#billydunnexreader

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Billy and Camila getting together served as a wake-up call. At some point in 1969, you had unknowingly developed feelings for him, had let him into your heart, but now that he was off the market, you felt the need to take a step back, to figure out who you were without your best friend. So you stopped going over to the Dunne household every day, instead opting to spend time with your father or your other friends. As expected, Billy took note of your absence, but when he pushed you for an explanation, you assured him all was well. The year before, he would have immediately noticed that your voice had cracked when offering assurance, revealing your words to be false. Now, though, he was distracted, his mind so wrapped up in other things that he did not notice. (Or so you thought . . .)

Despite the wide berth you were giving Billy, you still saw him at band practice. As per usual, the two of you played side by side, giving your all to the music, and while your musical talents continued to grow, something was off. A tension could be heard, one that neither of you were willing to acknowledge even after Chuck left . . .

His departure was completely unexpected, blindsiding not only you but the rest of the band, because he had been quiet in his discontent, not telling anyone he was going to leave until there was no other choice. He had to, because you had all rode up his stone-paved driveway in Warren’s rickety, beat-up van, expecting to practice, only to realize that the door to Chuck’s garage, your designated practice space, was closed.

“Ah, there he is,” Eddie breathed, kicking open the back door of the van, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lips. Out of the back spilled you, him, and Graham, your features all a mask of confusion.

“Hey, Chuck,” you greeted, offering him a wide, sunny smile. The kind that could calm even the most nerve-addled man, because he looked to be in need of assurance. “We‘ve been calling all morning. What’s up?”

There was no time for him to answer, though, before Warren and Billy emerged from the front of the van, the former suspiciously eyeing the closed garage door. “Why’s the garage door closed?”

A beat of tense silence trickled by, depriving the space around you of oxygen, then, “Look, I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just gonna say it. I got into college.”

Warren glanced at you, unable to suppress the soft, surprised chuckle that escaped his mouth. “Huh, all right.”

Your own mouth curved downward in response, showing that you had mixed emotions about the whole ordeal. On one hand, this was good news. Chuck had always been smart, the type that could go far with his brain so long as he applied himself. You could, too, but scholarly pursuits had never appealed to you, not the way music had. Four more years in a classroom personally sounded like torture to you, but if that was what Chuck wanted, then so be it. On the other hand, though, him going to college meant the band would be down both a bassist and a practice space.

“Bro, we didn’t even know you applied,” Graham pointed out, sparing a glance at the rest of the band. No one had a clue about Chuck applying to college until this very moment, because he had stayed silent, closed-lipped.

“Was this, like, before or after I spent all my money on this van?” Warren asked, his surprise bordering the line of disbelief.

“I know. I’m sorry, it’s just . . . they have a really good dental program.”

That was shocking, so much so that it was now your turn for disbelief. “You’re gonna be a dentist?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.”

“Chuck, come on,” Billy huffed, stepping closer to him in an effort to get through to him, to sway his decision. “Please don’t do this. All right? Not now. Not when things are just starting to happen.”

Chuck had thought long and hard about his decision, which was why he stayed firm, hard as stone. “What do you mean, ‘just starting to happen’?”

“Dude, we open for the Winters on Thursday, and that’s just the beginning.”

“This is a real opportunity.”

“So is this.”

“Billy,” Chuck released a deep, exasperated sigh, one that showed just how much he had thought this over. He would not be swayed, even when his closest friends begged him to. “I know this is your dream, man, but just because you want something to happen doesn’t mean it’s going to. Do you really think that there’s a future here?”

“Well, yeah. Chuck, I do.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind.”

With that, Chuck left, leaving a large, bassist-sized hole in the band. It came as a harsh, cutting surprise, but even so, you called after him, “Good luck.”

Your words, though light, did nothing to dispel the tension that had fallen over the group. Eddie seemed to be feeling it most of all, as shown by how he pulled the cigarette from his mouth, turning it over and over in his hands. “We gotta cancel the gig.”

“No, man,” Billy shook his head, refusing to be put out by this one setback. He would not be stymied, not when the band had just gotten started on its rise to greatness. “We’re not canceling.”

“Yeah? What’re we gonna do? We don’t have a bassist, Billy—“

“We’re not canceling,” he repeated, remaining firm, unyielding. Emerald eyes slowly strayed to Eddie, clearing with comprehension, then, “Eddie, you switch over to bass.”

“No.”

