All the Ways I Never Knew You, part 4.

[rainjewel]

Title: All the Ways I Never Knew You
Author: rainjewel
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Green Day; Billie Joe/Adrienne, Mike/Tré
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Summary: Billie Joe has to go home and face his wife, Tré ends up flying to New York. Mike has plans.
Notes: Yes, I’m aware that the timeline is all messed up. *distracts you with sex* This is the end, folks! A million thanks to everyone who’s reviewed, you’re all very lovely people. Oh, and this is Shmoopy. As. Fuck. I figured what with all the angst the boys were due some sentimentalism. Also, LONG.

Parts: One, Two, and Three.



sixteen :: billie joe

Adrienne primps when she gets nervous. Billie Joe has always found this quirk particularly endearing, given the fact that he spends more time on his appearance than she ever will. That’s not to say that Adrienne likes to scrub down all the time-Billie Joe is simply, amazingly, vain. Mike has often made the comment that Billie Joe’s the only man who gets in trouble with his wife not for leaving the seat up, but for stealing her cosmetics without permission.

The house was dark outside when he parked, save for one tiny window upstairs on the right side, and Billie Joe imagines he can hear Adrienne’s legs as they slide in and out of the water, the waves from the movement gently slapping the porcelain sides of the tub. He bounds up the stairs on silent feet. He does not check his sons’ rooms. He will see them tomorrow, if they’re even here.

The door to the bathroom is closed, the light beneath it a neon sign that illuminates the condensed water on the bottom of the door, beading slowly against the stain. She’s been in here awhile. He doesn’t want to startle her again, not like last night, so he turns the door handle with a quiet click, just enough to be heard.

“Adie,” he sing-songs, in a low, breathless kind of way. He steps through the door slowly, half-wondering if Adrienne might throw a loofah or even better, the shower rod at him. Instead he is greeted by a warm, hazy blast of steam and he squints as he looks towards the pale outline of the bathtub in front of him.

“Adie?” he repeats, but this time it’s a question. He strides quickly to the tub now, abandoning his cautious approach. The moisture and heat in the air makes his clothes stick to him uncomfortably, and he rips off his denim jacket as he walks.

Adrienne comes into view as Billie Joe’s shins smack into the bathtub, catching him by surprise. She is small and pale in the water, the filmy remnants of what once must have been a large bubble bath rendering her skin cloudy. Her head is resting on a towel bunched up on the tub’s rim, eyes closed, face slack and clean. Her arms are spread out on the edge, and Billie Joe takes on pale hand in his own. Her skin is cool to the touch, cooler than he expected. He feels mildly concerned and drops his other hand in the water. It’s not nearly as warm as Billie Joe would like, but nothing terrible. Adrienne must have been asleep for awhile.

“Adie, baby,” he sing-songs again. No matter how long she’s been with him or how many shows she’s seen, Billie Joe can always get a reaction out of her if he only sings. “Adie.” He presses his wife’s hand to his mouth. Adrienne’s eyelids flutter as his lips slick over her knuckles.

“Time to get out of the tub,” Billie Joe says, dropping his melodic tone for a more insistent one as Adrienne’s eyes open. Her pupils are tiny, distant pinpoints and Billie Joe feels his fucking guts freeze as he stares at her slack expression. He’s seen those eyes before, but on his band mates, on himself. Never her. At least not for a while.

“Sorry,” Adrienne says, nonchalant, and he can her it in her voice. “I feel asleep.”

Billie Joe collects himself, clamping an iron fist down on his sudden, smoldering rage. He just needs to get her out of the tub, get her warm and then he can ask. He twists, looking around the bathroom for a towel. He spots one close to the foot of the tub, deep green. Billie Joe reaches for it.

“Let’s get you out of that water, okay?” he says. “It’s late.”

“Yeah it’s fucking late,” Adrienne snaps. She’s already moving, hands braced on the sides of the tub as she pushes herself into a standing position. Billie Joe’s terrified that if he touches her she’ll kill him, but he’s more scared that she’ll fall. He wraps the large towel around his wife, hugging her and gently rubbing her dry. Adrienne swats at his hands once, then stands still as he presses on. She continues slowly talking. “Where the fuck have you been? I made lunch. You fucking left again.”

Billie Joe leans over the tub, bending to pull the plug. He keeps one arm around Adrienne’s thighs for balance, thankful he was smart enough to remove his jacket when he first arrived.

Where are the fucking pills Adie? Where the fuck did you put them? Billie Joe wants to retort, wants to throw this moment of weakness back in her fucking face.

He doesn’t, because this really is all his fault.

Billie Joe decides he’s done coaxing.

“Bedtime,” is all he says as he hauls Adrienne out of the tub, easily picking her up as if this was their wedding day. Adrienne doesn’t protest, simply lays her forehead against Billie Joe’s temple as she’s carried out of the bedroom and into the master bedroom. She doesn’t grab him around the neck, only keeps her hands in her lap, unmoving even as the towel slips down, exposing her breasts. Billie Joe, who is mad as hell goddamn it, notices this, as well as the glistening beads of water on the top of her soft, pretty shoulders. He wants to kiss them away, but he has to make it to the bedroom first, and he has to make sure Adrienne won’t rip off his dick if he tries to touch her.

Feeling ridiculously rushed, Billie Joe sets Adrienne down on the edge of the bed. She watches as he undresses in front of her, stripping down to skin. Last night Billie Joe had to sleep alone and he’s damned if that’s going to happen again if Adrienne’s right fucking here. That probably makes him an asshole, or something far darker and worse, but Billie Joe doesn’t care and refuses to let his anger be swayed.

When he’s thrown his clothes a respectable distance from the bed, Billie Joe reaches for Adrienne. He expects resistance, gets none, and Adrienne’s towel falls away like a surrendered flag into his hands. That in itself is more painful than a slap would have been, and Billie Joe’s shoulders sag as he kneels beside the bed, eye level with his wife’s belly. He leans in and wraps his arms around her cool waist, burying the side of his head into the soft cleavage of her breasts. He breathes in deep, taking in the smell of Adrienne-clean, feminine, and nothing resembling him, his band, his demanding life.

“I hate you,” Adrienne says after a while, softly.

Billie Joe winces, entire body tensing. He probably should have seen that coming years back. The words resonate through his body, shaking him from skin to spleen, but he holds on.

“What did you take, Adie?” he whispers, his lips ghosting along the skin of Adrienne’s breast.

