Fic: Apparition (1/3)
Title: Apparition (Part 1)
Fandom: Hard Core Logo
Author: Sketch
Pairing: Billy/Joe
Rating: R? Strong language and some strong deeds to go with them. Maybe a little NC-17.
Summary: Thirteen years on, Billy visits Joe's grave and is surprised by what he finds.
Disclaimer: The plot is mine, the characters are not.
Author’s Note: First of three parts, inspired by the whole HCL2 thing I've been hearing about. No spoilers for the sequel (are there spoilers available for that? Something about a castle?), but yeah, this will ruin the end of the first movie for you. But really, you should've watched the movie already because it's fucking brilliant, no lie. And it's up on youtube, so there are really no excuses. Unbeta'd.
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Billy stops by once every year, the week before his birthday. Never on the exact day of...of that last concert, because even if Joe's body isn't really buried here any more, there's always a couple people who stop by. A couple years back, he screwed up and forgot the days, hung over maybe or just stupid, and he ran into a group of them. They were kids, looking so young Billy wondered if they could even remember Hard Core Logo, if they were even born by the time the band broke up. God, he's gotten so old.
He could tell the exact second when the tiny punks recognized him, when he went from Random Old Dude to Fucking Billy Tallent, Sellout and Cause of Joe the Amazing Dick's Suicide. They glared at him and began to shift around, gathering up backpacks and beer bottles. A girl in torn pink fishnets that matched her hair blew out a candle and led the troop down the line of graves, to the path that trailed out of the cemetery. One boy, the last in the line, paused to leave a cigarette on the gravestone.
For one long second, Billy had thought it was Joe, looking thirteen years old again, all dark hair and sneering mouth, but no, it was just a trick of the light, of the kid's baggy sweater, of Billy's hopeless hopeful eyes. The little asshole spat at Billy as he passed by, strolling after his friends like he didn't give a fuck that Billy had forty pounds and seven inches on him. If he was anything like Joe, like Joe was, then he probably didn't, which had almost been enough to make Billy stop him. For a long time, he had thought that perhaps if some one had stopped Joe, talked to Joe, maybe they could've straightened him out, and Billy wouldn't be here now, at the grave of a man who never turned thirty five.
In the end, he'd just sighed and turned back to Joe's grave. No one had ever been able to straighten out Billy, either.
This year though, he's come on the Monday morning after The Day, so all the kids should be in school, and all the druggies should still be passed out. Neither of those is a guarantee though, and for once the thought of being caught here doesn't bother him. He's had thirteen years of being blamed, of blaming himself, and if some fucking cokehead wants to try and lay that trip on him again today, than let him try. Maybe Joe would like some company down in the ground. Down in the ground of wherever he is.
Billy glances around the rest of the cemetery, but no ragged figures rise to assault him. Fifty meters back and to the left, a bald man in a suit is sitting on a bench, but he's not looking in Billy's direction. Billy shrugs and sinks to his knees in front of Joe's grave.
"Bet you like that, Joe. Me on my knees in front of you again." He smiles a little, memories that might even be called fond echoing though his brain. "You could never resist a good power trip." He pauses. "Or a blowjob." He smiles again, reaching out to trace the name carved into the headstone.
Joseph 'Dick' Mulgrew. He remembers talking to the man who ran the cemetery, telling him Joe's middle name was Richard and he'd gone by Dick his whole life, because rock star or not, he couldn't see any man who spent that much time carrying around a bible going for a giant slab of marble that said DICK in big letters. So Billy had compromised. He was good at that, figured that's what Joe would've expected from him, even if he wasn't happy about it.
Billy sighs and shifts. His knees are starting to ache, sinking into the cold grass and dirt. Days like this make him feel old as fuck. "Maybe it's better you left when you did, Joe. I was at one of those shitty little clubs we used to play, back when we were just getting started. Can you believe it's been thirty years? I couldn't, not until I saw the place. It's all cleaned up and full of yuppies now. I mean, they added back some of the grime after they cleaned it off, tried to give it character or something, but it's all fake, doesn't feel right. There wasn't even anyone puking in the bathroom. The people there...you would've eaten them alive Joe, and spit them right back out."
