i'm all busted up
Title: It'll Do
Author: Molly
Pairing: Billie/OC (Aaron Cometbus) & implied Billie/Mike
Summary: “Yeah, but that's the thing, man-it ain't up to you who Mike spends his time with.”
Note: Just a one-off I wrote last summer.
He'd gotten drunk last night: drunker than anyone had the right to be. Billie knew he had been really drunk, because he remembered almost nothing. Somehow, someway, he had wound up on Tré's shitty-smelling mattress, face planted on his greasy pillow, naked except for his socks, with no recollection of how he had ended up there. Tré had been asleep on the floor, funnily enough, wearing nothing except for a shower cap on his head, and Billie had been vaguely worried they had slept together, but Eggplant, whom they shared the apartment with, assured them that hadn't happened. They'd made out, apparently, but hadn't fucked, but what else was new?
Billie Joe really hadn't had a good reason to get so blindingly drunk. His twentieth birthday was approaching, that was true, but that wasn't for another two days. It had been a Friday night, though, and Billie had been so goddamn sick of flipping pizzas all night long the vodka had seemed like a much-needed escape. He was due in for work at two that day, but he called in. With a headache from hell and a stomach that threatened mutiny with every sudden move he made, Billie was not willing to put himself on the front lines of shitty Oakland dining service. He had a feeling his boss would have thanked him, if he wasn't so pissed at him for calling in for fourth time that month, when the month wasn't even all the way through.
The fading teenager was not all too concerned with the potential loss of his position of employment, though Billie Joe guessed it would do him well to care a little more. He didn't feel he could be blamed, however, if he wasn't sad at the prospect of losing his pizza slinging credentials forever. Indeed, the only thing Billie really cared about was his guitar and his music, as well as where his next beer and cigarette were coming from, and everything else was just background noise. Any and all of the money he made was deposited into the tour fund they had been collecting, Europe their destination; neither he nor Tré had paid rent to Eggplant in probably eight months, since the first week they'd moved in. Eggplant gave up asking for it, since the rent was so low anyway. The place was a piece of shit.
When Billie finally felt well enough to roll over in Tré's bed and get out of it, Tré had gone missing. He guessed maybe the drummer had attempted to go to work at his own job, doing whatever it was he did-Tré had a new job every six weeks, it seemed, because he was always getting fired. Eggplant was gone, too, though he'd left Billie Joe a note to 'wash the fucking dishes or something.' He used the paper to roll a joint, leaving ganja residue on Tré's sheets, and smoked it. The weed hit his system and made him hungry, and that's what motivated Billie to actually get out of bed, to scavenge for some food.
There wasn't much to choose from, except for old pizza in the broken refrigerator and a box of stale Cheerios. Even though they had no milk, the cereal seemed the lesser of two evils, and lighting a cigarette, he carried the box out onto their front step. Billie had put some clothes on at this point, a pair of ratty sweats and an oversized dirty t-shirt, and he stepped out onto concrete in his bare feet, squinting in the bright California sun. It was February, but the sun never really relented in Berkeley, and that's part of what made Berkeley so fucking great.
That was how Aaron found him; the lanky sometimes roadie strolled up the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, raising an eyebrow at the sight of his friend perched on the steps, one hand stuffed into a box of Cheerios and the other holding onto a cigarette. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Billie Joe croaked, releasing a plume of smoke as Aaron took a seat next to him on the hard concrete. The weed was getting shittier, the less money they had to spend on it, and it left him feeling only empty and worse off than he had started. It made Billie wonder about acid, and if Mike had any. . . and thinking about Mike made his stomach even emptier. “You look awfully chipper.”
“Some people, unlike you, can hold their liquor,” he said, smirking at Billie, but that was a joke in itself. Aaron had probably the lowest alcohol tolerance of them all, which had been why he'd only had one beer at the party the previous night, having had enough hangovers lately to last him awhile. “I see you got home okay.”
“Yeah. . . I think Eggplant dragged me home and threw me in bed. I don't remember, of course, but I don't see any other logical explanation.” He sighed, scratching at his forehead with his thumb, eyes rolling to the side to look at Aaron. “Did I do anything stupid last night?”
He thought about how to answer that. Aaron knew Billie Joe well enough to know he was always doing stupid things, both while intoxicated and sober, which meant Billie was asking if he'd done anything extraordinarily stupid. Billie had peed in the closet, as he recalled, but that had been the extent of it-but the things Billie Joe had said were a different story, but he wasn't sure if Billie wanted to be reminded about that. “Well. . . you pissed in Blatz's closet and flushed the hanger. It ain't the first time you've done that, though.”
“I don't think there's a single closet left in Berkeley that isn't stained with my urine,” Billie said with a wry smirk, unceremoniously stuffing another handful of soggy Cheerios into his mouth. He munched loudly, red eyes following the cars and passersby that rolled down his street, and sighed again. “I was, like, fucking naked in Tré's bed, dude.”
