Chapter Text
1978
Joe is stunned into silence after the completely unhinged performance. He’s never seen anything quite like it, and something is calling him to meet this man. He has to know him.
30 minutes later he locates the singer backstage in the far corner of a mostly empty dressing room, sitting quietly at the windowsill. He’s chatting with a brunette guy who Joe remembers as the drummer of the band. They’re sharing a cigarette, button up shirts still soaked with sweat from their set. What was the band’s name again? Warsaw? Joe isn’t quite sure, and the reason for that is sitting right in front of him. Those shocking blue eyes have already met his once or twice since Joe entered the small room 20 seconds ago, with Mick by his side for moral support, unbeknownst to Mick himself.
The pale blue eyes find Joe once again, but this time they’re scanning him up and down swiftly, being sure to seem uninterested all the same. Despite it being his 3rd time looking.
Joe feels Mick lean over to him and Joe waits, turning his head to listen. He’s prepared for some sort of stern, but honest encouragement from his mate.
“Paint ‘is lashes and ‘e’s Twiggy.” Mick whispers with a drunken snicker, making Joe blink in surprise and look at his friend directly in the face.
Mick looks back at him, throwing an arm around Joe’s shoulder as he smirks, “Oh c’mon Joe, we all know you like ‘em blonde and blue eyed.”
Joe licks his lips nervously and can feel his cheeks going pink as he suddenly wants to be anywhere but that dressing room. Fuckin’ big-mouthed Mick.
Why is this kid making him feel this way anyway? No one ever gets to Joe Strummer, or at least not in this way. And certainly not weird, twitchy brats with long eyelashes and lips prettier than most girls Joe has seen.
“Right. It’s time for you to fuck off, Mr. No-Help.” He whispers hotly at his mate, shoving the other away from him before running fingers through his sweaty brown hair in an attempt to primp himself up a bit.
Mick just throws his head back in laughter as he turns to leave the room in search of Paul who’s probably still in the venue watching the last band play.
Joe’s got some joints in his pocket and he wonders if maybe they’ll want to smoke with him. Certainly couldn’t hurt to ask.
Finally Joe lifts a shy hand to wave in their direction, “Hey, you lot wanna get stoned?”
The two bandmates, who had been quietly watching from a distance, look at each other. The object of Joe’s attention gives the drummer a knowing smile, and Joe admires his small, heart-shaped lips. Wow. So pretty.
The singer shrugs a shy shoulder at Joe’s question but nods as the drummer motions Joe toward them.
“Your set was incredible,” Joe begins as he approaches. “I’ve never seen—I mean heard anything like that. Joe, Joe Strummer.” He holds out his hand toward the singer first and his hand is briefly scrutinized by stunning blue eyes, before he shakes Joe’s hand stiffly.
“Ian Curtis.”
Those lips. Joe can’t take his eyes off of those lips now.
“We know who you are,” Ian continues, eyes scanning all over Joe’s face with a hint of disbelief. “everyone here knows who you are.” His voice is soft, warm, and Joe almost melts right there.
Trying to keep his cool, Joe shrugs modestly at the comment and reaches into his pocket for one of the joints, fluffing it back to life a bit before lighting it. The flames light shines bright in the dimly lit room, shining right across Ian’s oddly symmetrical face, mouth slightly agape as he watches Joe light the joint.
Once lit, Joe offers them the bud. Ian is mostly still just staring, starstruck, so the drummer takes the joint, shaking his head at his friend with a knowing smirk. “Stephen.” He says finally.
“Well, I don’t know who you are, I’d sure like to though, you guys were something else.” Now that they’re more up close, Joe can see that Mick was wrong, Ian isn’t really all that blonde. It’s a very sandy brown, cut fairly short, and Joe vaguely wonders if the shade would change if Ian were to grow it out. “Where are you lot from?”
They talk for nearly an hour, passing several joints back and forth as they discuss their respective hometowns and how their bands were formed. Ian gets better at keeping eye contact with Joe, and Joe cannot get over those eyes and their intensity, he tries not to let it show that it’s getting to him. Ian’s gaze is out of this world.
Eventually, Stephen stands from where he was sat beside Ian, and states that he needs to find a restroom. Exiting into the dark hallway and shutting the door behind him, he takes a trail of thick smoke with him that Joe visibly sees leave the room in a wide gush. He purses his lips in amusement at how smokey they’d gotten the small room without having realized it.
