hcl_fic

For exeterlinden

2006-04-28T20:33:20Z

Title: A Quiet Night in Dedmonton
Recipient: exeterlinden
Author: helleboredoll
Pairing: Billy/Joe (of course)
Rating: R
Author's Notes: With no end of thanks to my generous and unfailingly patient beta, pocketmouse. Any remaining errors or stilted prose are fully my own. This fic is set during the unaccounted for night between when Hardcore Logo and the film crew leave Bucky Haight's and when they appear eating breakfast the next morning at the bandhouse in Edmonton on the day of their final show.

A Quiet Night in Dedmonton

Billy wakes up sitting on a couch in a small dim room, Joe stretched out beside him with his head pillowed in Billy's lap, his face turned into Billy's crotch. Joe's heavy sleep-breath is warming the denim at the front of Billy's jeans, and Billy's cock is half hard from the damp heat of it. Billy looks around, tries to figure out where the fuck he is, still chasing off vague spectral trailers and strange images from the night before last at Bucky's.

Limp sofa, walls covered in movie and band posters over tired paint, worn carpet beneath a clutter of strewn clothes, a half-strung guitar, tape cases, beer bottles and ashtrays. Right. Bandhouse.

Two weeks back in Canada, back on the road with the Hardcores, and LA is already starting to seem like a strangely well-lit dream.

They pulled into Dedmonton late yesterday evening, end-of-tour fatigue firmly settled in, band and film crew all dragging and still a little weirded out by and coming down from what John has been repeatedly referring to as 'the blasphemy we have committed on Bucky's Prairie'. By the time they'd unloaded the van, even Bruce seemed less interested in staging candid shots or poking into the band's private lives than in jockeying for position in the line for the shower to wash off the last remnants of goat's blood.

John locked himself in one of the bedrooms first thing after they got in, only the occasional sound of tape tearing, audible as Pipe pressed his ear to the door, assuring them he was still alive in there. Half a dozen beers later, Felcher disappeared into the next room over with the bandhouse chick, leaving Billy and Joe in the living room, going through the stack of VHS tapes piled around the TV and snickering at the brief sounds of sex and Pipefelcher's moaning.

After a while, even Bruce and the crew gave up on anything interesting happening and commandeered the last bedroom, leaving Billy and Joe with the living room and the stillness that fell through the house. Billy drifted off to sleep to the soft whir of the VCR, Doris Day on the TV, bickering in hushed tones with Brian Keith about their mixed brood, and Joe breathing quietly on the couch beside him, offering Doris the occasional advice on what she should do with the fucking kids.

Now, half-awake and half hung-over, Billy feels life with Joe and the Hardcores slipping back onto him, familiar and easy as worn denim. He stares at the TV screen long gone grey with static and lets the quiet of the house, the familiarity of it all, creep over him. Joe's head is a warm, comfortable weight in his lap, his slow breathing a sound Billy has fallen asleep and woken up to for years. Now that he doesn't really have anything to go back to in the States, it's not hard to start convincing himself he's got something worth staying for here.

Two more weeks and he'll be thirty five. That makes thirteen years of boring suburban childhood, six years of friendship with Joe, followed by twelve years together as Hardcores, most of it on the road, before nearly five years down in the States. Eighteen years total of his life with Joe, from before he'd even hit puberty all the way up to middle-age: better than half his life, all the important years, all the best and most alive parts. All the worst parts too.

At a certain age, it's hard to make new friends, true. But after a certain number of years, it's hard to get rid of old friends too.

Billy knows; he tried to let go, tried to make a new start, a new life. But the past sucks you in. The people in your past, the ones who really know you, know best how to drag you back in, whether you want them to or not. And it doesn't help at all when part of you does want to be drug back in.

Billy reaches down and pushes Joe's shoulder until he shifts with a grunt, moves his fucking chin so it's not poking Billy in the groin, then after a moment, runs his fingers into Joe's hair and pets.

When he's asleep, Joe looks younger, like the kid he'd been when they first started touring together and sleeping on couches in band houses was still a punk rock adventure, not a harbinger of poverty and an invitation to a backache.

"Hey," Billy stops petting and rolls Joe's head beneath his hand. "Wake up."

Joe mumbles sleepily something that Billy translates as 'fuck off, motherfucker, I'm trying to sleep here.'

Billy pets a few more times, then gives Joe's mohawk a tug. Joe mumbles, and Billy tugs again harder and rocks his hips up a little as Joe grumbles again and replants his chin into the soft skin to the side of Billy's cock.

"C'mon, wake up and pay the pillow fee," Billy says and Joe's grumble turns into a snort of laughter. It's easy to fall into all the old patterns, all the same old jokes. The way they lived most of their years together— tight quarters, late hours— someone always ended up using someone else's body parts as a pillow. Billy'd been the first to demand a fee, but Joe'd been the one to move it from the last Monster Burger in the bag or a pack of smokes to hand jobs and blowjobs.

Joe's laugh turns into a nuzzle and Billy gentles his hand in his hair, cups the base of Joe's neck and rubs the bare scalp there, feels the prickle of new stubble beneath his thumb as Joe reaches up and starts to unzip Billy's jeans. With the zipper half down, Joe stops and looks up at Billy, and his expression is pure Joe: his strange mix of defensive and sincere, mocking and something like hopeful.

"You really want it?"

God, it's been years. Fucking years since they've done this. Billy might not know happiness from familiarity anymore, he might be confused about why he's here, what this all means, how he wants this whole thing to end up, but he fucking knows from longing and lust and even their own twisted-up, fucked-up brand of love.

This is the trade-off, Billy thinks. The per diems suck and he'll probably never see the inside of a limo again, but instead he gets this— Joe and him. He gets the fights and the hookers and the poverty and the coke, but he also gets the late-night talks and the quiet times together on the road, singing in their late-night coffee voices. He gets them sitting together, guitars in their laps, writing his own music with Joe there to match the right words to it, making songs that fucking matter, that make Billy feel something when he plays them like no set with Jenifur ever has. It's a trade-off, and if he's gonna swallow the bullshit, he deserves to get the good parts too. Yeah, he wants it.

Billy slouches down further on the couch in response, slides his legs wider apart to give Joe more room. Joe chuckles and rolls onto his side, slides the zipper the last inch down and pops the top button free. Billy's cock lies hard on his stomach, smelling of musk and sweat, and Joe stares for a moment before he runs his tongue up one side and sucks the head into his mouth with his lips sucked in over his teeth. He presses just the cockhead between his lips, squeezing his mouth closed gradually harder and harder until Billy groans, before pulling back to lick his lips, then sliding his mouth down all that hard smooth skin until his nose is buried in the wire soft thatch of Billy's blond-brown hair.

Joe glides his mouth up and down Billy's dick, hard and fast and sweet, and Billy drops his head onto the back of the couch, his throat stretched taunt as he gasps and swallows and lets himself get lost in the familiarity of this, of Joe and him together again, doing their thing—making music, road games, friendship, movies, bandhouses, blowjobs—all of it.

He doesn't have to look down to know exactly what Joe's mouth looks like wrapped around his dick. Joe's hands—one curled around his back and holding him at the small of his back, the other spread flat on the front of his hip, thumb rubbing back and forth over the soft skin at the crease of his thigh and groin—feel exactly the way he's remembered them for years, strong and hard and callused and gentle and warm, and God, if only it were always like this. Just like this and none of the bullshit. If only Billy could fool himself into believing that this and the music, this was all it was, he could stay. He doesn't need LA or Jenifur or fame or any of that shit if it could just be Joe like this and him and the music.

Billy realizes he's been thinking out loud, babbling under his breath as he holds Joe's hair and fucks his mouth— 'you and me, I'll stay, you and me, like this and I can stay, fuck yeah, fuck Joe, I'll stay'— when Joe moans a long yeah around his cock, and the sound and feel of it spikes something hot and sharp and swelling in Billy. He gives the back of Joe's mohawk a double tug, their long-standing signal he's about to come, but Joe just moans another yeah, closes his mouth tighter, keeps sucking until Billy can't help himself. He buries himself in Joe and swears as he comes, Joe choking a little as Billy fills his mouth but sucking and swallowing anyway.

Which is stupid and reckless— Joe doesn't know where Billy's dick has been in the past five years— and not at all the way they used to play this thing and exactly the kind of stupid-ass grand gesture Joe would make to try to push his point.

Billy lets go of the clench he has on Joe's hair and sags back against the couch as Joe pulls off and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Joe rolls onto his back, rests his head on Billy's thigh so he can look up with serious, dark eyes. After a moment, Billy pulls himself back from the edges of his post-fuck haze and looks down. Joe stares and Billy stares back, and as usual, Billy breaks first, a small smile spreading his lips. When there's no doubt that he's won, Joe winks and lets a grin creep across his face, and Billy can't help himself; he grins back, and Joe's smile grows until they're both mugging at each other like a couple of long-lost idiot twins.

"Don't even ask if you can return the favor, you cheap cunt."

It's too easy a line for Billy not to fall back into the familiar groove.

"Okay, can you return the favor, you cheap cunt?"

"Fucker. Nah, I'm good."

So Billy knows Joe is still too whiskey-dicked from his most recent high to get off, which is also strangely, comfortably familiar.

"What time is it?" Joe asks. Billy looks around for the clock, but there's nothing. The VCR blinks a green twelve. Vague, grey light is just starting to seep in through the medley of beach towels and worn blankets doing time as window shades.

"Dunno." He looks down in his lap as Joe nods and closes his eyes.

Maybe the light's changed, maybe Billy's just more awake than he was before, but the Joe who looked like a sleeping kid a while ago is gone, all the years settled back into the lines at the corners of his eyes, in the uneven texture of his skin. Funny how even in the same position, now that Joe's awake, Billy can see him exactly as he is— all the years, no pretending.

"We're in a band house."

"The keen observational powers of Mr. Obvious strike again."

"I hate band houses."

"I know," Joe says and yawns. "Quit being such a prissy bitch. We'll be in a motel tomorrow."

Billy sighs and gives in to the inevitability of it all. Later today, he'll go do the college radio promo interview Mulligan set up. Tonight, they'll close out the reunion tour, and after that— him and Joe, Joe and him. They'll drop John back off to Celine, let Pipe settle wherever he lands, and then head toward whatever Joe's been talking to Mulligan about getting lined up for them. The Joe Dick and Billy Tallent Show. The Billy Tallent and Joe Dick Show. Whichever.

It won't be LA. With Joe, there's a pretty good guarantee they'll never be rich or land a real recording deal. Billy'll probably never open for the Chili Peppers again. But maybe, just maybe— if Joe can manage to keep his shit clean and Billy can keep him from fucking them over again, if it's all music, zero bullshit— it'll be enough.

Right now, in the dim of pre-dawn, warm and relaxed in the comfortable space between them where he's lived most of his life, Billy can convince himself that this is enough, will be enough. That he wouldn't jump out of this life again, even if he still had a way out. That he's fucking choosing Joe this time. They won't make the same idiot mistakes again. They're older, wiser, less angry, all that good bullshit. Joe's mellowed. Some. They both have, age wearing the sharpest edges off. They can make it work this time.

Billy wants to believe it. And when he's being honest with himself, as John is so fucking fond of saying lately, he knows he hasn't got much choice but to try to believe.

He bounces his thigh a couple times beneath Joe's head until Joe rolls and scoots over enough that Billy can lie down, and they both shift and wiggle in the close space, bodies warm and tired, until they're lying foot to face with Billy wedged between Joe and the back of the couch. Joe wraps his arms around Billy's calves and is almost instantly, quietly back to sleep.

Billy gropes around until he finds a worn and floppy pillow on the floor and puts it on top Joe's bare feet, rests his head on top. The rest of today and tomorrow and everything after that will come soon enough. For now, he tries to relax and let himself drift on the easy swell of nostalgia and post fuck endorphins, on the still familiar and perversely comforting smell of musty upholstery and Joe's sweaty feet.

For verushka70

2006-04-28T20:30:07Z

Title: Hit
Recipient: verushka70
Author: jcjoeyfreak
Pairing: Joe/Mamet (Men with Guns)
Raiting: NC-17

Hit

It’s late. Joe Dick is standing outside some dinky club, smoking a cigarette, not quite sure what to do with himself. A part of him wants to go inside, a part of him doesn’t really care. A part of him wants to shoot his brains out all over the cement, but that’s another story.

He can tell by the increasing flow of people in and out of the club that there might be something of interest for him inside, but he’s biding his time. For what, he doesn’t know. It could be coke, heroin, or hell, fuckin’ hash for all Joe knew, Joe’d take any of that shit right now.

Joe lets another ten minutes go by before he finally makes up his mind. He tosses his cigarette aside and blows out smoke, eying the entrance to the club. He can tell by the shitty music that it’s a place he wouldn’t want to be caught dead in, but fuck, he needs a hit. Needs one badly.

Joe heads inside and finds himself immediately surrounded by people. Dancing, flailing, high off their shit kind of people. Yep, Joe’s hit the jackpot alright. He heads towards where the crowd is the thickest, where people are pushing each other around to get into the men’s bathroom.

Joe makes it in by pure intimidation. Joe isn’t in the mood to be fucked with and maybe people can sense that. Joe doesn’t know, nor does he care, as long as they leave him the fuck alone and get the fuck out of his way.

It takes Joe a moment to figure out what stall the dealing’s being done in, but when he does, he steps up, pulls out his wallet. “How fucking much?”

A guy, who’s sitting on the toilet with the cover pulled onto his lap, looks up. Joe pauses, thinks he may be hallucinating. Though, he’s not really sure how that’s possible, since he’s not even fucking high yet.

“Twenty’ll getcha a dime bag.”

Joe glares, the guy even talks like Billy. Sort of. Joe yanks a twenty from his wallet, the only one he has, and trades for a small bag of coke. The guy smiles faintly back and Joe’s had it. He’s leaving right fucking now. Joe stalks out of the bathroom, mind reeling. People are everywhere and it’s smokey and Joe can hardly think straight.

But what Joe does next, though, isn’t surprising. At least not to Joe. What he does next is find an empty barstool, plant himself on it, and waits.

Even if it doesn’t surprise him, Joe still can’t believe he’s doing it. Waiting around for some fuck who isn’t Billy, but might as well be in some weird fucked up kind of way. A part of Joe wants it, and his insides twist painfully. He wants a hit. But he can’t. He has to be sure.

Three beers later, what Joe has been waiting for finally appears from the men’s bathroom. The Billy clone, the Billy look-alike, the Billy whateverthefuck.

And hell, the guy is even heading right towards him.

Joe shifts in his chair and stares him down, but the guy isn’t even looking at him. The Billy clone, apparently, just wants a beer. Joe lets him order one before speaking up.

“Hey,” Joe says. His voice is deep, gruff.

The guy blinks and looks over at him, looks surprised. “Hey.”

“What’s your name?” Joe asks, because hell, he might as well get right to the point.

The guy smiles a little, looks shy. Fuckin’ great.

“John, but..” The guy pauses, looks at Joe. “People usually just call me by my last name.”

“And what’s that?” Joe asks, wanting to sound sarcastic, but he can’t quite muster it.

“Mamet.”

“Mamet,” Joe repeats.

“Did you want another…” Mamet starts, but his voice trails off. “We ran out but I might have another-“

“No, nah, already got my shit,” Joe says, and shifts on his stool restlessly. He leans in a little, looks the guy right in the eyes. “Do you want to get out for awhile?” Joe has no clue what this guy’s orientation is, but then, Joe doesn’t really fucking care either way.

Mamet blinks slowly, looking back at Joe. Then looks around, but doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for. “Yeah, I guess. How long?”

“Not fucking long,” Joe said, getting off his stool. He’s feeling more excited than he should be. “Come on.”

“Okay…” Mamet replies, voice trailing off again as he follows Joe out of the club. “But I have to get back before-“

“Yeah, I’ll get you back. We ain’t going far. Van okay?” Joe grunts out.

“What?”

“I said, van okay?” Joe asks again, looking over his shoulder at Mamet, who just blinks owlishly at him in return. Joe grunts. Great, a fucking retarded Billy look-alike.

“Van’s okay,” Mamet murmurs finally.

“Good. Great. Fanfuckingfablulous, Mamet.”

“So, what’s your name?” Mamet asks curiously.

“Joe.”

“Joe what?”

“Joe Dick, got a problem?”

“Not really.”

Joe rolls his shoulders in irritation. He hadn’t expected a cracked out guy like this to know who the hell he was, but it still annoyed him.

“Here,” Joe says finally, going over to the side of his van and sliding open the side door. It’s an old piece of shit, really. Hell, the thing doesn’t even really belong to Joe. “Get in.”

Mamet blinks and looks around, and for the first time Joe realizes he’s holding something. A bag of some sort.

“What the hell is that?”

Mamet looks at Joe, looks down at the bag. Clutches it tighter. “Bag,” He mumbles and climbs into the van.

Joe arches and eyebrow and climbs in as well, slamming the door shut behind him. “Yeah? And what’s in the fucking bag?”

Mamet sits down on a flattened squishy mattress that Joe uses sometimes for sleep and says, “Nothin’.” Sets it aside.

It’s money from all the coke sales probably, but Joe doesn’t care. Joe can give fuck all about money right now. He sits down next to Mamet on the mattress.

Mamet looks back. It’s dark, but they can still see each other. “So, what do you do?”

“Do?” Joe echoes. He hadn’t really come in here for conversation. “Used to play in a fucking band, why?” Joe says, shrugging off his heavy black coat. Maybe this’ll give Mamet a hint.

Mamet shrugs at that, watches Joe. “Do you want me to…“

“Yeah.”

Mamet nods and shrugs off his own coat. Peers at Joe again before peeling his shirt off as well.

Joe watches a bit hungrily. He can’t help it. In the dim light, Mamet looks exactly like Billy. He even has a shadow on his right arm that may or may not be a tattoo, and suddenly Joe feels a bit lightheaded.

“You okay?” Mamet asks, breaking through Joe’s thoughts.

“Yeah, fine,” Joe mutters, and rubs the bridge of his nose. He needs to get his shit together.

“Do you even want to do this?” Mamet asks, and his voice his soft, too much like Billy’s.

“Yeah,” Joe repeats, and looks up again. Blinks at Billy. No, Mamet.

Mamet merely tilts his head to the side, scoots closer.

Joe lets him, purses his lips. Reaches out and clasps his hand at the back of Mamet’s neck.

Mamet’s eyes grow heavy at that, leans towards Joe.

“You into me?” Joe asks. He’s not sure why he bothered to ask though, what did it matter?

“Sure,” Mamet replies, offering a bit of a sleepy smile. “You into me?”

Joe grunts. “I waited for you didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did.”

Joe hesitates. Mamet is right there. Hell, Billy is right there and Joe suddenly has a case of bad nerves. He squeezes at the back of Mamet’s neck. “Fuck.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothin’. Fuck,” Joe says again, and decides to just go for it, smashing his mouth up against Mamet’s.

Mamet lets out a soft mumph of surprise, but kisses Joe back easily enough, licking at his mouth, encouraging more.

“Fuck,” Joe moans against Mamet’s mouth, because fuck it’s nice, really nice. Mamet’s mouth is soft, perfect, wet like Joe wants it to be.

Mamet shifts, makes pleasant sounds against Joe’s mouth and pulls his arms around Joe’s neck. This makes Joe lean forward and press Mamet back against the mattress. Mamet falls back like it’s nothing, taking Joe with him. Joe doesn’t mind it. Hell, he’d take anything from Mamet right now, the fucker just doesn’t know it yet.

“Joe,” Mamet murmurs, one his hands stroking at the hairs at the back of Joe’s neck.

Joe bites his tongue to stop himself from calling Mamet Billy, and focuses instead on kissing him, shutting him up. Then Joe reaches down, fiddling with Mamet’s pants, attempting to get them open. Mamet arches up, sighing, letting Joe do whatever. Now only if Billy had been so compliant.

Joe forces himself to stop thinking about Billy for a moment and yanks at Mamet’s pants, getting his pants and underwear off his hips. Mamet moans softly and for a delirious second it all seems so very real. Hell, fuck, it is real. Just not in the way Joe wants to be.

“Fucker,” Joe says and moves down quickly, not sure what he’s doing exactly but going for it anyway. He knows Mamet’s cock is there before he even sees it, because he can feel it, radiating heat near his chin. Joe grabs Mamet’s hips and goes to town, sliding his mouth over the tip and down over the length. Joe’s not much of a cock sucker, but fuck, he’d be one for Billy. And hell, now Mamet apparently.

Mamet pants and twists above him, makes a weird squeaking noise and suddenly Mamet’s hands are in Joe’s hair, squeezing at him, yanking at the strands.

Yeah, fucker, you better enjoy it, Joe thinks aggressively as he bobs his head over Mamet’s cock, letting his tongue slide all around it, trying not to think about where Mamet had the thing last. Admittingly, though, Joe actually really enjoys the hair pulling, and let’s out an appreciative moan in return.

Mamet tugs some more, and Joe pants through his nose, because fuck, he can’t really take anymore cock and pulls back, mouth slick with saliva.

Mamet sighs. “Joe?” he murmurs, sounding sleepy, relaxed.

Joe doesn’t reply, just grabs at Mamet’s pants and pulls them off his legs along with his shoes, throwing them somewhere. Mamet can find them later. Joe then climbs back up Mamet’s body and collapses against him, feeling the heat of Mamet’s body through his clothes.

Mamet grabs Joe’s head at that and kisses him, moves and arches against Joe in a way that makes Joe think that Mamet really wants him. Needs him.

Joe kisses him back, sighs. He needs Mamet too. He’d been going crazy thinking about Billy, pining for Billy, and it’s a welcome distraction. Not that it’s much of a distraction. Hell, it makes Joe miss Billy even more. If Billy ever found out about this, Joe’d never live it down. Luckily for Joe, Billy hadn’t been around to mock him in years.

Mamet moans softly, reaches for Joe’s shirt, gives it a tug. Joe gets the hint and reaches back, pulling his shirt off his head. That goes flying somewhere also and Joe presses his bare chest down against Mamet’s. It’s strange but it’s comforting. Mamet’s soft, his body smooth and inviting like Billy’s used to be.

Mamet smiles gently beneath Joe, and kisses his face. Joe nuzzles him a bit back, suddenly aware of how hard he is, his cock pressed against Mamet’s own.

“It’s okay, right?” Joe murmurs, eyes fluttering shut briefly. Joe isn’t sure how Mamet gets what he’s asking, but he does.

