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Happy birthday, Mr. Cool. To mark the occasion I have written a ficlet, and although it's not exactly what I was going for I thought I'd post it here anyway. There are pictures of Tré and a cake at my LJ but they are not particularly exciting, although you can go and look if you want.
Title: Dancing Alone
Rating: PG-13
Author: Latch
A/N & Summary: Fucking...miserable. Not particularly what I was going for, but hey. It takes Mike to help Billie Joe realise that Tré doesn't want to be dancing alone on his birthday. Feel free to leave me a comment if you have the time.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is not intended to cause offense or insinuate anything about any persons mentioned within; nor was it written for profit.
Dancing Alone
I was unsure exactly how I had come to be so close to Tré that night, but it happened, and like so many other things there was no going back once it had. It could have been the expensive wine we were all drinking, knocking it back as if it were water because it didn't matter and he had paid for it as just another part of the pointless extravagance he had taken on recently.
But I had never much liked to blame the alcohol, and the chances are that it would have happened anyway, him and me, dancing together as the disco ball spun languidly above our heads and cast a million fractured shimmers over it all. So perhaps, instead, the reason had been in the way that he looked at me, hesitant glances that lingered as the night grew longer and the wine was consumed. He was a heavy drinker; always had been.
Empty glasses lined up haphazardly and cluttered every available free surface. The room was full of the chatter of happy people; Tré had seemed to be everywhere and nowhere all at once, a part of everything and a familiar face to everyone, yet simultaneously so alone that it was almost pathetic. He had been smiling, though, as he danced, and it had taken Mike to make me understand that perhaps he did not really want to be dancing with himself all night.
I watched him quietly from a shadowed corner as he moved on the dancefloor with an awkward grace that should have endeared him to everyone. His hands were empty now; before they had always held a glass. That night I had seen it both empty and half-full; there had always been someone ready to top it up to the brim for him, although it never stayed that way for long.
No-one seemed to notice him. He was drunk now; his movements slightly unsteady, his charm marred with the occasional wobble. It would do him good to sit down and start filling his glass with water instead of wine, but I knew that he wouldn't. He never did. A few people were watching him, clapping in time with the music, laughing and chattering, faces lined with vaguely disinterested smiles. I don't know what the song was. It became part of the background noise, underneath everything but ultimately unrecognisable; it didn't matter.
Tré didn't seem to notice that the guests were leaving. It was late, and I could see people blinking and swaying as they picked their way towards the door. The disco ball still spun. He'd hung it up there earlier, balanced precariously on a rickety ladder that he'd produced with a smile from the trunk of his car, and as he leaned forward and lifted one foot slightly for better balance, I had watched it as it swung in his hand. Now the pinpricks of light were reflected and refracted from a myriad of empty glasses; the room was emptying and although he was still surrounded by people he was somehow alone.
Mike crept up on me without me realising it, and leant there next to me unseen; how long for I don't know, but he was watching me as I watched Tré, and he was sober while I was not. There was still plenty of alcohol left, and now Tré was dancing around the tables, clearing up the leftover wine bottles and emptying the dregs into a used glass he had picked up from somewhere, stem clasped clumsily between his fingers. He was heavy-handed with the drink and the bottle clinked against the glass several times; then on to the next, drinking as he went, head tilted back.
I loved the way that his foot would jiggle slightly every time he paused to pour again; he couldn't bear to be still, but he had lost the rhythm of the music, and his head nodded out of time. He would continue drinking until the early hours, whether in celebration or sorrow at the fact that time had not stood still for him, either, I had no idea. I didn't want to watch that happen. I found him fascinating; was intrigued by the slight disorientation that the alcohol brought to his movements, a hesitation that was almost a direct contrast with his usual self-assured confidence.
He moved back into the light and the disco ball was above his head, but he'd forgotten about it. Lights dappled the floor, and as he paused and dropped his gaze to his feet I wondered if he was reflecting on the year. Time had grown shorter as we had all grown older, but I knew that it had been a hard twelve months for Tré, and my heart went out to him. The wine glass was held delicately in his fingertips now, drooping downwards; empty. It made him seem somehow vulnerable, and although I liked the idea I had no desire to see him drink himself into a stupor once again.
