In reaction to my GD tickets arriving!!
Title: All The Ways I Never Knew You
Author: rainjewel
Rating: R
Fandom: Green Day; Billie Joe, Tré/Mike
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Summary: Mike and Tré hook up. Billie Joe’s all, “I’m cool. On second thought, not so much.” And so they deal. There’s sex eventually and stuff. :D
A/N: This is longish, and the first half of a longer piece. Thanks to dragonstarlin for the beta. This occurs pre-American Idiot, during the songwriting period. I based the timeline on various interviews and such...of course, I then took major liberties.
one :: billie joe
Billie Joe knows immediately when Mike and Tré start fucking. Later he’ll find out he was wrong, but it’s harder than you’d think, as close as they’ve all become. When he comes over to practice and Mike’s still wearing the same blue shirt and Tré smells of a bar fight, it’s not a big deal. They share chairs. They share plates. Billie’s used to the taste of Mike, the taste of Tré, the taste of one in the other’s mouth.
Let it never be said that they didn’t love.
Billie Joe knows that they’re fucking after he comes back from his month sabbatical in the bars. Tré is too skittish, and Mike’s too goddamn smooth over the whole thing. Mike’s supposed to drag him into the shower by the collar, to douse him in cold water until he remembers that he’s a fucking father and this is his fucking band and that Mike’s the only member that’s allowed to drink alone. Or at least punch him; do something manly and stupid.
“Good to hear from you, dude,” comes Tré’s voice, the day that Billie Joe finally returns to the city. He’s called now that he can figure out the phone, sitting around his house in sweatpants and slippers. Adrienne is with her mother, beyond infuriated with his actions.
“That him?” Mike’s voice, in the background. Billie Joe hears the squeak of bedsprings and still doesn’t realize it. “Billie?” Mike asks.
“Hey,” is all Billie Joe manages, and scrapes his fingers against the tabletop.
“We missed you mate,” Mike says, as if Billie Joe had left a party early last night and not a month before. “Didn’t know where you went.”
“I wrote some songs.”
“That’s good,” Mike says. “That’s real good. When can we hear them?”
Billie Joe makes plans for practice the next day. Mike doesn’t come over, and Tré doesn’t call late that night. Billie realizes then that they’re too busy celebrating his return without him. It’s really the only option as to why they’re not there. He tries to not feel jealous-he’s the one with marriage, after all. It’s not his fault (or is it?) that the rest of his band is too busy fucking each other to come over and see him.
The next day they meet up and Billie Joe hands over his new songs. Mike loves every song, Tré breaks shit especially for him, and they all have a wonderfully goofy time. Neither Mike or Tré bring up the fact that they’re sleeping together.
That’s okay though, Billie Joe thinks. He’s patient, he’s cool with it. He tells himself that he’ll just wait until things settle down and they’re ready to tell him. If things take too long, he’ll just “stumble in” at the precise wrong time and out them by force. He even plans the perfect response-wide-eyed, obnoxious grinning and congratulations. It’s going to be easy: they’ve been so close for so long this seems like another inevitable step.
two :: billie joe
Of course, Billie Joe then freaks out the first time he catches them.
Billie Joe doesn’t really know why they were at the studio that night. He doesn’t ask them afterwards, doesn’t really bring it up again. He wonders though, if they knew he was there.
He’s coming out of the back of the building, rhythms still staggering through his brain. The song writing wasn’t as easy now, not as easy as it had been when he was drunk and too pissed to even begin feeling self-conscious. Sober patriotism, Billie Joe thinks, is hard to do anymore. The country was going to hell.
Billie Joe rounds the corner; forgets his outrage in a millisecond.
They don’t see him for awhile. Billie Joe rounded the corner wide, so wide that by the time he notices the two shadows against the wall, Mike’s back is turned to him. He stops, frozen, unable to look away or even blink.
Mike’s lean frame is pressed into Tré’s, burying the shorter man into the brick wall behind him. Tré’s eyes are closed, one hand pinned above his head by Mike’s long, spidery fingers. Tré’s other hand, his right, is lost beneath the beltline of one Mike Dirnt.
Mike.
Mike’s head is tipped at an angle, leaning into Tré’s neck. Billie Joe hones in on the sound of a mouth, tongue, teeth-everything pressed against smooth skin, snarling, biting. The sound of Mike moaning, sounds that Billie Joe has never heard before.
Billie Joe thinks that might be the reason he runs. The fact that Mike’s sharing something with someone else, something that he can’t and won’t share with Billie Joe, that’s the real crux of it, right?
It’s Tré that notices him. Tré, whose blue eyes flash electric in the dark, who croaks out his name. That sound triggers it, and Billie Joe freaks, breaking into a dead run past them and out towards the parking lot.
three :: tré
The second time Tré falls in love with his band, he falls for Mike first. When he joined Mike and Billie Joe the first time around, he did it for Billie Joe-Tré had fallen for Billie Joe’s songs and victimized apathy long before the duo had needed a new drummer. Mike’s gentle hilarity and professionalism won him over not long after that.
The thing is, Tré’s not quite sure when he falls in love with Mike again. He wants to say that it was before Claudia dumped his ass, right at the end of the ’02 tour. He wants to say that he drank too much because he wanted an excuse to kiss Mike a little too long, to walk a little too close, but Tré thinks he probably was just plain drunk, is all.
