Part 2 of lies meme HCL fic
So this is a continuation of my Hard Core Logo apocafic.
Author: llassah
Fandom:Hard Core Logo
Pairing: Joe/Billy
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1222 words
So it’s a tour. Billy’s holding a rifle, sitting in the front passenger seat, and Pipe’s wiring something that looks a little like a bomb, which is plugged into an amp, connected to some of the plastic explosives they found raiding the demolition firm in the back of the van. They had taken it in turns using the wrecking ball. The whole fucking city was their playground, their own personal cosmic fucking joke.
John…he’s researching. And says this isn’t the way it was meant to happen. Joe isn’t quite sure how much fucking difference this makes, but the dreams aren’t making him scream as much as before.
They drive through the night. Billy’s got a thermos, pours himself a coffee. Still that fucking mug. Joe reaches over and cups the back of his neck, keeps the other hand on the wheel. He fucking loves this van. Pipe’s written Valhalla on the side in black spray paint, it’s stick shift and third gear’s a complete bitch but it eats up the miles with a roaring purr and Jesus sits on the dashboard, and maybe not everything’s gone to shit. Fire ice, dragons and wolves, maybe, but not shit.
“Joey Ramone, make him sing ‘Old Man River’” Billy says. It’s a continuation of their ‘who we’d save and what we’d make them do as payment’ game.
“Courtney Love, fellatio.”
He extends the syllables, singing the ‘atio’ until he’s fucking crooning at Billy, and he’s laughing a little, with that little honk at the end. It’s the only way he can get Billy to talk, but if on the road games are what it takes, crack open the ‘I spy’.
“Hendrix. Guitar lessons.”
Joe doesn’t point out Hendrix is dead. They really kind of all are.
“Bucky. I…fuck.” He had wanted to find Bucky and kill him himself. Billy laughs and makes a buzzing noise. He looks across at him, caught between whaling on him and crying. “He’s dead,” he says instead.
“I know,” Billy tells him, pats his cheek. One day he’ll tell Billy he’s fucking crazy. Then Billy can tell him the same thing back.
They split up the miles with dumb fucking games, break into one of the band houses. They’re chasing after things that don’t happen anymore, wanting the same annoyances as before, the same mundane realities of life on tour, a claustrophobic, itchy existence hammered out on sawdust with the smell of beer and the throb of the amp. They travel to battlefields that no longer exist and fling themselves against nothing.
The rocket launcher’s fucking awesome, though.
They go to a diner by the side of the road. Billy takes his hand and pulls him into the washroom, pushes him against the wall and holds him there. He stays still. Joe can feel his heart beating. “I wanna play. Onstage. Make the loudest noise we can. Call them.”
Joe doesn’t ask who. “Okay,” he murmurs, feels Billy’s hands press harder, until he feels like his shoulders are going to wrench, like he’ll be pressed right into the wall.
“Would you give me anything I asked for?” Billy asks, whispering close and dirty, his breath hot on the side of Joe’s neck. He…doesn’t answer. Billy fucking knows. He allows him to turn him so his face is pressed against the wall, grasps his hips and rubs up against him.
“Please,” Joe whispers. He’s hard- of course he’s fucking hard, it feels like death and fucking have switched places these past few weeks- needy. Billy laughs, reaches around and slips his hand down the front of Joe’s jeans, just presses his palm onto Joe’s dick, hand cold. This used to be the other way around. He used to be the one pushing. He leans back and just lets him, lets him curve his fingers around his dick and jerk him off, so slow and sweet.
“I’ll look after you,” Billy whispers, licking around the curve of his ear. Joe shuts his eyes tight and comes, arching until his spine feels like it’s being ripped out. He turns around and lets the wall support him as Billy rubs against him, kissing him hungrily with lips that are chapped and taste sweet and familiar. He closes his eyes and imagines them back into their old lives. “Your hair needs cutting,” Billy murmurs.
“Fuck off,” he replies. Billy laughs a laugh that’s mostly breath, then gasps as Joe unfastens his jeans, jerks him off sloppily. He feels drunk. It’s a good change. Billy makes the same noises when he comes, and his eyes are clear and peaceful when he looks around them. He looks over at both their reflections in the grimy mirror. Billy’s hair’s long, too, looks like a bird’s nest or something. Joe hacked his hair off a week after everything ended, and now it’s grown out into something that’s sticking out at all angles, crow’s-wing black. They’re both pale, faces streaked with ashes and dirt.
