All The Ways I Never Knew You, pt. 2
Title: All The Ways I Never Knew You
Author: rainjewel
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Green Day; Billie Joe, Tré/Mike
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Summary: Part II. Billie Joe deals with being the third wheel. Tré and Mike make humpies. VERY LONG. No, seriously.
Note: Tons of love to dragonstarlin for doing the beta work. *loves*
Part I.
seven :: billie joe
To make matters worse, Adrienne comes home that night. Billie Joe hears the metallic “snick” of the key sliding into the front door, then the doorknob’s heavy turn, and finally Adrienne as she steps over the threshold.
“Welcome back,” he says into the darkness. He’s sitting in the living room, buried in the armchair that faces the front hallway.
Adrienne screams in surprise at the sound of his voice. Billie Joe feels kind of guilty about frightening her, but her scream is somehow satisfying, like a tumbler of scotch or a cigarette. Billie Joe’s been craving and abstaining from both since leaving Mike’s house this morning.
“God damn it,” Adrienne hisses. Suddenly Billie Joe hears a click and then Adrienne is there, dark hair and eyes highlighted with the warm orange glow of the end table lamp. Billie Joe studies her from across the room. Considers thanking her for not turning on the harsh overhead light-opts instead to ask her where Joey and Jakob are.
“With my mother,” Adrienne replies, and Billie Joe can see the bullets in her words, each one aimed for his heart. “I didn’t want them to be around for this.”
And then, from that one statement, that one heart-stopping, pants-wetting sentence, Billie Joe knows she’s going to leave him. After all, it’s her right-it’s not like he hasn’t left 2,000 times before. Still, he tries to divert her.
“Tré and Mike are fucking,” he tells her. Adrienne’s eyes narrow, confused. “Fucking each other,” he clarifies.
“Really?” Adrienne blurts out, ire momentarily paused.
“I think,” Billie Joe begins, moving his words fast because he knows if he keeps talking about anything but her, his wife is going to be out that front door and gone. “I think we’re done. The band. Maybe Mike-maybe them too.” He looks up and to the left of her, keeping his eyes dry. He runs his hands through his hair by the fistful.
“Adie,” he whispers, trying to look at her and not cry, not fucking cry, “Please, don’t go. I can’t…I can’t lose you too.”
Adrienne stares at him, face turning to glass. Billie Joe watches for the turn of her heel, the jingle of keys, anything that will tell him that she’s leaving. Instead, she comes to him, tiny feet with tiny steps. For a brief moment relief chills his back, and he reaches for her.
And then Adrienne punches him square in the jaw with a tiny, bone-cracking fist. Billie Joe tips over, almost out of the chair, but catches himself on the armrest.
“You bastard,” Adrienne spits, teeth clenched. She leans over him, face close enough that Billie Joe can feel her breath on his split lip.
“How dare you!” She hurls the words into his shocked eyes. She stands up, spine as straight as a prima donna, towering. Billie Joe sinks backward into the chair. “Where do you get off? You come crying to me, your wife, because your two best friends decide they’d rather fuck than hang out with you? That’s why you come back to your family? You utter fuckhead.”
“That’s not-”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Adrienne screams. Billie Joe cowers. “You leave me here, for a month with only an occasional phone call every time you sobered up enough to remember how to fucking dial. Lose me? What about your sons? Lose me, lose them? We can barely keep a hold of you.”
Billie Joe holds his breath. Adrienne stands above him with a pointed finger and heaving shoulders. Her lips are pressed together in a fine line, a sure sign she’s near the breaking point. He reaches out, again.
His fingers make it to her arm, weaving a loose circle around her wrist. Adrienne gasps when he touches her. She jerks her arm from his grip and backhands him. Billie Joe feels the vertebrae in his neck grind together as his head snaps to the side. It’s strangely comforting, like confession. He lets his head tip forward, stares through pain down into his lap.
“Did they finally get tired of your shit too?” Adrienne whispers, words dripping bile. “Did your precious Mike and darling Tré finally get fed up?”
Billie Joe swallows a sob in his throat. “It’s not about me. They don’t…” And he can’t bring himself to say They don’t care, but he doesn’t know why. He’s not sure that it’s a lie.
“I will never understand why,” Adrienne says, voice finally becoming light with the effort of holding tears in, “I’ll never understand how you could love them more than me. Than us. I…”
Adrienne stops talking, losing the battle to hold her sobs in. Billie Joe stares at her, mouth slack in surprise.
“That’s what you…” he trails off. Adrienne presses the back of her hand to her mouth, looking away from him as her shoulders shake. Billie Joe stands up, slowly and white-faced.
“Oh god,” he says, and his voice has become a mangled thing, thick with tears, “I didn’t…I never said that. I don’t, Adie, I don’t.”
“I,” Adrienne says, voice hiccupping, “Hate. You. I hate. You.”
Billie Joe hears this, and doesn’t flinch. Instead he reaches out one last time, quickly, wrapping his arms around his wife. He buries his fingers into the back of Adrienne’s head, keeping her close, her head tucked into the crook of his neck. Adrienne squeaks, then claws at his chest with furious hands. Billie Joe doesn’t let go.
“I could never love anyone more than you and Joey, and Jakob,” he whispers, again and again and again into her hair. Adrienne doesn’t lean on him, but she stops fighting, arms tense against his body. “Never.”
They stand like that for a long time. Adrienne doesn’t say anything, doesn’t forgive him but doesn’t leave him. She doesn’t say I love you, either, but Billie Joe doesn’t care, even if she truly hates him. He just stands and shakes until she finally pushes him away, sniffling.
“You’re really breaking up?” she asks. Billie Joe takes in her red, puffy face. He wants to kiss her.
“I don’t know,” he replies. “But if you want me to-”
“Fuck you,” Adrienne says, cutting him off. Billie Joe watches her warily. She reaches out and rubs at his split lip with one soft finger. He dares to grab her hand with his and kiss her palm. Adrienne snatches her hand back as if burned, but does not slap him.
“You’d better figure yourself out right fucking fast,” she tells him, voice icy cold.
Billie Joe breaks upon her words. “Please don’t leave me,” he begs.
Adrienne says nothing, and Billie Joe cannot stop shaking. She turns away from him, and heads back towards the nursery.
They sleep in separate beds.
eight :: billie joe
Mike Dirnt was the first boy Billie Joe ever kissed. This, he comes to realize, might be the problem.
On Mike’s 21st birthday, three things happen. One, Billie Joe gets horrendously, amazingly drunk, and Mike even more so; Two, Billie Joe witnesses Mike’s anger unleashed for only the third time in his life; and Three…well, the kiss.
Billie Joe hadn’t really planned on getting quite as drunk as he had that night. After all it wasn’t like it was a particularly new experience, bar-hopping. More often than not they’d been rewarded for gigs with whatever was on tap that night. Life of a struggling musician and whatnot.
Billie Joe doesn’t know why they didn’t call Tré . Tré, sweet, goofy Tré who still too young (oh god, were they young) to even legally drink. It was kind of sad really-they’d been playing clubs and bars for years, and finally when they could have a legal drink, Tré wasn’t there.
Billie Joe remembers that he was more upset about that fact than Mike was, and that it’s only been a few months since that has changed.
Whatever the reasoning had been, they’d left the bars late, late into the early morning hours, giggling and stumbling their way to Mike’s house. The trip was a blurry, giddy mess. Billie Joe remembers how ridiculously drunk Mike was-it’s easy to recall how Dirnt had tipped over as they staggered down the street, lanky frame folding over and onto Billie Joe, who had shrieked in hysterical laughter as he stumbled forward with Mike clinging to his waist, fluffy hair against his ear.
However, before they had made it more than a few blocks down the street, Billie Joe had had to stop for Mike’s sudden, eager ire.
Billie Joe had been called “faggot” before. Many times in fact. Back then it was hard to be a musician or even a dude with an earring without being mocked. Billie Joe didn’t really care, then.
Billie Joe had never seen Mike be called a faggot before though.
The man, whoever he was, hadn’t been that tall, but Billie Joe remembers how surprisingly easy it was for Mike-who’s head had snapped off Billie Joe’s shoulder, who’s easy, lean body had instantly stretched into something predatory-to take that stranger by the throat and arm and slam him into the brick wall beside them.
It was so quick, Billie Joe remembers, that he doesn’t know if he’d had time to stop laughing. Back then, faggot wasn’t something that killed the mood, at least not for him.
Mike landed one efficient punch into the man’s gut, and that’s all it took. The man fell, sliding and disintegrating down the brick wall of the shop, hatred burning in eyes. A mouth that had seconds before labeled Mike a “dirty fucking faggot,” and Billie Joe his “fuck toy,” (which to this day pisses Billie Joe off more than it ever did that night-he didn’t ask to be born with a young face) simply huffed, air propelling out between the lips as the stranger hit the cement, winded.
Mike then turned back to Billie Joe, who finally saw the anger in Dirnt’s face but was too surprised and too drunk to really care, and then before that strange, crumpled man, took Billie Joe by the neck and kissed him full on the mouth. Billie Joe remembers the tug at the base of his neck and the hot, unfamiliar domination of Mike’s lips on his. He might have smiled into it, he might have not. Mike might have lingered, he might have not.
When Mike had finally broken the kiss though, he’d turned and looked directly at the man, who was trying to stand up.
“How do you like that?” Mike had spat, words dripping venom. “Faggot.”
And then it was just a dizzy run back to Mike’s house, Billie Joe being dragged along as Mike’s long legs stretched out before him.
They’d collapsed on the front door steps, Billie Joe panting and still fucking laughing with Mike grinning beside him.
“Oh Christ,” Billie Joe had gasped. “That was fucking crazy. You,” he’d pointed at Mike, “Are one goddamn scary dude.”
“He deserved it,” Mike had said, smiling in his easy way. “And the look on his face…”
Billie Joe had let the silence hang for a moment. Then he’d raised the back of his hand to his mouth and glanced at Mike, blushing.
“I can’t believe you kissed me,” he’d said. And after that there wasn’t anything else he could have said. It wasn’t like it was good, or bad, or anything else.
Mike had shrugged. “It seemed like I should.”
“It was kinda weird, don’t you think?”
“No,” Mike had disagreed.
Which was how Billie Joe found out that Mike had kissed other boys before. His good pal Mike, who had abandoned him for college had apparently done some drunken cavorting with other, male people. Straight, male people-like Mike. Billie Joe remembers watching Mike stare into the street, easily recounting his college days. He remembers watching Mike’s mouth, and wondering.
“We were just curious,” Mike had said, and then Billie Joe had scooted his way closer to him, until they were pressed thigh to thigh.
He hadn’t had to ask, which was nice of Mike, ‘cause Billie Joe knows that he never would have done it if he’d had to have given voice to the fact that he wanted to kiss his best friend. Mike had simply…softened, in a way; he just watched Billie Joe lean up into him, not moving, and closed his eyes before Billie Joe closed his.
At first it was disappointing (and if Billie Joe ever chooses to be honest about the entire mess, he’ll say it was disappointing in the end too). Billie Joe knows now that boys, that men, can kiss gently if they want to, but there’s always some naked force behind it. No matter how soft and giving the lips can be, if they’re a man’s there’s always something too raw and edged to ever be gentle.
Only women, who have an agenda behind every kiss, can manage to be soft.
Mike had been as soft as he could be-he didn’t reach out, didn’t encourage, only let Billie Joe dive in, mouth sloppily crashing into his. Mike’s mouth felt full of angles and tasted like shit, Billie Joe remembers, but probably so did his. He remembers surprising himself as he parted Mike’s lips with his tongue, bringing up his hand to cup Mike’s cheek, so much different than a woman’s.
He might as well have kicked Mike in the nuts for the reaction he got. Dirnt had flipped on like a switch when Billie Joe went in for the kill, deepening the kiss. Mike had moaned, throwing Billie Joe off, then suddenly it was Mike’s hands on his shoulders and Mike’s tongue in his mouth, and it was his throat that was moaning. Suddenly Billie Joe had been made aware just how seductive power play could be.
