Work Text:
I wonder if that's what he looks like when he comes.
The thought surprised Billy so much he dropped a chord in the middle of a run. Max, the last-minute replacement bassist, shot him a nasty look, but Billy just sneered elegantly at him in return and blistered out the next riff. Fucking young upstart. He'd be glad when Marley stopped puking up his guts and could get back onstage. Billy'd had the same stomach flu during the last week of rehearsals, which had fucking sucked, but at least they hadn't started the tour yet.
When the song was over, Chris opened his eyes and quirked an eyebrow at Billy. He shook it off, jerking his head at Max. Chris's eyes grinned at him, even as he kept up the generic stage patter, and Billy felt a reluctant grin tugging at his own lips in return. Chris counted them into the next song, and as Billy screamed into the opening chords, he was struck again at how fuckin' weird his life was.
Then Jim caught his eye and mouthed obscene things at Max's back while never missing a beat, and Vince nearly pogoed off the stage with his guitar, laughing all the while with a manic gleam in his eye but without John's undertone of truly batshit-crazy, and the eerie harmony between Rahim and Chris made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up. Billy played idly through the verse, saving his fingers for the bridge. Chris stared sightlessly out into the crowd, the cords in his neck popping as he sang flat-out. Billy watched a drop of sweat trace its way down Chris's neck, then flicked his eyes back up to Chris's face. His eyes were closed again, face locked in the high of making music. Billy stared again but this time did not miss his cue. He tore through his solo leading up to the bridge, everything else fading away beneath the need to coax a few more drops of music from his aching fingertips. He looked up at the end and found Chris looking at him again. He wasn't smiling this time, but there was a fierce joy in his eyes, a joy he asked Billy to share. Billy licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. Chris smiled then, a tiny smirk that spoke large volumes.
Billy grinned around the cigarette that wasn't there. No, this wasn't ever where he thought he'd end up, but he wasn't complaining. Not tonight, with the music and the crowd and the band in that perfect feedback loop, ratcheting each other higher and higher, despite Max's smirking presence, despite the fact that he's playing guitar for a fucking boybander, but the music was damn good, the band was a damn sight better than good, and the whatever-it-was that lay sparking and unspoken between him and Chris might be the best of all. So, no, he wasn't complaining. Not tonight.