![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Springtime, when a young girl's fancy turned to fucked-up Canadian punk rockers.
Which is to say, I wrote HCL fic again: another viewing for another set of new friends, another fic, slightly longer than last time. If I keep making friends and showing them HCL, at this rate I might crack a thousand words by 2010.
This is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
strangecobwebs, who asked me to describe an imaginary story with the title "Philadelphia: City of Brotherly Love" for the imaginary title meme. Sorry, Strange: it turned into a real story. Big thanks to brooklinegirl for beta! NC-17, Joe/Billy, 470-ish words.
Philadelphia: City of Brotherly Love
The thing John had neglected to mention, when he told Mary about how Billy and Joe had dealt with the real issue (which was that Joe had fucked Billy up the ass the night before) was that it had worked, if not for the band, at least for them. Two nights after he flushed Joe's stash, Billy had gotten Joe wasted and fucked him right back, and things had gone on like that for the rest of the tour, push and pull, fuck and fight, night after night. They were great on stage, playing to packed crowds, and it was hard to say who looked more like the cat who'd swallowed the canary: Billy Tallent or Ed Festus. Joe was still Joe, a bitch and a son of a bitch and a punk and a million other things Billy would growl in his ear when they fucked, not nearly quietly enough for the thin hotel walls.
It was only a matter of weeks, but time stretched, the way it did on the road (and the way it always did when Joe was coked up; it had only taken him until Detroit to score more blow, and Billy didn't flush it again). By the time the Hard Core Logo North American Tour hit Philly, Joe and Billy and Pipe and John couldn't really remember things ever being any other way: Joe and Billy had always been fucking, always been joined at the hip in a specifically if you know what I mean kind of way.
By the time they fucked after the Philly show (Joe had blown Billy backstage right after, and Billy'd come as much from the applause still ringing in his half-numb ears as Joe's mouth on his cock, fast and rough and never letting him quite forget there were teeth in that mouth, then waited until the hotel to fuck him stupid in a quiet room, face down on clean sheets) it all seemed as normal as anything else about their lives, indistinguishable from the general haze of beer and smoke and guitar riffs always ringing through Billy’s head.
Afterward Billy mumbled, "I love you," and it was the same words he'd said a million times, laughing or sneering, but they came out sleepy and soft. They came out like something different. He meant to save it, make a joke--he was waiting for Joe to smack him on the head and call him a pussy--but he fell asleep instead, thinking to himself that Ed was all wrong. He didn’t need to go out to LA and play even once with some faux-punk pop group with a dumb name, not when he had Joe, and Hard Core Logo, and a show on Friday in New York City, with Seymour Stein sitting in the front row.
This is for
strangecobwebs, who asked me to describe an imaginary story with the title "Philadelphia: City of Brotherly Love" for the imaginary title meme. Sorry, Strange: it turned into a real story. Big thanks to brooklinegirl for beta! NC-17, Joe/Billy, 470-ish words. Philadelphia: City of Brotherly Love
The thing John had neglected to mention, when he told Mary about how Billy and Joe had dealt with the real issue (which was that Joe had fucked Billy up the ass the night before) was that it had worked, if not for the band, at least for them. Two nights after he flushed Joe's stash, Billy had gotten Joe wasted and fucked him right back, and things had gone on like that for the rest of the tour, push and pull, fuck and fight, night after night. They were great on stage, playing to packed crowds, and it was hard to say who looked more like the cat who'd swallowed the canary: Billy Tallent or Ed Festus. Joe was still Joe, a bitch and a son of a bitch and a punk and a million other things Billy would growl in his ear when they fucked, not nearly quietly enough for the thin hotel walls.
It was only a matter of weeks, but time stretched, the way it did on the road (and the way it always did when Joe was coked up; it had only taken him until Detroit to score more blow, and Billy didn't flush it again). By the time the Hard Core Logo North American Tour hit Philly, Joe and Billy and Pipe and John couldn't really remember things ever being any other way: Joe and Billy had always been fucking, always been joined at the hip in a specifically if you know what I mean kind of way.
By the time they fucked after the Philly show (Joe had blown Billy backstage right after, and Billy'd come as much from the applause still ringing in his half-numb ears as Joe's mouth on his cock, fast and rough and never letting him quite forget there were teeth in that mouth, then waited until the hotel to fuck him stupid in a quiet room, face down on clean sheets) it all seemed as normal as anything else about their lives, indistinguishable from the general haze of beer and smoke and guitar riffs always ringing through Billy’s head.
Afterward Billy mumbled, "I love you," and it was the same words he'd said a million times, laughing or sneering, but they came out sleepy and soft. They came out like something different. He meant to save it, make a joke--he was waiting for Joe to smack him on the head and call him a pussy--but he fell asleep instead, thinking to himself that Ed was all wrong. He didn’t need to go out to LA and play even once with some faux-punk pop group with a dumb name, not when he had Joe, and Hard Core Logo, and a show on Friday in New York City, with Seymour Stein sitting in the front row.