Billie Joe remembers that that was the night he decided to start kissing men more often. Men, who struggled desperately; men, who still couldn’t compete; men, who sometimes kissed better than Mike. Kissing men was something of an adventure, for a while.
Now, Billie Joe knows, adventures end.
nine :: tré
Tré wakes up to the sound of the shower. He doesn’t open his eyes at first, or reach across the bed because he knows Mike’s busy scrubbing the bar from his skin. Instead he focuses on the sound of falling water, rhythmic and soothing; the pounding spray a muffled lullaby in a way.
Eventually Tré cracks one eye open, blurrily staring across the bed to the nightstand. The clock proudly glows. 12:32 p.m.
Motherfuck.
Claudia is going to kill him for sleeping this late. Tré moans, shoves aside the blanket. He stumbles from the bed, running one hand through his hair while the other rubs his belly. He stands, looks to the bathroom door, than looks to the one that leads to the hallway, to Claudia and his son.
Tré pauses, then turns around to the bathroom. If he greets his family smelling like Mike, he’ll only get berated for it. As he pads his way over to the door, he lazily discards his clothing, tossing his laundry onto the bed and floor.
It’s a well-known fact that Mike wakes up grumpy, and when he’s hungover usually he’s a real asshole. However, it’s also a well-known fact that Mike’s preferred hangover treatment is gratuitous fucking. Tré considers himself an expert in this field.
The bathroom is fairly large, he supposes. The master bath, the one he planned, is humongous, with a shower the size of a walk-in closet, but the guest room’s is decent. Tré unceremoniously strolls into the bathroom, eyes flitting to the left towards the mirror above the double sinks, repressing the urge to write swear words in the steam. It’s an urge he’s had since he was eight, but apparently some things never change. Across from the sinks is the shower, steam spilling out in waves. Mike doesn’t appear to have heard him come in, and Tré makes his way to the toilet for a piss.
When he flushes, he grins at Mike’s sharp bark of surprise, followed quickly by some creative swearing as the water runs cold for a few a moments.
Mike yanks the shower door open and stomps out onto the carpeted floor, flinging water every which way. He glares at Tré, hands on his hips, hair sudsy. Tré can’t quite wipe the smile from his face.
“You bastard!” Mike accuses, almost yelling. Tré begins a lazy walk towards the taller man. Mike continues glaring. “You know I hate that.”
Tré stops in front of Mike, hesitating. He can’t quite tell how he wants to take this morning. He knows that Mike needs to talk, but usually if Mike needs to talk it’s Billie Joe’s job to handle that. Tré was never quite as good with words. And last night still is ringing fresh in his mind, Mike’s drunken confession of wanting to be fucked lodged firmly in brain. The option is tantalizing.
Tré decides they can talk after they’re clean. He lifts his arm, watching Mike’s face, and buries a hand in Mike’s soapy hair. Dirnt’s face softens, mostly in the eyes, so Tré darts a hand out and pinches Mike on the nipple, hard. Mike gasps, bites his lip.
“You’re cold,” Tré murmurs, running his hand down Mike’s chest to his belly, drawing lazy, teasing circles just above Dirnt’s quickly stiffening cock. Mike’s eyes close, and he places his hand over the one Tré has buried in his hair. Tré rocks his hips forward then, brushing his stomach against Mike’s dick, and Mike groans. The taller man explodes-he grips Tré’s hand tight and yanks it upward, his other arm coming around to lash itself across Tré’s ass, pulling him up on his tiptoes. Tré yelps as he loses his balance, but is quickly silenced as Mike kisses him.
Tré can’t help but shudder as his warm, naked body careens into Mike’s cold skin, arms scrabbling for purchase along Dirnt’s slick back, and when he moans Mike slips a tongue between his lips and Tré is gone.
It’s easy, really, this game. Tré reaches out to Mike, and Mike in turn devours him.
Mike breaks the kiss, but instead of releasing Tré he reaches down and lifts him completely off his feet. Tré, familiar with this trick, leans up into Mike and hooks his ankles around Mike’s waist. Slinging an arm around Dirnt’s neck he returns Mike’s kiss with equal ferocity.
Mike swiftly steps back into the shower, and Tré gasps as he warm water hits his chest and shoulders, only to lose his breath as Mike slams him into the wall. They learned long ago that if Mike tried to hold Tré up by his own volition, the slippery shower floor would see that they both fall on their asses.
“Warmer in here,” Mike comments, and Tré wonders what exactly he has in mind. Dirnt steps back and lowers Tré to the floor. Tré’s feet hit the slick tile connected to shaky legs, and he waits impatiently as Mike shuts the shower door behind him. Mike turns back towards him and cocks his head to the side under the spray, quickly rinsing his hair as he studies Tré briefly.
“You’re dirty,” Mike says suddenly, and grabs at a bar of soap. “Here, turn around.”
Tré does as he’s told. He braces himself, placing his hands against the wall, bending slightly as Mike’s lithe frame drapes over his from behind. Mike slips a knee between his legs and Tré spreads himself wide, gasping as Mike’s erection brushes his ass.
Mike starts with his arms, running lathered hands up and down, all-business. Next, he glides the soap over Tré’s shoulders and chest, fingers roughly squeezing and teasing his nipples at each pass. Mike ducks his head in as he scrubs, mouth enveloping Tré’s earlobe. Tré cries out as Mike nibbles the delicate skin, his breath beginning to come in short pants. He arches his back as Mike’s hands dip lower, caressing his belly, thrusting his ass back against Mike’s cock.
“Stop it,” Mike hisses, but there’s a tremor in his voice. Tré stills, violently shivering despite the heat.
Suddenly the heat of Mike’s body against his back is gone, and Tré growls. Then comes the thud of knees hitting the shower floor, and Mike’s hands are wrapped around his thigh, sliding up and down his leg. Tré bites his lip and spreads his legs a little wider, and Mike slowly washes the other one.
Mike kisses the back of his thigh. Tré’s breath hitches, then turns to a short, loud exhalation as Mike’s long fingers slide up, cupping his ass with both hands.
“Relax,” Mike commands, voice rough but strangely sweet. Tré feels as if his entire body is coiled tighter than a spring, but he doggedly focuses on unclenching his muscles, slowing his breathing down to keep in time with the steady fall of the shower.
As soon as Tré relaxes, Mike parts Tré’s cheeks, kissing the cleft as he does so. Tré bites his lip, hard, but as Mike leans in and gently tongues his opening, he can’t stop the heaving, heavy gasp that scrambles out of his mouth. Everything in his body seizes up as Mike begins kneading his ass, tongue lapping and thrusting into him. Tré, who’s never been very good at remaining quiet, holds still as the pressure in his loins builds, trying desperately not to cry out, but most importantly trying to quench the need to thrust backwards into Mike’s face. Still, Tré can’t hold on for long.
“Mike,” he whispers, voice jagged. He’s leaning into the wall now, placing as much weight as he can in his arms as his legs shake violently. Mike responds instantly-never slowing, he brings one hand around Tré’s thigh and wraps it around his cock, using his arm as a buffer as Tré begins to buck and writhe against the wall.
Tré fucking mewls as Mike’s fist begins to pump his cock, sliding and squeezing in time with his tongue. He’s dizzy with holding himself in, and pretty soon his self-restraint gives way and his hips begin jerking on their own accord. He leans his cheek against the cool shower wall, panting into the tile. His eyes slam shut and he shudders.
Tré comes hard, screaming, spilling over Mike’s slick, wet hand with the spray of the shower in his face. Mike slides up his trembling body as the orgasm begins to fade, smearing semen over Tré’s belly as he holds him. Mike trails kisses up his spine, and Tré shakes, letting his head loll back onto Mike’s chest when the older man stands up.
Once Tré convinces his knees to work again, he turns around in Mike’s arms. Dirnt has a smug grin on his face, as well as a predatory glint that was missing last night. The water from the shower makes Mike’s skin glean golden in the dim light, and Tré feels desire wash over him in waves.
It’s no secret that Tré can usually be found hornier post-coitus than he was before, and Tré can all ready feel his dick stirring. Mike’s words from last night come back and suddenly Tré can see it-a sharp, clear image of Mike beneath him, long legs twisting in the air.
“Go ahead,” Mike murmurs, looking down into Tré’s eyes. “You can say it. I’m amazing.” Tré snorts.
“You’re amazing,” he says, then snarls and lunges for Mike’s mouth. Dirnt gives a muffled cry of surprise, but Tré swallows the sound as he kisses Mike deeply, tasting himself. Tré kisses Mike long enough to make him dizzy, then slides down to nuzzle Mike’s neck, biting hard enough to leave marks.
“Jesus,” Mike breathes Tré takes his throat in his teeth. “You’re energetic.”
Tré responds to his comment with a particularly hard nip on Mike’s throat. Instead of yelling, however, Mike moans hard, leaning into Tré until the smaller man is pinned against the wall.
“I still need to wash your hair,” Mike comments, and Tré pulls away. He pushes Mike off him, then backs him up to the rear of the shower. Further away from the spray, Mike’s back hits the colder tile and Tré feels his eyes light up as goose bumps begin to dot Mike’s skin and his nipples pebble. Tré raises a hand to cup Mike’s face, then parts Mike’s lips with his fingers.
“Lick,” he commands. Mike obliges, wrapping a hand around Tré’s wrist as his mouth quickly wets his fingers and palm. Tré shudders as Mike tongues his fingertips, and finds his knees still shaky.
“You can wash my hair,” Tré begins, snatching his hand away. He reaches down and slides his hand under Mike’s cock, feeling the slickness of his hand against the velvety skin. Mike’s hips rock forward, and Tré presses his other hand against Mike’s chest, steadying the taller man. He tweaks Mike’s nipple. “You can wash my hair,” Tré restates, “After I’m done sucking you off.”
Mike’s mouth forms a breathless smile, and Tré can’t help himself. He abandons Mike’s erection and takes Dirnt’s face in his hands. Mike growls as the sensation is lost, but Tré silences him with a hard kiss.
“And if you’re really, really good,” Tré whispers into Mike’s mouth, shivering with his newfound authority, “I’ll fuck you so hard tonight you won’t be able to walk for a week.”
That’s it-Mike keens into his mouth at the suggestion, hips bucking against Tré’s. Mike’s hands come up and bury themselves in Tré’s hair, and Tré swiftly sinks to his knees, mouthing every inch of Mike’s body on the way down.
ten :: tré
Frankito is napping when Tré and Mike finally emerge from the bedroom. Rosa, the housekeeper, informs him of this as they both stroll into the kitchen. She also tells them in one long, stern breath that Claudia is gone for the day and possibly the next because her sister’s in town, the cable is on the fritz and Tré is not allowed to try and fix it, and they had better be quieter than they were this morning or she will be leaving for good and Tré can deal with a crying baby all by himself, thank you very much.
This leaves Tré standing in the threshold of the kitchen, rather stunned by the embarrassing notion that Rosa has heard them. He wonders if this happens frequently.
Mike handles the news better.
“Is there coffee?” he asks, slipping around Tré’s stunned form.
“Yes,” Rosa replies. She lowers the whisk in her hands, no longer menacingly pointing it in Tré’s direction. “It’s even your blend.”
Mike’s eyes light up and places a hand on Rosa’s shoulder. “Marry me.”
Rosa smiles, hardened features slipping into something gentle. “Not in a million years. Now sit down, I’m making pancakes.”
Tré watches Mike beeline for the coffeemaker, playfully goosing Rosa as she turns back around to the range. Rosa swats at him with the whisk, and Mike laughs.
A little over a year ago this would have been him and Claudia. She would have been sitting at the counter, drinking orange juice and laughing as he flirted with Rosa and ate things he wasn’t supposed to.
“Oh come on, Tré, lighten up,” Rosa says, snapping him out of his funk. “It’s not as if today was the first time I heard you having sex.”
Behind Rosa, Mike spits his coffee, coughs, and then quickly covers his mouth to hide his chuckling.