He drank a lot more now. There was something remotely miserable about his slurred speech and inability to walk in a straight line. Me and Mike helped him out. It was the best we could do, the only thing we could do. And although Tré was always smiling; the stereotypical happy drunk, there was always something behind the glaze in his eyes that I couldn't quite discern. His smile was slightly unsettling.
"Bill," Mike said quietly, suddenly, and I jerked my head around, startled. He was leaning against the wall. Earlier he had been following Tré around, stacking up glasses and beginning to contemplate the job of cleaning up. Tré had been oblivious. The next morning had not been on his mind. I had wondered then what he had been feeling; whether he felt older, younger, or merely relieved to have survived another year. There had been no birthday speech. I didn't think that he had much to say. Mike would be behind him later, waiting to catch him if he fell.
"Oh," I sighed, and he moved closer to me. We watched Tré together for a while. The remainder of the guests were streaming past him. A few of them paused beside him and spoke to him briefly; he acknowledged them with a worn grin and a nod of his head. He looked tired.
"Billie," Mike said again, and I couldn't bring myself to turn my head away. I felt compelled to watch Tré, to see which way he would go and whether his happy smile would outlast the night and the wine. "It's okay, you know. If you wanted to. If you wanted to go to him, he'd understand. He'd know that it would only be for one night. I saw you watching him."
I sighed again, and closed my eyes, resting my head against the cool wall. Mike knew what I wanted. He knew what I wanted to do and why it was so impossible. I didn't feel like reminding him of all the reasons why I had stood there all night and let Tré get on with whatever he chose to do. Mike already knew.
"You can't try and fool yourself about this, Billie," Mike said softly, and his arm brushed against my shoulder. "He doesn't want to be alone anymore. He doesn't want to be alone on his birthday."
Words of protest were stilled in my throat at the sight of Tré, out there in the middle of the dancefloor as if he was completely unaware that everyone had left him and he was by himself. I wanted to go to him, and I couldn't. I justified myself with the smile on Tré's face and ignored the weary desperation in his eyes.
Mike wanted me to help him, and I knew it. I knew also that he had been considering broaching the subject for the best part of the evening, but had waited until the hours had crept past and most of the people had gone, and finally he'd caught me alone with my eyes drawn inexplicably to the man who we'd both seen go through so much and still come out smiling.
I was married, and Tré was divorced. I had two kids, and so did he. The impossibilities of a relationship with him were stark and glaring, even alcohol failed to hide them, and I knew this because I had tried, and felt guilty about it the next morning whilst retching up my guts and trying to pretend that I hadn't been considering sleeping with him.
But Mike wasn't suggesting a relationship. It didn't make it better, but it made it easier. I had never told him about Tré and how I felt, but he knew regardless; it was what best friends were for, why he was mine. Tré must have told him something, I knew, or he'd never have mentioned it. I was curious as to what. It must have been positive. Mike was too much of a pessimist to try and engineer anything otherwise.
"We're going to look after him again, then?" Mike asked me, and in his voice I detected a slight upwards lilt of hopefulness which his eyes only confirmed when I finally turned my head and met his gaze. "Go with him," he urged, voice soft. "Go and dance with him. Show him that he's not alone."
I gazed back at him helplessly, and he laughed quietly as if he knew all of my fears. The room was empty now; it was just the three of us. The music had stopped, and I wondered if Tré was still dancing. I didn't want to look at him at all. I wanted to think rationally, but rational thought had deserted me. I didn't want to look at him; but in the end I was unable to stop myself, and when I raised my head he was there as I had known he would be, only this time he was standing still and his eyes met mine, a strange smile fleetingly lighting up his face. He knew. He knew we couldn't do this.
He didn't know that I was going to do it anyway.
I didn't look back at Mike as I stepped forward shakily, but I'd like to think that he was smiling as I went. It was nervousness rather than alcohol which made me move so clumsily; Tré was not looking my way anymore; his gaze was fixed on some far off point. He was thinking of something; nothing. I'd like to think that he was thinking of me. I was doing the right thing in all the wrong circumstances, but the room was hushed and quiet and this would remain secret; Mike wouldn't tell.