“Oh fuck you,” Adrienne says, as if this were an old argument. She shoves against him, hard, and Billie Joe lets go, rocking back on his heels. Adrienne, finally seeming to react, eyes the pillows at the top of the bed with resignation. She twists on the bed and crawls up to them. “It was only one. Fuck you,” she repeats. “It’s not like you have any room to talk.”

She’s right, but Billie Joe catches her by the ankle before she crawls away. Adrienne growls low in her throat at Billie Joe’s touch, and her foot kicks out hard. Billie Joe scrambles onto the bed, patience thinning, and he plants each of his hands onto Adrienne’s hips, fingers sliding easily around her sides like they were meant to be there.

“Adrienne!” he says, almost shouting. Adrienne looks at him blandly from her position beneath him, arms easy at her sides and legs tightly shut beneath his straddled legs. He rubs his thumbs in tiny circles on her hips as he attempts to say something more, like I love you, or maybe I’m sorry, but nothing comes out.

“Did he fuck you?” Adrienne asks coldly, as Billie Joe stares at her in a lost sort of way. He feels his eyes nearly bug right out of his fucking skull, and his mouth falls open, tongue blindly spelling out things he shouldn’t say.

“No,” Billie Joe says, and then he has to say it all. “Mike wouldn’t. And I couldn’t either.”

Adrienne smiles, lips twisting bitterly. “I always knew it’d be him. Tré’s too fucking smart to put up with your shit.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asks, thrown. Adrienne glares at him.

“I don’t know Billie. What does it mean when your husband says he’ll never leave you, and then,” and here her voice begins to thin, “and then the very next day runs out on you to do god knows what with his best friend? Huh? What the fuck does that mean, Billie?”

“That I’m a sorry son of a bitch,” Billie Joe replies, softly, because he means it honestly this time, and isn’t whining. “That I’m an asshole and a selfish fuck up and a thousand other terrible things.”

He can’t beg her this time, he knows that. He had that chance yesterday and he fucked it up. Billie Joe slides off Adrienne slowly, like a deflated balloon, slumping down onto the mattress beside her. His anger is gone, ebbing into depression that slices through him. He turns on his side, facing away from her. Defeated, he thinks, because that’s what this marriage has become. War. With him as the only soldier.

They’re quiet for a long time. Billie Joe is cold.

“I’m going to have an affair with Tré,” Adrienne says after awhile, voice rising from behind him like an alien sound.

“WHAT?” he blurts, a knee-jerk reaction to her surprising comment. He flips around on his side, fast. Adrienne is still staring at the ceiling, but her eyes seem more focused. The drugs are probably wearing off.

“Well obviously Mike’s not in it for a lay, so that leaves me Tré,” Adrienne says matter-of-factly. Billie Joe is somewhere between speechless, spitting nails, and actually believing her. “He’s always seemed like the manliest of you three anyway.”

“Good luck,” Billie Joe mumbles, holding back his whiny, You’re not being very fucking funny. “I don’t think you could lay a hand on Tré if you wanted.”

Adrienne rolls her head to the side, looking at him. Billie Joe watches her mouth as she speaks.

“So they’re really together then?” She asks, lightly. “In love?”

Billie Joe nods, cheek rubbing against the pillow. “Yeah.”

“That’s nice,” Adrienne says, and she sounds like she means it. It’s funny, Billie Joe thinks, that they’re connected in this instance by the mutual affection for two men he himself almost split to pieces today. Adrienne’s lips twist into a thoughtful smile, the first that Billie Joe’s seen in days. For a moment she’s a bit more open, softer, and Billie Joe reaches out, sliding his body over to fold around her side, hoisting himself up just enough so that he can look down at her face, his right hand grasping her shoulder beneath him.

Suddenly he realizes that her joke was a peace-offering, and that he’s the stupidest man on the planet.

“I love you,” he says, ‘cause in the end it will always be the thing to say. Adrienne’s body convulses beneath his, and for the first time her hands are coming up to wrap around his waist. Billie Joe catches his breath as she pulls him down on top of her, sliding one knee in between her thighs for balance.

“You are a sorry son of a bitch,” Adrienne whispers, her lips running ragged on the edge of his throat. Billie Joe balances on one hand, his other arm bracing Adrienne against him, fingers pressing into the small of her back. “And an asshole, and a thousand other terrible things.” Adrienne buries her face into the crook of his neck. “But you’re also my husband, you selfish prick.”

And she cries.

Billie Joe is all at once scared out of his mind and relieved as he feels Adrienne’s tears slick down his neck. Adrienne, his beautiful, strong, amazing wife is not a woman who cries, is not a woman who falls to pieces on him, and Billie Joe is sickened by the fact that his actions have reduced her to this. And yet this is something he knows, something he can respond to, well. He knows, after years of his mother’s fear, how to hold a woman, how to let her cry, and how to be a fucking man.

Again, he wonders if in the end he is simply an asshole.

“Billie,” Adrienne sobs against his neck, and no one will ever say it just like she does. “Billie don’t do this again. I can’t do it, alright? I fucking can’t. Billie…”

“Shh,” Billie Joe whispers, kissing and petting her hair and trying to do a billion soothing things at once, “Shh.”

He changes their positions, sitting up and gathering Adrienne into his arms like a child. Adrienne clings to him like a drowning thing, and Billie Joe secretly delights in her need of him. He tries to not feel guilty about this fact, and lets her fall apart, rocking them both on the mattress. After a while he manages to snag a bit of the blankets beneath them and Adrienne quiets as he haphazardly wraps them in it.

“I’m not leaving this house until you want me to,” he promises, kissing her temple. He wants to get to her mouth, but he holds off. “I’m going to stay home with you and the kids and we’re going to play baseball and I’m going to take out garbage and-”

“-Change diapers,” Adrienne helpfully suggests.

Billie Joe nods. “Yes, change diapers. Whatever you want. I’ll paint the garage, I won’t even look at-”

“Mike,” Adrienne cuts in again, and Billie Joe squeezes her.

“Well I was going to say my guitars, but I won’t look at him either. I’ll do whatever you want, even if it’s something like buying tampons and they do the that price-checking shit,” he says, and he can’t keep a smile out of his last statement even though he means it with his entire heart. Adrienne stares up at him with a pink, tear-stained face and Billie Joe can’t keep himself from kissing her this time, but makes it short, gentle. He’s kissed a fair amount of people in his time, probably more men than women, but there’s nothing that can compare, he thinks, to how soft and salty his wife’s mouth is at the moment.

Adrienne kisses him back, barely, but that’s enough for now.

“Please Adie,” he says, pulling back, and her eyes are wide and clear and naked again, taking him in. “Just please don’t sleep with Tré.”