“Yeah, Joe,” Mamet murmurs back. “That’s why we’re here.”

That’s why we’re here. Joe likes the sound of that. They were here to fuck, plain and simple. Joe pulls back at that and sits up, undoing his pants in the dark with some frustration. Then suddenly Mamet’s hands are there, brushing Joe’s aside. Joe lets him and sucks in a breath when Mamet pulls him out.

Mamet’s stroking him and it’s good, damn good. Joe sighs pleasurably, feels his cock respond by hardening further, pulsing in Mamet’s grasp.

Joe lets it go on, just for a moment. “Okay, that’s enough,” Joe gasps finally, pushing at Mamet. A part of Joe is afraid too get too lost in it, to enjoy it too much. The illusion is nice, but only because Joe knows it is one.

“Okay,” Mamet says softly back, recoiling his hand.

“Fuck, turn over for me,” Joe pants. “I want to do you up the ass.” It’s not sexy, but it gets the point across.

Mamet blinks but is compliant enough, turning over onto his stomach. Then, as an afterthought, pops his hips up, pulling his knees under him.

Joe immediately puts his hand on Mamet’s back, to stop Mamet from going anywhere or to steady himself, Joe isn’t sure. He uses his other hand to jack himself a bit. It’s all happening pretty fast, but then, that’s how sex usually is, and Joe feels his heart crush painfully.

“I don’t got a condom,” Joe says, half because he wants to hear Mamet’s reaction, half because it’s true. He doesn’t have shit. “Lube either.”

“It’s okay,” Mamet mumbles in reply, chin against the dirty mattress. “Me either.”

It’s okay. Joe wants to smack him upside the head and say no, it’s not okay fucker, but fuck, if Mamet doesn’t care, neither does Joe. Joe spits into his hand and rubs it over his cock. Does it twice because once is not enough.

Mamet shifts restlessly in front of him and Joe grabs Mamet’s hips. Joe wonders if he still remembers how, and grasps his cock, pressing it against Mamet’s ass.

Mamet twists a little and gasps, but pushes back against him at the same time. Apparently, it feels good to him, even now. This makes Joe feel better and applies more pressure. Mamet groans, but his ass doesn’t resist too much and Joe feels himself start to slip inside.

Mamet’s hot, tight, and Joe’s brain is reeling. The tip of his cock feels like it just might melt off, it’s so fucking hot. “Fuck,” Joe grunts, because fuck if this isn’t the easiest ass he’s ever attempted to fuck. He slides in a bit further before gripping both of Mamet’s hips, thrusting the rest of the way inside.

Mamet yelps, and so does Joe because fuck, his cock’s engulfed and Mamet is squeezing him now, trembling beneath him.

“It’s okay,” Joe manages gasp. He’s not sure why he’s saying it other than to try to be comforting.

“Yeah,” Mamet pants out in return, and pushes his ass back against Joe tentatively.

“Fuck, you’re fucking tight,” Joe grunts out, and realizes he sounds like a bad porno, but can’t bring himself to care.

“Yeah,” Mamet repeats, wiggles.

Joe groans. “Fuck.” Then gives in and draws his hips back, sliding most of the way out before slamming himself back inside, the force causing Joe to shout and Mamet to shudder violently.

“Fuck,” Joe says again, because he can’t help it. He’s going to collapse before he can get anything done.

“More,” Mamet mumbles out unexpectedly, and clenches tight around Joe.

“Ow, fucker,” Joe growls, and draws back again, making his next thrust even harder, his hips slapping against the skin of Mamet’s ass.

Mamet moans loudly at that one and Joe starts to feel delirious again. Joe can hardly feel it, he’s living too much in his head. Tries to live in the moment, but can’t. But he might as well finish what he started. Joe starts thrusting steadily now, hitting Mamet with hard forceful thumps.

Mamet moans steadily in return, gasping when Joe thrusts in, panting when Joe pulls back.

Joe’s vaguely aware of the van rocking slightly on it’s tires, but he’s focusing too much on fucking Mamet to care. Hell, a part of Joe even wants to hurt Mamet, so he thrusts again, hard, and Mamet cries out.

Mamet doesn’t complain, though. Joe didn’t figure he would.

So Joe does it again. And again and again until Mamet’s a moaning writhing pathetic mess beneath him. Mamet’s going to be sore tomorrow, and so is Joe, but Joe can’t bring himself to give a shit.

“Fuck, fucker,” Joe growls, riding Mamet’s ass now, giving him all he has.

Mamet continues to moan, sounding pained.

Joe wants to stop, but finds that he can’t. He has to keep riding Mamet until he comes, or Mamet breaks, whichever comes first.

Thankfully, though, Joe coming comes first, and it hits him unexpectedly, causing Joe to gasp and twist as his balls pull tight, the warmth spreading through his cock and releasing into Mamet’s ass.

Mamet jerks at that but Joe continues to hold on tight. He doesn’t want Mamet to go anywhere. Not yet.

Mamet whimpers and Joe realizes he’s holding him too damn tight and releases him, pulling out. Falls back on his ass to the mattress. Flops over. Fuck.

Mamet flops over as well and doesn’t say anything. For a frightening second Joe thinks he’s dead, but Mamet shifts a moment later, and Joe can breathe again.

Neither of them say anything. Hell, Joe isn’t even sure the fucker has come, can’t even bring himself to check. He’s boneless, feeling numb. Mamet’s not Billy because Mamet hardly fucking talks.

A few minutes pass while Joe tries to catch his breath. “I think it’s time for you to leave,” Joe manages to get out.

There’s another long silence before Mamet says, “Okay.” Then there’s movement beside him and Joe figures Mamet’s getting dressed. Joe doesn’t know, he can’t even bring himself to look at the guy anymore.

A few more minutes pass, followed by some shuffling. Then Joe feels a hand on his arm. It’s light, but comforting in a way, and Joe closes his eyes. Doesn’t respond. Can’t bring himself to.

The hand stays, just a little longer, then it’s gone, the van door sliding open a moment later. It shuts with a resounding bang that echoes in Joe’s skull and suddenly Joe feels like shit. He’s not even sure if either of them even enjoyed it.

Joe rolls over onto his stomach, grumbling. A part of him just wants to lie there and die, another to go out and get Mamet, drag him back in. But Joe does neither. He thinks about Billy instead. Thinks about calling him.

But that’s just another thing Joe can’t bring himself to do.

For brooklinegirl

2006-04-28T20:15:42Z

Title: Bonding Things
Recipient: brooklinegirl
Author: jcjoeyfreak
Pairing: Joe/Billy
Rating: NC-17

Bonding Things

Things start innocently enough. Another day on the road called for another day listening to Pipe complain. Billy had learned to tune him out well, as he did most things, especially when he was reading a good book.

"Are we there yet?" Pipe moans, his head lolled back in utter boredom, sprawled over somebody's luggage, most likely John’s, looking like he was about to die.

"What the fuck did I just say Pipefeltcher?" Joe's voice rings out in return, just like it always does. "We got another fuckin' hour. So shut your fuckin' face."

"Well, can't you just drive faster?"

“Fuck off!”

“Joooee…”

And it would go on.

Pipe would complain, Joe would threaten. Pipe would complain, Joe would threaten. Pipe would mock, Joe'd mock back, then, if Joe got pissed enough, stop the van and clobber Pipe.

Billy sure fuckin' hoped not. Last time that happened, Billy had gotten tangled up in the stupid fucking thing. Joe sure got hell for that one.

But thankfully, Joe appeared to be in a good mood today, and the banter went on long enough for John, who was in the passenger, to casually point out that they were passing a Herbies.

Pipe perks up like a dog smelling meat and gestures wildly. "Herbies!"

"Fuck you," Joe snarls back. "We just fuckin' went to a fuckin' Herbies!"

"Herbies!" Pipe repeats loudly. "Heerbbiies!"

"Alright! Alright! We're fucking stopping! Billy's probably hungry anyway."

Billy snorts from behind his book that he couldn't really concentrate on since Joe and Pipe had started bickering. Joe had always found some way to include Billy in almost every single conversation. Whether Billy liked it or not. Billy was never sure why, other than maybe Joe wanted to annoy him, or perhaps invite some attention. It usually worked.

"I'm fine!" Billy calls out.

"No you're not, you're fuckin' ravished!" Joe calls back, then turns quickly, grinning at Billy from over his shoulder. "Starvin'. Fuckin'.. malnourished."

Billy flips him off and Joe makes a stupid face in return. Then John says something about how maybe Joe should keep his eyes on the road, and Joe jerks back, obviously having forgotten he was driving, and the van swerves back from wherever it had ventured to. Good thing they had John around.

Once at Herbies, Joe and Billy disconnect themselves from John and Pipe entirely. It had become routine by now that if Joe and Billy went off together, you didn't follow.

Billy had an inkling that Joe had wanted this. To be alone together. So they end up doing the usual. Find a booth, sit in it, create an invisible force field in which no one could enter, and shoot the shit.

Billy tucks himself into a corner, mandatory cigarette already in hand, and takes a drag, eying Joe as Joe scoots into the seat opposite from him.

"You drive like shit," Billy offers.

"Fuck you, ya think?" Joe grins, reaching back into his own pocket to pull out his smokes, taking one out and lighting it. "It tends to happen when it's all you fuckin' do in between shows."

"Then how about letting someone else drive for a change?"

"Fuck that," Joe says through the cigarette perched between his lips. He rips it out, tilts his head back slightly and blows out smoke. "Besides, I like it."

"Control freak."

"Passive aggressor."

Billy laughs. "Fuck you."

"What? It's true," Joe says, giving Billy one of those sly smiles. This gives Billy an idea.

Billy sits up straight, gestures. "Hold out your hand."

Joe snorts. "Why?" But even as he says it, he's already holding out his hand. Joe's such a crazy trusting fuck sometimes.

"Palm up," Billy says and Joe does as he's told.

"Is this one of your new fangled experiment shit things?" Joe asks, eying Billy from behind a waif of smoke.

"Something like that," Billy smirks, and sucks back on his cigarette hard enough to create a long stem of ash. He then reaches forward with the cigarette and proceeds to flick the ash into Joe's awaiting palm.

Joe blinks, then blinks some more.

Billy cackles.

"What!" Joe exclaims, like he can't believe that that was all there was to it. "What the hell was that!"

"My experiment," Billy smirks, taking another drag.

Joe scoffs, shaking his hand from the ashes. "An experiment of fuckin' what? How good my hand makes as a fuckin' ashtray?"

"Pretty much," Billy smiles. "And your gullible factor."

Joe snorts. "I wouldn't say it was my gullible factor as much as it was a trust factor."

"Exactly," Billy says.

Billy manages to use Joe's hand as an ashtray two more times that day before their show that night. Once, randomly, while Joe was driving, then later, right before the show. And both times, Joe was agreeable, if not rather gleeful, and held out his hand without suspicion.

Billy supposed this was because Joe enjoyed such stupid nonsense things. Because more often than not, it was the stupid nonsense things that often became habit, which then became inside jokes, which then became some odd form of bonding.

Yet another thing the great Joe and Billy could do to fuck with the masses! Needless to say, Billy quite enjoyed the idiocy himself. It was the secret silent 'fuck you’ to others that Billy found himself enjoying the most. This was Joe’s fault.

The anarchist fuck.

The show that night went reasonably well, all things considered. There was a great turn up, everyone was on the ball, and hell, Billy wasn’t even drinking.

Billy wasn’t drunk.

That was a miracle all in itself.

Billy felt energized. Awakened.

Logically, Billy should have been tired. Playing for an hour and a half should have made him sore. But he was too buzzed. The crowd was good to them that night. Someone even threw panties at Joe.

Considering Joe usually got beer cans lodged at his head, this was a good thing.

And even better: Sometime during their last tour, Joe fucked somebody’s sister’s brother’s aunt’s niece who worked at the hotel just a few blocks from the venue. Apparently, said niece thought very highly of this event, attended the show that night, and invited the band to stay a night for free. She probably wanted another fuck out of it, but Billy’d be damned if he’d let Joe out of his sight tonight. Billy had fucking plans.

So when he and Joe entered their hotel room, Billy sets his bag down on a chair and digs through it, pulling out a clean pair of sweatpants. “Takin’ a shower,” Billy mumbles through his cigarette.

Joe barely hears him. “What!” Joe yells loudly, taking a running jump onto the bed, beer in one hand, shiny red panties in the other. He stomps all over the sheets.

“I said,” Billy starts, ripping the cigarette out of his mouth so he could speak more clearly. But stops because Joe is the most ridiculous cuntface he has ever seen. “You still with that? Throw that fucking thing away already.”

“Fuck you,” Joe said, his bouncing coming to a bit of a stop as he tilts his head back and takes a long swig of beer. He pulls his lips away with a smack, grins. Runs the panties over his crotch lewdly. “It’ll help me get through the night.”

Billy makes a face. Doesn’t want to know. “Alright. Whatever. Shower.” Billy turns and heads for the bathroom, closing the door behind him just as Joe starts moaning his name.

“Billl. Billlllaaaay.”

Billy ignores him. Joe is in another one of his cracked out moods. Thankfully though, the bathroom is one of the few safe havens Billy has to get away from it all. Even Joe, who is prone to busting in anywhere he damn well pleases, will actually leave Billy alone when Billy is in there. Billy isn’t sure why, but he has an inkling that it has something to do with Pipefitter, a bean burrito and an overflowing toilet.

Joe’s never busted into a toilet unannounced since.

The shower Billy takes is a long one. A grateful one. It’s one of the few places where Billy doesn’t have to think. All his worries, all the tension, every fucked up thing, can temporarily vanish like water down the drain. But unfortunately for Billy, once he steps out of that heavenly fog, and back into reality, Joe Dick is waiting with a red panty on his head.

“Billl, look, it’s Johnny Carson.” Joe points to the TV vaguely. “There’s a monkey taking a shit on his desk.”

“Are you fuckin’ stoned?”

“No.” Joe lifts the half finished joint to his lips and inhales deeply. He blows out smoke rings.

Billy shakes his head. “Freak.” Billy stashes his clothes back into his bag and walks over to the bed where Joe is lying. Climbs on and sits cross-legged beside him. Holds out his hand. “I can’t believe you’re wearing that on your fuckin’ head. What if it has a fuckin’ disease?”

“It doesn’t, I checked,” Joe said, handing the stub over to Billy. His eyes are so heavy that he looks like he’s about to fall asleep.

Billy takes it and puts it to his lips, inhaling deeply. Billy never knows where Joe gets this shit, but he’s glad for it. “Yeah?” Billy asks, eying Joe, letting the warmth of the smoke fill his lungs, relaxing him almost instantly. “How so?”

“I sniffed ‘em.”

“Fuckin’ gross, Joe.”

“You know me,” Joe says, slurring his words as he flops over, crawling rather feebly over to Billy and face planting in his lap.

Billy grunts and looks down at Joe. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Enjoying the view,” Joe muffled voice replies.

“Well, enjoy it somewhere else,” Billy says. He whaps the panties off Joe’s head and reaches down to grasp a fistful of Joe’s bushy spikes.

“Ow,” Joe complains, when Billy tugs, then laughs, snuffling face further against the thin material of Billy’s sweatpants.

And okay, Billy definitely feels that.

Billy jumps, smacks Joe in the head. “Fuck! Get off fucker!”

Joe just cackles some more, trying to hold on, doing a good job of just slobbering all over Billy and being a royal pain in the ass.

“Fuck, I just showered, Joe,” Billy hisses. “Get the fuck off.”

“Fuck you,” Joe replies, and attempts to blow a raspberry on Billy’s cock through his pants.

Billy yelps loudly, hits Joe in the head. And when Joe still doesn’t seem to let up, Billy inhales deeply on the joint one last time before jabbing it against the side of Joe’s neck, just under his ear. Billy hears a brief sizzle and then-

“FUCK!”

Billy flies back when Joe flies back, landing on the bed with a bounce while Joe tumbles off and lands on the floor with a thump.

Billy sits up, his heart beating wildly in his chest, feeling hot. He wonders what Joe’s reaction will be.

“Fuck,” Joe says again, and his head appears over the side of the bed as he sits up. He squints at Billy as he rubs the side of his neck. “What the fuck was that for?”

“I said get the fuck off, you should have fuckin’ listened the first time,” Billy replies, still feeling tense. Joe certainly doesn’t seem angry.

Joe sulks for a moment, still rubbing his neck. “Warn a guy then, you fuckin’ cunt,” Joe grumbles out and climbs back onto the bed.

“I did.”

“You burned my fuckin’ neck.”

“So?”

“So?” Joe barks out in disbelief, and it’s almost a cackle. “Come’re you little shit.” And Joe pounces.

Billy barely has time to turn and perhaps get away before Joe squashes him onto the bed. Billy’s breath leaves him in a wheeze.

“Fuck, Joe. Fuckin’.. fuck! Get off!”

“No!” Joe yells back, and is laughing his head off.

Billy growls, a squirming half naked mess under Joe, and manages to twist around, shoving his hands into Joe’s face. “Fucker!”

“Fuck!” Joe’s voice is muffled by Billy’s hands, then proceeds to slobber all over them.

“Fuckin’ gross Joe!” Billy pulls his hands back, disgusted.

Joe laughs, and grabs Billy again, attempting to switch him over, but Billy isn’t having any of that. He struggles with Joe, and the fight becomes a little more serious, and Billy kicks out, but Joe seems intent now, to get something out of it.

“Fuck off, Joe,” Billy grunts, but feels himself heat up anyway. A slow burn of anticipation fills his stomach and Billy pants heavily. He grabs Joe by his ears and tugs him down, licking wetly at the spot where he burned him.

Joe yelps and jerks around but Billy holds on a second longer before shoving Joe’s head away roughly.

Joe rips back and glares.

Billy stares back, breathing hard. Feels a bit crazy. Feels his cock start to throb. Billy reaches down just as Joe attacks Billy’s mouth his with own. It’s sloppy and wet and there’s too much teeth.

Billy winces. He hates sex with Joe. Hates it. It’s too rough and too hurried and not in the least bit sexy.

Billy bares his teeth and growls against Joe’s mouth, shoving his hand beneath the brim of his own sweatpants. Billy grabs around his cock and jerks it forcefully. Fuck Joe. Fuck him.

Then Joe is pulling at Billy’s pants, clawing at them ripping them down and off his legs. Billy spreads them once they’re free and stares hard between them as he jerks himself off. “Fuck, Joe, hurry,” Billy hisses.

Joe can’t seem to speak, can only pant and nod, fumbling with his own pants as he struggles to get them open. Then Joe is pulling out his cock. It’s thick, hard, already straining, the head flushed scarlet.

Billy jacks his cock harder. Fuck, he’s too close to coming. “Joe…” Billy warns again.

“Fuck,” Joe manages to get out. Spits to slick himself up, hand rubbing all over his cock. Then throws himself on Billy and Billy jerks, kicking out, his free hand going up to clutch at the back of Joe’s neck. Billy spreads his legs wider, his feet in the air.

There’s a brief struggle before Billy actually feels it. Joe’s cock. Nudging at his hole, begging for entrance.

Billy’s hand slows at that, and he sucks in a breath, forcing himself to relax so Joe can push inside. It feels hot, thick, too much.

Then Joe is shoving inside a bit more forcefully, humping with his hips, and slides all the way inside with a particularly hard thrust.

Billy gasps. That’s it. He’s not going to wait for Joe. Fuck Joe.

But Billy can’t seem to get his hand to move. Joe is fucking him hard against the bed, and Billy curls his feet because fuck, Joe is such a fucking impatient fuck.

It hurts and hurts and then it doesn’t. Billy moans painfully and Joe pants harshly against Billy’s face, fucking Billy’s ass like he’s trying to get at something.

Billy starts jacking his cock again, violent and quick, not caring at all if it’s in time with Joe’s thrusts. There’s a madness there, and Billy can’t stop it. He wants it over. Billy thrusts up, panting, Joe slamming against his ass ruthlessly, and Billy comes, tensing hard.

Joe curses. Billy’s squeezing his cock. Billy growls and squeezes Joe harder. Joe responds by slamming into Billy so hard that Billy nearly loses consciousness. An inky black corrodes Billy’s vision and Billy groans, he can’t even fucking think straight. He’s too fucking dizzy.

Joe doesn’t last long after that. He’s thrusting and then he’s coming, shoving himself into Billy one last time, his cock buried in the heat of Billy’s ass.

Billy doesn’t feel Joe come inside of him exactly, but he knows he has. Billy gives Joe a moment before he shoves at him a bit bonelessly. Joe groans in response and pulls out, rolling off beside him. Billy knows Joe wants to stay in longer, savor the moment, but Billy doesn’t let him.

When Billy’s finally free, he closes his eyes and pants. He can barely feel anything other than the buzz between his legs and his heart pounding in his chest.

Billy’s going to be sore as fuck tomorrow.

“Fuck.”

Over the next couple days, Billy starts to wonder if he’s made a mistake. He’s forgotten what a fucking lost puppy Joe is after sex, following Billy around like he has nothing else better to do, like maybe Billy will give him some more if he hangs around long enough.

Not that that is much different from how Joe usually acts, bit still. There’s a dash more hope, a pinch more need.

Billy hates it.

Billy needs space. Time to recuperate.

But Joe will always be Joe.

“You uh, want me to get you some coffee?”

Billy looks up from his seat in the corner of the booth. Joe is standing there by the table, looking at Billy questioningly, hopefully, fingers tapping on the table’s surface.

“Yeah, sure,” Billy finally says, and Joe grins. Billy smiles a bit back and takes a drag off his cigarette, watching briefly as Joe goes off to get him some coffee.

Billy rubs his head. There they were again, in another fucking Herbies, doing the same fucking thing they always did. Billy wonders why none of the waitresses have recognized them yet.

“Billy!” Pipe practically yells in greeting, sliding into the empty seat across from him. “Hot fuckin’ babe at three o’ clock.”

Billy turns his head, looks over. A waitress is bent over a table, taking someone’s order. Her skirt is riding up. Billy smirks, takes another drag. “And you think this is the one?”

“Yeah, man, fuck. She’s beautiful.”

Billy snorts. Pipe’s dream was to marry a Herbies waitress.

“Go for it then,” Billy says, because fuck, he might as well be encouraging.

“Yeah?” Pipe asks, blond hair swaying to and fro as he looks between Billy and the waitress. “Yeah,” Pipe says again a little more confidently, chest puffing out. He slides out of the booth.

“Hey,” Billy says, suddenly thinking of something. “Have you seen John?”

