeth with a finger. Duck had a soda bottle half-full of water, and he used some to rinse his mouth. The bottle had been sitting in the truck under the sun all day, so the water was warm and tasted like plastic, but it was better than nothing, and he nodded his thanks as he tossed the bottle back to Duck and swung his leg over the wooden rim of the homemade truck bed.
Duck had made a nice little nest back there. He'd strung the tarp so it would protect them from the rain and trap a little of the day's warmth for the chill hours of early morning, but it was high enough that it didn't seem claustrophobic or smothering, with a pink rim of sky visible nearly all the way around it, a thick sliver of moon peeking through. A pale blue sheet was wrapped roughly around the mattress, and Joe's stolen blanket lay under an unzipped and opened sleeping bag on top; Duck had put Joe's duffel and his own rolled up clothes at one end, as pillows.
Duck had skinned down to underwear and a t-shirt, and Joe did the same, adding his jeans to bulk up his improvised pillow. "I get the right side, huh?"
"We can switch."
"Nah, I'm good," said Joe, crawling under the covers, feeling Duck slide in next to him, a warm presence, strange but familiar. He lay there on his back for a moment and then shifted to his side, propped his head on his hand. "So you gonna let me ride with you all the way to Winnipeg?"
Duck rolled over to look at him, and despite the growing darkness Joe could see the movement of his lips, his quick smile. "Maybe. Maybe Vancouver," he said, and Joe grinned back.
In the morning they disassembled the makeshift bed and drove in to Cannon Falls for coffee and donuts and cigarettes. Duck seemed to have warmed up to him some, Joe thought; maybe it was leftover mellow, or because they'd slept next to each other, or maybe it was just the passage of time, but he seemed a little less shuttered, a little more talkative. He'd left Nova Scotia a few years back, and he'd been on the road ever since, more or less, picking up odd jobs.
"Eight months in Kingston, probably the most I've spent in one place," he said, drinking his coffee. "A couple months in London. Did some work in Ann Arbor, but it's hard to work in the States. You know, legal stuff," he added, waving a hand.
"Yeah, fuckers haven't heard of NAFTA," said Joe, and they both laughed.
On the road north they alternated between conversation and companionable silence. Joe told Duck musician stories, stories about what it was like to be some kind of famous, to strut into a bar like you owned the place and have girls asking you to autograph their tits. He put Hard Knock High into the stereo; he could tell Duck didn't like it but was too polite to say anything, so after a few songs he hit eject and said that maybe he'd play him something on the guitar when they stopped. "A special stop on Joe Dick's Fucking Acoustic Tour, just for you."
Duck didn't talk much, but that was okay. Hell, Joe liked being able to tell his stories without being interrupted. And he liked watching Duck break into a grin at something he'd said, because it was kind of like watching Billy smile, and that was something he hadn't seen in a long time. Not since well before the band broke up.
They hit the border crossing late afternoon, almost into evening. Joe braced himself for shit from the border cops, but they didn't even search the truck. Fucking amazing, he thought; he always got hassled, it didn't seem to matter where he was. Crossing into the US at Detroit had been a nightmare, total pain in the ass. They didn't like his attitude - fuck, he didn't like theirs. But this time the border cops just looked at their driver's licenses, nodded their heads, handed them back and said, "Welcome home." Yeah, two thousand fucking kilometers to go, but it was Canada again, anyway.
Duck fumbled his license one-handed into his wallet as they drove off, and Joe caught sight of it, started laughing. "Your name is Walter? Fucking crazy parents, man, I don't blame you for going by Duck."
Duck shot him a glance. "You call me Walter, I'll break your arms."
"Walter. Shit. If my parents named me Walter, I'd have broken their arms."
"Came fucking close," muttered Duck, and Joe looked sharply over at him. His hands had tightened on the wheel and his face had that set look, like he was hanging onto his control by his fingernails. Joe had decided to start calling him Walter, just to piss him off, just for fun, but seeing that look he reconsidered; maybe Duck would break his arms.