Adrienne’s lips twitch, and Billie Joe presses on. “Please don’t. He smells. And aside from his hygienic difficulties he steps on kittens. Seriously. Kittens.”

“Stop it!” Adrienne insists, lightly, but there’s a smile in her face again. She tips her head forward, resting her cheek against his chest. “Don’t laugh this off.”

Billie Joe wants to tell her that he takes the matter of her sleeping with Tré very seriously, but decides on a wiser course of action.

“Okay,” he says, planting a light kiss on her head. Adrienne’s tiny hand runs along his chest absently, slithering down to make lazy circles on his belly.

“Tell me you love me,” Adrienne says.

“I love you,” Billie Joe responds, instantly. Adrienne tilts her head up and Billie Joe leans into kiss her once more.

“Say it again,” Adrienne breathes when their lips part.

And Billie Joe does, already sliding her off his lap so that he can lay her down and make room for the both of them.

seventeen :: mike

Mike awakens to the sound of Tré’s voice, cooing, not into his ear, but into Frankito’s. He jerks in the bed, eyes splitting open to see Tré on the side of the mattress, Frankito staring up at his father with wide eyes as Tré slides his small, pudgy arms into a t-shirt.

“I don’t like the blue one!” Frankito insists as Tré slips the shirt on. Tré taps his son on the nose.

“Shh!” he says, smiling down at Frankito. “What do you mean you don’t like it? You look good, dude.”

“Nuh-uh,” Frankito argues. Tré rolls his eyes and picks Frankito up. Mike notices the wet sheen of Frankito’s hair, and the few scattered droplets on Tré’s bare chest.

“Okay, we’ll go check out your closet then,” Tré says. Frankito, appeased, slides a thumb into his mouth. Tré ruffles his son’s hair, then glances over to Mike. “Hey there sleepy head,” he says, and Mike smiles easily. “My little buddy here woke up nice and extra early, didn’t you?” Tré says to Frankito, keeping his blue eyes locked on Mike’s. “Someone here needed a bath.”

“Daddy killed the drain monster,” Frankito adds helpfully.

“Damn straight I did,” Tré says, kissing Frankito’s pudgy cheek. “Squished him good.”

There’s something then, about the adorable way Tré says the word “squished,” and the insanely attractive way Frankito is slung on Tré’s hip that sparks a feeling in Mike so ferocious he has to leap up off the bed and get at least one hand on his lover before something inside him bursts. He remembers feeling this way after Ana had Stella, and wonders if it’s something buried and human, this intense parental feeling, this drive to protect that is instilled in every person on this planet.

Either that, or Tré would really make an excellent wife. Mike thinks of the dull, good ache in his ass and reminds himself to keep this idea to himself, lest Tré get any ideas about asserting his masculinity.

Tré looks away from his son long enough for Mike to kiss him good morning, sliding one arm around Tré’s bare belly as he does so.

“Gross,” Frankito observes, and Tré smiles against Mike’s mouth, their teeth clacking.

“Yeah, Papa Mike has some atrocious morning breath,” Tré supplies. Mike wrinkles his nose at him, moving his hand from Tré’s belly to playfully grope the drummer’s ass as he pulls off, making his way to the bathroom. Tré squeaks.

It’s going to be a good day.

Mike showers while Tré picks out a new outfit for Frankito. It takes him awhile, due to the fact he only spends one third of his time washing up; the other two thirds are spent imagining Tré’s shower later today and subsequently jacking off to the idea. By the time he makes it downstairs Rosa has already arrived, but just barely. Her purse lies on the table, and she’s combing Frankito’s hair with her fingers as the boy scoops up the last of some scrambled eggs into his mouth. She smiles at Mike briefly as he slumps into the kitchen, then redoubles her efforts to convince Frankito (now dressed in a Superman pajama top, which Claudia will no doubt murder Tré for allowing) to drink his milk,

“Yo,” Tré says, looking towards his son from over by the coffee maker. “Drink your milk, buddy.” Tré has a cell phone pinned between his shoulder and ear, and Mike gives him a look as he enters. In Tré’s hands is a jar of peanut butter and a spoon.

“Ramona,” Tré mouths to Mike, licking peanut butter off his spoon.

“But I don’t want to. I want more eggs,” Frankito whines from the table, eyes darting from Rosa to Tré.

“Drink your milk young man,” Rosa says assertively, grabbing her purse up from the table. She walks briskly out of the kitchen to store her stuff, Mike guesses, and he watches the drama unfold before him as he pours coffee for himself and Tré.

“Three swallows,” Tré says once Rosa’s gone. Mike ambles over the table and pulls up beside Frankito. The boy eyes him and Mike gives him a sympathetic raise of his eyebrows but remains silent.

“One,” Frankito argues, sizing up his cup and then his father. Mike smiles into his coffee.

“Three,” Tré says, but Mike can see that Ramona’s talking again and Tré’s losing focus.

Mike looks to Frankito and puts a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

Frankito’s eyes grow about the size of melons as Mike snags the small cup of milk from the table. He raises the glass to his lips and-

“MR. DIRNT!”

Rosa whaps him on the head with the newspaper hard enough to hurt, and Mike hastily drops the cup on the table.

“OW.” Mike grumbles. Frankito’s eyes gleam as only a child’s can when they know an adult’s in trouble. Mike glowers at him. “Just drink the milk, kiddo.”

“Okay,” Frankito says, apparently appeased by the sight of Mike in pain. Mike twists in his chair to eye Rosa behind him, expertly tying an apron around her waist. She glares at him with enough venom to kill a mastodon, and Mike assumes the guiltiest look he can muster before she whaps him again.

Frankito scrambles down from his chair with Mike’s help after he’s done slurping up his milk. Tré seems to be talking to half the world, and it reminds Mike that he should probably call the studio and a dozen other people to tell them where they’ve all been. Frankito asks if he can watch cartoons, and Mike tells him he can. Rosa looks like she wants to say something to him, but slips out with the boy as he darts off to the den.

Two minutes later, as Mike sips his coffee and Tré chatters on, spoon gesticulating in the air with his words, Mike remembers what happened in the den last night. Oh fuck.

Tré clicks his phone off with a sweet, I love you, turning around to face Mike just in time for Rosa to march into the kitchen with an armful of clothes and a violent look on her face. Mike actually rises off the chair, defensive, then catches himself.

“TRÉ COOL,” Rosa says darkly. Tré turns to his right, finally noticing his housekeeper beside him. He still has the peanut butter-filled spoon in his hand, and Rosa rips it out from his hand and whacks him on the nose with it, covering his nose in peanut butter.