“Well, I hope you two used protection. . .”
“Ha, ha, ha,” Billie Joe laughed sarcastically, shoving Aaron's shoulder with his own.
Aaron chuckled, too, and chewed on the inside of his mouth, debating over the best way to have a conversation with Billie that Billie wouldn't necessarily want to have. “So, what the fuck was up with you last night, man? Pretty sure you out drank Tré, which probably will never happen again, and you were the most obnoxious little bastard on the planet, I have to tell you.”
“You said I didn't do anything stupid. Well, anything really stupid.”
“I'm not talking about things you did, Billie Joe, I'm talking about things you said.”
Swallowing hard, he could feel the cold swoop of dread in his belly. Because Billie had been afraid of the stupid things he might have said, yesterday, because he'd been angry yesterday; Billie had been angry with Mike, and he could remember, vaguely, that Mike had shown up to the party with his new girlfriend, the one he'd taken out to dinner for Valentine's Day. And though he would never admit it to himself outright, wasn't that the real reason he'd gotten so damn drunk?
“What, uh-what kind of things did I say?”
“Well, let's see: when you first got to the party, you rambled on and on about how shitty your job is. Then you started talking about how bad you wanna go to Europe. There was a lot of cursing, by the way, lots of rude hand gestures when you were talking about your coworkers. And then Mike showed up with Nicole, after their date, and you picked a fight with Mike about something-he missed band practice on Wednesday or whatever-and then after he left, all you did was bitch about him, talked shit about Nicole, until you were so fucking wasted you were pissing in the closet and giggling about the tutu Tré found.”
He cringed at the brief synopsis of his behavior the previous night, his stomach squelching unpleasantly, and he closed up the useless box of cereal and set it deliberately on the step below. Billie Joe's mind supplied him with one of the very few reminders he had of the party, and that was the stormy look on Mike's face when Billie started his drunken name-calling. Mike had been curt and unamused by it, had simply growled at him to get his head out of his ass, and then had left as quickly as he'd come, hand sliding around Nicole's tiny hips on the way out. They had been bickering a lot lately, like an old married couple. Billie claimed it was because Mike wasn't putting as much into the band as he and Tré were, since he was so preoccupied with his college classes, his job, and his girlfriend. In the pit of his chest, the singer knew it was really the girlfriend that was bothering him, but it wasn't like he could say that aloud.
His friend seemed to know he wasn't going to say anything, so busy he was in reliving his drunken debauchery in horror, and he sighed. Aaron fancied he was one of the people who knew Billie Joe best. It was difficult to tour the continental United States with someone and not get to know them pretty goddamn well, as he had accompanied Green Day as an unpaid roadie the past two summers, back when John was still in the band. Aaron also fancied that he was one of the more insightful people that lived in their inner Berkeley circle, so to him, the root of Billie's problem was pretty goddam obvious: undeclared love for a certain goofy bassist who had, until just recently, devoted all of his excess time and energy to the band; to Billie Joe. But recently, Mike had started seeing a pretty nineteen year old he'd met at college, and clearly, Billie was not adjusting well to the gravity shift in what made up their strange little world.
“I should probably call Mike,” the hungover of the two friends was saying in a dreadful voice, like he would rather have each of his own toenails torn out with pliers than talk to the person who was, for all intents and purposes, his best fucking friend. Billie leant his forehead on his arm, which was resting on his bent knee, his smoldering cigarette still in the crook of his fingers. “Apologize,” he went on, mumbling, wincing to himself at the thought. “Make sure he's not pissed.”
“You know Mike, he's probably over it by now,” he said reasonably, and it was more than likely true: Mike Pritchard could hold a grudge, sure, just not against Billie Joe-never against Billie Joe Armstrong. “But you probably should still apologize. I think you made his girlfriend uncomfortable.”
At this, Billie couldn't help smirking, though it was hidden in the shadow of his arm. “If she can't handle a little drunken rowdiness, Mike shouldn't be with her.”
“Yeah, but that's the thing, man-it ain't up to you who Mike spends his time with.”
He raised his head, making a face as he took a drag off his cigarette. “I know that,” Billie said, petulantly, and he scowled when his hot ash crumbled off of the butt and onto his bare toes. Really, he just couldn't catch a fucking break today. And if Billie Joe had half of the brain his lyrics suggested he had, he would have known enough to leave that part of that conversation there, but it was a combination of curiosity and distaste for Aaron's ceaseless and eerie insight that made him ask, “Why do you even fucking say that, huh?”
“Because we both know it's Mike having a girlfriend up his ass now is what's pissing you off. And we both know there's no good reason for it to bother you, except that it does.”