What Tré doesn’t want to say is that the night he left his house, the night he walked away from his wife and family because they really weren’t his anymore, the night Mike cupped his face and kissed him until Tré finally shut the fuck up, that it was all because of his divorce. Mike deserves more than that. Tré hopes that this very belief, this respect and affection for Mike, means it’s because Tré truly loves him, and he’s not just lonely. Tré wishes he knew what love was, and that this was easier, but every time Tré has thought it was love it apparently was only heartbreak waiting just around the corner.
“Why?” he had asked, stupidly, after the first time they-made love-fucked in some sleazy Super Eight. Tré could all ready see the cliché rolling off Mike’s lips; Why not?
But then there was that follow up:
“It seems natural,” Mike had replied, telling it like it was. He’d kissed Tré’s shoulder, as they’d spooned in the morning. Tré remembered being there, with Claudia, kissing her bare arms and rubbing his hands on her belly. He couldn’t decide at the time what he should have felt about that then. “Besides,” Mike had continued. “I already love your goofy ass to death.”
four :: tré
There’s a split-second (hazy, but it’s there), between Mike’s mouth on his neck and frightened hazel eyes of Billie Joe in which Tré thinks he might be fucking everything up.
Billie Joe breaks into a sprint almost before Tré realizes what he’s seeing. He chokes on Billie Joe’s name, voice trapped in his throat between Mike’s teeth and his own libido. Mike stiffens as Armstrong’s name rolls off his tongue, taller frame leaning up into the sky. Tré jerks his hand out of Mike’s pants and pushes off the wall, catching a quick glance of Mike’s dazed eyes before slipping around him and chasing after Billie Joe.
Thankfully, (goddamn, is he old already?) Billie Joe is not as fast as he could be. Short legs and too many boyhood cigarettes have seen to that. Still, Tré barely catches up to him-Billie Joe’s hand is on the car door, fumbling for the handle.
“Billie!” Tré yells, ‘cause he can’t quite make it to the other side of Billie Joe’s car before Armstrong could yank the door open and slip away. “Billie, please!”
Billie Joe’s face snaps up to his, and it looks like it did over a year ago-terrified. When Dookie had hit and fame had snatched up everything they thought they wanted to be, Tré remembers seeing this face often; Billie Joe drinking with jittery hands before interviews, Billie Joe smashing anything within in reach before live shows on MTV and other networks. Tré holds up his hands, prepared for the explosion that Billie Joe’s panic attacks can unleash. He wonders, brain still half up by the studio, if Mike’s freaking right now too.
“I’m sorry,” Billie Joe begins, hands still death-white on the car door. His voice shakes. Tré slowly edges around the car, hands still up. Billie Joe doesn’t move, but turns to face Tré as he continues. “I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be okay with it, I know that. It’s just…”
“Yeah?” Tré prods, finally coming full circle. He stands a few feet in front of Billie Joe, who is no longer looking at him, but down to his silver door handle. Tré keeps his eyes glued to Armstrong’s taut frame, waiting for the break.
Billie Joe glances at him, but can’t hold the gaze. “It just surprised me. Just…god.” Billie Joe’s voice strangles into silence. He covers his face with pale hands, slamming his elbows down onto the hood of the car. Tré winces.
“It’s complicated now,” Billie Joe says, voice muffled by his own palms. “I’m trying to be cool about it. I don’t think it’s wrong or anything-”
“I know,” Tré interjects. He finally glances up towards the blurry studio. He doesn’t see Mike’s long silhouette anywhere.
“-But it was…god, to see you and him...” Billie Joe crashes his palms into the hood of the car, head snapping towards Tré. Tré jumps at the sound. “Did Mike drive?” Billie Joe asks, quieter this time.
Tré remembers only Mike’s spidery fingers grabbing him by the shirt collar as he was leaving the studio tonight. Then there were teeth and skin and fistfuls of hair, and honestly Tré doesn’t care how Mike comes and goes, as long as he never leaves for good.
“Yes,” he lies, eyeing Billie Joe. “Do you want to go somewhere, talk or something?”
“I need to sit down,” Billie Joe replies, pulling the car door open. Tré takes this as a hint. He jogs around to the other side of the car and slides into the passenger seat. When he turns to face Billie Joe, Armstrong has scooted to the middle of the car seat, invading.
“God, this is so fucked up,” Billie Joe says. He leans in, sniffs the air beside Tré’s ear. A gurgled sound rumbles out of Billie Joe’s closed throat, and he sits back, staring at Tré accusingly. “You even smell like him.”
Which is doesn’t make sense, Tré thinks. They all smell the same-like alcohol. They’re rock stars for fuck’s sake.
All the same, Tré knows what Billie Joe’s getting at.
“Is this about Mike?” he asks. He doesn’t really want to know.
Billie Joe nods, and Tré’s brain explodes into five million images at once-Adrienne, Jakob, Joey, Mike, Mike and Billie Joe, the look he saw in Mike’s eyes when the divorce papers came, the look now in Billie’s.
“You’re in love with him?” Tré blurts out, unable to keep his astonishment withheld.
And then Billie Joe laughs, a deep rumbling sound that always surprises him. It’s manic, it’s evil, and it’s fucking scary as hell. Then suddenly the cackling gives way to Billie Joe’s wry smile.
“God, if only,” Billie Joe says, thumbing the hem of his shirt. “It’d make it easier to understand, that’s for sure.”
Tré shoots him a puzzled look. “What?”
“I just saw him differently tonight, that’s all. Kinda shocking, after twenty years together, you know?” Billie Joe says, earnestly watching Tré’s face. Suddenly Armstrong grabs Tré’s head with both hands, then kisses him on the forehead. “Ah fuck it,” Billie Joe continues, pulling back. There’s a grin on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m talking about right now.”
