GD fic, part three
Title: All The Ways I Never Knew You
Author: rainjewel
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Green Day; Billie Joe, Tré/Mike
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Summary: In our last piece, Mike left Tré to help out Billie Joe. Hence, aftermath. Angstcakes. Porncakes. Mmm.
Notes: I seem to be growing more and more longwinded, so this is only a three-part chapter. Many thanks to jaws_of_fenrir for betaing.
thirteen :: billie joe
It doesn’t feel like fucking up yet.
Mike doesn’t put on shoes. He grabs Billie Joe by the wrist and yanks open Tré’s heavy door. He marches down the front steps and through the driveway to where Billie Joe’s BMW sits, pulling Armstrong along.
“Where are we going?” Billie Joe asks as he’s led to the vehicle.
Mike stops in front of the car and let’s go of Billie Joe’s wrist. “This is your affair, you decide.” Dirnt then jerks the passenger side door open and slides inside, not looking at Billie Joe.
Billie Joe takes a deep breath. The wrath that he’d felt this morning has somewhat dissipated, replaced by the sense that he’s doing something, that he’s making progress dealing with this situation.
Tension is literally rolling off Mike in waves, but Billie Joe ignores it as he backs the car out of the drive way.
“So,” he says, shifting into drive, “Am I supposed to take you to some sleazy motel or something?”
“No,” Mike barks, and Billie Joe thinks, Oh, so that’s it. That’s how this began. He almost says it aloud, almost asks which hotel ushered in Mike and Tré’s newfound relationship, but the time for sniping has passed. He does not think of the complete decimation that lined Tré’s face this morning, as Mike had turned to him and said his name instead.
Billie Joe drives to Mike’s house. He almost gets lost, this being Mike’s new, single flat and not the house he had with Ana. Mike even looks surprised by the sight of it.
As Mike fidgets with the keys at the front door, Billie Joe gets nervous. He tells himself he’s not fucking up, he’s just figuring stuff out, that’s all. It helps a little bit.
Mike holds the door open for him, and Billie Joe walks inside. He waits, suddenly feeling like a teenager on a first date all over again. Is this when he’s supposed to make the first move? It’s easy to see in his mind’s eye-the image of him, moving forward as Mike shuts the door, hooking his hand around Mike’s neck and pulling his face down, pressing himself up against Dirnt’s taller frame as his lips meet Mike’s, and they’d be soft, and perhaps Mike would moan into his mouth.
Billie Joe feels himself blush, and Mike closes the door.
“I need to change,” Mike says, matter-of-factly, and for the first time Billie Joe notices that Mike’s wearing too-short clothes. Tré’s sweats are low-slung on Mike’s hips, but Mike has the cuffs bunched around the center of his calf, and the t-shirt he has on is bright blue and is having a hard time reaching his hips.
He follows Mike silently back to the bedroom. Mike changes out of the sweats, not looking at Billie Joe, who’s very much looking at Mike as he slides old, torn cargo shorts up his legs. He doesn’t change the t-shirt.
Billie Joe thinks that maybe now is when he should be making a move. He steps up to Mike, who is looking down at his bedroom floor where shoes, ties and belts are scattered about like dead soldiers. Mike bends over and picks up a belt, and Billie Joe slides a hand up Mike’s spine as he stands up. His fingers skid over each bony vertebra as Mike straightens, and Billie Joe shakes as the tension of Mike’s body transfers to his.
“Mike,” Billie Joe whispers, and is sounds a little like begging. For what, Billie Joe is still not sure.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” Mike says, his back facing Billie Joe as he fastens a belt around his hips.
Billie Joe feels his face blank, completely taken off guard. “What?”
“Sit down on the bed,” Mike growls, turning around. Billie Joe feels indignation and betrayal gush into his bloodstream, and suddenly he snaps back into reality.
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” Billie Joe retorts, staring up into Mike’s stern face. He expects anger to be lying in Mike’s eyes, but it’s not-it’s just plain ol’ Mike, with wonderfully kind eyes, determined.
Mike kind of breathes his name then, a wistful Oh, Billie, and that’s all the warning Billie Joe receives before Mike snatches him by the shoulders. Billie Joe gasps and a flash of fear rains cold through his body, his arms instantly coming up as he recoils. Mike kisses him then, hard enough their teeth clack, and Billie Joe feels his lip, the lip that Tré split out of possessive rage, split open and blood seeps into the kiss. It’s frightening, and Billie Joe squirms in Mike’s iron grasp, but Dirnt doesn’t let go, and he doesn’t stop kissing him.
Mike manhandles him until they reach the bed, Billie Joe making frustrated attempts to break free. He can feel a panic attack building from his knees up, and when Mike shoves him onto the bed Billie Joe manages a strangled, “Stop!” as his head hits the mattress. Mike crawls on top of him, and Billie Joe begins to blindly thrash about, trying to escape.
“I thought this was what you wanted!” Mike growls, and then there’s a long hand under Billie Joe’s shirt and suddenly this entire idea of Mike fucking him, of him bent beneath Mike’s relentless, slippery skin, isn’t as fun as Billie Joe had thought it would be. Mike’s fingers pinch his nipple, almost hard enough to sting.
“Mike, don’t,” Billie Joe shouts, terrified, but Mike already has a hold of his wrists and they’re above his head, and Mike’s mouth is kissing his neck, and all Billie Joe can do is keep begging. “Please, Mike.”
And Mike stops.
Everything freezes. Mike releases him and sits up. Billie Joe doesn’t move, terrified that if he does Mike will attack again. Suddenly he realizes how Mike, how Tré, must have felt this morning as he waltzed through the door and decided it was his turn for a little fun.
Billie Joe watches Mike, chest heaving as the adrenaline courses through his bloodstream. Mike eyes are closed and tired, and he covers his face with his hands.
“You idiot,” Mike says, voice muffled. “You stupid fuck.” He lifts his weight off Billie Joe’s hips, and Armstrong scrambles backwards on his elbows until he’s completely out from underneath Mike. The room feels cold on Billie Joe’s skin, but he sees Mike sweating, and can feel his own sweat slide down his back. Mike runs his fingers up through his hair and stares at Billie Joe. “What did you think was going to happen? What, did you just assume that you could just take me by the hand like some pet and decide that you deserve to be my lover? That I’d go willingly because you’re my best friend, that you’re more important than Tré, that you’re the one I’m supposed to be in love with?”
Billie Joe tenses at Mike’s words, and he’s reminded of last night, with Adie, who was miraculously still there, still with him after all the things he’d said and done, and now he was here trying to have an affair with his best friend.
Now it feels like fucking up.
“You just don’t get it,” Mike continues, gesturing with one long, exasperating arm. “It’s like if I suddenly decided that I was actually in love with Adie, and could you please excuse us while we fuck like rabbits so that I can figure out my problems.”
And Billie Joe has to turn his head to the side and bite his lip, because he never thought something as light as words could sting like that.
“Look,” Mike begins, but then there’s a pause and Billie Joe looks up to Mike’s face, and there aren’t tears, but Billie Joe can see Mike swallowing them down. “I’m sorry, I should have told you. I got caught up in what was happening to Tré, to us, and I’m sorry I wasn’t around when I needed to be.”
There’s silence then. Billie Joe won’t move a muscle, won’t dare to risk Mike’s anger, and Mike watches him from the other side of the bed with darkened eyes.
“I want things to be the way they used to be,” Billie Joe whispers, finally. “Is there anything,” and he digs his fingers into the bedspread as the words become harder to say, “That you need from me? I mean, you two work fine on your own, don’t you?”
“Yes, we do,” Mike admits, and Billie Joe winces. He drops to all fours and crawls towards Billie Joe, but Billie Joe feels a flash of panic and the ghost of Mike’s body on his, and he scrambles backward so fast he nearly flies off the bed.
Mike stops, rears up onto his knees, horror burned into his features. “Oh god, I’m sorry, Billie. I just was going to-I’d never-”
“It’s okay,” Billie Joe snaps, more out of frustration for his knee-jerk reaction than anything else. He sits up now, willing his heart to stop beating so frantically. “I’m fine, really.”
Mike doesn’t look fine. He looks at Billie Joe, white-faced, arms dangling with his legs folded under him. After a moment he brings his hands up to his face again, and holds very still.
This time, it’s Billie Joe who makes his way across the bedspread, and suddenly things are starting to feel normal again, as strange as that sounds. It’s supposed to be Billie Joe keeping track of his band-he’s the oldest, he’s the one that everyone comes and talks to, he’s the one that’s supposed to be steady.
He folds his legs up beneath him, mirroring Mike. “It’s okay,” he says, mustering a commanding tone, “Everything’s fine, it was just a knee-jerk reaction,” he says, reaching out to take Mike’s hands away from his face. “You big brute,” he adds, mouth twisting into a sardonic smile.
And then Mike smiles, hands rewrapping around Billie Joe’s, long thumbs stroking the back of his hands. “It’s not my fault you’re a twig,” he whispers, but the words don’t lighten the mood.
“I’m jealous,” Billie Joe says, bowing his head. “Jealous, I guess. I mean, seeing you two together is just hard to take. I want to be that close.”
He snaps his head up to look at Mike’s wary face. “Well, you know what I mean.”
“You have Adie,” Mike whispers, and Billie Joe nods, and Mike nods as well, because he understands.
And yet here Billie Joe is.
“Is this the part where I say that you’ll always have Tré and me, even though sometimes you’re a giant prick?” Mike says. “And that I was kidding about having sex with your wife?”
Billie Joe smiles, even laughs a little at that. “We are getting to be sentimental old fuckers.”
Mike snorts. “Speak for yourself.” Billie Joe smiles, again.
“Are we okay?” he asks after awhile. Mike shifts a bit, dropping Billie Joe’s hands.
“You know, even if Tré and I work fine together without you there,” Mike says, “I don’t work fine without you. Okay? So don’t go off to out-of-state bars and never leave a number, and don’t not talk to me, and don’t ever stop doing what you want, all right?”
