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The corridors of the Nassau Coliseum still vibrate with the aftershock of the crowd—thousands of voices echoing in the concrete like ghosts who haven’t realized the show is over. Billy walks them like he owns the place, shoulders loose, swagger unmistakable even after a ninety‑minute set. He’s still half‑charged from the lights, the heat, the way Eddie’s guitar solo tore open the night like a flare. He pushes open the dressing‑room door without knocking. He never knocks. Eddie always looks up.
Tonight is no exception.
Eddie sits slouched on the battered couch, guitar still across his lap like he’s forgotten to put it down. His hair is damp, sticking to his forehead, and his shirt clings to him in sweat‑darkened patches. He looks wrecked in the way only a man who’s been on the road for months can look—exhausted, vibrating, alive.
Billy’s grin is immediate and wicked. “Christ, Ed. That solo on ‘Runnin’ with the Devil’—you nearly blew the bloody roof off.”
Eddie turns his head, and even through the fatigue, his smile blooms. It’s small, crooked, but it hits Billy like a punch to the ribs. Billy crosses the room in long, confident strides, boots thudding softly on the carpet. Eddie barely has time to blink before Billy swings a leg over and settles into his lap, straddling him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because for them, it is. Eddie exhales—one long, relieved breath—as if Billy’s weight is the one thing anchoring him to the earth. His hands slide instinctively to Billy’s hips, fingers curling into the tartan of his kilt. Billy loops his arms around Eddie’s neck, pulling him close, their foreheads brushing.
“Missed you out there,” Billy murmurs, voice low and teasing, but soft around the edges.
Eddie huffs a tired laugh, shaking his head. “You were onstage with me, man,” he says, voice warm despite the exhaustion. “Crowd lost their damn minds when you walked out.”
Billy grins, all teeth and mischief. “Thought I’d give ’em a little treat.”
“You gave me a treat,” Eddie counters, thumb brushing the curve of Billy’s thigh.
Billy’s bravado softens. He cups Eddie’s cheek, thumb tracing the faint stubble. “Looked like you needed the company.”
Eddie’s shoulders sag, the truth of that landing somewhere deep. “Yeah,” he admits quietly. “I did.”
Billy leans in until their noses touch. “Then it’s a good thing I’m brilliant.”
Eddie laughs again—real, warm, the kind that only Billy can pull out of him when he’s this worn down. He tilts his head back just enough to look up at him, eyes soft. “Damn right you are.”
Billy kisses him—slow, unhurried, tasting of sweat and stage lights and the electric high of performing together. Eddie melts into it, tension bleeding out of him as if someone had finally loosened the screws. Billy kisses him again, softer this time, thumb brushing the back of Eddie’s neck. Eddie’s breath stutters, and he lets his forehead fall into the crook of Billy’s neck, breathing him in. Billy smells like stage smoke and hairspray and the faint sweetness of Eddie’s own cologne—the one Billy steals every chance he gets.
“We’ve got tomorrow free,” Billy whispers against his lips, voice warm and promising. “Whole damn day. Then off to Hartford.”
Eddie presses his face into Billy’s neck, hiding there. “And thirty cities,” he sighs, voice muffled. “Jesus.”
Billy strokes a hand through Eddie’s hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp. “Thirty‑two down,” he corrects with a smug little grin. “Twenty‑seven to go. I’m keeping count.”
Eddie lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. “You’re fuckin’ brilliant.”
Billy smirks. “I know.”
The dressing room hums with leftover adrenaline—fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, distant thuds of roadies packing up gear, muffled shouts echoing down the hall. But here, in Eddie’s lap, the world feels suspended. Billy traces idle patterns on Eddie’s shoulder with one finger.
“You’re wiped,” he says softly.
“Tour’s hittin’ harder this year,” Eddie admits. “Feels like I’m runnin’ on fumes.”
Billy presses a kiss to his temple. “Good thing you married someone who knows how to recharge you.”
Eddie snorts. “Recharge me, huh?”
“Mm‑hmm.” Billy nips lightly at his ear. “Starting with a day off tomorrow. No interviews, no soundchecks, no nothin’. Just you, me, and a hotel bed we don’t have to share with the whole bloody band.”
Eddie’s eyes flutter shut. “That sounds like heaven.”
Billy smiles, brushing a strand of hair off Eddie’s forehead. “It’s our anniversary, love. Four years tomorrow. You think I’m lettin’ the world get in the way of that?”
Eddie opens his eyes, gaze softening. “Four years,” he repeats quietly, like he’s tasting the words. “Feels like yesterday.”
“Feels like forever,” Billy counters, leaning in to kiss him again. “In the best way.”
Eddie’s fingers tighten around Billy’s waist, pulling him closer. “You ever get tired of it?” he asks suddenly. “The travel, the noise, the… everything?”
Billy tilts his head, considering. “Sometimes,” he admits. “But then I look at you, and I remember why I’m here.”
Eddie’s breath catches.
Billy continues, voice low and sincere. “We’re doin’ this together. That’s what makes it worth it.”
Eddie swallows hard, emotion flickering across his face. “You always know what to say.”
“Yeah, well,” Billy smirks, “I’m brilliant, remember?”
Eddie laughs, head falling back against the couch. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me for it.”
“Yeah,” Eddie says quietly. “I do.”
Billy’s expression shifts—still playful, but with a tenderness that runs deep. “Good. Because I love you too, you daft bastard.”
Eddie pulls him in for another kiss—slow, lingering, grateful. Outside, the last of the crew shouts instructions as cases roll toward the loading dock. The building is emptying, the night settling into its quieter hours. But in the dressing room, time feels suspended. Billy stays in Eddie’s lap, fingers tracing the line of his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder. Eddie’s hands rest on Billy’s thighs, thumbs brushing circles into the tartan. They don’t talk for a while. They don’t need to.
Eventually, Eddie murmurs, “C’mon. Let’s get outta here.”
Billy nods, but doesn’t move right away. He leans in, pressing one last kiss to Eddie’s lips—soft, lingering, full of promise. “Tomorrow,” he whispers again.
Eddie smiles, tired but content. “Tomorrow.”