Billie Joe scoots over to the driver’s seat, leaving Tré warily eyeing him from across the way. Billie Joe taps out a tune on his steering wheel, smile brittle.
“I’m not going to fuck this up,” Tré says finally. Billie Joe’s hand hits the dash, off-time. His hazel eyes burn into Tré’s, stripped by Cool’s own merciless honesty.
“You’d better not,” Billie Joe says, quietly.
five :: mike
The day after Billie Joe catches them at the studio, Mike invites him over and decides to tell him that he’s banging their drummer. Billie Joe’s on the offensive, however, and marches through Dirnt’s house without so much as a knock. He steamrolls into the kitchen, catching Mike completely by surprise, and before a word can be said Billie Joe wraps his arms around Dirnt in such a manner Mike almost chokes on the glass of milk he’s drinking at the time.
“I’m sleeping with Tré,” Mike says, after he manages to swallow. He hugs Billie Joe back and licks at his milk mustache. Billie Joe holds on for a while, silent.
“Jesus,” Billie Joe eventually hisses, stepping away from him, “I’m not that stupid, man. I figured that out a long time ago.”
Mike frowns, busying himself with the milk jug on the counter. “But last night-”
“I was just surprised,” Billie Joe interrupts. He looks smaller now, shifting from foot to foot. It’s strange for Mike, to see Billie Joe uncomfortable in his home; for Mike to be uncomfortable with Billie Joe in his home. “I’m sorry about that…I really do support you two. I wanted you to know that.”
“It happened right after Claudia left,” Mike says, continuing his confession. He twists the milk cap on and off, on and off. Billie Joe’s eyes bleed wide at his statement.
“Jesus,” Billie Joe hisses, for the second time now. Mike tenses.
“What?”
“I thought it was something more…recent,” Billie Joe explains, his voice pitching higher. There’s a telling tremor to his voice, cluing Mike into outburst before it happens. Billie Joe begins pacing. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Mike says, looking into Billie Joe’s eyes, struggling to be empathetic. It’s only half a lie. He kind of forgot. Tré was distracting in all the worst ways. As for other reasons, Mike’s not so sure.
“But you were still married then!” Billie Joe says, small hands fluttering in the air as he paces, as if he were a detective piecing together a murder case.
“Yep,” Mike acknowledges, and his betrayal stings.
Billie Joe stills, begins pointing. “So, you’ve been fucking Tré for months now, and decided that it wasn’t important to tell me that you’ve suddenly turned queer, like I don’t even count or something. What the hell, Mike? Christ, how has Tré been keeping this under wraps for so long?”
“I don’t know,” Mike mutters, then watches as Billie Joe explodes, feet burning into the kitchen floor, arms pin wheeling.
“You don’t know? Is that all you can say? I ask you what’s going on, you don’t know. I ask you if you’re gay, if Tré’s gay, and you don’t know. Do you know anything?” Billie Joe rockets around the room, speeding through his speech. He circles the table, picking up Ana’s leftover knick-knacks as and fingering them as he moves. Mike stays put by the refrigerator, watching.
“Tré needs this, I think. And I don’t mind,” Mike replies. It’s not quite an I love you, but Tré would understand if he was here.
“I don’t understand,” Billie Joe says, throwing his arms up and coming to a full stop. “I mean, you could have fucking told me.”
“Christ, Billie!” Mike snaps, slamming his hands on the counter top. He bends over, arms wide and braced. He looks up at Billie Joe, who’s staring with wary eyes. “It’s not really any of your business who I fuck anyway,” he whispers, just loud enough to be heard.
His words seem to have a shattering effect. Billie Joe’s eyes glitter, his face brittle. A strangled sort of sound slips through his parted lips, and then Billie Joe suddenly, frighteningly, stills. Mike feels guilt start to seep in around his edges. He does not apologize. He knows he’s right.
“Okay,” Billie Joe says, hollow. His voice isn’t sarcastic, or angry, just dead sound. “You’re absolutely right, it’s not any of my fucking business.”
Mike watches Billie Joe storm from his kitchen, Armstrong’s name bleeding on his tongue, teeth tightly reigning the words in.
six :: tré
Four o’clock in the morning finds Mike with a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels and hardly any money for a cab. Mike doesn’t worry about it. There’s supposedly a rule regarding rock stars (or was it the aristocracy?) about never carrying money-and even if that fucked-up luxury doesn’t pan out, Tré won’t make him go home.
Or he could just get Tré to pay the cab. Mike decides against this as he piles out onto the sidewalk beside Tré’s home. He leaves the driver his whiskey and the cash he has on him. Apparently it’s enough.
It seems weird. Tré’s steps don’t seem as inviting as they usually do, mostly because Mike’s the one showing up in need of a rough fuck instead of the other way around. He’s supposed to be the one who can keep his shit together. Last time he checked and all…
Tré seems generally surprised when he opens the door-Mike doesn’t know who Tré expects to come over this late at night, but if Tré knew it was Mike he wouldn’t have bothered getting dressed to answer the door.
“Christ, Mike,” Tré says, peering up from under his frazzled bedhead, “You’re making my eyes water. What have you been drinking?”
Since about two everything’s been tasting like water, so Mike doesn’t really know aside from the Jack. He tells Tré this. Tré looks like he’s holding in a sigh, but he takes Mike by the hand and leads him inside. Tré guides him through the dark house, past Claudia’s rooms and the nursery where Frankito is blissfully sleeping, all the way to the back where they slip into the guest room Tré’s been occupying since the divorce. It’s odd, Mike thinks, that Tré is a ghost in his own house.
