The Grind (Prompt 17, HCL, Joe/Billy)
The Grind
Joe/Billy, R, 324 words
Joe spent every night with thousands of people. Screaming and singing and he was never, ever alone. He didn't even have his own place - just the van and the band and miles of road stretching out ahead of them. And he fucking had Billy, through all of that. Billy on stage, singing and playing his guitar like a fucking god, Billy in the van or the diner, smoking or laughing. Billy in bed, quiet and serious, leaning into Joe's touch, opening up under his hands.
One day, Billy fucked off to California, and Billy would say that Joe shouldn't have been so goddamn surprised and should have seen it coming, but he was. He was fucking shocked as hell, and everything fucking fell apart after that - Pipe and John fucking off too, so that there was no more band, no nothing.
Joe got an apartment - a piece of shit dive basement apartment in a shitty neighborhood in Van - and got a job doing whatever when he needed to, but mostly smoked and drank and got high by himself.
If this was what lonely felt like, it fucking sucked.
Joe tried to call Billy a few times, in those first fucked-up, hazy months where he lost days at a time and woke up face down on his bare mattress, his head ready to fucking explode, but Billy never answered, and he never returned calls, and in the end, Joe just fucking gave up. The cuntface could go fuck himself, for all Joe cared. He knew that Billy would be back, because Billy was a bitch, and he was probably lonely as hell too. They'd been Joe-and-Billy for too long. Them against the world. He'd fucking wait, and Billy would come back. They'd all come back. He was as fucking sure of it as he was sure of punk rock and shitty diner food and the grind of the road.
My prompt table
Joe/Billy, R, 324 words
Joe spent every night with thousands of people. Screaming and singing and he was never, ever alone. He didn't even have his own place - just the van and the band and miles of road stretching out ahead of them. And he fucking had Billy, through all of that. Billy on stage, singing and playing his guitar like a fucking god, Billy in the van or the diner, smoking or laughing. Billy in bed, quiet and serious, leaning into Joe's touch, opening up under his hands.
One day, Billy fucked off to California, and Billy would say that Joe shouldn't have been so goddamn surprised and should have seen it coming, but he was. He was fucking shocked as hell, and everything fucking fell apart after that - Pipe and John fucking off too, so that there was no more band, no nothing.
Joe got an apartment - a piece of shit dive basement apartment in a shitty neighborhood in Van - and got a job doing whatever when he needed to, but mostly smoked and drank and got high by himself.
If this was what lonely felt like, it fucking sucked.
Joe tried to call Billy a few times, in those first fucked-up, hazy months where he lost days at a time and woke up face down on his bare mattress, his head ready to fucking explode, but Billy never answered, and he never returned calls, and in the end, Joe just fucking gave up. The cuntface could go fuck himself, for all Joe cared. He knew that Billy would be back, because Billy was a bitch, and he was probably lonely as hell too. They'd been Joe-and-Billy for too long. Them against the world. He'd fucking wait, and Billy would come back. They'd all come back. He was as fucking sure of it as he was sure of punk rock and shitty diner food and the grind of the road.
My prompt table