a headline act around the back if what i'm thinking of
Title: Brutal Love [16]
Author: Molly
Pairing: Billie/Mike
Summary: "Stop saying my fucking name."
Previous parts: located here
Billie Joe sat on the abused leather couch that followed the band to every arena across the United States, bent over a scuffed coffee table, scratching furiously in a composition notebook. It was full of angry scribbles, and he wondered, absently, when the fucking ball point pen was going to run out of goddamn ink. In the back of his mind, Billie wondered if that was the endgame he was aiming for. If he reached the limit of the pen, perhaps he would find the last of his own frustration, and maybe then he would finally calm down.
Not too fucking likely, Billie knew, and he threw the utensil down abruptly, dropping it in favor of rubbing furiously at his face. He felt like a ticking time bomb, like he was ten seconds or less away from a panic attack, and though the feeling was familiar, it wasn't a desirable one, to be sure.
The tips of his fingers were pressing into his closed eyes, causing explosions of lights to fire off in his brain, when Billie Joe jumped at the sound of a throat clearing and looked up wildly, to see Mike standing in the doorway of the arena's practice room. His bassist appeared as fraught with tension as he was himself, maybe a little scared too, with his teeth sinking into his bottom lip and fingers clutching his naked bicep.
“Hey,” Mike said hesitantly, slowly stepping forward, “can we talk?”
Billie's first instinct was to scowl, and scowl he did, slapping the notebook closed as sharply as he stood. “Talk? Depends on you're idea of talking. Because if you're seeking to lecture me again, I got better fuckin' things to do.”
He was already beelining for the door, clearly wanting to get as far away from his oldest friend as he possibly could, when they were due to hit the stage in less than three hours, but the bassist shuffled to the side to block his escape. A growl rumbled in Billie's chest. “Get the fuck outta my way, Dirnt.”
“No,” he said, eyes wide, face clear. Though still thrumming with tension, there was purpose in Mike's stance and in his gaze, mouth set into a firm line now. “I'll play like shit if we don't talk, and if I do, the show will suck. Which neither one of us wants.”
Unfortunately, he knew Mike had a point. Exhaling sharply through his nose, Billie Joe folded his arms over his chest tightly. He kept a good two, maybe three feet away from Mike, because just being in the same room with him was making him feel sick as it was. “Then talk,” Billie said roughly, jutting his chin to the side for emphasis. “Give me your bullshit, then leave me the fuck alone, 'cause I don't have the patience for you, Dirnt.”
His eyes flashed, mostly at the pointed use of his staged last name. Billie only referred to Mike with that syllable when he was angry with him or joking around, and there certainly wasn't any laughter to be found in those green eyes at the moment. Though he knew he deserved it, he also didn't believe it wasn't quite fair to not even hear him out.
“All right, Armstrong, I know I acted like an asshole, but you're acting like a self-righteous little cunt right now. Get over yourself.”
It took Mike about a second or so to realize he'd said the wrong thing. The smaller man narrowed his eyes to slits, slinking a step closer with a finger pointed at Mike's chest, as he hissed, “Over myself? Funny, coming from you, considering last night you were so keen to tell me I had a self-esteem problem. And, from where I was looking, it sure seemed like you were thinkin' pretty highly of yourself. Dirnt.” The last word came out like a wad of spit, just as gross and unwanted.
“Christ, Billie Joe, I came in here to tell you I'm fucking sorry. I was out of line last night, I'd had too much gin. You know I act like a prick when I drink that shit, and I'm fucking sorry.”
“Yeah, well, the funny thing about you and gin is that it also makes you pretty damn honest, Mike. And if what you said last night is what you think, then don't lie to me now. That just makes it fucking worse.”
Underneath the simmering heat of his anger, Mike could see the hurt tightly woven in Billie's eyes. It made his gut twist, even more violently than his hangover had that morning, because it's the last thing he ever wanted for Billie, let alone being the cause of it himself. Mike licked his lips, hesitating only briefly before softly saying, “That's now what I think of you, Beej. What I said. . . it wasn't about you, not really. It was about me.”