Tré feels himself blush all the way to the tips of his ears, and begs for the ground to swallow him whole. Rosa is smiling though, and she winks at him before turning back to whisking the batter.
Mike saunters over, sipping his coffee carefully. “You know,” he says, taking Tré by the hand, “You’re kind of cute when you’re mortified.” He tugs on Tré’s hand, leading him around to the stools by the counter. Mike presses on his shoulders and Tré sits. “Also, strangely pliant.”
“Pliant?” Tré echoes, and then it hits, and he’s laughing and Mike’s grinning, long, spidery fingers on his shoulders. Tré twists on his stool to look up at Mike’s clean face. “I believe you mean devastatingly handsome.”
Rosa snorts, but Mike simply half-grins and leans down into kiss him. Then everything falls into place, and its easy to forget about his life before and remember shaving Mike’s face this morning, and Mike now here, in his kitchen, wearing Tré’s shirts and too-short sweats even though Tré began keeping a collection of Mike’s clothes in his closet a long time ago.
Soon the pancakes are done, and Rosa loads up two plates while Tré shuffles about looking for syrup. Mike kisses Rosa on the cheek as she hands him the plates, and she blushes. Rosa ruffles his hair, and then nicks the syrup from the first cupboard she looks in, much to Tré’s annoyance.
“All right, I’m going shopping for dinner tonight,” Rosa says, wiping her hands on a nearby dishtowel. “Can you boys handle yourselves for a few hours?”
Mike nods, coffee mug firmly attached to his mouth, and Tré manages a “yes,” through the pancake in his mouth.
“Leave the dishes in the sink,” Rosa commands. She winks at them as she turns and leaves the kitchen. Tré and Mike bob their heads in agreement, and wait until they hear the click of the door as Rosa leaves.
“We’re definitely doing the dishes,” Tré says. Mike nods.
They eat for a while. Tré has half a mind to try and feed Mike pancakes, but it’s hard to force a fork between his lips when they seem permanently glued to his coffee cup.
The doorbell rings.
“Got it!” Tré sings, bolting off his stool. He shuffles towards the door. There’s a rule in his house-if he’s home, he answers the door. If Claudia’s home, she answers the door. Reporters, crazy-ass fans, whatever, Tré’s always going to open that damn door, even if he’s in his slippers, because that’s what friendly people do.
With said slippers securely on his feet, Tré yanks the door open.
Billie Joe stands on his front steps, eyes bloodshot and shoulders hunched under a few layers of fabric, but there’s a wildness in his face.
“So,” Billie Joe says, words rushing, “I’m guessing Mike’s here.”
And before Tré can nod, Billie Joe’s hand is pulling his chin down while the other takes a hold of his collar and gently slams Tré’s mouth into his. Tré’s hands come up to press against Billie Joe’s shoulders, surprised and shocked, but he kisses back, eyes slipping shut. This is Billie Joe, this is safe.
The kiss doesn’t take long, and soon Tré feels a rigid tremor zip through Armstrong’s body. Billie Joe pushes him away, wiping his mouth. Tré stumbles a bit as he steps back, eyeing Billie Joe warily.
“I don’t get it,” Billie Joe says, eyes feral. “That wasn’t anything new.”
Suddenly Tré knows why Mike was too drunk to walk last night, and he takes another step back.
eleven :: mike
Mike knows something’s wrong when he can’t hear Tré. Usually when Tré answers the door he greets people with an almost-yell, a Hey dude so loud sometimes that Mike wants to hit him.
Mike puts down his coffee cup, stands. He feels awkward-it’s not like Tré needs protection, it’s not like Mike’s that possessive, but damnit if he doesn’t feel anxious.
Mike sometimes thinks he’s getting old; that he’s a mother hen.
Then he hears a voice-Billie Joe’s. Mike’s stomach drops and he swiftly exits the kitchen, leaving his cooling mug behind.
The first thing that comes to mind is how terrible Billie Joe looks. His eyes are wild, fact too tight, but he’s swamped by his t-shirt and denim jacket, shoulders slumped and chest sunken.
Tré, on the other hand, has a slippered foot on the first step of the stairs, and his expression is a mix of confusion and…fear.
“I didn’t even try your house,” Billie Joe says, eyes locked with Tré’s, tone accusatory. Mike recognizes this, this Billie Joe with a manic smile and a snarling voice. He saw it after Billie Joe’s dad died, and he’s seen it when Adrienne’s threatened to leave him-Billie Joe on his couch, brutally strumming a guitar and screaming for Mike to write this shit down as he works through his anger.
“Billie,” Mike acknowledges. Billie Joe’s head snaps to look at him, cocked to the side and mouth so slack it looks violent. Mike sees his eyes flicker as the hone in on himself, as if Billie Joe was lining up a target.
He’s already backpedaling when Billie Joe darts forward, hands raised and going for his face. Mike braces for a blow, but instead Billie Joe grabs him by the head and drags him in for a heady kiss. Mike freezes as Armstrong’s lips slam into his-he kisses back, habitual, but this time Billie Joe’s kiss isn’t that of a friend, or some dumb prank. Billie Joe is out for blood and he deepens the kiss, hands like a vise around Mike’s skull, keeping him there while Armstrong’s tongue steals through his lips and into his mouth. Bewildered, Mike pulls, backing up, and Billie Joe snarls as their mouths disconnect-a tooth snags, and Mike is left with a tear in his bottom lip.
Mike feels tiny. Billie Joe releases his head and then grabs him by the shirt front, eyes calculating, dragging him back in and Mike can’t seem to get his arms up in time.
He doesn’t even realize it’s Tré that’s punched Billie Joe until Cool’s short frame is standing in front of him, and Billie Joe’s hunched, curling into his right side and holding his jaw. Tré’s shoulders heave and Mike feels his sudden helplessness fade, the cold shock in his belly heating up as his senses react to the anger rolling off Tré’s back in waves.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Tré asks, voice loud but not shrill. Billie Joe stands up, and Mike notices they have twin split lips. Billie Joe’s looks worse.
“You fucking faggot,” Billie Joe hisses.
The hairs stand up on the back of Mike’s neck, but it’s Tré that lunges for Billie Joe. Mike watches Tré’s shoulders curl in ferocity, and he wraps his arms around them, holding Tré back.
“You bastard,” Tré sputters, and Mike can almost feel the rage sweating out Tré’s skin like a black, bloody ooze. It’s frightening, how quickly Tré can switch from clown to raging with a simple word.
Billie Joe is smiling and lightly chuckling. He’s not even looking at Tré, but up into Mike’s eyes.
“Who’s a better kisser?” Billie Joe asks, tilting his head to the side. “Or is that something you’re not going to tell me either?”
Tré goes ballistic in his grip, squirming. Mike holds him close. “What the fuck is wrong with you? What the fuck is going on?” Tré screams.
“Is this what you’re going to do then,” Mike says, staring into Billie Joe’s eyes, “You’re going to make it all my choice? You’re married for fuck’s sake. You don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Billie Joe asks loftily, “After all, I’m the one who’s notorious for kissing all the men?”
“Oh, so now you want credit for being a faggoty, posing slut,” Tré spits, but he’s stopped struggling. “How precious.” He shrugs Mike’s grip off his shoulders, throwing a hand palm down in the air, signaling that he’s not going to attack. He advances on Billie Joe, taking the few small steps until he reaches him.
“All you are,” Tré says, nose to nose with Billie Joe, “Is just fucking jealous that I have something you can’t have, something you don’t even want, and creating stupid problems because you’re too bored with your own loneliness.”
Billie Joe’s face breaks as Tré talks, but it quickly mends itself. “You’re scared,” Billie Joe says simply, scathing.
Tré takes a step back.
“Okay,” Mike says softly. “Okay.” He slides around Tré’s shocked frame and wedges himself between his band mates. He grabs both of their shoulders, and he feels Tré lean into the touch, and he squeezes Billie Joe’s shoulder, hard. The older man tenses, then relaxes. “Everyone, just shut the fuck up,” Mike growls.
He turns to Tré, whose eyes have grown huge with confusion. Mike feels guilty, being too drunk last night to tell him what was going on. Mike still doesn’t even know what’s going on-he would have never guessed that loving Tré would be killing the band, killing Billie Joe.
It’s all so fucking stupid.
He wants Billie Joe to calm down, to stop the staggering, haggard walk and talk of someone possessed. He wants Billie Joe to laugh again, and smile with him as they take on the whole fucking world. He wants to reminisce about the old days and how hard they were, because the fact that they made it through is something phenomenal. He wants Billie Joe to play his harmonica, just for him.
But Mike also wants, so fiercely, to take Tré by the neck and kiss him breathless. He wants to watch Tré’s eyes flicker in the light of the bedroom lamps, and he wants Tré’s teeth on his throat, his hips. He wants to fall asleep with Tré’s breath in his ear and wake up with Tré’s arms and hands imprinted on his skin.
How the fuck, Mike thinks to himself, did we get here? How did I become the one who has to make this choice?
Mike looks away from Tré, removes his hands from both their shoulders.
He turns to Billie Joe, says his name, and Billie Joe’s face falls to the tune of Tré’s footsteps, walking away.
twelve :: mike
“You want me to fuck you?” Mike whispers. The words don’t really sound like his, his voice too needy to really be his own.
Tré hasn’t said much of anything since Mike told him to shut the fuck up, only bent backwards as Mike had done the only thing he could think of-kissed him hard, with teeth and tongue lashing-to somehow smash all the sadness out of Tré’s face. Then he’d left.
It’s been a few days since that feverish, drunken moment at Mike’s front door, with Tré sweating from his effort to not cry, screaming and ranting and damning himself for Claudia’s distaste of a loveless marriage. Now Tré is here again, and Mike has pulled him around to the side of the house where they can’t be seen. For a man so inclined to chatter, Tré seems to rely on simple carnality when it comes to comfort, and Mike’s surprised at his own willingness to throw his life away for it.
I have a daughter. I have a girlfriend, Mike thinks.
“You want me to fuck you?” he whispers, ragged.
Mike asks, because he doesn’t know. That night he’d only kissed Tré, kissed him long and hard, before freaking out and putting them both to bed-Tré on the couch, that is. Now it’s just Tré with his head to the side and his shirt unbuttoned before him, not speaking, only eyeing him with a broken stare. The sun has just set, and Mike can see the goosebumps on Tré’s stomach as the breeze glides by them.
Tré answers after a moment. He runs a hand along Mike’s collarbone, exposed due to the low line of his tank top. Then he grabs the shirt with two hands, and with a slack expression rips Mike’s shirt in half.
“Holy shit,” Mike gasps, and Tré buries his mouth in his chest, lips encircling one pebbled nipple, flicking and sucking. Mike bucks off the wall, and Tré slips a hand up his spine, pressing in between his shoulder blades. As Mike’s skull brushes the rough stone edge of the wall, he grits his teeth and takes it as a yes.
They go to a motel, some cheap if quaint place, far out of the city. Mike drives 500 mph.; Tré naps. It’s a sickening thing to watch, this silent Tré, this half-man, so Mike keeps his eyes on the road and turns the music up. Tré doesn’t move.
Mike supposes that this is the time where he’s supposed to come to his senses, and turn the car around.
When they pull up to a hotel, Mike pays the desk clerk with cash, fumbling for the bills because Tré’s hand’s in his pocket too.
Inside the hotel, when the key’s been carefully set down on the coffee table and Tré has ripped all their clothes to tiny pieces, Mike discovers how truly effortless movement is for Tré. It’s always easy to listen to Tré run his mouth until he slams up against a brick wall, saying the wrong thing. But now, Tré is easy skin beneath his fingers, belly sweat pooling as Mike bruises his inner thighs with his mouth.
Tré’s hands are wrenching the sheets this way and that, and Mike’s having a hard time not relocating his mouth from Tré’s thighs to the raging erection just a tongue’s length above him. He wants to take this slow, to make sure they don’t burn through this and fuck everything up permanently.