Once Tré coaxes the door shut, he turns around to Mike, placing his hands on his hips.
“You came here to fuck me, right?” he asks bluntly, cocking his head to the side.
“Dear God, yes,” Mike slurs, words tumbling out fast before he forgets them. He leans into Tré, balancing his hands on the other man’s shoulders, then mashing his lips and teeth into Tré’s neck, devouring the taste. The booze has stolen his balance, and Tré wraps a strong arm around his waist, as if pinning a leech to his very flesh. Tré steps back, absorbing Mike’s weight.
“You’re too drunk for this,” Tré says softly, but he keeps his neck tilted, opened for consumption. Mike snarls into his neck, protesting, and he feels an immense satisfaction when Tré’s throat bubbles in a moan beneath his teeth.
“Kiss me,” Tré commands. Mike complies eagerly, head snapping up to lay claim, ruin, and one hell of a mark on Tré’s mouth. The quick motion makes his head spin and Mike pauses, mid-vertigo. He feels Tré’s centering hand claw through his sweaty hair as Tré draws him in for a fierce kiss.
“Come on,” Tré says, his voice gentle despite his demanding hands. He throws his weight forward and into Mike, shuffling forward. “Bed. Now.”
Mike’s world continues its mad turning, so he doesn’t protest past a grunt as Tré sways with him to bed, one arm holding him up as he staggers backward. When his calves hit the side of the bed Mike sits down, then scoots up the mattress until he lies propped upon a few pillows. Tré follows him up the bed like a predator, eyes gleaming and arms rippling with effortless eyes.
“Spread your legs, babe,” Tré orders. Mike does so immediately, but he can’t banish the grin that follows it, flirting.
“This is all backwards,” he declares, and is delighted to find his voice slurred and rumbling. He watches Tré kneel between his legs, hands deftly undoing his belt buckle. “I’m supposed to be fucking you.”
“Which you would be doing,” Tré says, slipping a hand underneath the small of Mike’s back, “If you hadn’t consumed a gallon of liquor.” Mike arches his back and Tré slips his belt free of its loops. Tré folds the leather strip in half, snaps it. Mike shivers at the sound.
“Liquor,” Mike repeats, rolling the word around with his lazy tongue. “Liquorrr.” He giggles as the word rings in his ears.
Tré continues with his clothing removal project, shimmying Mike’s pants down until they gather at his ankles, ignoring Mike’s laughter. He slips off the boots, then finishes with Mike’s pants.
Mike giggles again, and this time Tré smiles, indulgent, and places two wet kisses on each of Mike’s hipbones. In the morning, he knows, he will hate himself for giggling like a school girl, and also in the morning Tré will remind him that he always giggles when drunk and that it’s cute.
“Arms.” Mike grins, then raises his arms above his head. Tré slides up his body and hurries stripping off the long-sleeved shirt, slipping it up and over Mike’s head. Mike loses himself in the dark as his shirt slides over his face, and he suddenly realizes how heavy his arms are, and how weak his neck is. His head lolls.
“You gonna puke?” Tré asks, flinging the shirt across the room. He cups Mike’s face with his hands, fingers rubbing at the temples. Now that Mike’s undressed Tré’s intensity has disappeared, leaving only the gentle hands and eyes Tré can’t seem to rid himself of despite his best efforts and occasional rages. Mike finally understands Tré’s plan.
“You’re not going to fuck me?” he responds. The question drips with more indignity and disbelief than he intended.
“No, Mike,” Tré says softly. He leans over Mike, resting his weight on either side of the taller man. Mike grins at Tré’s smile.
“You can you know…if you want,” Mike confesses, looking away from Tré in embarrassment. “I mean, it’s not like I’m a control freak or anyth-”
Tré cuts him off with a kiss-a quick lunge, Tré snapping out of his gentle mode and right back into feral intensity. It’s scary how easy Tré loses himself in physicality and how much Mike loves him for it.
Tré pulls away quickly, a second ahead of Mike’s fingers who were creeping down Tré’s belly with every intention of breaching the waistband of his boxers. The drummer kisses him briefly on the forehead and then rolls off him.
“Get some sleep, Mike,” Tré whispers. He wriggles the blankets out from under both Mike and himself. Mike’s head spins and he groans a little. He rubs his full belly, then decided that might be the worst decision he’s made in a longtime.
“Time to puke?” Tré asks again, sliding the covers up around them.
“No,” Mike says, more to himself. Tré scoots in close, rolling on his side but keeping his arms off Mike, opting to curl them against his own chest instead. Mike wants to reach out, haul Tré back on top of him with all that promise, but his stomach rumbles in protest and his eyelids might as well be anvils.
“I’m sorry,” Mike apologizes, letting his eyelids close.
“Fuck,” Tré growls. Mike feels the bed dip, then suddenly Tré’s cool, callused hand slips across his cheek. Mike smiles, and Tré’s thumb ghosts along his bottom lip, tucks into the corner of his mouth, the palm cupping Mike’s jaw.
“We’ll talk in the morning,” Tré murmurs. “Get some sleep, Mike.”
It’s like breathing, slipping into slumber. Mike does it without thinking.
X-posted to _comingclean_.
Don't act like you don't want it. You know that you do. Just click. Get sucked in like myself. This was supposed to be a 500 word "Let's fuck Tré against a wall, 'cause that's hot," then it became all angsty. I guess I'll have to get my pr0ny fix with another fandom.
