a glorified screw (hard core logo, joe/billy, 1/2)
Title: A Glorified Screw (or: Five Times Joe Kissed Billy, and One Time Billy Kissed Joe).
Author: swear_jar
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Hard Core Logo
Pairing(s)/character(s): Joe/Billy
Warning: Canonical fucking amounts of swearing and offensiveness.
Notes: Pre-movie. 16k words. Beta by apiphile (thank you for putting up with my bulltwaddle and hyphens). Title from “One Crowded Hour” by Augie March. The relevant lyrics:
should you expect to see something that you hadn't seen
in somebody you'd known since you were sixteen
if love is a bolt from the blue, then what is that bolt but a glorified screw?
and that doesn't hold nothing together
Summary: At least six kisses, a whole lotta love and a considerable amount of blood.
1. hypnotising chickens ('85)
The strung-out merch kid holds up an empty cardboard box and gives them a thumbs-up as they pass. Joe unwraps his arm from Billy's hard-boned, soft-flannelled shoulder to wave at him. Joe's grin is full of teeth and joyous fuck yous.
Hard Core Logo have sold out of every shitty piece of merch Joe had doodled the design for, and every tape they had duplicated and stuffed into a plastic case next to the folded photocopied liner notes he and Billy had spent two hours writing up completely obliterated, cackling when neither of them could remember the lyrics Joe'd written.
Take a shot every time Billy flubs a lyric and replaces it with a nearly-forgotten verse from a hymn he still remembers from church.
Take a shot every time Joe replaces a sentence with thick set letters spelling out a curse word and taking up half the space left.
Take a shot every time they have to call Pipe to remember and he thinks it was something about chicks, tits, beer or leprechauns.
Take a shot every time John comes in for a new beer and glances at his diary coming up with the exact right word.
Take a shot every time Joe looks up across the kitchen table at Billy's bright eyes and wet lips, vision blurring but want clear as glass.
Take a shot every time Joe wants to kiss Billy (and he did, too, they were done by midnight and Joe had been stinking, swaying, piss-in-the-corner drunk).
They'd sold out all their merch and Joe's hangover had lightened around five o'clock when he'd started his third beer of the day.
The bar is packed past capacity (so its maximum capacity didn't much exceed the Guinness World Record for the amount of people you could fit in a VW Beetle, didn't fuckin' matter) and Billy is pressing closer to Joe as they push through the crowd for the stage from backstage. Backstage, quote-unquote, but what the fuck do you call it when backstage isn't at the back of the stage, it's a pokey little space where they've dragged some barstools into the middle of the bar's storeroom and made a table out of kegs and boxes of whiskey. Fuckin' backstage.
Billy's shoulder is against Joe's chest, his hair smells of cheap gel and smoke, a Billysmell, and when Joe looks at him he's got that little closed-mouth smile on, just cool and comfortable.
They climb the two steps up to the makeshift stage together and Billy barges his shoulder hard into Joe's chest, spins away and picks up his guitar. Curls around it like a lover and looks at Joe, grins, his back turned and his face shadowed so the audience can't see. Just for Joe.
Joe grits his teeth to keeps his guts from spilling out between them and flips his guitar's strap over his head. He grabs the microphone with numb hands, happiness and nerves soaked in alcohol roll through him, and it pisses him off. It feels like flying, except he knows it's falling, and he's gonna get one huge fuck you in before the house lights go back up and they hit the ground.
"I've never seen a bigger bunch of cunts in my life," he says with his teeth still bared in a desperate grin and they fly into Who The Hell Do You Think You Are?
In the break between songs someone screams out from the back of the crowd: "You're fuckin' faaaags.” Joe can't see them with the stage lights up, but it hardly fucking matters as he grabs the microphone with one hand and gives them a middle finger with the other.
"THANKS DAD! And hey, you'd know you cocksucking c-c-cuuuunt."
Billy plays a little jangling accompaniment for the insult and Joe feels warmer than a gulp of liquor on an empty stomach. He turns and spits at Billy who bares his teeth and leans into it.
The guy calls something else out, but Joe's done with the unoriginal shitbag and hopes he gets crushed in the pit. He takes the bottle of whatever liquor's Billy's swiped from the bar and fills his cheeks with burning, cheap bourbon, swishes it around his mouth and decides to share, spits into the faces in the front row.
The sick fucks open their mouths for it. They love it.
He grins. Between the next songs he'll tell them he's so sorry babies and how they're not really cunts, but y'know, they are. Between this and the next, or maybe he'll string them along and see how worked up he can get them but now, right now, he can only open his mouth and sing and he can only turn around and play to Billy, until Billy looks up and acknowledges him, takes two shuffling steps towards him.
They play with their heads and backs bowed to each other, the air between them the shape of a sick heart.
Yeah, he'll give that waste of crowdspace “fucking fags”.
Joe ducks and leans forward, lands an open mouthed kiss half on Billy's lips, lingers until Billy takes a step back without missing a chord. He could have been aiming for his cheek but he wasn't, he swallows the taste of sweat and smoke and when he backs off Billy bares his teeth at him and follows it up with a spit chaser.
Joe lets his guitar swing and opens both arms for it, takes what Billy's willing to give with a grin.
Crowded fucking place and Billy's the only person in the room.
2. trainwreck ('89)
They're listening to some gravel-voiced singer growl out a slow burning, American-country-flavoured song about Death either having no mercy or being a mercy (John's got okay taste, not that Joe's ever going to say that out loud). Joe's having trouble paying attention -- not because the music is bad, but because Billy steals his attention easier than he steals his $1.99 hair gel from the drug store.
He's not actually doing anything, which is exactly what is driving Joe slowly insane. He hasn't been doing anything for the last day and a half, but particularly for the last hour since they stopped (so John that could drive and they could all take a piss). He hasn't been talking, playing, writing, or acknowledging Joe's prods and pokes, words or fingers or pencil tips.
The pencil snaps like a twig and there's a second of silence before Pipe's schoolyard oooooooh and Joe's laughing what the fuck are you on the rag, Billiam? sound in harmony. There's a faint thrum of anger flying somewhere underneath the comfortable cushioning he's riding inside his head, but he ignores it easily enough: it's easier to just laugh. Joe has no doubt Billy would attempt to snap his finger if he used that next.
Billy swings his skinny legs over the bench and stands up, pitching the broken piece of wood out the cracked window.
John spares him a glance in the rear-view mirror, opens his mouth as if he's going to say something, then his eyes go back to the road and his teeth come back down on his bottom lip. He's been chewing at it for the last twenty miles and ignoring them all with a desperate intensity. Joe's attention is briefly divided; Billy lies back down on the bench without saying anything, settling his hat over his face as he disappears behind the wide brim.
John's hands are clenched on the wheel tight enough his knuckles are white, and Joe knows it's to stop his hands from shaking like they have been all day. He damn near pissed on Joe's boots in the bathroom.
So he lets Billy continue to be an insufferable asshole for reasons best known to himself and tells John to pull over.
"What's up?" Pipe says, as they pull onto the gravel at the roadside.
"Tallent's turn to drive," Joe says. "Up, Billiam."
"Pipe wants to drive," Billy says from under his hat, without moving.
"No I don't!" Pipe protests. "I just fucking drove for six hours." He pauses and narrows his eyes at Joe. "Why can't you drive?"
"Guess," Joe grins at him.
It is Joe's turn, but he is far to stoned to drive.
Billy throws his hat at Joe and Joe knocks it away as it comes at his face. Knocks it away with his forehead. Close enough.
And yeah, alright, maybe that's why Billy was in a mood, but it wasn't as if he hadn't left his shit on Joe's bedside table. If he's pissed at Joe he needs to say it. Joe wants him to say it. He can scream it. He can even have a free shot, but he can't fucking have silence.
Not the nothing, where he won't look at Joe head-on. Like Joe's invisible, right in front of Billy and not there. Like time-travel, but not good fucking times.
Billy stands up and Joe smiles up at him and waits to be acknowledged with some spit in his face.
Billy steps over his legs and climbs into the driver’s seat. He lights a cigarette before he turns the keys.
"Sorry," John says faintly, and Joe hears the percussive rattle of a bottle of pills.
Joe ignores him, and watches Billy's hands as he puts the van in gear, long callused fingers capable and quick. Joe feels a wave of anger wash warmly over him, damping his high.
He dodges baggage and amps and scrambles into the passenger seat. Billy glances sideways briefly, eyes passing over Joe as indifferently as they do over the snow streaked landscape. He blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth and Joe breathes it in.
Joe hunkers down in the seat, stretches and yawns theatrically, slumping and crossing his arms over his chest.
"Feel like I could fall asleep," Joe says. He flops an arm theatrically and lets it loll by his side, squints his no doubt bloodshot eyes at Billy's passive profile. He's sobering up, in actuality, but he's still tired.
Silence, silence everywhere and not a word for him. Billy smokes and drives and doesn't look at him.
Joe watches the road spiral out around them in the cross-eyed glow of the van's headlights for a long time, until he can't sit still any more.
He gives in with a theatrical sigh, straightening his back and straightening up.
The corner of Billy's lip twitches around the cigarette.
"Bastard," Joe says.
"You'd know," Billy replies quiet and husky, cigarette and sleep and disuse colouring his voice the perfect shade to make Joe's anger cool.
Joe leans into his shoulder, catching the smell of sweat and cigarettes and hair gel, Billy. He pressed his chin into Billy's shoulder, the hard curve fitting under his chin.
