Chapter Text
Los Angeles, Spring 1977
The plans for the tour seemed to expand every few days, growing into a shape that Billy didn’t fucking recognize and couldn’t have imagined in his earliest days dreaming of success.
With another single climbing the charts and the heat from the Rolling Stone article, the band’s fame seemed to explode overnight.
Now, when he left the house, he was met more often with the weight of strangers’ stares. It was unfamiliar and more thrilling and invasive than anything he’d ever felt before.
Just yesterday, when he’d stopped to buy a pack of cigarettes, the pimply guy at the cash had said, “I dig your band and that hot, crazy chick you play with.”
He’d muttered a quick thanks and got the fuck out of there. If being recognized was thrilling, then being expected to interact with the fans was torture. He didn’t know what to say to strangers who thought they knew him. Every interaction felt awkward and forced without the buzz of alcohol to numb it.
He had wanted the fame, craved the recognition for years now. More than anything, he had wanted to be known for being something other than being one of the boys on Mercer Street whose father abandoned them. It seemed that now that it had arrived, he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with it. He hadn’t thought ahead to what comes after making it, what fame meant beyond money and never being told you were worthless again.
They’d been well-known in Pittsburgh, recognizable in that quiet way where people’s eyes settle on you an instant too long because they think they know your face.
They’d filled small venues with their first album. Mildly enthusiastic crowds, all swaying to Warren’s drum beat, a few more devoted ones singing along.
They’d been all over the radio with “Honeycomb.” None of it had prepared him for this.
Before, his fame was confined to stages, to bar floors sticky with traces of spilled drinks and cigarette butts, to dirty alleys that held vans stuffed with equipment.
Now, he was recognized at the corner store, buying gas, even at his bank.
Teddy, in his usual gruff way, had offered him some advice.Telling him to, “strap in because when fame hits, it can feel like being swallowed by a goddamn wave and I have seen far too many talented people drown.”
It was overwhelming, thrilling, addictive, and uncomfortable. But for the first time in his life, Billy feels important.
With the start of the tour only a few weeks away, he is dragged to the label to meet with the team and discuss details.
The whole band should have been there, but they were still MIA and at this point he had accepted that he wouldn’t be seeing any of them until rehearsals started.
While there, he had an uncomfortable hallway run-in with an executive on the A&R side. The man was slick and polished in a way that Billy instantly mistrusted.
The asshole had spent the first three minutes complimenting himself on The Six’s discovery and success as if Billy and Graham hadn’t thrown themselves at Teddy’s feet, as if Teddy hadn’t given them a chance, as if the label hadn’t dragged their feet on signing them in the first place and hadn’t been ready to drop them before “Honeycomb.”
“How’s it feel, Billy? Damn good, right? God, the first rush of fame is better than getting your dick sucked! The attention, the pussy, the desperation. It’s entering a room and knowing you can have exactly what you want and that everybody in that room is desperate for your attention.” He ends with a knowing chuckle.
Billy nodded, stone-faced, unsure of how to react and feeling vaguely uncomfortable at the executive’s words. More uncomfortable still when he thinks about how much he enjoyed the reception he’d received at the label today.
Hell, they’d even asked his opinions on some of the opening acts they were looking at.
Suddenly, they were eager for Billy’s suggestions and nodding along approvingly at his words. Though that might be because they are eager to keep him and the band happy as plans for the tour grows from fourteen cities to eighteen cities, to twenty-four cities.
With the number of cities growing, it means more time away from home.
When he tells Cam that it’s likely that he’ll be away for another month on top of the two they’d been expecting, the corners of her mouth turn down and she looks down at her dinner plate before she whispers that she’s proud of him and his success, and they’ll find a way to make it work. She reminds him that they’re a team.
He knows what his success means to her, but he also knows that she will never forget the destruction he brought down on them, on her, the last time he was on tour.
“Billy, Jules and I will be fine. We’ll miss you but we’ll be ok.”
The night before the first scheduled rehearsal he spends hours building a potential setlist.
He’s been thinking about it for weeks. He’d learned between that disaster of an album tour and now.
His biggest mistake was obviously his flameout but that hadn’t been his only fuckup during that time. He’d also made countless smaller mistakes that a seasoned artist would have avoided, everything from screwing up timing to song selection .
Back then, he’d known less than nothing but thought he’d known everything having had played club shows and smaller tours for years.
As he worked with Teddy and Tobias to finalize the Aurora tracks, he couldn’t help but imagine each on stage. Imagined Graham’s guitar solos, the sound of Warren’s drums, imagined his and Daisy’s voice in harmony. Thought of that incredible feeling of his voice when it meets hers.
Billy tinkers with the order to better manage pacing before changing the order again as he thinks about his vocal control. It will be more songs than they’ve ever performed before, he’s not sure how they’ll hold up.
When he thinks about performing some songs for a crowd, it feels wrong, too intimate.