“It certainly sounded like it was about me,” Billie Joe snapped, though some of the heat had dissipated from his voice, allowing for some emotion to weave through. Carefully avoiding Mike's eyes, he stared hard at the wall, jaw almost painfully set. “And I'm not too sure why you would call me the dirty skank if that's how you really felt about yourself.”
Hearing the words made him wince (because it was oh so very embarrassing to think that he'd actually said such a thing about his most favorite goddamn person in the world), and he shook his head, his hands raised in an imploring gesture. “That's not-no.” Mike was struggling. He really didn't have any idea how to articulate his feelings to Billie, which explained why he'd made such a bad job of it while his brain was drowning in alcohol, and the look on his face was almost desperate. “It's just that-that seeing you-like that-it.” Again, Mike's sentence came to a hard stop, and he closed his eyes, huffing in frustration with himself as he pinched his nose. “Jesus fuck,” he muttered.
His anger, though not completely faded, was ebbing away into confusion. It was a confusion that had introduced itself last night, to be sure, but the rage had burned so violently red it had been very seriously overshadowed. But it was lapping up to the shores of Billie's mind again, at seeing Mike totally agitated, because why the hell had Mike said those things about him? Why had his best friend lost his shit at the sight of him being bent over and fucked, in the privacy of his own hotel room, by a nameless stranger neither of them actually knew the name of? Why in God's name did it matter, when they both knew very well that Mike had invited plenty of women (and men, too) onto his tour bus in the past? What was the big deal?
“You're gonna have to excuse me if I'm a little lost here, Mike, since you're actually making zero sense right now.” The venom in Billie Joe's words was gone, though they remained quite firm, as his body language was guarded. Because as much as he didn't give a damn about what people thought, Mike was a special exception to that rule, and to be diminished into nothing by a person he himself regarded so highly wasn't a feeling he was about to forget anytime soon. “You, me, Tre, we all have sex with randoms on tour, it's part of the gig, man. So, okay, I get that seeing it probably freaked you out, but-but I sure as hell didn't do anything to deserve that verbal lashing you gave me last night.” Or did I? That voice in the back of Billie's head was quiet, but influential all the same. . .
“It's not that it freaked me out. I mean, it did, but--” Mike dared to step closer, his hand raised like he was going to touch his friend's face. He didn't, merely let it hover suspended in the air. When he found the words to continue, Mike's voice was almost pleading, almost pained. “Beej, I-I wasn't upset because I thought you were-were being indecent. If that was the case, I'd have to be upset with you every damn day considering how often you pull your pants down in public.” It didn't quite gain the smile he was going for, but almost, which was enough to give him courage to go on. “I was upset because that tool didn't deserve to touch you. You're better than randoms, Billie. God, you deserve so much better. . .”
There was a tenderness, a-what was it? Passion?--in Mike's face. He was using an expression and a tone of voice Billie Joe rarely saw out of his oldest friend, and it made his heart skip a beat. Because the possibility of what Mike was actually saying had every nerve in his body buzzing, and he didn't know what that meant, anymore than he knew what Mike was feeling. So Billie shuffled closer too, now having to tilt his head in order to look up into shining cerulean blue eyes. “Mike,” he said, a lilt in the name subtly begging him to go on.
But Mike was struggling, that much was clear by the way his lips went on floundering. His hand, still lingering in the air, finally dared to fall on Billie's shoulder, which resulted in a slight jump from the singer's body, though not in a bad way. That heart of Mike's, so unreliable in both the physiological and the emotional sense, was pounding so hard he felt it in his ears. Finally, “Billie Joe, I-I saw you with that-that asshole, and I wanted to beat the shit out of him because-because--”
“Just say it, Mike.” Billie had never been very patient, and the suspense was making him crazy. Another step closer, and they were practically nose to nose. He could see the fine hairs of stubble breaking out along his jaw, a complicated mousy color, and a voice in him told him to fuck it and he slid his hand over the scratchy cheek at the same time Mike's hand trailed down his arm, to rest on his hip. Because, honestly, the physical tension between them had been radiating under the surface for years, and it was about time to either get off the horse or ride.
“It should be me kissing you,” he said in a whispered rush, shaking his head just slightly, “not fucking randoms and one night stands. It should be me.”