He'd seen that look in his eyes a few times over the past couple of days. Usually it had been when Joe had pushed him a little more about the place he'd come from and why he'd left. That was when Duck got that about-to-explode look; it was always just a flash, short-lived, like Duck tamped it back down into its hiding place and covered it over, went back to his normal shy and quiet. It was at those times that he reminded Joe most of Billy. Maybe it was because it was the same kind of energy that Billy had, that he poured out into his guitar when they played.
They'd filled the tank with the cheaper American gas, but they stopped in Emerson to get sandwiches and chips for dinner, and on impulse Joe bought a twelve-pack of Molson. "To celebrate being back," he said as they got back into the pickup, opening two and handing one to Duck.
"We get stopped, you pay the fine," said Duck, but he drank it down and held out his hand for another before they'd even got to Morris, where they had decided they'd spend the night. That was practically all the way to Winnipeg, but Duck had said it would be easier to find a place to pull off there, before they got into the city, and he was right; there was a small network of dirt roads and flattened areas of grass down near the river, the local party spots, and Duck found a place to park with no difficulty.
They hadn't talked about what would happen the next day, and Joe found himself oddly reluctant to bring up the subject as they sat out on a fallen log next to the truck, drinking beer and eating their chips. Duck hadn't said for sure if he was going to stop and look for work in Winnipeg, or keep going, or what. And for that matter, it wasn't like Joe had to get back to Vancouver right away. He didn't have anything lined up yet back home; he could check out the club scene in Winnipeg, talk to a couple of promoters he knew, maybe get a gig or two.
Not that he had to stay with Duck. And it sounded like Duck stayed around in places longer than Joe did, months instead of weeks, even if they both had itchy feet. But it was nice to ride in Duck's pickup, smoking and looking out the window, and not worry about what kind of asshole would give him his next ride. And yeah, it was nice to be with someone who looked like Billy.
He looked up to see Duck grinning at him. Duck was a hell of a lot looser with three, four beers in him, that was for sure, and Joe grinned back. "What are you looking at?"
"I was wondering if that guitar of yours is just for show," said Duck. He tipped his can into his mouth, leaning his head back and letting the dregs of the beer flow down his throat, and damn, that made him look so much like Billy, his long neck arched, the low red-gold sun glinting in his hair.
Joe slid unsteadily to his feet. "Just you fucking wait," he said, and he went to get his guitar out of the cab.
The sun had set some time ago, although there was still a bit of a glow from the west, and Joe figured it was pretty late. He'd lost track of how many songs he'd played, but his voice was getting hoarse and the beer was gone, nothing but empty crumpled cans in a pile in the bushes. Finally he picked out "shave and a haircut," then put the guitar down, back in the case. "That's all you get for free. Next time you buy the fucking beer." When he stood up he overbalanced for an instant, and Duck laughed.
"You're too drunk to walk, but not too drunk to play guitar, eh?" Duck sounded pretty damn drunk too, his voice harsher and coarser than it had been. All evening, he'd hardly paused between tossing one can into the bushes and opening the next.
"Fuck you, cunt, I can play in my fucking sleep," muttered Joe, but he was feeling the beer as he made his way back to the truck cab to put away the guitar, and when he stumbled out into the woods to piss he took long, deep breaths of the cooling air.
It had been good to play just for Duck, kind of like he was playing for himself, not for an audience. But he missed playing with the band. Working on a new song with the guys, making it come together. The jitters before the show, the horsing around on stage, and Christ, he missed that sweet moment when everyone was hitting hard and the notes were blending perfectly, hammering into the audience, sweeping them to their feet.
He missed Billy.
That was really what it came down to, because they were the heart of the band, he and Billy, the fucking heart of Hard Core Logo. It had been that way since forever, and he'd thought it was going to be forever, him and Billy, except Billy went too far with his fucking dreams of being a star, and then Joe went too far, and it all went to shit. They were so fucking polite to each other except when they were pounding each other's goddamned faces in, and that wasn't going to work, they all knew that, so when John said something about needing to take some time to get his head together, and Billy looked off into the distance and said he thought a musician couldn't really get anywhere if he stayed in Canada, Joe hadn't fought it. He'd let it happen. Fine, he'd said. Fuck that shit. Sayonara, Hard Core Logo.
