heroeswork | I'm screaming from outside in, Tell me where I've been

I'm screaming from outside in, Tell me where I've been

Billy stepped out of his building hands shoved deep into his pockets. Even without anyone really knowing his face, he still wore sunglasses and kept his head down. If it weren't the middle of a hot summer day, he would have added a hat and a high-collared jacket as was demanded of him.

He wasn't happy. Far from it. They were in the heart of New York City. Just like he'd always dreamed. He was selling records like crazy. He had droves of fans. Always top of the charts. More than most people could ever achieve at the young age of 22. But it all seemed like it was happening to someone else. Because he only ever saw the studio or his home. Even after moving to New York a few months ago, he still didn't actually see anyone who liked his music. Because he was forbidden from performing. From even having his photo on his albums. Not even his real name appeared anywhere. He was billed as "CHAOS" and nothing more.

He wasn't supposed to even be outside. His manager forbid it unless he was present as well. But he was off dealing with some business for the day and Billy couldn't stand staying cooped up another moment. He bought a copy of Rolling Stone off the news vendor and ducked into a coffee shop. He found a dim corner away from everyone else as he sipped at his drink. He shoved his sunglasses on top of his head as he flipped opened the magazine. He was after a specific article, listed on the cover.

"True CHAOS" the headline yelled in bold, red letters. The subheading added "Fans and journalists alike demand 'Who is He?!'" The article went on to detail the mystery surrounding his own career. Statements from fans. Attempts to stalk the studio. Pleas for information. An analysis of his music trying to guess at what his accent when when he wasn't singing.

Billy scrubbed at the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand.

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Any thought of being mad--which he wasn't, not really, just touchy--went out the window. Pale, slender hands clasped around his own pasty ones and he looks momentarily confused, looking down.

"I knew what you meant," He confesses. He doesn't feel too bad about the CHAOS example--he doesn't know any better. And he knows Billy doesn't, either, and that he was just trying to gently pry. "I guess I'm just so passionate about what I do, I kind of forget the world exists. So when someone thinks I'm hiding behind it it's sort of just a knee-jerk reaction."

There'a also the fact that Billy is 100% right. And while Mark is sensitive and in touch with himself, he's not a wilting flower. You have to have thick skin in order to live in alphabet city, he thinks.

"So--wednesday night. Maureen's spoken word. You're in?"

For a moment, he just stared down at his hand on top of Mark's, his thumb rubbing gently. A shadow passed over his face as he struggled to hold himself back. He wanted to say how much he understood. That when he actually got into the swing of things and shut his manager out, he would even forget to eat for most of the day. Just absorbed into the music and the words. But he couldn't even mention it, because Mark couldn't know he was an artist as well. He was just the manager's assistant.

It was at least comforting to know Mark had that same sort of passion.

The question shook him out of that, forcing him to look up. "Wednesday?" He asked, blinking. "Sure!" Then everything else caught up. "Wait...no. I can't. I've got--" His lips pressed together. There was nothing set, just the leash that Higgins kept on him that he couldn't tell Mark about. He let out a resigned sigh. "My boss....he's probably not gonna let me off for the night."

"Oh come on," Mark is half-laughing, though it's mostly to distract himself from the hand on his and how quickly the other had said no.

"It'll just be, like, two hours. One if you come later after the opening people--what's your boss going to say? Really? It's at like 8, anyway." There are plenty of reasons Billy has to go, as far as as Mark's concerned, and only one flimsy excuse as to why he can't.

"You can give CHAOS a second-hand account of what art on the streets is really like--like a project! Tell your boss it's a project. An avant-garde experimentation project CHAOS wants you to do since he never goes out. Problem solved!"

He can't believe he's doing this, but...

"Please?"

Billy squeezed Mark's hand firmly. He wanted to. Oh how he wanted to. But at that hour it would be impossible to get away. Higgins would be home and he'd never be able to convince Casey to take him out then. He suspected that the lack of outside exposure, the lack of events and outings, was to ensure Billy's sound could be as homogenized as possible. Perfectly distilled for maximum profits. Nothing risky or outside the box. A money machine.

He'd give anything to get a taste of what was out on the streets. What other people were creating. Not was was simply approved for him to hear. He wanted something raw and fresh.

"I'll try..." He said, finally. "But I can't make any promises. My boss is a hard ass."

"You can do better than that," Mark grins, and he cuffs the other on the shoulder. "Be like Yoda: do or do not, there is no try."

But he's having fun and he's with Billy and it doesn't matter--none of it matters because Billy's here. Billy, with his smooth stories and his not quite fitting in that's charming and not at all annoying.

"How much more of that homogenized crap can there possibly be? Obviously your star needs inspiration and what better inspiration than life on the streets of Alphabet City--so fuck CHAOS. Just be you."