Billie's heart seemed to be soaring from his ribcage to his skull, as he gasped. His hand skidded from cheekbone to the back of Mike's head, curling tight into wisps of hair that had been dyed thousand of colors over the years, but today was a dirty gold. “Then,” Billie Joe began, his voice a husky, breathless whisper, “what the fuck are you waiting for?”
The silence in the kitchen made Billie's ears buzz, permeated only by the even ticking of the damned cat clock. He was standing directly underneath it, as he stood in front of the kitchen sink washing his hands, and his eyes flickered up to it, briefly. It was a gift from Tre, when they first moved into this house more than ten years ago, and Mike had loved it so much Billie had successfully swallowed down his distaste for it and had agreed to its placement. Many times over the years, he had teased Mike about it, snarking about the tacky clock without any real bite, for the same reason Mike put up with the crucifix he had insisted on hanging up in their bedroom. That's what a relationship is; give and take.
Billie Joe bit his tongue at the same time his stomach wrenched, just at the thought. He had been standing at the counter, washing his hands in the cold water, for a good six minutes, at least. It was like Billie's mind had gone on autopilot, and he couldn't even blame it on an overwhelming amount of thought. The truth was, he wasn't really thinking at all. Billie wouldn't let himself. Instead, he just kept turning his hands under the stream of cool water, gazing out of the window and into the backyard.
Mike was sitting on the swing. He looked a little ridiculous, the play set meant for children dwarfed by his size, and so he simply sat there, perhaps rocking a bit back and forth (it was hard to tell from the kitchen) and gazed down at the grass with his hands wrapped loosely around the chains dangling from the wooden beam overhead. It was like a picture Billie Joe had seen before, in his sister's psychology textbook, and he shivered.
Finally, it occurred to him that he probably needed to snap the fuck out of it and dry off his goddamn hands. Billie turned off the faucet and shook his hands into the steel basin, pulling on the dishtowel he had slung over his shoulder when he had been wasting time cleaning up the already clean kitchen. He dried his hands, tossed the cloth into the sink, and slowly, approached the patio doors that would take him outside-take him to Mike. With his fingers wrapped around the hand, Billie paused with his lip between his teeth. The sick feeling in his stomach felt permanent, because he had no idea what to say to Mike, though he knew he needed to say something. Because saying nothing would say far too much about the kind of man Billie Joe was capable of being, and for the first time in what felt like twenty years, Billie was really determined to be a man.
With that in mind, he exhaled at the same time that he opened the door, gingerly closing it behind him as he began to make his way across the yard in even strides. Mike didn't even look up as Billie approached, apparently too fixated on whatever it was he could see in the ground, and when Billie Joe reached him, he had to crouch to his knees in order to catch his eyes. The blue orbs were distracted, but concentrated on his. Hesitating only initially, Billie lifted his hand and cupped it over the sitting man's knee. “Hey,” he said, and there was a slight tremor in his voice.
The bassist didn't say anything at first. Mike's eyes dropped to the hand on his leg, to the band of gold glinting in the sun, and he licked his lips. “Hey,” Mike replied eventually.
“Mike. . . honey. . . we should talk.”
It was true, that they hadn't uttered so much as a word to each other since leaving the doctor's office. They'd voiced a few questions for the doctor, sure-what they could manage, anyhow-and ended up exiting in what seemed like stunned silence. Billie hadn't even sworn at the traffic, as he usually did when he was in the driver's seat and navigating the goddamn six lane highway, and when they had reached home, Mike had only lingered in the living room for a few minutes before heading out to the backyard in silence. At the time, Billie Joe had let him go, because he had no idea what else he could do, but now, Billie couldn't take it anymore; they had spent ten years in silence, and it wasn't a norm he was willing to return to; not now.
“You can talk to me, even if it's just to tell me to fuck off,” he said, his right hand sliding onto Mike's other knee. “I'll understand.”
His eyes flickered something dark, but it passed quickly enough. It left Mike looking at him with something strangely like pity. “I'm sorry,” he said, “for asking you to marry a death sentence.”
The response took Billie aback, damn near took his breath away, as he inhaled sharply. He shook his head, face pinching into a devastated expression. “Mike,” Billie Joe breathed, “that's-that's not what Dr. Pierce said. He--”
“If that wasn't what he said, we were listening to two different conversations,” Mike said flatly, though with an edge to his voice that certainly didn't suit him.
Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this. There was an absence in Mike's eyes Billie could not stand, and a hopelessness that he had never seen in him before. His breath hitched, again. “Mike, he said there were things they can do to fight it. He said there are ways to slow growth, Mike, to--”
“Slow it, Billie. Not stop it. Not get rid of it. To give me extra time.”
“Right, and he said they're doing research, Mike, that they're always working on new treatments and-and cures, Mike, so that they can get rid of it, and then--”
“It's in my liver, Billie Joe. They're not going to be able to get of it.”
Now Billie was beginning to feel light-headed, and he gripped Mike's legs harder, if only to keep himself grounded. “Mike-Mike--”
“Stop saying my fucking name.” He stood up quickly, so sudden that it caused Billie to topple backwards onto his ass, and he stared down wildly at scared green eyes. “This thing is going to fucking kill me. Sooner or later, it's gonna put me six feet under. We both know what this shit does, and I'm not interested in silly little fantasies of cures because if it can kill Steve Jobbs, then I'm fucking screwed.” Mike loomed over the frontman, jabbing his finger in the air for emphasis. “So it's either marinate my body with chemicals or let nature take its course, and I gotta tell you, I'm not liking my odds with either one.”
Stunned as he was, he managed to clamber to his feet, unsteadily, and with his chest constricting with every stupid word Mike was saying, he wished he'd had the foresight to take a fucking Xanax. Billie folded his arms tight in front of him, determined to keep his shit together, despite the pain that was lapping at his insides like an incoming tide. He could see every nasty thought in Mike's head playing across his face, and it amazed him that it had the ability to make him even more sick than he already was. “So what are you saying?” It was a struggle, to keep his voice even, but Billie Joe almost completely managed, though his lips were trembling.
“I'm saying I don't know if it's worth it, Billie. I don't know if I can do the surgery, and the chemo, and the radiation, and all of that other bullshit he was talking about. Because the end is going to be the same either way, it's just a matter of when.” There was such a roughness in his tone, harsh and callous and cold that was so uncustomary for him. That in itself was terrifying, and Billie had to bite his fingernails into the flesh on his biceps, to center his pain elsewhere. “If I do chemo, it might buy me some time, but at what cost?” Mike's voice dropped low, shaking with his own emotion as he inched a step closer, “Not being able to play? Not being able to pick up our daughter? Not being able to have sex with you?” He ticked away each one on his fingers, and the look in his eyes was that of a person on fire; in absolute agony but with no means of doing anything about it. “Living longer is worthless if I'm not actually living. I'd rather have six good months than two years of them being sick and useless, and knowing, every single goddamn day, that it's all gonna end anyway.”
Mike's speech seemed to have come to an end. He stood there, only inches from his husband and yet light years away at the very same time, but the bassist didn't even seem to care. The mounting anger Mike felt overwhelmed any kind of sadness or remorse someone in his position might feel; maybe some time in the days following this conversation, Mike would realize the bluntness of his words and perhaps end up with a little bit of guilt at the things he was doing to Billie Joe's breathing. But as it was, he was too sorry for himself to think of much else. Never in his life had Mike experienced such all-consuming hate and spite, fueled not by a person but by an invisible force of physiology he could do absolutely nothing about. And that, in itself, was more enraging than anything else.
Poor Billie. All he had wanted to do, was to let his husband know that he was there for him, in whatever way Mike needed him to be, and in return he had been on the receiving end of a serious outburst. Worst of all, though, was the consequences of what Mike was saying-the reality that was all but bludgeoning Billie over the head with a baseball bat.
His heart was racing, and his throat felt so dry, it made him wonder when the last time was that he had bothered to have some water. With every breath Billie Joe took, it was like an iron clamp tightened around his heart, sending violent shockwaves of pain to every nerve in his body. The backs of his eyes burned with unbidden tears, and he had to breathe, very carefully, to keep the panic at bay. Because now was not the time (if there ever would be one), and when it came down to it, Billie was just too drained to have anything to give Mike at that particular moment.
“Olivia will be getting off the bus soon,” he murmured, not looking at Mike, already turning away. Billie lingered for only a moment, mouth paused in the notion that he ought to say something else, but Billie Joe gave it up as a bad job and walked away.