“What about Tré?” Billie Joe says, and he can’t help it. Some things fall out of his mouth.
Mike jerks. “This isn’t a fucking competition, Billie. And it’s not a betrayal, either.”
Billie Joe holds up his hands. “I know, I know.” He fidgets for a while, waiting for the tension to fade. “I’m sorry…it’s just, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and all that.”
“Narcissist,” Mike says, and it’s not mean. A silence falls over them for a moment, and Billie Joe wonders at what he should say. Maybe there’s nothing to say.
Mike suddenly spins around, hopping off the bed. Billie Joe looks up at him, watching as Mike picks up a pair of sandals and hops around, sliding a sandal over each foot.
“Let’s go to the studio,” Dirnt says. “I’ll drive.”
Billie Joe pauses before he says yes, watching Mike as he bends over, picking Billie Joe’s keys off the ground where he’d dropped them. He debates whether he should kid Mike about taking two cars, citing the fact that if Billie Joe isn’t at least ten minutes late, it’s really not worth it. Still, the moment seems too fresh and raw, so he decides only to stand up and wait as Mike looks half-heartedly around the room for a jacket. Soon Mike gives up, shrugging, and Billie Joe follows him silently out of the house.
As they slide in the car, Mike lets out a sharp giggle as the car door slams. Billie Joe looks at him as if he’s gone crazy.
“Oh come here,” Mike says, still halfway laughing. He reaches out and Billie Joe leans into his arms. Mike hugs him, quickly, fiercely, placing a strong kiss on Billie Joe’s forehead.
“What are you doing?” Billie Joe asks, smiling in bewilderment, as Mike’s hand slips into the front pocket of his jacket.
Mike pulls back, and Billie Joe watches the light glint off the shining, silver harmonica in his hand.
“Will you play this for me?” Mike asks, voice low and insistent. Billie Joe looks into Mike’s eyes, and they’re so fervent and open he’s taken aback-on any other day, he wouldn’t be sure Mike was being serious, that he was jerking Billie Joe around. But today it’s different, and Billie Joe drops his cynicism for a moment.
“Sure thing,” he replies. He takes the harmonica from Mike and waits as Dirnt starts the car, adjusting the steering wheel for his taller frame. As they pull out of the driveway Billie Joe brings the harmonica to his lips, and tries for an original song.
fourteen :: mike
Rosa greets them at the door. It’s late, and Rosa should probably be home by now, but here she is, a grimace on her face and TV remote clutched tightly in her right hand. Mike is taken aback at her presence, chilled that Tré isn’t answering his own door. His fear must show in his face, because Rosa drops the glare.
“Oh baby,” she says, stepping back as she opens the door, “It’s not that bad.”
Mike shuffles through over the threshold, Billie Joe a silent shadow behind him. The few hours they’ve spent at the studio were cathartic, and Mike feels like he’s no longer walking on broken eggshells. By the end of the week all three of them might be able to go drinking.
This of course depends on whether or not Tré is okay.
“Where is he?” Mike asks softly. Rosa shuts the door.
“Oh you boys,” she sighs, exasperated. She points to Mike with the remote. “He’s with the baby. I don’t know what you,” and here she moves the remote to Billie Joe, whose green eyes open wide with surprise, “Have done, and I don’t care. Just fix it. The boy has been cleaning this whole damn house all day and I am bored to pieces.”
“Thanks Rosa,” Mike says. He puts a fist to his mouth, teeth gliding over his knuckles as he thinks of all the ways today should have gone. Billie Joe steps a bit closer and places a hand on the small of his back. Now, finally, Mike finds it reassuring, and he takes a deep breath.
“Why don’t you head home then,” Mike suggests, mustering up a smile for Rosa. She pauses, and Mike can see her weighing him, seeing if he can handle this. Rosa then smiles back at him, shaking her head.
“Boys,” she mutters again, and Mike and Billie Joe stare in bewilderment as she turns and saunters towards the living room. “I’ll let myself out,” she calls back, not too loudly.
Mike turns to Billie Joe, whose face has collapsed, eyelids drooping with exhaustion. Mike feels the press of Armstrong’s keys in his pocket, remembers how Billie Joe had fallen asleep against the window on the way over. Now it’s his turn to make the decisions. He doubts that Tré wants to see Billie Joe anytime soon, and probably offering him a guest room would be a horrible idea.
“Go ahead,” Billie Joe says, eyes reading Mike’s face like a book. “I’ll wait for a while. I just can’t leave without saying…sorry.”
“Yeah,” Mike agrees. He shuffles from foot to foot. “I don’t have any idea how long this is going to take.”
“S’okay,” Billie Joe says, and unceremoniously plops down right where he’s sitting. Mike stares at him for a moment, surprised. Billie Joe props his head up on a fist, then looks up to Mike and waves an encouraging hand. Go on.
“Right,” Mike says, and he takes the stairs two at a time.
When Rosa told him that Tré was “with the baby,” Mike assumed she meant the nursery, but a quick check of Frankito’s room yields neither Tré nor his son. Mike continues down the upstairs hallway until he reaches the large guest room Tré currently occupies, and there he finds them. Tré is curled up on the king-sized mattress, large arm cradling Frankito against his chest. Frankito’s thumb is loosely hanging from his lips, and Mike watches as their chests rise and fall together. Half a dozen children’s books lie upon the ground, scattered about the bed. Mike bends over and picks up the slim volumes as he decides whether or not to leave.
Eventually Mike’s own selfishness wins out, and he wakes Tré up for the second night in a row. He places a gentle hand on Tré’s shoulder, then leans down and kisses him behind the ear. Tré, who has been awakened by this tactic a time or two, has admitted to thinking this a cheesy way to wake anyone up, but so far Mike hasn’t heard any complaints.
Unlike Mike, Tré wakes up slowly and rarely in a bad mood, and this time is no exception. Like clockwork, Tré’s body comes to first, arm tensing then relaxing under Mike’s palm as he wakes up. Then it’s the quirk of the mouth and the hint of a sigh in his throat, followed by the opening of one eye and then the other.
“Hey buddy,” Mike whispers, his mouth a few scant inches above Tré’s face. Tré’s eyes glint in the light, and Mike pulls back, giving Tré space to disentangle himself from his son’s tiny body. Frankito sighs as Tré lifts himself from the bed with practiced ease, and Mike feels a pang of nostalgia, thrown back into the days when Stella was three years old too, and he fell asleep on the sofa with her curled on his chest.
Tré steps out of the bed and arranges the covers around Frankito, making sure the boy is warm. Mike watches over his shoulder, marveling at how Tré, who is so insecure about so many things, has taken to parenting with easy grace.
Tré straightens, apparently satisfied with his blanket management, and turns to Mike. Tré is still wearing the faded jeans and thin, grey t-shirt from this morning, and Mike has to reach out and gently rub the small, sticky spot on Tré’s chest where Frankito has drooled. He takes a deep breath as Tré allows his touch, eyes unreadable in the dark room.
Mike is tired of this day. He’s tired of treating his band mates like spun sugar, like easily broken things. In the end maybe they are, but that’s not his fault.
This would be so much easier if Tré could just make a fucking move. That would make sense. Tré, with his sharp hands and single-minded passion, crashing down into Mike and then under him, breathing his name in that needy way he has.
Mike lets his hand flatten across Tré’s chest, then slides it up around Tré’s neck where he buries his fingers in the base of the shorter man’s skull. Tré doesn’t pull away, and that’s all Mike needs. He pulls Tré close to him, easy, and surprises both of them with a sharp, choked sound as he buries his face into the crook of Tré’s neck. Tré is warm and familiar and strong, and Mike holds onto him like a lifeline, standing still and squeezing very, very hard.
“You came back,” Tré whispers, and in his voice there’s an undercurrent of exquisite pain. Mike trembles at the sound, but Tré’s arms come around him; hold him steady.
It’s a long embrace. It occurs to Mike that this is the first time Tré hasn’t tried to solve things with a hard fuck, and neither has he. He wonders what it means to cling to a person like this, to hold on for dear life, terrified and safe all at the same time. He listens to Tré’s heart beat terribly fast against his, and he tries to calm down before an attack takes him.
Tré, who must be torn between hating him and loving him, lets go of Mike’s waist as he slips hand between them to skate up Mike’s chest, fingers coming to rest under his chin. Tré lifts Mike’s head up from his shoulder, and gingerly kisses him on the mouth. Mike feels a settling deep in his belly as Tré’s lips meet his, soft, and he massages the base of Tré’s neck as the drummer’s tongue darts out, gently licking the tear Billie Joe’s kiss left in Mike’s lower lip.
Mike gasps, feeling his temperature spike as Tré’s tongue slowly glides over, in and around his mouth, teasing. He spreads his legs as Tré rises up on his toes, the smaller man’s hands sliding around to cup Mike’s neck and face. Mike tips his head back, and he moans lightly, trying to be quiet. It’s easy though, as Tré kisses him deep, swallowing the sound.
Eventually Tré pulls back for breath, leaning his forehead against Mike’s. Tré stares up into his Mike’s face, eyes dark blue in the dim light.
“Hey,” Mike whispers, but he chokes as the words, I’m sorry, and I love you, try to come out all at the same time. Tré waits for a moment, but before Mike can untie his tongue Tré is at his mouth again, straightening Mike’s out with his own.
“Oh, oh sorry.”
Tré jerks back from Mike, back muscles turning to taut wire underneath Mike’s hands. Mike himself jumps at the sound, turning a surprised look to the door.
Billie Joe is standing in the doorway, one arm on the frame, his other hand clasped firmly on the doorknob. His eyes are wide and his face is reddening.
“Uh, sorry,” he says. “I was…um…going to…Ineedthekeys,” Billie Joe stutters, words coming in a syncopated rush, and Tré pulls away from Mike, marching over to where Billie Joe stands by the door. Billie Joe backs up hurriedly from the doorway, green eyes sparking in fear. Mike follows behind Tré, swift and silent, catching the door as Billie Joe backpedals, Tré exiting the door.