You could not help but roll your eyes at the suggestion, because even though Eddie was a team player, there was no way he would switch over without kicking up a storm. He would no doubt complain, spending precious time complaining rather than practicing. That was why you straightened your spine, volunteering, “I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Y/N. We owe you one.” A pleased grin slid onto Billy’s face, replacing the discontent that had been there moments before. He placed a hand on your shoulder, pressing his gratefulness into your skin in a manner that could have been taken as friendly . . . if only his hand had not lingered a moment longer than it should have.

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GRAHAM DUNNE (lead guitar, the Six): (Smiles) Y/N ended up becoming a better bassist than Chuck, anyway.

─── ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ───

ROD REYES (tour manager): Oh, yeah. I remember the night the Dunne Brothers opened for the Winters, specifically Billy Dunne and Y/N L/N. One look, and I could tell they were rock stars. He was cocksure, knew who to play in the crowd. They had this air about them, the kind that entranced the crowd, really brought out their emotions.

There’s just a quality that some people have. If you took nine guys, plus Mick Jagger, and you put them in a lineup, someone who had never heard of the Rolling Stones before could still point to Jagger and say, “That’s the rock star.” Billy and Y/N had that. And the bad had good sound.

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“Obviously, you got to write your own material,” the famed manager, Rod Reyes, declared, the distinct smells of smoke and sex emanating from him, filling the air. The smell was so strong and potent that it filled your nostrils from your spot beside Graham, burning your throat, but you were happy, too optimistic to mind the burn.

“Well, I-I mean, I do. We do,” Billy replied, his emerald eyes flitting briefly from Rod’s to yours, because the two of you had written the band’s songs together. A multitude of hours had trickled by in which you two had tried to piece together worthwhile ballads, throwing paint at a theoretical wall and seeing what stuck. The first drafts of the songs had been horrid, lacking any harmony or smoothness, but with much shaping, they had been turned into songs that could go a long way. Key word: could. “Most of it’s not good enough yet.”

“What are you writing about?”

“I have this one song called ‘Nevermore’ about the Catonsville Nine.”

“No. Oh! Are you Bob Dylan? Are you Buffy Sainte-Marie? Enough with the political shit. It’s a new decade. No one needs reminding that the world is a mess. People want to feel good again. They want to feel hope. You can write a love song, can’t you?” Rod demanded, a sour look crossing his face at the thought of ‘Nevermore.’ The song had not been bad, sounding pleasant to the ear, but he did not need to hear it to know that it would not go over well with the masses. He turned to Graham, then, “You need to cool it with the solos, brother. Nobody cares about your technical guitar skills. They want to sing. They want to dance. Look, the last thing I’ll say, and this is key, you need to get the fuck out of Pittsburgh. You want to be signed to a label, you want to work with Jimmy Miller, Tom Dowd, Teddy Price—“

The mention of Teddy Price caused a great, perceptible shift in the air. You immediately sat upright, a curious glint working its way into your eyes. “Wait, you know Teddy Price?”

“Yeah, I know everybody, and they’re all in L.A. now. Not London, not New York. California, my friends. That is the place you got to be.”

His words resonated deeply with you three, specifically the brothers, which was why the prospect of going to L.A. was promptly proposed to the rest of the band. As expected, they agreed, and the six of you and Camila set off, riding off in Warren’s van, Lady Peaches, toward your futures.

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Y/N L/N (singer, The Six): I knew the chances of making it big were slim, but I also knew that if I didn’t at least try, I would never forgive myself. The boys wouldn’t either. So I packed up my things and bid Dad farewell. He was sad to see me go, but just as happy that I was going after my dreams.

He didn’t tell me he was sick . . . Probably because he knew I’d have stayed behind to take care of him.

─── ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ───

The City of Angels welcomed you and the Dunne Brothers with open arms, taking you in as one of its own. You got into contact with Rod, hoping that he would set you up with the big guys, specifically Teddy Price, but all he had to offer was a gig at a dank, seedy bar named Filthy McNastys. Its attendants were sketchy, having all sorts of sins to their name, but given that the bar was on the Strip, the band gladly pushed through, giving their all to each and every performance.

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Y/N: The months we spent at McNastys were slow. At first, barely anyone came to see us, but the more shows we played, the more attention we got. People started coming in just to see us, which was fantastic, but there was a problem: we were barely getting paid.

I ended up getting a job as a waiter at this cute little coffee house to help make ends meet, but no matter what we did, it just didn’t seem like it’d be enough.