Mike hasn’t had to ask for permission, and Tré would never think to ask. When you’re past thirty and suddenly decide that fucking your bandmate is a good idea, there’s not time to stop and reconsider. Mike could have told Tré to fuck off, could have punched him square in the jaw-could have walked away. He doesn’t know why he didn’t. Doesn’t know if he still won’t.
Perhaps this was just the easiest thing to do.
Mike winds his way up Tré’s body through a series of kisses. Tré shudders against his tongue and he hooks Mike’s neck with a cupped hand. Dirnt quickly shimmies the rest of the way up, groaning into Tré’s hungry mouth as his cock brushes against’ Tré’s. Tré’s breath hitches, kiss cut short, and Mike drops more of his weight onto Tré, increasing the friction.
Tré’s arms circle around his shoulders and his lips are fluttering against Mike’s ear.
“I thought you said you were going to fuck me,” Tré whispers, hand sliding over sweaty skin to knead Mike’s ass.
Mike exhales sharply as Tré’s teeth come down on his ear, nibbling. He feels himself slipping away as Tré bucks, grinding their hips together, control fraying at the edges. He pulls back hastily, rearing up and breaking with Tré, straddling his hips.
Tré stares at him, chest and shoulders heaving with his panting breaths. His eyes are blue bright and wary-as if at any moment Mike might leave. Mike recovers and reaches out, placing a hand on Tré’s clavicle, long fingers slipping into the crease of Tré’s throat and shoulder.
“Have you ever done this before?” Mike asks, but he means is this what you want?
“Not…” and here Tré stutters, and Mike feels a cold chill drip down his spine, the feeling he gets it when he fucks up a song or drops the guitar he wasn’t supposed to. “Not with a dude.” Tré runs his hands up Mike’s thighs, then suddenly digs his fingers in. Mike winces.
“I’m not scared,” Tré says, for once using words.. “I want this, okay?” He sits up suddenly, and Mike slides off his legs as Tré comes to him. Tré wraps an arm around the small of Mike’s back while the other grabs his shoulder, and Tré kisses him wetly. Mike watches those cobalt eyes close, feels the cool slick of Tré’s tongue sliding into his, and it’s all he needs.
“Fuck me,” Tré whispers, and Mike can feel the words crawling down his throat.
Something deep inside let’s go, and Mike snaps into action. He pushes against Tré, who scoots back until his shoulders slam into the headboard, Mike following him on all fours. This time when Mike kisses him it’s not the searing, scared mashing of lips their kisses have been tonight, but now it’s more of a beautiful thing-tender if decadent, but no less intense. Tré keens into Mike’s mouth as Dirnt kisses him languidly. The sound shoots straight into all of Mike’s nerve-endings and he eagerly slides his mouth south.
Mike isn’t particularly experienced when it comes to sucking cock, but a few drunken college experiments didn’t leave him without a few tricks. Suffering no grand illusions, Mike’s careful, but he can tell Tré’s impatient. Damning his nerves, he focuses on the sound of Tré’s heavy breathing and the feel of Tré’s thighs against his hands, and then quickly wets his lips and slides his mouth over Tré’s dick, tonguing the velvety skin.
Mike doesn’t gag, and the relief that spills through his veins is a heat. Emboldened, he relaxes his jaw, and gives a good hard suck, pulling back as he does. Tré’s thighs ripple beneath Mike’s hands, and Mike suppresses a smile, opting instead to arch his neck and swallow as much of Tré as he can.
Mike is busy mouthing the delicate skin of Tré’s scrotum when suddenly Tré’s hand comes down firmly on the back of his head, and Tré speaks his name, voice breathy.
“Enough?” Mike asks, raising his head. There’s spit and pre-come on his chin and for the first time he doesn’t mind.
Tré nods, and Mike springs off the bed like a dog loosed from a leash. He quickly hunts down the pants that Tré had ripped off his body earlier, and from them he retrieves a small tube of lubricant and a condom.
Mike nearly runs back onto the bed, scrambling up Tré’s body. Mike kisses him and their teeth clack, but Tré growls in the back of his throat. Tré’s nimble fingers pluck the condom from Mike’s hand and he whaps him on the nose with it. Mike pulls back from the kiss with a yelp, and Tré sassily grins at him. It’s the first time Tré has smiled in weeks, and Mike feels his cock jump at the sight.
“Okay,” Mike admits, and he might be blushing, “Yeah, I totally had this planned.”
Tré waves the condom like a flag. “Let me put it on.”
“Wait,” Mike says, catching Tré’s wrist. He kisses him, softly. “Lube first. Here, turn around and lay down.”
Tré jerks at Mike’s words, and a sharp flash of fear burns through Mike’s blood. Tré’s body tenses, and his face becomes unreadable.
“What?” Mike whispers. Tré looks as if he’s about to say something, but stops. Mike is suddenly, inexplicably irate. Tré, who’s supposed to be spontaneous, uncontrollable, loud and comical, will not fucking say a word to him and that’s all Mike wants.
He knew he was going to do this.
Mike takes Tré by the shoulders, condom and lube falling into his lap. “What is it?” he asks. Surprisingly, Tré answers.
“I want to be able to see your face,” Tré says, softly. “But if you want…”
“Stop it!,” Mike growls, cutting him off. He shakes Tré once, twice, three times. “What you want is what’s important! Damn it. This isn’t some kind of punishment. This isn’t some kind of pity fuck, you stupid, stupid idiot!”
Mike releases Tré, breathing hard. Tré falls back against the headboard, eyes wide and brittle. Oh god, Mike thinks, What did I just do?
And then Mike’s mouth falls open and he can’t seem to stop. “You couldn’t make Claudia happy, that’s fine. You can only make yourself happy and hopefully other people will want the same things as you. That’s all you can do, alright? So whatever you want to do tonight you fucking tell me and then we’ll do it, okay?”
Tré takes the yelling with a blank face, except for the scared look in his eyes. Mike feels the sharp tug of guilt in his belly, the pain of being Tré’s reason to be afraid. Still, he cannot afford to give in to self-pity. As Mike stops his rant, Tré sits up off the headboard.
“What about what you want?” Tré asks, and there’s a scant spark there.
“I want this,” Mike replies, with as much conviction as he can muster. He lunges for Tré, to fuck him until he snaps out of it, to mold him with his hands into something that isn’t so broken.
But Tré’s already up and off the headboard and pressing against Mike’s chest, and it’s Tré’s mouth on his, sliding off and down his jaw line where it attaches itself at the base of Mike’s neck. He might have broken skin, Mike doesn’t know, because all he can feel is Tré’s teeth and tongue on his neck and Tré’s callused, small hands on his dick.
“That’s what I wanted,” Tré says wetly, mouth still busy bruising up Mike’s throat, “I didn’t want you doing something you didn’t want.”
Mike groans in response, Tré’s fingers expertly fingering his balls, palm pressed along the lower edge of his cock.
“Lay down,” he says after a moment, scrambling for control. Tré’s hand jerks roughly up his dick and Mike gasps, but Tré lies down on the pillows, Mike moving down the bed to make room.
Mike takes the condom and lays it on Tré’s belly. Tré laughs a little, but there’s a slight tremor to it that tells Mike he’s nervous.
“Relax,” Mike says, and he smiles at Tré while he slicks his fingers with lube. Mike hustles, and soon he easily settles himself between Tré’s legs, leaning up so that it’s not too hard to kiss him. Tré gamely spreads his legs as wide as he can, then takes Mike’s face in his hands. Mike kisses Tré wetly, tongue sliding past Tré’s lips as he gently enters Tré’s body with his index finger.
“Oh god,” Tré exclaims, body involuntary tensing. Mike makes a shushing sound, waiting for Tré to relax. It takes less time than he thinks, and Tré loosens his muscles. Mike gingerly begins to thrust his finger in and out of Tré, who soon begins to squirm beneath him. Propping his body weight on his left elbow, Mike smiles and murmurs meaningless words into Tré’s ear as Cool buries his face in the crook of Mike’s neck, holding on for life with one arm. The other hand digs into the bed sheets.
“More,” Tré demands huskily after a moment, and Mike obliges, slipping a second digit in. Tré cries out, and his entire body rocks, sliding himself far down onto Mike’s fingers. Mike takes a deep breath and tries to remain focused, but his cock is throbbing so bad he swears he can hear the vibrations in his ears. Soon he slips a third finger inside without warning, and Tré throws his head back, exhaling with a sharp, guttural sound. He thinks that Tré is not going to be a quiet lover. He thrusts his fingers deep and bites his lip as Tré cries out again.
“Get that fucking condom on right now,” Tré says soon, and Mike can’t help but agree. Tré snatches the small foil wrapper off of his belly as Mike eases his fingers out.
With amazing speed, Tré easily slips the rubber on, and Mike can’t hold back his own moan as Tré’s nimble fingers brush his cock. Tré squirts a messy dollop of lubricant onto his hand and then grabs Mike, quickly and efficiently lubing up his erection.
Mike bats Tré’s lingering hands away after a moment, head spinning. Tré falls back against the pillows and the glint of fear that was there earlier has now been replaced by something so primal that Mike shudders. He places a hand right by Tré’s right hip and the other on Tré’s belly.
“Ready?” Mike whispers, hesitating as he positions himself between Tré’s legs. The very tip of his erection brushes Tré’s ass, and the drummer writhes.
“For fuck’s sake,” Tré spits, and grabs fistfuls of the sheets.
Mike takes that as a yes, and then carefully, but swiftly, slides himself into Tré in one thrust. Mike can’t help his wince at Tré’s sharp, high cry of pain/pleasure, a sound he remembers, just as he can’t help the overwhelming sensation of tight heat around his cock, and the way it makes his entire body vibrates. He focuses on Tré’s face, waiting for the okay.
Finally he feels Tré relax around him and Cool’s eyes open, and Mike rocks his hips, ever so softly. The sensation is a mini-explosion in his ears, and he hears his moan mixed with Tré’s. He does it again, only harder this time, and Tré rocks with him.
As Mike lowers himself onto his elbows and begins to fall into a rhythm, Tré reaches up and kisses him, hard. Mike thinks briefly about saying I love you, then doesn’t.
Mike has been told he’s a very attentive lover, a good one. But Mike is not prepared for the sheer ferocity of one Tré Cool. Within a few thrusts Tré has opened himself wide, and Mike finds himself amazed at the complete abandon Tré gives himself over to. Tré writhes against the sheets, and as Mike slows and speeds, setting the rhythm, Tré matches him with such synchronism that Mike knows his orgasm is going to arrive faster and take him harder than he was betting on.
Mike comes first, vision blurring in the last seconds as he rears back. He keeps thrusting through the orgasm, and Tré comes only a few moments later, Mike’s hand squeezing his cock. Tré comes loudly, and Mike can only grin at the sound.
They deal with the clean-up quickly-Tré slides the condom off Mike quickly and marches to the bathroom where he flushes it down the toilet. Mike watches Tré wipe the semen off his belly with a washcloth, busying himself with smoothing the sheets. Some small neurotic part of him wonders when the other shoe is going to drop.
Tré laughs as he walks back towards the bed. Mike throws him a quizzical look.
“I thought I’d be walking funny,” Tré explains, and Mike bursts into giggles despite himself.
Five minutes later, Tré has turned off the lights and under the sheets with Mike. Mike is surprised to find himself curling into Tré, his head resting Tré’s shoulder. Mike remembers waking up, sometimes, like this when they were young and the band was just starting. Waking in fans’ houses with entangled limbs, from bodies seeking heat during the night. Mike remembers the laughter in the morning, and Tré blushing when Billie Joe or Mike kissed him.
Tré throws an arm around Mike as they begin to doze off, as if protecting him. Mike wants to ask Tré if he’s alright, if this was okay, or even if Tré would like more of the blanket, anything, but the moment feels too fragile now that his lust has subsided. He wonders what it means to be held by someone you love, and when one kind of love becomes another.
Mike falls asleep with Tré’s strong, wounded arm around his shoulders and feels better than he has in years.