“John, who what?” Pipe asks distractedly.

“John,” Billy repeats. “I didn’t see him come in.”

“How and the fuck am I supposed to know, man?” Pipe asks, making a face, and leaves, making a beeline for the waitress.

Billy curses under his breath. Last time they lost John, they found him on the side of the road trying to hitchhike in the snow. Billy decides to wait for Joe.

Joe comes back a couple minutes later with two coffee cups and a plate of something. He sets a cup down for Billy as he scoots into the booth.

“What’s that?” Billy asks, taking his coffee and eying what Joe had set down on the table.

“Pie,” Joe says, licking his lips as he grabs the fork, digging in and shoveling a whole sticky wad of it into his mouth.

“Oh, and by the way, we lost John,” Billy announces sarcastically.

Joe nearly hacks on his pie. “What? Again?” Joe asks with a cough, his face turning slightly pink.

“Yeah, again,” Billy snaps. “He might not of even left the van, who knows. But Pipe hasn’t seen him and neither have I.”

“Well, fuck, what do you want me to do about it?”

“Go find him, ass,” Billy says.

“Fuck that, he’ll show,” Joe says back, shoveling some more pie into his mouth. “We barely got here anyway. Maybe he just wanted to look at stuff.”

Billy scoffs. “Look at stuff. Right. You gonna fuckin’ share that?”

“No.”

“Asshole.”

“Damn straight.”

Luckily, John was later found wandering the parking lot of Herbies harmlessly, not doing much. John claimed he was just ‘looking around’ and Billy wanted to smack him for making Joe right.

Fucker.

Pipe on the other hand, was extremely lucky that morning and actually scored the waitress’ phone number.

How that was fucking possible, Billy did not know.

Later still, Billy was wondering who or what had spiked his coffee that morning because later that night, just before the show, he had somehow ended up draped over the armrest of a couch, Joe’s hips pressed against his ass.

“Fuuuck,” Billy hisses, because he’s fucking hard and the head of his cock is scraping harshly against the cheap tweed of the couch. Billy clutches tight to a cushion, trying to spread his legs wider to accommodate Joe’s cock.

Then Joe is moving, fucking Billy hard, and Billy jerks and scrabbles against the couch, baring his teeth. He can’t believe he’s letting Joe do this again. In such a public place even.

And it disgusts Billy to think about how many people have probably fucked on this couch or worse, but he can’t think about that now. Joe’s fucking him.

“Yeah, Billy. Fuck, yeah,” Joe is saying while he thrusts, shoving Billy against the couch.

Billy just groans, thumping against the couch over and over again, cock nearly rubbed raw. But it’s over fairly quickly this time around, and Joe comes with a shout, flopping over Billy’s back when he’s done.

Billy wiggles, gasps for air. “Fuck, get off me,” Billy wheezes.

Joe hesitates, but pulls out, backing off.

“Fuckin’…” Billy mutters, reaching down beneath himself, feeling out of it. He can feel the warm spill of Joe’s come trickle down the inside of his thigh as he grasps his cock, giving it a squeeze. Fucking Joe. Billy gives himself a few well timed jacks and he’s soon coming too, arching and humping at the couch.

Billy knows Joe is watching. Maybe with concern. Billy doesn’t give a shit.

Hell, Billy doesn’t even really know how he’ll get through the show. But he figures he can just drink and get drunk and stumble around and no one will really know the difference.

It’s sometime around 3am when Billy regains consciousness. He moans, flops around, and wonders where the hell he is.

“Turn down the lights,” Billy moans, because everything feels too bright. His eyes aren’t even open. Billy flops over onto his stomach, getting a face full of pillow. Okay, he’s on a bed.

Billy reaches down to check if his clothes are still on. Pats around. They are.

Billy looks over when he hears a snore, and he’s relieved to find that it’s Joe passed out beside him and not some chick. Last time that happened Billy freaked the fuck out and yelled at her until she ran from the room in fright.

“Jooooe,” Billy moans in distress.

Joe hardly stirs. Grumbles something.

“Joe, fuck. Gonna puke.”

“What? Huh?” Joe says back, voice thick and slurred from sleep.

“Toilet. Puke,” Billy tries again, and tries to hold his breath as he pushing himself to his hands and knees. The room is spinning. He’s not going to make it.

“Fuck,” He hears Joe say, and suddenly Billy’s getting dragged off the bed, his own feet stumbling beneath him as he tries to walk.

Then the bathroom light is switched on and Billy’s blinded. Hurls just as Joe shoves his head over the toilet bowl.

Hardly anything comes up. Just beer.

A lot of it.

“Fuck, Bill,” Joe pants, bent over Billy, stroking at his back.

Billy supposed it would have been comforting… if he wasn’t puking into a fucking toilet.

When he’s done, though, Billy can hardly breathe, can’t even fucking see. He knows he looks like shit and doesn’t care. Fuck everything.

But it’s Joe that flushes the toilet. Joe who hauls Billy up and flops him over the sink so Billy can wash his mouth out under the faucet. Joe who wipes Billy’s mouth dry for him. Joe who puts Billy back to bed.

Sometimes, Billy thinks, Joe really can be his knight in shiny fuckin’ armor.

Billy spends the rest of the day drifting in and out of some kind of coma, sprawled out in the back of the van like some murder scene chalk outline.

“Fuck, Billy, you look like shit,” Pipe would say, every ten minutes or so.

Feel like it too, Billy would think, but felt too sick and tired to answer. Then he would feel an occasional poke from Pipe’s boot as well, probably checking to see if Billy was still alive.

“Joe! I think Billy’s dead!” Pipe yells, after a particularly rough kick.

“What do you mean, dead!” Joe yells back from the driver’s seat.

“Like, dead dead!”

“Fuck off Pipefeltcher, just check if he’s breathing!”

“I did!” Pipe squeals.

“Fuckin’ Pipe-“

“It is possible to die from alcohol poisoning, you know,” John interjects calmly, and Joe curses.

Billy can’t help but to smile inwardly at that, the van pulling to a hasty stop. Joe’s easier to freak the fuck out than people think. Especially when it comes to Billy. Billy tries to flop an arm to let everyone know, that yes, he is in fact alive, but can’t seem to manage it.

Joe’s boots making a clopping sound as they approach, and suddenly Billy’s rolled over onto his back, staring up at Joe’s face. Billy squints.

“You’re not dead, fucker.”

“Not at the moment, no.”

Joe grunts, then stands. “Get the fuck out. Both of you.”

“But what the hell are we-“ Pipe starts.

“GET THE FUCK OUT! FIVE MINUTE BREAK!”

Then Billy sees, out of the corner of his eye, John and Pipe scurry out of the van. There’s a slam of doors and suddenly it’s quiet again.

Billy looks up at Joe, and Joe looks back. There’s a moment of silence between them before Joe finally sits down next to him. “You scared me, you cunt,” Joe says affectionately, and reaches out to cup the side of Billy’s face. Like in a movie.

Billy blinks a little, reaching up to remove said hand, but just ends up placing his over Joe’s, keeping it there. Joe’s hand is warm, comforting. Billy closes his eyes. “Sick,” Billy murmurs.

“Yeah, I can tell. You look like shit.”

Billy smiles vaguely.

“You gonna be able to do the show tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You really really sure?”

“Yes, I’m really really sure.”

“Are you really really fuckin’-“

“Yes,” Billy says, opening his eyes to glare playfully. Sometimes Joe just didn’t know when to shut the fuck up.

Joe grins, maneuvers his hand so he’s cupping Billy’s chin, fingers squishing Billy’s cheeks. He jerks Billy’s face back and forth. “That’s my boy!”

Billy makes a face, bats at Joe, then laughs softly, rolling onto his side, away from Joe. “Fuck off, Joe.”

Joe flops himself over Billy, his nose is suddenly pressed against Billy’s cheek. “No.”

Billy grunts. “Joe…”

“Want me to tell John to drive us the rest of the way?”

“What for?”

“Why the fuck do you think? So I can stay back here and take care of you.”

Billy snorts.

“I mean it.”

Billy sighs, feels his shoulders relax submissively under Joe. “Okay, okay. Fuck.”

Billy spends the rest of the drive with his head in Joe’s lap. It’s nice he supposes, and he actually gets some sleep, but isn’t quite sure what Joe expects in return. Doesn’t want to think about it. Tries to go back to sleep. Maybe John will drive them all off a cliff and save Billy the trouble.

Needless to say, the show that night was a disaster.

Not only was Billy feeling like shit, but some drunken bastard had decided that it was a good idea to storm the stage, shove past Joe and dive into Pipe’s drum set. The fight between Joe, the drunken bastard and few other concert goers wasn’t pretty.

Only Billy, John, and parts of Pipe managed to escape unscathed. Joe, on the other hand, emerged with a bloody nose, bruised knuckles, and half his shirt. Joe, of course, saw this as a victory.

“You see that, Billy? Did you? Bill?”

Billy was too disgruntled to reply.

“Hold out your hand.”

“What?”

“Your hand, hold it out.”

Joe smirks, holds out his hand. “This again?”

“Yeah, this again,” Billy replies, putting his cigarette up to his lips for another puff before he casually taps the ashes into Joe’s awaiting palm.

“Fucker,” Joe says.

Billy smirks and says nothing, returning his attention back to the television, eying it. Shifts restlessly on his stomach. He and Joe were at yet another band house, watching the only movie the fucking place had.

Rosemary’s Baby.

“Fuck, man, she’s hot,” Joe says, eyes trained on the movie as he shakes his hand free of the ashes. He then reaches for his beer and brings it to his lips, gulping it down.

“Why? Because she’s fuckin’ skinny and blond?”

“Perfect fuckin’ tits, man, that’s why,” Joe replies, licking his lips as he finishes his beer, gaze focused hard on the screen.

“She just got fuckin’ raped by the devil, it’s not supposed to be fuckin’ hot Joe,” Billy says, rolling his eyes as he pushes himself into a sitting position.

“Well, they shouldn’t show her fuckin’ tits then,” Joe grunts, taking a drag off his cigarette. “How else am I supposed to take it?”

Billy reaches back at that and grabs a pillow, whapping Joe over the head with it.

“Hey fucker! What was that for!” Joe yells, dropping his cigarette.

Billy whaps Joe again, harder. “For being a dink!”

“You’re just jealous because she’s prettier than you are!”

“What!” Billy exclaims. “Fuck you!”

Joe cackles at that and jumps up, tackling Billy against the bed. Billy somehow manages to hold onto both his cigarette and pillow as he falls, and tries to whap Joe some more. “Get off fucker!”

“Fuck you!”

Billy growls and whaps Joe some more, laughing now because he keeps hitting Joe in the head and Joe is looking more and more stricken each time.

They struggle for a moment longer before Billy just uses his cigarette in defense, stabbing Joe in arm with it. Hey, it worked before.

Joe howls and rips back, nearly falls off the bed. “FUCK, BILLY!”

Billy licks his lips and scrambles to sit up, scooting back until his back hits the headboard. He watches Joe hiss and shake his arm around in pain.

“I told you to fuck off,” Billy says.

Joe glares at that, eyes raging. “That’s not even fucking funny, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothin’,” Billy says, his heart beating hard and fast. Why did it always have to be like this?

“Nothing my ass,” Joe growls and crawls towards Billy.

Billy stops him though, places his hands on Joe’s chest before Joe can kiss him or anything like that. “Wait,” Billy says, feeling out of breath, his mind racing.

“What?” Joe says, licking his lips. His eyes are already dark, full of lust.

“I want to try something different.” The words are out of Billy’s mouth before he realizes he’s said them.

“Different?”

“Yeah,” Billy says huskily, because he does. Then he’s pushing at Joe and Joe flops onto his back. Billy lands somewhat on top of him and sits up, straddling Joe’s waist.

Joe raises a brow in interest.

Then Billy’s scooting down Joe’s body, undoing Joe’s belt and pants. Feels a bit frantic because fuck, it’s always frantic with Joe, and maybe if he doesn’t do it quick enough it won’t happen and fuck, Billy wants it to happen.

Billy gets Joe’s pants down off his legs, and Joe is helping by taking off his shirt. Once Billy tosses Joe’s pants aside, he grabs at his own shirt, yanking it off his head.

Joe reaches for Billy’s pants to help but Billy smacks his hands away. “No,” Billy hisses and unbuckles himself quickly. He reaches inside and grabs his dick, spitting quickly to slick himself up.

“What?” Joe says an incredulous second later. “Me?”

“Yeah,” Billy pants, and throws himself on Joe. “Come on, come on.”

“Fuck Billy, I don’t-“

“Shh, shut the fuck up,” Billy hisses, and reaches down, trying to position himself against Joe.

“Fuck,” Joe hisses back, his legs spreading. “What the fuck, Billy.”

“Just come on,” Billy says, and thrusts against Joe because fuck, that’s how Joe does it and Joe curses loudly and jumps.

“Fuck! Fuck, get out of me!” Joe yells.

“No! No, I can just-“ But Joe punches Billy in the arm and Billy jerks back at the force, because fuck that fuckin’ hurt, and now Joe is tackling him back, shoving Billy onto his stomach.

Billy growls and wiggles around. He fucking hates Joe right now, and if he could, he’s so sock that fucker back. Right in the fucking face.

Joe’s on Billy’s back, though, pinning him down. And somehow his dick is already slick because he’s pushing it against Billy’s ass.

Billy bares his teeth and growls lowly, clutching at the bedspread as he pops his hips up for Joe. Joe thrusts and Billy shouts. Joe’s cock is hard and thick like it always is when it’s in Billy’s ass, filling him up quickly.

Billy moans, can’t help but feel like a fucking slut as he arches back.

“Yeah,” Joe pants and starts thrusting quickly. “Yeah, Billy.”

The bed squeaks and Billy’s shoved back and forth against the bed like some fucking doll, and winces, taking what Joe’s giving him. Billy’s hard and he wants to come, but he can’t fucking move.

“Oh, fuck, Joe. Hurry,” Billy moans, and it’s all he can get out. Joe’s pounding on Billy’s ass like it’s the last time he’s ever going to do it.

It doesn’t last long. Joe’s too spastic and doing it too hard for it to last longer than a minute, and Joe comes, grunting and cramming himself into Billy.

Billy flinches, rides out the wave of pain and waits for it to subside before reaching down to jack himself off. It’s over pretty quick and Billy comes, but it feels painful because Joe’s still in his ass and on his back. Billy squeezes around him fiercely.

“Ow!”

The bright yellow sign above Billy’s head looms ominously as he sits himself down on the curb right below it. Fucking Herbies, Billy thinks gloomily as he huddles into his coat and takes a drag off his cigarette. Fucking Pipe.

“Thinking dark thoughts?”

Billy looks up at that, squints a little because it’s fucking bright. “How’d you guess?”

“What else would you be thinking, looking like that?” Joe chuckles, sitting down next to him. He hands Billy a cup of coffee. “Got this for ya.”

Billy looks at it, takes it. “Thanks.”

“So whatcha thinking?” Joe asks, taking a sip of his own coffee as he looks at Billy.

“Don’t know,” Billy murmurs, and brings the cup up to his lips for an experimental taste. The coffee tastes like shit, but that fucking Herbies for you.

“Sure you do,” Joe says, nudging Billy on the shoulder with his own. “Sad cause the tour’s almost over?”

“Maybe,” Billy admits. He takes another sip of coffee.

“So what’re you gonna do after the tour anyway? Get yourself a girlfriend?”

Billy snorts. “Yeah, right.” Joe’s an idiot fuck sometimes. Billy quirks a smile though. “The same thing I always do.”

“Hmm.” Joe takes a drag off his cigarette, pretends to think. “Go home with me, be a fucking bum, avoid Herbies for a month?”

“E-fucking-zactly,” Billy replies, then looks over at Joe with a grin.

Joe grins back. “You love me.”

“You love yourself.”

“True.”

Billy grunts. “Hold out your hand.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“Fine.” Joe holds out his hand.

Billy dumps some ash into it and smiles.

“Cunt.”

For mltwritermom

2006-04-25T18:43:48Z

Title: And In The End ...
Recipient: mltwritermom
Author: stormymouse
Pairing: Billy/Joe
Rating: PG for language
Summary: "He chose to go, Billy. Let him."
Note: I've always imagined that Billy witnessed Joe shoot himself and this is just my little take on how it might have happened ...

And In the End...

The grin on Billy’s face vanished as soon as Joe turned around and walked back to the stage, picked up Bucky’s guitar and started smashing it against the amplifiers.

Billy didn’t notice John’s monologue or the dumbfounded expression on Pipe’s face or the people around him, all he could do was stare at Joe and when Joe turned around again Billy wasn’t sure what hurt more, the look on his face or Joe’s fist against his jaw earlier.

He ran his fingers over his eye, looking at the blood, tasting its rusty flavor in his mouth were Joe had split his lip.

One last look at the stage made a shiver run down his spine. Suddenly despair and fear was all he felt and he turned around quickly, sensing Joe’s eyes on him till he walked through the door.

It was cold but Billy didn’t bother to put on a jacket, he walked straight out of the back door and into the alley, slumped against the brick wall and slid down with his back to it, his legs no longer willing to support his body.

He put his elbows onto his knees and buried his face into his palms, trying to breathe deeply. He should have talked to Joe, he should have made sure he was the one to tell him about the contract. He should have ...

“Fuck this shoulda, woulda, coulda crap! You fucking didn’t do it!” Billy’s fist connected with the wall and he felt the welcome pain when the skin cracked open and the liquid warmth of blood ran over his hand.

After what felt like a lifetime of wallowing in self-pity, of telling himself what he should and shouldn’t have done Billy got up and walked towards the street, towards the life and the light and when he walked around the corner he saw Joe talking to Bruce and he ran his hand over his neck.

He at least had to try one more time.

Billy straightened his shoulders, bracing himself for Joe’s next possible assault and when he looked up again and took the first step towards him he saw Joe pull a gun as if in slow motion, raise it to his temple and pull the trigger.

His feet only managed to carry him far enough to fall down next to Joe. “Somebody call an ambulance!” he heard someone yell and all he could do was lift up Joe’s head, place it into his lap and cradle the immobile body against his chest.

There was blood, so much blood. The gun was only a few feet away and Billy recognized it as the same gun they had used to shoot at cans in the back yard of Joe’s home.

“Fucking idiot, fucking idiot, fucking idiot,” Billy mumbled, not sure if he was talking to Joe or to himself.

“Right you are, Billiam.”

Billy’s head shot up and he looked at the figure standing in front of him, took in the well-worn and torn sweater, the black pants, the leather bracelets, the angry fire in alert eyes.

“Happy now, Hollywood?”

Billy furrowed his brow, looking down and up again, his eyes wide.

“Is this what you fucking wanted? To be free? To be rid of me? I wasn’t more than a fucking burden to you, was I?”

Billy looked down at the man in his lap, the blood on his hands, his own mingled with Joe’s. “I fucking loved you.”

The Joe standing in front of him snorted disgustedly and ran a hand over his mohawk. “You’ve got a funny way of showing that, Billy!”

Billy’s eyes shot up again, glaring at him. “I wasn’t the one pulling the fucking trigger!”

Joe cocked his head. “Weren’t you?”

Billy could do nothing but hold Joe’s gaze.

“You should’ve told me you were gonna leave me. Again,” Joe said quietly.

Billy fell silent for a moment. “I was fucking scared that something like this might happen.”

Joe squatted down, looking at Billy and the body at his feet. “Well, I guess we’ll never find out now, won’t we?”

“Very funny.”

“No, the only funny thing is that you claim to have fucking loved me but you didn’t think I should’ve been the first to fucking know about the Jenifur gig.”

Billy ran his hands through Joe’s bloody hair, knowing Joe had the better hand.

“Did you love me, Joe?” Billy asked, looking up again.

Joe sighed. “Of course I did, Hollywood.”

“Oh, really? So, tell me, was ass-raping me your way of showing your fucking affection for me then, huh?”

Joe winced and averted his eyes.

“Maybe you just should have opened your fucking mouth to tell me, Joe. Maybe a lot of my fucked up decisions would have been very different.”

Joe clenched his teeth. “Come on, Billiam, our life never was a fucking Sarah McLachlan song. What the fuck did you have in mind? Me coming over to you, getting down on my fucking knees and confessing my love for you? You should have known.”

“This may come as a shock to you but you never were as easy to read as you might think. It wasn’t like you ever spilled what was inside that fucking brain of yours.”

They both fell silent and looked at each other, then at the body Billy was holding close to his chest, covered in blood, and back at each other again.

Billy’s mouth started twitching and Joe tried to suppress a grin until they couldn’t hold back any more. They roared with laughter, Joe slapped his thigh and tears were running down Billy’s face.

...

Pipe ran out into the street, the gun shot still ringing in his ears, somehow knowing exactly what had happened.

He found Billy slumped down on the street, doubled over laughing, cradling Joe’s inert body against him. From one second to the other the laughter turned into pitiful sobs, Billy’s shoulders were heaving and he rocked back and forth, holding Joe tighter and tighter.

“Billy?” he said quietly, bending down, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Billy looked up, his eyes unfocused, his face covered with Joe’s blood.

“Get up,” Pipe said, struggling with tears. “He chose to go, Billy. Let him.”

Billy frantically shook his head. “No! We just ...” He swallowed. “He just ...”

Pipe took Billy’s elbow and pulled him up. “Come on. Please.”

Slowly he felt Billy’s body responding to his guidance. He took one last look at Joe’s body, nodding in salute, and put his arm around Billy’s shaking shoulder.

For moojja

2006-04-20T05:28:29Z

Title: One Last Fuck from Joe Dick
Recipient: moojja
Author: j_s_cavalcante
Pairing: Joe/Billy
Rating: NC-17 for sex, language, mild non-con, etc.--it's HCL; nuff said?
Disclaimer: Noncommercial fanfic.
Summary: Joe Dick had always fucked Billy when he didn't get what he wanted. He fucked Billy behind the bar in Vancouver in 1978, and he fucked Billy in Toronto before Billy left for LA the first time, and in between Joe fucked Billy from one end of Canada to the other, and at selected venues in the States.

One Last Fuck from Joe Dick

Billy's flight had already landed at the Vancouver Airport when he heard. John had had him paged, and he had time to kill before his connecting flight to LA boarded, so he answered.

“Billy, man, you gotta get back here,” John was saying, sounding both sober and sane, neither of which was probably true. Maybe the shock had helped, or maybe, with all the cops and paramedics and people around, maybe somebody had taken John to a doctor. “You gotta be here.”