Billy's shoulder shifts with the wheel, but he doesn't shrug Joe off.
"Gimme a smoke?" Joe mumbles, jaw clicking against Billy's skin.
"Give me back my weed," Billy replies, still quiet.
Joe plucks the cigarette from his lips and Billy lets him.
He watches Billy, close enough the blonde stubble on his jaw blurs, and glances out at the road, and Joe reaches out to make a stupid fucking joke about what would happen if he covered Billy's eyes, like look-ma-no-hands --
The fucking van's always drifted to the side -- Billy's hands clench on the wheel white knuckles peaks -- Joe jerks back into his seat and his arm goes to Billy's chest and he hears the thud of his forearm meeting skin (not wearing a fucking seatbelt) -- no it's not his arm meeting skin it's the van wheels meeting the ditch at the roadside and the incline and the machine-gun fast fuck fuck fuck from the backseat rattles around as harsh as the teeth in Joe's head -- there's a fucking tree -- ah shit.
The impact sends something heavy flying across the dashboard, and the noise of Billy's window smashing is lost as the van's nose collides with the tree and they come to a whiplash stop that clicks Joe's teeth together hard.
The silence is sudden, engine dead, underlined by a low groan from the back. Joe looks down at Billy first, he's still gripping the wheel but is leaning towards Joe because Joe's fingers are clenched hard in his shirt front holding pulling him in and keeping him still. "Billy."
"Fuckfuckfuck," Billy says quietly, through clenched teeth. He looks up at Joe. "Fuck. I'm okay." Joe loosens his fingers through sheer force of will and Billy straightens up with is hands still on the wheel.
"Pipe? John? Rollcall, you assholes, talk to me," Joe twists in his seat. The mess of gear is tumbled all around the back, but Pipe's still where he was belted in snoring, with his arms up shielding his face.
"I'm good,” Pipe mumbles into his forearms.
John looks fine, Joe takes him in quickly head to toe, he's stiff as a board and his eyes are wide. He doesn't blink for long enough Joe's going to climb over the seat and make sure he's not impaled on something, a fucking bottle of Jack embedded in the back of his head. The driver's side door creaks loudly and slams, the remaining glass from Billy's window falling with little ticks that harmonise with the crackling hiss of the engine, and John jolts like he's been given a shot of adrenaline to the heart.
"You okay?"
"Sure," John says, abruptly blinking, and the one word comes out absurdly casual. Pipe climbs out the back and shoves the rear doors wide open.
Outside the van, Billy is screaming fuuuuuuck raw and angry, really tearing a chunk out of his throat, violent like Joe's only ever heard a handful of times before, off-stage.
Joe gets out Billy's door, and tastes blood the second he stands still. He runs a finger along the inside of his mouth but it's just he's bitten the inside of his cheek. He presses the sliver hanging skin between his molars and tugs it off, tasting copper.
The van's already stubby hood is dented where it rests against the tall pine, and for a second Joe just stands there sucking the blood out of the cut in his cheek and thinking how utterly fucked, and how fucking lucky, and the legend they'd just narrowly missed becoming, brains spattered across the dashboard spelling out rock and roll.
He turns around and Billy's already got a cigarette in his frowning mouth, and his eyes are bright and angry. Joe's surprised to find he's got a shred of self preservation left and looks away. He catches John looking shaky and contemplating the drop from the van's back doors to the gravel slope its rear end is still resting on. He scrambles up the slope and helps him down.
"You don't need a fucking ambulance John you pussy, just pop another pill," Billy snaps. He kicks the nearest object, the plaster Jesus Joe'd stolen from a roadhouse laying in a pile of gravel in glass, and slams his hand down on the van's door because there's no window to punch, his fingers curling over where shattered glass still clings to the frame. He jerks his hand away and hisses in pain. Blood runs over his clenched knuckles.
John just shakes his head, a little too hard and a little too long. John's been on a slow cycle of uppers and downers and big pills and little and no motherfucker was convincing him it was time to maybe see a professional, a shrink, and so long as his keel was more even than that one time in Regina where he stacked all the gear against the doors of his hotel room and wouldn't let anyone in, well what the fuck. Joe can't force him to do shit.
He's taking something now that's been keeping him calm enough but it's not going to last. Nothing does.
"Hey," Joe says and picks his way over the gravel that's studded with glittering glass.
"Fuck off," Billy says with his eyes and his fists screwed shut, and Joe waits it out while Billy just breathes.
Joe can hear John scrambling up the loose gravel of the slope, he watches him dragging his army surplus duffle out of the van and fumbling through it, throwing clothing across the dirt. He comes up triumphant with his bottle of non-prescription prescription meds and pour some into his shaking hand. Joe's got no fucking idea if John's taking too much or too little, but whatever he's doing it's not working right.
Joe would like to give more of a fuck, but his guitarist is bleeding a fucking lot from his dominant hand and that's a little more worrying than yet another drug dependence in their merry band of fuck-ups. Billy's opened his eyes again.
"Let me take a look," Joe says and reaches his hand out, palm up (his elbow twinges and he adds it to the ache in his jaw and the cut in his mouth on his list of minor injuries). He knows if he grabs at Billy right now he'll only get an empty hand and a face full of vitriol and spit for his effort.
Billy holds his hand out and unclenches it slowly, his uninjured hand stays a fist by his side. His knuckles fit snugly in Joe's palm, warm and wet with blood. Billy breaths in deep through his nose as he uncurls his fingers. They echo each other's curses as they see the piece of glass stuck in the meaty part at the heel of his hand.
"Least it's big," Joe says and Billy glares at him. "Because it's fuckin' easier to get out, Jesus am I some kind of asshole or what?"
"Just get it out," Billy says and keeps his eyes on Joe, doesn't look down, like he's walking a tightrope and he'll fall if he sees what's waiting. He's still bleeding gently through his fingers and through Joe's, a few drops fall onto the gravel and glass on the ground.
"Count of three," Joe says and makes sure Billy's looking in his eyes as he says, "One," and yanks it out, fingers slipping on the slick surface and wincing as it comes away surprisingly easy, barely stuck at all, and nicks his thumb just under the nail, "Cuntcuntcunt," Joe chants between clenched teeth. (So they're blood brothers for the umpteenth time).
"I fucking knew you were going to do that, fucker," Billy says, examining his hand held out in front of his face. The bleeding has slowed enough the trickle down his wrist doesn't reach his elbow.
"Yeah, worked though didn't it?"
"Fuck you, Joe."
"That's the thanks I get for my healing touch?"
"This is your fucking FAULT, you fucking asshole!" Billy yells and Joe rolls his eyes at him and lights a cigarette to cover how badly he wants to lean over and kiss the red right hand Billy's holding up accusingly between them.
"Hey, I wasn't the one driving."
"Don't fucking talk to me," Billy snaps and turns away, yanks a shirt out of John's open bag on his way past it without really looking. He rips the faded fabric in half from the hole already gaping across the middle and wraps it tight around his hand.
He settles his back against a tree by the roadside, up from the ditch the van's landed in. Joe watches him fumble and wince lighting his cigarette while trying not to jolt his hand.
Joe climbs up and sits on the open backend of the van, leans against one of the amps. He glances into the back. All the gear seems to have survived too. Externally at least, and he hopes to whatever ugly pus-faced god supervises touring bands it'll work all when they plug it in tomorrow. If Pipe ever fucking gets them a ride. He brings the cigarette to his mouth but stops halfway, watching his hand shake like he's on a bad comedown. He's fucking cold, too. All the little hurts keep trickling in. In the next ten minutes maybe he'll realise he's broken his leg or some shit, or that they're all actually dead. He coughs and spits a blood-flecked chunk out the back of the van. At least that's normal.
"Hey, Johnny," he calls, leaning around the side of the van. John's shoving the things he's thrown out of his bag back in with a little more composure now he's swallowed his handful of pills. No way they're even halfway to his stomach, but Joe understands. Like holding a glass of whisky in your hand, the moment before it burns the hurt out of your chest is a different kind of golden but golden in itself. John's still clutching the bottle of pills like a lifeline, though. "Gimme two of those," Joe asks, pointing to them with his cigarette clenched between two fingers.
"No, Joe I -- I, I'm going to need them."
"Just two, John, I swear I'll pay you back next time I'm holding."
John looks at him for a good long second and Joe takes another drag of his cigarette, leaves it in his mouth. He glances over at Billy who's watching the road where Pipe'd gone to find them a ride, paying them no attention. Joe holds his hand out and he and John both watch the shake for a while. He smiles at John and breathes smoke out his nose.
"Sure Joe, okay," John says finally and comes up to he presses two pills into Joe's hand, holding on a little too long, squeezing a little too tight.
Joe downs the little blue tablets dry and swallows against their uncomfortable slow stutter down his throat. He pokes his tongue into the little copper tasting cut inside his mouth absently as he watches the sun slide down somewhere across the road and attempts to keep from watching Billy. He looks unreal and further away than he is, a silhouette, a shadow, a thick scrawl of felt pen.
So much for keeping his eyes off.
He hears Pipe before he sees him and looks up to see his head appear over the ridge above, gesturing towards the van and wincing, with two deeply fucking uncool looking guys in tow. Joe's never been so happy to see a pair of assholes on khakis and ties before. They've got a ride. Joe locks the back of the van despite the fact the windows are broken.