But Vancouver hadn't been the same without the band, without Billy. He'd dicked around with a couple of other musicians, looking to put together another group but it didn't seem right. The energy wasn't there. And there was no fucking way he'd hook up with someone else's band, take a backseat to some asshole frontman; yeah, he had an ego, so what? He'd told people that he was doing a little solo touring because he couldn't stay away from performing, because Joe Dick was who he was. But the truth was that it had been a kind of exile, and he was fucking sick of it. It was time to go home.
Fuck Winnipeg, he decided as he zipped up his jeans. He had to get back to Vancouver, get the band back together, because this sucked, this was shit, this wasn't going to work, no fucking way. He had to get hold of Billy, make him understand that it wouldn't be right, it wouldn't be the same, he couldn't go off and play with another band because Billy was Hard Core Logo, it was in his bones and in his blood and he just fucking belonged there with Joe. They belonged together, forever, and Billy would get it; he just had to make him understand.
He made his way back to the truck and it took him two tries to climb up into the bed, stupid fucking high tailgate, and then pulling his clothes off was harder than it was supposed to be because he was so fucked up, the truck was spinning under his feet and he banged around a little, bumped into Billy, who put out a warm hand to steady him and said, "Take it easy."
"Sorry, Billy," he slurred, wriggling under the covers, up against Billy's warmth, and then Billy turned over and looked at him oddly, and it wasn't Billy. Right, dickhead. "Duck, yeah, right."
"Who's Billy?"
"Guy in my band. Friend of mine."
"Good friend?" There was an odd inflection in Duck's voice, a sort of wistful warmth, like he was missing someone too.
"Yeah, good friend," Joe said, and then it all seemed to hit him all at once, a dizzy wave of missing home and missing the band and missing Billy, and it spilled out in an unstoppable flood. Fuck, he was almost crying, telling Duck about him and Billy when they were fifteen, about putting together the band, touring together, about their first record and going out and getting trashed because they were just so high on it. About Billy's ambition pushing them, making Hard Core Logo what it became. About partying late nights after a show, the girls that came and went but it was always him and Billy, together, giving the rest of the world the finger.
He knew he was babbling, but he didn't care; alcohol always did this to him, made him feel sentimental and loose-limbed, made him want to drape himself over Billy and tell him ridiculous things. It was like being in a confessional, not that he'd done that since he was a kid, and he'd almost forgotten Duck was there until he'd blurted it out, that he'd fucked it all up when he'd fucked Billy, and he heard the indrawn breath next to him.
"Shit," he said. Come on, dickhead; backpedal, save it. "That wasn't what it sounded like. I mean, it's not like I'm a faggot or something."
With one swift motion Duck rolled up against him, pushed him up against the wooden truck-bed wall, pinned him there. He could feel the heat from Duck's hands right through his t-shirt, strong fingers hard against his collarbone, pushing, squeezing. In the pale moonlight Duck's eyes were all pupil, and the intensity in those eyes made Joe shiver and shrink back against the rough wooden wall. This was it, the beast uncaged. Fuck.
Duck leaned in close, and Joe smelled the beer on his breath underneath the sweet mint of his toothpaste. "Matter of fact, I happen to be a 'faggot or something,'" he said harshly, and the bottom dropped out of Joe's stomach. "You got a problem with that?"
Fuck, no, he didn't have a problem with that, because Duck's body was pressed up against his, hot and strong, and his dick jumped to attention like it had been waiting for an opportunity. Because it was Duck's body, but Billy's face in the dim light, Billy's energy shining out of those intense eyes.
And Duck must have felt his involuntary response, because his lips curved up in a bare hint of a smile. "Hell, no, you don't have a problem, do you."