He thinks that's probably the most he's said in a week, maybe in the entire month. He doesn't talk much anymore, doesn't really need to. Never really needed to, if he thinks about it. And there just doesn't seem to be anything to say any more. Interviews are a nightmare, and there have been a lot since he announced his official retirement. Rolling Stone is calling him the most underrated guitarist of all time, and he's on the cover of Blender, too. Joe must be rolling in his grave.
He feels a tear drip down his face, watches it splatter onto his knee and darken the fabric. "I'm not crying over you," he tells Joe. "I got over all this shit years ago."
"Nice conversational tone you got there." The voice is coming from right behind him. He tenses, half turns, gets a good look at expensive dark pants and shiny leather shoes, more like something you'd be buried in than the suit you'd wear to go visiting. Certainly not an outfit that lets you kneel in the dirt of your best friend's grave. It's the same guy Billy'd seen sitting on the bench.
His first instinct is to tell the guy to fuck off, that he's having a moment, and how about some god-damned respect for the dead and the grieving? But over a decade in Hollywood has softened some integral part of him, so instead he shrugs. "You need something?"
"Now, is that any way to greet an old friend, Billiam? I thought your mother taught you better than that, and I know I did."
Billy turns around so fast he lands on his butt in the grass and has to crabwalk backwards to get a better look at the guy. He's back-lit by the sun, and Billy squints to make out the features that go with the bald head. He can't, he can't tell, it's been too long and this makes no sense. But the voice..."Say that again," he instructs the strange not-stranger.
"That again." Oh god. It's him.
"You're not dead." It sounds like a fact. Joe's grinning that vicious, shit-eating grin at him, and it's a fact. Joe Dick is alive and well. And Billy Tallent is going to kill him.
"I'm going to kill you, you motherfucker," he announces calmly to the world at large. He has just enough time to see Joe's grin start to fade, and then he launches himself at the other man and the world goes tumbling on its axis.
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The two of them have had some truly spectacular fights over the years. Billy figures about half the scars he has are from fights he's had with Joe (the other half come from fights he's had in defense of Joe). This fight is not particularly bad, for a Joe&Billy fight. Yeah, he's not really trying to kill Joe this time, which hasn't always been true in the past. But still, he's so mad he can barely see, mad that Joe lied, or did something, maybe came back from the dead? Billy doesn't know. He's just angry, just so fucking angry, hasn't been this mad in years. Feels like he hasn't felt this much of anything in years, not since the night Joe died.
That thought brings him up short. Joe's flat on his back with Billy straddling his hips, his left hand fisted in Joe's pretty white collar and his right drawn back to punch Joe again. Joe's grimacing, body tense, waiting for the next blow.
That's...weird. Sure, he's got one of Joe's arms pinned with his knee, but the other one is free. Joe should be tugging on his jacket, spitting in his face, bucking his hips to throw Billy off. Anything but lying there and letting Billy punch him. "Joe?" he asks shakily, worried this is a dream, or a joke, or that he's finally gone crazy after all the years and all the drugs and all the booze. Maybe he's beating up some stranger wearing Joe's face.
But Joe's eyes open and there can be no mistake. It's him, it's him, it's his eyes shining with something like love and his blood on Billy's knuckles (and that's something like love, too). "Billy," he says, simple as a shotgun and he's down, collapsing onto Joe and burying his face in Joe's neck. Embarrassingly, the tears are back, but as soon as it occurs to him to try and stop them, because Joe will make fun of him, he remembers that Joe is alive and he's crying harder than ever. "Billy," Joe says again, not mocking at all, just holding him and rocking him with words and arms. "I'm sorry Billy, I'm so sorry, I missed you, I love you, I'm sorry."