“I'll stay,” John says, sitting on his re-packed duffle and looking collected. Joe watches him for a second for twitches, and John holds his hand out, steadier than Joe's. Joe grins and raps his knuckles against John's, and John grins back and takes the keys. He'll make sure no motherfucker steals their gear.
They've got a ride.
John's the bearer of bad news, shuffling into the diner and waving out to the tow-truck who'd given him a lift back from their lot. The van's towed to a lot because it'd broken an axle or some shit that meant it was out for the count. They could pick up their stuff in the morning and that would be some inhumanly expensive amount of money, thanks and please, have a shitty night.
At least the diner is warm, and the coffee isn't that shitty.
The waitress recognises them, but she's trying to be cool. Half the time Joe realises before they do, there's something about the way someone'll look at you. And he's not wearing a hat over his hair, which is usually a dead giveaway. She must have seen them last year, when they rolled through. She tugs the ends of her thick, black dyed hair and keeps touching the one shaved side, like she's just done it, like she wants them to notice. Joe gives her a sarcastic smile. Well done, honey. You're a real punk now. She ducks her head and looks embarrassed.
Billy slides over a few seats from Joe, sitting on the stool right up nearest the cash register where she's hovering, pretending to wipe some stubborn spot on the countertop.
“Hey,” Billy says. She looks up and smiles at him, and Billy smiles back, a reassuring little grin, soft eyed and charming. Prick. “Nice hair,” he rubs his hand along the side of his own head, not quite shaved blonde stubble.
“Thanks,” she says and practically spills her tits onto the counter in front of him, leaning over. “You're like. You're in a band right?”
“Yeah. We're Hard Core Logo,” Billy reaches over and pushes his coffee mug along the counter to her, and she takes it and turns around to fill it up. She brings it back steaming and waves his hand away silently when he makes a deliberate move towards his wallet, with a glance towards the kitchen doors. Fucking Billy, what a whore.
“I saw you guys! Like a while ago, last year some time. You were great.”
“Thanks,” Billy says, tearing open a sugar packet and smiling at her until she blushes.
“Bill,” Joe says in a stage-whisper, “I'm pretty fucking sure punk-rock Lolita here’s seriously illegal.” He turns to her, and her cheeks are flaming now, but she meets his eyes still half-hopeful. “He's not going to fuck you. Unless maybe you've got a cup of free blow behind the counter there.”
Billy drinks his coffee, picking the cup up carefully with his left hand, and doesn't look at anyone for a second.
“You'll have to forgive Joe, like most Dicks, he's not really meant to be exposed to the general public.”
“Ohhh,” Joe says, and holds a hand to his heart like he's wounded. “LADIES AND FUCKING GENTLEMEN, Billy fucking Tallent, he'll be here all night!” Loud enough all six people in the diner hush for a second, before Pipe snorts a laugh and the low murmur of late night conversation crawls back in.
Billy stands up without a word and heads for the door, and Joe gives him a slow round of applause on his way out. When he looks up, the girl's disappeared into the kitchen, the door swinging like it's shaking its head at him.
Joe takes Billy's abandoned freebie over to the booth John and Pipe are occupying and drinks it. It's good. Bitch knows how to flirt.
"You should go after him," John says.
"Yeah man,” Pipe starts, “go and fucking make nice, I don't wanna be in the room with you two if you don't work this shit out, let alone another fucking van. It's like Mom and Dad are fighting, except there's no fucking way you two are getting a divorce any time soon and I don't wanna get yelled at every time I fucking shift my ass to fart any more," Pipe whines, pointing a coffee spoon up at Joe from where he's sitting in the booth, no longer laughing.
“Well fuck, Pipe, we don't want to fuck you up for life or anything,” Joe says and gets up. He was going, anyway.
"Hey!" Pipe yells after him, "don't tell Billy he's the Mom!" and Joe grins to himself, half because obviously he's going to tell Billy he's the chick at some point, half because Pipe sounds genuinely worried how Billy might retaliate and that makes Joe feel warm and fuzzy inside. You don't fuck with Billy Tallent, not unless your name is Joe Dick.
“Hey, Joe.” John says quietly, “just say sorry. Just say sorry.” He says it slow and even. His eyelids are heavy, but it's late and at least he's not stuttering any more. Joe waves a friendly middle finger over his shoulder, advice acknowledged. Whatever. It'll work out, it always does.
The door chimes irritatingly behind him.
And as he come outside, he sees Billy's back. There's a payphone on the diner's brick wall, lit by a little florescent light in a cage. Billy's curled around it like a lover. He's laughing. "Thanks, Ed. Ed. Fucking thank you."
And jealousy buzzes and stings like a tattoo on the inside of Joe's skin. Billy clicks the receiver down and doesn't look over at Joe for a long minute.
"Let me kiss it better," Joe teases and Billy looks at him under his lashes and a cloud of fogged breath and smoke.
He's holding his scratched up hand curled by his side like a cat that's accidentally dipped its toes in a puddle, arch and irritated.
"Fuck you, Joe," he says. "You nearly fucking got us killed."
"You were the one driving, dickhead," Joe points out despite knowing it is exactly what he shouldn't say to get Billy to play nice again.
"I'm not the fucking dickhead that blocked the driver's fucking field of vision, dickhead," Billy snaps quietly and narrows his eyes which is all the warning Joe gets before Billy's flicks his still smoking cigarette butt at Joe and Joe's dancing like a fucking moron trying to get it to fall out from where it's landed in the collar of his coat. He can feel it hot on his skin as it falls down a tear in his shirt and out onto the pavement.
"Fuck! Why are you such a cunt?" Joe snaps, locating the cigarette and only feeling reassured he's not going to catch fire when he's ground it out under his heel.
Billy is smiling when he looks back up, amused and mean, hurt hand held up to his chest.
"I don't know, Joe. You tell me. You're the expert."
Joe raises his eyebrows and feels his face flush. He can see the high spots of cold or anger on Billy's cheeks in the spill of cold light from the payphone. He takes a cigarette from his pocket slowly and flies high on the anger that's itching in his veins. He wants to crush the whole fucking cigarette packet and put his fist though the big inviting glass windows behind him but he doesn't.
It never fucking goes easy, but that's okay. He steps up to Billy and Billy just watches him, doesn't take a step back.
He'll give Billy what he wants: "Got a light?" He waves the unlit smoke in Billy's face then pops it on his lip and waits.
Billy holds up his injured hand and hands his lighter over. Joe lights up, hands it back and snorts a huge lungful of smoke out his nose. It's harsh and good, but it does nothing for the adrenaline storming him like a belated reaction to the crash, and the chorus in his head screaming like he's on stage hit me hit me hit me hit me touch me.
“Ed got us a bus, Joe. A bus, with a driver.”
"Yeah," Joe says. "Great."
Billy narrows his eyes.
"Yeah, great?" Billy parrots sarcastically, "like he hadn't fucking offered it to you last fucking month, Joe? He just asked me why we didn't say yes before the fucking van ended up roadkill. Why the fuck didn't you say yes? We could have fucked died, asshole. Do you even understand what a monumental fucking fuck-up you are? Why they fuck can't we have a bus, Joe?" Billy hisses, voice quiet but uneven, eyes everywhere but Joe. He gets out another cigarette, fingers fumbling at his lighter until he gives up with a wince and throws it out into the darkness of the parking lot.
Joe's fingers clench into fists by his side and his chest feels as if it's constricting with them. Fucking Ed can't keep his fucking mouth shut when he should.
"You saying I don't think we're good enough for a fuckin' stupid bus, Bill?"
They're too fucking good for a goddamn pussy tour bus with some asshole driver probably some fucking Coca-fucking-Cola bullshit painted over the side of it.
"No, I'm saying you think a dinky fucking van is more hardcore," Billy snaps.
"Maybe," Joe says and Billy's hit the nail of the head, the cunt, "because it fuckin' is." Because it IS more hardcore in the van; because the stupid stinking van that pulls to the fucking left and nearly left them for dead was theirs.
"Yeah, well you'll just have to suck it up because the bus'll be here by tomorrow morning. With a driver," Billy smirks and Joe's sure half the pleasure he's getting from that is how he knows it's grating on Joe that he's going to have to admit in actions if not words that Billy was right, that Ed was right, that he was wrong. At least he's fucking looking at Joe, now.
"Since when do you make the fucking decisions in this band?"
"Since you need a fucking guitarist," Billy says. Their eyes are still locked and Joe's never really wished for Billy to stop fucking looking at him, except right then.
Joe's fist is swinging fast and hard and he catches Billy under his nose, feels Billy's teeth scrape his knuckles.
"Fuck you!" and it's on the tip of his tongue: well, why don't you just fucking go then. Get the fuck out of my face and the band and let me drink until I'm brain-damaged enough to forget you, you traitorous fucking cunt. Don't leave me.
He's thankful for Billy's retaliatory fist in his stomach winding him and Billy's knee that narrowly misses his chin. His hard-soled cowboy boots crush the toes of Joe's hole-worn kickers and Joe bites the inside of cheek again, right where it's already split, and tastes blood.
"You wish," Billy breathes into his ear, and then they're on the ground, Joe's shoulder against Billy's chest as they land in a heap and Billy yells fuck, the shirt around his hand gone and his fingers grinding into the gravel as he tries to catch himself. Joe puts all his extra weight behind the next punch splitting Billy's lip where it'd already been red and ready; he catches a face full of bloody spit in retaliation, followed by a handful of gravel shoved scraping against his cheek as he tries to wipe the spit from his eyes.