Chin resting on his bicep, his green eyes stared at Aaron, almost wary. It really did irritate Billie to know end that Aaron could see right through him every time, and yet Mike could never read the signs or signals. Or worse. . . maybe he could read them, and pretended he didn't, for both their sakes. Slowly, he ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, then dropped his gaze to the worn cement. “It doesn't bother me,” Billie said, in a weak attempt to defend himself, “it's just fucking annoying. I mean, her dad's a pastor, Aaron. This girl gave him a fucking Bible. I caught him fucking reading it. Like, what the fuck, you know?”
Aaron snorted. “Oh, come on, Billie Joe, you would probably have yourself baptized for the right price. It's all a part of the sex games, being teenagers and all that.”
What Aaron had to say unsettled him for two reasons: one, he hated when Aaron got that characteristic, patronizing tone to his voice; (he was only four years older than them, goddammit) and two, the thought of Mike having sex with that girl made actual vomit turn over in his belly. Billie tried very hard not to have the-what was it? pain-disrupt his face, but by the knowing look that Aaron had on his, Billie was sure he was doing a bad job of it. “Look, it's just, like-Tré and I are putting all this time in for the band, and she's got his balls strung up so tight, we can't even have regular band practice anyway. It's fucked up, you know, like. . . what happened to bros before hos?”
He had to resist rolling his eyes, because that phrase sounded ridiculous coming out of anyone's mouth, but it sounded exceptionally absurd coming out of Billie Joe's. “Jealousy is a completely normal human emotion, dude. It's okay to be jealous, and it's even okay to admit you're jealous. I mean, if you tell Mike what's on your mind, then maybe you can work it out and not verbally berate him at parties.”
“I'm not jealous!” He spluttered indignantly, and the way his body stiffened so suddenly as a physical reaction to such an accusation made him drop his cigarette. Billie didn't much care, though, because Aaron had a smug look on his face that he wanted to slap right off. “I am not jealous,” he reiterated, his finger pointed in the air for emphasis. “Jealous? That's the stupidest fucking thing you've ever said. . .”
“Look, BJ, all I'm saying is, you've been bitchy about it ever since he started seeing this girl, and it's only gotten worse. I mean, he took her out for Valentine's Day, and you were talking last night like he's this big pussy, and for what-having a girlfriend? Having a girlfriend, when you don't have one?”
Billie Joe opened his mouth to spit out a retort, but seemed to think better of it; his mouth snapped shut, and the eyes he turned out onto the sunny street were almost haunted. He hugged his knees close to his chest, looking very small indeed on the stoop, and swallowed, as he rocked himself slowly, backward, then forward.
It was watching Billie's reaction that made it dawn on Aaron, his eyebrows almost disappearing into his shaggy blonde hair while his mouth formed an 'o' of surprise that was feeling quite acutely. “You're not jealous of him, are you? You're jealous of her.”
Twitchy green eyes darted in his direction of their own accord, the lines on Billie's face as rigid as the concrete they were sitting on. The eyes fell away again just as quickly. “No,” he said tersely, and now he was unreadable, closing in on himself like a clam that's been prodded for too long. “I'm not jealous of her. What would I have to be jealous of?”
Though Billie Joe intended for it to be a rhetorical question, after a moment's reflection, he in fact answered it for himself, fingers picking away at a hole in his sweats; they were Mike's, actually, stolen months prior. “I mean, sure, I miss having him around as often as before. He's my best friend, you know, and he's-he's never had a real girlfriend before, so it's weird.” That confession ignited a fresh spark of frustration in the young frontman's chest, because it brought forth a whole mess of feelings he had spent the better part of the last three years working so hard to suppress, and until now, hadn't had cause to speak aloud, except for in angst-ridden love songs everyone assumed were about girls, since he couldn't write them any other way. “I shouldn't have to be jealous anyway. This girl is just a girl, you know, she doesn't know him like I do. She doesn't care about him like I do. She's been around nine weeks, but I've been his friend for nine years. I've known him longer, I've loved him longer, I--”
Billie stopped, just like his heart did in his throat, because he hadn't meant to say it. He didn't know it was going to come out until it did, until it was too late to grab it back, and it was a thought he'd had-no, it was something he'd known for a long time. Since he'd given Mike his virginity back in his dirty childhood bedroom, Billie's feelings for his best friend had been systematically growing into something more complicated. The first epiphany came a year later, when he wrote Coming Clean, in which he admitted that his attraction to the same sex wasn't just an illusion, but a fact. Now, the second epiphany came all at once and out of nowhere, except it had really been brewing in his heart since the moment Mike had said Billie Joe's name as he came inside of him. He should have known then, had buried it away underneath all of the denial and self-doubt, but now he knew better: he was in fucking love with Mike Pritchard.
It threw his friend for a loop too. Aaron had suspected something deeper was at play all along, borne of his ability to read people, but love? He had just figured Billie was being self-absorbed and needy as usual, desiring to be the center of everyone's world, and especially Mike's. But Aaron had stumbled into something legitimate and personal, and for awhile, he could do nothing but blink. When he found his voice again, it was to ask bluntly, “You're in love with Mike?”