Author: rainjewel
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Green Day; Billie Joe, Tré/Mike
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Summary: Part II. Billie Joe deals with being the third wheel. Tré and Mike make humpies. VERY LONG. No, seriously.
Note: Tons of love to dragonstarlin for doing the beta work. *loves*
Part I.
seven :: billie joe
To make matters worse, Adrienne comes home that night. Billie Joe hears the metallic “snick” of the key sliding into the front door, then the doorknob’s heavy turn, and finally Adrienne as she steps over the threshold.
“Welcome back,” he says into the darkness. He’s sitting in the living room, buried in the armchair that faces the front hallway.
Adrienne screams in surprise at the sound of his voice. Billie Joe feels kind of guilty about frightening her, but her scream is somehow satisfying, like a tumbler of scotch or a cigarette. Billie Joe’s been craving and abstaining from both since leaving Mike’s house this morning.
“God damn it,” Adrienne hisses. Suddenly Billie Joe hears a click and then Adrienne is there, dark hair and eyes highlighted with the warm orange glow of the end table lamp. Billie Joe studies her from across the room. Considers thanking her for not turning on the harsh overhead light-opts instead to ask her where Joey and Jakob are.
“With my mother,” Adrienne replies, and Billie Joe can see the bullets in her words, each one aimed for his heart. “I didn’t want them to be around for this.”
And then, from that one statement, that one heart-stopping, pants-wetting sentence, Billie Joe knows she’s going to leave him. After all, it’s her right-it’s not like he hasn’t left 2,000 times before. Still, he tries to divert her.
“Tré and Mike are fucking,” he tells her. Adrienne’s eyes narrow, confused. “Fucking each other,” he clarifies.
“Really?” Adrienne blurts out, ire momentarily paused.
“I think,” Billie Joe begins, moving his words fast because he knows if he keeps talking about anything but her, his wife is going to be out that front door and gone. “I think we’re done. The band. Maybe Mike-maybe them too.” He looks up and to the left of her, keeping his eyes dry. He runs his hands through his hair by the fistful.
“Adie,” he whispers, trying to look at her and not cry, not fucking cry, “Please, don’t go. I can’t…I can’t lose you too.”
Adrienne stares at him, face turning to glass. Billie Joe watches for the turn of her heel, the jingle of keys, anything that will tell him that she’s leaving. Instead, she comes to him, tiny feet with tiny steps. For a brief moment relief chills his back, and he reaches for her.
And then Adrienne punches him square in the jaw with a tiny, bone-cracking fist. Billie Joe tips over, almost out of the chair, but catches himself on the armrest.
“You bastard,” Adrienne spits, teeth clenched. She leans over him, face close enough that Billie Joe can feel her breath on his split lip.
“How dare you!” She hurls the words into his shocked eyes. She stands up, spine as straight as a prima donna, towering. Billie Joe sinks backward into the chair. “Where do you get off? You come crying to me, your wife, because your two best friends decide they’d rather fuck than hang out with you? That’s why you come back to your family? You utter fuckhead.”
“That’s not-”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Adrienne screams. Billie Joe cowers. “You leave me here, for a month with only an occasional phone call every time you sobered up enough to remember how to fucking dial. Lose me? What about your sons? Lose me, lose them? We can barely keep a hold of you.”
Billie Joe holds his breath. Adrienne stands above him with a pointed finger and heaving shoulders. Her lips are pressed together in a fine line, a sure sign she’s near the breaking point. He reaches out, again.
His fingers make it to her arm, weaving a loose circle around her wrist. Adrienne gasps when he touches her. She jerks her arm from his grip and backhands him. Billie Joe feels the vertebrae in his neck grind together as his head snaps to the side. It’s strangely comforting, like confession. He lets his head tip forward, stares through pain down into his lap.
“Did they finally get tired of your shit too?” Adrienne whispers, words dripping bile. “Did your precious Mike and darling Tré finally get fed up?”
Billie Joe swallows a sob in his throat. “It’s not about me. They don’t…” And he can’t bring himself to say They don’t care, but he doesn’t know why. He’s not sure that it’s a lie.
“I will never understand why,” Adrienne says, voice finally becoming light with the effort of holding tears in, “I’ll never understand how you could love them more than me. Than us. I…”
Adrienne stops talking, losing the battle to hold her sobs in. Billie Joe stares at her, mouth slack in surprise.
“That’s what you…” he trails off. Adrienne presses the back of her hand to her mouth, looking away from him as her shoulders shake. Billie Joe stands up, slowly and white-faced.
“Oh god,” he says, and his voice has become a mangled thing, thick with tears, “I didn’t…I never said that. I don’t, Adie, I don’t.”
“I,” Adrienne says, voice hiccupping, “Hate. You. I hate. You.”
Billie Joe hears this, and doesn’t flinch. Instead he reaches out one last time, quickly, wrapping his arms around his wife. He buries his fingers into the back of Adrienne’s head, keeping her close, her head tucked into the crook of his neck. Adrienne squeaks, then claws at his chest with furious hands. Billie Joe doesn’t let go.
“I could never love anyone more than you and Joey, and Jakob,” he whispers, again and again and again into her hair. Adrienne doesn’t lean on him, but she stops fighting, arms tense against his body. “Never.”
They stand like that for a long time. Adrienne doesn’t say anything, doesn’t forgive him but doesn’t leave him. She doesn’t say I love you, either, but Billie Joe doesn’t care, even if she truly hates him. He just stands and shakes until she finally pushes him away, sniffling.
“You’re really breaking up?” she asks. Billie Joe takes in her red, puffy face. He wants to kiss her.
“I don’t know,” he replies. “But if you want me to-”
“Fuck you,” Adrienne says, cutting him off. Billie Joe watches her warily. She reaches out and rubs at his split lip with one soft finger. He dares to grab her hand with his and kiss her palm. Adrienne snatches her hand back as if burned, but does not slap him.
“You’d better figure yourself out right fucking fast,” she tells him, voice icy cold.
Billie Joe breaks upon her words. “Please don’t leave me,” he begs.
Adrienne says nothing, and Billie Joe cannot stop shaking. She turns away from him, and heads back towards the nursery.
They sleep in separate beds.
eight :: billie joe
Mike Dirnt was the first boy Billie Joe ever kissed. This, he comes to realize, might be the problem.
On Mike’s 21st birthday, three things happen. One, Billie Joe gets horrendously, amazingly drunk, and Mike even more so; Two, Billie Joe witnesses Mike’s anger unleashed for only the third time in his life; and Three…well, the kiss.
Billie Joe hadn’t really planned on getting quite as drunk as he had that night. After all it wasn’t like it was a particularly new experience, bar-hopping. More often than not they’d been rewarded for gigs with whatever was on tap that night. Life of a struggling musician and whatnot.
Billie Joe doesn’t know why they didn’t call Tré . Tré, sweet, goofy Tré who still too young (oh god, were they young) to even legally drink. It was kind of sad really-they’d been playing clubs and bars for years, and finally when they could have a legal drink, Tré wasn’t there.
Billie Joe remembers that he was more upset about that fact than Mike was, and that it’s only been a few months since that has changed.
Whatever the reasoning had been, they’d left the bars late, late into the early morning hours, giggling and stumbling their way to Mike’s house. The trip was a blurry, giddy mess. Billie Joe remembers how ridiculously drunk Mike was-it’s easy to recall how Dirnt had tipped over as they staggered down the street, lanky frame folding over and onto Billie Joe, who had shrieked in hysterical laughter as he stumbled forward with Mike clinging to his waist, fluffy hair against his ear.
However, before they had made it more than a few blocks down the street, Billie Joe had had to stop for Mike’s sudden, eager ire.
Billie Joe had been called “faggot” before. Many times in fact. Back then it was hard to be a musician or even a dude with an earring without being mocked. Billie Joe didn’t really care, then.
Billie Joe had never seen Mike be called a faggot before though.
The man, whoever he was, hadn’t been that tall, but Billie Joe remembers how surprisingly easy it was for Mike-who’s head had snapped off Billie Joe’s shoulder, who’s easy, lean body had instantly stretched into something predatory-to take that stranger by the throat and arm and slam him into the brick wall beside them.
It was so quick, Billie Joe remembers, that he doesn’t know if he’d had time to stop laughing. Back then, faggot wasn’t something that killed the mood, at least not for him.
Mike landed one efficient punch into the man’s gut, and that’s all it took. The man fell, sliding and disintegrating down the brick wall of the shop, hatred burning in eyes. A mouth that had seconds before labeled Mike a “dirty fucking faggot,” and Billie Joe his “fuck toy,” (which to this day pisses Billie Joe off more than it ever did that night-he didn’t ask to be born with a young face) simply huffed, air propelling out between the lips as the stranger hit the cement, winded.
Mike then turned back to Billie Joe, who finally saw the anger in Dirnt’s face but was too surprised and too drunk to really care, and then before that strange, crumpled man, took Billie Joe by the neck and kissed him full on the mouth. Billie Joe remembers the tug at the base of his neck and the hot, unfamiliar domination of Mike’s lips on his. He might have smiled into it, he might have not. Mike might have lingered, he might have not.
When Mike had finally broken the kiss though, he’d turned and looked directly at the man, who was trying to stand up.
“How do you like that?” Mike had spat, words dripping venom. “Faggot.”
And then it was just a dizzy run back to Mike’s house, Billie Joe being dragged along as Mike’s long legs stretched out before him.
They’d collapsed on the front door steps, Billie Joe panting and still fucking laughing with Mike grinning beside him.
“Oh Christ,” Billie Joe had gasped. “That was fucking crazy. You,” he’d pointed at Mike, “Are one goddamn scary dude.”
“He deserved it,” Mike had said, smiling in his easy way. “And the look on his face…”
Billie Joe had let the silence hang for a moment. Then he’d raised the back of his hand to his mouth and glanced at Mike, blushing.
“I can’t believe you kissed me,” he’d said. And after that there wasn’t anything else he could have said. It wasn’t like it was good, or bad, or anything else.
Mike had shrugged. “It seemed like I should.”
“It was kinda weird, don’t you think?”
“No,” Mike had disagreed.
Which was how Billie Joe found out that Mike had kissed other boys before. His good pal Mike, who had abandoned him for college had apparently done some drunken cavorting with other, male people. Straight, male people-like Mike. Billie Joe remembers watching Mike stare into the street, easily recounting his college days. He remembers watching Mike’s mouth, and wondering.
“We were just curious,” Mike had said, and then Billie Joe had scooted his way closer to him, until they were pressed thigh to thigh.
He hadn’t had to ask, which was nice of Mike, ‘cause Billie Joe knows that he never would have done it if he’d had to have given voice to the fact that he wanted to kiss his best friend. Mike had simply…softened, in a way; he just watched Billie Joe lean up into him, not moving, and closed his eyes before Billie Joe closed his.
At first it was disappointing (and if Billie Joe ever chooses to be honest about the entire mess, he’ll say it was disappointing in the end too). Billie Joe knows now that boys, that men, can kiss gently if they want to, but there’s always some naked force behind it. No matter how soft and giving the lips can be, if they’re a man’s there’s always something too raw and edged to ever be gentle.
Only women, who have an agenda behind every kiss, can manage to be soft.
Mike had been as soft as he could be-he didn’t reach out, didn’t encourage, only let Billie Joe dive in, mouth sloppily crashing into his. Mike’s mouth felt full of angles and tasted like shit, Billie Joe remembers, but probably so did his. He remembers surprising himself as he parted Mike’s lips with his tongue, bringing up his hand to cup Mike’s cheek, so much different than a woman’s.
He might as well have kicked Mike in the nuts for the reaction he got. Dirnt had flipped on like a switch when Billie Joe went in for the kill, deepening the kiss. Mike had moaned, throwing Billie Joe off, then suddenly it was Mike’s hands on his shoulders and Mike’s tongue in his mouth, and it was his throat that was moaning. Suddenly Billie Joe had been made aware just how seductive power play could be.