Billy scrabbles to flip them over, he's all taut wiry muscle and hard bone under Joe's weight, his boots grinding gravel nearly as loud as their breathing in the silent night air. Joe's head spins as they tumble and he remembers half the reason his hands are steady enough to hit Billy straight on in the first place is John's little pills, and he feels abruptly too heavy to keep fighting, blood and muscle weighed down with it.
Billy comes out on top and Joe looks up at him, feels his hard thighs tight against his hips, feels his hand bleeding warm against Joe's chest his other drawn back in a loosening fist that drops down by his side when he realises Joe's just going to let him.
Joe has the sudden urge to laugh and it spasms through his chest, comes out a cough that flexes his sore stomach muscles. Billy's sharp knuckles are going to leave him feeling that bruise every time he coughs for the next week.
Billy's shoulders relax gradually, his body shifting in time with the tension between them. It all comes floating down like the drugs in Joe's veins and abruptly, everything feels calm: Billy's right here, shifting in Joe's lap in the dirt. Joe reaches up slowly with heavy arms and grabs the back of Billy's neck, craning his head up and breathing out heavily as Billy leans down harder on the hand he's got planted on Joe's chest, not helping and not resisting, just waiting as Joe bends them both into a shape where their lips can touch. Billy hisses and Joe tastes Billy's blood on his tongue, his lip soft and swollen.
"We're getting a fucking driver," Billy says against Joe's lips. Somewhere in the back of Joe's mind he flips through his permanent record and thinks that introducing Billy to Ed Festus might be the worst thing he's ever done.
And Joe hears what he's saying and knows the shift of Billy's lips is a smile without being able to see more than Billy's ice blue eyes in the piss weak light from the diner windows and the payphone.
They're getting a driver and they're getting a bus because they can have that now; they've made it that far, and Joe ignores the churning in his guts that could just be because Billy'd gotten him good with that left before, but isn't. It's hard to remember what he was worried about when he'd turned Ed down, when Billy presses their lips together again softly, mindful of his own lip but not enough to back off completely. Joe bucks his hips up against Billy
Billy pulls away and shakes off Joe's hand, shakes his head no.
"You're still a prick," he says and climbs off Joe, dusting himself off and looking down at him.
"Yeah, well, you're still a cunt," Joe says.
Billy smiles down at him, reaches his uninjured left hand out for Joe to grasp and pull himself up.
That's when it hits him as solidly as any of the shots Billy had gotten in. That'd nearly been it. Finito. The fucking end. A rock'n'roll way to go. He'd nearly fucking and Billy, Jesus Christ.
3. come on, come on ('80)
He and Billy have just invented time travel, so naturally Joe's abusing the privilege.
His thigh is pressed against Billy's in the middle of the sagging couch. The fold-out they'd slept on in the band house was equally shitty for sitting or sleeping. Not that Joe had particularly noticed last night. He'd thought ahead and gotten blind drunk to cope with the thin blanket and prominent springs and it'd worked.
Until five in the morning when Billy had elbowed him in the neck far harder than he'd really needed to and Joe had woken up swearing and slapped a hand out reflexively, catching Billy in the mouth.
He'd woken Billy up by drooling down the back of his neck through no fault of his own, they'd rolled together in the sink-hole centre of the bed. It was also not his fault if his boner was pressing into Billy's spine. Billy informed him of his transgression only after he'd rolled them over and climbed on top of Joe, gotten fingers around his throat and paradoxically hissed at him to fuck off as he squeezed.
A completely cheap shot when Joe had just woken up, still drunker than hell on beer and whiskey chasers, and trying to work out whether Billy throwing a leg over his thighs and settling down with a hand on his throat a bad thing or not.
He glances sideways at Billy and rubs his throat. There's going to be a bruise from the wild elbow that'd caught him there. Billy keeps his eyes on the TV, shoving a corn chip in his mouth and washing it down with a swig of lunch-time beer.
Joe pops his cigarette in his mouth and nudges Billy's thigh with his before he puts his hands up.
He's thinking about the first time they kissed.
In front of the couch, in the present, Pipe rolls over on the floor with a groan, apparently just coming awake. He lifts his head off the cushion and the corn chips they'd been throwing into his hair falls to the floor. "What the fuck?" he croaks. Joe smirks around his cigarette and takes a puff without putting his hands down.
"You assholes," Pipe says without too much ire, it was halfway through a three month stretch of touring and they'd worn him down. "What the fuck is Joe doing?" he asks.
Billy pops another chip in his mouth and continues watching the tape on the TV. "Dunno, he's not fucking here is he?"
Joe puffs his cigarette and glances at Billy out of the corner of his eye. Billy sips his drink and doesn't look at Joe.
"I'm not hallucinating," Pipe says firmly, standing up steadier than Joe would have expected. He'd applaud, but he's busy. "I'm not," Pipe says again, but the conviction falls off his face like the rest of the broken corn chips off his shirt and leaves him looking confused. “Any more.”
Joe grins with teeth around his cigarette. Billy doesn't so much as twitch and it makes Joe grin harder.
"That's not funny man! Jesus!" Pipe says pointing a finger at Joe before glancing between him and Billy. Billy shrugs and settles back on the couch, his thigh shifting against Joe's and his elbow brushing Joe's ribs casually, ignoring the space he's occupying like he's really not there.
"Well, Pipe, you know what they say about acid and flashbacks," Billy says sagely.
Pipe stomps out swearing under his breathe.
Joe comes back, plucks the cigarette from his mouth and blows a smoke ring past Billy's face.
Billy graces him with a sideways look. "Where'd you go?" he asks. He drains his beer and Joe watches his lips touch the bottleneck, his throat move.
"Remember in my basement talking about all sorts of bullshit we'd do when we were in a fucked up rock band?"
"No," Billy lies, and looks back at the TV.
"And we talked about groupies," Joe says. That's what they'd been talking about when Billy had asked. He'd still worshipped Joe, Billy the skinny little kid whose parents didn't even allow cartoon devils in the house because they were too worldly, and he'd assumed Joe was cool enough to have kissed someone before. Joe laughs to himself and Billy looks back over at him.
"Fuck you, Billy," Joe says pleasantly, "get on the fucking nostalgia train."
"I am," Billy points at the TV screen, watching an official bootleg (it's not an oxymoron, Joe had given retroactive permission to the girl when he'd seen the quality along with her tits, and she'd given him a copy) of a couple of gigs they'd done last year. She'd edited them together pretty nicely. The screen goes black for a long second as the last note of Billy's guitar screams feedback and dies and white letters come up: HARD CORE LOGO. ROCCO'S BAR. 10/2/80.
Joe watches as the camera zooms in shakily then steadies on his own grinning face, he's sweating and smoking and Billy's just shoved him (he remembers that). He's calling the whole crowd cunts. The camera shakes again and the crowd jostles and roils and they start to play, packed in hard to the small dancefloor. He'd rather be watching the Bucky Haight tape they'd picked up at the dank little record store down town.
He looks over at Billy again and shoves at his leg.
"Come on, Billiam. You remember."
"No," Billy says. "You need to work on the bit in Fuck Off America with the," Billy does some air guitar demonstration and Joe watches his invisible fret work. He does, but he knows that and Billy knows he knows that. Billy is being contrary, cunt-trary and he either wants a fight or a reminder and Joe knows which one he'd prefer, though it might lead directly to the other and fuck it. His neck still hurts and Billy's already hit him once today: maybe he'll go for the record.
He grabs a brittle spike of Billy's hair and tugs sharply, Billy grabs his wrist and turns to glare blue death at him.
Joe leans in to kiss him and catches his smile before his lips connect with Billy's teeth, there's an awkward second before Billy tilts his head and lets Joe kiss him. Half the time he wonders if Billy even knows what he wants before Joe shows him.
When Billy shoves at his chest Joe lets himself be moved, lets go of his handful of hair and falls back against the arm of the couch. He hikes his socked feet up on the couch and watches Billy from between his spread knees.
Billy lights a cigarette and rests it on the soft jut of his bottom lip, the line of his jaw is covered in two days worth of fine blonde stubble that Joe knows he's proud of now it's coming in almost evenly, because he is a vain motherfucker. He watches the video a few seconds longer before turning back to Joe.
"What?"
"Gimme a drag," Joe says and holds his hand over between his legs for Billy to share the cigarette.
Billy slaps his hand away and Joe's about to tell him he's a bitch, except Billy's climbing to his knees on the couch and leaning over between Joe's. He knocks Joe's hat off with the back of one hand and grabs at Joe's hair, it stings and Joe's breathing in a lungful of smoke as Billy breathes it out against his lips. He keeps his eyes open. Billy let's go of his hair and sets his cigarette between Joe's lips. He leans back, both feet back on the floor and pulls another smoke from the crumpled packet.
Something loosens in Joe's chest; not that he'd actually thought Billy had forgotten. And Joe quite honestly doesn't want to know if Billy's just remembered now, if he really needed the reminder.
"'Fuck Off America', Joe," he says.
"Yeah. All right. Go get your fucking guitar, axe-hole."
"Oh that's funny, Joe. Hardy fucking har," Billy says dryly. He aims a kick at Billy's ass as he gets up, Billy dodges easily, tossing Joe a triumphant grin over his shoulder as he and picks his way around the pillows Pipe had been sleeping on to go get his guitar from the van.
