fic: November 3, 1979
Hard Core Logo flashfic. I've been trying to write HCL fic for ages. I must have at least half-a-dozen beginnings started, but they all fizzled. Trying to get the complexity of these characters--even just a tiny little piece--is so fricken hard.
Title: November 3, 1979
Words: 800
Rating: R (language, of course)
Unbetaed; concrit is most welcome and probably desperately needed. *mwwwah*
“Bill, let me in.” Joe pounded on the trailer door, hard enough to rattle it on its hinges. Billy would be really pissed if he beat the damn thing down and he eased up, just a little. “S’fucking cold out here.”
His arm was tired and his hand ached with the abuse and the cold. Leaning against the door, he used it to lever himself down into an awkward slump. “Come on, Billy. I die out here and you’re left to deal with the body. You know you hate cleaning up after me!”
Even through the cold, the alcohol, and the thin aluminum siding, Billy sounded angry. “I’ll leave the body as a warning.”
“And that would be fitting, Billiam,” Joe shouted his reply back, teeth chattering. “Real apropos. But come spring-I’ll thaw out, start to rot. That’ll be unpleasant.”
“You’re already unpleasant.”
“Yeah, you say that now but you got no idea. No fucking idea.” Joe banged his head back against the door half-heartedly. It gave him one point of pain to drown out the others. Billy didn’t say anything, which Joe sort of figured really was his answer.
It’d started to snow; thick, ridiculously fluffy flakes swirling through the orange light of a street lamp, collecting on the gravel and sleeves of his jacket. It would have been pretty if it weren’t a trailer park. They didn’t make snow globes of trailer parks for a reason.
Joe fell backwards as the door opened behind him, and he landed flat on his back, looking up at an irate Billy.
“You dead yet?”
“Feel like it, yeah,” Joe ventured.
He half-expected Billy to kick him back out-in the most literal sense of the phrase-but he just stepped back, which Joe took as an invitation. He hauled the rest of himself through the door, managing to shut it behind him. He stayed down, though-not like there was better seating to be had.
“Why’d you fuck her, Joe?”
“Poor impulse control? Fuck, I don’t know-does it make a difference?” Joe held out an insistent hand as Billy lit a cigarette. Billy took a thoughtful drag and made as if to give it to him, but then dropped in his lap. Joe scrambled to recover it, managing to grab the filter end. He brought it to his lips gratefully. “Stop with this passive-aggressive crap-just beat the shit out of me like I know you want to-” Billy’s eyes narrowed as he considered, the idea must have had some appeal. “-then we’ll be even.”
“Right,” Billy sneered, lighting another cigarette and taking a long drag, “Even-steven.”
Her name had been Angel, though not originally. Black hadn’t been her original hair color and her tattoos hadn’t been original designs. Like she was following a template, some kind of punk rock checklist.
She’d been one of their first real groupies. She was cute, too, but not Joe’s type-voice too loud, hips too wide. He didn’t like competing for space. “Jesus, Joe,” she had laughed after the Lethbridge gig, slinging an arm around Billy’s neck, “How long is it going to be before you learn to play your damn guitar?”
Billy had just smirked. Fucker.
“Aw, come on.” Joe stubbed out his cigarette on the top of a convenient beer can. “Punch me out but don’t sulk. Christ.” Joe got to his feet, Billy just watching him, arms crossed. “Seriously, what do you want from me? You want an apology? Fine.” He adopted a lisping falsetto and reached out to grasp Billy’s elbow. “I’m sawwy, Biwwy. I’m sawwy I huwt youw feewings.”
“Nice.” Billy shook him off.
Joe grabbed him again, grip tightening as Billy struggled. “Look, Bill. I’m really fucking sorry.”
“Better-had a real ring of sincerity. How about one more time with feeling?”
Joe released Billy with a shove. “Don’t be such a bitch.”
“See? Now that I believed.” Billy turned, stalking down the narrow hallway to the bedroom, dropping to a dirty mattress that took up most of the cramped space.
Joe waited a moment and then followed, collapsing next to Billy, who lay on his stomach with his face to the wall.
Billy reached out and pulled a pillow over his head. Joe rolled closer, his shoulder bumping Billy’s, and lifted a ragged corner. He could make out the fine hairs on the back of Billy’s neck. “What do you want from me?”
“Joe?” Billy sighed. The scent of sweat, beer and stale cigarette smoke tickled Joe’s nose.
“Yeah?” It was chilly in the trailer; the draft came in around the poorly set windows and battered the plastic Billy’d taped up to cover a broken pane. Joe still had his coat on, but Billy only wore a thin t-shirt, his skin the same pale white where the fabric rode up in the small of his back.
“Think you could shut up for once?”