"Fuck," whispered Joe, his throat suddenly dry. He was bigger than Duck, he could throw him off, probably. But his dick was hard, and Duck's words just made him harder, and when Duck ground against him roughly Joe's hands went of their own accord to Duck's hips and pulled him in.
"Yeah, you like that," Duck said, and he reached down to tug off Joe's underwear. As it slid below his knees Joe felt like he had a rope around his legs, tying them together, and he panicked for a moment, scrabbling at Duck's arms.
"Hey," he started, and Duck looked down at him, his eyes hard.
"Shut up. You want this or not?"
And Christ, he wasn't sure if Duck would stop if he asked. Duck had alcohol in his blood and that crazed gleam in his eye that made Joe's breath catch, made him think of Billy, high and triumphant after a concert. Duck gave his underwear one more tug, pulling it off; then Duck's big hand wrapped around his dick and fuck, yeah, he wanted this.
With a groan he acquiesced, gave himself up to Duck's hands - Billy's hands, he thought to himself, it might as well be Billy's hands stroking his dick and sliding across his ass. Billy's cock moving against his thigh, hard and insistent. Maybe it was Duck who rolled away for a moment and came back with lube and a rubber, but it was Billy who pushed his legs apart, Billy whose slick fingers prodded at his ass.
He tensed; he couldn't help it, the idea of a finger, hell, anything up his asshole freaked him out, but he'd done it to Billy, and so it was only right that Billy do it to him. That was what he needed to cancel it all out, to make it right, so he forced himself to breathe and let the fingers slip into him. In and out. Christ, it felt weird; kind of good, but kind of weird, and he wondered if it had felt good for Billy at all.
"Yeah, that's it," muttered Duck, and that made it all come crashing down again, because it was Duck's voice, not Billy's. Joe tensed again. "Come on, take it easy."
"You gonna talk, or you gonna fuck me?" Joe said, and Duck laughed and nodded and moved his fingers a little more.
"Anytime," said Duck. He gave one more thrust with his fingers, then pulled them away and gave his own dick a few strokes with the lube; Joe let his eyes go out of focus just enough so it was Billy again, stroking himself and looking at him with a lazy grin, Billy leaning over him and shoving his legs apart, Billy thrusting into him, grunting wordlessly, and it hurt like fuck but that was okay because it was Billy, Billy, Billy.
Joe reached out to grasp at Billy's hips and pull him in closer, harder, because it wasn't an apology if it didn't hurt to make it, it wasn't redemption if he didn't go through the fire. Billy had already ripped his heart out when he left the band; he had nothing else to offer but his body. When Billy pried Joe's hand from his hip and moved it to his dick, wrapped Joe's fingers around it, Joe shook his head, grabbed Billy's hip again.
He could feel the electricity jolting into him, the pain transforming into something else, something that felt dangerously good even as it burned, and he slid his hands around to cup Billy's ass, urging him to move even faster. This is me and Billy, he thought, this is Billy fucking me, this is Billy going to come because of me. Billy was breathing hard, great gasping ragged breaths, and his mouth fell open and his eyes squeezed shut as he slammed once, twice, three times hard into Joe's ass and then held there, shuddering as he came.
After a moment Joe squirmed toward the edge of the mattress, trying to get away from the weight of the body on top of him and the discomfort in his ass. "Hey, you okay?" said a voice in his ear; it was Duck again, his voice thick and sleepy, and suddenly Joe couldn't breathe until Duck rolled off him and moved to the side.
"Yeah," said Joe, pushing away Duck's hand when it reached for his half-hard dick. Sliding off the mattress, he reached up to grab the top of the wooden rail and pulled himself awkwardly to his feet. "I'm fine." Then he leaned out, sticking his head between the tarp and the side of the truck, and threw up.