“Fucking ragamuffins,” Billy sneers in an approximation of Bucky’s voice. Joe gives their reflections the one finger salute, and they clean themselves up with tissues and the rusty trickle of water from the taps in the sink. Pipe snickers as they come out, and points to the plates of…tinned tuna and rice.
“Dining like kings tonight, fuckers,” he tells them. He sounds too fucking cheerful. Apocalypses suit him.
They eat in silence. John’s looking at a book full of the alphabet in hundreds of different typefaces, fingers tracing each letter. Pipe’s cleaning out his fingernails with a machete. “So how about we play Edmonton?” Joe suggests casually. Billy smiles, a secret smile. John nods, once, and goes back to tracing. Pipe looks up at him, face breaking out in a grin.
“But Mister Dick, what if no one comes?” he asks.
“They’ll come,” Billy says. None of them quite know what to say to that.
“The West is the best, babies,” Joe yells on an empty stage. There was a generator in one
of the office blocks in downtown Edmonton, and they’ve got it hooked up, the amps and guitars are all set up and it’s like they’re a band again. Tough crowd, though. Nonexistent crowd, nothing to soak up any of the noise so the sound’s bouncing off the walls. They’re playing a dead room. There’s a pile of guns in the corner- Pipe’s jittery. Joe still hasn’t seen any wolves. Doesn’t mean they’re not there, though.
Billy starts up the intro to Sonic Reducer and he starts to forget the absences around them, sings and snarls into the mic. Billy ambles around the stage as much as before, bumping into him, getting into John’s space, then tracing his own circles. He fudges a few chords initially, almost fucks up the bridge- would have if John hadn’t been playing like a fucking automaton- but soon he’s into the music, and Joe can pay attention to singing. He sings for…
Everything. Quantifying what has been lost isn’t something he could ever do, could ever be capable of. He just tips his head back and howls, and it’s enough, for now. Billy licks the side of his neck, laughing, pushing the tempo. As the last chords die away, screeching into feedback then echoes Billy slings an arm around his neck. “They’re here,” he whispers. Joe hears howls.
Part 3
Author: llassah
Fandom:Hard Core Logo
Pairing: Joe/Billy
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1222 words
So it’s a tour. Billy’s holding a rifle, sitting in the front passenger seat, and Pipe’s wiring something that looks a little like a bomb, which is plugged into an amp, connected to some of the plastic explosives they found raiding the demolition firm in the back of the van. They had taken it in turns using the wrecking ball. The whole fucking city was their playground, their own personal cosmic fucking joke.
John…he’s researching. And says this isn’t the way it was meant to happen. Joe isn’t quite sure how much fucking difference this makes, but the dreams aren’t making him scream as much as before.
They drive through the night. Billy’s got a thermos, pours himself a coffee. Still that fucking mug. Joe reaches over and cups the back of his neck, keeps the other hand on the wheel. He fucking loves this van. Pipe’s written Valhalla on the side in black spray paint, it’s stick shift and third gear’s a complete bitch but it eats up the miles with a roaring purr and Jesus sits on the dashboard, and maybe not everything’s gone to shit. Fire ice, dragons and wolves, maybe, but not shit.
“Joey Ramone, make him sing ‘Old Man River’” Billy says. It’s a continuation of their ‘who we’d save and what we’d make them do as payment’ game.
“Courtney Love, fellatio.”
He extends the syllables, singing the ‘atio’ until he’s fucking crooning at Billy, and he’s laughing a little, with that little honk at the end. It’s the only way he can get Billy to talk, but if on the road games are what it takes, crack open the ‘I spy’.
“Hendrix. Guitar lessons.”
Joe doesn’t point out Hendrix is dead. They really kind of all are.
“Bucky. I…fuck.” He had wanted to find Bucky and kill him himself. Billy laughs and makes a buzzing noise. He looks across at him, caught between whaling on him and crying. “He’s dead,” he says instead.
“I know,” Billy tells him, pats his cheek. One day he’ll tell Billy he’s fucking crazy. Then Billy can tell him the same thing back.