The baby, Mike mouths over Tré’s head, catching Billie Joe’s puzzled expression. Billie Joe’s face immediately softens, and Mike shuts the door quietly behind them.
“Sorry,” Billie Joe reiterates after the door is shut, the three of them standing in the dark hallway. Tré is on Mike’s left, quiet and vibrating. Billie Joe is just off his right elbow, arms wrapped loosely around his own body.
“What is it, Billie?” Tré asks, voice strained, head cocking impatiently to the side. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to say I was sorry,” Billie Joe says, recovering. “I was way out of line this morning. I wanted to tell you that before I left.”
Tré shrugs. “Fine. Anything else?”
Mike watches Billie Joe’s eyes slit, and he can see Armstrong biting back an insult. Billie Joe has always had a way with words, and Tré’s always had a way of exploding in a blind rage.
“Tré,” Mike says softly. He reaches out, but Tré’s hand is up in record time, knocking Mike’s hand away with such force there’s a cracking sound. Tré is staring somewhere to the side of Mike, in the small space between him and Billie Joe, with wide, wet eyes.
“Don’t,” Tré says, voice strangling in his throat.
Mike drops his hand, horrified.
“I really fucked everything up, didn’t I?” Billie Joe mutters, but he’s looking off to the side, and not really speaking to either of them.
Mike pulls the shredded edges of himself back together. He turns to look at Billie Joe.
“I’ll--we’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” he whispers. Billie Joe’s head swivels to look at him, and there’s a rage burning deep within his green eyes. “It’s so late and all,” he adds as an afterthought.
“Yeah,” Billie Joe says. He looks to Tré, and Mike can almost see the miles between them. Billie Joe takes a step towards Tré, but doesn’t dare go any farther. “I’m sorry, man. I wanted you to know that before I left.”
And then Billie Joe turns to leave. Mike lets him almost walk past, but as Billie Joe’s shoulder passes his, he stops Armstrong with an arm across in the chest, car keys dangling from his hand.
“Don’t do something stupid,” Mike commands, words falling heavy into his ear. Billie Joe smirks, and leaves. The front door shuts with a deafening thud.
Tré finally speaks after the sound of Billie Joe’s car has faded into the distance.
“I’m not mad at him,” Tré admits, dropping his hand. Mike dares to move, leaning up against the wall of the hallway, staring across the opening. He folds his arms, and Tré stays where he is.
“So then you’re mad at me?” Mike says. He doesn’t know how to tell Tré that Billie Joe needed him today, and that some days are like that. He doesn’t know how to tell Tré that he thinks he’s stronger than Armstrong, that Mike thought Tré would trust him, would understand.
“I get it, you know,” Tré says, quietly. “I understand that you had to go to him. And I accept that. So you fucked him, that’s o-okay. Now you-”
“I,” Mike cuts Tré off, biting his words out, “Am so fucking tired of people assuming I’m willing to sleep with anyone.”
Tré’s head snaps like a live wire, eyes cutting into Mike’s with surprise.
“I didn’t fuck him!” Mike spits, almost yelling. He feels his body tensing up, heat flooding through his bloodstream. “God, what is with this?”
“You didn’t…?” Tré asks, so softly Mike almost doesn’t catch it.
“No!” Mike retorts, incredulous. He throws a hand up in exasperation. “It’s not like I fucked him as a way to solve the problem.”
“You did with me,” Tré points out. The words stop Mike’s rage as it threatens to boil over. He stares at Tré, whose voice is shattering the air. “That’s why I thought that…if you could do it with me, and then with him, then everything is just…meaningless, you know?” Tré groans, wiping his hands on the thighs of his jeans. “God, I’m so fucking stupid,” he growls, covering his face with his hands.
Mike can’t move away from the wall fast enough. He wraps his arms around Tré, who surprisingly lets him. Tré has always been loath to let anyone hold him, let anyone coddle him when he really needs it. It’s something Mike has never understood, but now he takes full advantage of it. He holds Tré close, for the second time this night, and this time it’s because Tré needs it, not him.
Mike thinks that this might be the first time it feels like they’re lovers, and not two guys fucking each other.
Tré lets himself break against Mike, head dipping onto his chest, but still hidden in his hands. He’s shaking, but not crying, and Mike kisses the top of his head.
“I thought you probably weren’t coming back,” Tré confesses after awhile. “I knew it was ridiculous, but I thought it was a definite possibility.”
“What?!” Mike exclaims, unable to stop himself.
Tré explodes, shouting through his hands and into Mike’s throat. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch you two? You’ve been together longer than most people have been married! You’re…you’re just fucking linked, okay? You’re bonded. Watching you two is like watching the same person.”
And maybe Mike can see that. He could say the same thing about Billie Joe and Tré, however. Tré, who was asked to be the godfather of Jakob and Joey, not him. Tré, who is more often than not the other half of Billie Joe’s wild goofy hijinks. Tré, who is usually the other parent scolding him for doing something stupid.
“Hey,” Mike whispers, pulling back. Tré stays still, unresponsive, hands over his eyes. Mike takes Tré’s wrists with steady hands, pulling them away from his face and settling them on Tré’s shoulders. “Hey!” Mike repeats, more insistently this time, and Tré’s eyes snap open, pale and wavering.
“I’m here now. With you,” Mike says. He kisses Tré on the forehead. “This is where I come when I want to go home, alright?” Mike searches Tré’s eyes, looking for a spark, for something to lift. “God, I love you for fuck’s sake.”
Tré’s eyes draw tight, focused. “I love you too,” he says softly, and it’s kind of a moment then, a quiet one, where Mike can only see, can only smell, can only taste the ghost of Tré in his mouth, and then Tré’s moving in, hands grabbing Mike’s hips as he brings them together, mouth crashing up into his.
Tré’s tongue is warm, and when Mike kisses back, pressing Tré closer with a spread hand across the drummer’s shoulders, he tastes like salt. Mike laps at Tré’s mouth, countering Tré’s advance with his own tongue, chewing Tré’s lower lip. Tré’s head dips back as he’s pulled close, dropping his jaw as Mike deepens the kiss. Tré moans, and his hands skitter up Mike’s thighs, one jerking on the zipper of Mike’s jeans, the other sliding all the way up to the corner of his mouth. Tré slides his fingers through Mike’s fly, curling his knuckles around Dirnt’s growing erection. Mike gasps as Tré grabs him, and Tré takes the opportunity to slide his thumb into Mike’s mouth.
Mike sucks in hard, drawing Tré’s thumb deep into his mouth. Tré breaks the kiss, tongue licking his way up Mike’s jaw until his teeth catch on Mike’s earlobe.
“I’m taking you downstairs,” Tré growls into his ear, accenting his words with pulls to Mike’s cock. “Now.”
“Yes,” Mike gasps out. Tré bites his neck, hard, as he pulls back, and Mike has to smother a shout. He catches hold of Tré’s hand as his thumb slides from his mouth, but it’s Tré who charges past him towards the stairs. Mike holds on, following close enough to feel the heat radiating off of Tré’s skin as they charge downstairs.
fifteen :: tré
Tré’s body does things on its own accord. Tré has learned this and attempts to keep control of his own skin, but it rarely happens.
He promised himself he wouldn’t blow up in Mike’s face, that he wouldn’t talk about Billie Joe. Tré has known for years that Billie Joe and Mike are the way they are, and that’s all there is to it. Tré has a brother, he understands. Really.
Tré also promised himself that he wouldn’t solve this problem with a rough fuck, or some stupid joke. He promised himself that it was okay if Mike slept with Billie Joe, because even if this is something more to him than just sex, Mike never signed on for a relationship.
Somewhere, between Mike’s tender embrace and his perfectly late I love you, Tré promises himself he’s not going to fall for this shit. That he’s going to talk this thing out, that they’re going to break up this song and dance if, in the end, it really is Tré’s needy libido that’s causing all the problems.
So Tré does the Wrong Thing and sticks his tongue so far down Mike’s throat he might as well have given him a decent rim job and sent him on his way.
He probably should have seen this coming.
But Mike tastes so good, and every time Tré goes in for the kill he’s waiting, lurking, wanting to fight back, to take Tré by the scruff of his neck and kiss him until all Tré can do is supplicate himself to Mike’s hands and Mike’s mouth, because that’s how the both of them like it. Claudia and Lisea, who were always so pretty, soft and full of mercy, always said he was too much to handle in bed. That they didn’t feel comfortable, or even able, to satisfy his appetite.
It used to make Tré feel like a complete dick-a pathetic, ignorant lover who was too caught up in the moment to think about how overwhelming his personality could be-that his own sexual prowess would be more intimidating than pleasing.
And now there’s Mike, who doesn’t mind if Tré wants to tie him down, can handle the pressure of fucking Tré against a wall so hard it hurts, even wants to. Mike, who takes every advance, every kink Tré can think of and turns it against him, which is usually what Tré wants in the first place. Mike, who willingly follows him down the stairs, but doesn’t let go of his hand.
Mike had said last night, before this day ran them through the gauntlet, that Tré could fuck him. Tré might have promised to not solve this problem with a fuck, but promises sometimes have to be broken.
Tré almost can’t open the door to the den, because Mike presses up against him so hard his cheek slaps the wood, Mike’s erection playfully bumping into his ass. Tré hisses, twists the knob and they both fall into the small room. Inside there’s a large bookshelf on the left, reaching all the way to the other end of the wall, where another bookshelf begins, filling up the wall across from the door. In the center of the room is a large, wide couch, facing a modest television hiding in the right corner. Tré doesn’t flip the switch for the overhead light, instead crossing the room and turning on the yellow lamp that resides in the awkward corner between the book shelves.
When Tré turns back around, Mike is sitting on the arm of the couch, eyes on Tré’s mouth, one hand resting on his inner thigh, where his fingers frame his pronounced erection. Tré strides over to him, taking in the naked want on Mike’s face, almost faltering at the intensity of Mike’s blue eyes. It’s unusual for Mike to be the one waiting to be fucked, and suddenly Tré feels as if a large weight has been lifted from him. He realizes that he’s been relying too much on Mike’s willingness to fix his problems, and that making a competition over who loves who most might be what’s ruining them both.