“What the-oh,” Tré says, eyes catching the mess of clothes in her hands. His face turns red as a tomato, instantly. Mike makes a quick mental note that Tré is apparently all at once a dirty old bastard and insanely embarrassed about sex at the same time.

“Now I know I’m here to keep this house clean,” Rosa says, waving the spoon like she might do some major damage to Tré’s face if he doesn’t listen, “But I’m also here to take care of that boy and I believe that entails keeping him out of your TORN clothes and LUBRICANT.”

Tré turns from red to white, and he visibly swallows at the word “lubricant.”

Mike, who is going to get that fucking spoon thrown into his eye, cracks up.

“Oh god,” he says, placing a hand on the table to steady himself as he shakes with laughter. “Oh god, sorry Rosa. We…ah…we…”

Tré’s head snaps to look at him, face indignant. “What are you laughing about, Mike?!” he shrieks, voice higher than ever.

Mike can’t answer, only laughs harder. Tré throws up his hands, and Mike giggles as Rosa’s mouth begins to spread into a smile.

“I am never having sex again,” Tré states, exasperated. Now it’s Rosa’s turn to laugh, but Mike draws his breath in with one shrill gasp.

“What?” he blurts out, and Rosa laughs harder. She hands Tré back his spoon as she clutches the clothes tighter to her chest, guffawing. Mike sidles up to Tré, abandoning his coffee and taking in Tré’s shocked, indignant face. He slides his arms on top of the shorter man’s shoulders, bowing his head so that their foreheads almost touch.

“You can’t possibly mean that,” he says in his most pleading tone.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Rosa mutters. She pokes Mike hard in the side to get him to look at her. Tré remains motionless, and Mike has a moment of déjà vu from yesterday morning. Apparently this is becoming habit. “I’m going to take care of this and then get back to the baby. Make sure he eats more than peanut butter,” Rosa says, making her way to the door.

“I’m right here,” Tré says softly, as if he’s a million years away. Mike smiles.

“Oh really?” Rosa calls back over her shoulder as she exits the room.

“Do I have peanut butter on my nose?” Tré asks as the door clicks. Mike leans in and kisses Tré’s nose before he answers, managing to lift off the majority of the peanut butter with his mouth. He licks his lips.

“Only a little,” he says, bringing a thumb up to wipe the rest away.

“I cannot believe we left all that stuff in there,” Tré says as Mike cleans him up. “Oh my god, what the fuck was I thinking?”

“Probably about how fucking hot I am,” Mike supplies. He kisses Tré headily on the mouth, because, well, he can. “And about what mind-blowing sex we had just had,” he finishes after he pulls away.

Tré growls, throaty, and Mike grins as he watches Tré respond to his kiss, eyes brightening and body tightening like a guitar wire. It’s like a switch, one Mike has learned how to flip with minimal effort. Mike leans into kiss him again, and Tré rises up on his tip toes, bare chest pressing hotly against Mike’s shirt. His hands come around to firmly grab onto Mike’s ass, and Dirnt groans into Tré’s mouth.

“You taste like peanut butter,” Tré observes, whispering in the wet space between kisses. Mike nods, because telling Tré that he tastes the same would be a waste of breath and hot damn if he doesn’t like the way Tré’s eyes look when he’s turned on. Tré presses him backwards and this morning Mike falls back, not responding in his usual dominant fashion. Tré shoves him roughly toward the table, and Mike groans as his skinny, sore ass crashes into the tabletop. He hefts himself up on it quickly, Tré easily sliding between his spread legs to keep kissing him. It’s a new sensation, this one of supplication, and Mike isn’t sure if he likes it yet or not. All he knows is that Tré has skilled hands and a voracious sexual appetite, and-oh god-it feels damn good to not be driving the bus anymore.

Tré’s hands skate down Mike’s chest towards his belly, diving nimbly underneath the waistband of his loose jeans. Some small part of Mike’s brain is hell bent on reminding him that they haven’t had fucking breakfast yet and that this is Claudia’s seven frillion dollar kitchen table, but it gets easier to ignore as Tré’s fingers find what they want, and Mike throws his head back as Tré slowly, agonizingly, pumps him.

“Seriously,” Mike manages, vocabulary bottoming out as Tré undoes his fly, letting his hands have more room to work, “What is with you and going slow?”

Tré shrugs, finger tips grazing the underside of Mike’s dick, one hand ducking low to massage his balls. “You look pretty when you’re needy.”

“Pretty?” Mike chokes out, beginning to feel his orgasm building from deep inside his gut.

Tré smiles and leans over to nibble on his earlobe. Mike grabs fistfuls of tablecloth, his breath starting to come out in hitched pants, hips rocking up to meet Tré’s hands.

“Yeah pretty, you vain son of a bitch,” Tré says, but his hands speed up and Mike whines a little. He tongues his way down Mike’s throat. “Oh look, a bruise!” he exclaims, and Mike gasps as Tré’s teeth bite down on the same patch of skin from the night before.

He’s close now, so close that the room’s starting to go fuzzy around the edges, and Mike leans back a little farther on the table. Tré pulls off his neck as it moves out of reach, settling for watching.

“Tré,” Mike warns, and Tré nods, blue eyes catching his just before Mike gets caught up in his orgasm, eyes squeezing shut as he bucks shamelessly into Tré’s hands. He bites his lip as he comes, staying as silent as he possibly can.

Tré carefully extracts his hands from Mike’s pants, wiping them on his beleaguered sweatpants. Mike swallows a few gulps of air as he sits up, still reeling slightly, and smiles as Tré zips up his jeans.

“Love you,” Tré says, slinking one hand around the back of Mike’s neck so that he can kiss him. Mike shudders at the words, a little weirded out by the casualty of the moment, but he says them right back when Tré breaks the kiss. Something clicks in his mind, something nameless, but to him it feels like the last piece of an unnamed puzzle has fallen into place.

“I have to go to New York,” Tré says after awhile, face nuzzling Mike’s neck. Mike tenses in surprise, eyes flying open. “Ramona has a break for a few days.”

“Oh,” Mike says, trying to redirect his selfish disappointment by focusing on where his coffee cup has run off too. Tré stands up but doesn’t walk away. He places one small hand on Mike’s shoulders, squeezing the muscles there, rocking slightly to a rhythm only he feels. Mike watches his face, Tré’s mouth slightly parted and eyes concerned.

“You gonna be okay?” Tré asks softly. Mike reaches up to cover Tré’s hand with his own.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replies, and Tré rolls his eyes because no one ever takes Mike’s act. Mike speaks up before Tré can yell at him, backtracking. “Billie and I are okay. If anything I’m worried about how you are doing.”

