Jo's No Good, Very Bad Year 3/7
Neither of them could have guessed that one night would be such a mistake. This is, objectively, because Jo Halbig and David Schlichter are emotional idiots.
The only joy Jo takes from anything anymore is being onstage. Their fans have dwindled over the years and there have been too many times when sharing the stage was the only way they could get enough tickets sold, but Jo performs every show like it’s sold-out and they’re headlining. He plays with all the emotion he has, sings like the microphone’s his lover, and jumps like a madman, all to amuse what fans there are.
There’s a high you get from playing, the shaky pre-concert jitters morphing into a glorious adrenaline rush as dozens, sometimes hundreds of eyes watch you do what you love. Jo can feel that he’s overextending himself sometimes, but he gets a drink and he stops caring.
Jo’s nights are filled with shitty clubs where the smell of smoke, spilled beer, human sweat, and vomit mix to form an unpleasant but addictive stench. The music is pounding, filling his chest and making his feet throb. He can’t hear anything any of the other clubgoers say, not that he cares. He comes to dance and to forget, to push himself farther and farther until the club’s closed and he’s stumbling home with the beginnings of a wicked hangover, already remembering the problems he was trying to escape.
Three or hours of sleep before he’s up again, exhausted and uncaring, to start another unhappy day. He’ll drag himself out of bed, throw back energy drinks until he can open his eyes all the way, and day dream about being on stage again.
Sleep is for the weak. Sleep is something he can do when he wants to be awake again.
ØØØ
There’s no point in wasting good smoke, not even when their friendship has turned rocky as anything, and they both know it. The band can’t afford for them to make their issues public, and Fabi’s only so inattentive. They have to pretend they’re okay.
So, when Mäx lights a hand-rolled joint and takes a drag, Jo leans forward to accept the mouthful of smoke. He sucks it in from between Mäx’s parted lips, holds the smoke for a minute, just enough for his eyes to water, then blows it out.
They do this again and again, Jo’s lips burning when they touch Mäx’s. It isn’t a kiss, he reminds himself, isn’t anything like one. Still. It feels nice. More than nice. It feels amazing.
Mäx is leaning against him. The guitarist stays there for a few seconds before realizing his mistake and shifting away. Jo tries not to feel devastated.
He can’t stand it, this anger and fighting, and not being able to touch Mäx whenever he wants. Oh, God, he just wants to be able to feel the way Mäx’s body fits against his again. There’s something infinitely exciting about Mäx’s body, the way it looks against Jo’s. Those curls, the way they’re sometimes little ringlets, sometimes just fluff. That mouth with its expressive, almost pretty, diamond shape. That extra weight Mäx carries, that solidness that makes Jo want him that much more. So many things about Mäx make Jo want him, make touching him deliciously unbearable.
Like now, they’re supposed to be mad at each other, but, for whatever reason, Mäx forgets at least once every other day and leans up against Jo the way he always does or claps a hand to his shoulder or squeezes Jo’s waist as he slips back. Jo would never have noticed before but, now that it’s a break from routine, it leaves him more than a little hot and flustered. He’s hyperaware of Mäx now, never sure whether the guy’s going to be deliberately ignoring him or pressed against Jo’s side like he’s been doing for years. It’s fucking with Jo’s already fucked-up emotional state.
So maybe he jacks off sometimes, and maybe he thinks about Mäx when he does. And maybe, just maybe, he feels a little better afterwards. It’s one of those things Jo can’t really tell anyone about, not that he could ever tell anyone about it, and that’s more than a bit strange.
Lately, Jo hasn’t been telling anyone much of anything. David’s not really interested in listening, and Fabi’s never around. Mäx is out of the question, as are most of Jo’s other friends. Because, really, who do you say, “I sail the mayonnaise seas while thinking about my straight, male best friend” to without also telling people, “hey, I think I’m a little bit gay”. Jo would rather avoid more awkwardness.
This means he doesn’t tell Mäx that he hasn’t so much as sucked face with David in three weeks. He kind of thinks David’s something he should never, ever talk to Mäx about, especially after the last time they sort of, maybe, not really talked about David and him. So Jo doesn’t, and it seems to be working out great. Kind of like not telling Mäx the other thoughts he has spinning in his head. There’s not a lot of up you can go from being fuckbuddies with the friend-you’ve-wanted-to-get-with-since-forever’s little brother.
ØØØ
“Who is he?” Jo asks David one day. He’s sitting with one knee up, the other leg outstretched, his arms in some sort of pose that he didn’t plan to do, just sort of fell into. They’re lounging on the blacktop of a ratty, old park’s basketball court, the only place they could find any privacy before the concert. Jo hasn’t been approached by anyone. He’s choosing to take it as a sign of his prowess at finding remote places and not a pretty clear signal that no one gives a shit about Killerpilze in this town. Austria never gave them their best crowds, anyway.