Author: Molly
Pairing: Billie/Mike
Summary: "Stop saying my fucking name."
Previous parts: located here
Billie Joe sat on the abused leather couch that followed the band to every arena across the United States, bent over a scuffed coffee table, scratching furiously in a composition notebook. It was full of angry scribbles, and he wondered, absently, when the fucking ball point pen was going to run out of goddamn ink. In the back of his mind, Billie wondered if that was the endgame he was aiming for. If he reached the limit of the pen, perhaps he would find the last of his own frustration, and maybe then he would finally calm down.
Not too fucking likely, Billie knew, and he threw the utensil down abruptly, dropping it in favor of rubbing furiously at his face. He felt like a ticking time bomb, like he was ten seconds or less away from a panic attack, and though the feeling was familiar, it wasn't a desirable one, to be sure.
The tips of his fingers were pressing into his closed eyes, causing explosions of lights to fire off in his brain, when Billie Joe jumped at the sound of a throat clearing and looked up wildly, to see Mike standing in the doorway of the arena's practice room. His bassist appeared as fraught with tension as he was himself, maybe a little scared too, with his teeth sinking into his bottom lip and fingers clutching his naked bicep.
“Hey,” Mike said hesitantly, slowly stepping forward, “can we talk?”
Billie's first instinct was to scowl, and scowl he did, slapping the notebook closed as sharply as he stood. “Talk? Depends on you're idea of talking. Because if you're seeking to lecture me again, I got better fuckin' things to do.”
He was already beelining for the door, clearly wanting to get as far away from his oldest friend as he possibly could, when they were due to hit the stage in less than three hours, but the bassist shuffled to the side to block his escape. A growl rumbled in Billie's chest. “Get the fuck outta my way, Dirnt.”
“No,” he said, eyes wide, face clear. Though still thrumming with tension, there was purpose in Mike's stance and in his gaze, mouth set into a firm line now. “I'll play like shit if we don't talk, and if I do, the show will suck. Which neither one of us wants.”
Unfortunately, he knew Mike had a point. Exhaling sharply through his nose, Billie Joe folded his arms over his chest tightly. He kept a good two, maybe three feet away from Mike, because just being in the same room with him was making him feel sick as it was. “Then talk,” Billie said roughly, jutting his chin to the side for emphasis. “Give me your bullshit, then leave me the fuck alone, 'cause I don't have the patience for you, Dirnt.”
His eyes flashed, mostly at the pointed use of his staged last name. Billie only referred to Mike with that syllable when he was angry with him or joking around, and there certainly wasn't any laughter to be found in those green eyes at the moment. Though he knew he deserved it, he also didn't believe it wasn't quite fair to not even hear him out.
“All right, Armstrong, I know I acted like an asshole, but you're acting like a self-righteous little cunt right now. Get over yourself.”
It took Mike about a second or so to realize he'd said the wrong thing. The smaller man narrowed his eyes to slits, slinking a step closer with a finger pointed at Mike's chest, as he hissed, “Over myself? Funny, coming from you, considering last night you were so keen to tell me I had a self-esteem problem. And, from where I was looking, it sure seemed like you were thinkin' pretty highly of yourself. Dirnt.” The last word came out like a wad of spit, just as gross and unwanted.
“Christ, Billie Joe, I came in here to tell you I'm fucking sorry. I was out of line last night, I'd had too much gin. You know I act like a prick when I drink that shit, and I'm fucking sorry.”
“Yeah, well, the funny thing about you and gin is that it also makes you pretty damn honest, Mike. And if what you said last night is what you think, then don't lie to me now. That just makes it fucking worse.”
Underneath the simmering heat of his anger, Mike could see the hurt tightly woven in Billie's eyes. It made his gut twist, even more violently than his hangover had that morning, because it's the last thing he ever wanted for Billie, let alone being the cause of it himself. Mike licked his lips, hesitating only briefly before softly saying, “That's now what I think of you, Beej. What I said. . . it wasn't about you, not really. It was about me.”
“It certainly sounded like it was about me,” Billie Joe snapped, though some of the heat had dissipated from his voice, allowing for some emotion to weave through. Carefully avoiding Mike's eyes, he stared hard at the wall, jaw almost painfully set. “And I'm not too sure why you would call me the dirty skank if that's how you really felt about yourself.”