Author: rainjewel
Rating: R
Fandom: Green Day; Billie Joe, Tré/Mike
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Summary: Mike and Tré hook up. Billie Joe’s all, “I’m cool. On second thought, not so much.” And so they deal. There’s sex eventually and stuff. :D
A/N: This is longish, and the first half of a longer piece. Thanks to dragonstarlin for the beta. This occurs pre-American Idiot, during the songwriting period. I based the timeline on various interviews and such...of course, I then took major liberties.
one :: billie joe
Billie Joe knows immediately when Mike and Tré start fucking. Later he’ll find out he was wrong, but it’s harder than you’d think, as close as they’ve all become. When he comes over to practice and Mike’s still wearing the same blue shirt and Tré smells of a bar fight, it’s not a big deal. They share chairs. They share plates. Billie’s used to the taste of Mike, the taste of Tré, the taste of one in the other’s mouth.
Let it never be said that they didn’t love.
Billie Joe knows that they’re fucking after he comes back from his month sabbatical in the bars. Tré is too skittish, and Mike’s too goddamn smooth over the whole thing. Mike’s supposed to drag him into the shower by the collar, to douse him in cold water until he remembers that he’s a fucking father and this is his fucking band and that Mike’s the only member that’s allowed to drink alone. Or at least punch him; do something manly and stupid.
“Good to hear from you, dude,” comes Tré’s voice, the day that Billie Joe finally returns to the city. He’s called now that he can figure out the phone, sitting around his house in sweatpants and slippers. Adrienne is with her mother, beyond infuriated with his actions.
“That him?” Mike’s voice, in the background. Billie Joe hears the squeak of bedsprings and still doesn’t realize it. “Billie?” Mike asks.
“Hey,” is all Billie Joe manages, and scrapes his fingers against the tabletop.
“We missed you mate,” Mike says, as if Billie Joe had left a party early last night and not a month before. “Didn’t know where you went.”
“I wrote some songs.”
“That’s good,” Mike says. “That’s real good. When can we hear them?”
Billie Joe makes plans for practice the next day. Mike doesn’t come over, and Tré doesn’t call late that night. Billie realizes then that they’re too busy celebrating his return without him. It’s really the only option as to why they’re not there. He tries to not feel jealous-he’s the one with marriage, after all. It’s not his fault (or is it?) that the rest of his band is too busy fucking each other to come over and see him.
The next day they meet up and Billie Joe hands over his new songs. Mike loves every song, Tré breaks shit especially for him, and they all have a wonderfully goofy time. Neither Mike or Tré bring up the fact that they’re sleeping together.
That’s okay though, Billie Joe thinks. He’s patient, he’s cool with it. He tells himself that he’ll just wait until things settle down and they’re ready to tell him. If things take too long, he’ll just “stumble in” at the precise wrong time and out them by force. He even plans the perfect response-wide-eyed, obnoxious grinning and congratulations. It’s going to be easy: they’ve been so close for so long this seems like another inevitable step.
two :: billie joe
Of course, Billie Joe then freaks out the first time he catches them.
Billie Joe doesn’t really know why they were at the studio that night. He doesn’t ask them afterwards, doesn’t really bring it up again. He wonders though, if they knew he was there.
He’s coming out of the back of the building, rhythms still staggering through his brain. The song writing wasn’t as easy now, not as easy as it had been when he was drunk and too pissed to even begin feeling self-conscious. Sober patriotism, Billie Joe thinks, is hard to do anymore. The country was going to hell.
Billie Joe rounds the corner; forgets his outrage in a millisecond.
They don’t see him for awhile. Billie Joe rounded the corner wide, so wide that by the time he notices the two shadows against the wall, Mike’s back is turned to him. He stops, frozen, unable to look away or even blink.
Mike’s lean frame is pressed into Tré’s, burying the shorter man into the brick wall behind him. Tré’s eyes are closed, one hand pinned above his head by Mike’s long, spidery fingers. Tré’s other hand, his right, is lost beneath the beltline of one Mike Dirnt.
Mike.
Mike’s head is tipped at an angle, leaning into Tré’s neck. Billie Joe hones in on the sound of a mouth, tongue, teeth-everything pressed against smooth skin, snarling, biting. The sound of Mike moaning, sounds that Billie Joe has never heard before.
Billie Joe thinks that might be the reason he runs. The fact that Mike’s sharing something with someone else, something that he can’t and won’t share with Billie Joe, that’s the real crux of it, right?
It’s Tré that notices him. Tré, whose blue eyes flash electric in the dark, who croaks out his name. That sound triggers it, and Billie Joe freaks, breaking into a dead run past them and out towards the parking lot.
three :: tré
The second time Tré falls in love with his band, he falls for Mike first. When he joined Mike and Billie Joe the first time around, he did it for Billie Joe-Tré had fallen for Billie Joe’s songs and victimized apathy long before the duo had needed a new drummer. Mike’s gentle hilarity and professionalism won him over not long after that.
The thing is, Tré’s not quite sure when he falls in love with Mike again. He wants to say that it was before Claudia dumped his ass, right at the end of the ’02 tour. He wants to say that he drank too much because he wanted an excuse to kiss Mike a little too long, to walk a little too close, but Tré thinks he probably was just plain drunk, is all.