Part two.
Author: swear_jar
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Hard Core Logo
Pairing(s)/character(s): Joe/Billy
Warning: Canonical fucking amounts of swearing and offensiveness.
Notes: Pre-movie. 16k words. Beta by apiphile (thank you for putting up with my bulltwaddle and hyphens). Title from “One Crowded Hour” by Augie March. The relevant lyrics:
should you expect to see something that you hadn't seen
in somebody you'd known since you were sixteen
if love is a bolt from the blue, then what is that bolt but a glorified screw?
and that doesn't hold nothing together
Summary: At least six kisses, a whole lotta love and a considerable amount of blood.
1. hypnotising chickens ('85)
The strung-out merch kid holds up an empty cardboard box and gives them a thumbs-up as they pass. Joe unwraps his arm from Billy's hard-boned, soft-flannelled shoulder to wave at him. Joe's grin is full of teeth and joyous fuck yous.
Hard Core Logo have sold out of every shitty piece of merch Joe had doodled the design for, and every tape they had duplicated and stuffed into a plastic case next to the folded photocopied liner notes he and Billy had spent two hours writing up completely obliterated, cackling when neither of them could remember the lyrics Joe'd written.
Take a shot every time Billy flubs a lyric and replaces it with a nearly-forgotten verse from a hymn he still remembers from church.
Take a shot every time Joe replaces a sentence with thick set letters spelling out a curse word and taking up half the space left.
Take a shot every time they have to call Pipe to remember and he thinks it was something about chicks, tits, beer or leprechauns.
Take a shot every time John comes in for a new beer and glances at his diary coming up with the exact right word.
Take a shot every time Joe looks up across the kitchen table at Billy's bright eyes and wet lips, vision blurring but want clear as glass.
Take a shot every time Joe wants to kiss Billy (and he did, too, they were done by midnight and Joe had been stinking, swaying, piss-in-the-corner drunk).
They'd sold out all their merch and Joe's hangover had lightened around five o'clock when he'd started his third beer of the day.
The bar is packed past capacity (so its maximum capacity didn't much exceed the Guinness World Record for the amount of people you could fit in a VW Beetle, didn't fuckin' matter) and Billy is pressing closer to Joe as they push through the crowd for the stage from backstage. Backstage, quote-unquote, but what the fuck do you call it when backstage isn't at the back of the stage, it's a pokey little space where they've dragged some barstools into the middle of the bar's storeroom and made a table out of kegs and boxes of whiskey. Fuckin' backstage.
Billy's shoulder is against Joe's chest, his hair smells of cheap gel and smoke, a Billysmell, and when Joe looks at him he's got that little closed-mouth smile on, just cool and comfortable.
They climb the two steps up to the makeshift stage together and Billy barges his shoulder hard into Joe's chest, spins away and picks up his guitar. Curls around it like a lover and looks at Joe, grins, his back turned and his face shadowed so the audience can't see. Just for Joe.
Joe grits his teeth to keeps his guts from spilling out between them and flips his guitar's strap over his head. He grabs the microphone with numb hands, happiness and nerves soaked in alcohol roll through him, and it pisses him off. It feels like flying, except he knows it's falling, and he's gonna get one huge fuck you in before the house lights go back up and they hit the ground.
"I've never seen a bigger bunch of cunts in my life," he says with his teeth still bared in a desperate grin and they fly into Who The Hell Do You Think You Are?
In the break between songs someone screams out from the back of the crowd: "You're fuckin' faaaags.” Joe can't see them with the stage lights up, but it hardly fucking matters as he grabs the microphone with one hand and gives them a middle finger with the other.
"THANKS DAD! And hey, you'd know you cocksucking c-c-cuuuunt."
Billy plays a little jangling accompaniment for the insult and Joe feels warmer than a gulp of liquor on an empty stomach. He turns and spits at Billy who bares his teeth and leans into it.
The guy calls something else out, but Joe's done with the unoriginal shitbag and hopes he gets crushed in the pit. He takes the bottle of whatever liquor's Billy's swiped from the bar and fills his cheeks with burning, cheap bourbon, swishes it around his mouth and decides to share, spits into the faces in the front row.
The sick fucks open their mouths for it. They love it.
He grins. Between the next songs he'll tell them he's so sorry babies and how they're not really cunts, but y'know, they are. Between this and the next, or maybe he'll string them along and see how worked up he can get them but now, right now, he can only open his mouth and sing and he can only turn around and play to Billy, until Billy looks up and acknowledges him, takes two shuffling steps towards him.
They play with their heads and backs bowed to each other, the air between them the shape of a sick heart.
Yeah, he'll give that waste of crowdspace “fucking fags”.
Joe ducks and leans forward, lands an open mouthed kiss half on Billy's lips, lingers until Billy takes a step back without missing a chord. He could have been aiming for his cheek but he wasn't, he swallows the taste of sweat and smoke and when he backs off Billy bares his teeth at him and follows it up with a spit chaser.
Joe lets his guitar swing and opens both arms for it, takes what Billy's willing to give with a grin.
Crowded fucking place and Billy's the only person in the room.
2. trainwreck ('89)
They're listening to some gravel-voiced singer growl out a slow burning, American-country-flavoured song about Death either having no mercy or being a mercy (John's got okay taste, not that Joe's ever going to say that out loud). Joe's having trouble paying attention -- not because the music is bad, but because Billy steals his attention easier than he steals his $1.99 hair gel from the drug store.
He's not actually doing anything, which is exactly what is driving Joe slowly insane. He hasn't been doing anything for the last day and a half, but particularly for the last hour since they stopped (so John that could drive and they could all take a piss). He hasn't been talking, playing, writing, or acknowledging Joe's prods and pokes, words or fingers or pencil tips.
The pencil snaps like a twig and there's a second of silence before Pipe's schoolyard oooooooh and Joe's laughing what the fuck are you on the rag, Billiam? sound in harmony. There's a faint thrum of anger flying somewhere underneath the comfortable cushioning he's riding inside his head, but he ignores it easily enough: it's easier to just laugh. Joe has no doubt Billy would attempt to snap his finger if he used that next.
Billy swings his skinny legs over the bench and stands up, pitching the broken piece of wood out the cracked window.
John spares him a glance in the rear-view mirror, opens his mouth as if he's going to say something, then his eyes go back to the road and his teeth come back down on his bottom lip. He's been chewing at it for the last twenty miles and ignoring them all with a desperate intensity. Joe's attention is briefly divided; Billy lies back down on the bench without saying anything, settling his hat over his face as he disappears behind the wide brim.
John's hands are clenched on the wheel tight enough his knuckles are white, and Joe knows it's to stop his hands from shaking like they have been all day. He damn near pissed on Joe's boots in the bathroom.
So he lets Billy continue to be an insufferable asshole for reasons best known to himself and tells John to pull over.
"What's up?" Pipe says, as they pull onto the gravel at the roadside.
"Tallent's turn to drive," Joe says. "Up, Billiam."
"Pipe wants to drive," Billy says from under his hat, without moving.
"No I don't!" Pipe protests. "I just fucking drove for six hours." He pauses and narrows his eyes at Joe. "Why can't you drive?"
"Guess," Joe grins at him.
It is Joe's turn, but he is far to stoned to drive.
Billy throws his hat at Joe and Joe knocks it away as it comes at his face. Knocks it away with his forehead. Close enough.
And yeah, alright, maybe that's why Billy was in a mood, but it wasn't as if he hadn't left his shit on Joe's bedside table. If he's pissed at Joe he needs to say it. Joe wants him to say it. He can scream it. He can even have a free shot, but he can't fucking have silence.
Not the nothing, where he won't look at Joe head-on. Like Joe's invisible, right in front of Billy and not there. Like time-travel, but not good fucking times.
Billy stands up and Joe smiles up at him and waits to be acknowledged with some spit in his face.
Billy steps over his legs and climbs into the driver’s seat. He lights a cigarette before he turns the keys.
"Sorry," John says faintly, and Joe hears the percussive rattle of a bottle of pills.
Joe ignores him, and watches Billy's hands as he puts the van in gear, long callused fingers capable and quick. Joe feels a wave of anger wash warmly over him, damping his high.
He dodges baggage and amps and scrambles into the passenger seat. Billy glances sideways briefly, eyes passing over Joe as indifferently as they do over the snow streaked landscape. He blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth and Joe breathes it in.
Joe hunkers down in the seat, stretches and yawns theatrically, slumping and crossing his arms over his chest.
"Feel like I could fall asleep," Joe says. He flops an arm theatrically and lets it loll by his side, squints his no doubt bloodshot eyes at Billy's passive profile. He's sobering up, in actuality, but he's still tired.
Silence, silence everywhere and not a word for him. Billy smokes and drives and doesn't look at him.
Joe watches the road spiral out around them in the cross-eyed glow of the van's headlights for a long time, until he can't sit still any more.
He gives in with a theatrical sigh, straightening his back and straightening up.
The corner of Billy's lip twitches around the cigarette.
"Bastard," Joe says.
"You'd know," Billy replies quiet and husky, cigarette and sleep and disuse colouring his voice the perfect shade to make Joe's anger cool.
Joe leans into his shoulder, catching the smell of sweat and cigarettes and hair gel, Billy. He pressed his chin into Billy's shoulder, the hard curve fitting under his chin.