“Oh, Jesus,” Billie whispered, the heels of his hands digging into his eyes until he saw stars. Wordlessly, then, he stood up from the steps to go inside, because he didn't know what else to do with himself. Billie Joe couldn't just sit there, underneath Aaron's incredulous stare, not when he was feeling so restless he fancied he could crawl out of his own skin if he tried hard enough. He stumbled into the kitchen, for a glass of water, before he sent partially digested Cheeries spewing everywhere.
Aaron followed, watching the skinny boy move across the house like he was drunk all over again, and couldn't hold his tongue. “Dude, you-you're in love with him? Or did you mean it, like, in a friendly way or something? Because Beej, that's-that's. . .” His voice trailed off, dying at the sight of Billie turning to face him with an expression on his face that was completely heartbroken. Aaron swallowed, for he cared a lot about the other boy, and crossed the room to get to him, where he was leant up against the counter, laying comforting hands on his shoulders. “Look, you guys have been best friends for a decade, man. It's easy to get feelings confused, when you're around somebody a lot, and I know you like guys too, so maybe it's, like-you know, curiosity, or something.”
Billie pursed his lips, debating, then slowly shook his head. “Mike and I slept together once,” he admitted in a whisper, antsy fingers dragging through his curly dark hair. “I've never realized-like, I never really thought that I-but I've never felt the same about him since, it just kept getting more confusing, and then this girl, and--” Billie Joe stopped, and the hopeless look in his eyes made Aaron's heart drop. “I do. It's Mike, he's my best friend, and I love him.” He said it again, and it was with a sad chuckle, perhaps a little disbelieving, “I love him.” As an afterthought, Billie added, “Happy fuckin' Valentine's Day to me. . .”
His friend didn't know what to say, at first, so he settled for rubbing Billie's shoulders, hoping it was helping in some way. “Have you-maybe you should tell him, Bill. He might feel the same way.”
“No way,” he said, adamantly, nearly glaring at Aaron for the suggestion. “We agreed, after it happened, that we'd never talk about it. It was just a thing, you know, we were sixteen, and--” Billie Joe gulped, because talking about it brought the memory to life in his mind, vivid pictures of Mike's wide blue eyes, the sounds of his moans and ragged breathing, how carefully he had held Billie, afraid of hurting him and not wanting to push too far. He shook his head, to shake away the thoughts, choking, “No, no, it doesn't matter now. It would fuck up the band, it would fuck up our friendship. It's too fucking weird, and I can't. This is something I have to get over, and I-I will.”'
Aaron prided himself on being a reasonably intelligent individual, and therefore knew better than to press an issue that was only going to cause problems, one way or another. He sighed and brought Billie against him for a hug instead, rubbing circles against the small of his back and kissing his temple, and said nothing. Aaron also knew Billie Joe well enough to know that words weren't always needed with him, that sometimes gestures such as these were just enough. He couldn't necessarily sympathize; he liked words, he liked them a lot. But Aaron could be a good friend, when he wanted to be, and it was clear that a good friend was exactly what Billie needed.
Indeed, Billie relished in the sensation of being held. It had been awhile since he'd been touched in such a way, by someone who was looking to offer care instead of looking for someone to suck their cock in a dark alley. Billie responded to the attention much like a cat does, humming in the back of his throat and curling himself tighter around Aaron's warm body. In the back of his mind, he was distantly aware that Aaron and Mike felt kind of similar. Not quite the same, of course. Mike was a little skinnier, a little lankier, a little taller. Aaron played drums, and his upper build was stockier, somehow, though nothing compared to Tré's broad shoulders. The smell was different, too, because Aaron always smelled like saltwater and cigarettes. . . Mike smelled like. . . well, Mike smelled like something special. Mike smelled like home.
There was something else that was different, but it wasn't something that had a name. It was just a sense that Billie Joe could feel deep down in his bones. Because when Mike hugged him, he felt like he had everything he needed. When Aaron hugged him, Billie felt like he was settling. Leaning back, he intended to tell Aaron thank you for being there for him, for trying to make him feel better. But when Billie looked into his friends eyes, his brain did a short circuit. He didn't know what it was, or how it got there, but suddenly, there was an electricity, and instead of pulling away, he leant up to kiss Aaron on the mouth, without hardly thinking about it. The taller man tasted like coffee, and Mike's breath always smelled of coffee, when it didn't smell like beer or cigarettes.
Aaron was taken aback by Billie Joe's advance, and at first, he stilled, fingers flexing into Billie's scrawny shoulders in response. But when Billie's nimble fingers slid through his hair and urged him closer, humming against his mouth, he started kissing back. Aaron kissed him, and it felt good, and what was a harmless kiss, between friends?
Billie Joe didn't know what his motivations were, in kissing Aaron. He didn't have feelings for him; he supposed he was attracted to him, in a sense, and he was one of his best friends. It was easy and familiar, the exchange of teeth and tongue, and though Billie hated himself for doing so, he thought to himself: It'll do.