He thinks about how some things have gotten twisted beyond recognition, losing their meaning, and the mix of anger and discomfort he feels at the very idea of singing those ones aloud.
He’s sure the band will have something to say about the list he’s sketched out. He knows at least one of them will have something to say. He closes his eyes for a minute against the image of her face. But fuck them! Where have they been for months while he’s been working? The only one he’s seen for weeks is Graham. His brother had stopped by to visit earlier that afternoon and stayed for dinner.
Graham been pretty cagey about his travels over the last few weeks, speaking vaguely of a road trip with that girl he’d been seeing. Billy can’t remember her name and doesn’t think she will be around enough that he will need too. Cam smiles knowingly at Graham which he catches and dismisses because his head is too full of tomorrow.
During dinner, he keeps picking up his water glass only to put it down a second later. Cam reaches out to stay his hand, and the touch relaxes him if only for a moment.
He runs through a pack of cigarettes that day, more than his usually half a pack habit. Billy lets the calming nicotine fill his lungs, inhaling deeply against his jumbled emotions.
His fingers can’t stop moving as if the recent peace of the last few days has vanished. He’s tapping a nervous beat that runs like a loop in his own mind.
He makes love to Cam that night, trying to let none of his restless energy show. Loses himself in the sweetness of her kisses and buries himself in the softness of her body and tries to bank whatever inside him that has got him so on edge.
Afterwards, she curls up beside him, sweat drying on their skin and hearts slowing down, “are you nervous about tomorrow?”
He makes some non-committal noises instead of answering then turns the soft lamp light off and pretends to fall asleep before she can probe further.
Practice is schedule to start at 9:00 am. Billy arrives at 7:30. He smokes in his car, listening to the radio of twenty minutes, runs through his setlist for another fifteen before entering the space.
This tour is biggest thing the band has ever done, and he feels sick with it. He paces around the space and fiddles with his guitar. His fingers fumble over the familiar chords.
He runs through several numbers until Graham strolls in at 8:55 am, followed by Karen at nine on the dot. A sleepy looking Warren trails in next at 9:15, followed by Eddie who is sporting a stupid ass hat and a stupider leather coat in a failed attempt to look cool. All he’s succeeded in doing is looking like an asshole.
The group exchanges hugs and laughs, sharing bits and pieces about their time apart.
“Billy, nothing to add?” Eddie asks mockingly.
“Not much, I spent most of the time working and dealing with the label. We had a ton of shit to do to finalize the album and the tour. When I wasn’t doing that, I was with the family. Can we get to work now or are we still sharing reports on our summer vacations?” He spits out, voice testy.
Warren clears his throat and when Billy casts his eyes towards him, he notices that Warren isn’t just sleepy but has smoked up already, he represses the curse word and the eye-roll that try to escape.
“We don’t want to wait a few more minutes for Daisy?”
“We don’t have a day to waste and when have you ever known Daisy to show up on time? She’ll get here when she gets here. Besides, we don’t have a ton of time to practice. The tour is a little more than a month away. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t get much practice in over break.” He says flatly.
That was a lie. He’s been playing most days, but he suspects the band hasn’t and believe it or not, Billy thinks it's too early to start with more fighting.
“I’ve been kicking around some ideas on the setlist,” he starts before he’s interrupted again.
“Shocker,” Eddie mutters under his breath.
“This is going to be a longer show than what we’ve done before, and I want to make sure that we’re prepared.”
Billy runs them through his proposed list. They squabble a bit on the order of the songs and he makes a few changes.
Out of all the members of the band, aside from Billy, Karen is the most professional, having survived two previous bands before this one.
Generally, she avoids the fighting and doesn’t have much to say unless it’s about the music or specifically, the role of the keys in any given song.But she’s also direct in a way that Eddie’s snideness or Warren’s half-formed thoughts aren’t.
“If nobody is going to say it, I will. Billy, our two biggest hits aren’t on this list.” Her tone isn’t accusing, it’s worse, every word is delivered evenly.
Why should he be forced to explain himself to them about this decision when they’ve been nowhere in sight for weeks? What right do they have to question his logic when no one knows more about this band or this album than him?
“Because they don’t fit and because we don’t need them. Trust me, no one will leave this show thinking they didn’t get their money’s worth.”
“But…” Warren breaks in.
“We don’t have time for this bullshit. Let’s just play it the way I wrote it, and we can make changes later.”
Two hours later and still no Daisy.
It takes them awhile to shake off the rust. The first few numbers sound like trash to Billy’s ear.
They run through “Aurora” a full six times before he lets them move on not because they sound good but because they’ve so much ground to cover.
It’s 2:00 pm and they’re still sounding like your neighbours’ garage band. Loud and off key, fucking up every song they attempt. Billy wants to cover his own ears.
There’s still no sign of Daisy.
He’s not all that worried. Daisy was once five hours late to studio. This is unusual but not unprecedented.
