Chapter Text
As the lights dimmed in preparation for the spotlights to settle on the stage, you took a deep breath, your fingers ghosting over the piano keys, cool to the touch. The audience, large enough to be an amorphous mass rather than individual people, hummed with interest and a million separate conversations as they waited for the music to begin.
Finally, after a minute which seemed to stretch to an hour in the dark, quieter room, Billy Lenz took center stage. His dark hair fluffed up wildly around his head, and the trademark mask he wore, a flat black oval with only a small cutout for his left eye to be visible, sat confidently on his face. He gripped the mic stand hard enough for his knuckles to show white in the dark, and the way his hands shook slightly put an indescribable feeling in the pit of your stomach.
The lights clicked on, flooding the stage with light, and when the backing-track noise of blaring police sirens began, you began to play. Your fingers bounced across the keys as Billy screamed gratingly, met with similar screams by the fans standing just a couple feet below him.
Six-up, five-oh, pigs come, I cop 'n' go
The blotter shows they got me on the rocks like Galapagos
Good luck finding critters creepy as me
They shoulda fried me, I'll give ya PTSD…
Despite you warning yourself against getting in too deep when you first auditioned to be the pianist for Billy’s band, Black Christmas, you couldn’t deny you saw the appeal of his manic, unhinged voice and lyrics. The grin he’d given you when he found you could match his enthusiasm, albeit on the keyboard instead of vocally, still haunted your dreams and left you with complicated feelings to reconcile in the morning.
Cellmates scrapin' upon the bricks in the basement
Tryin' to escape this probation generation
Too late, crazy fucker's gotta do the time
Committed to the mental ward, committing all the crimes…
As always, no matter how much you tried to focus on Billy, you lost yourself in the overwhelming mania of the music, fingers placed in exactly the right positions on the keys, as if your hands had grown a mind of their own. You matched him perfectly, and although he still scared you a bit even now, you couldn’t deny that you were a match.
Please, policeman, no heel-to-toe
Oh please, let me go
Please, policeman, is it a test?
I won't know 'til I'm under arrest!
When the song ended and you came back to yourself, taking a deep breath full of sweet-smelling vape smoke and the bitter tinge of beer, you turned slightly and watched Billy stand still in front of the mic stand, his only movement the rise and fall of his slim shoulders and chest as he caught his breath. He was still gripping the mic stand as tightly as he could, like a lifeline…and you knew it might be bad tonight.
Finally, Billy’s visible eye opened, and he leaned closer to the microphone so it could catch the soft giggle that slipped from his lips.
“Hi, cunts.”
The crowd went wild, and pride bloomed in your chest at just how far you had all come. The drummer, Barb, looked slightly distasteful at how Billy referred to his loyal fans—she had been the one to veto Billy’s first attempt at a name for his fanbase, stating that “pig cunt” felt dehumanizing. You had agreed, and so Billy had dropped the first word. You knew Barb still didn’t like it.
“How are you tonight?” Billy practically cooed into the mic, his voice barely above a whisper. Despite how loud he got while singing, Billy’s regular voice rarely got above a breathy whisper. Except during… those times. But you didn’t consider that to truly be Billy. It was something else, some ghosts from his past, and you wished dearly that you could simply chase them all away, for good.
Sucking in another stale breath, you placed your fingers on the keys again. You hadn’t ever missed your cue yet, and post-show Billy was not someone you wanted to upset.