Author: Molly
Pairing: Billie/OC (Aaron Cometbus) & implied Billie/Mike
Summary: “Yeah, but that's the thing, man-it ain't up to you who Mike spends his time with.”
Note: Just a one-off I wrote last summer.
He'd gotten drunk last night: drunker than anyone had the right to be. Billie knew he had been really drunk, because he remembered almost nothing. Somehow, someway, he had wound up on Tré's shitty-smelling mattress, face planted on his greasy pillow, naked except for his socks, with no recollection of how he had ended up there. Tré had been asleep on the floor, funnily enough, wearing nothing except for a shower cap on his head, and Billie had been vaguely worried they had slept together, but Eggplant, whom they shared the apartment with, assured them that hadn't happened. They'd made out, apparently, but hadn't fucked, but what else was new?
Billie Joe really hadn't had a good reason to get so blindingly drunk. His twentieth birthday was approaching, that was true, but that wasn't for another two days. It had been a Friday night, though, and Billie had been so goddamn sick of flipping pizzas all night long the vodka had seemed like a much-needed escape. He was due in for work at two that day, but he called in. With a headache from hell and a stomach that threatened mutiny with every sudden move he made, Billie was not willing to put himself on the front lines of shitty Oakland dining service. He had a feeling his boss would have thanked him, if he wasn't so pissed at him for calling in for fourth time that month, when the month wasn't even all the way through.
The fading teenager was not all too concerned with the potential loss of his position of employment, though Billie Joe guessed it would do him well to care a little more. He didn't feel he could be blamed, however, if he wasn't sad at the prospect of losing his pizza slinging credentials forever. Indeed, the only thing Billie really cared about was his guitar and his music, as well as where his next beer and cigarette were coming from, and everything else was just background noise. Any and all of the money he made was deposited into the tour fund they had been collecting, Europe their destination; neither he nor Tré had paid rent to Eggplant in probably eight months, since the first week they'd moved in. Eggplant gave up asking for it, since the rent was so low anyway. The place was a piece of shit.
When Billie finally felt well enough to roll over in Tré's bed and get out of it, Tré had gone missing. He guessed maybe the drummer had attempted to go to work at his own job, doing whatever it was he did-Tré had a new job every six weeks, it seemed, because he was always getting fired. Eggplant was gone, too, though he'd left Billie Joe a note to 'wash the fucking dishes or something.' He used the paper to roll a joint, leaving ganja residue on Tré's sheets, and smoked it. The weed hit his system and made him hungry, and that's what motivated Billie to actually get out of bed, to scavenge for some food.
There wasn't much to choose from, except for old pizza in the broken refrigerator and a box of stale Cheerios. Even though they had no milk, the cereal seemed the lesser of two evils, and lighting a cigarette, he carried the box out onto their front step. Billie had put some clothes on at this point, a pair of ratty sweats and an oversized dirty t-shirt, and he stepped out onto concrete in his bare feet, squinting in the bright California sun. It was February, but the sun never really relented in Berkeley, and that's part of what made Berkeley so fucking great.
That was how Aaron found him; the lanky sometimes roadie strolled up the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, raising an eyebrow at the sight of his friend perched on the steps, one hand stuffed into a box of Cheerios and the other holding onto a cigarette. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Billie Joe croaked, releasing a plume of smoke as Aaron took a seat next to him on the hard concrete. The weed was getting shittier, the less money they had to spend on it, and it left him feeling only empty and worse off than he had started. It made Billie wonder about acid, and if Mike had any. . . and thinking about Mike made his stomach even emptier. “You look awfully chipper.”
“Some people, unlike you, can hold their liquor,” he said, smirking at Billie, but that was a joke in itself. Aaron had probably the lowest alcohol tolerance of them all, which had been why he'd only had one beer at the party the previous night, having had enough hangovers lately to last him awhile. “I see you got home okay.”
“Yeah. . . I think Eggplant dragged me home and threw me in bed. I don't remember, of course, but I don't see any other logical explanation.” He sighed, scratching at his forehead with his thumb, eyes rolling to the side to look at Aaron. “Did I do anything stupid last night?”
He thought about how to answer that. Aaron knew Billie Joe well enough to know he was always doing stupid things, both while intoxicated and sober, which meant Billie was asking if he'd done anything extraordinarily stupid. Billie had peed in the closet, as he recalled, but that had been the extent of it-but the things Billie Joe had said were a different story, but he wasn't sure if Billie wanted to be reminded about that. “Well. . . you pissed in Blatz's closet and flushed the hanger. It ain't the first time you've done that, though.”
“I don't think there's a single closet left in Berkeley that isn't stained with my urine,” Billie said with a wry smirk, unceremoniously stuffing another handful of soggy Cheerios into his mouth. He munched loudly, red eyes following the cars and passersby that rolled down his street, and sighed again. “I was, like, fucking naked in Tré's bed, dude.”
