Thank you to strangecobwebs for a fabulous beta!
This is for Anna, who was perverse enough to ask for "happy Hard Core Logo fic" in return for the Paul Gross Arms icon she made me. This is pretty much as happy as they get, darling. And somewhere in Canada, Paul Gross is grinning at Hugh Dillon and calling him a pussy.
They had their moments. It wasn't all easy, and it wasn't all good. Some of it was shit, to be honest, and some of it sucked hard. Some of it was stupid and boring. But they had their fucking moments where it was as close to perfection as you could ask for. That's what Joe was in it for; that's what they both were in it for, what they all were in it for: those moments where they were like gods. Stupid fuckers in business suits sitting at a desk all day didn't even get close to that. Never even stood a chance of that.
Joe's got a chance of that every day that he wakes up.
And yeah, some days they're just on the road, driving in a crappy van over the endless fucking miles of Canadian highway that lie between them and their next gig. Sometimes Pipe's an annoying fucker and doesn't ever shut the fuck up for miles on end until Joe very seriously and sincerely threatens to toss him out the back while John's driving seventy on the rolling highway. Sometimes John's off his meds or gotten a weird dose or some shit like that, and he's crazy, he's gone, mostly writing like he can't stop, and stuttering and crazy and fucking useless. And sometimes Billy is all silent and smoking and sitting stretched out in the back of the van like he's too good for any of them, like it's him that's carrying this damn band and oh, whatever would we fucking do without you, William?
Fucking bullshit, and it grates at Joe, he can feel Billy ignoring him, feel it in the back of his neck as he stares resolutely at the road and smokes too many cigarettes and gets them to their next fucking gig, the one that he booked, thank you very much, Mr. Boisy.
Fuck that shit, though, just fuck it, because when they're on, they're on, and none of that matters or even exists. When they're on stage, and the audience is into it, into it, in Joe's control, in the palm of his fucking hand, when he feels like he has them all riding on the music, and all they want is more, more, more - when it's like that, it's fucking golden.
When Joe's got Billy at his back, playing like he was born with a guitar in his hands, pouring so much of himself and his heart into it that Joe can feel it in his soul - that's what Joe is in this for. When Billy's slamming into Joe, crowding against him and screaming into the mic with him, right with him, right fucking there with Joe - when Billy takes the beats that Pipe and John feed him, and builds on them, turns them over and around and inside out, and fuck, the music that comes out of Billy's guitar, under Billy's hands, it grabs Joe by the spine and shakes him up, gets inside of him.
There is nothing, not one fucking thing in this whole fucking world like that.
When they come off the stage after shows like that, soaked with sweat and thrumming with adrenaline, Joe's ears ringing and his hands shaking, his blood hot with this, with the music, the connection, the life, the living - that's when he feels like a fucking god. That's when he feels like he can go anywhere, do anything, and it's not about the money or the fame or any of that bullshit.
It's about Billy and him, and it's about the music, and it's about feeling like this. It's worth anything, everything, and it's rolling through him, building him up higher and higher. He has a slug of Jack, just because he can, and spits it at Billy, just because he wants to.
Billy's feeling it too; he just shakes his head, sweat and whiskey flying off of him, and gives Joe a wide grin.
Yeah, this is what it's all about. Joe watches as Billy puts his guitar away carefully (too dangerous to leave it here in the back, with the number of people crammed in here, getting drunk and clumsy). And when he heads out to stash it in the van, Joe follows behind him.
The fire door slams shut with a thud and the air outside is cold as he walks across the parking lot behind Billy. It's not as cold as it will be when winter really sets in, but cold enough that Billy is shivering in the flannel shirt he's thrown on over his sweat-soaked t-shirt. Joe doesn't care - the air feels good on his face. "Got your baby all put away, Bill?" Joe says as Billy shuts the rear doors of the van.
Billy's grinning still, and he's got a cigarette in his mouth, held between his teeth as he tilts his chin up at Joe.
They're on the far side of the van, which Joe had John move to the edge of the parking lot after they unloaded. Easier to get out that way, but Joe's not really thinking about that now. Joe's watching the drop of sweat roll down Billy's temple, even as he shivers again.
Billy takes the cigarette out of his mouth. "Good show," he says, and reaches for the bottle of Jack that Joe's still holding, forgotten, in his hand. Joe lets him take it, watching his throat work as he swallows, and when he lowers the bottle, Joe can't help himself. He's got Billy up against the side of the van, and is licking the whiskey off his chin, his lips, out of his mouth.
Billy's into it, he's into it, pushing against Joe roughly and moaning in the back of his throat. The fucker is hard already, was probably hard on stage, even. Joe shoves his hips forward, rocking up against Billy fiercely, slamming him against the side of the van. He's only vaguely aware of it when Billy drops the bottle of Jack, barely hears it shatter on the ground next to them.
"Quiet," Billy whispers, but he's pushing his hands in between them, unbuckling Joe's belt, undoing just enough buttons on his pants to get his hand around Joe's cock.
"Fucker," Joe says, low, and Billy flashes him another grin, jerking him off in the scant amount of space between them. Joe grunts, and shoves forward into Billy's fist, wrapping his hand in Billy's hair and jerking his head back hard. Billy just watches him through slitted eyes as he pumps his cock, and Joe's so fucking worked up, so fucking on, that he can't even - fuck, he doesn't want to, not yet, not - but he's gotta - "Christ," he gasps. "Fuck. Billy."
And Billy's grinning at him even as Joe comes all over his hand.
And fuck, fuck, that was so fucking good. Joe zips up against the cold air, and leans in, kisses Billy, hard, rough, shoving his tongue in and shoving himself up against him hard. Billy - and Christ, Joe can feel when it's too fucking much - Billy surges up against him, his hips jerking against Joe, coming right there, right fucking there up against Joe, just from that. Just from this. Just from the music. Just from them. Right there in his pants, and it's just too fucking much.
This is what Joe's in it for, this is what it's all about. The show, the music, the two of them so fucking in synch that no one could pry them part if they tried.
This was it. This was the big time, and Joe had it all.
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