“Who is who?” David shoots back, yanking a scraggly piece of grass from the cracked cement. He places it between both hands and puts it to his lips, blowing out a sound rather like a kazoo.
“Just because we’re fucking doesn’t mean you have to be a douche.”
“That makes no sense.” David flicks his eyes to Jo. He looks so much like Mäx when he does that, it hurts. “And no one.”
“It’s not no one. You said you let me use you. There has to be someone.”
“Why’s it gotta be a guy?”
Jo looks at him, then gestures downwards, between them.
“Point,” David concedes, lighting one of the cigarettes he always has on him. “You’re useful. You’re a friend.” Jo scoffs. “You are. A shitty one.” He grins at Jo’s scowl. They are so alike, he and his brother. “You’re good-looking, a good kisser, fun to talk to…don’t sell yourself short, Jo.”
“So it’s someone I know.” Jo smiles. If there is one thing he can do, it’s read between the lines. Jo doesn’t like bullshit, unless he’s the one giving it.
“You really are twelve years old, aren’t you? Come on. If we don’t head back now, we’ll be late.”
ØØØ
They get back, and Jo can’t meet Mäx’s eyes. He adjusts the strap on his guitar, plays a few chords, and decides he’s fine until they have to go on. He’s really not, but he would like to get away from Mäx and his accusing eyes as soon as possible.
Too bad Mäx’s eyes, shimmering with something that looks all too much like undisguised hatred, are focused directly at him when he looks up. Jo freezes, wondering if he should say something. Mäx angry is something so foreign to him that he doesn’t know how to react. So he stares back.
Thankfully, they’re not the only ones with issues.
“I’ve fucking got it, all right?!”
Jo and Mäx break their staring contest at the angry words. Even Fabi looks up curiously at Benni’s outburst.
“I was just trying to-” David starts.
“I don’t need your help,” Benni, usually incredibly mild-mannered, snarls, wrenching his case away from David’s hands. He stomps off.
“What was that about?” Jo asks. Mäx seems to be debating between studiously ignoring his brother and the welfare of his band.
“Nothing,” David says, jaw tight. He turns on his heel and walks off in the other direction, leaving the other three more confused than before.
“What was that about?” Fabi asks.
Jo feels suspiciously like he should know. But he doesn’t, so he lets it go.
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The only joy Jo takes from anything anymore is being onstage. Their fans have dwindled over the years and there have been too many times when sharing the stage was the only way they could get enough tickets sold, but Jo performs every show like it’s sold-out and they’re headlining. He plays with all the emotion he has, sings like the microphone’s his lover, and jumps like a madman, all to amuse what fans there are.
There’s a high you get from playing, the shaky pre-concert jitters morphing into a glorious adrenaline rush as dozens, sometimes hundreds of eyes watch you do what you love. Jo can feel that he’s overextending himself sometimes, but he gets a drink and he stops caring.
Jo’s nights are filled with shitty clubs where the smell of smoke, spilled beer, human sweat, and vomit mix to form an unpleasant but addictive stench. The music is pounding, filling his chest and making his feet throb. He can’t hear anything any of the other clubgoers say, not that he cares. He comes to dance and to forget, to push himself farther and farther until the club’s closed and he’s stumbling home with the beginnings of a wicked hangover, already remembering the problems he was trying to escape.
Three or hours of sleep before he’s up again, exhausted and uncaring, to start another unhappy day. He’ll drag himself out of bed, throw back energy drinks until he can open his eyes all the way, and day dream about being on stage again.
Sleep is for the weak. Sleep is something he can do when he wants to be awake again.
ØØØ
There’s no point in wasting good smoke, not even when their friendship has turned rocky as anything, and they both know it. The band can’t afford for them to make their issues public, and Fabi’s only so inattentive. They have to pretend they’re okay.
So, when Mäx lights a hand-rolled joint and takes a drag, Jo leans forward to accept the mouthful of smoke. He sucks it in from between Mäx’s parted lips, holds the smoke for a minute, just enough for his eyes to water, then blows it out.
They do this again and again, Jo’s lips burning when they touch Mäx’s. It isn’t a kiss, he reminds himself, isn’t anything like one. Still. It feels nice. More than nice. It feels amazing.
Mäx is leaning against him. The guitarist stays there for a few seconds before realizing his mistake and shifting away. Jo tries not to feel devastated.
