Notes: Fucks with the timeline with regard to Billy's tattoo.
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Fell on a case of empties, he says, and it isn�t entirely a lie.
Another night, another battle, Joe�s hands fisting in his shirt as they slam each other back against the walls. No one ever wins�it�s not that kind of a fight. But when Billy comes crashing down onto the box, feels the shattered glass pierce through his skin, it�s as close to a defeat as they ever get.
Then Joe is on him, hands slick with Billy�s blood, and when their mouths meet in a clash of skin and teeth, it feels pretty damn close to victory.
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This is the last scar you leave on me, motherfucker. The last time that Property of Billy Fucking Tallent gets written across my skin in blood.
Hope this time it�s enough for you.
Have a great fucking time in LA with your models and your limos, and every once in a while nail a hooker in the back of a cab for me.
Fucker.
Fuck you. Fuck you and your ambition and your disloyalty, and your fucking guitar that you don�t even deserve.
Fuck you, William Boisy. You don�t get to leave. Not this time.
One more shot, and salut.
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Cover it up, you tell him, and he�s heard that too many times.
With what? he asks, and you don�t care, you just want it gone. This, you say, and shove the scrap of paper across the table at him. He looks at it, shrugs, and an hour later it�s there, black and red and forever.
A blue tattoo on your shoulder in the shape of a heart.
Well fuck that, you think, because it�s gone now. It�s over, time to move on, and all that shit.
It�ll only sting for a day or two, the guy says.
You laugh.