And now he knows it's a dream. He's going to wake up in a few minutes, and there will some pretty girl in his bed, Veronica or Sarah or maybe someone who's name he'll never know. Hopefully he won't be crying, because it's always awkward when that happens, the girl wanting to comfort him while all he wants is a shower and then his guitar. Maybe whoever's there this time will have the sense to leave when they hear him sniffling in his sleep.
But if it's a dream, he's going to enjoy it before it turns into a nightmare. He pulls back a little, far enough to see Joe's face. Joe looks concerned, although that could just be the expression of a man worried about choking on his own blood, since Billy's busted his lip and his nose and left him lying on his back. "Shit, Joe," he says, tracing a finger over an already bruising cheekbone. "You're a mess." Then he's leaning forward again, and his mouth still fits perfectly over Joe's.
The kiss is spit-slick and bloody and enthusiastic. Joe kisses like he always does, like he's been starved for touch, saving all that hunger for Billy. They roll onto their sides and suddenly Joe's hands are everywhere, skimming up Billy's arm and down his stomach, cupping the back of his head, grabbing his ass. Billy grinds their hips together, can't stop, won't stop, does stop (but only to reach for Joe's zipper). Then he has Joe's cock in his hand, Joe's tongue in his mouth, one of Joe's legs between his to press against. They're both groaning. Loudly.
Billy twists his hand, pushes his thumb over the head of Joe's dick, and then sets to jacking him in earnest. Joe is arching his back and looking like he's trying to be quiet and failing miserably, moaning "Billy, oh god, please, yes, fuck, Billybillybilly fuck yes Billy!" and maybe twelve seconds later he's coming all over Billy's hand.
He looks at Joe's come on his hand, watches it mix with the blood still on his hands. They swirl together and then drip off, obliterating each other. He thinks maybe it's symbolic, sex washing away the violent past, and that's so fucked up and so them, and oh god, what a turn on. He looks up to see if maybe Joe is thinking that too, but Joe's eyes are fucking burning from that orgasm, and god, it's like he can feel that heat right on his cock, and then he's grunting and squeezing his eyes closed and coming in his pants like they're teenagers in Joe's basement.
Billy rolls onto his back, eyes still closed, and waits for the grass and dirt under his back to be replaced by his bed, waits for Joe's warmth along his right side to fade away. And waits. And waits. All that happens is that his jeans start to feel increasingly cold and disgusting. He wishes he would wake up already so he could go change.
"Sex in a cemetery. Billy, you kinky shit, you were holding out on me."
Billy opens his eyes. Blinks. Huh. Still in the cemetery.
"Sex in a cemetery with a man who's been dead thirteen years. I think you're a necrophiliac now. And a pretty gross one at that."
Billy flops his head to the right, looking over at Joe. Joe, who has already tucked himself neatly back into his expensive pants and is now using a fucking handkerchief to clean himself up, wincing as he looks at the amount of blood he's wiping off his face. "Damn, Billy. You been going to the gym down in LA? Working out with fucking Brad Pitt or something?" He picks up Billy's hand and begins cleaning it off with that same handkerchief, the one which Billy figures must be pretty well ruined by now. The idea that Joe Dick walks around with a pocket handkerchief is almost as hard to process as the idea that he's alive.
At least it's not monogrammed.
Billy still can't bring himself to say anything out loud, and yeah, it was easier to talk to Joe when he was dead. Joe drops Billy's slightly-less-sticky hand back on the ground and shifts to sit with his back propped against the nearest headstone. Billy realizes with a sickening lurch of his stomach that it's his, Joe's, headstone. Fuck. "Joe," his voice cracks. He clears his throat, tries again. It's important he say this right. "Joe, you're dead."
"So they tell me," Joe replies. Billy's eyes flick back forth between Joe and the big flat piece of stone that says Joe's dead. Yeah, both still here. Maybe he really is crazy.
Joe gives him a measuring look, and then stands up, reaching a hand down to pull Billy up with him. "Come on," he says, throwing an arm over Billy's shoulders. "Let's get out of here."