When Joe looks back at Ian, the mysterious singer is looking out of the adjacent window, and at this angle Joe can admire his soft profile some more.
Ian continues to seem more interested in the dark abysse outside, and so Joe looks too, trying to see what it is that Ian see’s, but it’s really just complete darkness with no clear view of much of anything.
“You keep staring, you know that right?” Ian suddenly speaks, and Joe blinks back to reality himself.
“Kinda, I mean I guess I was sort of hoping you wouldn’t notice, but now that the cats out of the bag...”
“The cat was never in the bag, Joe. You’ve been staring since you came into the room.” Ian looks back at him with those eyes, with those fuckin’ eyes, “You think I’m not used to men looking at me like that already? And I heard that Twiggy remark Mick made about me.” His blue eyes are slightly cold now, and Joe’s mouth falls open but he quickly shuts it.
“Ian, mate, I’m real sorry ‘bout all that.”
Ian nods at the apology, contorting his lips in contemplation, “It’s okay, I guess she’s pretty anyway.”
Joe raises a dark eyebrow, already lost. Weed can do that to you.
“Who?”
“Twiggy.”
“Oh, right.”
Ian hums thoughtfully, looking away from him again, then suddenly he’s standing and brushing the thighs of his pants with his hands. “I should head out too, but it was really cool to meet The Joe Strummer, even if all you did was stare.” He says it playfully, which surprises Joe, and he looks up to find that Ian is even smiling cheekily.
Joe grabs Ian’s hand before his brain even tells him to, stopping the other from taking another step.
“Hold on a minute, you can’t just leave like that.” He closes his eyes to calm his racing heart, suddenly unable to meet Ian’s gaze as he’s overwhelmed with confusing emotions, and all the weed they’d smoked isn’t helping him either.
“Oh,” Ian regards him carefully, not pulling his hand away, but not looking exactly thrilled either. “Er, thank you for sharing your weed, it was really good.”
Joe snorts at that and smirks up at the other, endeared by his equal tenderness. “You’re really sweet, Ian.” He finds himself stroking along Ian’s warm palm with his thumb, and the second he does it he drops Ian’s hand like he’s been burned. “Shit, I’m sorry, I—I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s gotta be the pot.” Joe scoots away from Ian on the windowsill and looks away toward the door, like he wants to bolt.
Ian however, doesn’t move from where he stands, and Joe can feel those eyes burning into his skin. He feels if he were to look back into those eyes right now, that he would burst into a millions pieces.
“Joe, it’s okay. Hey, um.” Ian steps over, and Joe sucks in a gasp when Ian is siding next to him on the windowsill, their thighs damn near touching.
Joe knows he has to be cool now, otherwise Ian might start to get genuinely worried and he doesn’t want to do that to someone he’s just met.
The idea of playing it cool flies out of the window completely when Joe feels Ian’s hand slide onto his lap to grab the fist that he didn’t even realize he’d been making. Joe’s stomach twists with butterflies and he looks up to find Ian looking concerned at him.
“You’re okay, right?” Ian says quietly as he slides two fingers between Joe’s, gently nudging the punk rocker to spread out his hand from the tense fist.
Joe’s whole body shudders with chills when Ian’s palm is pressed flat against his own, and he immediately feels his body relaxing. “Yeah,” he rasps. “I’m okay.”
Ian hums, scooting just a bit closer so their thighs are definitely touching now. He doesn’t say anything else, just sits there and holds Joe’s hand. Not caressing, just holding. Grounding.
After maybe 5 minutes of just sitting there, Joe has calmed down enough to finally speak more than a few words. “I really am sorry about what Mick said, I’ll get him for that later. Needs to watch his fuckin’ mouth sometimes anyway.”
Ian looks away at that, “Joe, really, it’s okay.”
Joe shakes his head. “Nah, not even. You said it upset you, I ain’t okay with it.” He’s adamant, and Ian lets off it after that, nodding wordlessly and pursing his lips as he looks out of the window again. Then he seems to get an idea and his head perks up.
“Hey, would you want to go for a walk? Get some fresh air? I know it’s cold, but I have a coat you can borrow.”
Joe feels like he’s in a dream, and he wonders how the night could possibly get any better than this. “I’d love to.”
Joe is gifted with quite possibly the sweetest smile he’s ever seen in his life. “Terrific.”
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