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“What happened with that producer you went up to?” Eddie asked as you slid into the booth aside him, donning your work uniform. Working at a coffee house was not exactly what you had envisioned yourself doing when you had set off for L.A., but hey, sacrifices had to be made if the group was to stay. “The one with the parrot?”

“Parrot guy passed on us,” Camila answered, having fashioned herself the band’s manager. You thought she was doing a great job, given that she had never done such a thing before. Others did not think as such, though, as shown by Eddie’s next comment.

“Wow. That is bleak.”

“Might want to save half that toast for tomorrow, Eddie,” she retorted, eyeing his toast with an expression of deadly seriousness. Atop the table lay a mound of cash, which was all of the money that the band had amassed since the start of the month. “This is barely enough to cover the rent.”

“Fuck,” Eddie cursed, breathing out a deep sigh. Half his toast was promptly placed in his shirt pocket, being tucked away to be eaten tomorrow.

“Fuck,” you echoed, resting your head atop his shoulder, the move a sign of just how deeply tiredness had settled upon your bones, weighing you down. “I’ll be working another double this weekend, I s’pose.”

Eddie opened his arms in response, letting you lean more closely against him. You did so happily, soaking in his warmth. The action, though gentle, was purely friendly, yet still, unbeknownst to you, two sets of eyes looked upon said action disapprovingly. Both Billy and Graham, despite not wanting to admit it, were jealous, because there you were, snuggling up against another man.

Their jealousy went unnoticed, but your exhaustion did not, as shown by the concern that made its way across Warren’s face. “Fuck it. Maybe old Chuckie was right, huh? Maybe this was all just a big mistake and we should have just stayed at home with our parents, saved money on rent, and become dentists.”

“I mean, I’ve sent out hundreds of photographs. Not a single fucking paper has responded. Should I just quit? No one said it was gonna be easy.”

Camila’s disheartened words drew your attention, causing your head to snap up toward hers. “No, don’t quit. All it takes is one person to make a difference,” you replied, flashing her a weak but warm smile, because even though you had distanced yourself from Billy, you had welcomed her into the group as kindly as you had the new keyboardist, Karen Sirko.

“Also, while we’re talking about stuff, how come I’m the only one without a bed in the house?” Warren deadpanned, heavily yearning for a good night’s sleep in a proper bed. He had been squatting on the couch, after all, and it could be felt in the aches of his back. No twenty year old should feel like they had the back of an old, decrepit man . . .

“Well, you could’ve taken Karen’s room,” Billy pointed out, finally breaking out of his jealous haze.

“No, I couldn’t have. That room is haunted.”

“It’s not haunted.”

“Everybody knows it’s haunted.”

“Oh, come on, Rojas. You don’t want to get all up close and personal with a ghost?” you teased, reaching across Eddie to jostle his arm. Of course, Warren jostled you back, the two of you nearly displacing Eddie’s toast, which he did not like. Not at all.

“Hey, stop! You almost made me drop my pocket toast—“

Sensing that the three of you were on the brink of causing chaos, Karen broke her silence, asking a question that had been bothering her for a long time, “Why are we still called The Dunne Brothers? I mean, four of us aren’t Dunnes, and the last time I checked, I’m nobody’s brother.”

“So you want to change our name?” Billy asked, not even wanting to consider the idea. Truth be told, you had been opposed to the name at the nascence of the band, but given that two of the three original members were Dunnes, your opinion had been the minority.

“I personally think that’s a great idea,” Eddie admitted, earning a sharp, accusatory look from Billy. Said look was sharp enough to cut skin, but he did not wilt, instead adding, “I’m just saying what everybody’s thinking.”

“Well, the name is the name, so . . . That’s how people know us.”

“Yeah, but it’s not exactly doing much for us, though.”

“How about Immaculate Reception?” Warren interjected, causing your nose to crinkle disapprovingly.

“God, no. That’s horrid.”

“We’re not changing the name,” Billy insisted, looking to his brother for help. Graham offered none, though, for he was open to changing the name.

“I mean, listen, if we’re throwing stuff out there, Hercules is still on the table.”

“No! No way!”

“Deliverance, Espionage, Poison.”

“How about Aurora—“

“The six of us will never agree on a name,” Billy cut you off, only liking a single one of the names that had been thrown out. “All right? So let’s just . . .”

His words caused a lightbulb to go off in Karen’s head, as shown by how brightly she grinned, realization donning on her features. “What about The Six?”

“I like The Six.”

“Sure as hell better than Hercules.”

“Y/N?” Graham looked at you, an expectant, questioning look flitting across his face. He had been looking at you more and more as of late with that look, one you could not quite make sense of. “What do you think?”