Billie Joe remembers that that was the night he decided to start kissing men more often. Men, who struggled desperately; men, who still couldn’t compete; men, who sometimes kissed better than Mike. Kissing men was something of an adventure, for a while.
Now, Billie Joe knows, adventures end.
nine :: tré
Tré wakes up to the sound of the shower. He doesn’t open his eyes at first, or reach across the bed because he knows Mike’s busy scrubbing the bar from his skin. Instead he focuses on the sound of falling water, rhythmic and soothing; the pounding spray a muffled lullaby in a way.
Eventually Tré cracks one eye open, blurrily staring across the bed to the nightstand. The clock proudly glows. 12:32 p.m.
Motherfuck.
Claudia is going to kill him for sleeping this late. Tré moans, shoves aside the blanket. He stumbles from the bed, running one hand through his hair while the other rubs his belly. He stands, looks to the bathroom door, than looks to the one that leads to the hallway, to Claudia and his son.
Tré pauses, then turns around to the bathroom. If he greets his family smelling like Mike, he’ll only get berated for it. As he pads his way over to the door, he lazily discards his clothing, tossing his laundry onto the bed and floor.
It’s a well-known fact that Mike wakes up grumpy, and when he’s hungover usually he’s a real asshole. However, it’s also a well-known fact that Mike’s preferred hangover treatment is gratuitous fucking. Tré considers himself an expert in this field.
The bathroom is fairly large, he supposes. The master bath, the one he planned, is humongous, with a shower the size of a walk-in closet, but the guest room’s is decent. Tré unceremoniously strolls into the bathroom, eyes flitting to the left towards the mirror above the double sinks, repressing the urge to write swear words in the steam. It’s an urge he’s had since he was eight, but apparently some things never change. Across from the sinks is the shower, steam spilling out in waves. Mike doesn’t appear to have heard him come in, and Tré makes his way to the toilet for a piss.
When he flushes, he grins at Mike’s sharp bark of surprise, followed quickly by some creative swearing as the water runs cold for a few a moments.
Mike yanks the shower door open and stomps out onto the carpeted floor, flinging water every which way. He glares at Tré, hands on his hips, hair sudsy. Tré can’t quite wipe the smile from his face.
“You bastard!” Mike accuses, almost yelling. Tré begins a lazy walk towards the taller man. Mike continues glaring. “You know I hate that.”
Tré stops in front of Mike, hesitating. He can’t quite tell how he wants to take this morning. He knows that Mike needs to talk, but usually if Mike needs to talk it’s Billie Joe’s job to handle that. Tré was never quite as good with words. And last night still is ringing fresh in his mind, Mike’s drunken confession of wanting to be fucked lodged firmly in brain. The option is tantalizing.
Tré decides they can talk after they’re clean. He lifts his arm, watching Mike’s face, and buries a hand in Mike’s soapy hair. Dirnt’s face softens, mostly in the eyes, so Tré darts a hand out and pinches Mike on the nipple, hard. Mike gasps, bites his lip.
“You’re cold,” Tré murmurs, running his hand down Mike’s chest to his belly, drawing lazy, teasing circles just above Dirnt’s quickly stiffening cock. Mike’s eyes close, and he places his hand over the one Tré has buried in his hair. Tré rocks his hips forward then, brushing his stomach against Mike’s dick, and Mike groans. The taller man explodes-he grips Tré’s hand tight and yanks it upward, his other arm coming around to lash itself across Tré’s ass, pulling him up on his tiptoes. Tré yelps as he loses his balance, but is quickly silenced as Mike kisses him.
Tré can’t help but shudder as his warm, naked body careens into Mike’s cold skin, arms scrabbling for purchase along Dirnt’s slick back, and when he moans Mike slips a tongue between his lips and Tré is gone.
It’s easy, really, this game. Tré reaches out to Mike, and Mike in turn devours him.
Mike breaks the kiss, but instead of releasing Tré he reaches down and lifts him completely off his feet. Tré, familiar with this trick, leans up into Mike and hooks his ankles around Mike’s waist. Slinging an arm around Dirnt’s neck he returns Mike’s kiss with equal ferocity.
Mike swiftly steps back into the shower, and Tré gasps as he warm water hits his chest and shoulders, only to lose his breath as Mike slams him into the wall. They learned long ago that if Mike tried to hold Tré up by his own volition, the slippery shower floor would see that they both fall on their asses.
“Warmer in here,” Mike comments, and Tré wonders what exactly he has in mind. Dirnt steps back and lowers Tré to the floor. Tré’s feet hit the slick tile connected to shaky legs, and he waits impatiently as Mike shuts the shower door behind him. Mike turns back towards him and cocks his head to the side under the spray, quickly rinsing his hair as he studies Tré briefly.
“You’re dirty,” Mike says suddenly, and grabs at a bar of soap. “Here, turn around.”
Tré does as he’s told. He braces himself, placing his hands against the wall, bending slightly as Mike’s lithe frame drapes over his from behind. Mike slips a knee between his legs and Tré spreads himself wide, gasping as Mike’s erection brushes his ass.
Mike starts with his arms, running lathered hands up and down, all-business. Next, he glides the soap over Tré’s shoulders and chest, fingers roughly squeezing and teasing his nipples at each pass. Mike ducks his head in as he scrubs, mouth enveloping Tré’s earlobe. Tré cries out as Mike nibbles the delicate skin, his breath beginning to come in short pants. He arches his back as Mike’s hands dip lower, caressing his belly, thrusting his ass back against Mike’s cock.
“Stop it,” Mike hisses, but there’s a tremor in his voice. Tré stills, violently shivering despite the heat.
Suddenly the heat of Mike’s body against his back is gone, and Tré growls. Then comes the thud of knees hitting the shower floor, and Mike’s hands are wrapped around his thigh, sliding up and down his leg. Tré bites his lip and spreads his legs a little wider, and Mike slowly washes the other one.
Mike kisses the back of his thigh. Tré’s breath hitches, then turns to a short, loud exhalation as Mike’s long fingers slide up, cupping his ass with both hands.
“Relax,” Mike commands, voice rough but strangely sweet. Tré feels as if his entire body is coiled tighter than a spring, but he doggedly focuses on unclenching his muscles, slowing his breathing down to keep in time with the steady fall of the shower.
As soon as Tré relaxes, Mike parts Tré’s cheeks, kissing the cleft as he does so. Tré bites his lip, hard, but as Mike leans in and gently tongues his opening, he can’t stop the heaving, heavy gasp that scrambles out of his mouth. Everything in his body seizes up as Mike begins kneading his ass, tongue lapping and thrusting into him. Tré, who’s never been very good at remaining quiet, holds still as the pressure in his loins builds, trying desperately not to cry out, but most importantly trying to quench the need to thrust backwards into Mike’s face. Still, Tré can’t hold on for long.
“Mike,” he whispers, voice jagged. He’s leaning into the wall now, placing as much weight as he can in his arms as his legs shake violently. Mike responds instantly-never slowing, he brings one hand around Tré’s thigh and wraps it around his cock, using his arm as a buffer as Tré begins to buck and writhe against the wall.
Tré fucking mewls as Mike’s fist begins to pump his cock, sliding and squeezing in time with his tongue. He’s dizzy with holding himself in, and pretty soon his self-restraint gives way and his hips begin jerking on their own accord. He leans his cheek against the cool shower wall, panting into the tile. His eyes slam shut and he shudders.
Tré comes hard, screaming, spilling over Mike’s slick, wet hand with the spray of the shower in his face. Mike slides up his trembling body as the orgasm begins to fade, smearing semen over Tré’s belly as he holds him. Mike trails kisses up his spine, and Tré shakes, letting his head loll back onto Mike’s chest when the older man stands up.
Once Tré convinces his knees to work again, he turns around in Mike’s arms. Dirnt has a smug grin on his face, as well as a predatory glint that was missing last night. The water from the shower makes Mike’s skin glean golden in the dim light, and Tré feels desire wash over him in waves.
It’s no secret that Tré can usually be found hornier post-coitus than he was before, and Tré can all ready feel his dick stirring. Mike’s words from last night come back and suddenly Tré can see it-a sharp, clear image of Mike beneath him, long legs twisting in the air.
“Go ahead,” Mike murmurs, looking down into Tré’s eyes. “You can say it. I’m amazing.” Tré snorts.
“You’re amazing,” he says, then snarls and lunges for Mike’s mouth. Dirnt gives a muffled cry of surprise, but Tré swallows the sound as he kisses Mike deeply, tasting himself. Tré kisses Mike long enough to make him dizzy, then slides down to nuzzle Mike’s neck, biting hard enough to leave marks.
“Jesus,” Mike breathes Tré takes his throat in his teeth. “You’re energetic.”
Tré responds to his comment with a particularly hard nip on Mike’s throat. Instead of yelling, however, Mike moans hard, leaning into Tré until the smaller man is pinned against the wall.
“I still need to wash your hair,” Mike comments, and Tré pulls away. He pushes Mike off him, then backs him up to the rear of the shower. Further away from the spray, Mike’s back hits the colder tile and Tré feels his eyes light up as goose bumps begin to dot Mike’s skin and his nipples pebble. Tré raises a hand to cup Mike’s face, then parts Mike’s lips with his fingers.
“Lick,” he commands. Mike obliges, wrapping a hand around Tré’s wrist as his mouth quickly wets his fingers and palm. Tré shudders as Mike tongues his fingertips, and finds his knees still shaky.
“You can wash my hair,” Tré begins, snatching his hand away. He reaches down and slides his hand under Mike’s cock, feeling the slickness of his hand against the velvety skin. Mike’s hips rock forward, and Tré presses his other hand against Mike’s chest, steadying the taller man. He tweaks Mike’s nipple. “You can wash my hair,” Tré restates, “After I’m done sucking you off.”
Mike’s mouth forms a breathless smile, and Tré can’t help himself. He abandons Mike’s erection and takes Dirnt’s face in his hands. Mike growls as the sensation is lost, but Tré silences him with a hard kiss.
“And if you’re really, really good,” Tré whispers into Mike’s mouth, shivering with his newfound authority, “I’ll fuck you so hard tonight you won’t be able to walk for a week.”
That’s it-Mike keens into his mouth at the suggestion, hips bucking against Tré’s. Mike’s hands come up and bury themselves in Tré’s hair, and Tré swiftly sinks to his knees, mouthing every inch of Mike’s body on the way down.
ten :: tré
Frankito is napping when Tré and Mike finally emerge from the bedroom. Rosa, the housekeeper, informs him of this as they both stroll into the kitchen. She also tells them in one long, stern breath that Claudia is gone for the day and possibly the next because her sister’s in town, the cable is on the fritz and Tré is not allowed to try and fix it, and they had better be quieter than they were this morning or she will be leaving for good and Tré can deal with a crying baby all by himself, thank you very much.
This leaves Tré standing in the threshold of the kitchen, rather stunned by the embarrassing notion that Rosa has heard them. He wonders if this happens frequently.
Mike handles the news better.
“Is there coffee?” he asks, slipping around Tré’s stunned form.
“Yes,” Rosa replies. She lowers the whisk in her hands, no longer menacingly pointing it in Tré’s direction. “It’s even your blend.”
Mike’s eyes light up and places a hand on Rosa’s shoulder. “Marry me.”
Rosa smiles, hardened features slipping into something gentle. “Not in a million years. Now sit down, I’m making pancakes.”
Tré watches Mike beeline for the coffeemaker, playfully goosing Rosa as she turns back around to the range. Rosa swats at him with the whisk, and Mike laughs.
A little over a year ago this would have been him and Claudia. She would have been sitting at the counter, drinking orange juice and laughing as he flirted with Rosa and ate things he wasn’t supposed to.
“Oh come on, Tré, lighten up,” Rosa says, snapping him out of his funk. “It’s not as if today was the first time I heard you having sex.”
Behind Rosa, Mike spits his coffee, coughs, and then quickly covers his mouth to hide his chuckling.