Oh, it’s been such a long day.
Tré approaches Mike swiftly, as if afraid to lose momentum, which he probably is. Mike’s hands dart out, to slip around Tré’s back and ass, to pin him against Mike’s chest until he’s kissed too deep to breathe. Tré, however, catches Mike by the wrists with practiced reflexes. He slams into Mike, twisting a thigh in between Dirnt’s legs. The motion throws Mike off balance, and he squeaks as his butt slides off the arm of the couch and onto the cushion, his lanky legs hooked awkwardly over the side of the couch, dangling. Tré holds Mike’s hands above his head, keeping him upright.
Mike stares at him, managing to look turned on and indignant at the same time. “What’re you-”
“Shh, Mike,” Tré says, cutting him off. He juts his chin forward, motioning towards the wide, long plain of couch behind Mike. “Scoot back,” he commands, voice coming out like a growl.
Mike loses his confused expression, replacing it with a warmer look of anxious curiosity. Tré drops Mike’s hands, letting the taller man slide backwards on the couch using his elbows. Tré follows him, and Mike spreads his legs, bending one at the knee and letting the other hang off the edge of the couch. Tré kneels between Mike’s thighs, twisting his body as he chucks the backing cushions off the couch to make more room.
“Stay still.”
Tré places a wet kiss on Mike’s knee, hands reaching for Dirnt’s belt buckle. He’s quick, loosening the belt enough to slide Mike’s shorts from his hips. Mike’s helpful, raising hips and legs accordingly, Tré guiding his legs out from the fabric, one at a time. Tré watches Mike’s slender chest and belly rise and fall as his breathing increases.
Tré takes Mike by the hand, curling his hand around one wide wrist. He holds Mike’s gaze, taking each of Mike’s fingers into his mouth one at a time, tonguing them gently. Mike’s breathing hitches as Tré finishes with his thumb, giving a quick nibble to his wrist. Now, with Dirnt’s wet hand in his grip, Tré presses Mike’s hand to Dirnt’s own erection.
Mike gasps hard at the touch of his own flesh. Tré bites his lip, holding back a smirk.
“Go on,” Tré murmurs. Mike hesitates, blue eyes looking uncertain, so Tré squeezes the hand he has on Mike’s, which in turn curl Mike’s fingers around his cock. Mike’s eyelids flutter at the sensation, and it only takes a few more guiding strokes from Tré until Mike’s gone, fist pumping away, eyes burning blue as he gazes into Tré’s face.
Tré leans back, watching Mike stroke himself. He folds his arm around Mike’s propped up knee, idly drawing loops on Mike’s naked, trembling thigh, as if this were a common occurrence. He kisses Mike’s knee again, watching Dirnt’s long fingers work their way expertly over Mike’s dick, thumb sliding over the slit, occasionally ducking down to brush his balls.
“Say something,” Mike gasps out, but Tré is speechless, stunned to silence by the image before him. It might be the hottest thing Tré’s ever seen. If not, then at least the most beautiful. Tré’s captivated by the way the light hits Mike’s knuckles as they curl and flex, the way Mike’s face shuts down, blank and easy as his orgasm builds. Mike starts bucking a little, thrusting up into his own hand, but all Tré can do is focus on the bend of Mike’s neck as his throat tilts, opening wide.
This would be the time to say I love you, but they’ve already done that upstairs. For years even, too. Funny how it’s different now.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” Tré says. He’s careful, bending over Mike as Dirnt continues to stroke himself. Tré plants a hand on either side of Mike’s supplicant form, and he sighs a little as the back of Mike’s busy knuckles brush his lower belly. He slides on hand up under the blue shirt, gently pinching and pulling on Mike’s nipples.
“It smells like you,” Mike says, most observant. Tré nods, biting off a snide comment about the obviousness of that statement. Mike doesn’t do well with people talking down to him, especially during sex.
“Looks good on you,” Tré says dipping his head low, towards Mike’s stomach. He runs his hands light on Mike’s skin, feeling the shirt slide against the top of his arms.
“Tré,” Mike breathes, voice insistent, “Tré I’m-”
“Go ahead,” Tré replies, sliding the shirt up just enough so that he can lick the moist skin of Mike’s abdomen. He feels Mike’s fingers moving rapidly, the backs of his fingers drumming against Tré’s belly.
Suddenly though, Mike’s fingers are gone, and Tré finds himself being dragged up by the waistline of his pants. He slams his hands down on either side of Mike and his t-shirt rips at the collar. Mike, other hand pressed against Tré’s chest, kisses him sharply as Tré struggles for balance. Tré’s groin brushes against Mike’s as he’s pulled upward, and he moans wetly into Mike’s mouth as Dirnt’s sticky fingers furiously unbuckle his jeans.
“Oh God,” Tré gasps, feeling Mike’s fingers, warm and slick, wrap around his dick. Underneath him, Mike has his own erection pressed against Tré’s thigh, and his hips rock against the drummer’s leg, seeking friction. Mike kisses Tré again, and this time Tré’s the one who takes control, thrusting both his tongue and hips down into Mike’s eager mouth and hands.
“You’re cheating,” Tré mumbles as he breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t know what game exactly they were playing. Mike giggles at his words, then sharply pulls on Tré’s cock. Tré moans, loudly this time, and Mike wraps an arm around Tré’s neck, pulling him forcefully down until Tré slams down onto his chest.
“That’s what I wanted,” Mike whispers, voice rumbling with need. “I love it when you make that sound.” Tré’s breath hitches, running ragged on control’s edge as Mike’s fingers work in a frenzy. Mike bites on his lower lip, pulling as he kisses him. Tré moans again, and this time Mike answers him, gasping against Tré’s mouth.
Finally Tré manages to grab at the edges of his being, pulling himself back together. He rears up, breaking contact with Mike completely. Dirnt growls, loudly, and Tré makes short work of his shirt and jeans, remembering to grab the small tube of lubricant from his front pocket before he throws his pants behind the couch. Mike watches him, chest heaving, fingers lazily pulling his own cock as he eyes the lube in Tré’s hand.
“You’ve been carrying that around all day?” he asks. Tré nods.
“You told me I could fuck you. There’s been lube within a foot of me all damn day long,” he says matter-of-factly. Mike’s eyebrows furrow, then he explodes with hearty laughter. It’s the first time Tré’s heard that laughter in the last couple of days, and he smiles at it. He eyes his now torn shirt on Mike’s chest, then decides to hell with it and rips it to shreds. Mike lets him, making the comment that Tré has a habit of destroying his wardrobe.
“I liked that shirt,” Tré says, defensive, “And you’re the one who messed it up.”
Mike laughs again, and Tré kisses him before pulling back, flipping the lid of the lubricant open.
Tré’s hands shake a little as he slicks his hand and cock with lubricant. There’s a split-second where he looks around wildly, wondering where a condom might be, but they haven’t used a condom since the first couple of weeks of their relationship after they’d both went in for testing. Still, that was when Mike was fucking Tré, and now that it’s reversed it feels like the first time again.
Tré is two breaths away from asking Mike if he’s ready, when Dirnt’s patience wears out.
“Tré, would you please hurry the fuck up!” Mike growls, and Tré jumps a little. He then nods, smothering his nervousness with one glance up into Mike’s open, naked eyes.
“Ankles up,” Tré says simply, and Mike obeys with startling speed. Tré leans forward, head made dizzy by the surprising heat of Mike’s legs over his shoulders, and he ghosts his dry hand along the curve of Dirnt’s calf. Beautiful.
It’s intimidating, Tré thinks, as he leans over Mike, knees dipping low into the cushions, how trusting Mike’s eyes are, and how strong his hands seem as they dig into the couch when Tré slips one wetted finger deep into Mike’s body. Tré bites his lip as he sees Mike’s eyes screw shut, then slowly, slowly relax, but all he can feel is the burning, concentrated heat around his index finger. He slides his hand down Mike’s leg, slipping it under the small of Dirnt’s back as he adjusts their positions for better leverage.
“You okay?” Tré whispers. Mike’s eyes fly open, darkling.
“Hurry,” is all Mike says. Tré does. He slips his finger in and out, quickly adding another as Mike begins to writhe beneath his touch. Soon he adds a third, but that doesn’t last long as Mike reaches up and grabs Tré fiercely, painfully even, by the hair on the back of his neck and drags him down for a wet, sloppy kiss.
“Now,” Mike growls. Tré obliges him, curling his fingers harshly just before he slips out of Mike, causing Dirnt to cry out.
Tré shoves into Mike in one fell swoop, burying himself as far as he can. Mike groans, low and throaty, and Tré can’t help the moan that slips from his lips. He stills, waiting for Mike to unclench around him, and it’s faster than he expects. Tré eases back, pulling out, only to slide back down again as Mike bucks his hips insistently, grinding upwards.
It’s harder, Tré thinks, to keep his control up here-it’s so fucking hot, there’s heat everywhere-but soon he falls into an easy rhythm with Mike, fast-paced and pounding, his hands pulling on Mike’s cock in time. He slips, quickly, terrified, out of himself until there’s just blind contact; Mike’s nails run ragged rivers on his neck and chest, and it’s all Tré can do to keep from biting down hard on the sleek skin of Mike’s nearby thighs. Sometimes it’s too hard, and Mike cries out as Tré buries his teeth into his soft flesh.
Tré feels his orgasm building, hot, fast, and he slits his eyes as he focuses on Mike’s tattoos, shimmering in the golden light. Then suddenly it’s Mike beneath him, coming hard as he jerks his hips up, spilling over Tré’s fingers. Tré feels the contraction around his own cock, sees the way Mike’s wet mouth glistens, and he throws his head back, eyeballs cracking wide as his own orgasm takes him.
It takes a moment for Tré to pull out, knees protesting as he leans his weight back onto them. Mike slides one long leg off of Tré’s shoulder, and they shudder in unison at the loss of contact. Tré watches Mike’s belly as it rises and falls, and he looks to his hand, covered in sticky semen.