Hearing the words made him wince (because it was oh so very embarrassing to think that he'd actually said such a thing about his most favorite goddamn person in the world), and he shook his head, his hands raised in an imploring gesture. “That's not-no.” Mike was struggling. He really didn't have any idea how to articulate his feelings to Billie, which explained why he'd made such a bad job of it while his brain was drowning in alcohol, and the look on his face was almost desperate. “It's just that-that seeing you-like that-it.” Again, Mike's sentence came to a hard stop, and he closed his eyes, huffing in frustration with himself as he pinched his nose. “Jesus fuck,” he muttered.
His anger, though not completely faded, was ebbing away into confusion. It was a confusion that had introduced itself last night, to be sure, but the rage had burned so violently red it had been very seriously overshadowed. But it was lapping up to the shores of Billie's mind again, at seeing Mike totally agitated, because why the hell had Mike said those things about him? Why had his best friend lost his shit at the sight of him being bent over and fucked, in the privacy of his own hotel room, by a nameless stranger neither of them actually knew the name of? Why in God's name did it matter, when they both knew very well that Mike had invited plenty of women (and men, too) onto his tour bus in the past? What was the big deal?
“You're gonna have to excuse me if I'm a little lost here, Mike, since you're actually making zero sense right now.” The venom in Billie Joe's words was gone, though they remained quite firm, as his body language was guarded. Because as much as he didn't give a damn about what people thought, Mike was a special exception to that rule, and to be diminished into nothing by a person he himself regarded so highly wasn't a feeling he was about to forget anytime soon. “You, me, Tre, we all have sex with randoms on tour, it's part of the gig, man. So, okay, I get that seeing it probably freaked you out, but-but I sure as hell didn't do anything to deserve that verbal lashing you gave me last night.” Or did I? That voice in the back of Billie's head was quiet, but influential all the same. . .
“It's not that it freaked me out. I mean, it did, but--” Mike dared to step closer, his hand raised like he was going to touch his friend's face. He didn't, merely let it hover suspended in the air. When he found the words to continue, Mike's voice was almost pleading, almost pained. “Beej, I-I wasn't upset because I thought you were-were being indecent. If that was the case, I'd have to be upset with you every damn day considering how often you pull your pants down in public.” It didn't quite gain the smile he was going for, but almost, which was enough to give him courage to go on. “I was upset because that tool didn't deserve to touch you. You're better than randoms, Billie. God, you deserve so much better. . .”
There was a tenderness, a-what was it? Passion?--in Mike's face. He was using an expression and a tone of voice Billie Joe rarely saw out of his oldest friend, and it made his heart skip a beat. Because the possibility of what Mike was actually saying had every nerve in his body buzzing, and he didn't know what that meant, anymore than he knew what Mike was feeling. So Billie shuffled closer too, now having to tilt his head in order to look up into shining cerulean blue eyes. “Mike,” he said, a lilt in the name subtly begging him to go on.
But Mike was struggling, that much was clear by the way his lips went on floundering. His hand, still lingering in the air, finally dared to fall on Billie's shoulder, which resulted in a slight jump from the singer's body, though not in a bad way. That heart of Mike's, so unreliable in both the physiological and the emotional sense, was pounding so hard he felt it in his ears. Finally, “Billie Joe, I-I saw you with that-that asshole, and I wanted to beat the shit out of him because-because--”
“Just say it, Mike.” Billie had never been very patient, and the suspense was making him crazy. Another step closer, and they were practically nose to nose. He could see the fine hairs of stubble breaking out along his jaw, a complicated mousy color, and a voice in him told him to fuck it and he slid his hand over the scratchy cheek at the same time Mike's hand trailed down his arm, to rest on his hip. Because, honestly, the physical tension between them had been radiating under the surface for years, and it was about time to either get off the horse or ride.
“It should be me kissing you,” he said in a whispered rush, shaking his head just slightly, “not fucking randoms and one night stands. It should be me.”