I found myself under the disco ball, close to him and unbelievably scared. A glance over my shoulder finally confirmed that Mike had slipped away and that we were alone. I raised a hand timidly and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned slowly, awkwardly, and placed a hand on my arm to keep from falling over.
And that was enough. I put my arms around him, and he leaned closer to me, and we danced together, slowly, out of time and out of love for one another, and there was no music but it didn't seem to matter. His body was heavy and solid and he moved awkwardly against me, but it felt natural. Guilt prickled at me only briefly before sliding away for good.
"Billie," he breathed against my ear; "Billie Joe, I love you."
My heart ached for him. "I know," I whispered, pressing my cheek against his as we moved closer together. "Shh. I know. I know." It was all I could say, and he didn’t reply. His words echoed in my head, and I knew they were true. Later he would say them to me again, and I would let myself repeat them back to him under the claustrophobic safety of the bedcovers, just in case he didn't know, just because I wanted to confirm it for him, because they were words and they were true.
His body leaned against mine and we supported each other among the fractured remains of our friendship. I had broken everything and he would not be fixed. Whatever was wrong with him could not be mended, but I loved him, and he loved me. It mattered. It was all that mattered; and it mattered so goddamn much.
We kissed; it had been going to happen sooner or later and I was glad when our lips finally met, but was still a little surprised to feel the way I did; as if I had been missing something all along and had only just discovered what it was. His mouth tasted of wine. It made me feel bitter, like crying, but I didn't; just held him and felt him tremble and sigh as we pulled apart. I hugged him fiercely and felt as though I loved him so much that it hurt. I remembered the jerk of pleasure low in my stomach when his lips pressed against mine.
The disco ball spun above us and time ticked onwards towards another year, but we stood still, breathing heavily. There was a shadowy knowledge in his eyes that told of his desire for everything that was forbidden to him. He knew that this was for one night only. He knew this, and didn't want to admit it, so we were silent, and in the silence we were in love and there was only us.
There was something else that he knew, and although I would leave him in the morning and he would probably shed a few groggy tears over what we had done, his knowledge would never fade. He knew that he would never dance alone again.
Title: Dancing Alone
Rating: PG-13
Author: Latch
A/N & Summary: Fucking...miserable. Not particularly what I was going for, but hey. It takes Mike to help Billie Joe realise that Tré doesn't want to be dancing alone on his birthday. Feel free to leave me a comment if you have the time.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is not intended to cause offense or insinuate anything about any persons mentioned within; nor was it written for profit.
Dancing Alone
I was unsure exactly how I had come to be so close to Tré that night, but it happened, and like so many other things there was no going back once it had. It could have been the expensive wine we were all drinking, knocking it back as if it were water because it didn't matter and he had paid for it as just another part of the pointless extravagance he had taken on recently.
But I had never much liked to blame the alcohol, and the chances are that it would have happened anyway, him and me, dancing together as the disco ball spun languidly above our heads and cast a million fractured shimmers over it all. So perhaps, instead, the reason had been in the way that he looked at me, hesitant glances that lingered as the night grew longer and the wine was consumed. He was a heavy drinker; always had been.
Empty glasses lined up haphazardly and cluttered every available free surface. The room was full of the chatter of happy people; Tré had seemed to be everywhere and nowhere all at once, a part of everything and a familiar face to everyone, yet simultaneously so alone that it was almost pathetic. He had been smiling, though, as he danced, and it had taken Mike to make me understand that perhaps he did not really want to be dancing with himself all night.
I watched him quietly from a shadowed corner as he moved on the dancefloor with an awkward grace that should have endeared him to everyone. His hands were empty now; before they had always held a glass. That night I had seen it both empty and half-full; there had always been someone ready to top it up to the brim for him, although it never stayed that way for long.
No-one seemed to notice him. He was drunk now; his movements slightly unsteady, his charm marred with the occasional wobble. It would do him good to sit down and start filling his glass with water instead of wine, but I knew that he wouldn't. He never did. A few people were watching him, clapping in time with the music, laughing and chattering, faces lined with vaguely disinterested smiles. I don't know what the song was. It became part of the background noise, underneath everything but ultimately unrecognisable; it didn't matter.