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Part Two
Fandom: Hard Core Logo
Author: Sketch
Pairing: Billy/Joe
Rating: R? Strong language and some strong deeds to go with them. Maybe a little NC-17.
Summary: Thirteen years on, Billy visits Joe's grave and is surprised by what he finds.
Disclaimer: The plot is mine, the characters are not.
Author’s Note: First of three parts, inspired by the whole HCL2 thing I've been hearing about. No spoilers for the sequel (are there spoilers available for that? Something about a castle?), but yeah, this will ruin the end of the first movie for you. But really, you should've watched the movie already because it's fucking brilliant, no lie. And it's up on youtube, so there are really no excuses. Unbeta'd.
-------
Billy stops by once every year, the week before his birthday. Never on the exact day of...of that last concert, because even if Joe's body isn't really buried here any more, there's always a couple people who stop by. A couple years back, he screwed up and forgot the days, hung over maybe or just stupid, and he ran into a group of them. They were kids, looking so young Billy wondered if they could even remember Hard Core Logo, if they were even born by the time the band broke up. God, he's gotten so old.
He could tell the exact second when the tiny punks recognized him, when he went from Random Old Dude to Fucking Billy Tallent, Sellout and Cause of Joe the Amazing Dick's Suicide. They glared at him and began to shift around, gathering up backpacks and beer bottles. A girl in torn pink fishnets that matched her hair blew out a candle and led the troop down the line of graves, to the path that trailed out of the cemetery. One boy, the last in the line, paused to leave a cigarette on the gravestone.
For one long second, Billy had thought it was Joe, looking thirteen years old again, all dark hair and sneering mouth, but no, it was just a trick of the light, of the kid's baggy sweater, of Billy's hopeless hopeful eyes. The little asshole spat at Billy as he passed by, strolling after his friends like he didn't give a fuck that Billy had forty pounds and seven inches on him. If he was anything like Joe, like Joe was, then he probably didn't, which had almost been enough to make Billy stop him. For a long time, he had thought that perhaps if some one had stopped Joe, talked to Joe, maybe they could've straightened him out, and Billy wouldn't be here now, at the grave of a man who never turned thirty five.
In the end, he'd just sighed and turned back to Joe's grave. No one had ever been able to straighten out Billy, either.
This year though, he's come on the Monday morning after The Day, so all the kids should be in school, and all the druggies should still be passed out. Neither of those is a guarantee though, and for once the thought of being caught here doesn't bother him. He's had thirteen years of being blamed, of blaming himself, and if some fucking cokehead wants to try and lay that trip on him again today, than let him try. Maybe Joe would like some company down in the ground. Down in the ground of wherever he is.
Billy glances around the rest of the cemetery, but no ragged figures rise to assault him. Fifty meters back and to the left, a bald man in a suit is sitting on a bench, but he's not looking in Billy's direction. Billy shrugs and sinks to his knees in front of Joe's grave.
"Bet you like that, Joe. Me on my knees in front of you again." He smiles a little, memories that might even be called fond echoing though his brain. "You could never resist a good power trip." He pauses. "Or a blowjob." He smiles again, reaching out to trace the name carved into the headstone.
Joseph 'Dick' Mulgrew. He remembers talking to the man who ran the cemetery, telling him Joe's middle name was Richard and he'd gone by Dick his whole life, because rock star or not, he couldn't see any man who spent that much time carrying around a bible going for a giant slab of marble that said DICK in big letters. So Billy had compromised. He was good at that, figured that's what Joe would've expected from him, even if he wasn't happy about it.
Billy sighs and shifts. His knees are starting to ache, sinking into the cold grass and dirt. Days like this make him feel old as fuck. "Maybe it's better you left when you did, Joe. I was at one of those shitty little clubs we used to play, back when we were just getting started. Can you believe it's been thirty years? I couldn't, not until I saw the place. It's all cleaned up and full of yuppies now. I mean, they added back some of the grime after they cleaned it off, tried to give it character or something, but it's all fake, doesn't feel right. There wasn't even anyone puking in the bathroom. The people there...you would've eaten them alive Joe, and spit them right back out."