Mike considers saying that Billie Joe’s sorry, but only Billie Joe himself can convince Tré of that.

Tré sighs, hands sliding down to tap out an easy beat on Mike’s thigh. “Back to that. I’m okay with him. I can relate to him, I guess.”

Mike throws him a quizzical look, and Tré explains. “When we were young, it was just you two. It was Billie and Mike, and then suddenly there was me….and…well, we’ve been down this road before. It’s hard to watch you two. So I…I forgive him.”

Mike swallows as he listens to Tré, taking in the sound of Tré’s voice, stronger than it was last night. He snakes out a hand and rubs Tré’s belly, needing to touch bare skin.

“Of course,” Tré says, and Mike can tell that he’s about to say something snippy because his mouth quirks, “That doesn’t mean I’m still not pissed off.”

Mike smiles, but he’s tired of talking about Billie Joe, the fact that Tré’s about to leave soon looming in the forefront of his mind. His earlier visions of Tré in the shower return to him, a newfound sense of urgency backing up the images.

“Leaving today?” he asks, scooting forward on the table. Tré backs up, letting Mike slide off the table. Tré nods.

“Yep. I think I’ll catch a red-eye tonight,” he says, rubbing his chin as he plans. Mike glances back towards the table, discovers that his coffee cup has been hiding right behind where his ass just was. He snags it. Tré continues on. “I’ll wait for Claudia to come home this afternoon, take Frankito to the park and whatnot.” Tré pauses, reaching out to take a sip of coffee from Mike’s mug, which Dirnt hands over easily. Tré’s blue eyes widen in realization. “Oh. I need to pack.”

“And shower,” Mike adds helpfully. Tré nods, eyes snapping into something light and predatory as he catches onto the implications of Mike’s suggestion. Mike grins. “I’ll meet you up there,” Mike says, swatting Tré’s butt with a hand as he steps around him. “I’m going to make more coffee.”

“Don’t be long,” Tré says, turning around towards the door as Mike heads for the coffee maker. Mike laughs, and Tré slips out the door.

Mike waits a moment for Tré’s footsteps to fade, then breaks for the nearest phone, a plan slowly forming in his head.

eighteen :: tré

Ramona is taller than she was the last time Tré saw her, and the fact that Tré has missed the time it took for her to grow another inch is so guilt-inducing he takes her shopping, followed by fancy dinners and Broadway shows. Ramona delights in the glamour of the stage, and Tré delights in her joy, clueless as to what every storyline is.

On his third morning in NYC, the morning of his flight back, Tré decides he should probably tell his daughter what he’s been up to the past months. He picks Ramona up from the house early in the morning, and while she collects her things (it’s amazing, Tré’s learned, how many accessories a ten year old girl needs to go to breakfast), Tré explains to Lisea in very blunt terms that he’s a) a fag and b) a fag with Mike, and c) he’s going to tell Ramona this over breakfast and hopes it won’t result in therapy.

Lisea takes a cool drag of her cigarette. “Well. That explains a lot.”

Which Tré would laugh at if it weren’t for the bone-shattering anxiety that is clacking through his body. He nods to Lisea, shrugging, and Ramona clatters down the stairs before he can really say much else. Lisea, slowly becoming more distant as the years pass that Tré can’t even recognize the woman he once married, shuffles them out the door and doesn’t condemn of congratulate him, so Tré books it as a win. He kisses his ex-wife as he leaves, and she smiles warmly at him, offering no advice. What it means, he doesn’t know.

This being New York, Tré finds himself subject to many fan-mobbings (which Ramona seems to delight in), and he alternatively curses and blesses the fact that he’s brought along an entourage with him this time. It’s hard to come out of the closet to your daughter when there’s three other people around, each one of them being paid to make sure that no one kills/maims/gropes you without permission, but Tré is grateful, as always, for his assistants. Ramona ignores them, used to a high-profile existence, and Tré finds this somewhat uncomforting.

Ramona decides she wants coffee, not breakfast, so Tré eagerly indulges her. Lisea might not appreciate a caffeinated pre-teen and usually neither would Tré, but today he’s Daddy, and Daddy will get his little girl whatever she wants. He requests that Ramona pick a coffee shop that has a somewhat secluded back room, because there’s no way in hell he’s saying these words on the street.

Ramona complies without any fuss, and before Tré’s really planned out his speech he finds himself sitting on a cushy chair in the backroom of a café whose name he can’t pronounce. Ramona, so young and so sweet, stares at him over the biggest mocha frappucino he’s ever seen in his life.

“Daddy?” Ramona says, before Tré can even begin to talk, “Is something wrong?”

Tré has to smile at that, especially since Ramona’s eyes are wide and wet with concern. “No kiddo,” he says, fingers tapping on the mug of black coffee he has in his hands, “Everything’s actually pretty damn good.”

Tré shifts in his seat, taking a deep breath. He’s used to dealing with things either by charging forward with confident bluntness, or keeping his mouth shut. Both, he knows, do not work so well on his daughter.

“Sis,” he begins, remembering the speech he prepared for when he told her he was marrying Claudia, “I want you to know that-”

“You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?” Ramona interjects, cutting Tré off mid-cliché. He feels his eyes grow to the size of saucers and he stares at his daughter, who shrugs her shoulders and sips on her coffee. “It’s okay, Daddy. I can handle it.”

Tré attempts to recover, feeling light-headed at his next words. “It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ he says, and now it’s Ramona’s turn to look frightened. Tré feels sick. “Oh, it’s not bad, it’s not bad, sis.” Ramona stares at him, and Tré feels the stupid need to take her hand, but he doesn’t. Ah fuck, he thinks to himself, and takes the plunge.

“Alright, I’ve been seeing someone, you’re right about that,” he says. He adopts a carefree, matter-of-fact tone. “Well, the person that I’ve been seeing is, uh…ah, it’s Mike.”

Ramona stares at him. Tré feels like the entire oxygen content in the room has suddenly vanished, and the air feels like ether, numbing.

Suddenly Ramona laughs, bright and genuine. Tré flinches, but only a little. “Very funny, Daddy,” she says, sipping her mocha. “You’re hilarious.”

Fuck.

Tré bites his lip, looking his daughter in the eye, watching her face fall as he repeats himself. “Mike and I are in a relationship,” he says tactfully, because “we’ve been fucking around for months now,” isn’t really PG material. Tré pushes on ahead, words spilling out of his mouth before he can lose his nerve. “It’s real. I’m in love with him. You can even ask your mom.”