He can’t stand it, this anger and fighting, and not being able to touch Mäx whenever he wants. Oh, God, he just wants to be able to feel the way Mäx’s body fits against his again. There’s something infinitely exciting about Mäx’s body, the way it looks against Jo’s. Those curls, the way they’re sometimes little ringlets, sometimes just fluff. That mouth with its expressive, almost pretty, diamond shape. That extra weight Mäx carries, that solidness that makes Jo want him that much more. So many things about Mäx make Jo want him, make touching him deliciously unbearable.
Like now, they’re supposed to be mad at each other, but, for whatever reason, Mäx forgets at least once every other day and leans up against Jo the way he always does or claps a hand to his shoulder or squeezes Jo’s waist as he slips back. Jo would never have noticed before but, now that it’s a break from routine, it leaves him more than a little hot and flustered. He’s hyperaware of Mäx now, never sure whether the guy’s going to be deliberately ignoring him or pressed against Jo’s side like he’s been doing for years. It’s fucking with Jo’s already fucked-up emotional state.
So maybe he jacks off sometimes, and maybe he thinks about Mäx when he does. And maybe, just maybe, he feels a little better afterwards. It’s one of those things Jo can’t really tell anyone about, not that he could ever tell anyone about it, and that’s more than a bit strange.
Lately, Jo hasn’t been telling anyone much of anything. David’s not really interested in listening, and Fabi’s never around. Mäx is out of the question, as are most of Jo’s other friends. Because, really, who do you say, “I sail the mayonnaise seas while thinking about my straight, male best friend” to without also telling people, “hey, I think I’m a little bit gay”. Jo would rather avoid more awkwardness.
This means he doesn’t tell Mäx that he hasn’t so much as sucked face with David in three weeks. He kind of thinks David’s something he should never, ever talk to Mäx about, especially after the last time they sort of, maybe, not really talked about David and him. So Jo doesn’t, and it seems to be working out great. Kind of like not telling Mäx the other thoughts he has spinning in his head. There’s not a lot of up you can go from being fuckbuddies with the friend-you’ve-wanted-to-get-with-since-forever’s little brother.
ØØØ
“Who is he?” Jo asks David one day. He’s sitting with one knee up, the other leg outstretched, his arms in some sort of pose that he didn’t plan to do, just sort of fell into. They’re lounging on the blacktop of a ratty, old park’s basketball court, the only place they could find any privacy before the concert. Jo hasn’t been approached by anyone. He’s choosing to take it as a sign of his prowess at finding remote places and not a pretty clear signal that no one gives a shit about Killerpilze in this town. Austria never gave them their best crowds, anyway.
“Who is who?” David shoots back, yanking a scraggly piece of grass from the cracked cement. He places it between both hands and puts it to his lips, blowing out a sound rather like a kazoo.
“Just because we’re fucking doesn’t mean you have to be a douche.”
“That makes no sense.” David flicks his eyes to Jo. He looks so much like Mäx when he does that, it hurts. “And no one.”
“It’s not no one. You said you let me use you. There has to be someone.”
“Why’s it gotta be a guy?”
Jo looks at him, then gestures downwards, between them.
“Point,” David concedes, lighting one of the cigarettes he always has on him. “You’re useful. You’re a friend.” Jo scoffs. “You are. A shitty one.” He grins at Jo’s scowl. They are so alike, he and his brother. “You’re good-looking, a good kisser, fun to talk to…don’t sell yourself short, Jo.”
“So it’s someone I know.” Jo smiles. If there is one thing he can do, it’s read between the lines. Jo doesn’t like bullshit, unless he’s the one giving it.
“You really are twelve years old, aren’t you? Come on. If we don’t head back now, we’ll be late.”
ØØØ
They get back, and Jo can’t meet Mäx’s eyes. He adjusts the strap on his guitar, plays a few chords, and decides he’s fine until they have to go on. He’s really not, but he would like to get away from Mäx and his accusing eyes as soon as possible.
Too bad Mäx’s eyes, shimmering with something that looks all too much like undisguised hatred, are focused directly at him when he looks up. Jo freezes, wondering if he should say something. Mäx angry is something so foreign to him that he doesn’t know how to react. So he stares back.
Thankfully, they’re not the only ones with issues.
“I’ve fucking got it, all right?!”
Jo and Mäx break their staring contest at the angry words. Even Fabi looks up curiously at Benni’s outburst.
“I was just trying to-” David starts.
“I don’t need your help,” Benni, usually incredibly mild-mannered, snarls, wrenching his case away from David’s hands. He stomps off.
“What was that about?” Jo asks. Mäx seems to be debating between studiously ignoring his brother and the welfare of his band.
“Nothing,” David says, jaw tight. He turns on his heel and walks off in the other direction, leaving the other three more confused than before.
“What was that about?” Fabi asks.
Jo feels suspiciously like he should know. But he doesn’t, so he lets it go.
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