Billie's heart seemed to be soaring from his ribcage to his skull, as he gasped. His hand skidded from cheekbone to the back of Mike's head, curling tight into wisps of hair that had been dyed thousand of colors over the years, but today was a dirty gold. “Then,” Billie Joe began, his voice a husky, breathless whisper, “what the fuck are you waiting for?”
The silence in the kitchen made Billie's ears buzz, permeated only by the even ticking of the damned cat clock. He was standing directly underneath it, as he stood in front of the kitchen sink washing his hands, and his eyes flickered up to it, briefly. It was a gift from Tre, when they first moved into this house more than ten years ago, and Mike had loved it so much Billie had successfully swallowed down his distaste for it and had agreed to its placement. Many times over the years, he had teased Mike about it, snarking about the tacky clock without any real bite, for the same reason Mike put up with the crucifix he had insisted on hanging up in their bedroom. That's what a relationship is; give and take.
Billie Joe bit his tongue at the same time his stomach wrenched, just at the thought. He had been standing at the counter, washing his hands in the cold water, for a good six minutes, at least. It was like Billie's mind had gone on autopilot, and he couldn't even blame it on an overwhelming amount of thought. The truth was, he wasn't really thinking at all. Billie wouldn't let himself. Instead, he just kept turning his hands under the stream of cool water, gazing out of the window and into the backyard.
Mike was sitting on the swing. He looked a little ridiculous, the play set meant for children dwarfed by his size, and so he simply sat there, perhaps rocking a bit back and forth (it was hard to tell from the kitchen) and gazed down at the grass with his hands wrapped loosely around the chains dangling from the wooden beam overhead. It was like a picture Billie Joe had seen before, in his sister's psychology textbook, and he shivered.
Finally, it occurred to him that he probably needed to snap the fuck out of it and dry off his goddamn hands. Billie turned off the faucet and shook his hands into the steel basin, pulling on the dishtowel he had slung over his shoulder when he had been wasting time cleaning up the already clean kitchen. He dried his hands, tossed the cloth into the sink, and slowly, approached the patio doors that would take him outside-take him to Mike. With his fingers wrapped around the hand, Billie paused with his lip between his teeth. The sick feeling in his stomach felt permanent, because he had no idea what to say to Mike, though he knew he needed to say something. Because saying nothing would say far too much about the kind of man Billie Joe was capable of being, and for the first time in what felt like twenty years, Billie was really determined to be a man.
With that in mind, he exhaled at the same time that he opened the door, gingerly closing it behind him as he began to make his way across the yard in even strides. Mike didn't even look up as Billie approached, apparently too fixated on whatever it was he could see in the ground, and when Billie Joe reached him, he had to crouch to his knees in order to catch his eyes. The blue orbs were distracted, but concentrated on his. Hesitating only initially, Billie lifted his hand and cupped it over the sitting man's knee. “Hey,” he said, and there was a slight tremor in his voice.
The bassist didn't say anything at first. Mike's eyes dropped to the hand on his leg, to the band of gold glinting in the sun, and he licked his lips. “Hey,” Mike replied eventually.
“Mike. . . honey. . . we should talk.”
It was true, that they hadn't uttered so much as a word to each other since leaving the doctor's office. They'd voiced a few questions for the doctor, sure-what they could manage, anyhow-and ended up exiting in what seemed like stunned silence. Billie hadn't even sworn at the traffic, as he usually did when he was in the driver's seat and navigating the goddamn six lane highway, and when they had reached home, Mike had only lingered in the living room for a few minutes before heading out to the backyard in silence. At the time, Billie Joe had let him go, because he had no idea what else he could do, but now, Billie couldn't take it anymore; they had spent ten years in silence, and it wasn't a norm he was willing to return to; not now.
“You can talk to me, even if it's just to tell me to fuck off,” he said, his right hand sliding onto Mike's other knee. “I'll understand.”
His eyes flickered something dark, but it passed quickly enough. It left Mike looking at him with something strangely like pity. “I'm sorry,” he said, “for asking you to marry a death sentence.”
The response took Billie aback, damn near took his breath away, as he inhaled sharply. He shook his head, face pinching into a devastated expression. “Mike,” Billie Joe breathed, “that's-that's not what Dr. Pierce said. He--”
“If that wasn't what he said, we were listening to two different conversations,” Mike said flatly, though with an edge to his voice that certainly didn't suit him.
Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this. There was an absence in Mike's eyes Billie could not stand, and a hopelessness that he had never seen in him before. His breath hitched, again. “Mike, he said there were things they can do to fight it. He said there are ways to slow growth, Mike, to--”
“Slow it, Billie. Not stop it. Not get rid of it. To give me extra time.”
“Right, and he said they're doing research, Mike, that they're always working on new treatments and-and cures, Mike, so that they can get rid of it, and then--”
“It's in my liver, Billie Joe. They're not going to be able to get of it.”
Now Billie was beginning to feel light-headed, and he gripped Mike's legs harder, if only to keep himself grounded. “Mike-Mike--”
“Stop saying my fucking name.” He stood up quickly, so sudden that it caused Billie to topple backwards onto his ass, and he stared down wildly at scared green eyes. “This thing is going to fucking kill me. Sooner or later, it's gonna put me six feet under. We both know what this shit does, and I'm not interested in silly little fantasies of cures because if it can kill Steve Jobbs, then I'm fucking screwed.” Mike loomed over the frontman, jabbing his finger in the air for emphasis. “So it's either marinate my body with chemicals or let nature take its course, and I gotta tell you, I'm not liking my odds with either one.”
Stunned as he was, he managed to clamber to his feet, unsteadily, and with his chest constricting with every stupid word Mike was saying, he wished he'd had the foresight to take a fucking Xanax. Billie folded his arms tight in front of him, determined to keep his shit together, despite the pain that was lapping at his insides like an incoming tide. He could see every nasty thought in Mike's head playing across his face, and it amazed him that it had the ability to make him even more sick than he already was. “So what are you saying?” It was a struggle, to keep his voice even, but Billie Joe almost completely managed, though his lips were trembling.
“I'm saying I don't know if it's worth it, Billie. I don't know if I can do the surgery, and the chemo, and the radiation, and all of that other bullshit he was talking about. Because the end is going to be the same either way, it's just a matter of when.” There was such a roughness in his tone, harsh and callous and cold that was so uncustomary for him. That in itself was terrifying, and Billie had to bite his fingernails into the flesh on his biceps, to center his pain elsewhere. “If I do chemo, it might buy me some time, but at what cost?” Mike's voice dropped low, shaking with his own emotion as he inched a step closer, “Not being able to play? Not being able to pick up our daughter? Not being able to have sex with you?” He ticked away each one on his fingers, and the look in his eyes was that of a person on fire; in absolute agony but with no means of doing anything about it. “Living longer is worthless if I'm not actually living. I'd rather have six good months than two years of them being sick and useless, and knowing, every single goddamn day, that it's all gonna end anyway.”
Mike's speech seemed to have come to an end. He stood there, only inches from his husband and yet light years away at the very same time, but the bassist didn't even seem to care. The mounting anger Mike felt overwhelmed any kind of sadness or remorse someone in his position might feel; maybe some time in the days following this conversation, Mike would realize the bluntness of his words and perhaps end up with a little bit of guilt at the things he was doing to Billie Joe's breathing. But as it was, he was too sorry for himself to think of much else. Never in his life had Mike experienced such all-consuming hate and spite, fueled not by a person but by an invisible force of physiology he could do absolutely nothing about. And that, in itself, was more enraging than anything else.
Poor Billie. All he had wanted to do, was to let his husband know that he was there for him, in whatever way Mike needed him to be, and in return he had been on the receiving end of a serious outburst. Worst of all, though, was the consequences of what Mike was saying-the reality that was all but bludgeoning Billie over the head with a baseball bat.
His heart was racing, and his throat felt so dry, it made him wonder when the last time was that he had bothered to have some water. With every breath Billie Joe took, it was like an iron clamp tightened around his heart, sending violent shockwaves of pain to every nerve in his body. The backs of his eyes burned with unbidden tears, and he had to breathe, very carefully, to keep the panic at bay. Because now was not the time (if there ever would be one), and when it came down to it, Billie was just too drained to have anything to give Mike at that particular moment.
“Olivia will be getting off the bus soon,” he murmured, not looking at Mike, already turning away. Billie lingered for only a moment, mouth paused in the notion that he ought to say something else, but Billie Joe gave it up as a bad job and walked away.