“Sure, Billy.” Joe dropped the pillow and tugged off his coat, and used it to blanket them both. He settled an arm across Billy, who shifted slightly as Joe’s fingers curled along the hollow of his elbow. “I can do that.”
Title: November 3, 1979
Words: 800
Rating: R (language, of course)
Unbetaed; concrit is most welcome and probably desperately needed. *mwwwah*
“Bill, let me in.” Joe pounded on the trailer door, hard enough to rattle it on its hinges. Billy would be really pissed if he beat the damn thing down and he eased up, just a little. “S’fucking cold out here.”
His arm was tired and his hand ached with the abuse and the cold. Leaning against the door, he used it to lever himself down into an awkward slump. “Come on, Billy. I die out here and you’re left to deal with the body. You know you hate cleaning up after me!”
Even through the cold, the alcohol, and the thin aluminum siding, Billy sounded angry. “I’ll leave the body as a warning.”
“And that would be fitting, Billiam,” Joe shouted his reply back, teeth chattering. “Real apropos. But come spring-I’ll thaw out, start to rot. That’ll be unpleasant.”
“You’re already unpleasant.”
“Yeah, you say that now but you got no idea. No fucking idea.” Joe banged his head back against the door half-heartedly. It gave him one point of pain to drown out the others. Billy didn’t say anything, which Joe sort of figured really was his answer.
It’d started to snow; thick, ridiculously fluffy flakes swirling through the orange light of a street lamp, collecting on the gravel and sleeves of his jacket. It would have been pretty if it weren’t a trailer park. They didn’t make snow globes of trailer parks for a reason.
Joe fell backwards as the door opened behind him, and he landed flat on his back, looking up at an irate Billy.
“You dead yet?”
“Feel like it, yeah,” Joe ventured.
He half-expected Billy to kick him back out-in the most literal sense of the phrase-but he just stepped back, which Joe took as an invitation. He hauled the rest of himself through the door, managing to shut it behind him. He stayed down, though-not like there was better seating to be had.
“Why’d you fuck her, Joe?”
“Poor impulse control? Fuck, I don’t know-does it make a difference?” Joe held out an insistent hand as Billy lit a cigarette. Billy took a thoughtful drag and made as if to give it to him, but then dropped in his lap. Joe scrambled to recover it, managing to grab the filter end. He brought it to his lips gratefully. “Stop with this passive-aggressive crap-just beat the shit out of me like I know you want to-” Billy’s eyes narrowed as he considered, the idea must have had some appeal. “-then we’ll be even.”
“Right,” Billy sneered, lighting another cigarette and taking a long drag, “Even-steven.”
Her name had been Angel, though not originally. Black hadn’t been her original hair color and her tattoos hadn’t been original designs. Like she was following a template, some kind of punk rock checklist.
She’d been one of their first real groupies. She was cute, too, but not Joe’s type-voice too loud, hips too wide. He didn’t like competing for space. “Jesus, Joe,” she had laughed after the Lethbridge gig, slinging an arm around Billy’s neck, “How long is it going to be before you learn to play your damn guitar?”
Billy had just smirked. Fucker.
“Aw, come on.” Joe stubbed out his cigarette on the top of a convenient beer can. “Punch me out but don’t sulk. Christ.” Joe got to his feet, Billy just watching him, arms crossed. “Seriously, what do you want from me? You want an apology? Fine.” He adopted a lisping falsetto and reached out to grasp Billy’s elbow. “I’m sawwy, Biwwy. I’m sawwy I huwt youw feewings.”
“Nice.” Billy shook him off.
Joe grabbed him again, grip tightening as Billy struggled. “Look, Bill. I’m really fucking sorry.”
“Better-had a real ring of sincerity. How about one more time with feeling?”
Joe released Billy with a shove. “Don’t be such a bitch.”
“See? Now that I believed.” Billy turned, stalking down the narrow hallway to the bedroom, dropping to a dirty mattress that took up most of the cramped space.
Joe waited a moment and then followed, collapsing next to Billy, who lay on his stomach with his face to the wall.
Billy reached out and pulled a pillow over his head. Joe rolled closer, his shoulder bumping Billy’s, and lifted a ragged corner. He could make out the fine hairs on the back of Billy’s neck. “What do you want from me?”
“Joe?” Billy sighed. The scent of sweat, beer and stale cigarette smoke tickled Joe’s nose.
“Yeah?” It was chilly in the trailer; the draft came in around the poorly set windows and battered the plastic Billy’d taped up to cover a broken pane. Joe still had his coat on, but Billy only wore a thin t-shirt, his skin the same pale white where the fabric rode up in the small of his back.
“Think you could shut up for once?”
“Sure, Billy.” Joe dropped the pillow and tugged off his coat, and used it to blanket them both. He settled an arm across Billy, who shifted slightly as Joe’s fingers curled along the hollow of his elbow. “I can do that.”