Mike recovers first, and that’s nothing new. Tré pulls out, sighing a little, and Mike takes Tré by his soiled hand and wraps his mouth around the drummer’s fingers, sweetly sucking him clean. Tré smiles, sated and almost immediately lazy. He all but topples over on Mike, nestling his head in the space between Mike’s neck and shoulder. Mike wriggles a little beneath him, Tré’s legs falling on either side of Mike’s right thigh as Tré’s shoulders press against the back of the couch. Mike takes Tré’s hand from his mouth, bringing it down onto his chest, fingers entwined.
They sit for a moment, Tré listening to the syncopated rhythm of their hearts slowing down, Mike idly kissing the sweaty top of his head.
“Don’t let me fall asleep here,” Tré murmurs against Mike’s chest. “But God, don’t move.”
Mike shifts beneath him, bringing their hands up so that he can kiss Tré along the knuckles. Tré grins into Mike’s chest.
“Why’s that?” Mike asks.
“Frankito,” Tré mumbles. “I have the monitor in here, but he’s not in his room. That and there aren’t any blankets.”
“Okay,” Mike says, agreeing. He taps the back of Tré’s head, and Tré cranes his neck to look at him. “We should probably go then,” Mike says, kissing him in an aimless fashion, lips hitting his nose more often then not. “I’m two seconds away from passing out.”
“That good, eh?” Tré says, and he says it glibly, but Mike gives him a weighted look. Tré’s heart skips a beat, and he wonders when everything will stop being so fragile. Maybe it already has.
“Most definitely,” Mike says with conviction, and Tré has to disentangle himself enough so that he can look Mike in the face, full-on, and tell him exactly how much he loves him; so that he can watch Mike’s face as his eyes soften and turn into wet, naked things, and then Tré can kiss him when the words fail.
After that it’s easy to slide off the couch, it’s easy to forget about cleaning up, and it’s easy to stumble up to the guest bedroom where Frankito lays upon the bed, curled up on his side. Tré slides on a pair of sweats, tossing Mike an old, thin pair of boxers, and together the climb into the bed. It’s not the first time Frankito will wake up to his father’s arms around him, and Mike’s chest at his back.
Tré hopes that it won’t be the last, either, but he doesn’t know how to voice it. As they fall asleep, sharing a loose embrace over Frankito’s slumbering form, he thinks Mike understands anyway.
X-posted to _comingclean_
Author: rainjewel
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Green Day; Billie Joe, Tré/Mike
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Summary: In our last piece, Mike left Tré to help out Billie Joe. Hence, aftermath. Angstcakes. Porncakes. Mmm.
Notes: I seem to be growing more and more longwinded, so this is only a three-part chapter. Many thanks to jaws_of_fenrir for betaing.
thirteen :: billie joe
It doesn’t feel like fucking up yet.
Mike doesn’t put on shoes. He grabs Billie Joe by the wrist and yanks open Tré’s heavy door. He marches down the front steps and through the driveway to where Billie Joe’s BMW sits, pulling Armstrong along.
“Where are we going?” Billie Joe asks as he’s led to the vehicle.
Mike stops in front of the car and let’s go of Billie Joe’s wrist. “This is your affair, you decide.” Dirnt then jerks the passenger side door open and slides inside, not looking at Billie Joe.
Billie Joe takes a deep breath. The wrath that he’d felt this morning has somewhat dissipated, replaced by the sense that he’s doing something, that he’s making progress dealing with this situation.
Tension is literally rolling off Mike in waves, but Billie Joe ignores it as he backs the car out of the drive way.
“So,” he says, shifting into drive, “Am I supposed to take you to some sleazy motel or something?”
“No,” Mike barks, and Billie Joe thinks, Oh, so that’s it. That’s how this began. He almost says it aloud, almost asks which hotel ushered in Mike and Tré’s newfound relationship, but the time for sniping has passed. He does not think of the complete decimation that lined Tré’s face this morning, as Mike had turned to him and said his name instead.
Billie Joe drives to Mike’s house. He almost gets lost, this being Mike’s new, single flat and not the house he had with Ana. Mike even looks surprised by the sight of it.
As Mike fidgets with the keys at the front door, Billie Joe gets nervous. He tells himself he’s not fucking up, he’s just figuring stuff out, that’s all. It helps a little bit.
Mike holds the door open for him, and Billie Joe walks inside. He waits, suddenly feeling like a teenager on a first date all over again. Is this when he’s supposed to make the first move? It’s easy to see in his mind’s eye-the image of him, moving forward as Mike shuts the door, hooking his hand around Mike’s neck and pulling his face down, pressing himself up against Dirnt’s taller frame as his lips meet Mike’s, and they’d be soft, and perhaps Mike would moan into his mouth.
Billie Joe feels himself blush, and Mike closes the door.
“I need to change,” Mike says, matter-of-factly, and for the first time Billie Joe notices that Mike’s wearing too-short clothes. Tré’s sweats are low-slung on Mike’s hips, but Mike has the cuffs bunched around the center of his calf, and the t-shirt he has on is bright blue and is having a hard time reaching his hips.
He follows Mike silently back to the bedroom. Mike changes out of the sweats, not looking at Billie Joe, who’s very much looking at Mike as he slides old, torn cargo shorts up his legs. He doesn’t change the t-shirt.
Billie Joe thinks that maybe now is when he should be making a move. He steps up to Mike, who is looking down at his bedroom floor where shoes, ties and belts are scattered about like dead soldiers. Mike bends over and picks up a belt, and Billie Joe slides a hand up Mike’s spine as he stands up. His fingers skid over each bony vertebra as Mike straightens, and Billie Joe shakes as the tension of Mike’s body transfers to his.
“Mike,” Billie Joe whispers, and is sounds a little like begging. For what, Billie Joe is still not sure.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” Mike says, his back facing Billie Joe as he fastens a belt around his hips.
Billie Joe feels his face blank, completely taken off guard. “What?”
“Sit down on the bed,” Mike growls, turning around. Billie Joe feels indignation and betrayal gush into his bloodstream, and suddenly he snaps back into reality.
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” Billie Joe retorts, staring up into Mike’s stern face. He expects anger to be lying in Mike’s eyes, but it’s not-it’s just plain ol’ Mike, with wonderfully kind eyes, determined.
Mike kind of breathes his name then, a wistful Oh, Billie, and that’s all the warning Billie Joe receives before Mike snatches him by the shoulders. Billie Joe gasps and a flash of fear rains cold through his body, his arms instantly coming up as he recoils. Mike kisses him then, hard enough their teeth clack, and Billie Joe feels his lip, the lip that Tré split out of possessive rage, split open and blood seeps into the kiss. It’s frightening, and Billie Joe squirms in Mike’s iron grasp, but Dirnt doesn’t let go, and he doesn’t stop kissing him.
Mike manhandles him until they reach the bed, Billie Joe making frustrated attempts to break free. He can feel a panic attack building from his knees up, and when Mike shoves him onto the bed Billie Joe manages a strangled, “Stop!” as his head hits the mattress. Mike crawls on top of him, and Billie Joe begins to blindly thrash about, trying to escape.
“I thought this was what you wanted!” Mike growls, and then there’s a long hand under Billie Joe’s shirt and suddenly this entire idea of Mike fucking him, of him bent beneath Mike’s relentless, slippery skin, isn’t as fun as Billie Joe had thought it would be. Mike’s fingers pinch his nipple, almost hard enough to sting.
“Mike, don’t,” Billie Joe shouts, terrified, but Mike already has a hold of his wrists and they’re above his head, and Mike’s mouth is kissing his neck, and all Billie Joe can do is keep begging. “Please, Mike.”
And Mike stops.
Everything freezes. Mike releases him and sits up. Billie Joe doesn’t move, terrified that if he does Mike will attack again. Suddenly he realizes how Mike, how Tré, must have felt this morning as he waltzed through the door and decided it was his turn for a little fun.
Billie Joe watches Mike, chest heaving as the adrenaline courses through his bloodstream. Mike eyes are closed and tired, and he covers his face with his hands.
“You idiot,” Mike says, voice muffled. “You stupid fuck.” He lifts his weight off Billie Joe’s hips, and Armstrong scrambles backwards on his elbows until he’s completely out from underneath Mike. The room feels cold on Billie Joe’s skin, but he sees Mike sweating, and can feel his own sweat slide down his back. Mike runs his fingers up through his hair and stares at Billie Joe. “What did you think was going to happen? What, did you just assume that you could just take me by the hand like some pet and decide that you deserve to be my lover? That I’d go willingly because you’re my best friend, that you’re more important than Tré, that you’re the one I’m supposed to be in love with?”
Billie Joe tenses at Mike’s words, and he’s reminded of last night, with Adie, who was miraculously still there, still with him after all the things he’d said and done, and now he was here trying to have an affair with his best friend.
Now it feels like fucking up.
“You just don’t get it,” Mike continues, gesturing with one long, exasperating arm. “It’s like if I suddenly decided that I was actually in love with Adie, and could you please excuse us while we fuck like rabbits so that I can figure out my problems.”
And Billie Joe has to turn his head to the side and bite his lip, because he never thought something as light as words could sting like that.
“Look,” Mike begins, but then there’s a pause and Billie Joe looks up to Mike’s face, and there aren’t tears, but Billie Joe can see Mike swallowing them down. “I’m sorry, I should have told you. I got caught up in what was happening to Tré, to us, and I’m sorry I wasn’t around when I needed to be.”
There’s silence then. Billie Joe won’t move a muscle, won’t dare to risk Mike’s anger, and Mike watches him from the other side of the bed with darkened eyes.
“I want things to be the way they used to be,” Billie Joe whispers, finally. “Is there anything,” and he digs his fingers into the bedspread as the words become harder to say, “That you need from me? I mean, you two work fine on your own, don’t you?”
“Yes, we do,” Mike admits, and Billie Joe winces. He drops to all fours and crawls towards Billie Joe, but Billie Joe feels a flash of panic and the ghost of Mike’s body on his, and he scrambles backward so fast he nearly flies off the bed.