Billy's shoulder shifts with the wheel, but he doesn't shrug Joe off.
"Gimme a smoke?" Joe mumbles, jaw clicking against Billy's skin.
"Give me back my weed," Billy replies, still quiet.
Joe plucks the cigarette from his lips and Billy lets him.
He watches Billy, close enough the blonde stubble on his jaw blurs, and glances out at the road, and Joe reaches out to make a stupid fucking joke about what would happen if he covered Billy's eyes, like look-ma-no-hands --
The fucking van's always drifted to the side -- Billy's hands clench on the wheel white knuckles peaks -- Joe jerks back into his seat and his arm goes to Billy's chest and he hears the thud of his forearm meeting skin (not wearing a fucking seatbelt) -- no it's not his arm meeting skin it's the van wheels meeting the ditch at the roadside and the incline and the machine-gun fast fuck fuck fuck from the backseat rattles around as harsh as the teeth in Joe's head -- there's a fucking tree -- ah shit.
The impact sends something heavy flying across the dashboard, and the noise of Billy's window smashing is lost as the van's nose collides with the tree and they come to a whiplash stop that clicks Joe's teeth together hard.
The silence is sudden, engine dead, underlined by a low groan from the back. Joe looks down at Billy first, he's still gripping the wheel but is leaning towards Joe because Joe's fingers are clenched hard in his shirt front holding pulling him in and keeping him still. "Billy."
"Fuckfuckfuck," Billy says quietly, through clenched teeth. He looks up at Joe. "Fuck. I'm okay." Joe loosens his fingers through sheer force of will and Billy straightens up with is hands still on the wheel.
"Pipe? John? Rollcall, you assholes, talk to me," Joe twists in his seat. The mess of gear is tumbled all around the back, but Pipe's still where he was belted in snoring, with his arms up shielding his face.
"I'm good,” Pipe mumbles into his forearms.
John looks fine, Joe takes him in quickly head to toe, he's stiff as a board and his eyes are wide. He doesn't blink for long enough Joe's going to climb over the seat and make sure he's not impaled on something, a fucking bottle of Jack embedded in the back of his head. The driver's side door creaks loudly and slams, the remaining glass from Billy's window falling with little ticks that harmonise with the crackling hiss of the engine, and John jolts like he's been given a shot of adrenaline to the heart.
"You okay?"
"Sure," John says, abruptly blinking, and the one word comes out absurdly casual. Pipe climbs out the back and shoves the rear doors wide open.
Outside the van, Billy is screaming fuuuuuuck raw and angry, really tearing a chunk out of his throat, violent like Joe's only ever heard a handful of times before, off-stage.
Joe gets out Billy's door, and tastes blood the second he stands still. He runs a finger along the inside of his mouth but it's just he's bitten the inside of his cheek. He presses the sliver hanging skin between his molars and tugs it off, tasting copper.
The van's already stubby hood is dented where it rests against the tall pine, and for a second Joe just stands there sucking the blood out of the cut in his cheek and thinking how utterly fucked, and how fucking lucky, and the legend they'd just narrowly missed becoming, brains spattered across the dashboard spelling out rock and roll.
He turns around and Billy's already got a cigarette in his frowning mouth, and his eyes are bright and angry. Joe's surprised to find he's got a shred of self preservation left and looks away. He catches John looking shaky and contemplating the drop from the van's back doors to the gravel slope its rear end is still resting on. He scrambles up the slope and helps him down.
"You don't need a fucking ambulance John you pussy, just pop another pill," Billy snaps. He kicks the nearest object, the plaster Jesus Joe'd stolen from a roadhouse laying in a pile of gravel in glass, and slams his hand down on the van's door because there's no window to punch, his fingers curling over where shattered glass still clings to the frame. He jerks his hand away and hisses in pain. Blood runs over his clenched knuckles.
John just shakes his head, a little too hard and a little too long. John's been on a slow cycle of uppers and downers and big pills and little and no motherfucker was convincing him it was time to maybe see a professional, a shrink, and so long as his keel was more even than that one time in Regina where he stacked all the gear against the doors of his hotel room and wouldn't let anyone in, well what the fuck. Joe can't force him to do shit.
He's taking something now that's been keeping him calm enough but it's not going to last. Nothing does.
"Hey," Joe says and picks his way over the gravel that's studded with glittering glass.
"Fuck off," Billy says with his eyes and his fists screwed shut, and Joe waits it out while Billy just breathes.
Joe can hear John scrambling up the loose gravel of the slope, he watches him dragging his army surplus duffle out of the van and fumbling through it, throwing clothing across the dirt. He comes up triumphant with his bottle of non-prescription prescription meds and pour some into his shaking hand. Joe's got no fucking idea if John's taking too much or too little, but whatever he's doing it's not working right.
Joe would like to give more of a fuck, but his guitarist is bleeding a fucking lot from his dominant hand and that's a little more worrying than yet another drug dependence in their merry band of fuck-ups. Billy's opened his eyes again.
"Let me take a look," Joe says and reaches his hand out, palm up (his elbow twinges and he adds it to the ache in his jaw and the cut in his mouth on his list of minor injuries). He knows if he grabs at Billy right now he'll only get an empty hand and a face full of vitriol and spit for his effort.
Billy holds his hand out and unclenches it slowly, his uninjured hand stays a fist by his side. His knuckles fit snugly in Joe's palm, warm and wet with blood. Billy breaths in deep through his nose as he uncurls his fingers. They echo each other's curses as they see the piece of glass stuck in the meaty part at the heel of his hand.
"Least it's big," Joe says and Billy glares at him. "Because it's fuckin' easier to get out, Jesus am I some kind of asshole or what?"
"Just get it out," Billy says and keeps his eyes on Joe, doesn't look down, like he's walking a tightrope and he'll fall if he sees what's waiting. He's still bleeding gently through his fingers and through Joe's, a few drops fall onto the gravel and glass on the ground.
"Count of three," Joe says and makes sure Billy's looking in his eyes as he says, "One," and yanks it out, fingers slipping on the slick surface and wincing as it comes away surprisingly easy, barely stuck at all, and nicks his thumb just under the nail, "Cuntcuntcunt," Joe chants between clenched teeth. (So they're blood brothers for the umpteenth time).
"I fucking knew you were going to do that, fucker," Billy says, examining his hand held out in front of his face. The bleeding has slowed enough the trickle down his wrist doesn't reach his elbow.
"Yeah, worked though didn't it?"
"Fuck you, Joe."
"That's the thanks I get for my healing touch?"
"This is your fucking FAULT, you fucking asshole!" Billy yells and Joe rolls his eyes at him and lights a cigarette to cover how badly he wants to lean over and kiss the red right hand Billy's holding up accusingly between them.
"Hey, I wasn't the one driving."
"Don't fucking talk to me," Billy snaps and turns away, yanks a shirt out of John's open bag on his way past it without really looking. He rips the faded fabric in half from the hole already gaping across the middle and wraps it tight around his hand.
He settles his back against a tree by the roadside, up from the ditch the van's landed in. Joe watches him fumble and wince lighting his cigarette while trying not to jolt his hand.
Joe climbs up and sits on the open backend of the van, leans against one of the amps. He glances into the back. All the gear seems to have survived too. Externally at least, and he hopes to whatever ugly pus-faced god supervises touring bands it'll work all when they plug it in tomorrow. If Pipe ever fucking gets them a ride. He brings the cigarette to his mouth but stops halfway, watching his hand shake like he's on a bad comedown. He's fucking cold, too. All the little hurts keep trickling in. In the next ten minutes maybe he'll realise he's broken his leg or some shit, or that they're all actually dead. He coughs and spits a blood-flecked chunk out the back of the van. At least that's normal.
"Hey, Johnny," he calls, leaning around the side of the van. John's shoving the things he's thrown out of his bag back in with a little more composure now he's swallowed his handful of pills. No way they're even halfway to his stomach, but Joe understands. Like holding a glass of whisky in your hand, the moment before it burns the hurt out of your chest is a different kind of golden but golden in itself. John's still clutching the bottle of pills like a lifeline, though. "Gimme two of those," Joe asks, pointing to them with his cigarette clenched between two fingers.
"No, Joe I -- I, I'm going to need them."
"Just two, John, I swear I'll pay you back next time I'm holding."
John looks at him for a good long second and Joe takes another drag of his cigarette, leaves it in his mouth. He glances over at Billy who's watching the road where Pipe'd gone to find them a ride, paying them no attention. Joe holds his hand out and he and John both watch the shake for a while. He smiles at John and breathes smoke out his nose.
"Sure Joe, okay," John says finally and comes up to he presses two pills into Joe's hand, holding on a little too long, squeezing a little too tight.
Joe downs the little blue tablets dry and swallows against their uncomfortable slow stutter down his throat. He pokes his tongue into the little copper tasting cut inside his mouth absently as he watches the sun slide down somewhere across the road and attempts to keep from watching Billy. He looks unreal and further away than he is, a silhouette, a shadow, a thick scrawl of felt pen.
So much for keeping his eyes off.
He hears Pipe before he sees him and looks up to see his head appear over the ridge above, gesturing towards the van and wincing, with two deeply fucking uncool looking guys in tow. Joe's never been so happy to see a pair of assholes on khakis and ties before. They've got a ride. Joe locks the back of the van despite the fact the windows are broken.