“He's gone; he's really gone?”

“Yeah. I'm…I'm sorry, man.”

Jesus. John said it like Billy was Joe's next of kin or something, and he wasn't, not by a long shot. He said it like Joe was Billy's friend, and Billy didn't think that was true, either. Friends didn't threaten to kill you and beat you bloody on stage in front of your fans, did they? Friends didn't take themselves out like that, without warning, just because you refused to hang around and let them fuck you over some more.

Friends didn't want to kill any chance you had for success; they wanted you to be happy.

Billy had never been sure that Joe wanted him to be happy. He'd just wanted him to be with Joe, stuck in an endless loop of drugs and rebellion and the whole punk scene, and that was not a happy thing. Not even for Joe. After all these years, Joe still didn't see that. Until maybe last night.

Fuck. It wasn't a good revelation to have when you had a gun in your pocket.

“Billy…you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, John, I'm okay. Look, is someone coming for him?”

“You mean to claim the body, set up a funeral and all that? Yeah, his folks are on their way. The police are checking him, but…Billy…B-bruce was filming when J-joe did it. They couldn't do anything--it was too fast. But they got it on tape. So the cops say it's open and shut, a s-s-suicide. Christ, Billy, I saw too much of that, b-back…”

“Yeah, I know,” Billy said quickly. “Me, too.” He and John never talked about that place. Now would be a fucking hell of a bad time to start.

“S-so they'll release Joe's body real soon and his parents will probably need a day or so before they bury him. Y-you got plenty of time to get back here.”

Billy rubbed a hand over his face, which hurt, still bruised and cut and now stubbly. “Listen, they'll be calling my plane soon. You guys are there, his folks are there, the fucking press will be all over it. You don't need me.”

“B-but Billy. You and Joe were…”

“I know what we were. Fuck, John. This was Joe Dick's way of fucking me one last time. This was the big one, the final one. Don't you see? He did this to all of us, every single fucking person who ever heard of him or was stupid enough to ever care about him. Don't you see that?”

I d-don't know, Billy, I…” John was starting to sound wobbly, unsure. If somebody'd got him meds, they weren't doing enough for him.

“Did you see a doctor, John?”

“N-n-n-ot yet.”

“John. Go get help. Go get Pipe to take you to a doctor. Or even better, Bruce or one of his guys. Anybody. Anybody more stable than you, man. Go get help, okay?”

“O-okay, Billy. I…I'm sorry, man.”

“Yeah.” Billy sighed and tapped his fingers absently against the hard black plastic of the phone. His silver ring clattered on it, the ring with the wicked-looking H, identical to the one that was probably still wrapped around Joe's cold finger. “Bye, John. See you.” Maybe.

He hung up and looked around for a smoking lounge, because he'd lied; there was at least an hour to kill before his plane left. His guitar case was heavy in his hand. Music, he thought. No coke.

Billy needed a fucking drink.

He wasn't going to have one. He was going to LA.

He was going to play with Jenifur for real. The band had already signed the contract, which was waiting for Billy's signature in Ed Festus' LA office. Billy couldn't be a goddamn drunk when he signed it. He couldn't be a goddamn drunk again, because there was no one in LA who'd pick him up when he fell. He stood on his own two feet in LA. He'd become a man there.

Not Joe Dick's fucking bitch anymore. You hear that, Joe? I'm not your fucking bitch. Never again.

Billy'd told John the truth about the important thing. There really was no point in going back to bury Joe. It wasn't like Billy was going to fucking cry over him, or anything. Joe must've realized that.

There wasn't anybody who would cry, anyway, except maybe for a few idiotic drugged-out fans who didn't know him at all. Joe's parents, his other relatives, none of them would cry for Joe. They were all just happy that he didn't go by their family name, so maybe people wouldn't realize he was once their little boy.

Billy's throat went tight. Fuck. He wasn't going to cry over Joe Dick the aging, washed-up punk. But for Joe Mulgrew, the kid he used to know…he swallowed hard. There was maybe something there. Shit.

He remembered Joe as he'd first seen him, sitting next to him on a bench at the family courthouse, waiting to go before the judge. Juvenile offenders, both of them. Joe had looked sideways at Billy with the devil in his eye, and Billy read him easily: Joe was going to promise the judge whatever he needed to promise to stay out of there, and then he'd go right back to offending, that much smarter about not getting caught. Billy was impressed. Joe had balls, goddamn it.

Joe winked at him, and Billy smiled back, and so, even before Joe Mulgrew ever said one word to him, Billy had already been reeled in. They'd been friends from that moment…until last night.

Billy found himself an out-of-the way corner in the lounge and lit up quickly. He pulled his sunglasses down over his eyes. It was better that way, with one of his eyes still swollen from Joe's fist. He looked at his own knuckles. Fucking shredded. He'd done his share of damage, too. Joe hadn't gotten in all the good hits.

Wait a minute. Fucking Christ--John said the cops were checking Joe's body. They'd see the bruises, of course. Maybe they'd call Billy in for questioning? God, he didn't want to go back there.

After a minute he sighed and sat back. Well, Bruce Fucking McD had the fight in his camera, too. Wasn't any point in questioning Billy if they could see their answers on film, was there? Anyway, John and Pipe knew where Billy'd gone. Bruce even knew. If the cops called, they called. It wasn't like Billy was hiding from them.

Maybe he wasn't hiding from anything any more.

***

It was dawn by the time Billy stumbled into his apartment, stowed his guitar, and got ready for bed. He ended up having a drink after all, because the shakes had set in, and he wasn't worth a damn when that happened, even after smoking his way through two packs of cigarettes, like he had since he'd left Edmonton.

He had a second drink after he got in bed, because he was goddamn fucking well not going to cry, and if he was tearing up it was just the DTs, and he knew how to hold them off. A drink or two, not too much, and then the same thing tomorrow, until he could live with just one, and then maybe some days no drink at all. He could do it if he played for long hours, lost himself in the music. He had to do it.

He'd play till his goddamned fingers bled.

He gulped the rest of the drink and slid down under the covers. He lay awake a while. Too long.

There was just one problem about sleeping. If he closed his eyes he saw Joe Dick's bloody face, and he really meant bloody--with bruises in the exact shape of Billy's knuckles.

Billy was goddamned lucky he hadn't broken anything in his hands, because no fights--that was in Jenifur's fucking contract, too. No coke, no fights, no falling down drunk onstage or backstage. No fucking punk friends from Canada visiting backstage. No unnecessary liabilities.

That's what Joe would've been. A fucking liability.

***

Sometimes, in Seattle, when Billy felt most alone--and he couldn't drink because he had to hang around outside Ed Festus' office all day, or he had to audition or rehearse for some temporary gig--Billy would feel homesick for Vancouver and Joe's scowling face. He'd miss the long conversations with Joe in the tour bus when everyone else was sleeping. He'd even miss the fights. It was crazy, it was totally fucked, but it was true.

Then Billy had to go find himself a nameless girl and fuck her till he couldn't think anymore, so he would stop thinking about the old days on the road with Joe. The old days when Billy was the one who got fucked.

***

“Pussy. You want it. Face it, you want this,” Joe often told Billy when he climbed on top of him and pushed into him. Maybe that wasn't buddies, but it usually beat the hell out of getting knocked around by Joe's fists.

Billy could give as good as he got, but usually he didn't have it in him. He loved music more than he loved fighting with Joe, and if he fucked up his hands, he couldn't play. So he drank, and if he got more shitfaced than Joe, Billy got fucked up the ass. Simple equation.

Sometimes when he took that one drink too many, he suspected he might be doing it on purpose, because then he wouldn't have to fight.

It had been going on since…since when, Billy didn't exactly remember. Maybe that was due to the alcoholic blackouts, or else it was because the first time Joe fucked him they were both about seventeen, and Billy still thought Joe cared about him. Maybe Joe did, in his own screwed up, whacked-out Joe Dick fashion.

***

Blind drunk in an alley, somewhere in Vancouver that Billy couldn't even remember--that was the first time. Sometimes in a city you remember the smells of a particular place, but there wasn't even anything distinctive about those that night, just the usual bad smells out in back of a bar and the better smell of sea air trying to clear it all out. So Billy didn't even remember what bar it was.

They'd played there that night; he remembered that much. They weren't Hard Core Logo yet, they were the Fuckheads or something. Joe'd made up some stupid name, but Billy didn't even remember it anymore. Joe'd started nine bands before Hard Core Logo, and Billy was in every one, and they all sucked. He and Joe weren't even eighteen yet.

Other kids their age were sleeping because they had school the next day, but Joe and Billy were playing music in a bar they weren't actually legal to set foot inside. The owner looked the other way, and anyway, Joe had faked ID that said he was twenty-one. He looked it, too, big and tough and scruffy with beard. Nobody dared to ID Billy when he was with Joe.

So Billy was freezing his nuts off in that alley with Joe, who was fucking warm when he pressed up against Billy--the only warm thing in the world, as far as Billy was concerned. After Billy'd finished puking his guts out, there Joe was, giving Billy a swig of soda to clear his mouth and pulling him by the coat away from the mess. “C'mere, c'mere, Billy, I know what you need.”

It didn't make sense, because Billy knew Joe was pissed at him. He had reason. Joe and Billy had really sucked onstage that night, and it was mostly Billy's fault. He played real easily when he was sober, but tonight there'd been free beer and then some older guy had smuggled him some scotch, too--probably just wanted to see the stupid, skinny kid get pissed drunk; ha ha--so he was shitfaced on stage. His fingers were too loose and wouldn't do what he told them; he kept losing his place in the music and playing something else.

Joe dragged him back to the restroom on break and threw cold water in his face, forced coffee down his throat, but it didn't do any good. They ended early and they weren't paid the full amount, which wasn't much to begin with, and Joe was furious as hell.

So it didn't make any sense that Joe was sort of hugging Billy in the alley, trying to warm him up.

“Fuck's wrong with you, Joe? Give me some air. Can't you see I had too much?”

“You're a lightweight, Billy. Had to get that fucking chicken hawk away from you.”

“I wasn't in any trouble,” Billy said, but he didn't really know what the fuck he was saying. The guy had seemed okay if a little pushy. Not as pushy as Joe was being now.

“Oh, you weren't, eh? You're the chicken he was after, Billy. He wanted your tail feathers.”

“Fuck you, Joe.”

“No, fuck you, Billy,” Joe said “Pretty Billy. Sooner or later somebody will. Read the writing on the wall, baby.” He pushed Billy's face right up against the cool brick wall. It was scratchy, but not uncomfortable. Billy didn't fucking care.

Billy leaned his forehead against the brickwork and tried to think, but his brain wasn't working too good. Music was still pounding in his head: he was still hearing guitar sounds racing around, distorted, like the white noise you hear in a seashell. Feedback sounds, too, harsh and hard-edged.

He felt hands on him. Cold. Something was cold. Something was warm. He felt his belt give, his pants slide. He grabbed for them clumsily and missed. Big warm hands touched his ass and held on. What the fuck?

“It's all right, it's all right, Billy. Easy, just let me.” Joe, behind him, whispering in his ear.

Probably in some part of his brain, Billy knew instinctively what Joe meant, but the part that was trying to think didn't have a clue. Even when Joe's hard flesh stabbed at his asshole, he didn't quite get it. It was one of Joe's stupid jokes, another of his dumb pranks.

“The fuck? Cut that out, Joe!” His voice slurred in his own ears.

“You said you were cold, Billy. You cold now?”

“Yes. No. I don't know. Shit, that hurts. Joe, stop it.” He swatted at Joe's hands, but they didn't let him go. He tried to turn around, but Joe had him pressed up tight against the wall.

“Relax, Billy, I'm gonna warm you up,” Joe said into his ear. “Just let me--unh! Fuck! ” Joe's hips jerked hard against him, the pressure in his ass increased, and the burn shot up into his belly. Billy banged his head on the wall. Even his pickled brain could figure it out now. Joe just kept pushing, never letting up, and it hurt like hell, but Billy understood now. Billy fucked it up, Joe fucked Billy. Like a goddamned equation.

He leaned his cheek on the wall and braced himself with his hands. They were okay. The fingertips of his left hand were a little sore, but not too bad. No bleeding tonight, because he hadn't played that long today, and he'd had good bandages on all week and hadn't picked at his calluses. Behind him, Joe was shoving in and out of Billy like it was something he'd been aching to do. Billy watched his hand braced on the brick, saw his fingers tighten a little, saw his hand start to shake, then relax and hold still. In. Out. In again, maybe a little easier this time. Billy's hand was still. He almost never got it to hold still, did he? He watched his hand, and after a bit he realized the burning in his ass wasn't so bad.

Joe shoved hard, all the way in, and stopped for a moment, then he jerked and huffed and shot into Billy. That stung for a bit, but then it felt better. It was what Billy'd needed, something slick there to make it easier. It was wet, chilling him where it was dribbling out of him and down the backs of his legs, but he didn't fucking care. Joe had softened some, but stayed in Billy, and now he moved in him, making little thrusts, getting hard again. Well, fuck, Joe was seventeen; if he was anything like Billy, he could probably do it four times in a row. So okay. Okay, Joe. Billy grunted and reached behind him and patted Joe's hip.

“I knew you'd see it my way, Billiam,” Joe grunted, and Billy felt Joe's teeth against the edge of his ear. “You're good, you know. You feel so good, Billy.”

Billy's head was clearing a little. He felt one of Joe's hands let go of his hip and reach around and find his cock. Billy wasn't very hard; he'd had too much booze, and then there'd been the burn when Joe pushed into him. When something hurt that bad, a guy couldn't stay hard. But Joe's hand on him felt good, touching his cock, cupping his balls, and Billy thought, maybe if we try it again when I'm not so bad off, and if we put something slippery there before Joe goes in, maybe it could even be good.

Showed what the fuck he knew.

* * *

Not that it ever really hurt too much physically after that first time. Joe wised up and bought lube, and unless he was really yanked off at Billy, he would be careful. He was even sort of sweet, sometimes, kissing Billy and sometimes even singing in his ear. Never Logos songs, always something fucking nice.

If Billy squirmed around until he could see Joe's face, he'd see the usual mocking look there, but he wasn't fooled. Joe talked a good game, but along with his charm he had a streak of decency that would show up at times like those, when he was getting what he wanted and Billy was giving it.

Joe's voice sounded good in Billy's ear, good in the way that would have let him sing other stuff besides punk on stage, even some not-so-angry stuff. Joe could have marketed himself down in the States, Billy thought, possibly even as a lead singer for a real good band, if he'd wanted.

Joe's voice was deep and sure. It never cracked; it had gone deep at thirteen and never cracked even then. Joe could drink all night, he could smoke, he could snort coke till his nose streamed blood, he could scream his fucking lungs out on stage--and still his voice held up.

He didn't go hoarse like ordinary people, and Billy figured Joe never would. Another thing he was wrong about.

Billy never really sang after they started Hard Core Logo. Billy only sang backup, and then only when he had to, or when he was moved to, when he just felt it, and he found Joe suddenly next to him, crowding him off his mike, while Joe's mike stood ignored. Joe pressed against him and they spat into the mike together. Billy's hands never stopped; they went on by themselves, sliding up and down the fretboard, thrashing the strings, making his axe wail.

Nights like that, they would get shitfaced together after the show, and neither one would be more drunk or stoned, and then when they tumbled into bed together they'd fuck as usual, but maybe do other stuff, too, and everything would be equal, for a change. Billy didn't usually remember much about those nights, so he couldn't say for sure what he'd done. If he woke with the taste of Joe in his mouth, he chalked it up to his drunken imagination.

Joe played rhythm when he remembered that he had a guitar in his hands. Billy'd taught him guitar, and had tried to do it right, teach him all the classics, but Joe hadn't cared about those. Punk was everything. Punk and drugs and fucking Billy.

Joe had apparently thought it could go on forever. Stupid fuck.

***

In the old days, maybe it did seem like it was going to last forever. Billy figured he did what he had to, figured Joe knew he owed Billy something. Figured he knew Hard Core Logo wasn't anything without Billy and that someday Billy would make it big, with Joe or without him.

At the time, Billy wanted it to be with Joe. Billy was a stupid fuck, too.

Billy had thought he might talk Joe into coming to the States with him, back when he'd first started thinking seriously about it, before Joe literally pissed away their chances for a Hard Core Logo record deal.

Before there was ever a talk of a big record deal, Billy could already read the writing on the wall. Back then, Billy used to think there was a chance of saving Joe Dick from himself. Fuck, Billy was an idiot to think that.

“Joe, look. We're not kids anymore,” Billy said one time in a diner, when they were finishing up a long tour. The other guys had eaten quickly and gone back to the van to sack out, so it was just Joe and Billy, and they could talk. “We got to think about what we're going to do next.”

“What do you mean, 'next'?” Joe mocked. “This isn't good enough for you, Billy? This is the life, man. Off the grid. We don't have to answer to anybody but ourselves. Rock and roll, on the road, touring, recording once in a while. We already have it made.”

“Don't you ever want anything more, Joe?”

“Like what? Be some stuffed-shirt, corporate ass-kisser working in a crappy job, living in the fucking suburbs, going home to the wife and two point four kids? That's what Daddy wanted me to do.” He gestured out the window, at the expanse of Saskatchewan farmland. “Or maybe you think I should farm? Drive a tractor all day harvesting wheat and sorghum, get drunk on weekends listening to some crappy country band, and take the little missus to church on Sunday?” He snickered.

Billy took a long drink of his coffee. Black, no sugar. Bitter, like Joe. “Ed says the grunge scene in Seattle is heating up and there'll be more bands forming.”

“Grunge? You been listening to that crap?”

“I like some of the guitar sounds coming out of Seattle,” Billy admitted. “Ed says he sees signs the punk scene is winding down.”

“I don't want you talking to Ed Fucking Festus on your own, Billy. Where the fuck does he get these crazy ideas?”

“He knows the business. Anyway, you know we don't get the kind of bookings we used to.”

“Shit. He knows shit. Punk ain't about market forecasts and fucking corporate profits, and shit like that. Bookings have their ups and downs, always have. We've always rolled with it before, we'll roll with it now.”

“I'm turning thirty, Joe,” Billy said. “I want to play guitar, but I also got to think about the future, about whether I could go somewhere with it. Someday.”

“Play guitar, Billy. Let me do the thinking. Ain't nobody in Hollyweird USA going to take care of you the way I do.”

“Jesus, Joe….”

Joe gave him that look, that sweet look in his blue eyes, snapped his gum, and brushed his knuckles possessively across Billy's jaw. And then when Billy stupidly didn't knock Joe's hand away, Joe got bolder, and brushed his knuckles against Billy's lips.

Billy got the message. Joe didn't like this conversation, Joe felt Billy slipping out of his grasp, so Joe was going to make Billy his bitch tonight. Well, fuck that. Billy'd always had excellent musical timing. When Joe swiped his hand by a third time, Billy opened his mouth at the right moment and bit down hard.

Joe yowled and whacked Billy on the side of his head with his free hand. It hurt like fuck-all, but Billy held on for a long moment, till Joe got the fucking message, and then he sneered and let go.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Billiam!” Joe's uninjured hand came around again, but Billy ducked, throwing Joe off balance and sidestepping neatly as Joe hit the deck.

“Fuck you, Billy! I am going to fuck you!”

Well, thank you, Joe. Now everybody in the fucking diner knows.

Billy went to the counter and paid his check, then got out of there fast. The lady behind the counter took his money, gave him his change, but didn't meet his eyes. He saw that one of her hands hovered near the phone. She was about ten seconds from calling the cops, he figured. Probably thought he and Joe were going to fight it out right there.

Not a chance, Lady.

Billy's knuckles still ached from the last brawl, and anyway he didn't think a fight would take care of it this time. He was going to get fucking pissed drunk tonight, and then Joe would roll him over and fuck his ass. No, the lady in the diner didn't have a thing to worry about.

He went out and headed back to their bus, and if his feet dragged a little, probably nobody saw or cared. Billy didn't care. It wasn't like Billy was any stronger than anyone else Joe got his claws in.

Joe Dick got what he wanted. End of story.

***

Joe didn't let Billy fuck him. It didn't work that way, Joe said. Joe did other stuff. He got Billy off with his hands, sometimes while he was fucking him, sometimes after. Once he even tried to give Billy a blow job, but he was too coked up and couldn't breathe through his damn nose. “Too much blow, no job,” Billy said that time, and they laughed themselves silly.

Billy didn't suck cock, at least not that he ever remembered. He didn't jerk Joe off, either, he just let Joe do him. Billy wasn't fucking gay, not that that ever mattered to Joe.

Billy didn't know what Joe was, and he didn't fucking care, thank you very much. Once in a while, Joe fucked groupies, but most of the time he acted like he didn't even see them. Most of the time, he acted like he didn't see anyone except Billy. In fact, Joe would find groupies for Billy, like some kind of rock and roll pimp, or maybe more like Billy was his trained dog and Joe was throwing him treats. Joe needed to make sure Billy would come to heel when Joe called.

Billy slept with groupies if they interested him, and especially if they were nice to him, but he usually didn't bring them into his hotel room, if there was one. Those times when they didn't have to sleep in the van or in some run-down band house, Billy always shared a hotel room with Joe, in the beginning because they couldn't afford separate rooms, and later because one or both of them were usually too fucked up on booze or drugs to make bunking alone safe. Or that's what they said. Either way, when Billy stumbled back to their room, Joe was always awake and waiting for him and usually wanting his ass, too.

Half the time, Billy was too drunk to care, and he just rolled over and let Joe do what he wanted.

Sometimes, on the verge of sleeping, he'd feel Joe's mouth on the back of his neck or on his shoulder, and he'd know--Joe needs me, and he'd feel strong, he'd feel in charge, like maybe he could do anything, because he knew, he fucking knew Joe Dick needed him in a way that Billy didn't need Joe.

For Billy, Joe was like a touchstone, a record of where he'd been and how far he'd come from there. Joe was like a mirror, maybe like part of Billy. Billy could look into those blue eyes and see all the way back to when they were thirteen and just happy to be alive and goddamn happy to be together.

How could you not love someone you had that kind of history with? They'd planned, and played music, and Billy still thought there was nothing better than sitting and writing songs with Joe, listening to Joe spin his tall tales and sitting there with his fingers ghosting over the strings, letting them find music for Joe's hard-edged poetry.

***

Billy dredged himself up out of sleep one morning in the middle of a tour, back when they stayed in decent hotels, to find Joe already awake. Joe was lying next to him, propped up on one elbow, looking at him.