Tré feels himself blush all the way to the tips of his ears, and begs for the ground to swallow him whole. Rosa is smiling though, and she winks at him before turning back to whisking the batter.
Mike saunters over, sipping his coffee carefully. “You know,” he says, taking Tré by the hand, “You’re kind of cute when you’re mortified.” He tugs on Tré’s hand, leading him around to the stools by the counter. Mike presses on his shoulders and Tré sits. “Also, strangely pliant.”
“Pliant?” Tré echoes, and then it hits, and he’s laughing and Mike’s grinning, long, spidery fingers on his shoulders. Tré twists on his stool to look up at Mike’s clean face. “I believe you mean devastatingly handsome.”
Rosa snorts, but Mike simply half-grins and leans down into kiss him. Then everything falls into place, and its easy to forget about his life before and remember shaving Mike’s face this morning, and Mike now here, in his kitchen, wearing Tré’s shirts and too-short sweats even though Tré began keeping a collection of Mike’s clothes in his closet a long time ago.
Soon the pancakes are done, and Rosa loads up two plates while Tré shuffles about looking for syrup. Mike kisses Rosa on the cheek as she hands him the plates, and she blushes. Rosa ruffles his hair, and then nicks the syrup from the first cupboard she looks in, much to Tré’s annoyance.
“All right, I’m going shopping for dinner tonight,” Rosa says, wiping her hands on a nearby dishtowel. “Can you boys handle yourselves for a few hours?”
Mike nods, coffee mug firmly attached to his mouth, and Tré manages a “yes,” through the pancake in his mouth.
“Leave the dishes in the sink,” Rosa commands. She winks at them as she turns and leaves the kitchen. Tré and Mike bob their heads in agreement, and wait until they hear the click of the door as Rosa leaves.
“We’re definitely doing the dishes,” Tré says. Mike nods.
They eat for a while. Tré has half a mind to try and feed Mike pancakes, but it’s hard to force a fork between his lips when they seem permanently glued to his coffee cup.
The doorbell rings.
“Got it!” Tré sings, bolting off his stool. He shuffles towards the door. There’s a rule in his house-if he’s home, he answers the door. If Claudia’s home, she answers the door. Reporters, crazy-ass fans, whatever, Tré’s always going to open that damn door, even if he’s in his slippers, because that’s what friendly people do.
With said slippers securely on his feet, Tré yanks the door open.
Billie Joe stands on his front steps, eyes bloodshot and shoulders hunched under a few layers of fabric, but there’s a wildness in his face.
“So,” Billie Joe says, words rushing, “I’m guessing Mike’s here.”
And before Tré can nod, Billie Joe’s hand is pulling his chin down while the other takes a hold of his collar and gently slams Tré’s mouth into his. Tré’s hands come up to press against Billie Joe’s shoulders, surprised and shocked, but he kisses back, eyes slipping shut. This is Billie Joe, this is safe.
The kiss doesn’t take long, and soon Tré feels a rigid tremor zip through Armstrong’s body. Billie Joe pushes him away, wiping his mouth. Tré stumbles a bit as he steps back, eyeing Billie Joe warily.
“I don’t get it,” Billie Joe says, eyes feral. “That wasn’t anything new.”
Suddenly Tré knows why Mike was too drunk to walk last night, and he takes another step back.
eleven :: mike
Mike knows something’s wrong when he can’t hear Tré. Usually when Tré answers the door he greets people with an almost-yell, a Hey dude so loud sometimes that Mike wants to hit him.
Mike puts down his coffee cup, stands. He feels awkward-it’s not like Tré needs protection, it’s not like Mike’s that possessive, but damnit if he doesn’t feel anxious.
Mike sometimes thinks he’s getting old; that he’s a mother hen.
Then he hears a voice-Billie Joe’s. Mike’s stomach drops and he swiftly exits the kitchen, leaving his cooling mug behind.
The first thing that comes to mind is how terrible Billie Joe looks. His eyes are wild, fact too tight, but he’s swamped by his t-shirt and denim jacket, shoulders slumped and chest sunken.
Tré, on the other hand, has a slippered foot on the first step of the stairs, and his expression is a mix of confusion and…fear.
“I didn’t even try your house,” Billie Joe says, eyes locked with Tré’s, tone accusatory. Mike recognizes this, this Billie Joe with a manic smile and a snarling voice. He saw it after Billie Joe’s dad died, and he’s seen it when Adrienne’s threatened to leave him-Billie Joe on his couch, brutally strumming a guitar and screaming for Mike to write this shit down as he works through his anger.
“Billie,” Mike acknowledges. Billie Joe’s head snaps to look at him, cocked to the side and mouth so slack it looks violent. Mike sees his eyes flicker as the hone in on himself, as if Billie Joe was lining up a target.
He’s already backpedaling when Billie Joe darts forward, hands raised and going for his face. Mike braces for a blow, but instead Billie Joe grabs him by the head and drags him in for a heady kiss. Mike freezes as Armstrong’s lips slam into his-he kisses back, habitual, but this time Billie Joe’s kiss isn’t that of a friend, or some dumb prank. Billie Joe is out for blood and he deepens the kiss, hands like a vise around Mike’s skull, keeping him there while Armstrong’s tongue steals through his lips and into his mouth. Bewildered, Mike pulls, backing up, and Billie Joe snarls as their mouths disconnect-a tooth snags, and Mike is left with a tear in his bottom lip.
Mike feels tiny. Billie Joe releases his head and then grabs him by the shirt front, eyes calculating, dragging him back in and Mike can’t seem to get his arms up in time.
He doesn’t even realize it’s Tré that’s punched Billie Joe until Cool’s short frame is standing in front of him, and Billie Joe’s hunched, curling into his right side and holding his jaw. Tré’s shoulders heave and Mike feels his sudden helplessness fade, the cold shock in his belly heating up as his senses react to the anger rolling off Tré’s back in waves.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Tré asks, voice loud but not shrill. Billie Joe stands up, and Mike notices they have twin split lips. Billie Joe’s looks worse.
“You fucking faggot,” Billie Joe hisses.
The hairs stand up on the back of Mike’s neck, but it’s Tré that lunges for Billie Joe. Mike watches Tré’s shoulders curl in ferocity, and he wraps his arms around them, holding Tré back.
“You bastard,” Tré sputters, and Mike can almost feel the rage sweating out Tré’s skin like a black, bloody ooze. It’s frightening, how quickly Tré can switch from clown to raging with a simple word.
Billie Joe is smiling and lightly chuckling. He’s not even looking at Tré, but up into Mike’s eyes.
“Who’s a better kisser?” Billie Joe asks, tilting his head to the side. “Or is that something you’re not going to tell me either?”
Tré goes ballistic in his grip, squirming. Mike holds him close. “What the fuck is wrong with you? What the fuck is going on?” Tré screams.
“Is this what you’re going to do then,” Mike says, staring into Billie Joe’s eyes, “You’re going to make it all my choice? You’re married for fuck’s sake. You don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Billie Joe asks loftily, “After all, I’m the one who’s notorious for kissing all the men?”
“Oh, so now you want credit for being a faggoty, posing slut,” Tré spits, but he’s stopped struggling. “How precious.” He shrugs Mike’s grip off his shoulders, throwing a hand palm down in the air, signaling that he’s not going to attack. He advances on Billie Joe, taking the few small steps until he reaches him.
“All you are,” Tré says, nose to nose with Billie Joe, “Is just fucking jealous that I have something you can’t have, something you don’t even want, and creating stupid problems because you’re too bored with your own loneliness.”
Billie Joe’s face breaks as Tré talks, but it quickly mends itself. “You’re scared,” Billie Joe says simply, scathing.
Tré takes a step back.
“Okay,” Mike says softly. “Okay.” He slides around Tré’s shocked frame and wedges himself between his band mates. He grabs both of their shoulders, and he feels Tré lean into the touch, and he squeezes Billie Joe’s shoulder, hard. The older man tenses, then relaxes. “Everyone, just shut the fuck up,” Mike growls.
He turns to Tré, whose eyes have grown huge with confusion. Mike feels guilty, being too drunk last night to tell him what was going on. Mike still doesn’t even know what’s going on-he would have never guessed that loving Tré would be killing the band, killing Billie Joe.
It’s all so fucking stupid.
He wants Billie Joe to calm down, to stop the staggering, haggard walk and talk of someone possessed. He wants Billie Joe to laugh again, and smile with him as they take on the whole fucking world. He wants to reminisce about the old days and how hard they were, because the fact that they made it through is something phenomenal. He wants Billie Joe to play his harmonica, just for him.
But Mike also wants, so fiercely, to take Tré by the neck and kiss him breathless. He wants to watch Tré’s eyes flicker in the light of the bedroom lamps, and he wants Tré’s teeth on his throat, his hips. He wants to fall asleep with Tré’s breath in his ear and wake up with Tré’s arms and hands imprinted on his skin.
How the fuck, Mike thinks to himself, did we get here? How did I become the one who has to make this choice?
Mike looks away from Tré, removes his hands from both their shoulders.
He turns to Billie Joe, says his name, and Billie Joe’s face falls to the tune of Tré’s footsteps, walking away.
twelve :: mike
“You want me to fuck you?” Mike whispers. The words don’t really sound like his, his voice too needy to really be his own.
Tré hasn’t said much of anything since Mike told him to shut the fuck up, only bent backwards as Mike had done the only thing he could think of-kissed him hard, with teeth and tongue lashing-to somehow smash all the sadness out of Tré’s face. Then he’d left.
It’s been a few days since that feverish, drunken moment at Mike’s front door, with Tré sweating from his effort to not cry, screaming and ranting and damning himself for Claudia’s distaste of a loveless marriage. Now Tré is here again, and Mike has pulled him around to the side of the house where they can’t be seen. For a man so inclined to chatter, Tré seems to rely on simple carnality when it comes to comfort, and Mike’s surprised at his own willingness to throw his life away for it.
I have a daughter. I have a girlfriend, Mike thinks.
“You want me to fuck you?” he whispers, ragged.
Mike asks, because he doesn’t know. That night he’d only kissed Tré, kissed him long and hard, before freaking out and putting them both to bed-Tré on the couch, that is. Now it’s just Tré with his head to the side and his shirt unbuttoned before him, not speaking, only eyeing him with a broken stare. The sun has just set, and Mike can see the goosebumps on Tré’s stomach as the breeze glides by them.
Tré answers after a moment. He runs a hand along Mike’s collarbone, exposed due to the low line of his tank top. Then he grabs the shirt with two hands, and with a slack expression rips Mike’s shirt in half.
“Holy shit,” Mike gasps, and Tré buries his mouth in his chest, lips encircling one pebbled nipple, flicking and sucking. Mike bucks off the wall, and Tré slips a hand up his spine, pressing in between his shoulder blades. As Mike’s skull brushes the rough stone edge of the wall, he grits his teeth and takes it as a yes.
They go to a motel, some cheap if quaint place, far out of the city. Mike drives 500 mph.; Tré naps. It’s a sickening thing to watch, this silent Tré, this half-man, so Mike keeps his eyes on the road and turns the music up. Tré doesn’t move.
Mike supposes that this is the time where he’s supposed to come to his senses, and turn the car around.
When they pull up to a hotel, Mike pays the desk clerk with cash, fumbling for the bills because Tré’s hand’s in his pocket too.
Inside the hotel, when the key’s been carefully set down on the coffee table and Tré has ripped all their clothes to tiny pieces, Mike discovers how truly effortless movement is for Tré. It’s always easy to listen to Tré run his mouth until he slams up against a brick wall, saying the wrong thing. But now, Tré is easy skin beneath his fingers, belly sweat pooling as Mike bruises his inner thighs with his mouth.
Tré’s hands are wrenching the sheets this way and that, and Mike’s having a hard time not relocating his mouth from Tré’s thighs to the raging erection just a tongue’s length above him. He wants to take this slow, to make sure they don’t burn through this and fuck everything up permanently.