Mike stops, rears up onto his knees, horror burned into his features. “Oh god, I’m sorry, Billie. I just was going to-I’d never-”
“It’s okay,” Billie Joe snaps, more out of frustration for his knee-jerk reaction than anything else. He sits up now, willing his heart to stop beating so frantically. “I’m fine, really.”
Mike doesn’t look fine. He looks at Billie Joe, white-faced, arms dangling with his legs folded under him. After a moment he brings his hands up to his face again, and holds very still.
This time, it’s Billie Joe who makes his way across the bedspread, and suddenly things are starting to feel normal again, as strange as that sounds. It’s supposed to be Billie Joe keeping track of his band-he’s the oldest, he’s the one that everyone comes and talks to, he’s the one that’s supposed to be steady.
He folds his legs up beneath him, mirroring Mike. “It’s okay,” he says, mustering a commanding tone, “Everything’s fine, it was just a knee-jerk reaction,” he says, reaching out to take Mike’s hands away from his face. “You big brute,” he adds, mouth twisting into a sardonic smile.
And then Mike smiles, hands rewrapping around Billie Joe’s, long thumbs stroking the back of his hands. “It’s not my fault you’re a twig,” he whispers, but the words don’t lighten the mood.
“I’m jealous,” Billie Joe says, bowing his head. “Jealous, I guess. I mean, seeing you two together is just hard to take. I want to be that close.”
He snaps his head up to look at Mike’s wary face. “Well, you know what I mean.”
“You have Adie,” Mike whispers, and Billie Joe nods, and Mike nods as well, because he understands.
And yet here Billie Joe is.
“Is this the part where I say that you’ll always have Tré and me, even though sometimes you’re a giant prick?” Mike says. “And that I was kidding about having sex with your wife?”
Billie Joe smiles, even laughs a little at that. “We are getting to be sentimental old fuckers.”
Mike snorts. “Speak for yourself.” Billie Joe smiles, again.
“Are we okay?” he asks after awhile. Mike shifts a bit, dropping Billie Joe’s hands.
“You know, even if Tré and I work fine together without you there,” Mike says, “I don’t work fine without you. Okay? So don’t go off to out-of-state bars and never leave a number, and don’t not talk to me, and don’t ever stop doing what you want, all right?”
“What about Tré?” Billie Joe says, and he can’t help it. Some things fall out of his mouth.
Mike jerks. “This isn’t a fucking competition, Billie. And it’s not a betrayal, either.”
Billie Joe holds up his hands. “I know, I know.” He fidgets for a while, waiting for the tension to fade. “I’m sorry…it’s just, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and all that.”
“Narcissist,” Mike says, and it’s not mean. A silence falls over them for a moment, and Billie Joe wonders at what he should say. Maybe there’s nothing to say.
Mike suddenly spins around, hopping off the bed. Billie Joe looks up at him, watching as Mike picks up a pair of sandals and hops around, sliding a sandal over each foot.
“Let’s go to the studio,” Dirnt says. “I’ll drive.”
Billie Joe pauses before he says yes, watching Mike as he bends over, picking Billie Joe’s keys off the ground where he’d dropped them. He debates whether he should kid Mike about taking two cars, citing the fact that if Billie Joe isn’t at least ten minutes late, it’s really not worth it. Still, the moment seems too fresh and raw, so he decides only to stand up and wait as Mike looks half-heartedly around the room for a jacket. Soon Mike gives up, shrugging, and Billie Joe follows him silently out of the house.
As they slide in the car, Mike lets out a sharp giggle as the car door slams. Billie Joe looks at him as if he’s gone crazy.
“Oh come here,” Mike says, still halfway laughing. He reaches out and Billie Joe leans into his arms. Mike hugs him, quickly, fiercely, placing a strong kiss on Billie Joe’s forehead.
“What are you doing?” Billie Joe asks, smiling in bewilderment, as Mike’s hand slips into the front pocket of his jacket.
Mike pulls back, and Billie Joe watches the light glint off the shining, silver harmonica in his hand.
“Will you play this for me?” Mike asks, voice low and insistent. Billie Joe looks into Mike’s eyes, and they’re so fervent and open he’s taken aback-on any other day, he wouldn’t be sure Mike was being serious, that he was jerking Billie Joe around. But today it’s different, and Billie Joe drops his cynicism for a moment.
“Sure thing,” he replies. He takes the harmonica from Mike and waits as Dirnt starts the car, adjusting the steering wheel for his taller frame. As they pull out of the driveway Billie Joe brings the harmonica to his lips, and tries for an original song.
fourteen :: mike
Rosa greets them at the door. It’s late, and Rosa should probably be home by now, but here she is, a grimace on her face and TV remote clutched tightly in her right hand. Mike is taken aback at her presence, chilled that Tré isn’t answering his own door. His fear must show in his face, because Rosa drops the glare.
“Oh baby,” she says, stepping back as she opens the door, “It’s not that bad.”
Mike shuffles through over the threshold, Billie Joe a silent shadow behind him. The few hours they’ve spent at the studio were cathartic, and Mike feels like he’s no longer walking on broken eggshells. By the end of the week all three of them might be able to go drinking.
This of course depends on whether or not Tré is okay.
“Where is he?” Mike asks softly. Rosa shuts the door.
“Oh you boys,” she sighs, exasperated. She points to Mike with the remote. “He’s with the baby. I don’t know what you,” and here she moves the remote to Billie Joe, whose green eyes open wide with surprise, “Have done, and I don’t care. Just fix it. The boy has been cleaning this whole damn house all day and I am bored to pieces.”
“Thanks Rosa,” Mike says. He puts a fist to his mouth, teeth gliding over his knuckles as he thinks of all the ways today should have gone. Billie Joe steps a bit closer and places a hand on the small of his back. Now, finally, Mike finds it reassuring, and he takes a deep breath.
“Why don’t you head home then,” Mike suggests, mustering up a smile for Rosa. She pauses, and Mike can see her weighing him, seeing if he can handle this. Rosa then smiles back at him, shaking her head.
“Boys,” she mutters again, and Mike and Billie Joe stare in bewilderment as she turns and saunters towards the living room. “I’ll let myself out,” she calls back, not too loudly.
Mike turns to Billie Joe, whose face has collapsed, eyelids drooping with exhaustion. Mike feels the press of Armstrong’s keys in his pocket, remembers how Billie Joe had fallen asleep against the window on the way over. Now it’s his turn to make the decisions. He doubts that Tré wants to see Billie Joe anytime soon, and probably offering him a guest room would be a horrible idea.
“Go ahead,” Billie Joe says, eyes reading Mike’s face like a book. “I’ll wait for a while. I just can’t leave without saying…sorry.”
“Yeah,” Mike agrees. He shuffles from foot to foot. “I don’t have any idea how long this is going to take.”
“S’okay,” Billie Joe says, and unceremoniously plops down right where he’s sitting. Mike stares at him for a moment, surprised. Billie Joe props his head up on a fist, then looks up to Mike and waves an encouraging hand. Go on.
“Right,” Mike says, and he takes the stairs two at a time.
When Rosa told him that Tré was “with the baby,” Mike assumed she meant the nursery, but a quick check of Frankito’s room yields neither Tré nor his son. Mike continues down the upstairs hallway until he reaches the large guest room Tré currently occupies, and there he finds them. Tré is curled up on the king-sized mattress, large arm cradling Frankito against his chest. Frankito’s thumb is loosely hanging from his lips, and Mike watches as their chests rise and fall together. Half a dozen children’s books lie upon the ground, scattered about the bed. Mike bends over and picks up the slim volumes as he decides whether or not to leave.
Eventually Mike’s own selfishness wins out, and he wakes Tré up for the second night in a row. He places a gentle hand on Tré’s shoulder, then leans down and kisses him behind the ear. Tré, who has been awakened by this tactic a time or two, has admitted to thinking this a cheesy way to wake anyone up, but so far Mike hasn’t heard any complaints.
Unlike Mike, Tré wakes up slowly and rarely in a bad mood, and this time is no exception. Like clockwork, Tré’s body comes to first, arm tensing then relaxing under Mike’s palm as he wakes up. Then it’s the quirk of the mouth and the hint of a sigh in his throat, followed by the opening of one eye and then the other.
“Hey buddy,” Mike whispers, his mouth a few scant inches above Tré’s face. Tré’s eyes glint in the light, and Mike pulls back, giving Tré space to disentangle himself from his son’s tiny body. Frankito sighs as Tré lifts himself from the bed with practiced ease, and Mike feels a pang of nostalgia, thrown back into the days when Stella was three years old too, and he fell asleep on the sofa with her curled on his chest.
Tré steps out of the bed and arranges the covers around Frankito, making sure the boy is warm. Mike watches over his shoulder, marveling at how Tré, who is so insecure about so many things, has taken to parenting with easy grace.
Tré straightens, apparently satisfied with his blanket management, and turns to Mike. Tré is still wearing the faded jeans and thin, grey t-shirt from this morning, and Mike has to reach out and gently rub the small, sticky spot on Tré’s chest where Frankito has drooled. He takes a deep breath as Tré allows his touch, eyes unreadable in the dark room.
Mike is tired of this day. He’s tired of treating his band mates like spun sugar, like easily broken things. In the end maybe they are, but that’s not his fault.
This would be so much easier if Tré could just make a fucking move. That would make sense. Tré, with his sharp hands and single-minded passion, crashing down into Mike and then under him, breathing his name in that needy way he has.
Mike lets his hand flatten across Tré’s chest, then slides it up around Tré’s neck where he buries his fingers in the base of the shorter man’s skull. Tré doesn’t pull away, and that’s all Mike needs. He pulls Tré close to him, easy, and surprises both of them with a sharp, choked sound as he buries his face into the crook of Tré’s neck. Tré is warm and familiar and strong, and Mike holds onto him like a lifeline, standing still and squeezing very, very hard.
“You came back,” Tré whispers, and in his voice there’s an undercurrent of exquisite pain. Mike trembles at the sound, but Tré’s arms come around him; hold him steady.