You opened your mouth to answer, to offer your view of the name, only for the words to die on your tongue when your boss, Dave, yelled out, “Y/N, break’s over. Back on the floor!”

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Y/N: I put in crazy hours at the coffee house, working to the point of exhaustion, but one of my coworkers there, this bright, fiery girl named Daisy Jones, turned what was one of the darkest times of my life into one of the brightest. One day, after working a double together, she pulled me along to watch her and her friend, Simone, perform at the Troubadour.

I thought that was all it was, that I was just going to support them, but then, after Daisy performed, she got this crazy glint in her eye. The kind where you know she’s up to something. She set down her guitar and said, “Now, I’d like to bring a friend of mine up on stage. Come on up and wow us, Y/N L/N.”

I was shocked, to say the least, but Daisy Jones isn’t the type of person you deny, especially in a room with that many people. So I got up on that stage, took Daisy’s guitar, and sang a piece I had been writing on my own called “Equilibrium.” It was about trying to find a balance between who I was with Billy versus without him.

Looking back, it was sad just how deeply intertwined I was with him, even when there was more space between us than ever. At the time, though, I didn’t realize the song was about him.

Hell, I didn’t even realize Teddy Price was in the audience that night. In my defense, though, my obliviousness might’ve been from all the mescaline I was taking at the time . . .

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After your performance, you returned the guitar to Daisy and hopped off the stage, your cheeks bathed in perspiration from exertion. As soon as your feet made contact with the earth, you were off, making a beeline for the star of the night, Simone.

A golden grin immediately slid onto your mouth, showing how happy you were for her in that moment. “Simone, you did great out there.”

“Hey,” she returned the smile, inclining her head to the man she had been chatting with before you had approached. “Y/N L/N, Teddy Price. You two should talk.”

Oh, my God, you thought when his name trickled your ears. It was all you could think, because there was one of the legends of the music industry, handing you his card. Feeling as though you were floating outside of your body, you reached out to take the card into your hands, hoping that he did not notice the slight tremble of your fingers.

“You interested, kid? We could work on some music together.”

“Oh, um, I appreciate it, but I’m not a solo act,” you informed, because at the time, you had only ever performed by yourself on a handful of occasions. They had been fine, perhaps even good, but not as great as when you performed with the band. “I’m in a band, The Six. Any chance you’d be interested in giving us a chance? Just let us play one song for you, that’s all I ask.”

He looked upon you, studying you keenly. A beat passed, then he nodded, agreeing to give The Six a chance. “Okay, kid. I’ll give you a chance. Are you ready?”

“Undoubtedly, yes.”

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BILLY: People think we played one song for Teddy Price and he gave us a record deal. Not true. After that first meeting, he put us through the wringer for months, but it was worth it.

Everything had gone so slowly, and then suddenly it was all happening so fast. We recorded our album in six days, had two weeks off, then it was time to hit the road.

─── ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ───

BILLY: The night before we were set to leave, Camila told me she was seven weeks pregnant, and I . . . I decided we needed to get married right away. We had been planning to have a wedding sometime after the tour but I decided we needed to do it right then. I don’t know why that mattered to me, but the moment I knew she was pregnant I felt like we had to make sure we were a proper family.

CAMILA DUNNE (wife of Billy Dunne): Karen knew an ordained minister. She got his number from a friend of hers and we called him late that night. He came right over.

EDDIE ROUNDTREE (rhythm guitarist, The Six): It was four in the morning.

CAMILA: Karen decorated the porch out back, and Y/N picked some roses from the bushes surrounding the house. They made me this beautiful flower crown and did my hair; it made me feel like a proper bride.

─── ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ───

INTERVIEWER: What do you remember about the tour?

Y/N: More than I’d like to.

GRAHAM: . . .

WARREN ROJAS (drummer, The Six): . . .

KAREN SIRKO (keyboardist, The Six): . . .

BILLY: I, uh . . . It was a long time ago, I don’t remember much.

CAMILA: I remember everything.

GRAHAM: Pretty quickly, we found a rhythm: get to town, sound check, play, party, get on the bus. And the better we started playing, the more we partied. Hotels, girls, drugs. Over and over. Hotels, drugs, girls. For all of us, but especially Billy.

WARREN: Let me sum it up for you: I was getting laid, Graham was getting high, Eddie was getting drunk, Karen and Y/N were getting fed up, and Billy was all four, at once.

Y/N: Billy changed on that first tour. Cracked under the pressure, I think. He turned into a person I didn’t recognize and didn’t like.