“What makes you think I love you, you little dink?” Joe said.

Billy blinked. It wasn't unusual for Joe to come up with screwball statements first thing in the morning, but that one knocked him for a loop. Joe had to be reacting to something that had happened earlier, but Billy didn't remember much about the night before. That wasn't so unusual, either.

“What the fuck?” he said.

“Just answer the question, Billy,” Joe hissed.

“What makes you think you think you don't, Joe? Seems to me you're always the one running after me to get your rocks off.”

“Pussy.”

“Am not.”

“Yes, you are. Such a girl, Billy. Want hearts, flowers, eh? Came to the wrong fuckin' place for that, Billy-girl.” He shoved over, half on top of Billy, chest across chest with the sheet partly between them, but Billy could feel his heat through the rough cotton.

“Don't want them, Joe.” Billy was breathing hard under Joe's weight and sweating, sweating. The sheet was damp under him. The bed had bad springs, and one was digging into Billy's hip.

“Then what do you want, Billiam? Fame and fortune?”

“Maybe.”

Joe snorted. “Fuck. It's too early for this. I need a fucking drink.”

“It's eight o'clock in the morning, Joe. Thought I was the fucking alcoholic.”

“You are.”

“Yeah, well, oddly enough, I want coffee. Breakfast. You to get off me.” He heaved under Joe. “Get the fuck off me, Joe.”

“Not just yet.”

“Off, Joe.”

Joe whipped the sheet down. He was naked and he was hard, and he was looking at Billy the way the bum on the streetcorner looked at a bottle of hooch.

“You son of a--” Billy struggled to get up, but Joe's hand snaked out and caught his wrist, grinding the bones together.

“Shit! Ow! Joe, for God's sake--let go of my fucking wrist!” Billy went limp in Joe's grip. Fucking idiot could break Billy's wrist like this, and then who would play guitar for the goddamned band?

“Hold still, Billy,” Joe said dangerously. “Hold still, and this won't hurt a bit.” He rolled all the way on top of Billy, making the breath whoosh out of Billy's chest.

“Joe, don't. Come on.”

“Sorry, Billiam. Gotta prove what a big pussy you are first.” He shoved a finger into Billy's ass, just like that.

Billy gasped. He wasn't dry. He was wet like he'd already been lubed. Fuck. He vaguely remembered being pushed down on the bed the night before. Fuck.

“Yeah,” Joe was muttering in his ear. “Yeah, Billy. You're mine. You're my pussy and you're going to say it.”

“Won't,” Billy said. Another of Joe's fingers stabbed into him like a punishment.

“Sure you will,” Joe crooned. “Maybe not with your pretty mouth. But the rest of you is saying it just fine.” Joe squirmed around, pinning one of Billy's legs with his bigger, muscular ones, and jerking his chin downward. “Well, look at that.”

Billy looked. His cock was hard. So? “I just woke up. Joe, you dink.”

“It'll shoot just the same,” Joe said, wrapping his hand around Billy's cock and pumping it, hard, staying just this side of pain.

Billy jerked his knee up, hitting Joe in the ribs. Joe grunted, but didn't miss a beat. He put his hand up under Billy's balls, lifting them out of the way, tilted his hips, and drove his cock into Billy in two quick strokes.

“Ow, dammit!” Billy leaned up to try to bite Joe's ear, but he didn't have enough leverage.

“C'mon, Billy. You know you love it.”

Fuck it. Billy relaxed back on the pillow and let Joe jerk around in him. Really, who the fuck cared? Billy was tough; he could take it. Billy always took it.

Joe was sweating, breathing hard. He jacked Billy's cock in rhythm with his thrusts.

“Damn you, Joe,” Billy breathed, feeling pleasure wash over him. Why should this feel so good, damn it, when Joe was simply getting his own way as always?

“You're mine,” Joe growled into his ear. “Billy's mi-ine,” he crooned, like he was talking to himself.

Billy barked out a laugh and opened his legs to make it easy, wrapping them around Joe's waist. He jabbed Joe's ass with his bony heels, urging him on. Yeah, he saw it all now. “You do love me Joe,” he said breathlessly as Joe pounded him.

“Says you,” Joe gasped, but the fight was clearly gone out of him. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, Billy, you're…”

Billy clenched his ass around Joe and moved with him. Joe's callused hand was rough on Billy's cock, but it felt great, made Billy feel alive in a way that he usually only felt on stage, with the music pounding through his chest and the guitar thrumming under his fingers.

Joe's cock inside him made him feel plugged in, like he was part of something greater than himself. Billy knew. He knew, now. He pulled Joe in tighter with his legs.

Joe's thrusts started to lose the rhythm. He was close.

Billy, too. Billy was going to come first. He rocked his hips, and Joe banged against that place inside him that sent an electric jolt of pleasure up his spine. “Fuck, Joe!” Joe's hand tightened on him like Joe was reading his thoughts, or maybe Billy's body gave him away. Joe's thumb rasped over the tip of Billy's cock, and that was it--Billy froze, white-hot pleasure shot through him, and he came hard, spurting onto Joe's chest and hand. He felt his ass squeezing Joe tight, tighter.

Fuck!” Joe shouted, and filled Billy with heat. “Fuck, you little pussy. You're mine.” He let out a long sigh and dropped his head onto Billy's shoulder. “You're mine, Billy. Always have been, always will be.” His scruffy Mohawk tickled Billy's neck.

Billy shoved at him. “Fuck, you're heavy, asshole. C'mon, roll off me.”

Joe coughed, loud in Billy's ear, then slowly pulled out and rolled off Billy, collapsing next to him, sweaty and still breathing hard.

Billy grinned and smacked Joe's shoulder with the flat of his hand. “You're a goddamn liar, Joe. You're a terrible bandleader, you suck at guitar, and you sure as hell suck at friendship. But you fucking love me.”

Joe snorted. “I need a fucking cigarette.”

“You fucking love me, Joe.”

For once in his life, Joe Dick didn't shoot back a smart answer.

There were times when being with Joe was worth getting fucked up the ass, even if other people looked at Billy and knew.

***

John knew. Pipe was fucking oblivious as usual, but John watched, John noticed shit. Half the time he was too fried to make sense of what he saw, but sometimes he did, and once on the shoulder of an empty stretch of Manitoba highway, he saw Joe grab Billy by the neck and reel him in and kiss him. If it hadn't gone any further, it might have been forgotten, but Joe had the devil in him that time, for whatever reason--probably something Billy'd fucked up on stage the night before, or something terrible he'd said that Joe hadn't taken out sufficiently on Billy's jaw. Joe pushed Billy up against the side of the van and dry-humped him.

Maybe it was supposed to be punishment, but to Billy it felt the same as Joe's possessive affection, and he didn't let it bother him. By then, Billy was so used to Joe's strong hand cupping the back of his neck that he just spread his legs and let Joe do it, and maybe rocked his hips a little, too. Joe shoved up against him, grunting, and actually came in his jeans. Billy didn't come, but when Joe turned him around and kissed him again, deep and sloppy and wet, Billy felt it all the way from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, and he was breathing hard when Joe shoved him back into the van. Billy knew he'd get the real thing later.

John cornered him about it that night after the gig, all shocked and concerned, like this was the first he'd heard about Billy getting fucked by Joe. Billy wanted to shake him, but he'd probably rattle something important loose from John's never-too-stable brain. And he wasn't going to do that. Not only had John never fucked him, never hurt him, never cheated him, but Billy'd been in that building John had been stuck in and he wouldn't want to send a dog back there. Billy had been there of his own will, just earning some dough in one of the more stupid ways he'd ever done, but John had been…what did they call it? An inmate? A patient. Maybe both. Billy didn't want John ever to have to go back there.

So he tried to sit him down quietly and explain, when John was calm and he'd had his lithium and whatever else. “What did you think I meant all those times when I said Joe lives to fuck me?”

“Fuck you over, like he does everybody,” John said dully. “That's what I thought.”

“Yeah, well. That, too,” Billy said. “Always that, too.”

Maybe John forgot that conversation, but he sure as hell knew after the gig in Toronto, the last gig before the breakup, when Billy wasn't taking any more of Joe's shit, and they had it out, a little too goddamned loud, backstage before the concert. Billy tore up his knuckles on Joe's face, broke Joe's damn nose that night, and they never ended up playing at all. The club owner kicked them out, disgusted, and made them pay for their drinks and their hotel. Billy didn't fucking care. He'd discovered what it took to loosen Joe's fucking death grip on him, and he felt like a goddamn champion.

He packed up his things and got on a plane back home to Vancouver, and by the time Joe and the guys would have got back with the van, Billy was in Seattle, heading for Ed Festus' office. Ed had told him “anytime,” and Billy was taking him up on it, ready to audition. Just before he played his first substitute gig with a grunge band, he had fucking “Champion” tattooed on his right arm, to remind him.

***

Joe had kept his distance on this “reunion” tour, probably realizing this wasn't the same old Billy he was dealing with, the one who'd been Joe's bitch. Joe apparently realized it was going to take some serious liquor to reel Billy back in, and he poured and poured.

Billy was stinking drunk that night in--was it Winnipeg? The last couple of days weren't that clear. When Billy heard from Jenifur that they wouldn't need him after all, he'd gotten so drunk he almost fell over right on stage. Joe kicked his ass, made him stand up straight, but that wasn't punishment, it was just what Billy needed to keep going. It was actually buddies.

When they'd talked later in the restaurant, it had been almost like the good parts of the old days, and Billy had even enjoyed it. He didn't like it when Joe took the two hookers back to his room, but he saw it as a sign: Joe was accepting that things were different between them. If Joe got his rocks off tonight, it wasn't going to be in Billy's ass, because Billy wasn't his fucking pussy any more. Good, Billy thought. Maybe Joe only did women now. That would be good.

It wasn't till morning that Billy found out what had really gone down. The girls fucked off with the band's money, nobody got laid, and Joe was so burned that Billy thought he might go and kill something. Turned out Joe couldn't get it up for the hookers at all.

Maybe Billy realized what that meant, but he acted like he didn't. “Told you to lay off the coke, Joe,” was all he said, even though he knew coke had nothing to do with it. Anyway, it was too fucking early to start a fight before coffee. He went out to find a cash machine. Fucking Bruce shoved a camera in his face as he was walking down the street, and Pipe walked up and took Billy's last cigarette right out of Billy's goddamn mouth. Billy was left wondering what gods he'd pissed off.

If he'd known at that moment how much worse it was about to get, Billy would have kept right on walking, all the way to LA.

***

The scene Billy had left last night in Edmonton was eerily like the scene he'd left behind in Toronto nearly five years ago. Joe'd gained a few pounds, and his face looked a little old for that punk-ass Mohawk. But otherwise everything was still the same. It was terrifying if you thought about it. Like those guys were in some kind of fucked-up time warp in a horror flick.

Billy had walked away from that scene. He sure as hell wasn't going back there now when there wasn't anything to go back to.

Joe Dick had always fucked Billy when he didn't get what he wanted. He fucked Billy behind the bar in Vancouver in 1978, and he fucked Billy in Toronto before Billy left for LA the first time, and in between Joe fucked Billy from one end of Canada to the other, and at selected venues in the States.

But last night in Edmonton, when Joe beat Billy up on stage and then destroyed the '59 Strat, Billy packed his duffle and his remaining guitar and said he was leaving.

Joe put his hand on Billy's hip and said, “C'mere, Billy, I got something for you,” like he'd done in the old days just about every time he fucked Billy. He was holding the bottle of whiskey he'd had on stage when the fight started, still with a few ounces left in it. He took his hand off Billy's hip and snagged two clean glasses off the bar. Raised his eyebrows.

Billy slung his duffle over his shoulder and picked up the case holding his old guitar. Not this time, Joe.

Billy had somewhere to be.

Somewhere they weren't going to hit him when he got there. Somewhere they sure as hell weren't going to fuck him.

Last night, Billy turned around and looked Joe Dick in the eye for the final time, and Billy said no.

***

Billy sighed, punched his pillow, and settled back. He wanted another drink, but fuck that; he had a contract to sign in the morning. He was going to have the life he wanted and the success he deserved, and goddamn Joe Dick wasn't going to stop him. Certainly not now, when Joe Dick had nothing more to hold over him, ever.

What was that stupid thing Joe used to say sometimes when he was drinking out of anger, trying to hold back from kicking some idiot's face in…one shot and salut? Yeah.

It was nothing worth getting bent over. It wasn't worth getting shitfaced over, and it sure as hell wasn't worth ruining Billy's life over, just because he had some nostalgia for who they could've been, who they maybe should've been. Probably was mostly in Billy's alcoholic imagination, anyway. He didn't need to waste any more sleep over it.

He'd taken Joe up the ass for the last time--that was all that gunshot was. Just one last fuck from Joe Dick. Billy'd gotten over that a thousand times.

He wrapped his arms around himself to stop the shakes and went to sleep.

--end--

For lilac_one

2006-04-20T04:35:16Z

Title: Cock Tease
Recipient: lilac_one
Author: moojja
Pairing: Joe/Billy
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Thanks to Strangecobwebs and malnpudl for the beta

Cock Tease

The gig sucked, Joe thinks. The bar looks likes his father’s basement: The line of drinks on one side just makes the resemblance stronger. The stage is nothing more than a plywood box, barely big enough for the band to stand. And whatever sounds the bad acoustics didn't kill, the sound man finished off. It wasn't even a mercy kill, so much as a blunt trauma to the head.

But Joe manages to score some blow, so now everything is wired just fine, thanks very fucking much. And even better than the blow is that Billy is drunk again.

Nothing can be better than Billy drinking again. Sobriety sucks, but fortunately it never lasts too long. Billy might talk a good talk, but put a Jim Beam in his hand and he sucks it right down. Joe laughs to himself. Yeah, Billy’s a fucking whore, he’ll suck down anything. Whether it’s Jim Beam, Jack Daniel or Joe Dick.

Get him drunk enough and he’ll lie down and show his belly, ready to take whatever is given. And right now, Billy’s nearly passed out on a dingy, dirty couch in the back of the bar. Joe would rather not think about what kind of action that couch has seen, but where Billy is, Joe has to be. Besides he can’t let anyone take advantage of a drunk and happy Billy. That’s his job. So that couch is just going to have to see some more action tonight.

Joe loves it when Billy is drunk. Billy is no fun when he's sober. He’ll be all smiles and then lie right to your face. One moment, they’ll be zooming along, buzzing on whatever is on hand, music, booze, or a pure dose of the Joe and Billy Show. And then he’ll find Billy talking to some shit from a fag band. The little bitch!

Billy can’t even kiss unless he’s drunk. Sober, Billy's kissing is no different than Billy's fighting. There are always teeth right behind the lips, ready to snarl or bite. Sober, Billy is closed off, like the porcelain figurines Joe’s mother used to have. Used to have, before Joe smashed them all into tiny little pieces. Joe never liked perfect little polished things, he needs to scratch them up and pry them open. Sober, Billy fights like the little bitch that he is. But Joe never gives up, Billy is fun to scratch, and nothing gets Dick’s dick going better than a good wrestling match.

But drunk is a different kind of fun.

Drunk, all the work is done for you. No need for the Dick to fight, just climb right on and take a ride. Drunk, Billy kisses like a shot of cheap vodka: a slow burn that goes straight down. Drunk, Billy is open. Alcohol is like a knife, it slices Billy up, exposes the soft innards. Spreads him, fucks him open, and turns him inside out. His mouth turns soft and his legs fall apart.

Most sober days, it’s harder to get between Billy’s legs than a fucking nun’s. But vodka reshapes Billy so there’s room for Joe to crawl in. And there is no better place for the Dick to nest than between Billy’s legs.

Sometimes, Joe has paranoid fantasies that strange me might come and fuck drunk Billy. Just crawl on top and fuck him. A line of men taking Billy over and over, like that poor fucking cunt of a groupie who passed out drunk once. One after another, faceless men move their hands over Billy’s skin, kissing Billy’s face, their cocks moving in and out of Billy’s body. And like dogs marking their territory, they come in Billy’s body, staking their claim. Until Billy’s ass is as wet and loose as some worthless whore working the street all night. All the while, Billy is a useless cunt, who just lies back, and takes it all in.

But it won’t happen. Joe will protect Billy. Because Joe was here first, and Joe's left his mark. Billy might be a whore, but he is Joe's whore. Not sure what that means for Joe, because he sure isn’t a fucking pimp. Never sell out, and never lay down.

Joe walks over to the couch and climbs on top of Billy. Nudges his head at Billy’s neck, until Billy’s head falls back, and he bares his throat for Joe. Joe and only Joe. Joe can feel the stubble, and Billy’s Adam's apple moving right underneath the skin. Joe can feel the vibration of Billy’s throat, even if he can’t understand the words. But Joe doesn’t need to; Billy is his right hand man, and anything he needs to say, Joe can say for him.

Licking and sucking on a patch of skin right next to Billy’s Adam's apple, tasting the salt on Billy’s skin. It is easy to lay there in the crook of Billy’s neck. Joe wants to crawl inside like those bugs that lay their eggs inside a caterpillar and slowly eat him out. Yummy.

Like to see Billy try to leave then.

Joe bites down hard on Billy’s neck, pulling at the tender skin. But Billy the caterpillar raises his arm and tries to push Joe off; mumbles something like, “Fuck off, you fucking vampire.” But Joe keeps on sucking until he’s sure the mark will bruise. Then he slowly licks at the mark, until Billy tilts his head back again.

He can feel the toke he snorted earlier building up the buzz, until he can feel the blow heating up his blood. His muscles are starting to move, and his skin is starting to twitch. But the two refuse to sync; his skin stubbornly stays one beat behind. He feels like Pipefelcher is using his bones like drum sticks, and is skipping a beat every drum hit, just to mess up the Dick’s rhythm. Joe wants to get up and kick Pipefelcher. But Billy is nice and shiny underneath, and it distracts Joe from kicking Pipe’s ass. Besides, he likes Billy's ass better. It's such a cute, flat little ass.

Joe grabs Billy’s ass, and thinks: There it is, Ladies and Gentlemen, Billy does actually have an ass. He starts to laugh, but poor little Billy gets all bitchy and acts all offended and tries to punch his face. It’s not much of a punch, barely lands. But Joe stops and gets to work.

Joe pulls Billy’s pants down off his skinny hips and skinnier bird legs. And he grabs Billy’s leg and pushes up. Billy slurs something about hips and dislocation, and tries to turn around instead. But Joe stops him, he’s running the show, and Billy’s not going to move without his say-so. He likes to see Billy’s face when he’s fucking him. Joe likes that little grimace on Billy’s face, when his dick first pushes in. And he loves how Billy’s face softens when he comes.

Joe holds Billy’s legs up in the crooks of his elbows, and pushes in Billy’s ass with nothing but spit and pre-come on his dick. If he was sober, Billy would be whining about lube and condoms. But the only thing Joe wants right now is bare skin moving against bare skin. He likes Billy’s asshole tugging at the skin of his dick. The friction hurts, but the coke makes it hurt good. Billy groans, but throws an arm around him anyways, pulling his head up to kiss Joe. Makes it a lot harder to fuck Billy, but Billy was always a demanding little bitch.

Joe kisses him for a while, and then loses patience; leans back and pushes his dick in hard, until it is buried all the way inside Billy’s ass. Yeah, that’s what Joe wants. Billy’s ass beats any groupie’s cunt. Joe could fuck him forever, and Joe can fuck for hours on coke. Coke rewires his dick so the switch stays on "hard."

Billy’s hand starts to move on his back and but his body falls back to the couch. Billy’s pretty far gone, but still happy to participate. Joe fucks harder and faster, but he can’t quite come. The friction isn’t enough. Coke makes his dick switch on "hard," but not on "come." Joe keeps on fucking, until he feels Billy coming back. He can feel Billy wiggling underneath him. He knows Billy’s getting sore enough to be bitchy again.

Don’t the Dick just fucking know it, the little cunting bitch fucking pushes him off. It fucking hurts to fall on his ass, and not the good fucking kind of hurt. Fucking pulls himself back up to Billy, and the cuntface has the nerve to be laughing. He won't be later though, after what Joe plans to do to him.

But Billy throws an arm around him, and leans back, pulling Joe with him. Starts kissing him again. Just slow like this. Billy’s soft, he can never stay hard when he’s drunk; while all Joe can do is stay hard. Hard as rock and never coming. Joe starts to hump against the shallow underneath Billy’s hipbone. But Billy’s drunkenness seeps into him, like osmosis, or whatever that shit was called. Slowing him down. Now they’re moving to one beat, Billy’s beat. They’re just two bodies moving.

For helleboredoll

2006-04-20T02:57:13Z

Title: Waiting To Go On
Recipient: helleboredoll
Author: mltwritermom
Pairing: Joe/Billy
Rating: mild NC-17
Set during Hard Core Logo before the start of the Calgary show.

Waiting To Go On

Calgary, Alberta

“Yeah, yeah, buttmunch, quit yapping and fix the fucking mics.”
He knew the moment Joe Dick was in his presence, even if he’d hooked up his guitar to the amp. Guy was that loud. Always had been. Frankly, it seemed like he was shouting even when he wasn’t, even when he wasn’t talking at all. He was an unsettling presence for most people. Especially for Billy. Years getting things clear, getting things right and now things were muddled in the most familiar way. Felt like coming home.

“What’s up?” Billy asked, turning the amp off and switching guitars.

Joe put two bottles of 40 proof on the floor next to the door and yelled: “Don’t make me go back there,” out the door before closing it. “Just giving the sound tech slash bar-loser some tips,” he said, taking the care to open the door to shout ‘bar-loser’ so the concerned party heard.

“I’m sure he appreciates that.”

“Well if he doesn’t now, he will later when I’m not kicking his ass. Joe Dick walks into a bar, you shut up and fucking listen, amateur. He’s gotta learn. I said I wanted it loud not fucking distorted; we do play actual fucking music.”

“Damn right we do,” Billy agreed, putting his cigarette between the guitar handle and the strings to take a swig of beer.

“I managed to get us some good booze.”

“That’s great managing Joe,” Billy said, sounding completely unexcited. He finished his beer and continued with his work.

Joe fiddled with his pack of cigarettes and pulled out a fresh one, reaching in to Billy’s shirt pocket for the lighter he knew was there. “So are you done with these fucking guitars already? I’m hungry.”

“Was that not dinner we just had not two hours ago?” Billy asked, eyebrow quirked.

“So?”