What Tré doesn’t want to say is that the night he left his house, the night he walked away from his wife and family because they really weren’t his anymore, the night Mike cupped his face and kissed him until Tré finally shut the fuck up, that it was all because of his divorce. Mike deserves more than that. Tré hopes that this very belief, this respect and affection for Mike, means it’s because Tré truly loves him, and he’s not just lonely. Tré wishes he knew what love was, and that this was easier, but every time Tré has thought it was love it apparently was only heartbreak waiting just around the corner.
“Why?” he had asked, stupidly, after the first time they-made love-fucked in some sleazy Super Eight. Tré could all ready see the cliché rolling off Mike’s lips; Why not?
But then there was that follow up:
“It seems natural,” Mike had replied, telling it like it was. He’d kissed Tré’s shoulder, as they’d spooned in the morning. Tré remembered being there, with Claudia, kissing her bare arms and rubbing his hands on her belly. He couldn’t decide at the time what he should have felt about that then. “Besides,” Mike had continued. “I already love your goofy ass to death.”
four :: tré
There’s a split-second (hazy, but it’s there), between Mike’s mouth on his neck and frightened hazel eyes of Billie Joe in which Tré thinks he might be fucking everything up.
Billie Joe breaks into a sprint almost before Tré realizes what he’s seeing. He chokes on Billie Joe’s name, voice trapped in his throat between Mike’s teeth and his own libido. Mike stiffens as Armstrong’s name rolls off his tongue, taller frame leaning up into the sky. Tré jerks his hand out of Mike’s pants and pushes off the wall, catching a quick glance of Mike’s dazed eyes before slipping around him and chasing after Billie Joe.
Thankfully, (goddamn, is he old already?) Billie Joe is not as fast as he could be. Short legs and too many boyhood cigarettes have seen to that. Still, Tré barely catches up to him-Billie Joe’s hand is on the car door, fumbling for the handle.
“Billie!” Tré yells, ‘cause he can’t quite make it to the other side of Billie Joe’s car before Armstrong could yank the door open and slip away. “Billie, please!”
Billie Joe’s face snaps up to his, and it looks like it did over a year ago-terrified. When Dookie had hit and fame had snatched up everything they thought they wanted to be, Tré remembers seeing this face often; Billie Joe drinking with jittery hands before interviews, Billie Joe smashing anything within in reach before live shows on MTV and other networks. Tré holds up his hands, prepared for the explosion that Billie Joe’s panic attacks can unleash. He wonders, brain still half up by the studio, if Mike’s freaking right now too.
“I’m sorry,” Billie Joe begins, hands still death-white on the car door. His voice shakes. Tré slowly edges around the car, hands still up. Billie Joe doesn’t move, but turns to face Tré as he continues. “I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be okay with it, I know that. It’s just…”
“Yeah?” Tré prods, finally coming full circle. He stands a few feet in front of Billie Joe, who is no longer looking at him, but down to his silver door handle. Tré keeps his eyes glued to Armstrong’s taut frame, waiting for the break.
Billie Joe glances at him, but can’t hold the gaze. “It just surprised me. Just…god.” Billie Joe’s voice strangles into silence. He covers his face with pale hands, slamming his elbows down onto the hood of the car. Tré winces.
“It’s complicated now,” Billie Joe says, voice muffled by his own palms. “I’m trying to be cool about it. I don’t think it’s wrong or anything-”
“I know,” Tré interjects. He finally glances up towards the blurry studio. He doesn’t see Mike’s long silhouette anywhere.
“-But it was…god, to see you and him...” Billie Joe crashes his palms into the hood of the car, head snapping towards Tré. Tré jumps at the sound. “Did Mike drive?” Billie Joe asks, quieter this time.
Tré remembers only Mike’s spidery fingers grabbing him by the shirt collar as he was leaving the studio tonight. Then there were teeth and skin and fistfuls of hair, and honestly Tré doesn’t care how Mike comes and goes, as long as he never leaves for good.
“Yes,” he lies, eyeing Billie Joe. “Do you want to go somewhere, talk or something?”
“I need to sit down,” Billie Joe replies, pulling the car door open. Tré takes this as a hint. He jogs around to the other side of the car and slides into the passenger seat. When he turns to face Billie Joe, Armstrong has scooted to the middle of the car seat, invading.
“God, this is so fucked up,” Billie Joe says. He leans in, sniffs the air beside Tré’s ear. A gurgled sound rumbles out of Billie Joe’s closed throat, and he sits back, staring at Tré accusingly. “You even smell like him.”
Which is doesn’t make sense, Tré thinks. They all smell the same-like alcohol. They’re rock stars for fuck’s sake.
All the same, Tré knows what Billie Joe’s getting at.
“Is this about Mike?” he asks. He doesn’t really want to know.
Billie Joe nods, and Tré’s brain explodes into five million images at once-Adrienne, Jakob, Joey, Mike, Mike and Billie Joe, the look he saw in Mike’s eyes when the divorce papers came, the look now in Billie’s.
“You’re in love with him?” Tré blurts out, unable to keep his astonishment withheld.
And then Billie Joe laughs, a deep rumbling sound that always surprises him. It’s manic, it’s evil, and it’s fucking scary as hell. Then suddenly the cackling gives way to Billie Joe’s wry smile.
“God, if only,” Billie Joe says, thumbing the hem of his shirt. “It’d make it easier to understand, that’s for sure.”
Tré shoots him a puzzled look. “What?”
“I just saw him differently tonight, that’s all. Kinda shocking, after twenty years together, you know?” Billie Joe says, earnestly watching Tré’s face. Suddenly Armstrong grabs Tré’s head with both hands, then kisses him on the forehead. “Ah fuck it,” Billie Joe continues, pulling back. There’s a grin on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m talking about right now.”