It’s a long embrace. It occurs to Mike that this is the first time Tré hasn’t tried to solve things with a hard fuck, and neither has he. He wonders what it means to cling to a person like this, to hold on for dear life, terrified and safe all at the same time. He listens to Tré’s heart beat terribly fast against his, and he tries to calm down before an attack takes him.
Tré, who must be torn between hating him and loving him, lets go of Mike’s waist as he slips hand between them to skate up Mike’s chest, fingers coming to rest under his chin. Tré lifts Mike’s head up from his shoulder, and gingerly kisses him on the mouth. Mike feels a settling deep in his belly as Tré’s lips meet his, soft, and he massages the base of Tré’s neck as the drummer’s tongue darts out, gently licking the tear Billie Joe’s kiss left in Mike’s lower lip.
Mike gasps, feeling his temperature spike as Tré’s tongue slowly glides over, in and around his mouth, teasing. He spreads his legs as Tré rises up on his toes, the smaller man’s hands sliding around to cup Mike’s neck and face. Mike tips his head back, and he moans lightly, trying to be quiet. It’s easy though, as Tré kisses him deep, swallowing the sound.
Eventually Tré pulls back for breath, leaning his forehead against Mike’s. Tré stares up into his Mike’s face, eyes dark blue in the dim light.
“Hey,” Mike whispers, but he chokes as the words, I’m sorry, and I love you, try to come out all at the same time. Tré waits for a moment, but before Mike can untie his tongue Tré is at his mouth again, straightening Mike’s out with his own.
“Oh, oh sorry.”
Tré jerks back from Mike, back muscles turning to taut wire underneath Mike’s hands. Mike himself jumps at the sound, turning a surprised look to the door.
Billie Joe is standing in the doorway, one arm on the frame, his other hand clasped firmly on the doorknob. His eyes are wide and his face is reddening.
“Uh, sorry,” he says. “I was…um…going to…Ineedthekeys,” Billie Joe stutters, words coming in a syncopated rush, and Tré pulls away from Mike, marching over to where Billie Joe stands by the door. Billie Joe backs up hurriedly from the doorway, green eyes sparking in fear. Mike follows behind Tré, swift and silent, catching the door as Billie Joe backpedals, Tré exiting the door.
The baby, Mike mouths over Tré’s head, catching Billie Joe’s puzzled expression. Billie Joe’s face immediately softens, and Mike shuts the door quietly behind them.
“Sorry,” Billie Joe reiterates after the door is shut, the three of them standing in the dark hallway. Tré is on Mike’s left, quiet and vibrating. Billie Joe is just off his right elbow, arms wrapped loosely around his own body.
“What is it, Billie?” Tré asks, voice strained, head cocking impatiently to the side. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to say I was sorry,” Billie Joe says, recovering. “I was way out of line this morning. I wanted to tell you that before I left.”
Tré shrugs. “Fine. Anything else?”
Mike watches Billie Joe’s eyes slit, and he can see Armstrong biting back an insult. Billie Joe has always had a way with words, and Tré’s always had a way of exploding in a blind rage.
“Tré,” Mike says softly. He reaches out, but Tré’s hand is up in record time, knocking Mike’s hand away with such force there’s a cracking sound. Tré is staring somewhere to the side of Mike, in the small space between him and Billie Joe, with wide, wet eyes.
“Don’t,” Tré says, voice strangling in his throat.
Mike drops his hand, horrified.
“I really fucked everything up, didn’t I?” Billie Joe mutters, but he’s looking off to the side, and not really speaking to either of them.
Mike pulls the shredded edges of himself back together. He turns to look at Billie Joe.
“I’ll--we’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” he whispers. Billie Joe’s head swivels to look at him, and there’s a rage burning deep within his green eyes. “It’s so late and all,” he adds as an afterthought.
“Yeah,” Billie Joe says. He looks to Tré, and Mike can almost see the miles between them. Billie Joe takes a step towards Tré, but doesn’t dare go any farther. “I’m sorry, man. I wanted you to know that before I left.”
And then Billie Joe turns to leave. Mike lets him almost walk past, but as Billie Joe’s shoulder passes his, he stops Armstrong with an arm across in the chest, car keys dangling from his hand.
“Don’t do something stupid,” Mike commands, words falling heavy into his ear. Billie Joe smirks, and leaves. The front door shuts with a deafening thud.
Tré finally speaks after the sound of Billie Joe’s car has faded into the distance.
“I’m not mad at him,” Tré admits, dropping his hand. Mike dares to move, leaning up against the wall of the hallway, staring across the opening. He folds his arms, and Tré stays where he is.
“So then you’re mad at me?” Mike says. He doesn’t know how to tell Tré that Billie Joe needed him today, and that some days are like that. He doesn’t know how to tell Tré that he thinks he’s stronger than Armstrong, that Mike thought Tré would trust him, would understand.
“I get it, you know,” Tré says, quietly. “I understand that you had to go to him. And I accept that. So you fucked him, that’s o-okay. Now you-”
“I,” Mike cuts Tré off, biting his words out, “Am so fucking tired of people assuming I’m willing to sleep with anyone.”
Tré’s head snaps like a live wire, eyes cutting into Mike’s with surprise.
“I didn’t fuck him!” Mike spits, almost yelling. He feels his body tensing up, heat flooding through his bloodstream. “God, what is with this?”
“You didn’t…?” Tré asks, so softly Mike almost doesn’t catch it.
“No!” Mike retorts, incredulous. He throws a hand up in exasperation. “It’s not like I fucked him as a way to solve the problem.”
“You did with me,” Tré points out. The words stop Mike’s rage as it threatens to boil over. He stares at Tré, whose voice is shattering the air. “That’s why I thought that…if you could do it with me, and then with him, then everything is just…meaningless, you know?” Tré groans, wiping his hands on the thighs of his jeans. “God, I’m so fucking stupid,” he growls, covering his face with his hands.
Mike can’t move away from the wall fast enough. He wraps his arms around Tré, who surprisingly lets him. Tré has always been loath to let anyone hold him, let anyone coddle him when he really needs it. It’s something Mike has never understood, but now he takes full advantage of it. He holds Tré close, for the second time this night, and this time it’s because Tré needs it, not him.
Mike thinks that this might be the first time it feels like they’re lovers, and not two guys fucking each other.
Tré lets himself break against Mike, head dipping onto his chest, but still hidden in his hands. He’s shaking, but not crying, and Mike kisses the top of his head.
“I thought you probably weren’t coming back,” Tré confesses after awhile. “I knew it was ridiculous, but I thought it was a definite possibility.”
“What?!” Mike exclaims, unable to stop himself.
Tré explodes, shouting through his hands and into Mike’s throat. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch you two? You’ve been together longer than most people have been married! You’re…you’re just fucking linked, okay? You’re bonded. Watching you two is like watching the same person.”
And maybe Mike can see that. He could say the same thing about Billie Joe and Tré, however. Tré, who was asked to be the godfather of Jakob and Joey, not him. Tré, who is more often than not the other half of Billie Joe’s wild goofy hijinks. Tré, who is usually the other parent scolding him for doing something stupid.
“Hey,” Mike whispers, pulling back. Tré stays still, unresponsive, hands over his eyes. Mike takes Tré’s wrists with steady hands, pulling them away from his face and settling them on Tré’s shoulders. “Hey!” Mike repeats, more insistently this time, and Tré’s eyes snap open, pale and wavering.
“I’m here now. With you,” Mike says. He kisses Tré on the forehead. “This is where I come when I want to go home, alright?” Mike searches Tré’s eyes, looking for a spark, for something to lift. “God, I love you for fuck’s sake.”
Tré’s eyes draw tight, focused. “I love you too,” he says softly, and it’s kind of a moment then, a quiet one, where Mike can only see, can only smell, can only taste the ghost of Tré in his mouth, and then Tré’s moving in, hands grabbing Mike’s hips as he brings them together, mouth crashing up into his.
Tré’s tongue is warm, and when Mike kisses back, pressing Tré closer with a spread hand across the drummer’s shoulders, he tastes like salt. Mike laps at Tré’s mouth, countering Tré’s advance with his own tongue, chewing Tré’s lower lip. Tré’s head dips back as he’s pulled close, dropping his jaw as Mike deepens the kiss. Tré moans, and his hands skitter up Mike’s thighs, one jerking on the zipper of Mike’s jeans, the other sliding all the way up to the corner of his mouth. Tré slides his fingers through Mike’s fly, curling his knuckles around Dirnt’s growing erection. Mike gasps as Tré grabs him, and Tré takes the opportunity to slide his thumb into Mike’s mouth.
Mike sucks in hard, drawing Tré’s thumb deep into his mouth. Tré breaks the kiss, tongue licking his way up Mike’s jaw until his teeth catch on Mike’s earlobe.
“I’m taking you downstairs,” Tré growls into his ear, accenting his words with pulls to Mike’s cock. “Now.”
“Yes,” Mike gasps out. Tré bites his neck, hard, as he pulls back, and Mike has to smother a shout. He catches hold of Tré’s hand as his thumb slides from his mouth, but it’s Tré who charges past him towards the stairs. Mike holds on, following close enough to feel the heat radiating off of Tré’s skin as they charge downstairs.
fifteen :: tré
Tré’s body does things on its own accord. Tré has learned this and attempts to keep control of his own skin, but it rarely happens.
He promised himself he wouldn’t blow up in Mike’s face, that he wouldn’t talk about Billie Joe. Tré has known for years that Billie Joe and Mike are the way they are, and that’s all there is to it. Tré has a brother, he understands. Really.
Tré also promised himself that he wouldn’t solve this problem with a rough fuck, or some stupid joke. He promised himself that it was okay if Mike slept with Billie Joe, because even if this is something more to him than just sex, Mike never signed on for a relationship.
Somewhere, between Mike’s tender embrace and his perfectly late I love you, Tré promises himself he’s not going to fall for this shit. That he’s going to talk this thing out, that they’re going to break up this song and dance if, in the end, it really is Tré’s needy libido that’s causing all the problems.