“Did you not get your fill?’

“You of all people should know I’ll probably never get my fill of anything.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Joe was staring at him again. Not really at his face though, but at his hands gripping the guitar. At his ring.

When Billy looked up he caught Joe looking like himself when he wasn’t putting on a show. Not a lot of people got to see that, because the guy was usually putting on a show. “What?” Billy asked, breaking the moment.

“You and me Billiam. Me and you.”

“What?”

“We still got it.”

“I know.”

“You better know.”

“I know, dick.”

“Fuck,” he said, smiling that slightly psychotic smile he thought was charming towards Billy. That was close to happy as Joe ever got, Billy thought, as Joe tipped his beer to him in salute.

“Yeah, yeah, I missed you too fucker.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said, walking around the dirty couch to settle behind Billy. He bent down to speak in the blonde’s ear: “So, are you done soon?”

“Just making some adjustments, Mr. Impatient.”

“Well hurry the fuck up, Tallent, we only got a few hours left.”

“Come on, give me a few fucking minutes here, alright?” Billy asked; fiddling with the amp as he picked up the back-up guitar they carried.

“So you’re like a perfectionist now or something? I wanna get out of here before the fucking doors open and fucking Tiffany shows up with her fucking hair and her fucking questions.”

“What’s Bruce up to?”

“He’s setting up to record the show. Told him to leave us alone.”

“Alone, alone?”

“Yeah, I know, finally!” Joe said, looking at the room, the door and then Billy, “alone.”

“Boys are still-“

“Scribbling and setting up.”

“Well then, what is it you had in mind for me mister Dick?” He said, putting the last guitar down and walking to sit on the back of the couch.

“Keep it up, talk dirty to me some more.” Joe said leaning against the wall, facing Billy.

Billy laughed and lit his own cigarette.

“What?” Joe asked, licking his lips and looking down at Billy’s crotch.

“So it’s like that again, is it?”

“It’s always been like that,” Joe acknowledged, crushing out his cigarette.

“Has it now? I thought you said you were hungry.”

“Ah come on Billy, don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?”

There was a long pause when Joe’s stare held Billy’s and Joe’s mouth quirked up into an almost dreamy half-smile. And then he spoke: “You’re my bitch.”

“What?” Billy asked, his voice higher than normal. It was fun and games again. He took off his over-shirt and threw it on the ground like he was thinking of fighting then picked up a fairly full ashtray, weighing it in his hand and looking at Joe like he could smash his face in with it.

“Um, I mean, you’re my bestest friend in the whole wide world?”

“I’m your only fucking friend, you contrary bastard,” Billy said, putting the ashtray down and slapping Billy’s face lightly as he walked past.

“So? You gonna suck my dick, or what?”

“How long have you been waiting to ask me that?”

“How long’s it been since the last time?”

“Give me a break Joe, its not like you don’t have groupies that’ll drop to their knees on a fucking look,” he scoffed, taking a deep drag off his cigarette and moving to set up the guitars and amps near the door for Pipe to set up last minute.

“Less than you’d think. Most of them get all bitchy I won’t kiss 'em on the mouth.”

“Well they would, wouldn’t they, if they just saw us spit on each other all fucking show,” Billy said, fiddling with some cables that had unraveled.

“You’re the only one I kiss on the mouth, that hasn’t changed. There’s only so much fake I can stomach,” Joe said offhand, like he wasn’t saying anything important.

“Yeah,” Billy said, picking up the alcohol bottle and opening it. He thought about using one of the many shot glasses that were strewn about the room but that statement called for a chug or two straight from the bottle.

“So come here, asshole and get to it.”

“I’m not sucking your dick, Joe” Billy said, raising the booze to his mouth once more. He licked his lips and put the thing down.

“Not yet.”

Billy picked up the nearest item and threw it as hard as he could.

Joe closed his eyes and turned his face by reflex, but didn’t move to get out of the way. The shot glass shattered about 10 centimeters from his face. He had little pieces of it in his hair and on his ratty black army shirt.

“Quit the foreplay, get over here.”

Billy stalked over and got in Joe’s face.

They stared at each other, their bodies getting closer and closer.

Billy could feel the heat pouring out of Joe. He felt himself start to sweat. Their bodies finally touched full length. Damn him, he’d missed this.

Joe moved in to kiss him several times but his attempts were dodged. He started to push against the blond, lining their groins and grinding just a little.

Billy licked his lips.

“Ah yeah, I missed your mouth,” Joe said, trying to get closer.

“No you didn’t.”

“I said the mouth, not the talking, smart ass.”

“Shut up Joe.”

Billy finally tilted his head and leaned in, licking Joe’s lips open, getting himself a groan from the man. Coming back, even the idea of it, was so dangerous. This tour, it could land in the hall-of-fame of mistakes and why was he here? Because Joe asked. Because Billy couldn’t help it. Maybe even because he wanted to show off to Joe a little.

They kissed with unnatural slowness, learning each other’s mouths all over again. Joe’s eyes were closed, his head leaning back against the wall. Billy enjoyed having a little control and brought his hands up to Joe’s hair to tug on the mohawk, tilting the man’s head further back. His teeth came out to play and he bit Joe’s lips, his chin and the side of his neck all the way down to the shirt, then tongued his way up the man’s jugular to his ear. He nicked his one of his fingers on some residual shards and brought the finger to his lips to suck. Joe got to it first.

Joe shuddered, sucking the digit into his mouth. He always did have a thing for bodily fluids. He laughed, pushing Billy away and took off his shirt, throwing it across the room. He then grabbed Billy and shoved him hard into the wall. The pace Joe set was more familiar. He fused his mouth to the blonde’s, gnashed their teeth, thrust against him, grinding their hips together forcefully.

“Billy Tallent,” he groaned, “is that for me?’ he asked, before shoving his tongue back in the guy’s mouth.

Billy didn’t say anything; he just enjoyed them going at each other like they were starving. Man had a fucking talented tongue.

Joe reached down to unfasten his belt, but Billy met him there. His pants got undone, his boxers pushed down. His eyes pleaded, but he said: “Do it Billy, do it like I like it.”

And Billy stopped and looked at Joe and did what he was told. Because Joe asked, because Billy couldn’t help it, and even because he wanted to show off a little.

They spent the next 2 hours using every single surface in that dressing room, ignoring the occasional knock on the doors. Neither of them could bring themselves to talk about what went down between them years ago. They laughed, they drank, they ran around, they smoked, tussled and fucked just like when they were at their best.

By the time the show started, an entire hour late, Billy was exhausted and bruised but wired, drenched in sweat. He didn't care, that time was surely worth whatever shit he could get from Festus for signing up for this gig. He stepped out of the room to a full crowd of rowdy but happy people welcoming him back with open arms. He strapped on his guitar and felt like he was walking on stage for Lollapalooza.

Joe thought life was fucking great. His plan had worked, he and Billy were clicking like the good old days and the doorman had offered him some blow. Tomorrow maybe he’d try and figure out how to hang on to it but right now?

He had to tuck himself back in, step out that door and rock the house like he’s the fucking king. And he so is.

For jcjoeyfreak

2006-04-19T18:51:25Z

Title: What He Knows
Recipient: jcjoeyfreak
Author: exeterlinden
Pairing: Joe/Billy
Rating: NC-17 for drug abuse, language and sex

What He Knows

What he remembers:

Regina gig. The venue's in a basement, but pretty big - looks like it holds at least five hundred people. The air is damp with steam from the crowd; Joe's hair is plastered to his face, his jeans are sliding reluctantly against his skin. They drove all night to get here, Joe hasn't slept in more than forty-eight hours, but he's had a little blow and the promoter was clever enough to have a couple of bottles out for them backstage - Jack D, bourbon, a beautiful half gallon bottle of Boris Jelzin.

There's nothing like the taste of cheap vodka. Joe's fucking in love with it; halfway through the set and more than halfway through the bottle. Right now it doesn't take more for him to love the place, love the crowd. Each band member finishes the song ("Rock and roll is fucking ugly!") several seconds apart, but hey, John's high as a kite and Billy's drunk on his knees on the floor, and anyway the crowd's crazy for it.

They launch into Something's Gonna Die and are met by a roar of approval. Joe shows them some teeth, spits a little vodka into the faces of some of the girls in front row. One of the perks of the band getting a bigger following is the girl fans. Fucking fanatics, all of them: they'll elbow their way past the biggest, meanest rockers to get right in front of the stage, and then they'll act like they're watching Michael Jackson or whatever, writhing and whimpering, reaching out to touch the band. He can smell them, too: perfume and sweet liquor and girl sweat. He looks down at their red, upturned faces with their pink mouths open, and thinks about sticking his dick in all of them. Imagines that they'd probably let him, too. He laughs and grabs his crotch, gives them a show. To his right Billy moves closer, flushed and glassy-eyed, grinning as well. He spits Joe in the face and Joe just opens his mouth to it, licks it off and chases it down with a swig of Boris J, his throat and mouth numb enough that it goes down like water.

Hazy stuff:

The promoter's booked rooms for them, got them a driver, and they've got roadies by now; so after the concert all they have to do is jump off the stage and right into the crowd. The rest of the band is quickly swallowed up by the mass of people, and Joe hooks up with a couple of girlfriends, dark haired and heavy set, fucking enormous tits on both of them. He lets them buy him a couple of beers, tips their heads back and pours the rest of his vodka into their mouths.

He brings them back to the motel and they blow him while he leans against the wall and finishes his beer and wonders if every guy given the chance will re-enact all the tacky porn setups he's ever jacked off to. He wonders what Billy's doing. He looks down at the white partings in the girls' black hair, at their tongues lapping at his cock, at their tits rubbing against each other. He comes too quickly, not caring.

He can't be asked to deal with the girls afterwards; and they don't want to fuck each other, so in the end he just tugs his wet dick back into his jeans and gives them the boot. He gets another beer from the minibar and goes next door to see what Billy's up to.

Fucking a groupie, it turns out. One of those bony, lanky girls Billiam seems to prefer. No hips, no tits, and Joe actually does a double take, but yeah it is a girl. He leaves the door wide open, slouching against the door frame while he finishes his beer, but either Bills doesn't care or he hasn't noticed. Most likely the second, Joe realizes, because it's pretty obvious that both of them are high on something. The girl looks close to comatose, lying on her side, dorky expression on her face, mouth slack and eyes rolled back in her head. Her short, blonde hair is flattened and wet, and Billy's behind her, fucking her in slow-motion, brows furrowed; his mouth latched onto her neck like a fucking leech.

He finishes his beer and comes inside to get another one. He stands at the foot of the bed and finishes that one as well, and as soon as Billy comes, he grabs the girl and drags her skinny ass off the bed. She lets out a drugged, drawn-out "heeeyyyyyy," but he's already found her pants and throws them at her. He finds her coat and looks through the pockets, tossing one of her smokes into his mouth and cramming the rest of the packet into his jeans. She's got condoms, lube, a couple of twenties, a pocket knife and a little brown bottle of something liquid - and Joe has to hand it to her, she certainly came prepared. He takes all of it before throwing her out the door and locking it.

He lights the cigarette with his back to the bed, waiting. Billy's on him a couple of seconds later, but he's drugged and slow and Joe shrugs him off easy. He gets him down on the floor and tries to get a hold of his wrists, but Billy's only in jeans and he's a slippery motherfucker. He writhes and swears, and suddenly he's got one arm free and his elbow cracks into Joe's face. They struggle for awhile, both of them getting a couple of good punches in before Billy twists away from under him and sits up, saying "alright, alright, fucking asshole, get me a beer".

Joe gets him a beer and Billy drains half of it and wipes the blood out of the corner of his mouth. Joe moves to sit down against the bed, but he's got that girl's shit in his pockets, and his jeans are too tight. He stands back up and fishes out the pocket knife, throws it on the floor. He gets out the bottle. It looks like cough syrup, or something like it, no label. "What is this shit, anyway, Bills?" Billy fumbles a cigarette into his mouth "fucked if I know… You sniff it," he adds helpfully.

Joe screws off the lid and takes a whiff, and it turns out to be a pretty good rush. He sits down heavily, takes a couple of deep breaths. Billy smiles around his cigarette, lights it, takes a long drag. He slumps against the wall and lets his legs fall apart. He's still hard. Fucking show-off. "So what, you've already gone off your Hooters twins?"

Joe laughs, "You saw them?" he cups a pair of imaginary breasts "fucking huge!" Billy shakes his head dismissively, takes the cigarette out of his mouth and Joe notices that his lips are swollen, from kissing maybe, or from a punch - he can't remember if he hit him in the mouth. A couple of hot waves crash over him, and he's liking this shit, whatever it is. He leans his head back and looks at Billy through half closed eyes, skinny fucking cheetah, shiny patch of sweat in the hollow just below his ribcage.

He only catches the tail-end of what Billy says "… pathetic… your taste in women… fucking infantile…" but he gets the gist of it and flips Billy the finger, relaxing into his high. "Screw you Bills, I'm not the one fucking my fucking twin after every show. You'd fuck yourself, if you could - you sick fuck," He lets his eyes slide closed, he feels like he's falling, or floating, melting, easing into the carpet.

"You'd fuck me too, if you could, though… Wouldn't you Joe?" What the fuck? He means to bring his head back up quickly, but it's more of a slow roll; and when he's finally got Billy in his line of vision, Billiam sneers at him and runs the heel of his hand over his crotch, mocking him.

Yeah, Joe'd fuck him, has always wanted to fuck him; he's fucking hard for it now. He didn't realise that Billy knew. Fuck it.

He grabs Billy by the neck and drags him forward. He doesn't remember making the decision, and his brain is struggling to keep up, it's all happening in flashes: Billy's hot tongue in his mouth, his own hand making a fist in Bill's hair, Billy's long fingers on his cock. Fucking flashes, fucking…

Flashbacks:

- Joe's panting so hard his chest aches; he wants to come, but he can't. Billy's sucking him and it's good, too good; it hurts. He looks up at the ceiling, swallows, licks his lips, swallows again. He can't stop thinking that the motherfucker is way too fucking competent with this, that Billy must have done it before. It pisses him off, makes him want to kill the bastard; he moves his hand blindly from Billy's hair to his throat and squeezes, feels Billy's veins throb against his fingers. -

- Billy's strong, Joe has to fight for it - he wrestles Billy onto his stomach on the floor, pushes his head down, pushes his face into the carpet, grunting with the effort. He keeps one hand on the back of Billy's head, keeping him still, while he fumbles with his other hand to pull down his pants. Billy's not helping him, writhing underneath him, pushing his ass up -

- He's got Billy's cock in his hand. His fingers are slick with precum, but Billy's silent as the grave. Joe looks up at him and Bill's avoiding his eyes, biting his lips and breathing out through his nose in hard, quick bursts - and it hits Joe that maybe Billy hates wanting it just as much as Joe does, maybe it fucks him up just as badly. -

- He's gnawing at Billy's shoulder, tasting cigarette smoke and sweat. Clenching his shoulders hard, pushing him down while thrusting up. Sucking blood up under the surface of the skin, feeling muscles move under his mouth. He's not sure if he really remembers this, or if he just thinks he does because of -

What he knows:

Billy has bite marks on his neck, scratch marks, blue and purple bruises strewn across his shoulders.

He's asleep on the floor with his back to Joe. Curled up around himself and he looks a little like a big dog or a wolf, some kind of animal: every rib is visible, the edge of the ribcage stands out under the skin before tapering into slim hips, narrow ass, long legs. He looks pale and alien in the morning light, his hair flat and dark with grease.

Joe woke up with the mother of all headaches, his stomach hurts from too much booze, too many drugs. His muscles are sore from fighting with Billy, fucking Billy. He gets up to take a piss, washes his face, finds his trousers, his shirt.

Billy is sleeping the sleep of the dead. He gets out a beer, rolls it across his forehead. Drinks it looking down at Billy. His mouth is slack, his eyelids are twitching. He's got goose bumps on his arms. Joe hesitates for a moment before getting the duvet off the bed and throwing it over him.

He goes back to his own room. It looks like the door's been open all night. Joe wonders if Pipefitter and John ever made it back to the motel. He can hear fucking birds singing; the sky is greyish white, there's a couple of inches of thin fog just above the ground - it has to be really fucking early, something like five o'clock. He gets into his room, finds his Valiums in his coat, dry swallows two and lies down on his unused bed.

He knows this is different from the casual hand jobs in their teens, different than the one time they fucked that blonde chick together. He knows that he wants Billy more than he's ever wanted any groupie, or any fucking girl. And he knows that Billy's clever, that if Billy doesn't know that already, he will very soon.

What Joe doesn't know is what the fuck is going to happen then.

For j_s_cavalcante

2006-04-19T16:40:21Z

Title: (Perspective's a Bitch) Negative Feed
Recipient: j_s_cavalcante
Author: sageness
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Joe/Billy, Billy/others
Summary: The whole band's got a firm No Comment policy on all matters pertaining to Joe Dick, Hard Core Logo, Bucky Haight, and Billy's private life, fuck you very much. He's no fucking A-list celebrity, so basically the ghouls can just suck it.

Outside link to the story: (Perspective's a Bitch) Negative Feed

Negative Feed: the Soundtrack
includes 22 tracks, liner notes, and cover art

Get it in one (big) zip file: (STDK Negative Feed.zip) 97MB:
at oxyshare     ~     at megaupload     ~     at sendspace

Or get it here, split into two zip files:

      Part One (negativefeedpartone.zip) 42MB:
      at sendspace     ~     at megaupload

      Part Two (negativefeedparttwo.zip) 55MB:
      at sendspace     ~     at megaupload

For sageness

2006-04-19T16:26:43Z

Title: dear sweet filthy world
Recipient: sageness
Author: brooklinegirl
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Joe/Billy
Summary: Billy Tallent never does anything he doesn't want to do.

dear sweet filthy world

Joe was a liar, and everyone knew it. The thing was, he didn't lie all the time, and he didn't always lie when you expected him to. He'd lie about dumb things sometimes, for no reason, just because. And sometimes he'd tell the truth and it would startle the hell out of you, because it wasn't just when it was safe or easy or whatever. It was when Joe felt like it, and you never could tell when that would be.

Billy lay there on the bed with the cheap synthetic comforter, the thin pillow folded behind his head, and the ashtray resting beside him. He slid another cigarette out of the box and lit it, peering up at the ceiling through the smoke. Joe had pretty much just tossed his bag into the room when they got to the bandhouse and headed right back out in the van to get more smokes and booze.

Last night, at Bucky's place - Billy's lips curved into a humorless grin. The only surprising thing was that anyone had ever bought Joe's story about the benefit. Billy had known he was lying all along, and besides, Bucky Haight wasn't going to be the thing to bring Billy back to the band. Joe knew that, he had to know that. The Bucky thing - that was just an excuse, a pretty good one, one that bought Joe the money and the attention and the justification to pull this off. Joe was a convincing bastard when he chose to be, and he had certainly fucking chosen to be with that benefit chick and with Bruce fucking McDonald.

They bought his line, they bought it entirely. But they hadn't known Joe Dick since he was twelve years old.

They didn't know Joe like Billy did.

Seeing Bucky Haight up and walking on two perfectly fine legs - that had been no surprise to Billy. The thing was - and this was all Billy could think about as they sat as an uncomfortable audience to Bucky's ramblings - that Joe had been willing to risk that. Joe didn't have many heroes at all, even fewer that he would admit to, and Bucky had been Joe's goddamn hero. Billy'd known he was lying about the benefit - bullshit fucking story - but he'd been curious to see how far Joe would fucking go with it. He'd figured, he'd really figured, that Joe would come up with something, would figure something out, would fucking manage the situation. Steer them away from Bucky's ranch somehow, keep up the front.

Joe was all about keeping up the front.

That had been the surprising thing, that Joe had blown it so entirely. Joe and Billy, both, had been jittery with nerves by the time they pulled up to the farm, and Pipe and John had been completely unaware of what was causing the undercurrent of tension in the van.

The door to the room slammed open and Billy didn't even twitch as it hit the wall, the reverberation sending a shower of plaster down from the ceiling in the corner. Joe, a carton of cigarettes in his hand and a bottle of Jack under his arm, ignored it. He tossed the carton to Billy, who caught it one-handed.

"Jesus motherfucking christ, next time I'm sending Pipe out," Joe growled, kicking the door shut behind him with one heavy, booted foot. "I had this one punk kid drooling all over me in the store, telling me how excited she was about the show tomorrow." Joe sounded pissed, but he looked pretty pleased.

The room they were sharing had two narrow beds that looked like they were deconstructed bunk beds from some kid's set. They were made of old, scarred wood, but they were solidly put together, at least, and the room itself was the cleanest. Pipe had ended up in the room that had the queen-sized bed, the room Billy had nixed because he was pretty sure the sheets had never been changed on that bed, no matter what the band-house dyke had said. John was sacked out in the tiny back bedroom wedged in behind the kitchen on the first floor, but that was okay - he needed his privacy and he never complained, anyway.

Billy took the cigarette out of his mouth and blew smoke in Joe's direction. "Aw, you got yourself a fan girl, huh?" he drawled.

Joe snorted and let his coat fall off his shoulders, left it in a pile on the floor. He put the bottle of Jack on the worn wooden night table between the two beds, and sat down to take off his boots. "She was an idiot, was what she was. Probably about 14 years old and thinks she knows anything about the music scene."

"Kids these days," Billy said dryly.

Joe rolled his eyes, shoved his boots off his feet and sprawled back on the bed. "Done. I am fucking done with that goddamn van."

"You picked it," Billy said mildly, lifting up the bottle of Jack and studying the label as though it were something that mattered.

"Shut up about the van already." Joe leaned forward and pulled the bottle out of Billy's hands. Billy watched as Joe tore the seal off, twisted off the cap, and took a long swallow from the neck. He handed the bottle back to Billy, and Billy took it, bemused, watching as Joe swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

He looked down at the bottle again, running his thumb around the lip of the bottle where Joe's mouth had been. He thought about Los Angeles and long nights, and lifted the bottle to his mouth, took a slow, smooth swallow.

They passed the bottle back and forth for a while, Joe doing most of the talking. He bitched about Pipe and John, about Bruce, about Billy himself not helping matters, but he never once said a word about Bucky, never once talked about the night before at Bucky's place, which he maybe didn't remember too much about, but you never knew with Joe. He got fucked up a lot, and he did fucking stupid things, but he remembered shit you'd never, ever think he would.