Billie Joe scoots over to the driver’s seat, leaving Tré warily eyeing him from across the way. Billie Joe taps out a tune on his steering wheel, smile brittle.
“I’m not going to fuck this up,” Tré says finally. Billie Joe’s hand hits the dash, off-time. His hazel eyes burn into Tré’s, stripped by Cool’s own merciless honesty.
“You’d better not,” Billie Joe says, quietly.
five :: mike
The day after Billie Joe catches them at the studio, Mike invites him over and decides to tell him that he’s banging their drummer. Billie Joe’s on the offensive, however, and marches through Dirnt’s house without so much as a knock. He steamrolls into the kitchen, catching Mike completely by surprise, and before a word can be said Billie Joe wraps his arms around Dirnt in such a manner Mike almost chokes on the glass of milk he’s drinking at the time.
“I’m sleeping with Tré,” Mike says, after he manages to swallow. He hugs Billie Joe back and licks at his milk mustache. Billie Joe holds on for a while, silent.
“Jesus,” Billie Joe eventually hisses, stepping away from him, “I’m not that stupid, man. I figured that out a long time ago.”
Mike frowns, busying himself with the milk jug on the counter. “But last night-”
“I was just surprised,” Billie Joe interrupts. He looks smaller now, shifting from foot to foot. It’s strange for Mike, to see Billie Joe uncomfortable in his home; for Mike to be uncomfortable with Billie Joe in his home. “I’m sorry about that…I really do support you two. I wanted you to know that.”
“It happened right after Claudia left,” Mike says, continuing his confession. He twists the milk cap on and off, on and off. Billie Joe’s eyes bleed wide at his statement.
“Jesus,” Billie Joe hisses, for the second time now. Mike tenses.
“What?”
“I thought it was something more…recent,” Billie Joe explains, his voice pitching higher. There’s a telling tremor to his voice, cluing Mike into outburst before it happens. Billie Joe begins pacing. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Mike says, looking into Billie Joe’s eyes, struggling to be empathetic. It’s only half a lie. He kind of forgot. Tré was distracting in all the worst ways. As for other reasons, Mike’s not so sure.
“But you were still married then!” Billie Joe says, small hands fluttering in the air as he paces, as if he were a detective piecing together a murder case.
“Yep,” Mike acknowledges, and his betrayal stings.
Billie Joe stills, begins pointing. “So, you’ve been fucking Tré for months now, and decided that it wasn’t important to tell me that you’ve suddenly turned queer, like I don’t even count or something. What the hell, Mike? Christ, how has Tré been keeping this under wraps for so long?”
“I don’t know,” Mike mutters, then watches as Billie Joe explodes, feet burning into the kitchen floor, arms pin wheeling.
“You don’t know? Is that all you can say? I ask you what’s going on, you don’t know. I ask you if you’re gay, if Tré’s gay, and you don’t know. Do you know anything?” Billie Joe rockets around the room, speeding through his speech. He circles the table, picking up Ana’s leftover knick-knacks as and fingering them as he moves. Mike stays put by the refrigerator, watching.
“Tré needs this, I think. And I don’t mind,” Mike replies. It’s not quite an I love you, but Tré would understand if he was here.
“I don’t understand,” Billie Joe says, throwing his arms up and coming to a full stop. “I mean, you could have fucking told me.”
“Christ, Billie!” Mike snaps, slamming his hands on the counter top. He bends over, arms wide and braced. He looks up at Billie Joe, who’s staring with wary eyes. “It’s not really any of your business who I fuck anyway,” he whispers, just loud enough to be heard.
His words seem to have a shattering effect. Billie Joe’s eyes glitter, his face brittle. A strangled sort of sound slips through his parted lips, and then Billie Joe suddenly, frighteningly, stills. Mike feels guilt start to seep in around his edges. He does not apologize. He knows he’s right.
“Okay,” Billie Joe says, hollow. His voice isn’t sarcastic, or angry, just dead sound. “You’re absolutely right, it’s not any of my fucking business.”
Mike watches Billie Joe storm from his kitchen, Armstrong’s name bleeding on his tongue, teeth tightly reigning the words in.
six :: tré
Four o’clock in the morning finds Mike with a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels and hardly any money for a cab. Mike doesn’t worry about it. There’s supposedly a rule regarding rock stars (or was it the aristocracy?) about never carrying money-and even if that fucked-up luxury doesn’t pan out, Tré won’t make him go home.
Or he could just get Tré to pay the cab. Mike decides against this as he piles out onto the sidewalk beside Tré’s home. He leaves the driver his whiskey and the cash he has on him. Apparently it’s enough.
It seems weird. Tré’s steps don’t seem as inviting as they usually do, mostly because Mike’s the one showing up in need of a rough fuck instead of the other way around. He’s supposed to be the one who can keep his shit together. Last time he checked and all…
Tré seems generally surprised when he opens the door-Mike doesn’t know who Tré expects to come over this late at night, but if Tré knew it was Mike he wouldn’t have bothered getting dressed to answer the door.
“Christ, Mike,” Tré says, peering up from under his frazzled bedhead, “You’re making my eyes water. What have you been drinking?”
Since about two everything’s been tasting like water, so Mike doesn’t really know aside from the Jack. He tells Tré this. Tré looks like he’s holding in a sigh, but he takes Mike by the hand and leads him inside. Tré guides him through the dark house, past Claudia’s rooms and the nursery where Frankito is blissfully sleeping, all the way to the back where they slip into the guest room Tré’s been occupying since the divorce. It’s odd, Mike thinks, that Tré is a ghost in his own house.