“Well, I hope you two used protection. . .”
“Ha, ha, ha,” Billie Joe laughed sarcastically, shoving Aaron's shoulder with his own.
Aaron chuckled, too, and chewed on the inside of his mouth, debating over the best way to have a conversation with Billie that Billie wouldn't necessarily want to have. “So, what the fuck was up with you last night, man? Pretty sure you out drank Tré, which probably will never happen again, and you were the most obnoxious little bastard on the planet, I have to tell you.”
“You said I didn't do anything stupid. Well, anything really stupid.”
“I'm not talking about things you did, Billie Joe, I'm talking about things you said.”
Swallowing hard, he could feel the cold swoop of dread in his belly. Because Billie had been afraid of the stupid things he might have said, yesterday, because he'd been angry yesterday; Billie had been angry with Mike, and he could remember, vaguely, that Mike had shown up to the party with his new girlfriend, the one he'd taken out to dinner for Valentine's Day. And though he would never admit it to himself outright, wasn't that the real reason he'd gotten so damn drunk?
“What, uh-what kind of things did I say?”
“Well, let's see: when you first got to the party, you rambled on and on about how shitty your job is. Then you started talking about how bad you wanna go to Europe. There was a lot of cursing, by the way, lots of rude hand gestures when you were talking about your coworkers. And then Mike showed up with Nicole, after their date, and you picked a fight with Mike about something-he missed band practice on Wednesday or whatever-and then after he left, all you did was bitch about him, talked shit about Nicole, until you were so fucking wasted you were pissing in the closet and giggling about the tutu Tré found.”
He cringed at the brief synopsis of his behavior the previous night, his stomach squelching unpleasantly, and he closed up the useless box of cereal and set it deliberately on the step below. Billie Joe's mind supplied him with one of the very few reminders he had of the party, and that was the stormy look on Mike's face when Billie started his drunken name-calling. Mike had been curt and unamused by it, had simply growled at him to get his head out of his ass, and then had left as quickly as he'd come, hand sliding around Nicole's tiny hips on the way out. They had been bickering a lot lately, like an old married couple. Billie claimed it was because Mike wasn't putting as much into the band as he and Tré were, since he was so preoccupied with his college classes, his job, and his girlfriend. In the pit of his chest, the singer knew it was really the girlfriend that was bothering him, but it wasn't like he could say that aloud.
His friend seemed to know he wasn't going to say anything, so busy he was in reliving his drunken debauchery in horror, and he sighed. Aaron fancied he was one of the people who knew Billie Joe best. It was difficult to tour the continental United States with someone and not get to know them pretty goddamn well, as he had accompanied Green Day as an unpaid roadie the past two summers, back when John was still in the band. Aaron also fancied that he was one of the more insightful people that lived in their inner Berkeley circle, so to him, the root of Billie's problem was pretty goddam obvious: undeclared love for a certain goofy bassist who had, until just recently, devoted all of his excess time and energy to the band; to Billie Joe. But recently, Mike had started seeing a pretty nineteen year old he'd met at college, and clearly, Billie was not adjusting well to the gravity shift in what made up their strange little world.
“I should probably call Mike,” the hungover of the two friends was saying in a dreadful voice, like he would rather have each of his own toenails torn out with pliers than talk to the person who was, for all intents and purposes, his best fucking friend. Billie leant his forehead on his arm, which was resting on his bent knee, his smoldering cigarette still in the crook of his fingers. “Apologize,” he went on, mumbling, wincing to himself at the thought. “Make sure he's not pissed.”
“You know Mike, he's probably over it by now,” he said reasonably, and it was more than likely true: Mike Pritchard could hold a grudge, sure, just not against Billie Joe-never against Billie Joe Armstrong. “But you probably should still apologize. I think you made his girlfriend uncomfortable.”
At this, Billie couldn't help smirking, though it was hidden in the shadow of his arm. “If she can't handle a little drunken rowdiness, Mike shouldn't be with her.”
“Yeah, but that's the thing, man-it ain't up to you who Mike spends his time with.”
He raised his head, making a face as he took a drag off his cigarette. “I know that,” Billie said, petulantly, and he scowled when his hot ash crumbled off of the butt and onto his bare toes. Really, he just couldn't catch a fucking break today. And if Billie Joe had half of the brain his lyrics suggested he had, he would have known enough to leave that part of that conversation there, but it was a combination of curiosity and distaste for Aaron's ceaseless and eerie insight that made him ask, “Why do you even fucking say that, huh?”
“Because we both know it's Mike having a girlfriend up his ass now is what's pissing you off. And we both know there's no good reason for it to bother you, except that it does.”
Chin resting on his bicep, his green eyes stared at Aaron, almost wary. It really did irritate Billie to know end that Aaron could see right through him every time, and yet Mike could never read the signs or signals. Or worse. . . maybe he could read them, and pretended he didn't, for both their sakes. Slowly, he ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, then dropped his gaze to the worn cement. “It doesn't bother me,” Billie said, in a weak attempt to defend himself, “it's just fucking annoying. I mean, her dad's a pastor, Aaron. This girl gave him a fucking Bible. I caught him fucking reading it. Like, what the fuck, you know?”