Billy himself didn't remember much past the beginning of the night. Bits and pieces mostly: smearing the make-up on Joe's face, and Joe putting eyeliner on Billy with a strangely steady hand. He remembered the knife, sort of, and he remembered the gun. He remembered Joe falling to the ground and Billy thinking for one wild second that this had gone way past faking it.

He didn't remember the goat, and he was happy about that, but he remembered Joe's fingers still slick with blood as they slid over Billy's cheek and into his hair, tugging on him and pulling him close.

Billy blinked and looked at Joe across the gap between the two beds. Joe had his head bent, lighting a cigarette, and he looked old for just a second. Restless, Billy leaned off the bed and flipped open his guitar case, carefully lifting out the fucking gorgeous Strat. He pulled it into his lap, sitting back against the head of the bed. The hard wood dug slightly into his back as he ran his fingers over the strings.

Joe shut his lighter with a snap. "What the fuck are you doing?" His voice was loud in the quiet room. The whole house was quiet. It felt weird, it felt cut off, like the world had narrowed to just the two of them.

Billy looked up at Joe. "What the fuck does it look like?"

Joe's lips thinned and he shook his head once, hard. "Put it down."

Billy curled his lip at Joe and kept strumming. "Deal with it."

Joe was the one who had the deep and meaningful fucking hero worship thing going with Bucky. Billy never felt that connection, never even came close. He respected the guy, sure, but there wasn't anything god-like about him. That morning, when Billy had woken up with his head pounding and his throat sore and every muscle in his body aching, he was on the floor of Bucky's living room, and Joe was nowhere to be seen. Billy'd dragged himself off the floor, feeling like six kinds of shit, and staggered to the kitchen. He'd drunk directly from the faucet, his mouth tasting like rags, before tugging on his coat and making his way to the porch.

He'd been on the porch long enough for his head to mostly clear by the time Bucky came out and caught him with the guitar. He'd felt like an asshole - you don't fuck around with another guy's instrument - but he couldn't have kept his hands off of it if he'd tried. It was a fucking special guitar, and Bucky'd given it to him.

Joe was still snarling at him, but Billy tuned him out, segued into "Purple Haze." Joe flung himself back on the bed and growled to himself, smoking his cigarette like he was angry at it.

By the time Billy finished the song, Joe was quiet on the bed, his hand curled around the neck of the bottle of Jack at his side and the ash on his cigarette trembling dangerously long. As Billy watched, Joe tilted his head and flicked the cigarette a tiny bit with his tongue so that the ash fell onto the bed beside him.

"Careful," Billy said, "That blanket's more likely to melt than burn."

Joe snorted, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, crushing out the cigarette in the ashtray. Billy let his arm rest on the edge of the guitar, and held out his other hand for the bottle.

"Don't you think you've had enough, Billy?" Joe said in a snarly, sing-song voice. "Aren't you all clean and sober now? Or, oh wait," Joe's face spread into a hard grin. "That's right. You fell off the wagon, didn't you, sweetheart? Guess I'm not the only one who fucks up." Still, he shoved the bottle at Billy.

Billy's fingers curled around the glass neck. It was still warm from Joe's hand. He raised an eyebrow and looked over at him. "Never said that you were, Joseph."

"Right." Joe eyed Billy. "Put down the guitar."

"It's a 1969 Strat," Billy pointed out, his hand running lovingly down the length of it.

"I don't fucking care, put it the fuck down." Joe's tone was quiet, and Billy looked at him for a long moment. Joe made a low sound of exasperation in his throat and went to take the guitar from Billy's hands.

"Don't," said Billy in a low, warning voice, and Joe stopped, and smacked the side of Billy's head instead. Billy bared his teeth at him. Joe, who didn't lie half as well as he thought he did. Joe, who thought he was the one who brought Billy here, tricked Billy into coming here.

"Put it down yourself, then, cuntface. The whole world isn't your fucking audience."

Billy snorted, and raised the bottle to his mouth, taking a long sip. More of the world was his audience than Joe Dick's. Fear of success was too fucking simple a summary of what drove Joe. Joe wanted the audience, wanted the attention, wanted the fucking fame. He'd take all of Hard Core fucking Logo down to Los Angeles if they wanted him there, and both of them damn well knew it. That wasn't what this was about. That wasn't anything close to what this was about.

Billy held the bottle out to Joe, who took it and drank, looking at Billy over the lip. Billy played two more chords, then turned and leaned over the side of the bed to put the Strat safely back in its case.

When he sat back up, Joe was leaning forward from his bed, passing the bottle back to Billy. Billy took it, even though he was feeling dizzy already. The years of sobriety took away his tolerance. Half a bottle of Jack - not even - used to be an appetizer for a night of drinking. That was nothing at all. Still, he tipped the bottle up, gulped it this time - he was used to the taste, and his throat was practically numb now. He felt some of the booze trickle out of the side of his mouth.

By the time he lowered the bottle, Joe was on Billy's bed. He pushed away the hand that Billy raised to wipe his mouth, and leaned forward, licking up the booze from Billy's neck, his chin, his lips, and then Joe's tongue was in Billy's mouth.

Billy groaned and fisted his hands in the back of Joe's sweater and slid down a little, Joe following him down. Joe was a liar, Billy was reminded once again; Joe lied all the time, but he wasn't good at it. Joe pinned him down with his body, kissing him rough and fierce, and Billy just slid back further, spread his legs, and shoved up against Joe.

"Slut," Joe hissed under his breath, yanking his mouth away and grinding. Billy laughed, and Joe lifted up, grabbed his hips and pulled him down hard, so Billy was flat under him. Billy, drunk and dizzy, went easily, tilting his face up and looping an arm around Joe's shoulders, pulling him down and kissing him.

"Fuck you," Joe gasped out against Billy's lips, pushing his hands in between them and fumbling at the button on Billy's pants.

"Yeah," Billy said, lifting his hips as Joe shoved his pants down. "Yeah," he said again as Joe's hand closed around his cock. This didn't matter. None of it mattered.

"Christ," Joe grunted, and his calloused hand was pulling rough and steady on Billy's cock, and it didn't matter how fucked up they were or how little this mattered, because Billy's dick didn't care, Billy's dick was leaking like crazy all over Joe's hand.

Billy tilted his head forward and looked at Joe. Joe was staring at Billy's dick like it was the fucking holy grail, and Billy almost laughed, because god, Joe, at least try to put up a front. But nah, not him, not his Joe. Joe went after what he wanted. Went after it full throttle, and he'd get it, too, and then fuck it up. Fuck it the fuck up, that was what Joe was good at, that was what was pretty much guaranteed in Joe's life. That's how he ended up a middle-aged rock star in a falling-down bandhouse with Billy fucking Tallent's dick leaving smears all over his hand.

Watching Joe's face, Billy figured Joe wouldn't have it any other way.

Joe looked at Billy - finally - and growled, "Faggot," just as he pulled up from where he'd been humping against Billy's thigh. "Fucking - faggot," he gasped as he pulled out his own cock and stroked it roughly a few times, and god, you know, some things never changed. Billy wanted Joe's cock in his mouth, but uh-uh, no way, he was done going down on his knees for Joe. Not this time. Not now.

He wrapped his fingers around his own cock, ran his thumb up and over the top. He looked up at Joe when he brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it off. It tasted salty and Joe looked like he was hardly breathing. Joe was easy, so fucking easy. All Billy had to do at that point was tilt his dick out, just a little bit, and Joe was going down like he'd been wanting to since Billy set foot in the fucking country.

Didn't make it any less good. Made it better, maybe. "Jesus," he panted up at the ceiling, wrapping his hands on Joe's hair and shoved him down on his cock. "Christ, yeah, just -"

Joe didn't try to push him off, Joe never tried to push his hands away when it was like this. He just went down deep, sucked Billy in, didn't give him a second, not even a second to even breathe. This wasn't about rhythm or smoothness or anything like that. This was Joe knowing Billy like he knew no one else. This was about Joe swallowing him, taking it from him when he wouldn't take it from even one other fucking person in this whole goddamn world.

Joe had him deep, was jacking him with one hand and holding down his hip with the other, and Billy couldn't be quiet, wasn't even trying. He never could, never could, not when he was drunk and screwed and deep in Joe's mouth. "Fuck, Joe, jesus, fuck you, Joe, just fuck - Christ -"

Billy was coming, panting harshly, his head tilted back so far he couldn't breathe, shooting again and again into Joe's mouth, felt like he'd never stop coming. No girl, no groupie in the fucking world could give head like Joe Dick and that was the god's honest truth.

Then again - Billy managed to lift his head up - no groupie looked up at him the way Joe did when he lifted his head off Billy's cock, letting it slide out of his mouth and onto Billy's stomach with a wet splat. That fucked-up look that wasn't anywhere near what any sane person would call love. It was too much, it was need and desperation and Joe's own special brand of love all tied up into one. Too fucking much.

Billy was still catching his breath as Joe drew one slow hand over his mouth, wiping it off, as he swallowed. Billy, feeling limp and used and fucking great, boneless on the stupid-ass twin bed in the stupid-ass bandhouse in the middle of fucking goddamn Edmonton in the dead of winter. Slumped back, with his shirt pushed up and his pants shoved down, Billy let his hands fall to either side of him. He tilted his head and gave Joe his best slow, drunk, half-smile that didn't mean anything at all.

All yours, Joe Dick. What are you gonna do?

Joe grabbed his own dick in his hand - not gone soft at all, no way, giving head - well, giving head to Billy did nothing but ratchet Joe up and up - and planted one knee in between Billy's legs, a little too close to Billy's balls for comfort. He let himself fall forward, catching himself on one hand planted right beside Billy's head. He looked dark and quiet and dangerous. He had his lip caught in his teeth, he was growling obscenities under his breath, and he never once stopped looking right in Billy's eyes.

"Fuck you, you fucking fuck, I just fucking - fuck -" A long stream of cursing and promises as he looked down at Billy and stroked himself, hard and fast and, "Christ, god, Billy," came all over Billy's stomach.

He collapsed down beside Billy, and Billy, running his hand through the mess on his stomach, tilted his head to the side to look at Joe. Joe had his eyes shut and his jaw clenched and he was still muttering curses under his breath. Billy ran his hand lightly over the wilted curve of his Mohawk, but Joe kept his eyes shut and Billy was pretty sure he didn't even notice.

Twisting around on the bed, Billy felt around on the floor until he found the bottle. He lifted it up and took a long swig, leaving barely an inch at the bottom. "Just like the old days," he muttered to himself.

Joe snorted into the pillow. "Right, Billiam." He heaved himself up onto his side and looked at Billy, ran his eyes down the sprawled mess of him. He looked pleased. "You're staying."

It wasn't a question, but Billy raised and lowered one shoulder anyway.

Joe nodded. "Good," he said. "Music. No coke. We'll be big together, you and me. We'll be huge."

Joe sounded tired but sure, and Billy wasn't going to argue. He passed the last of the Jack over to Joe and watched Joe's throat move as he drained it.

"We'll see," he said, tugging his t-shirt off and using it to mop up his stomach. Joe watched the process, his face serious and focused on something else entirely.

"Trust me," Joe said.

"Not in a million years." Billy never lied. Billy never had to.

"Fucker." Joe flashed him a quick grin and slung his arm around Billy's neck, pulling him in for a kiss.

~end~

For dayse

2006-04-19T01:16:47Z

Title: (hang on) Tightly, (let go) Lightly
Recipient: dayse
AuthorL verushka70
Pairing: Joe/Billy
Notes: I wish to thank Malnpudl for way helpful beta-ing and helping me choose which story met my recipient's criteria best.

(hang on) Tightly, (let go) Lightly

When Joe came to himself again from dozing, Billy was a softly snoring, wiry mass of muscle and bone half under him. Joe had a leg thrown over Billy, an arm under him (arm totally asleep now: bitch of pins and needles to come), and his other arm around Billy, threaded under his armpit. Joe’s cheek lay against the nape of Billy’s neck; his lips touched muscle between Billy’s neck and shoulder. He held Billy, held him close, close to his chest, like cards in a high stakes game. The motel room door was locked and the chain was on.

Slim little fucker, Billy was, nothing like Joe’s own meaty self. Slim and sly and, though no one knew it, sometimes shy. It came off as aloof or arrogant; that played well in interviews. At least, those were the adjectives rock hacks used about Billy. Only Joe knew it was residual shyness leftover from the usual teenage angst and humiliations.

Joe opened his eyes to dark. Dark, dank, shitty motel room. Warm smell of stale smoke and spunk and the creamy smell of Billy’s scalp. Billy’s breathing was slow and shallow: a small animal not meant to be caught, but momentarily held, temporarily still, for catch and release after being drugged and tagged.

Joe felt the fullness of his bladder and his half-hard cock, but ignored both for the moment. His eyes adjusted to the dark; he could distinguish between the gray of the walls and furniture and bedclothes, the thin ribbon of black outside, and the shadowy, drawn motel room drapes.

Without moving anything but the arm threaded through Billy’s armpit (and, okay, his pelvis, too) Joe pulled Billy tighter against his own chest and inhaled slowly and deeply. Joe always took what he could get, and if he could only get it when Billy was asleep, fuck, he’d take it.

They were like cell division when they were alone together behind locked doors: first indivisible, one in – or on – the other (or both). Then, at a certain point in time, with no warning, they suddenly pulled apart, into two. Billy was too restless, too squirmy, too boy to lie tangled together for long. Once awake, he pulled away. Conscious again (and no longer distracted by lust or need), he separated.

FSF, they called it between themselves: fucksleepfuck. Their private joke. Never spoken openly in front of others, and only whispered in the other’s ear or mouthed across a room when one of them couldn’t stand it any longer.

Really it was more drinkfucksleepfucksleepsleepsleep – the fucking being fast and furious and them usually boozed out and blissed out enough afterward to sleep through a train crash. But then they’d sleep and recharge and fuck again. Fucking, sucking, jacking each other, jacking themselves for the other’s eyes – whatever. It was all fucking to Joe.

It had taken Joe more than a couple years to understand why he sometimes wanted to punch things (people, walls) after the all-nighters he and Billy sometimes had.

Those were the nights Joe held nothing back. He destroyed clothing in the process of disrobing (himself or Billy). Ripped clothes fit their image better, anyway. Into nights like this, Joe piled all the tension and frustration of being an arm’s length from Billy and no closer, days or weeks on end, ‘til the cunt-rary motherfucker let himself be had. And though the intention was never to scratch, bruise or abrade Billy, the two of them sometimes came out the next morning looking like they’d been fighting.

Then over the course of the next day, Billy would mess with Joe. Billy would touch his bruises or scrapes, and stare at Joe while he did it. Eyes cool and big under the blonde spikes and above the wide cheekbones, he’d slowly rub a bruise Joe had bitten into his shoulder, or a scrape on his forearm from Joe holding it down, or a scratch on his jaw where Joe accidentally raked him with a ring while fucking his face.

Billy would meet Joe’s eyes from across the van, across the table at a diner, across the bar, while touching the places left marked up by Joe.

And Joe’s cock would twitch and start to stiffen. He’d have to turn away so he wouldn’t get full-fledged hard watching Billy touch himself everywhere that Joe had roughed up while he ravished him the night before.

And when Joe turned back around, cock under control (somewhat), Billy would have that smug smile on his face, the one only Joe could read.

Half the time, if anyone heard them fucking around together, it probably sounded like they were fighting. This suited Billy fine; their brawling was a known quantity, anyway, since it happened sometimes onstage or in clubs after shows. It had taken Joe a while to figure out that half the time, the reason he wanted to pound Billy was because he didn’t have him – didn’t have enough of him.

But the brawling – well, Mulligan played it up, even warned bookers about it sometimes. Part of the legend, baby. So everyone bought into the bullshit, the clichéd creative conflict angle, whatever.

The only one who ever seemed to give it a second thought, or to give them a thoughtful look, was sometimes John. If he knew or guessed, he said nothing. He just looked at Joe with that impassive expression that was sometimes sociopathically calm and other times wise beyond his years.

Everything had to be boiled down to simplicity for people to understand, didn’t it? Everything had to be pigeon-holed, given a handle so people could pick it up, look at it, think they understood, and then toss it down in search of the next topic or toy. And Billy wasn’t okay with people knowing the truth. So Joe let everyone think his and Billy’s only physical contact consisted of drunken affection between band members, and spats or brawls.

It seemed hypocritical, but then Joe lied constantly, all the time, about anything, for any reason, regardless of – and in ways unrelated to – Billy. Just because he could; just because it was fun; just because he liked to spread disinformation. Joe enjoyed the perverse paradox of never living up to stories he told and statements he made about himself on a regular basis. He sure as hell wasn’t going to rat Billy out for doing essentially the same thing.

Besides, Billy was his to protect or pound. No one else was allowed the privilege. Anyway, it was mostly pawing, not pounding. Except the good kind of pounding.

Had Billy not cared, Joe would neither have gone around telling everyone about him and Billy, nor denied it if asked directly. It was what it was. Last year, last month, now, next month, next year. Undefined, unforgettable, unfinished.

He exhaled into Billy’s shoulder now, thinking how cheerfully and smoothly Billy would slip out of his arms if Billy were awake. Billy got that smirk on his face after a night with Joe, a spring in his step – that always took him swiftly away from Joe. Pissed Joe off, how easily Billy let go. Joe would have bet money that the letting go, the sliding out of his grasp, was the part that made Billy happiest.

Somehow, though Billy constantly provoked Joe to take him (and gave it up so good after only token resistance), he was never as happy being possessed as he was slipping away. Joe eventually realized it was the escape that made it good for Billy.

So Billy held himself back, held himself away, at arm’s length, just out of reach… until Joe over-reached. Or worse, until Joe’s genuine affection, partly permitted but mostly muzzled by the public façade painted over it, mixed with Billy’s coolness into a cocktail that filled Joe like a cup with a hole in it.

Got to a point where Joe had to hustle Billy off, away from the band and the girls and the booze and just take the FSF.

Besides: if it’s escape that drives your bus, then you’ve got to be caught, right? You can’t escape if you’re not a captive.

Again and again.

It was the catching and possessing that made it good for Joe.

The flipside: you can’t take something if it’s already yours. The joy of coveting, of hunting, of choosing your moment, then taking it – that all stops once it’s yours and it stays that way.

And the harder it is to get, the more pleasurable the possessing.

Joe reran them in his mind sometimes, when Billy stared at him across a table, across the van, where ever. Joe would remember each time he took Billy, boring a hole in Billy with his eyes from across the room. Remembered smells of sweat and spunk, or the tiny floor tiles pressing patterns into Joe’s knees, or Billy’s hips slipping in his sweaty hands as he tried to hold them, the two of them biting their tongues and lips to smother their gasps and moans in a grimy backstage bathroom.

Like a butterfly collector, Joe had mentally pinned down and preserved every capture of Billy (those he could remember outside alcoholic blackouts) – but without the killing jar. (Maybe occasionally with a little damage, but nothing that broke Billy’s wings, not ever. Sometimes remembering led to brooding, for Joe. But mostly it led to wicked what-I’m-gonna-do-to-you-next thinking and grinning.)

Which was probably why, holding Billy’s wiry body to him, Joe sensed the inevitable big flight. He didn’t know when – might be weeks, months, or years ahead. But he knew that one of these days, Billy would really escape. He’d always been a cagey motherfucker. Not happy in now.

For Joe, now was all there was.

So now, in the four AM darkness, Joe slowly and inexorably pulled Billy tighter to him, in a grasp that started out gentle and ended up python-like. He would take what he could get, when he could get it. To hell with the arm that fell asleep under Billy. He drowsily curved his half-stiff cock against the bare ass of his best friend. But hardest of all he pressed his chest against Billy’s back, and hung on tightly.

~ ~ ~

Billy didn’t know what woke him up. Could have been a sound outside. Or maybe Joe snored or twitched. Billy was generally a light sleeper. Now he came to himself, tucked tightly half under Joe.

Warm, was what it was, with Joe wrapped around him. Joe was heavy and his leg was dead weight on Billy’s and Joe’s breath was on Billy’s collarbone and it was all right and all good and what a fuckin’ dink.

Joe, fucker that he was, was cool as cucumber – to a point. And then, behind closed doors, Joe shamelessly burned his way through the cool and crashed into Billy, hard. Then it was getting head, and jacking off, and giving head, and fucking – the whole FSF thing only they knew about. Maybe some aggressive punches thrown and bullshit wrestling with each other. Joe was a brawler; learned it at home; Billy knew that.

Joe was like one of those cats that bit you, hard, when it really, really liked the way you were petting it. Or when it was just plain fuckin’ time you paid it some serious attention, now.

But Joe’s physicality was mostly symbolic, the dominance display in a tight wolf pack: no one was ever killed or permanently damaged. There was just enough force to get everyone back in their rightful place.

Like Billy’s. Under Joe.

Every time it happened, whether it started with pounding or pawing, Billy couldn’t understand why Joe held himself back for so long while Billy waited and waited and waited for Joe to grab him away from the band, away from the crowd, off alone. Motel room (locked and latched), back of the van (when Billy and Joe had the only keys on them), bathroom stall (also for doing drugs: plausible deniability) – didn’t matter where it finally happened. The intensity of Joe as he launched himself at Billy, or threw Billy down on the floor, or shoved him hard up against a wall or stall door, was like a roller coaster. Literally. First exciting, then scary, then exhilarating. When it’s over, you want to ride again. Right away.

All Billy cared about was that it stayed just between him and Joe… and that it happen already, for chrissakes.

But what a bitch. Joe looked at Billy with those eyes, constantly watched Billy, followed Billy around the room with those eyes, no matter who Joe was bullshitting or talking to or putting the moves on…

And sat back. And did nothing.

The fuck?

It had become kind of a game: How to provoke Joe. Billy had figured out by now that enough evenings in a row of Joe following him with his eyes as Billy dragged some groupie girl around (or, better yet, was pawed by her, repeatedly, and sluttily) would turn up the flame under Joe’s slow burn. Even if Joe himself was feeling on or kissing some girl, he‘d watch Billy around or over a girl’s head, the way you’d watch porn while fucking someone.

Might take a while – might take a lot more of the same – but eventually Joe would get around to it. Fuckin’ dink. Billy would’ve talked about it with Joe, except they

Rarely. Talked. About. That.

Which was okay, mostly. Words weren’t necessary. Actually, it was usually better when they didn’t speak – except in the moment. Talk could be trouble – mostly about the band, its future, plans. Joe was agreeable to everything, and active or proactive about nothing. Except selling T-shirts.