Tré didn't seem to notice that the guests were leaving. It was late, and I could see people blinking and swaying as they picked their way towards the door. The disco ball still spun. He'd hung it up there earlier, balanced precariously on a rickety ladder that he'd produced with a smile from the trunk of his car, and as he leaned forward and lifted one foot slightly for better balance, I had watched it as it swung in his hand. Now the pinpricks of light were reflected and refracted from a myriad of empty glasses; the room was emptying and although he was still surrounded by people he was somehow alone.
Mike crept up on me without me realising it, and leant there next to me unseen; how long for I don't know, but he was watching me as I watched Tré, and he was sober while I was not. There was still plenty of alcohol left, and now Tré was dancing around the tables, clearing up the leftover wine bottles and emptying the dregs into a used glass he had picked up from somewhere, stem clasped clumsily between his fingers. He was heavy-handed with the drink and the bottle clinked against the glass several times; then on to the next, drinking as he went, head tilted back.
I loved the way that his foot would jiggle slightly every time he paused to pour again; he couldn't bear to be still, but he had lost the rhythm of the music, and his head nodded out of time. He would continue drinking until the early hours, whether in celebration or sorrow at the fact that time had not stood still for him, either, I had no idea. I didn't want to watch that happen. I found him fascinating; was intrigued by the slight disorientation that the alcohol brought to his movements, a hesitation that was almost a direct contrast with his usual self-assured confidence.
He moved back into the light and the disco ball was above his head, but he'd forgotten about it. Lights dappled the floor, and as he paused and dropped his gaze to his feet I wondered if he was reflecting on the year. Time had grown shorter as we had all grown older, but I knew that it had been a hard twelve months for Tré, and my heart went out to him. The wine glass was held delicately in his fingertips now, drooping downwards; empty. It made him seem somehow vulnerable, and although I liked the idea I had no desire to see him drink himself into a stupor once again.
He drank a lot more now. There was something remotely miserable about his slurred speech and inability to walk in a straight line. Me and Mike helped him out. It was the best we could do, the only thing we could do. And although Tré was always smiling; the stereotypical happy drunk, there was always something behind the glaze in his eyes that I couldn't quite discern. His smile was slightly unsettling.
"Bill," Mike said quietly, suddenly, and I jerked my head around, startled. He was leaning against the wall. Earlier he had been following Tré around, stacking up glasses and beginning to contemplate the job of cleaning up. Tré had been oblivious. The next morning had not been on his mind. I had wondered then what he had been feeling; whether he felt older, younger, or merely relieved to have survived another year. There had been no birthday speech. I didn't think that he had much to say. Mike would be behind him later, waiting to catch him if he fell.
"Oh," I sighed, and he moved closer to me. We watched Tré together for a while. The remainder of the guests were streaming past him. A few of them paused beside him and spoke to him briefly; he acknowledged them with a worn grin and a nod of his head. He looked tired.
"Billie," Mike said again, and I couldn't bring myself to turn my head away. I felt compelled to watch Tré, to see which way he would go and whether his happy smile would outlast the night and the wine. "It's okay, you know. If you wanted to. If you wanted to go to him, he'd understand. He'd know that it would only be for one night. I saw you watching him."
I sighed again, and closed my eyes, resting my head against the cool wall. Mike knew what I wanted. He knew what I wanted to do and why it was so impossible. I didn't feel like reminding him of all the reasons why I had stood there all night and let Tré get on with whatever he chose to do. Mike already knew.
"You can't try and fool yourself about this, Billie," Mike said softly, and his arm brushed against my shoulder. "He doesn't want to be alone anymore. He doesn't want to be alone on his birthday."
Words of protest were stilled in my throat at the sight of Tré, out there in the middle of the dancefloor as if he was completely unaware that everyone had left him and he was by himself. I wanted to go to him, and I couldn't. I justified myself with the smile on Tré's face and ignored the weary desperation in his eyes.