Then he thinks of how he found her that day, the day she was five hours late. He found her high out of her mind, stepping on glass, surrounded but alone because no one gave a damn about her well-being. And the anger and worry race through him at a rate that makes him dizzy.
He can’t believe she isn’t taking this seriously. He can’t believe she isn’t taking their album, the one they worked so hard on seriously.
He presses harder against the strings of his guitar, chokes up on it with too much force.
By 6:00 pm, he’s worried and he’s not the only one. Warren keeps throwing glances towards the door. Graham keeps nervously looking at Billy for answers. He has none.
Where the fuck is Daisy? Goddamn Daisy. Where the fuck is Daisy?
He dismisses everyone for the day an hour later but not before telling everyone, “Don’t worry, I’m sure Daisy just got the start date mixed up. She’ll waltz in tomorrow with a half-assed apology, some champagne, and a story and you’ll forget how she wasted all of our time today.”
Karen raises an eyebrow at that. “It’s not like her to do this.”
“Not like her to show up late? To only think of herself? To waltz around doing whatever she pleases? We are talking about the same Daisy Jones, right? Seems like the same old Daisy shit to me.” He lights up another cigarette and takes a soothing inhale.
But when the band leaves, after he lets himself rage about what a selfish mess, he tied himself and his band to, he allows himself to worry.
Daisy cares about few things in this world but one of those things is the music.
He picks up the phone. Teddy answers on the fourth ring.
“Teddy?”
“Hey kid, I didn’t think I’d hear from you for a while. I thought you and the band would be locked down in rehearsals. I figured if anyone would be annoying me, it was more likely Daisy and not you.” Billy can hear the laugh over the phone line and lets himself relax for a minute.
“So you’ve seen her? Daisy, I mean. Because she just skipped the first day of rehearsals and the band is worried. She’s flaky but not like this.”
He closes his eyes and tries to will away the image of Daisy strung out and alone, Daisy hurt and bleeding, Daisy lost and crying.
Instead, he pictures her lost in a party, spinning around in a bright, barely-there dress, spinning around laughing, and giving him the finger and forgetting all her responsibilities. That was preferable to the alternative.
“Fuck. I haven’t heard from her since the last day we recorded. She broke into the pool house and left a bunch of her shit here with a note, but I didn’t see her. I tried to get a hold of her a few times but couldn’t. Last I heard, she was alright though. Her friend, Simone- have you met Simone? She talked to her, but I haven’t heard from Simone since then.” He explains.
Billy feels less panicked now that he knows someone has spoken to her, even if it is second-hand news. Now that it seems Daisy is alright, he can fully let himself be angry for being forced to deal with more of Daisy’s endless bullshit.
“Can you get ahold of her? Or get me her number? It would be nice to know when she’s going to fucking show up! Can you call her friend?” He spits out angrily.
“Billy, it's been one day. Maybe she got the start date mixed up? I’ll call Simone though. And I promise, I'll let you know.”
Now that they have a plan, he feels slightly less powerless.
After he gets off the line with Teddy, he drives home with the radio off. He thinks about the tour, he thinks about the band and all the work they need to do. Finally, he lets himself wonder about Daisy. That only pisses him off again.
He has so many things on his plate right now and somehow, she has managed to pull this crap that is distracting him from the tour and from his family. The centre of attention yet again.
When he walks through the door, exhausted and agitated, he spots Cam. She looks even more beautiful than usual tonight, wearing a red halter top and dark tight jeans. Her dark, shiny hair contrasts against her bronze skin.
“Uh-oh, that look says rehearsals did not go well.” She clucks sympathetically, crosses the room to press a kiss to his mouth.
When she moves back as if to pull away, he reels her in again and kisses her with a bit more pressure.
“Fuck. It was a terrible day. We are so behind, I don’t know if we’ll be ready for the tour. I know you’ve known him forever, but will you be mad if I kick Eddie out of the band? He made about a million mistakes today.”
“A million mistakes in a day? Sounds impossible to make mistakes at that rate. Mr. Dunne, you might be exaggerating.” She teases.
“No, I’m not. You weren’t there. It was awful. And Daisy got the damn dates mixed up. She didn’t show up at all which of course means that we wasted a day of practice. Well, maybe not wasted, all of us needed it. Eddie especially did. Fuuuuuck. I don’t want to think about any of them. I just want to think about you and Julia. Tell me what my girls got up to today?” And as the words fall from his lips, he means them.
He doesn’t want to think about the day, the worry, the anger, the stress. He wants the comfort of home.
Cam fixes him a plate and tells him about her day. He holds on to that normalcy with a grip so tight he can almost feel his fingers cramp.
And in the darkness of the night, while Cam sleeps peacefully beside him, as Julia sleeps down the hall, he thinks of all the pressure on his shoulders and the person who was supposed to be beside him today to help carry it, and he lets himself worry. He bites his lips until they bleed so he doesn't say her name.