Ramona’s face becomes the palest shade of white Tré has ever seen as he mentions Lisea. For a brief moment he feels a small weight lift off his shoulders, because fuck if he just didn’t admit publicly that he’s in fucking love with Mike fucking Dirnt; and then the guilt comes crashing down as Tré scoots his chair around the table because his daughter looks like someone just threatened to slit her throat.

“Sis?” He whispers.

“But you’re my dad,” Ramona says, finally. She looks up at him with her tiny, chubby face and pretty hair clips and Tré realizes this is going to be the hardest thing he ever does. “You’re my dad! You can’t be gay, you’re my dad!” Ramona shrieks, voice rising.

And then Tré is reaching out for his daughter and she’s looking at him like she did right after the divorce-broken. Ramona jerks away from him. “Don’t! I want Mom. Where’s Mom? I want MOM.”

So Tré calls Lisea, who doesn’t call him a selfish asshole, Ramona watching him as tears run down her face. Lisea tells him that she’s already on her way, and while they wait for her Tré tells Ramona that he loves her, but he can’t change, and Ramona covers her ears and doesn’t listen to anything he has to say.

One hour later, Ramona is in Lisea’s house, probably still sobbing, and Tré is very quietly boarding a jet to Oakland. He doesn’t call, and he tries not to think on how Ramona couldn’t even tell him goodbye. Couldn’t say anything, actually.

“I hope you’re happy,” Lisea had said, and Tré is now frustrated that he can never tell how she means it.

There are drinks on the plane. Tré drinks them, and naps, and then drinks a few more. He can’t seem to get drunk, and therefore decides mid-flight to entertain his entourage with an array of astounding jokes, most of them unfunny. His assistants laugh, nervously, and Tré feels like throwing his glass through the window.

As the jet touches down and Tré disembarks on not-quite-sturdy feet, he contemplates jumping right back on and flying to New York to try again. This seems like a brilliant idea, until Tré catches the light blue gaze of one Mike Dirnt coming towards him.

“Came to pick you up!” Mike calls out as he jogs across the asphalt. Tré stares at Mike’s smiling face, and he can’t decide what to feel. He tells himself he’s not going to cry, and he’s not going to break down, and he’s not fucking going to let on that this is the worst day of his life. Because it fucking shouldn’t be.

And then Tré thinks, she’s ten. Ramona’s ten years old and now she has to deal not only with an absent, celebrity father, but a gay one at that.

Mike’s face turns stormy as he slows, coming to a full stop in front of Tré. Tré reels from his own internal train of thought, and tries desperately for nonchalance.

“Hey dude,” he manages to say with a smile. Mike’s eyes flicker, not buying it.

“Holy shit,” Mike says. He grabs Tré by the shoulders. “What happened?”

“Where’s the car?” Tré asks. His voice comes out steady enough, and Mike reluctantly drops his hands. This is not the place.

Mike doesn’t touch him as they walk to the cars, but stays close. Tré shuffles and plays pretend, smiling at their driver as he and Mike climb into the back, Tré’s entourage whisked away in other vehicles. Mike fidgets with his seatbelt as the car starts; Tré ignores his.

As they pull out onto the road, Mike decides against his seatbelt and tears it off. He bolts across the seat to where Tré is, hands cupping Tré’s face as Mike leans in for a quick, gentle kiss.

“Fuck, I missed you,” Mike breathes as they break apart, and Tré feels like his heartbeat just increased a thousand fold. Suddenly it’s back-that crazy, fucked-up sense of safety he gets with Mike, this need that goes way beyond physical contact, and Tré kisses Mike again, a little longer this time, relieved. Mike’s hands slide down to his shoulders, fingers gently squeezing his taut neck muscles as he kisses him. “What happened?” Mike asks again, as he pulls away, and this time Tré sighs and tells him.

“I told Ramona,” Tré confesses, and the image of his daughter rushes up in front of his face and he feels his throat close up. “I told her about us. She’s…uh…well she’s upset. I think she hates me a little.”

Tré watches as Mike reacts to his words, face going from blank to shocked, then to something a little more complicated. Mike then leans in and kisses him on the forehead, which is the completely wrong thing to do. Tré doesn’t say anything however, because this is one of those awkward times when Mike is trying to treat him like his wife, like Tré is stronger and kinder than he actually is. Tré is not someone who can be kissed and held, as if that will make everything better because it won’t.

“Fuck,” Tré says quietly, and he looks away from Mike. Dirnt takes the hint, and pulls back. As soon as Mike’s hands leave his skin, Tré takes a deep breath of relief, and then immediately wishes they were back. Sometimes, he wishes that things weren’t so fucking complicated.

“I don’t know what to say,” Mike admits after a moment, folding his hands in his lap. Tré looks over to him. Mike keeps looking at his hands. “I told Stella, you know. And Ana. It was about a month ago.”

Tré didn’t know that. “Did she cry?” he asks, and Mike throws a surprised glance towards him.

“No,” Mike says. “They were both actually pretty cool about it. Stella said you were hot.”

“Ha,” Tré says, because that’s the most unfunny thing he’s ever heard. He shifts in his seat and looks out the window, watching the buildings roll by. “Ramona didn’t even say anything about you. She just….cried.”

“I’m sorry,” Mike says after awhile. Tré shakes his head, looking at the clouds.

“Don’t be.”

After a minute or two has passed, Mike scoots over again, long arm sliding across the back of the seat to rest right behind Tré’s head and shoulders.

“You know,” Mike begins, and Tré turns his head to look at him. Dirnt takes out his cell, flipping it open. “Whenever I want advice about things with Stella, there’s someone I always call.”

“I don’t think Billie wants to talk to me right now,” Tré says quietly. There’s a small flare of anger inside him, the one that always pops up when Mike goes to Billie Joe first, but Tré knows this is not going to change and works to deal with it. “I don’t know if I can talk to Billie right now.”

Mike gives him The Look then, the one where he looks so fucking disappointed. Tré growls in the back of his throat, and one of these damn days he’s going to learn how Mike’s eyebrows do that, and he reaches for the phone.

Mike leans over and kisses Tré on the temple. Tré presses speed dial and puts the phone to his ear, eyeing Mike with a grumpy look. The phone clicks as the person on the other end picks up.

“I’m sorry, Mike,” comes a voice that is much too high-pitched to Billie Joe’s, “But Billie is currently unavailable.”

“What?” Tré asks, semi-buzzed mind trying to keep up. “Whoa, whoa, Adrienne?”

“Tre?” comes the reply, and in the background Tré hears a low rumbling voice. That he recognizes as Billie Joe’s.