Aaron snorted. “Oh, come on, Billie Joe, you would probably have yourself baptized for the right price. It's all a part of the sex games, being teenagers and all that.”
What Aaron had to say unsettled him for two reasons: one, he hated when Aaron got that characteristic, patronizing tone to his voice; (he was only four years older than them, goddammit) and two, the thought of Mike having sex with that girl made actual vomit turn over in his belly. Billie tried very hard not to have the-what was it? pain-disrupt his face, but by the knowing look that Aaron had on his, Billie was sure he was doing a bad job of it. “Look, it's just, like-Tré and I are putting all this time in for the band, and she's got his balls strung up so tight, we can't even have regular band practice anyway. It's fucked up, you know, like. . . what happened to bros before hos?”
He had to resist rolling his eyes, because that phrase sounded ridiculous coming out of anyone's mouth, but it sounded exceptionally absurd coming out of Billie Joe's. “Jealousy is a completely normal human emotion, dude. It's okay to be jealous, and it's even okay to admit you're jealous. I mean, if you tell Mike what's on your mind, then maybe you can work it out and not verbally berate him at parties.”
“I'm not jealous!” He spluttered indignantly, and the way his body stiffened so suddenly as a physical reaction to such an accusation made him drop his cigarette. Billie didn't much care, though, because Aaron had a smug look on his face that he wanted to slap right off. “I am not jealous,” he reiterated, his finger pointed in the air for emphasis. “Jealous? That's the stupidest fucking thing you've ever said. . .”
“Look, BJ, all I'm saying is, you've been bitchy about it ever since he started seeing this girl, and it's only gotten worse. I mean, he took her out for Valentine's Day, and you were talking last night like he's this big pussy, and for what-having a girlfriend? Having a girlfriend, when you don't have one?”
Billie Joe opened his mouth to spit out a retort, but seemed to think better of it; his mouth snapped shut, and the eyes he turned out onto the sunny street were almost haunted. He hugged his knees close to his chest, looking very small indeed on the stoop, and swallowed, as he rocked himself slowly, backward, then forward.
It was watching Billie's reaction that made it dawn on Aaron, his eyebrows almost disappearing into his shaggy blonde hair while his mouth formed an 'o' of surprise that was feeling quite acutely. “You're not jealous of him, are you? You're jealous of her.”
Twitchy green eyes darted in his direction of their own accord, the lines on Billie's face as rigid as the concrete they were sitting on. The eyes fell away again just as quickly. “No,” he said tersely, and now he was unreadable, closing in on himself like a clam that's been prodded for too long. “I'm not jealous of her. What would I have to be jealous of?”
Though Billie Joe intended for it to be a rhetorical question, after a moment's reflection, he in fact answered it for himself, fingers picking away at a hole in his sweats; they were Mike's, actually, stolen months prior. “I mean, sure, I miss having him around as often as before. He's my best friend, you know, and he's-he's never had a real girlfriend before, so it's weird.” That confession ignited a fresh spark of frustration in the young frontman's chest, because it brought forth a whole mess of feelings he had spent the better part of the last three years working so hard to suppress, and until now, hadn't had cause to speak aloud, except for in angst-ridden love songs everyone assumed were about girls, since he couldn't write them any other way. “I shouldn't have to be jealous anyway. This girl is just a girl, you know, she doesn't know him like I do. She doesn't care about him like I do. She's been around nine weeks, but I've been his friend for nine years. I've known him longer, I've loved him longer, I--”
Billie stopped, just like his heart did in his throat, because he hadn't meant to say it. He didn't know it was going to come out until it did, until it was too late to grab it back, and it was a thought he'd had-no, it was something he'd known for a long time. Since he'd given Mike his virginity back in his dirty childhood bedroom, Billie's feelings for his best friend had been systematically growing into something more complicated. The first epiphany came a year later, when he wrote Coming Clean, in which he admitted that his attraction to the same sex wasn't just an illusion, but a fact. Now, the second epiphany came all at once and out of nowhere, except it had really been brewing in his heart since the moment Mike had said Billie Joe's name as he came inside of him. He should have known then, had buried it away underneath all of the denial and self-doubt, but now he knew better: he was in fucking love with Mike Pritchard.
It threw his friend for a loop too. Aaron had suspected something deeper was at play all along, borne of his ability to read people, but love? He had just figured Billie was being self-absorbed and needy as usual, desiring to be the center of everyone's world, and especially Mike's. But Aaron had stumbled into something legitimate and personal, and for awhile, he could do nothing but blink. When he found his voice again, it was to ask bluntly, “You're in love with Mike?”