He thinks that's probably the most he's said in a week, maybe in the entire month. He doesn't talk much anymore, doesn't really need to. Never really needed to, if he thinks about it. And there just doesn't seem to be anything to say any more. Interviews are a nightmare, and there have been a lot since he announced his official retirement. Rolling Stone is calling him the most underrated guitarist of all time, and he's on the cover of Blender, too. Joe must be rolling in his grave.
He feels a tear drip down his face, watches it splatter onto his knee and darken the fabric. "I'm not crying over you," he tells Joe. "I got over all this shit years ago."
"Nice conversational tone you got there." The voice is coming from right behind him. He tenses, half turns, gets a good look at expensive dark pants and shiny leather shoes, more like something you'd be buried in than the suit you'd wear to go visiting. Certainly not an outfit that lets you kneel in the dirt of your best friend's grave. It's the same guy Billy'd seen sitting on the bench.
His first instinct is to tell the guy to fuck off, that he's having a moment, and how about some god-damned respect for the dead and the grieving? But over a decade in Hollywood has softened some integral part of him, so instead he shrugs. "You need something?"
"Now, is that any way to greet an old friend, Billiam? I thought your mother taught you better than that, and I know I did."
Billy turns around so fast he lands on his butt in the grass and has to crabwalk backwards to get a better look at the guy. He's back-lit by the sun, and Billy squints to make out the features that go with the bald head. He can't, he can't tell, it's been too long and this makes no sense. But the voice..."Say that again," he instructs the strange not-stranger.
"That again." Oh god. It's him.
"You're not dead." It sounds like a fact. Joe's grinning that vicious, shit-eating grin at him, and it's a fact. Joe Dick is alive and well. And Billy Tallent is going to kill him.
"I'm going to kill you, you motherfucker," he announces calmly to the world at large. He has just enough time to see Joe's grin start to fade, and then he launches himself at the other man and the world goes tumbling on its axis.
-------
The two of them have had some truly spectacular fights over the years. Billy figures about half the scars he has are from fights he's had with Joe (the other half come from fights he's had in defense of Joe). This fight is not particularly bad, for a Joe&Billy fight. Yeah, he's not really trying to kill Joe this time, which hasn't always been true in the past. But still, he's so mad he can barely see, mad that Joe lied, or did something, maybe came back from the dead? Billy doesn't know. He's just angry, just so fucking angry, hasn't been this mad in years. Feels like he hasn't felt this much of anything in years, not since the night Joe died.
That thought brings him up short. Joe's flat on his back with Billy straddling his hips, his left hand fisted in Joe's pretty white collar and his right drawn back to punch Joe again. Joe's grimacing, body tense, waiting for the next blow.
That's...weird. Sure, he's got one of Joe's arms pinned with his knee, but the other one is free. Joe should be tugging on his jacket, spitting in his face, bucking his hips to throw Billy off. Anything but lying there and letting Billy punch him. "Joe?" he asks shakily, worried this is a dream, or a joke, or that he's finally gone crazy after all the years and all the drugs and all the booze. Maybe he's beating up some stranger wearing Joe's face.
But Joe's eyes open and there can be no mistake. It's him, it's him, it's his eyes shining with something like love and his blood on Billy's knuckles (and that's something like love, too). "Billy," he says, simple as a shotgun and he's down, collapsing onto Joe and burying his face in Joe's neck. Embarrassingly, the tears are back, but as soon as it occurs to him to try and stop them, because Joe will make fun of him, he remembers that Joe is alive and he's crying harder than ever. "Billy," Joe says again, not mocking at all, just holding him and rocking him with words and arms. "I'm sorry Billy, I'm so sorry, I missed you, I love you, I'm sorry."