Frustrating as hell. Billy often wondered: would he have to do everything? Find better management? Get better bookings? Fuck, the self-appointed leader of the band wasn’t doing it, that’s for sure. Once, to placate Billy, Joe said something about getting Ed Festus. Then never mentioned it again.

So: better when they didn’t talk, when their mouths were occupied with other things.

Like cock.

Or even thumbs.

Groupies long gone, they’d shared a few joints (Joe was aggressive on liquor, but languid on pot) and were half-heartedly pawing each other on the bed still in their clothes. And then Joe undid Billy’s jeans and Billy expected Joe to whip it out and start jacking it or sucking it, but Joe didn’t.

Joe undid his own jeans. And then he took himself out and started jacking. And just watched Billy. Watched Billy do nothing. Looked Billy right in the eye and jacked himself off.

Watching Joe jack off while he watched Billy, got Billy hard – like, immediately. Or maybe it was just simply Joe jacking off, period. So then Billy had to take his out and jack off, too.

Since it seemed like they were just gonna jack themselves off and watch each other – slightly disappointing on the one hand, and kind of fuckin’ hot on the other hand – Billy started to get into it.

He stopped watching Joe watch him, stopped watching Joe jack off, and started looking down at his own cock. Closed his eyes and really got into it. For some reason, even with his eyes closed, knowing Joe was watching him and that both of them could feel the bed shake with their combined masturbation efforts was fucking erotic as hell.

Then there was a touch on his cheek, a rough stroke, and Billy opened his eyes. Joe was still watching him, but Joe’s left hand stroked Billy’s cheek while they both lay on their sides facing each other and jacked off in the small space between their clothed bodies. Then he reached across and took Billy’s left hand and put it on his face. Finally, Joe spread Billy’s fingers apart and put Billy’s thumb up to his lips.

He sucked Billy’s thumb tightly and securely into his mouth. And Joe worked it, the fucker, worked it and sucked it and stroked it with his tongue as if it was Billy’s cock. Then Joe reached back to stroke Billy’s cheek and put his own thumb in Billy’s mouth.

It was like giving head, but not, and jacking off, but not. Billy sucked at Joe’s thumb, a seemingly pointless act (there’d be no come; it couldn’t possibly feel that good, although Joe sucking his thumb was kinda cool…).

But at the same time it was fucking hot, and they watched each other and glanced down at each other’s hammering hands on their own cocks. And sucked each other’s thumbs like hungry animals.

Somehow it was the thumb sucking that pushed Billy’s needle into red.

He felt himself coming and accidentally clamped his teeth down on Joe’s thumb as he began to spurt. Joe didn’t bite Billy, just held Billy’s thumb with his teeth and maintained a strong grip. He shifted his glance up to Billy’s face, sucked harder on Billy’s thumb through the grip of his teeth, and began to move rhythmically. They exploded on each other, Joe half a second – if that – behind Billy. He splashed come all over Billy’s belly and T-shirt and the bed between them, and Billy did the same to Joe.

But the entire time – while Billy looked down at his spurting cock, then at Joe’s, then squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again – Joe, as far as Billy could tell, did nothing but gaze at Billy’s face. Joe’s eyes narrowed, his brows lifted. The corners of his sucking mouth turned up as his muffled grunts came wetly around Billy’s thumb and his body jerked involuntarily. The rest of Joe’s fingers on the hand whose thumb Billy sucked curved possessively around Billy’s jaw, digging in slightly, jerking with each of Joe’s spurts. Joe’s unwavering focus on him made Billy’s face burn.

After they’d both wrung themselves out but good, squeezing the last stringy drops onto each other’s T-shirts, Joe rolled Billy over on his back, lay belly to belly on him, and took hold of Billy’s neck with his teeth. Then he switched from teeth to tongue and licked his way up to Billy’s mouth.

“Billiam,” was all he murmured in a short breath between kisses, grabbing Billy’s chin with his fingers to force Billy’s mouth open wider.

Billy didn’t mind Joe’s aggressiveness. It was only one side of a two-sided coin. As aggressive as Joe was, he was equally… dink… giving.

With practicing. With writing songs. Hugs, too. Not just Billy, but John and Pipe, too.

And, only for Billy, Joe was giving with head. Drunk, sober, high, tired, angry, wicked happy – Joe was giving, and amazing, with the head.

But more than that: Joe was giving with… the encouragement, the compliments on Billy’s playing and technique. They’d learned guitar together, but Billy’s talent was truly musical. Joe’s was more showmanship. And he knew it, and he was okay with it, and he never tried to pretend any different. Just bolstered all the good stuff that came out of Billy, egged on Billy’s thrash, demanded more from Billy and his guitars.

And Billy loved him for it.

Joe gave him confidence that they could conquer the world.

If they could just get better bookings. Bigger clubs.

Joe’s foot-dragging was so annoying. He wanted things to stay the same. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, Joe said occasionally when the trouble of talking pushed him beyond his tolerance and he was done. It ain’t broke, he’d say one last time. And get up and walk away.

It sure wasn’t broke, that was true. It was great that Joe knew he was the best guitarist. That most of Vancouver did, too. But Billy wanted to show the rest of the world. Not for nothing had he started out on piano or been in band as a kid.

(And endured being called a fag for it, which was really ironic, in two ways. One, now he could have any chick in the audience after a show, and almost constantly did – thanks to “faggy” band practice. And two, he did suck dick now, but only Joe’s – not like he was a major ass-ranger. Who knew faggy musical talents could get you so much tail?

Besides, Billy’d like to see some of the pricks he’d gone to school with – wanted to see them in a club after he’d just done a gig and burned up the stage. Probably all pathetic losers now, ball-and-chained with wives and brats and a rat race that Billy never even considered as a remote possibility after the first time he picked up a guitar.)

Billy had figured out how life worked, the best way to survive. He’d learned it from his father when the second girl who’d had a major thing for him suddenly started snubbing him… like the first one had.

He hadn’t exactly revealed his crushing disappointment and humiliation to his dad. Just asked how you got back a girl who had liked you before, and who had suddenly stopped liking you, for no apparent reason.

And his father had said, “Hang on tightly. Let go lightly.”

Typically cryptic, and not highly helpful. When pressed, his father never explained it, just said, “Think about it” and went back to changing the oil.

So Billy thought about it. First: hang on tightly. The first step. Hang on tightly seemed to mean hang on the girl, hang all over her, touch her, hug her, get everything you could off her.

Then, let go lightly. The second part. Step away, walk away, be cool, as if suddenly you couldn’t care less if you were with her or not.

And it worked.

In order to get a girl to like you and want you and not leave, you had to give her a first dose of a lot of you… and then take yourself away (no matter how hard that might be).

It was like addiction: feed it first, then it feeds itself.

But as Billy grew up, he realized it worked for more than just women. It worked on the world. It worked on stage.

Give them what they want… but only in short, intense, measured doses. Then split.

And they loved you.

Strangest of all, he’d discovered that hang on tightly, let go lightly worked on Joe.

Joe was still a solid, warm animal wrapped around Billy. And it was all good…

Except Billy wanted more. More of Joe. More Joe on him, around him, in him.

He pushed back slightly into the warmth of Joe, then began sliding sideways out of Joe’s grasp.

Let go lightly.

Like while Joe was sleeping.

Except just as Billy was slipping out from under Joe’s heavy arm and leg, he felt something change subtly behind him.

It wasn’t so much that Joe moved, as that suddenly Joe was there. His breathing wasn’t any different, but Billy felt Joe wake up.

And Joe’s grasp tightened.

“Where ya goin’?” Joe’s smoke and sleep clogged voice rasped. He coughed and cleared his throat. And tightened his grasp, pulled Billy back against him. “Don’t think so.”

Joe rolled both of them fully over on their stomachs, to lay on top of Billy’s back. He held Billy’s wrists, not painfully, just put his hands on top of Billy’s wrists and settled himself on top of Billy, pushing Billy down into the mattress.

And pressed his cock against one of Billy’s buttocks while biting his shoulder.

“Joe…”

Hang on tightly. Let go lightly.

Good old predictable Joe nuzzled the back of Billy’s neck, now, hot breath and murmurs making the hair stand up on his arms…

“FSF, Billiam. One F and one S down. One F to go.”

Billy smiled to himself in the dark.

For stormymouse

2006-04-19T01:06:18Z

Title: Picket Fence
Recipient: stormymouse
Author: lilac_one
Pairing: Joe/Billy
Notes: Extreme thanks to brooklinegirl for fixing the flow, POV, and the explicit stuff, and to strangecobwebs for noticing the amazing reappearing shirt, errant nouns and pronouns, and general good-betatudeness.

Picket Fence

Billy whacked Joe on the back of the head with the rolled-up newspaper. “You do understand we need an actual place to live, and not a crack den, right, assface?”

Joe flicked him on the ear. “Don’t be such a dick. It’s not my fault we can’t afford anything but a shit hole. Now get in the car. We got one more stop to make.”

With a last disgusted glance at the decrepit building with the For Rent sign in front of it, Billy followed Joe to the car.

“We’re just lucky no one stole the car,” Billy said, looking at the surrounding buildings with distaste.

Joe snorted. “Yeah, well, that’s the advantage of driving a car that looks like it’s a pile of scrap metal.”

"So where is this place?" Billy asked as they pulled away from the curb.

Joe said, "We'll be there in five."

"Let me see the ad."

"There isn't one."

"What the fuck? We just going to find something that looks good and throw whoever lives there out on their asses?" Billy said. He knew he shouldn't have left the apartment hunting to Joe. He wasn't exactly Mr. Reliable.

Joe laughed. "No, Tim from the yard? His uncle has a house he rents, and the people who live there now are moving out next week. The neighborhood isn't so good –"

"Can't be worse than this one," said Billy with a laugh, not a little relieved that Joe actually had a plan.

"True. Anyhow, he doesn't want the place empty, so he might give us a deal."

"Fine. Can't you salvage a cassette player from some piece of crap at the yard? Or a working radio?" Billy griped.

"Oh, Princess, you should just be grateful this thing moves. And here we are."

Joe pulled over and parked in front of a small, boxy house, the weedy front yard enclosed by a dilapidated wooden fence. "Ta-da."

"Looks better than the last place," Billy conceded.

They got out of the car and went up the walk. Joe knocked on the door, some peeling paint falling on the stoop in the process.

"Nice," said Billy wryly.

A small woman opened the door as far as the chain across it would let it. "Yes?"

"Mr. Kolzig sent us. To look at the place," Joe said politely.

The door closed and they could hear the chain being removed. The door opened all the way. "Please wipe your feet," the woman said.

Billy made a face at Joe, then they wiped their feet and went in. As houses went, it wasn't much, just a big room on the left with a kitchen area at the back, and two bedrooms and a bathroom on the right. It was shabby, but impeccably clean.

Under the woman's glare, they quietly walked around. Out the back they could see a tiny yard and a garage that opened onto an alley. A garage, Billy thought, that would make a perfect rehearsal space for the band. So Joe had managed to pull yet another one out of his ass. Billy couldn't decide if he was surprised or not.

"Okay, great. Thank you very much, ma'am," he said. "We'll just be going now."

Once the door closed after them, Billy said, "Okay, talk to Tim's uncle."

"Told you we'd find something good," Joe smirked.

"Save the gloating til we actually know we got the place, okay?" Billy said and smacked Joe on the ass.

~*~

Billy pulled his duffel and guitar case out of the back seat of Joe's car and closed the door. He leaned up against it to wait for Joe, who came around to his side a moment later. Joe dropped the garbage bags with his stuff in them on the sidewalk and leaned next to Billy. "What are we looking at?"

"Nice house," Billy said with a grin. It was so fucking good to be out of his parents' basement.

Joe laughed and picked up his bags. "Yeah, we even got a fucking white picket fence," he said as he walked away.

Billy muttered, "Black would be more our style."

~*~

Billy peeled down to his undershirt after he got off the bus, hoping to cool down some on the walk home. The lumberyard had been really busy, and he'd spent most of his day outside loading construction materials into customers' trucks. The bus ride home, even with all the windows open, wasn't much cooler. He'd been asking Joe to start looking for a motorcycle at the junkyard that could be fixed up enough to get Billy back and forth to work, but the fucker hadn't really tried yet. He'd have to remind him again when he got home. He rounded the corner and saw Joe in their yard crouched down in front of the fence.

"Dick!" Billy called.

Joe stood up as Billy came into their yard. He was holding a paint brush in one hand and a beer in the other. "Honey, you're home. Tough day at the office? Have a drink."

Billy took the can and drank half of it at once. "Since when did you decide to become a happy homemaker? Don't I get a kiss and massage, too?"

"Fuck you," Joe said, but it didn't stop him from grabbing Billy by the back of his neck and pulling him in for a bruising kiss, shoving his tongue into Billy's mouth so Billy could taste beer and cigarettes. Jesus, they were in their fucking front yard, but damn, Joe could kiss, and Billy was fucking tired. He couldn't be bothered to shove Joe off until he was already pulling away.

Joe released him, asking, "Better now?" He didn't wait for an answer. "What you need to do is to finish your beer and help me out here."

While Billy swallowed the rest of his beer, Joe lit a cigarette and stared; Billy could practically feel Joe's gaze on his throat as he drank. His dick definitely noticed, not that Joe needed to know that.

He tossed his empty on the ground by the two that were already there and took Joe's cigarette out of his mouth. "You kiss me out here again and our neighbors are going to think we're a couple of fags."

Joe shrugged. "Then they'll be fucking wrong. Who cares about them anyway? No one's even out here."

"Whatever." He blew smoke in Joe's face. "So what the fuck are you doing anyway?"

Joe smiled at him like he was an idiot. "Well, Mr. Boisy, I have a paint brush in one hand," he shook the brush a little, spattering paint on Billy's shirt, "a can of paint at my feet, and fence next to me that has wet paint on it."

Joe could be such a dick sometimes. "No shit, Sherlock. I meant why are you painting the fence. Dick."

"That's my name, don't wear it out."

And he was also twelve much of the time. Billy sighed. "Just answer the question."

"I'm painting the fence because someone dropped off a whole bunch of paint today at the junkyard, and some of it was black. And black really is way more our style, so…painting." Joe made little brushing motions in the air, sending new droplets of black over Billy's arms and shirt.

"You're ruining my shirt," Billy said, looking down in exasperation at the flecks of paint dotting his front.

Joe grinned. "Am not. That thing's so filthy you can't even tell."

Billy looked down again and had to admit that Joe was right. Sawdust and dirt were stuck to the sweat on his arms and stained his shirt and pants.

"Just give me a brush, okay?" he said, holding open his hand.

Joe slapped the wet bristles into it. "Here you go. Now get to work." He squatted back down in front of the fence, picked up a second brush, and started painting again.

Two could play that game. Billy switched the brush to his other hand and sat down next to Joe. Then he wiped his paint-covered hand off on Joe's ass, leaving a nice design across the seat of Joe's pants.

Joe tried to sit on Billy's hand but Billy pulled away before Joe could. Billy leaned on Joe and stretched across him to dip his own brush into the paint and let Joe get a good whiff of him. If he wasn't listening for it, he would have missed the little hitch in Joe's breathing.

Joe leaned back on his hands. "You planning on moving anytime soon? Because if you want to sit on my lap, I'm sure we could arrange something."

"Almost done," Billy said innocently, wiping the excess paint off on the edge of the can. He let a few drops fall on Joe's pants as he straightened up.

They worked in silence for a while, each accidentally dribbling paint on each other whenever they could. Billy may possibly have reached over Joe more than was strictly necessary to grab another beer, snag the cigarette lighter, or touch up a spot Joe missed, but Joe didn't call him on it, so Billy figured that gave him license to keep it up.

And speaking of up, from Billy's position, Joe's cock sure seemed to be enjoying the whole experience, since it was standing up as much as it could within the confines of Joe's army surplus pants. Billy pretended not to notice.

Joe wasn't exactly playing fair either, painting with the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips like it always did when he was concentrating. Or when he wanted to yank Billy's chain. And the way he was smoking his cigarettes was downright obscene.

By the time they'd worked their way to the back yard, the beer was gone and they were down to the last cigarette. Billy stuck it in his mouth and lay down on his side in the grass in the shade of the fence. Joe flopped down facing him and flicked the lighter. "I know you're planning on sharing."

Billy leaned towards him and let Joe find the end of the cigarette with the flame. He sucked in to get to it to light. Their faces were close, almost too close to focus. Billy stared at a black smudge on Joe's cheek while he inhaled a lungful of smoke. "Sure," he said, releasing the smoke out of the side of his mouth. Joe reached for the cigarette, but Billy shook his head and leaned away as he took another drag. He didn't inhale this time, instead cupping Joe's neck and pulling him close. Joe let their mouths meet, Billy blowing the smoke into Joe's mouth, Joe exhaling out his nose as the exchange turned into a tangle of tongues and lips.

Billy pulled away to take another hit off the cigarette. He leaned toward Joe after sucking in another mouthful of smoke. When Joe leaned forward, Billy grabbed Joe's head, sealed his mouth over Joe's nose, and forced the smoke it. Billy knew it hurt; Joe'd taught him that.

"Fucker!" Joe launched himself at Billy. They rolled around, throwing paint at each other. Joe almost pinned Billy face down in the dirt, but working at the lumber yard had had the unexpected benefit of making Billy strong. When they finally came to a stop, Billy used his whole body to pin Joe and hold his arms above his head.

Billy wiggled around a bit, just to Joe make squirm. It felt damn good, almost too good. Billy made it a rule then that he was too fucking old to cream his pants humping Joe in the yard in broad daylight, even if they were pretty much out of sight. Joe would really hate it, too.

So Billy shifted his weight onto his pelvis and dragged himself up until he straddled Joe. Joe's expression didn't change, but Billy heard Joe's breath hitch. Then Billy ground his ass down onto Joe's cock.

"You suck," Joe hissed, his hips jerking up.

"Not today," Billy smirked, rocking his own hips ever so slightly back and forth.

Joe bucked up to try to knock Billy off him, which Billy thought was kind of stupid, considering he was expecting it. He just pressed his hands onto Joe's shoulders, so all it did was increase the friction between them. Joe was definitely not thinking so clearly.

Billy was pretty sure he was gonna pay for it later, but it was just too good to pass up. He lifted up just enough that he could sit down hard against Joe's dick. Joe let out a low groan and gave up fighting. Panting and flushed, he thrust up again and again against Billy. Billy figured he at least owed it to Joe to make it good, so he let go of Joe's shoulders to tweak his nipples through the thin cotton of his tee shirt. When he leaned down and bit Joe's neck, he felt Joe lose rhythm as his cock pulsed out his release.

Watching Joe come was fucking hot, but Billy wasn't going to break his own rule only ten minutes after he made it, no matter how bad he wanted to. He rolled off Joe and stood.

Joe looked up at him, satiated and annoyed at the same time, before sitting up and grabbing the mangled remains of the cigarette. "Look what you did. It was the last one, man," he said, exactly like he hadn't just come in his pants.

Billy shook his head. "Relax. I have more in the house." He held out a hand to Joe and pulled him to his feet.

Joe plucked at the front of his pants and made a face. "Ew. I can't believe you did that to me. That's not buddies. And there are no more smokes in the house. I already got the ones from your guitar case, and that was the last one from your box of records."

"You don't know all my secrets. C'mon in the house." Billy grabbed Joe's hand and pulled him to his feet.

Joe pushed past Billy and went around to the back door, Billy following. Joe took two steps into the kitchen, kicked off his shoes and dropped his pants. He wasn't wearing underwear. Then he bent over to step out of his pants, and if that wasn't an invitation, Joe-style, then Billy would never play guitar again.

He grabbed Joe by the hips, and rubbed his aching dick into Joe's cleft. Joe pushed back into a little and stood, his pants still around one ankle. Billy pressed himself into Joe's back, wrapping one arm around Joe's waist to pull him flush and undoing his own pants and pulling his dick out of them with his other hand. "I'm gonna fuck you and then I'll get you an entire carton of cigarettes," he whispered in Joe's ear as he shuffled them forward until Joe was braced against the fridge.

He was never so grateful for Joe insisting that the band's reputation depended on having lube handy in every room. "Hurry, hurry," he mumbled into Joe's neck, his dick poking at Joe's hole as Joe fumbled open the drawer next to the fridge and found the bottle of lube. Joe flipped it open, yanked Billy's hand up and squeezed some into it, whispering, "Just do it, fucker."

Billy slicked himself up, grasped Joe's hip with one hand, and guided his cock into Joe's ass with other. Joe locked his arms against the fridge and tilted his ass up. Chanting, "Do it, do it, do it," he pushed back, forcing Billy all the way in faster than he would have on his own, but it was exactly what he fucking needed. He pulled out and pushed back in, gripping Joe so hard there were probably going to be marks.

He slammed into Joe with a grunt. Joe made an answering noise that made Billy drive into him even harder. Billy reached around to grab Joe's hard-on with his slicked-up hand, and began jerking him off. Joe was really moving now, pushing back to meet Billy's thrusts, then forward into his fist. They were both panting, their harsh breathing punctuated by the slap of skin against skin.

Billy inhaled Joe's scent at the back of his neck; one last time he plunged into the slick tight heat of Joe's ass and then he was coming and coming and coming.

He slumped forward onto Joe's back, but Joe ignored him. "Don't you leave me hanging," Joe hissed, wrapping his own hand over Billy's on his dick, forcing their hands tight, tight around him, moving them rough and fast and desperate.

"Fuckin' A," Billy whispered in Joe's ear, wiping his sweaty forehead across Joe's hair.

"Fuckin' A," Joe agreed in a moan and came all over the fridge.

~*~

"Pipe, get us beer," Joe ordered later that night when they were crashed out around the living room after rehearsal.

Pipe knew better than to complain; he got up and went to the kitchen area. "Hey, you got some kind of weird-ass black mold growing on your fridge."

"It's not mold, you felcher. It's paint."

"How'd it get on the fridge? Isn't mold usually in the fridge?" John said curiously.

Billy looked at Joe and smirked, daring him to answer. "Yeah, Joe, how'd we wind up with paint on our fridge?"

"We had wet paint on our clothes, and Billy fucked me up against the fridge while were still wearing them," answered Joe.

John rolled his eyes, "Seriously, man, that's the worst story ever."

"Truly." Pipe handed them each a beer and said, "We need some music."

John followed him to the stereo.

Joe just grinned at Billy and shrugged. "Fine, don't believe me, fuckers."

Billy flashed him a slow lazy smile back and tossed him a pack of cigarettes.