“Oh, Jesus,” Billie whispered, the heels of his hands digging into his eyes until he saw stars. Wordlessly, then, he stood up from the steps to go inside, because he didn't know what else to do with himself. Billie Joe couldn't just sit there, underneath Aaron's incredulous stare, not when he was feeling so restless he fancied he could crawl out of his own skin if he tried hard enough. He stumbled into the kitchen, for a glass of water, before he sent partially digested Cheeries spewing everywhere.
Aaron followed, watching the skinny boy move across the house like he was drunk all over again, and couldn't hold his tongue. “Dude, you-you're in love with him? Or did you mean it, like, in a friendly way or something? Because Beej, that's-that's. . .” His voice trailed off, dying at the sight of Billie turning to face him with an expression on his face that was completely heartbroken. Aaron swallowed, for he cared a lot about the other boy, and crossed the room to get to him, where he was leant up against the counter, laying comforting hands on his shoulders. “Look, you guys have been best friends for a decade, man. It's easy to get feelings confused, when you're around somebody a lot, and I know you like guys too, so maybe it's, like-you know, curiosity, or something.”
Billie pursed his lips, debating, then slowly shook his head. “Mike and I slept together once,” he admitted in a whisper, antsy fingers dragging through his curly dark hair. “I've never realized-like, I never really thought that I-but I've never felt the same about him since, it just kept getting more confusing, and then this girl, and--” Billie Joe stopped, and the hopeless look in his eyes made Aaron's heart drop. “I do. It's Mike, he's my best friend, and I love him.” He said it again, and it was with a sad chuckle, perhaps a little disbelieving, “I love him.” As an afterthought, Billie added, “Happy fuckin' Valentine's Day to me. . .”
His friend didn't know what to say, at first, so he settled for rubbing Billie's shoulders, hoping it was helping in some way. “Have you-maybe you should tell him, Bill. He might feel the same way.”
“No way,” he said, adamantly, nearly glaring at Aaron for the suggestion. “We agreed, after it happened, that we'd never talk about it. It was just a thing, you know, we were sixteen, and--” Billie Joe gulped, because talking about it brought the memory to life in his mind, vivid pictures of Mike's wide blue eyes, the sounds of his moans and ragged breathing, how carefully he had held Billie, afraid of hurting him and not wanting to push too far. He shook his head, to shake away the thoughts, choking, “No, no, it doesn't matter now. It would fuck up the band, it would fuck up our friendship. It's too fucking weird, and I can't. This is something I have to get over, and I-I will.”'
Aaron prided himself on being a reasonably intelligent individual, and therefore knew better than to press an issue that was only going to cause problems, one way or another. He sighed and brought Billie against him for a hug instead, rubbing circles against the small of his back and kissing his temple, and said nothing. Aaron also knew Billie Joe well enough to know that words weren't always needed with him, that sometimes gestures such as these were just enough. He couldn't necessarily sympathize; he liked words, he liked them a lot. But Aaron could be a good friend, when he wanted to be, and it was clear that a good friend was exactly what Billie needed.
Indeed, Billie relished in the sensation of being held. It had been awhile since he'd been touched in such a way, by someone who was looking to offer care instead of looking for someone to suck their cock in a dark alley. Billie responded to the attention much like a cat does, humming in the back of his throat and curling himself tighter around Aaron's warm body. In the back of his mind, he was distantly aware that Aaron and Mike felt kind of similar. Not quite the same, of course. Mike was a little skinnier, a little lankier, a little taller. Aaron played drums, and his upper build was stockier, somehow, though nothing compared to Tré's broad shoulders. The smell was different, too, because Aaron always smelled like saltwater and cigarettes. . . Mike smelled like. . . well, Mike smelled like something special. Mike smelled like home.
There was something else that was different, but it wasn't something that had a name. It was just a sense that Billie Joe could feel deep down in his bones. Because when Mike hugged him, he felt like he had everything he needed. When Aaron hugged him, Billie felt like he was settling. Leaning back, he intended to tell Aaron thank you for being there for him, for trying to make him feel better. But when Billie looked into his friends eyes, his brain did a short circuit. He didn't know what it was, or how it got there, but suddenly, there was an electricity, and instead of pulling away, he leant up to kiss Aaron on the mouth, without hardly thinking about it. The taller man tasted like coffee, and Mike's breath always smelled of coffee, when it didn't smell like beer or cigarettes.
Aaron was taken aback by Billie Joe's advance, and at first, he stilled, fingers flexing into Billie's scrawny shoulders in response. But when Billie's nimble fingers slid through his hair and urged him closer, humming against his mouth, he started kissing back. Aaron kissed him, and it felt good, and what was a harmless kiss, between friends?
Billie Joe didn't know what his motivations were, in kissing Aaron. He didn't have feelings for him; he supposed he was attracted to him, in a sense, and he was one of his best friends. It was easy and familiar, the exchange of teeth and tongue, and though Billie hated himself for doing so, he thought to himself: It'll do.