And now he knows it's a dream. He's going to wake up in a few minutes, and there will some pretty girl in his bed, Veronica or Sarah or maybe someone who's name he'll never know. Hopefully he won't be crying, because it's always awkward when that happens, the girl wanting to comfort him while all he wants is a shower and then his guitar. Maybe whoever's there this time will have the sense to leave when they hear him sniffling in his sleep.
But if it's a dream, he's going to enjoy it before it turns into a nightmare. He pulls back a little, far enough to see Joe's face. Joe looks concerned, although that could just be the expression of a man worried about choking on his own blood, since Billy's busted his lip and his nose and left him lying on his back. "Shit, Joe," he says, tracing a finger over an already bruising cheekbone. "You're a mess." Then he's leaning forward again, and his mouth still fits perfectly over Joe's.
The kiss is spit-slick and bloody and enthusiastic. Joe kisses like he always does, like he's been starved for touch, saving all that hunger for Billy. They roll onto their sides and suddenly Joe's hands are everywhere, skimming up Billy's arm and down his stomach, cupping the back of his head, grabbing his ass. Billy grinds their hips together, can't stop, won't stop, does stop (but only to reach for Joe's zipper). Then he has Joe's cock in his hand, Joe's tongue in his mouth, one of Joe's legs between his to press against. They're both groaning. Loudly.
Billy twists his hand, pushes his thumb over the head of Joe's dick, and then sets to jacking him in earnest. Joe is arching his back and looking like he's trying to be quiet and failing miserably, moaning "Billy, oh god, please, yes, fuck, Billybillybilly fuck yes Billy!" and maybe twelve seconds later he's coming all over Billy's hand.
He looks at Joe's come on his hand, watches it mix with the blood still on his hands. They swirl together and then drip off, obliterating each other. He thinks maybe it's symbolic, sex washing away the violent past, and that's so fucked up and so them, and oh god, what a turn on. He looks up to see if maybe Joe is thinking that too, but Joe's eyes are fucking burning from that orgasm, and god, it's like he can feel that heat right on his cock, and then he's grunting and squeezing his eyes closed and coming in his pants like they're teenagers in Joe's basement.
Billy rolls onto his back, eyes still closed, and waits for the grass and dirt under his back to be replaced by his bed, waits for Joe's warmth along his right side to fade away. And waits. And waits. All that happens is that his jeans start to feel increasingly cold and disgusting. He wishes he would wake up already so he could go change.
"Sex in a cemetery. Billy, you kinky shit, you were holding out on me."
Billy opens his eyes. Blinks. Huh. Still in the cemetery.
"Sex in a cemetery with a man who's been dead thirteen years. I think you're a necrophiliac now. And a pretty gross one at that."
Billy flops his head to the right, looking over at Joe. Joe, who has already tucked himself neatly back into his expensive pants and is now using a fucking handkerchief to clean himself up, wincing as he looks at the amount of blood he's wiping off his face. "Damn, Billy. You been going to the gym down in LA? Working out with fucking Brad Pitt or something?" He picks up Billy's hand and begins cleaning it off with that same handkerchief, the one which Billy figures must be pretty well ruined by now. The idea that Joe Dick walks around with a pocket handkerchief is almost as hard to process as the idea that he's alive.
At least it's not monogrammed.
Billy still can't bring himself to say anything out loud, and yeah, it was easier to talk to Joe when he was dead. Joe drops Billy's slightly-less-sticky hand back on the ground and shifts to sit with his back propped against the nearest headstone. Billy realizes with a sickening lurch of his stomach that it's his, Joe's, headstone. Fuck. "Joe," his voice cracks. He clears his throat, tries again. It's important he say this right. "Joe, you're dead."
"So they tell me," Joe replies. Billy's eyes flick back forth between Joe and the big flat piece of stone that says Joe's dead. Yeah, both still here. Maybe he really is crazy.
Joe gives him a measuring look, and then stands up, reaching a hand down to pull Billy up with him. "Come on," he says, throwing an arm over Billy's shoulders. "Let's get out of here."
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Part Two