They split up the miles with dumb fucking games, break into one of the band houses. They’re chasing after things that don’t happen anymore, wanting the same annoyances as before, the same mundane realities of life on tour, a claustrophobic, itchy existence hammered out on sawdust with the smell of beer and the throb of the amp. They travel to battlefields that no longer exist and fling themselves against nothing.
The rocket launcher’s fucking awesome, though.
They go to a diner by the side of the road. Billy takes his hand and pulls him into the washroom, pushes him against the wall and holds him there. He stays still. Joe can feel his heart beating. “I wanna play. Onstage. Make the loudest noise we can. Call them.”
Joe doesn’t ask who. “Okay,” he murmurs, feels Billy’s hands press harder, until he feels like his shoulders are going to wrench, like he’ll be pressed right into the wall.
“Would you give me anything I asked for?” Billy asks, whispering close and dirty, his breath hot on the side of Joe’s neck. He…doesn’t answer. Billy fucking knows. He allows him to turn him so his face is pressed against the wall, grasps his hips and rubs up against him.
“Please,” Joe whispers. He’s hard- of course he’s fucking hard, it feels like death and fucking have switched places these past few weeks- needy. Billy laughs, reaches around and slips his hand down the front of Joe’s jeans, just presses his palm onto Joe’s dick, hand cold. This used to be the other way around. He used to be the one pushing. He leans back and just lets him, lets him curve his fingers around his dick and jerk him off, so slow and sweet.
“I’ll look after you,” Billy whispers, licking around the curve of his ear. Joe shuts his eyes tight and comes, arching until his spine feels like it’s being ripped out. He turns around and lets the wall support him as Billy rubs against him, kissing him hungrily with lips that are chapped and taste sweet and familiar. He closes his eyes and imagines them back into their old lives. “Your hair needs cutting,” Billy murmurs.
“Fuck off,” he replies. Billy laughs a laugh that’s mostly breath, then gasps as Joe unfastens his jeans, jerks him off sloppily. He feels drunk. It’s a good change. Billy makes the same noises when he comes, and his eyes are clear and peaceful when he looks around them. He looks over at both their reflections in the grimy mirror. Billy’s hair’s long, too, looks like a bird’s nest or something. Joe hacked his hair off a week after everything ended, and now it’s grown out into something that’s sticking out at all angles, crow’s-wing black. They’re both pale, faces streaked with ashes and dirt.
“Fucking ragamuffins,” Billy sneers in an approximation of Bucky’s voice. Joe gives their reflections the one finger salute, and they clean themselves up with tissues and the rusty trickle of water from the taps in the sink. Pipe snickers as they come out, and points to the plates of…tinned tuna and rice.
“Dining like kings tonight, fuckers,” he tells them. He sounds too fucking cheerful. Apocalypses suit him.
They eat in silence. John’s looking at a book full of the alphabet in hundreds of different typefaces, fingers tracing each letter. Pipe’s cleaning out his fingernails with a machete. “So how about we play Edmonton?” Joe suggests casually. Billy smiles, a secret smile. John nods, once, and goes back to tracing. Pipe looks up at him, face breaking out in a grin.
“But Mister Dick, what if no one comes?” he asks.
“They’ll come,” Billy says. None of them quite know what to say to that.
“The West is the best, babies,” Joe yells on an empty stage. There was a generator in one
of the office blocks in downtown Edmonton, and they’ve got it hooked up, the amps and guitars are all set up and it’s like they’re a band again. Tough crowd, though. Nonexistent crowd, nothing to soak up any of the noise so the sound’s bouncing off the walls. They’re playing a dead room. There’s a pile of guns in the corner- Pipe’s jittery. Joe still hasn’t seen any wolves. Doesn’t mean they’re not there, though.
Billy starts up the intro to Sonic Reducer and he starts to forget the absences around them, sings and snarls into the mic. Billy ambles around the stage as much as before, bumping into him, getting into John’s space, then tracing his own circles. He fudges a few chords initially, almost fucks up the bridge- would have if John hadn’t been playing like a fucking automaton- but soon he’s into the music, and Joe can pay attention to singing. He sings for…
Everything. Quantifying what has been lost isn’t something he could ever do, could ever be capable of. He just tips his head back and howls, and it’s enough, for now. Billy licks the side of his neck, laughing, pushing the tempo. As the last chords die away, screeching into feedback then echoes Billy slings an arm around his neck. “They’re here,” he whispers. Joe hears howls.
Part 3