“Yeah, this is Tré.”

“Oh,” says Adrienne. “I’ve been meaning to have an affair with you.”

“What?” Tré exclaims. Adrienne doesn’t reply at first, and Tré strains to hear the muffled sounds in the background, very confused. Mike watches him with concerned eyes.

“Just kidding!” Adrienne says after a moment, sounding a little breathless. Then, to the side, “I said I was kidding-stop that!”

“Adie?” Tré asks, patient.

“Yeah?”

“Can I talk to Billie, please?” Tré asks. Mike nods.

“No,” Adrienne replies.

“What?” Tré says, again, beginning to feel frustrated. “Why? What’s he doing?”

Adrienne sighs, and when she speaks her tone is that of a general readying for war. “He’s very busy. He’s braiding my hair.”

Tré catches the What? on the tip of his tongue. “Oh,” he manages, as if rock stars braiding girls’ hair was something everyone did.

“He’s surprisingly good at it,” Adrienne says. “And you can’t talk to him tomorrow, either, or probably until the end of this week. I’ll be busy having sex with him.”

Billie Joe tries to have sex with my lover, and Adrienne punishes him by making him have sex with her, Tré thinks to himself. He gives Mike a WTF? look, and Mike shrugs, oblivious. Tré wonders if he knows that his best friend is being used as a sex slave, but he’s betting Adrienne’s worried more about Mike talking to Billie Joe than him.

“Oh,” Tré says again. “Well would you tell him something for me?”

Adrienne sighs on the other line, and Tré feels a sudden, mild alarm that Billie Joe is doing something to her that he shouldn’t be. At least, not while she’s on the phone with him for fuck’s sake. He’s never calling Billie Joe again. Or listening to Mike.

“Maybe,” Adrienne replies.

“Would you tell him,” Tré says, and Mike nods, encouraging, “That I forgive him for being a giant dick? And that as soon as he’s available we should all, I don’t know, barbeque or something?”

“Yes, I’ll tell him that,” Adrienne replies, and Tré smiles. “Tré?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to hang up now, okay?” Adrienne says, and Tré swears to god he here’s a wet smacking sound in the background and suddenly he never wants to see Billie Joe ever again.

“Okay,” he replies, and Adrienne’s gone. Tré snaps the cell shut, hands it to Mike, and then cuffs him lightly on the ear.

“Hey!” Mike exclaims. Tré reels a little, and he suddenly regrets drinking so much on the plane.

“Dude, that was the most pointless phone call of my entire life!” Tré retorts, taking in Mike’s surprised face. “I seriously think Billie was going down on his wife while I was talking to him! That’s disgusting!”

Mike laughs, and it feels out of place with the dark mood Tré has brought back to the Bay. “What are you, stoned? Usually you’re the one who gets off on stuff like that.”

“It’s Adrienne, you bastard,” Tré says, and that really does explain everything. He crosses his arms and looks out the window. Mike squeezes his shoulders, and Tré finally leans back into his touch. He’s surprised to see that he does feel better now, after the weird conversation with Adrienne.

The alcohol makes Tré a little tired, and he closes his eyes as the car rumbles on. Mike slips another arm around him, hand resting on Tré’s chest and belly, lazily tracing various patterns through his clothing. Tré angles himself more towards Mike, letting the taller man pull him closer, and he doesn’t protest as Mike presses one hand on the back of Tré’s neck, causing his head to fall forward and rest in the crook of Mike’s neck. Tré still knows he’s right-this doesn’t make anything better, but it certainly feels nice.

“We’re almost there,” Mike says after awhile, and Tré finds himself wishing they weren’t. He runs a hand up and down Mike’s thigh, squeezing gently.

“God, when I get home I’m taking a nap and then I’m going to bang on a kit so loud Claudia’s going to kill me,” Tré says tiredly into Mike’s neck. Mike kisses him on the head.

“No she won’t,” Mike says, and Tré feels the car slow to a stop. He sits up.

“Yes she will,” he argues.

“No,” Mike presses on. He slides down the seat and opens the door, grabbing Tré by the hand so that he has to follow him out of the same door. “She won’t.”

Tré shuts the door behind them, and stares up at Mike’s flat.

“Where’s my house?” he asks. “I thought we were going to my house.”

Mike waves the driver away. He turns to look at Tré, the two of them now standing alone in the driveway. “Your luggage should already be inside.”

Tré frowns. “What’s going on?”

Mike doesn’t reply, only smiles and pulls Tré forward towards the front door. Tré follows stupidly, debating whether or not to inform Mike that he’s not three years old and can walk without having his hand held. He says nothing, because apparently there’s a fourteen year old girl living inside Tré that likes having her hand held, and Tré has never been anything but pleasing to women.

Mike’s house is large, with many rooms and not enough open space, but Tré kind of likes the contrast to his own place. Claudia liked to keep things “open,” and sometimes, Tré thinks, the doors needed to be shut. He guesses that his need for privacy comes from fame. Mike likes doors and rooms because sometimes Mike freaks right the fuck out.

“Come on,” Mike whispers, slinging an arm around Tré’s shoulder, walking them both down the long hallway that stretches from front to back. Tré hasn’t been here very often, this being Mike’s new place, and he lets Mike lead him back towards the bedroom.

Or at least what Tré thought was going to be the bedroom, but Mike takes a sharp left in his windy sprawl of his house, and opens up the door to a large room, probably once an elaborate dining room.

Every single piece of drum equipment Tré owns is in the room, from drumsticks to cymbals to pedals.

“Holy fuck,” Tré says, and suddenly he understands.

Mike has his arms around his shoulders, folded over his back as he stares at the massive amounts of musical equipment. He nuzzles the side of Tré’s neck.

“You have your own room, mostly because you have the most extensive fucking wardrobe on the planet for a man who can barely dress himself. However,” and Tré shudders as he hears this, “I was hoping you could spend most of the time in mine.”

Tré slumps a little, too drunk to be nervous but definitely shocked. “I’m not your wife,” he says softly. Mike squeezes him.

“Well that’s a relief, because I divorced her in order to get my hot drummer to move in with me. That and you’d look mighty ugly in her dresses,” Mike says. He kisses Tré’s neck. “Though I did notice you have a few of your own, mine explaining that?”

“Holy fuck,” Tré repeats, ignoring Mike’s question, because Holy fuck indeed.

“Alright, naptime,” Mike says after awhile. It’s becoming apparent that Tré has lost all his higher functions, and he gladly follows Mike out of what will now be referred to as the “Drum and Cymbal Room of Excessive Noise,” quickly shuffling through the twisting hall to find the master bedroom.