“I'll stay,” John says, sitting on his re-packed duffle and looking collected. Joe watches him for a second for twitches, and John holds his hand out, steadier than Joe's. Joe grins and raps his knuckles against John's, and John grins back and takes the keys. He'll make sure no motherfucker steals their gear.
They've got a ride.
John's the bearer of bad news, shuffling into the diner and waving out to the tow-truck who'd given him a lift back from their lot. The van's towed to a lot because it'd broken an axle or some shit that meant it was out for the count. They could pick up their stuff in the morning and that would be some inhumanly expensive amount of money, thanks and please, have a shitty night.
At least the diner is warm, and the coffee isn't that shitty.
The waitress recognises them, but she's trying to be cool. Half the time Joe realises before they do, there's something about the way someone'll look at you. And he's not wearing a hat over his hair, which is usually a dead giveaway. She must have seen them last year, when they rolled through. She tugs the ends of her thick, black dyed hair and keeps touching the one shaved side, like she's just done it, like she wants them to notice. Joe gives her a sarcastic smile. Well done, honey. You're a real punk now. She ducks her head and looks embarrassed.
Billy slides over a few seats from Joe, sitting on the stool right up nearest the cash register where she's hovering, pretending to wipe some stubborn spot on the countertop.
“Hey,” Billy says. She looks up and smiles at him, and Billy smiles back, a reassuring little grin, soft eyed and charming. Prick. “Nice hair,” he rubs his hand along the side of his own head, not quite shaved blonde stubble.
“Thanks,” she says and practically spills her tits onto the counter in front of him, leaning over. “You're like. You're in a band right?”
“Yeah. We're Hard Core Logo,” Billy reaches over and pushes his coffee mug along the counter to her, and she takes it and turns around to fill it up. She brings it back steaming and waves his hand away silently when he makes a deliberate move towards his wallet, with a glance towards the kitchen doors. Fucking Billy, what a whore.
“I saw you guys! Like a while ago, last year some time. You were great.”
“Thanks,” Billy says, tearing open a sugar packet and smiling at her until she blushes.
“Bill,” Joe says in a stage-whisper, “I'm pretty fucking sure punk-rock Lolita here’s seriously illegal.” He turns to her, and her cheeks are flaming now, but she meets his eyes still half-hopeful. “He's not going to fuck you. Unless maybe you've got a cup of free blow behind the counter there.”
Billy drinks his coffee, picking the cup up carefully with his left hand, and doesn't look at anyone for a second.
“You'll have to forgive Joe, like most Dicks, he's not really meant to be exposed to the general public.”
“Ohhh,” Joe says, and holds a hand to his heart like he's wounded. “LADIES AND FUCKING GENTLEMEN, Billy fucking Tallent, he'll be here all night!” Loud enough all six people in the diner hush for a second, before Pipe snorts a laugh and the low murmur of late night conversation crawls back in.
Billy stands up without a word and heads for the door, and Joe gives him a slow round of applause on his way out. When he looks up, the girl's disappeared into the kitchen, the door swinging like it's shaking its head at him.
Joe takes Billy's abandoned freebie over to the booth John and Pipe are occupying and drinks it. It's good. Bitch knows how to flirt.
"You should go after him," John says.
"Yeah man,” Pipe starts, “go and fucking make nice, I don't wanna be in the room with you two if you don't work this shit out, let alone another fucking van. It's like Mom and Dad are fighting, except there's no fucking way you two are getting a divorce any time soon and I don't wanna get yelled at every time I fucking shift my ass to fart any more," Pipe whines, pointing a coffee spoon up at Joe from where he's sitting in the booth, no longer laughing.
“Well fuck, Pipe, we don't want to fuck you up for life or anything,” Joe says and gets up. He was going, anyway.
"Hey!" Pipe yells after him, "don't tell Billy he's the Mom!" and Joe grins to himself, half because obviously he's going to tell Billy he's the chick at some point, half because Pipe sounds genuinely worried how Billy might retaliate and that makes Joe feel warm and fuzzy inside. You don't fuck with Billy Tallent, not unless your name is Joe Dick.
“Hey, Joe.” John says quietly, “just say sorry. Just say sorry.” He says it slow and even. His eyelids are heavy, but it's late and at least he's not stuttering any more. Joe waves a friendly middle finger over his shoulder, advice acknowledged. Whatever. It'll work out, it always does.
The door chimes irritatingly behind him.
And as he come outside, he sees Billy's back. There's a payphone on the diner's brick wall, lit by a little florescent light in a cage. Billy's curled around it like a lover. He's laughing. "Thanks, Ed. Ed. Fucking thank you."
And jealousy buzzes and stings like a tattoo on the inside of Joe's skin. Billy clicks the receiver down and doesn't look over at Joe for a long minute.
"Let me kiss it better," Joe teases and Billy looks at him under his lashes and a cloud of fogged breath and smoke.
He's holding his scratched up hand curled by his side like a cat that's accidentally dipped its toes in a puddle, arch and irritated.
"Fuck you, Joe," he says. "You nearly fucking got us killed."
"You were the one driving, dickhead," Joe points out despite knowing it is exactly what he shouldn't say to get Billy to play nice again.
"I'm not the fucking dickhead that blocked the driver's fucking field of vision, dickhead," Billy snaps quietly and narrows his eyes which is all the warning Joe gets before Billy's flicks his still smoking cigarette butt at Joe and Joe's dancing like a fucking moron trying to get it to fall out from where it's landed in the collar of his coat. He can feel it hot on his skin as it falls down a tear in his shirt and out onto the pavement.
"Fuck! Why are you such a cunt?" Joe snaps, locating the cigarette and only feeling reassured he's not going to catch fire when he's ground it out under his heel.
Billy is smiling when he looks back up, amused and mean, hurt hand held up to his chest.
"I don't know, Joe. You tell me. You're the expert."
Joe raises his eyebrows and feels his face flush. He can see the high spots of cold or anger on Billy's cheeks in the spill of cold light from the payphone. He takes a cigarette from his pocket slowly and flies high on the anger that's itching in his veins. He wants to crush the whole fucking cigarette packet and put his fist though the big inviting glass windows behind him but he doesn't.
It never fucking goes easy, but that's okay. He steps up to Billy and Billy just watches him, doesn't take a step back.
He'll give Billy what he wants: "Got a light?" He waves the unlit smoke in Billy's face then pops it on his lip and waits.
Billy holds up his injured hand and hands his lighter over. Joe lights up, hands it back and snorts a huge lungful of smoke out his nose. It's harsh and good, but it does nothing for the adrenaline storming him like a belated reaction to the crash, and the chorus in his head screaming like he's on stage hit me hit me hit me hit me touch me.
“Ed got us a bus, Joe. A bus, with a driver.”
"Yeah," Joe says. "Great."
Billy narrows his eyes.
"Yeah, great?" Billy parrots sarcastically, "like he hadn't fucking offered it to you last fucking month, Joe? He just asked me why we didn't say yes before the fucking van ended up roadkill. Why the fuck didn't you say yes? We could have fucked died, asshole. Do you even understand what a monumental fucking fuck-up you are? Why they fuck can't we have a bus, Joe?" Billy hisses, voice quiet but uneven, eyes everywhere but Joe. He gets out another cigarette, fingers fumbling at his lighter until he gives up with a wince and throws it out into the darkness of the parking lot.
Joe's fingers clench into fists by his side and his chest feels as if it's constricting with them. Fucking Ed can't keep his fucking mouth shut when he should.
"You saying I don't think we're good enough for a fuckin' stupid bus, Bill?"
They're too fucking good for a goddamn pussy tour bus with some asshole driver probably some fucking Coca-fucking-Cola bullshit painted over the side of it.
"No, I'm saying you think a dinky fucking van is more hardcore," Billy snaps.
"Maybe," Joe says and Billy's hit the nail of the head, the cunt, "because it fuckin' is." Because it IS more hardcore in the van; because the stupid stinking van that pulls to the fucking left and nearly left them for dead was theirs.
"Yeah, well you'll just have to suck it up because the bus'll be here by tomorrow morning. With a driver," Billy smirks and Joe's sure half the pleasure he's getting from that is how he knows it's grating on Joe that he's going to have to admit in actions if not words that Billy was right, that Ed was right, that he was wrong. At least he's fucking looking at Joe, now.
"Since when do you make the fucking decisions in this band?"
"Since you need a fucking guitarist," Billy says. Their eyes are still locked and Joe's never really wished for Billy to stop fucking looking at him, except right then.
Joe's fist is swinging fast and hard and he catches Billy under his nose, feels Billy's teeth scrape his knuckles.
"Fuck you!" and it's on the tip of his tongue: well, why don't you just fucking go then. Get the fuck out of my face and the band and let me drink until I'm brain-damaged enough to forget you, you traitorous fucking cunt. Don't leave me.
He's thankful for Billy's retaliatory fist in his stomach winding him and Billy's knee that narrowly misses his chin. His hard-soled cowboy boots crush the toes of Joe's hole-worn kickers and Joe bites the inside of cheek again, right where it's already split, and tastes blood.
"You wish," Billy breathes into his ear, and then they're on the ground, Joe's shoulder against Billy's chest as they land in a heap and Billy yells fuck, the shirt around his hand gone and his fingers grinding into the gravel as he tries to catch himself. Joe puts all his extra weight behind the next punch splitting Billy's lip where it'd already been red and ready; he catches a face full of bloody spit in retaliation, followed by a handful of gravel shoved scraping against his cheek as he tries to wipe the spit from his eyes.