His head hurt like a motherfucker when he woke up, far too early in the morning. The sun was already well above the horizon and slanting through the trees, rays of light like knifeblades in his skull; he wondered if Duck had any aspirin. Duck was still sleeping the sleep of the righteous, his head tucked half-under a flannel shirt that had come loose from the roll of clothes that made up his pillow, and Joe was careful not to disturb him as he slipped out from under the covers, stuffed his clothes into his duffel bag, and stepped down out of the truck bed.
He didn't find any aspirin in the cab, but there was a liter bottle behind his seat with a couple swallows' worth of flat ginger ale left in the bottom and he drank it down. It helped the headache a little, and at least it got the horrible taste of his own vomit out of his mouth. Taking the hand towel and soap from his duffel, he lit a cigarette and walked down to the edge of the river; he'd just been planning to wash his face, but the twinge in his ass reminded him of what he'd done last night, so he stripped off his t-shirt and waded into the shallows.
The water was swift and ice-cold, so he stayed by the edge and splashed it up onto his body, scrubbing it as quickly as he could with the soap before splashing more cold water to rinse it off. What he needed was a real shower, and to shave the lengthening stubble off his face so he didn't look like a bum, so maybe someone would pick him up when he stuck out his thumb. Maybe tonight he'd splurge a little, get a motel room. For now the river would do to wash the traces of Duck from his skin.
It had been easy to pretend that Duck was Billy, in the moonlit darkness with his senses blurred by the beer. But that was the whole fucking problem, wasn't it: you could do anything at night except remember that the sunrise was inevitable, that the harsh light of day would come no matter what you did to avoid it. You always forgot how shitty you felt the last time you had a hangover, the last time you got drunk, the last time you woke up in bed with a stranger and no fucking idea of how you got there.
Fucking asshole, he thought, rubbing himself dry almost savagely with his small towel. He could smash Duck's head in with his own fucking toolbox while he slept, roll him out of the truck bed and into the mud, take the goddamned truck and drive himself to Vancouver. He could do it. Fuck, he should do it, that would show him. Asshole.
He used his dirty t-shirt to clean the mud from his feet as he put his clothes back on and lit another cigarette. He could get back home in two days if he drove fast and didn't stop a lot; fuck, if Louisa was still running the Londoner in Winnipeg, he could score some speed from her and then he wouldn't need to stop at all.
But when he got back to the truck, Duck was already up and dressed, putting the truck in order. He looked up as Joe approached; he was as bleary-looking as Joe felt, his eyes red and his face creased.
"Sorry," Duck mumbled, looking somewhere over Joe's left shoulder. He lifted a hand to his face, rubbed his eyes. "Didn't mean to…I get a little crazy sometimes when I drink." He met Joe's eyes for a moment, then looked at the ground. "I should probably give it up."
Joe shrugged and blew out a puff of smoke. "It's okay." It was easier to lie than to let out the anger, with Duck up and not-quite-looking at him, embarrassment and remorse coming off him in nearly palpable waves. It was too fucking hard to look at Duck, anyway, because he looked like Billy and he wasn't Billy and it didn't make any sense, it was fucking ridiculous. He didn't want to think about it. It didn't matter. And if he did anything, if he hauled off and hit the asshole right in the face, it would feel good, yeah, but it would make what had happened meaningful in a way it shouldn't be. Duck was acting like he almost wanted to get hit, and fuck him, Joe wasn't going to give him a goddamned thing. Maybe if he just kept his mouth shut and got in the truck, it would all flow away like the river, going somewhere else, dead memories that didn't mean anything to anyone.
When they'd pulled out to the main road in Morris Duck offered to buy him breakfast; it was obviously another apology, but Joe didn't give a shit. He looked out the window, lit another cigarette. He wasn't hungry anyway.
It was twenty minutes of thick silence until they got to the Perimeter Highway. "You can drop me here," Joe said, and Duck pulled over.
He got his bag from the truck bed, and Duck handed out his guitar. "Good luck."
"Yeah, you too," said Joe. He watched the truck pull away, Canada's Ocean Playground driving across the prairie. Then he put out his thumb and started walking west, to Vancouver, and Billy, and home.