Billy started to say something, but he stop. For a moment, he looked so utterly devastated. Both because Mark was right, and because Billy couldn't explain to him how complicated it was. How could Mark not see what he was trying to say? Trying to let him figure it out, the true reason he couldn't easily get away.

His lips pressed together and slowly, an idea started to dawn on him. Something he'd never been able to pull off before. But maybe with Mark's help he could actually do it. He looked back up, that light returning to his eyes.

"If I could do it, could I maybe crash with you guys that night? I know it's a lot to ask, but I'll buy breakfast to make up for it."

"That's not a lot to ask at all," Mark gives the other a strange look. "What planet are you from?"

He's used to it--used to everyone just crashing. Collins, mostly, but even Joanne and Maureen have slept on their old couch together. He doesn't even bat an eye at stuff like this. It's the artist life; the real artist life.

"Hey, maybe we can get you out of the monkey suit, too! If you wanna go punk Roger and you are the same height, I think."

That question confused Billy. Why would it be so strange to ask? But it softened into something of a smile as he remembered a few simple facts. Mark was incredibly American. He was also incredibly bohemian. Neither of which Billy had a great deal of exposure to, socially. Being sequestered by a big record label tended to hinder one's notions of over nights.

"The clothes, I can handle," he said running a hand down his chest. He just felt more comfortable this way most times, but he could dress the part of need be. "I'll have to plan something first, but if it works out I'll be at your place before the show." His hand tightened on Mark's. His face was more or less under control, but his pulse raced with how excited he felt. Could it actually work? Could he have a night of freedom?

Mark squeezed back, too, and if he's being honest? He just doesn't really want to let go. And that's his problem--he's getting too attached. This is always the problem.

Mark needs to just observe. Mark needs to observe and that's it--he needs to be their to document unbiased opinions. That includes his nights with Billy. Or maybe he's telling himself that because he gets the urge to just spontaneously lean over and kiss the guy.

"Just be you," he says softly, stopping for a moment to make sure he really has Billy's attention.

"Just...Be yourself."

Strangely, a shadow passed over Billy's face at that. Because Mark did have his attention. A little too well. Billy wanted nothing more than to be himself. Truly and completely. To let the world know who he was. Not CHAOS, just a musician. A singer. He didn't care about the fame, he just wanted to share what he could do with those he cared about.

It almost fell out of his mouth, then and there. He wanted to tell Mark everything. The truth of it all. "I...." But he stopped. And he nodded. "...I will..." he said softly.

Before Mark could question any of it, the hesitation and the look, Billy needed something drastic. So he leaned across the table, fingers curling over the back of Mark's neck, to draw him closer. And to plant a soft, gentle kiss upon the man's lips.

That shadow is weird. It's just a flicker, a something, and Mark's brows furrow just slightly. He's a patient person, though, so it doesn't bother him when Billy starts and stops his sentence. He's seen this sort of thing on Roger before--you just need to wait a bit, and then they'll eventually come out and say it.

Artists always need to phrase themselves carefully, and Billy isn't one but he's been living with one, practically. That's the same.

He doesn't have time to be patient--ironic, considering--because Billy's grabbing his neck and pulling him closer. His immediate reaction is to jerk away thanks to years of ridiculous bullying in high school, but he's met with a soft kiss and soft lips and it's over too quickly before Mark can really think.

When he Is able to, he makes a decision right then and there. He's not going to be passive, not with Billy--he can't afford to lose something like this. Maureen's the dominant, the assertive one, or was when they're dating. It's time for Mark to take a page out of her book.

He catches Billy's hand when he removes it from the back of Mark's neck, and wastes no time in leaning forward again, practically over the table, to kiss Billy properly.

Billy hadn't expected Mark to return it with such gusto. He hadn't been sure what to expect at all, really. Sequestered from the world at 22, for well over a year now, had done things to shake his sensibilities. Subtle things that had been difficult at first, but were little more than background noise these days. He'd felt it briefly when Mark had given him a ride on the bike. Like a glimpse of something he once knew out of the corner of his eye. There and then gone.

But now it roared in him unlike anything else. Refusing to be ignored. It wasn't arousal or attraction, though he did feel those as well. But rather just the pure need to touch and be touched. Mark's lips on his were a reminder of all he should have in his life. All that had been lacking.

The dislodged hand instead pushed up onto Mark's hair, wanting to pull him closer. The other hand was braced on the table for support, suddenly wishing it weren't there. "Can we get our food to go?" he asked against Mark's lips. Because having the kiss returned swept away so many doubts. Doubts that had kept hopes he'd never even considered well at bay. Hopes that now rushed to the surface and would not be pushed aside.

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I'm screaming from outside in, Tell me where I've been

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