Mike hasn’t had to ask for permission, and Tré would never think to ask. When you’re past thirty and suddenly decide that fucking your bandmate is a good idea, there’s not time to stop and reconsider. Mike could have told Tré to fuck off, could have punched him square in the jaw-could have walked away. He doesn’t know why he didn’t. Doesn’t know if he still won’t.
Perhaps this was just the easiest thing to do.
Mike winds his way up Tré’s body through a series of kisses. Tré shudders against his tongue and he hooks Mike’s neck with a cupped hand. Dirnt quickly shimmies the rest of the way up, groaning into Tré’s hungry mouth as his cock brushes against’ Tré’s. Tré’s breath hitches, kiss cut short, and Mike drops more of his weight onto Tré, increasing the friction.
Tré’s arms circle around his shoulders and his lips are fluttering against Mike’s ear.
“I thought you said you were going to fuck me,” Tré whispers, hand sliding over sweaty skin to knead Mike’s ass.
Mike exhales sharply as Tré’s teeth come down on his ear, nibbling. He feels himself slipping away as Tré bucks, grinding their hips together, control fraying at the edges. He pulls back hastily, rearing up and breaking with Tré, straddling his hips.
Tré stares at him, chest and shoulders heaving with his panting breaths. His eyes are blue bright and wary-as if at any moment Mike might leave. Mike recovers and reaches out, placing a hand on Tré’s clavicle, long fingers slipping into the crease of Tré’s throat and shoulder.
“Have you ever done this before?” Mike asks, but he means is this what you want?
“Not…” and here Tré stutters, and Mike feels a cold chill drip down his spine, the feeling he gets it when he fucks up a song or drops the guitar he wasn’t supposed to. “Not with a dude.” Tré runs his hands up Mike’s thighs, then suddenly digs his fingers in. Mike winces.
“I’m not scared,” Tré says, for once using words.. “I want this, okay?” He sits up suddenly, and Mike slides off his legs as Tré comes to him. Tré wraps an arm around the small of Mike’s back while the other grabs his shoulder, and Tré kisses him wetly. Mike watches those cobalt eyes close, feels the cool slick of Tré’s tongue sliding into his, and it’s all he needs.
“Fuck me,” Tré whispers, and Mike can feel the words crawling down his throat.
Something deep inside let’s go, and Mike snaps into action. He pushes against Tré, who scoots back until his shoulders slam into the headboard, Mike following him on all fours. This time when Mike kisses him it’s not the searing, scared mashing of lips their kisses have been tonight, but now it’s more of a beautiful thing-tender if decadent, but no less intense. Tré keens into Mike’s mouth as Dirnt kisses him languidly. The sound shoots straight into all of Mike’s nerve-endings and he eagerly slides his mouth south.
Mike isn’t particularly experienced when it comes to sucking cock, but a few drunken college experiments didn’t leave him without a few tricks. Suffering no grand illusions, Mike’s careful, but he can tell Tré’s impatient. Damning his nerves, he focuses on the sound of Tré’s heavy breathing and the feel of Tré’s thighs against his hands, and then quickly wets his lips and slides his mouth over Tré’s dick, tonguing the velvety skin.
Mike doesn’t gag, and the relief that spills through his veins is a heat. Emboldened, he relaxes his jaw, and gives a good hard suck, pulling back as he does. Tré’s thighs ripple beneath Mike’s hands, and Mike suppresses a smile, opting instead to arch his neck and swallow as much of Tré as he can.
Mike is busy mouthing the delicate skin of Tré’s scrotum when suddenly Tré’s hand comes down firmly on the back of his head, and Tré speaks his name, voice breathy.
“Enough?” Mike asks, raising his head. There’s spit and pre-come on his chin and for the first time he doesn’t mind.
Tré nods, and Mike springs off the bed like a dog loosed from a leash. He quickly hunts down the pants that Tré had ripped off his body earlier, and from them he retrieves a small tube of lubricant and a condom.
Mike nearly runs back onto the bed, scrambling up Tré’s body. Mike kisses him and their teeth clack, but Tré growls in the back of his throat. Tré’s nimble fingers pluck the condom from Mike’s hand and he whaps him on the nose with it. Mike pulls back from the kiss with a yelp, and Tré sassily grins at him. It’s the first time Tré has smiled in weeks, and Mike feels his cock jump at the sight.
“Okay,” Mike admits, and he might be blushing, “Yeah, I totally had this planned.”
Tré waves the condom like a flag. “Let me put it on.”
“Wait,” Mike says, catching Tré’s wrist. He kisses him, softly. “Lube first. Here, turn around and lay down.”
Tré jerks at Mike’s words, and a sharp flash of fear burns through Mike’s blood. Tré’s body tenses, and his face becomes unreadable.
“What?” Mike whispers. Tré looks as if he’s about to say something, but stops. Mike is suddenly, inexplicably irate. Tré, who’s supposed to be spontaneous, uncontrollable, loud and comical, will not fucking say a word to him and that’s all Mike wants.
He knew he was going to do this.
Mike takes Tré by the shoulders, condom and lube falling into his lap. “What is it?” he asks. Surprisingly, Tré answers.
“I want to be able to see your face,” Tré says, softly. “But if you want…”
“Stop it!,” Mike growls, cutting him off. He shakes Tré once, twice, three times. “What you want is what’s important! Damn it. This isn’t some kind of punishment. This isn’t some kind of pity fuck, you stupid, stupid idiot!”
Mike releases Tré, breathing hard. Tré falls back against the headboard, eyes wide and brittle. Oh god, Mike thinks, What did I just do?
And then Mike’s mouth falls open and he can’t seem to stop. “You couldn’t make Claudia happy, that’s fine. You can only make yourself happy and hopefully other people will want the same things as you. That’s all you can do, alright? So whatever you want to do tonight you fucking tell me and then we’ll do it, okay?”
Tré takes the yelling with a blank face, except for the scared look in his eyes. Mike feels the sharp tug of guilt in his belly, the pain of being Tré’s reason to be afraid. Still, he cannot afford to give in to self-pity. As Mike stops his rant, Tré sits up off the headboard.
“What about what you want?” Tré asks, and there’s a scant spark there.
“I want this,” Mike replies, with as much conviction as he can muster. He lunges for Tré, to fuck him until he snaps out of it, to mold him with his hands into something that isn’t so broken.
But Tré’s already up and off the headboard and pressing against Mike’s chest, and it’s Tré’s mouth on his, sliding off and down his jaw line where it attaches itself at the base of Mike’s neck. He might have broken skin, Mike doesn’t know, because all he can feel is Tré’s teeth and tongue on his neck and Tré’s callused, small hands on his dick.
“That’s what I wanted,” Tré says wetly, mouth still busy bruising up Mike’s throat, “I didn’t want you doing something you didn’t want.”
Mike groans in response, Tré’s fingers expertly fingering his balls, palm pressed along the lower edge of his cock.
“Lay down,” he says after a moment, scrambling for control. Tré’s hand jerks roughly up his dick and Mike gasps, but Tré lies down on the pillows, Mike moving down the bed to make room.
Mike takes the condom and lays it on Tré’s belly. Tré laughs a little, but there’s a slight tremor to it that tells Mike he’s nervous.
“Relax,” Mike says, and he smiles at Tré while he slicks his fingers with lube. Mike hustles, and soon he easily settles himself between Tré’s legs, leaning up so that it’s not too hard to kiss him. Tré gamely spreads his legs as wide as he can, then takes Mike’s face in his hands. Mike kisses Tré wetly, tongue sliding past Tré’s lips as he gently enters Tré’s body with his index finger.
“Oh god,” Tré exclaims, body involuntary tensing. Mike makes a shushing sound, waiting for Tré to relax. It takes less time than he thinks, and Tré loosens his muscles. Mike gingerly begins to thrust his finger in and out of Tré, who soon begins to squirm beneath him. Propping his body weight on his left elbow, Mike smiles and murmurs meaningless words into Tré’s ear as Cool buries his face in the crook of Mike’s neck, holding on for life with one arm. The other hand digs into the bed sheets.
“More,” Tré demands huskily after a moment, and Mike obliges, slipping a second digit in. Tré cries out, and his entire body rocks, sliding himself far down onto Mike’s fingers. Mike takes a deep breath and tries to remain focused, but his cock is throbbing so bad he swears he can hear the vibrations in his ears. Soon he slips a third finger inside without warning, and Tré throws his head back, exhaling with a sharp, guttural sound. He thinks that Tré is not going to be a quiet lover. He thrusts his fingers deep and bites his lip as Tré cries out again.
“Get that fucking condom on right now,” Tré says soon, and Mike can’t help but agree. Tré snatches the small foil wrapper off of his belly as Mike eases his fingers out.
With amazing speed, Tré easily slips the rubber on, and Mike can’t hold back his own moan as Tré’s nimble fingers brush his cock. Tré squirts a messy dollop of lubricant onto his hand and then grabs Mike, quickly and efficiently lubing up his erection.
Mike bats Tré’s lingering hands away after a moment, head spinning. Tré falls back against the pillows and the glint of fear that was there earlier has now been replaced by something so primal that Mike shudders. He places a hand right by Tré’s right hip and the other on Tré’s belly.
“Ready?” Mike whispers, hesitating as he positions himself between Tré’s legs. The very tip of his erection brushes Tré’s ass, and the drummer writhes.
“For fuck’s sake,” Tré spits, and grabs fistfuls of the sheets.
Mike takes that as a yes, and then carefully, but swiftly, slides himself into Tré in one thrust. Mike can’t help his wince at Tré’s sharp, high cry of pain/pleasure, a sound he remembers, just as he can’t help the overwhelming sensation of tight heat around his cock, and the way it makes his entire body vibrates. He focuses on Tré’s face, waiting for the okay.
Finally he feels Tré relax around him and Cool’s eyes open, and Mike rocks his hips, ever so softly. The sensation is a mini-explosion in his ears, and he hears his moan mixed with Tré’s. He does it again, only harder this time, and Tré rocks with him.
As Mike lowers himself onto his elbows and begins to fall into a rhythm, Tré reaches up and kisses him, hard. Mike thinks briefly about saying I love you, then doesn’t.
Mike has been told he’s a very attentive lover, a good one. But Mike is not prepared for the sheer ferocity of one Tré Cool. Within a few thrusts Tré has opened himself wide, and Mike finds himself amazed at the complete abandon Tré gives himself over to. Tré writhes against the sheets, and as Mike slows and speeds, setting the rhythm, Tré matches him with such synchronism that Mike knows his orgasm is going to arrive faster and take him harder than he was betting on.
Mike comes first, vision blurring in the last seconds as he rears back. He keeps thrusting through the orgasm, and Tré comes only a few moments later, Mike’s hand squeezing his cock. Tré comes loudly, and Mike can only grin at the sound.
They deal with the clean-up quickly-Tré slides the condom off Mike quickly and marches to the bathroom where he flushes it down the toilet. Mike watches Tré wipe the semen off his belly with a washcloth, busying himself with smoothing the sheets. Some small neurotic part of him wonders when the other shoe is going to drop.
Tré laughs as he walks back towards the bed. Mike throws him a quizzical look.
“I thought I’d be walking funny,” Tré explains, and Mike bursts into giggles despite himself.
Five minutes later, Tré has turned off the lights and under the sheets with Mike. Mike is surprised to find himself curling into Tré, his head resting Tré’s shoulder. Mike remembers waking up, sometimes, like this when they were young and the band was just starting. Waking in fans’ houses with entangled limbs, from bodies seeking heat during the night. Mike remembers the laughter in the morning, and Tré blushing when Billie Joe or Mike kissed him.
Tré throws an arm around Mike as they begin to doze off, as if protecting him. Mike wants to ask Tré if he’s alright, if this was okay, or even if Tré would like more of the blanket, anything, but the moment feels too fragile now that his lust has subsided. He wonders what it means to be held by someone you love, and when one kind of love becomes another.
Mike falls asleep with Tré’s strong, wounded arm around his shoulders and feels better than he has in years.