Mike wanted me to help him, and I knew it. I knew also that he had been considering broaching the subject for the best part of the evening, but had waited until the hours had crept past and most of the people had gone, and finally he'd caught me alone with my eyes drawn inexplicably to the man who we'd both seen go through so much and still come out smiling.
I was married, and Tré was divorced. I had two kids, and so did he. The impossibilities of a relationship with him were stark and glaring, even alcohol failed to hide them, and I knew this because I had tried, and felt guilty about it the next morning whilst retching up my guts and trying to pretend that I hadn't been considering sleeping with him.
But Mike wasn't suggesting a relationship. It didn't make it better, but it made it easier. I had never told him about Tré and how I felt, but he knew regardless; it was what best friends were for, why he was mine. Tré must have told him something, I knew, or he'd never have mentioned it. I was curious as to what. It must have been positive. Mike was too much of a pessimist to try and engineer anything otherwise.
"We're going to look after him again, then?" Mike asked me, and in his voice I detected a slight upwards lilt of hopefulness which his eyes only confirmed when I finally turned my head and met his gaze. "Go with him," he urged, voice soft. "Go and dance with him. Show him that he's not alone."
I gazed back at him helplessly, and he laughed quietly as if he knew all of my fears. The room was empty now; it was just the three of us. The music had stopped, and I wondered if Tré was still dancing. I didn't want to look at him at all. I wanted to think rationally, but rational thought had deserted me. I didn't want to look at him; but in the end I was unable to stop myself, and when I raised my head he was there as I had known he would be, only this time he was standing still and his eyes met mine, a strange smile fleetingly lighting up his face. He knew. He knew we couldn't do this.
He didn't know that I was going to do it anyway.
I didn't look back at Mike as I stepped forward shakily, but I'd like to think that he was smiling as I went. It was nervousness rather than alcohol which made me move so clumsily; Tré was not looking my way anymore; his gaze was fixed on some far off point. He was thinking of something; nothing. I'd like to think that he was thinking of me. I was doing the right thing in all the wrong circumstances, but the room was hushed and quiet and this would remain secret; Mike wouldn't tell.
I found myself under the disco ball, close to him and unbelievably scared. A glance over my shoulder finally confirmed that Mike had slipped away and that we were alone. I raised a hand timidly and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned slowly, awkwardly, and placed a hand on my arm to keep from falling over.
And that was enough. I put my arms around him, and he leaned closer to me, and we danced together, slowly, out of time and out of love for one another, and there was no music but it didn't seem to matter. His body was heavy and solid and he moved awkwardly against me, but it felt natural. Guilt prickled at me only briefly before sliding away for good.
"Billie," he breathed against my ear; "Billie Joe, I love you."
My heart ached for him. "I know," I whispered, pressing my cheek against his as we moved closer together. "Shh. I know. I know." It was all I could say, and he didn’t reply. His words echoed in my head, and I knew they were true. Later he would say them to me again, and I would let myself repeat them back to him under the claustrophobic safety of the bedcovers, just in case he didn't know, just because I wanted to confirm it for him, because they were words and they were true.
His body leaned against mine and we supported each other among the fractured remains of our friendship. I had broken everything and he would not be fixed. Whatever was wrong with him could not be mended, but I loved him, and he loved me. It mattered. It was all that mattered; and it mattered so goddamn much.
We kissed; it had been going to happen sooner or later and I was glad when our lips finally met, but was still a little surprised to feel the way I did; as if I had been missing something all along and had only just discovered what it was. His mouth tasted of wine. It made me feel bitter, like crying, but I didn't; just held him and felt him tremble and sigh as we pulled apart. I hugged him fiercely and felt as though I loved him so much that it hurt. I remembered the jerk of pleasure low in my stomach when his lips pressed against mine.
The disco ball spun above us and time ticked onwards towards another year, but we stood still, breathing heavily. There was a shadowy knowledge in his eyes that told of his desire for everything that was forbidden to him. He knew that this was for one night only. He knew this, and didn't want to admit it, so we were silent, and in the silence we were in love and there was only us.
There was something else that he knew, and although I would leave him in the morning and he would probably shed a few groggy tears over what we had done, his knowledge would never fade. He knew that he would never dance alone again.