Once Tré coaxes the door shut, he turns around to Mike, placing his hands on his hips.
“You came here to fuck me, right?” he asks bluntly, cocking his head to the side.
“Dear God, yes,” Mike slurs, words tumbling out fast before he forgets them. He leans into Tré, balancing his hands on the other man’s shoulders, then mashing his lips and teeth into Tré’s neck, devouring the taste. The booze has stolen his balance, and Tré wraps a strong arm around his waist, as if pinning a leech to his very flesh. Tré steps back, absorbing Mike’s weight.
“You’re too drunk for this,” Tré says softly, but he keeps his neck tilted, opened for consumption. Mike snarls into his neck, protesting, and he feels an immense satisfaction when Tré’s throat bubbles in a moan beneath his teeth.
“Kiss me,” Tré commands. Mike complies eagerly, head snapping up to lay claim, ruin, and one hell of a mark on Tré’s mouth. The quick motion makes his head spin and Mike pauses, mid-vertigo. He feels Tré’s centering hand claw through his sweaty hair as Tré draws him in for a fierce kiss.
“Come on,” Tré says, his voice gentle despite his demanding hands. He throws his weight forward and into Mike, shuffling forward. “Bed. Now.”
Mike’s world continues its mad turning, so he doesn’t protest past a grunt as Tré sways with him to bed, one arm holding him up as he staggers backward. When his calves hit the side of the bed Mike sits down, then scoots up the mattress until he lies propped upon a few pillows. Tré follows him up the bed like a predator, eyes gleaming and arms rippling with effortless eyes.
“Spread your legs, babe,” Tré orders. Mike does so immediately, but he can’t banish the grin that follows it, flirting.
“This is all backwards,” he declares, and is delighted to find his voice slurred and rumbling. He watches Tré kneel between his legs, hands deftly undoing his belt buckle. “I’m supposed to be fucking you.”
“Which you would be doing,” Tré says, slipping a hand underneath the small of Mike’s back, “If you hadn’t consumed a gallon of liquor.” Mike arches his back and Tré slips his belt free of its loops. Tré folds the leather strip in half, snaps it. Mike shivers at the sound.
“Liquor,” Mike repeats, rolling the word around with his lazy tongue. “Liquorrr.” He giggles as the word rings in his ears.
Tré continues with his clothing removal project, shimmying Mike’s pants down until they gather at his ankles, ignoring Mike’s laughter. He slips off the boots, then finishes with Mike’s pants.
Mike giggles again, and this time Tré smiles, indulgent, and places two wet kisses on each of Mike’s hipbones. In the morning, he knows, he will hate himself for giggling like a school girl, and also in the morning Tré will remind him that he always giggles when drunk and that it’s cute.
“Arms.” Mike grins, then raises his arms above his head. Tré slides up his body and hurries stripping off the long-sleeved shirt, slipping it up and over Mike’s head. Mike loses himself in the dark as his shirt slides over his face, and he suddenly realizes how heavy his arms are, and how weak his neck is. His head lolls.
“You gonna puke?” Tré asks, flinging the shirt across the room. He cups Mike’s face with his hands, fingers rubbing at the temples. Now that Mike’s undressed Tré’s intensity has disappeared, leaving only the gentle hands and eyes Tré can’t seem to rid himself of despite his best efforts and occasional rages. Mike finally understands Tré’s plan.
“You’re not going to fuck me?” he responds. The question drips with more indignity and disbelief than he intended.
“No, Mike,” Tré says softly. He leans over Mike, resting his weight on either side of the taller man. Mike grins at Tré’s smile.
“You can you know…if you want,” Mike confesses, looking away from Tré in embarrassment. “I mean, it’s not like I’m a control freak or anyth-”
Tré cuts him off with a kiss-a quick lunge, Tré snapping out of his gentle mode and right back into feral intensity. It’s scary how easy Tré loses himself in physicality and how much Mike loves him for it.
Tré pulls away quickly, a second ahead of Mike’s fingers who were creeping down Tré’s belly with every intention of breaching the waistband of his boxers. The drummer kisses him briefly on the forehead and then rolls off him.
“Get some sleep, Mike,” Tré whispers. He wriggles the blankets out from under both Mike and himself. Mike’s head spins and he groans a little. He rubs his full belly, then decided that might be the worst decision he’s made in a longtime.
“Time to puke?” Tré asks again, sliding the covers up around them.
“No,” Mike says, more to himself. Tré scoots in close, rolling on his side but keeping his arms off Mike, opting to curl them against his own chest instead. Mike wants to reach out, haul Tré back on top of him with all that promise, but his stomach rumbles in protest and his eyelids might as well be anvils.
“I’m sorry,” Mike apologizes, letting his eyelids close.
“Fuck,” Tré growls. Mike feels the bed dip, then suddenly Tré’s cool, callused hand slips across his cheek. Mike smiles, and Tré’s thumb ghosts along his bottom lip, tucks into the corner of his mouth, the palm cupping Mike’s jaw.
“We’ll talk in the morning,” Tré murmurs. “Get some sleep, Mike.”
It’s like breathing, slipping into slumber. Mike does it without thinking.
X-posted to _comingclean_.
Don't act like you don't want it. You know that you do. Just click. Get sucked in like myself. This was supposed to be a 500 word "Let's fuck Tré against a wall, 'cause that's hot," then it became all angsty. I guess I'll have to get my pr0ny fix with another fandom.