And even though I didn’t like him, I still loved him.

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After the wedding, something within Billy had changed, had shifted. He became hard, closed off. You and Graham, two of the people closest to him, were kept at arm’s length, having no choice but to helplessly watch on as he ruined all that was good in his life. He got drunk, high, and angry, and when his anger mounted to an exceedingly high level, he expelled it by sleeping with a nameless woman, one he could use, then discard when he felt better.

Him spiraling hurt you more than you cared to admit, but you were not his family. Not his spouse nor his blood, so it was not your place to set him straight . . . or you thought as such until he tried to rope you into his debauchery.

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Y/N: After the Ottawa show, I went back to my hotel room and started getting ready to go out for the night. I remember, I was just about to get started on my hair when there came a knock at the door. I opened it, expecting to see Graham, but it was Billy. He had been drinking tequila. I could smell it on his breath, and the look in his eye . . . I had never seen him that down, and it made me sad.

I didn’t know what to say, but I let him in. He went and sat down on the bed, and knowing I’d need a drink to get through whatever was to come, I poured myself a glass of whiskey. It was awful, but did its job. I downed the whole thing, then poured two more. One for me, and one for Billy.

BILLY: I honestly don’t know what got into me that night. I just needed to see Y/N, to hold them.

Y/N: He asked me to hold him, so I did. We sat there for a while, not talking, moving, or doing anything. Just holding each other . . . until he tried to kiss me. That pissed me off, because he knew how I felt about him. He had known when he married Camila, yet still, he had married her. Had chosen her.

I jumped up and yelled, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Billy? I mean, honestly, is this the kind of person you want to be?”

And he said, “The booze, the drugs, the girls . . . I’ve been doing them all to try to get you out of my system—“

I slapped him. Hard.

BILLY: Y/N slapped me, and I just kind of sat there, reeling. They looked like they wanted to apologize, but before they could, Graham walked in. You could just tell by the look on his face that he had overheard the whole thing.

GRAHAM: I only heard a tiny bit, but it wasn’t hard to piece together what was happening. It also wasn’t hard to piece together that Y/N wasn’t willing to entertain Billy’s advances, so I pushed him out of the room and into the parking lot. Outside, he paced back and forth and muttered to himself, looking a little crazy. He said, “I fucked it all up. I fucked it all up.”

Deep down, I’d known it was coming, because he loved Y/N the same way I did. So all I could say was, “Just don’t do it again, man. Just don’t do it again.”

ROD: Billy started going at it double time after Ottawa. The coke and girls and booze and all that.

GRAHAM: Camila decided to surprise Billy a few weeks after that. She drove up, five months pregnant, and found him in a . . . compromising position.

EDDIE: She walked in on him getting, well . . . I don’t know how else to say it . . . oral sex, I guess I should say. From a groupie.

Y/N: Camila blew up on Billy. Like, slapped right across the face. Hit him with her bag, too, if memory serves. She asked me to watch him, to make sure he didn’t sink deeper into himself.

And she said, “When he wakes up, give him this letter.” The letter had an ultimatum; he had to get clean before the baby came.

KAREN: He didn’t stop messing around with all of it.

EDDIE: We were all sort of counting down the days. You know, sixty days until Billy has to get clean. Then it was forty days. Then, when it got down to ten days, he was forgetting the words onstage, and I thought he was never gonna clean up.

Y/N: On November 28th, we were in Hartford for a show when one of the stage managers called me offstage. Said there was a call for me. I picked it up, and it was Teddy. “You gotta get Billy home,” he said, because Camila had gone into labor.

BILLY: Y/N took me by the arm and held onto me until we got onto the plane. Then, we landed and they dragged me into this beat-up rental car and drove me to the hospital.

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The rickety old rental car sped into the hospital parking lot, going way faster than the legal speed in an effort to get Billy to his girls as fast as possible. When the car rolled to a stop, though, he did not immediately jump to get out. Confusion overtook your features, prompting you to say, “Well? Go see your girls.”

“I can’t,” he whispered, his voice sad, broken down. Never before had you seen him so shattered.

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“Billy.”

“Y/N. I can’t have her meet me like this.”

An emotion akin to the anger you had felt back in Ottawa arose beneath your skin, causing you to tighten your hold on the steering wheel, your knuckles flashing white with force. “Okay, then,” you said, eerily calm. “I’m going to be there for Camila and to meet that baby girl, with or without you, Billy. But if I go by myself, you’re going to get help when I come back out. Real help.”

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