Billy scrabbles to flip them over, he's all taut wiry muscle and hard bone under Joe's weight, his boots grinding gravel nearly as loud as their breathing in the silent night air. Joe's head spins as they tumble and he remembers half the reason his hands are steady enough to hit Billy straight on in the first place is John's little pills, and he feels abruptly too heavy to keep fighting, blood and muscle weighed down with it.
Billy comes out on top and Joe looks up at him, feels his hard thighs tight against his hips, feels his hand bleeding warm against Joe's chest his other drawn back in a loosening fist that drops down by his side when he realises Joe's just going to let him.
Joe has the sudden urge to laugh and it spasms through his chest, comes out a cough that flexes his sore stomach muscles. Billy's sharp knuckles are going to leave him feeling that bruise every time he coughs for the next week.
Billy's shoulders relax gradually, his body shifting in time with the tension between them. It all comes floating down like the drugs in Joe's veins and abruptly, everything feels calm: Billy's right here, shifting in Joe's lap in the dirt. Joe reaches up slowly with heavy arms and grabs the back of Billy's neck, craning his head up and breathing out heavily as Billy leans down harder on the hand he's got planted on Joe's chest, not helping and not resisting, just waiting as Joe bends them both into a shape where their lips can touch. Billy hisses and Joe tastes Billy's blood on his tongue, his lip soft and swollen.
"We're getting a fucking driver," Billy says against Joe's lips. Somewhere in the back of Joe's mind he flips through his permanent record and thinks that introducing Billy to Ed Festus might be the worst thing he's ever done.
And Joe hears what he's saying and knows the shift of Billy's lips is a smile without being able to see more than Billy's ice blue eyes in the piss weak light from the diner windows and the payphone.
They're getting a driver and they're getting a bus because they can have that now; they've made it that far, and Joe ignores the churning in his guts that could just be because Billy'd gotten him good with that left before, but isn't. It's hard to remember what he was worried about when he'd turned Ed down, when Billy presses their lips together again softly, mindful of his own lip but not enough to back off completely. Joe bucks his hips up against Billy
Billy pulls away and shakes off Joe's hand, shakes his head no.
"You're still a prick," he says and climbs off Joe, dusting himself off and looking down at him.
"Yeah, well, you're still a cunt," Joe says.
Billy smiles down at him, reaches his uninjured left hand out for Joe to grasp and pull himself up.
That's when it hits him as solidly as any of the shots Billy had gotten in. That'd nearly been it. Finito. The fucking end. A rock'n'roll way to go. He'd nearly fucking and Billy, Jesus Christ.
3. come on, come on ('80)
He and Billy have just invented time travel, so naturally Joe's abusing the privilege.
His thigh is pressed against Billy's in the middle of the sagging couch. The fold-out they'd slept on in the band house was equally shitty for sitting or sleeping. Not that Joe had particularly noticed last night. He'd thought ahead and gotten blind drunk to cope with the thin blanket and prominent springs and it'd worked.
Until five in the morning when Billy had elbowed him in the neck far harder than he'd really needed to and Joe had woken up swearing and slapped a hand out reflexively, catching Billy in the mouth.
He'd woken Billy up by drooling down the back of his neck through no fault of his own, they'd rolled together in the sink-hole centre of the bed. It was also not his fault if his boner was pressing into Billy's spine. Billy informed him of his transgression only after he'd rolled them over and climbed on top of Joe, gotten fingers around his throat and paradoxically hissed at him to fuck off as he squeezed.
A completely cheap shot when Joe had just woken up, still drunker than hell on beer and whiskey chasers, and trying to work out whether Billy throwing a leg over his thighs and settling down with a hand on his throat a bad thing or not.
He glances sideways at Billy and rubs his throat. There's going to be a bruise from the wild elbow that'd caught him there. Billy keeps his eyes on the TV, shoving a corn chip in his mouth and washing it down with a swig of lunch-time beer.
Joe pops his cigarette in his mouth and nudges Billy's thigh with his before he puts his hands up.
He's thinking about the first time they kissed.
In front of the couch, in the present, Pipe rolls over on the floor with a groan, apparently just coming awake. He lifts his head off the cushion and the corn chips they'd been throwing into his hair falls to the floor. "What the fuck?" he croaks. Joe smirks around his cigarette and takes a puff without putting his hands down.
"You assholes," Pipe says without too much ire, it was halfway through a three month stretch of touring and they'd worn him down. "What the fuck is Joe doing?" he asks.
Billy pops another chip in his mouth and continues watching the tape on the TV. "Dunno, he's not fucking here is he?"
Joe puffs his cigarette and glances at Billy out of the corner of his eye. Billy sips his drink and doesn't look at Joe.
"I'm not hallucinating," Pipe says firmly, standing up steadier than Joe would have expected. He'd applaud, but he's busy. "I'm not," Pipe says again, but the conviction falls off his face like the rest of the broken corn chips off his shirt and leaves him looking confused. “Any more.”
Joe grins with teeth around his cigarette. Billy doesn't so much as twitch and it makes Joe grin harder.
"That's not funny man! Jesus!" Pipe says pointing a finger at Joe before glancing between him and Billy. Billy shrugs and settles back on the couch, his thigh shifting against Joe's and his elbow brushing Joe's ribs casually, ignoring the space he's occupying like he's really not there.
"Well, Pipe, you know what they say about acid and flashbacks," Billy says sagely.
Pipe stomps out swearing under his breathe.
Joe comes back, plucks the cigarette from his mouth and blows a smoke ring past Billy's face.
Billy graces him with a sideways look. "Where'd you go?" he asks. He drains his beer and Joe watches his lips touch the bottleneck, his throat move.
"Remember in my basement talking about all sorts of bullshit we'd do when we were in a fucked up rock band?"
"No," Billy lies, and looks back at the TV.
"And we talked about groupies," Joe says. That's what they'd been talking about when Billy had asked. He'd still worshipped Joe, Billy the skinny little kid whose parents didn't even allow cartoon devils in the house because they were too worldly, and he'd assumed Joe was cool enough to have kissed someone before. Joe laughs to himself and Billy looks back over at him.
"Fuck you, Billy," Joe says pleasantly, "get on the fucking nostalgia train."
"I am," Billy points at the TV screen, watching an official bootleg (it's not an oxymoron, Joe had given retroactive permission to the girl when he'd seen the quality along with her tits, and she'd given him a copy) of a couple of gigs they'd done last year. She'd edited them together pretty nicely. The screen goes black for a long second as the last note of Billy's guitar screams feedback and dies and white letters come up: HARD CORE LOGO. ROCCO'S BAR. 10/2/80.
Joe watches as the camera zooms in shakily then steadies on his own grinning face, he's sweating and smoking and Billy's just shoved him (he remembers that). He's calling the whole crowd cunts. The camera shakes again and the crowd jostles and roils and they start to play, packed in hard to the small dancefloor. He'd rather be watching the Bucky Haight tape they'd picked up at the dank little record store down town.
He looks over at Billy again and shoves at his leg.
"Come on, Billiam. You remember."
"No," Billy says. "You need to work on the bit in Fuck Off America with the," Billy does some air guitar demonstration and Joe watches his invisible fret work. He does, but he knows that and Billy knows he knows that. Billy is being contrary, cunt-trary and he either wants a fight or a reminder and Joe knows which one he'd prefer, though it might lead directly to the other and fuck it. His neck still hurts and Billy's already hit him once today: maybe he'll go for the record.
He grabs a brittle spike of Billy's hair and tugs sharply, Billy grabs his wrist and turns to glare blue death at him.
Joe leans in to kiss him and catches his smile before his lips connect with Billy's teeth, there's an awkward second before Billy tilts his head and lets Joe kiss him. Half the time he wonders if Billy even knows what he wants before Joe shows him.
When Billy shoves at his chest Joe lets himself be moved, lets go of his handful of hair and falls back against the arm of the couch. He hikes his socked feet up on the couch and watches Billy from between his spread knees.
Billy lights a cigarette and rests it on the soft jut of his bottom lip, the line of his jaw is covered in two days worth of fine blonde stubble that Joe knows he's proud of now it's coming in almost evenly, because he is a vain motherfucker. He watches the video a few seconds longer before turning back to Joe.
"What?"
"Gimme a drag," Joe says and holds his hand over between his legs for Billy to share the cigarette.
Billy slaps his hand away and Joe's about to tell him he's a bitch, except Billy's climbing to his knees on the couch and leaning over between Joe's. He knocks Joe's hat off with the back of one hand and grabs at Joe's hair, it stings and Joe's breathing in a lungful of smoke as Billy breathes it out against his lips. He keeps his eyes open. Billy let's go of his hair and sets his cigarette between Joe's lips. He leans back, both feet back on the floor and pulls another smoke from the crumpled packet.
Something loosens in Joe's chest; not that he'd actually thought Billy had forgotten. And Joe quite honestly doesn't want to know if Billy's just remembered now, if he really needed the reminder.
"'Fuck Off America', Joe," he says.
"Yeah. All right. Go get your fucking guitar, axe-hole."
"Oh that's funny, Joe. Hardy fucking har," Billy says dryly. He aims a kick at Billy's ass as he gets up, Billy dodges easily, tossing Joe a triumphant grin over his shoulder as he and picks his way around the pillows Pipe had been sleeping on to go get his guitar from the van.
Part two.