Once inside, Tré about trips on the massive amounts of shoes and belts on the floor, and Mike shoves him on the bed. Tré falls backward with an ungraceful oof of surprise, but he shimmies up the mattress until his head hits the pillows.

Mike immediately begins the task of undressing Tré, starting with his sneakers. Tré can’t help but laugh at that.

“You don’t want to live with me,” Tré says as Mike undoes his belt and fly. He lifts his hips and Mike slides his pants down. “I’m messy. And inconsiderate.”

“Me too,” Mike says. Tré watches him fold up his pants and Tré makes a mental note to fold Mike’s clothes after he rips them off his body. It’s a nice thought. Tré takes a little initiative and takes off his own shirt, quickly folding it before dropping it on the floor, then ducks under the covers. Mike kicks off his own boots, then flops exuberantly onto the bed beside Tré. “I hired a housekeeper,” Mike says. “Rosa recommended her.”

Rosa, Tré thinks, and then suddenly it hits him-he’s not living with his son anymore. He’s not going to be able to walk into the other room and see his baby boy. That thought almost sends Tré shooting straight up and out from the bed, but he stops, waiting desperately for logic to kick in.

“What did Claudia say?” Tré asks, and he sees a small flicker of disgust spark in Mike’s eyes. Mike has never liked Claudia, for reasons Tré doesn’t know.

Mike runs a hand through his hair as he speaks. “She thought it was mostly a good idea. She said you needed your own space. And…well…” Mike pauses, grimacing. Tré gives him a pointed look to finish. “She has a boyfriend, did you know that?” Mike continues, rushing his words.

“Oh,” Tré says. He waits for the jealous anger to boil up from his stomach, but it doesn’t come. This surprises him. “Oh,” he says again.

“I told Frankito that you were moving in with me. He cried a little. I felt like the biggest shit in the world,” Mike says. He closes his eyes as he says this, and Tré feels his heart jump up into his throat. Ramona’s teary face is burned in the back of his mind, and he imagines that Frankito’s is in Mike’s. Somehow that thought is comforting; that Mike has been where he now is.

But Mike was alone, says a small voice in Tré’s head, and Tré jerks the covers down, up and over Mike, then scoots over so that he’s pressed up right against him. Mike doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t touch him. Tré waits for a moment.

“I think they’ll get over it,” Tré whispers. He goes on, more determined. “They’re going to understand, later on. It just sucks right now, that’s all.”

“What if your kids hate me?” Mike asks after a while, and his voice is so plaintive Tré laughs.

“Dude, you sound like a woman,” he says through his laughter. Mike’s eyes fly open with indignation.

“Fuck you,” Mike says, and Tré has to agree with that.

“God, yes,” he mutters, and Mike’s hands are suddenly on his sides, flipping him onto his back as Mike kneels on top of him. Tré swats him. “But after I’ve had my nap, you crazy horny bastard.”

“I know, I know,” Mike chuckles, and Tré smiles as the moment turns easier, their now shared parental problems momentarily put aside. Tré absently wonders to himself if it was ever like this with his wives-was it ever this easy to work through the brief, sharp pains life sometimes has. Tré finds himself hoping it’s only with Mike.

Mike leans down for a slow, burning kiss. Tré moans openly beneath him, realizing that no one is going to be upset by the sound. Mike smiles, then kisses Tré’s throat and shoulders, rising up off the bed. He steps on a mislaid boot and stumbles, and Tré laughs.

“Our housekeeper’s going to hate us,” Tré says. Mike picks up the offending footwear and throws it across the room, growling. It lands on another square of carpet, still in the way. Tré says nothing, only laughs again.

“Go to sleep!” Mike grumbles. Tré nods, because fuck if he isn’t the most tired he’s ever been in his entire life.

“When I get up we’re playing some fucking loud rock and roll, okay?” Tré orders as he falls asleep.

Mike’s disembodied voice floats across the room, and Tré smiles as he feels lips right behind his ear.

“Will you play the drums naked?” Mike asks, sounding like a five year old who wants an ice cream cone. “Like when we were kids?”

“Well if it’s one thing I’m an expert at, it’s playing the drums naked,” Tré mumbles. He hears Mike snicker in the background, then clump around closer to the bed.

“Should I order in some takeout?” Mike asks.

“Dude,” Tré mumbles, flopping over on his stomach, “Trying to sleep.”

“I’m trying to be a decent wife and make you dinner, so tell me what you want,” Mike retorts. Tré half-heartedly laughs into his pillow, but it comes out more as a groan. He hears the sound of a phone book being opened and flipped through. “I could do pizza,” Mike says, enthusiastic.

“We’re going to have to hire a chef to, aren’t we?” Tré mumbles. “‘Cause we’re never going to make it.”

Suddenly the bed ripples, and Tré groans as Mike’s body is suddenly curved around his back, lying on top of him.

“You could learn how to cook,” Mike says, and Tré smiles as he feels the words vibrate through Mike’s throat and onto his shoulders.

“SLEEP,” Tré reiterates.

Mike’s quiet for a while, and Tré slips a little further away, liking the way Mike isn’t too heavy, and how warm his body is on his back, and how his breathing matches his own.

“Is this really okay?” Mike whispers after a moment. “Because if you don’t want to stay here I won’t be angry.”

Tré’s eyes fly wide open. He doesn’t turn to look at Mike, only stares out towards the far window, looking at a view he’s never seen before. It’s pretty. He could wake up to it.

“Well despite the fact that we make the lousiest gay men ever, yeah,” Tré replies. He doesn’t know if it’s the time for a joke, but he can’t handle any more delicate moments. “This is real good. Real good.”

Mike’s breath comes down in a woosh on the back of Tré’s neck. Tré smiles, letting his eyelids drop again as Mike hugs him from behind, fluffy hair tickling Tré’s shoulders as Mike nuzzles his neck.

“You know, dinner can wait,” Mike says, and Tré lets out another oof of surprise as Mike rolls off of him, causing the bed to jump. Tré waits as Mike shimmies out of his pants and tank top, smiling as Dirnt slips underneath the covers beneath him. “A nap sounds good.”

Mike curls up to Tré’s back, halfway spooning him from behind since Tré’s sleeping on his stomach. Mike kisses his shoulder, and Tré doesn’t think he’s ever liked having his shoulder kissed quite as much as he just did.

“Night,” Tré says, because this is a moment that doesn’t need an I love you. He likes that fact.

Mike huffs in response, already trying very hard to fall asleep. Tré smiles, breathes in deep and feels Mike’s skin dip with his, and let’s go.

Fin.