So Tré does the Wrong Thing and sticks his tongue so far down Mike’s throat he might as well have given him a decent rim job and sent him on his way.
He probably should have seen this coming.
But Mike tastes so good, and every time Tré goes in for the kill he’s waiting, lurking, wanting to fight back, to take Tré by the scruff of his neck and kiss him until all Tré can do is supplicate himself to Mike’s hands and Mike’s mouth, because that’s how the both of them like it. Claudia and Lisea, who were always so pretty, soft and full of mercy, always said he was too much to handle in bed. That they didn’t feel comfortable, or even able, to satisfy his appetite.
It used to make Tré feel like a complete dick-a pathetic, ignorant lover who was too caught up in the moment to think about how overwhelming his personality could be-that his own sexual prowess would be more intimidating than pleasing.
And now there’s Mike, who doesn’t mind if Tré wants to tie him down, can handle the pressure of fucking Tré against a wall so hard it hurts, even wants to. Mike, who takes every advance, every kink Tré can think of and turns it against him, which is usually what Tré wants in the first place. Mike, who willingly follows him down the stairs, but doesn’t let go of his hand.
Mike had said last night, before this day ran them through the gauntlet, that Tré could fuck him. Tré might have promised to not solve this problem with a fuck, but promises sometimes have to be broken.
Tré almost can’t open the door to the den, because Mike presses up against him so hard his cheek slaps the wood, Mike’s erection playfully bumping into his ass. Tré hisses, twists the knob and they both fall into the small room. Inside there’s a large bookshelf on the left, reaching all the way to the other end of the wall, where another bookshelf begins, filling up the wall across from the door. In the center of the room is a large, wide couch, facing a modest television hiding in the right corner. Tré doesn’t flip the switch for the overhead light, instead crossing the room and turning on the yellow lamp that resides in the awkward corner between the book shelves.
When Tré turns back around, Mike is sitting on the arm of the couch, eyes on Tré’s mouth, one hand resting on his inner thigh, where his fingers frame his pronounced erection. Tré strides over to him, taking in the naked want on Mike’s face, almost faltering at the intensity of Mike’s blue eyes. It’s unusual for Mike to be the one waiting to be fucked, and suddenly Tré feels as if a large weight has been lifted from him. He realizes that he’s been relying too much on Mike’s willingness to fix his problems, and that making a competition over who loves who most might be what’s ruining them both.
Oh, it’s been such a long day.
Tré approaches Mike swiftly, as if afraid to lose momentum, which he probably is. Mike’s hands dart out, to slip around Tré’s back and ass, to pin him against Mike’s chest until he’s kissed too deep to breathe. Tré, however, catches Mike by the wrists with practiced reflexes. He slams into Mike, twisting a thigh in between Dirnt’s legs. The motion throws Mike off balance, and he squeaks as his butt slides off the arm of the couch and onto the cushion, his lanky legs hooked awkwardly over the side of the couch, dangling. Tré holds Mike’s hands above his head, keeping him upright.
Mike stares at him, managing to look turned on and indignant at the same time. “What’re you-”
“Shh, Mike,” Tré says, cutting him off. He juts his chin forward, motioning towards the wide, long plain of couch behind Mike. “Scoot back,” he commands, voice coming out like a growl.
Mike loses his confused expression, replacing it with a warmer look of anxious curiosity. Tré drops Mike’s hands, letting the taller man slide backwards on the couch using his elbows. Tré follows him, and Mike spreads his legs, bending one at the knee and letting the other hang off the edge of the couch. Tré kneels between Mike’s thighs, twisting his body as he chucks the backing cushions off the couch to make more room.
“Stay still.”
Tré places a wet kiss on Mike’s knee, hands reaching for Dirnt’s belt buckle. He’s quick, loosening the belt enough to slide Mike’s shorts from his hips. Mike’s helpful, raising hips and legs accordingly, Tré guiding his legs out from the fabric, one at a time. Tré watches Mike’s slender chest and belly rise and fall as his breathing increases.
Tré takes Mike by the hand, curling his hand around one wide wrist. He holds Mike’s gaze, taking each of Mike’s fingers into his mouth one at a time, tonguing them gently. Mike’s breathing hitches as Tré finishes with his thumb, giving a quick nibble to his wrist. Now, with Dirnt’s wet hand in his grip, Tré presses Mike’s hand to Dirnt’s own erection.
Mike gasps hard at the touch of his own flesh. Tré bites his lip, holding back a smirk.
“Go on,” Tré murmurs. Mike hesitates, blue eyes looking uncertain, so Tré squeezes the hand he has on Mike’s, which in turn curl Mike’s fingers around his cock. Mike’s eyelids flutter at the sensation, and it only takes a few more guiding strokes from Tré until Mike’s gone, fist pumping away, eyes burning blue as he gazes into Tré’s face.
Tré leans back, watching Mike stroke himself. He folds his arm around Mike’s propped up knee, idly drawing loops on Mike’s naked, trembling thigh, as if this were a common occurrence. He kisses Mike’s knee again, watching Dirnt’s long fingers work their way expertly over Mike’s dick, thumb sliding over the slit, occasionally ducking down to brush his balls.
“Say something,” Mike gasps out, but Tré is speechless, stunned to silence by the image before him. It might be the hottest thing Tré’s ever seen. If not, then at least the most beautiful. Tré’s captivated by the way the light hits Mike’s knuckles as they curl and flex, the way Mike’s face shuts down, blank and easy as his orgasm builds. Mike starts bucking a little, thrusting up into his own hand, but all Tré can do is focus on the bend of Mike’s neck as his throat tilts, opening wide.
This would be the time to say I love you, but they’ve already done that upstairs. For years even, too. Funny how it’s different now.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” Tré says. He’s careful, bending over Mike as Dirnt continues to stroke himself. Tré plants a hand on either side of Mike’s supplicant form, and he sighs a little as the back of Mike’s busy knuckles brush his lower belly. He slides on hand up under the blue shirt, gently pinching and pulling on Mike’s nipples.
“It smells like you,” Mike says, most observant. Tré nods, biting off a snide comment about the obviousness of that statement. Mike doesn’t do well with people talking down to him, especially during sex.
“Looks good on you,” Tré says dipping his head low, towards Mike’s stomach. He runs his hands light on Mike’s skin, feeling the shirt slide against the top of his arms.
“Tré,” Mike breathes, voice insistent, “Tré I’m-”
“Go ahead,” Tré replies, sliding the shirt up just enough so that he can lick the moist skin of Mike’s abdomen. He feels Mike’s fingers moving rapidly, the backs of his fingers drumming against Tré’s belly.
Suddenly though, Mike’s fingers are gone, and Tré finds himself being dragged up by the waistline of his pants. He slams his hands down on either side of Mike and his t-shirt rips at the collar. Mike, other hand pressed against Tré’s chest, kisses him sharply as Tré struggles for balance. Tré’s groin brushes against Mike’s as he’s pulled upward, and he moans wetly into Mike’s mouth as Dirnt’s sticky fingers furiously unbuckle his jeans.
“Oh God,” Tré gasps, feeling Mike’s fingers, warm and slick, wrap around his dick. Underneath him, Mike has his own erection pressed against Tré’s thigh, and his hips rock against the drummer’s leg, seeking friction. Mike kisses Tré again, and this time Tré’s the one who takes control, thrusting both his tongue and hips down into Mike’s eager mouth and hands.
“You’re cheating,” Tré mumbles as he breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t know what game exactly they were playing. Mike giggles at his words, then sharply pulls on Tré’s cock. Tré moans, loudly this time, and Mike wraps an arm around Tré’s neck, pulling him forcefully down until Tré slams down onto his chest.
“That’s what I wanted,” Mike whispers, voice rumbling with need. “I love it when you make that sound.” Tré’s breath hitches, running ragged on control’s edge as Mike’s fingers work in a frenzy. Mike bites on his lower lip, pulling as he kisses him. Tré moans again, and this time Mike answers him, gasping against Tré’s mouth.
Finally Tré manages to grab at the edges of his being, pulling himself back together. He rears up, breaking contact with Mike completely. Dirnt growls, loudly, and Tré makes short work of his shirt and jeans, remembering to grab the small tube of lubricant from his front pocket before he throws his pants behind the couch. Mike watches him, chest heaving, fingers lazily pulling his own cock as he eyes the lube in Tré’s hand.
“You’ve been carrying that around all day?” he asks. Tré nods.
“You told me I could fuck you. There’s been lube within a foot of me all damn day long,” he says matter-of-factly. Mike’s eyebrows furrow, then he explodes with hearty laughter. It’s the first time Tré’s heard that laughter in the last couple of days, and he smiles at it. He eyes his now torn shirt on Mike’s chest, then decides to hell with it and rips it to shreds. Mike lets him, making the comment that Tré has a habit of destroying his wardrobe.
“I liked that shirt,” Tré says, defensive, “And you’re the one who messed it up.”
Mike laughs again, and Tré kisses him before pulling back, flipping the lid of the lubricant open.
Tré’s hands shake a little as he slicks his hand and cock with lubricant. There’s a split-second where he looks around wildly, wondering where a condom might be, but they haven’t used a condom since the first couple of weeks of their relationship after they’d both went in for testing. Still, that was when Mike was fucking Tré, and now that it’s reversed it feels like the first time again.
Tré is two breaths away from asking Mike if he’s ready, when Dirnt’s patience wears out.
“Tré, would you please hurry the fuck up!” Mike growls, and Tré jumps a little. He then nods, smothering his nervousness with one glance up into Mike’s open, naked eyes.
“Ankles up,” Tré says simply, and Mike obeys with startling speed. Tré leans forward, head made dizzy by the surprising heat of Mike’s legs over his shoulders, and he ghosts his dry hand along the curve of Dirnt’s calf. Beautiful.
It’s intimidating, Tré thinks, as he leans over Mike, knees dipping low into the cushions, how trusting Mike’s eyes are, and how strong his hands seem as they dig into the couch when Tré slips one wetted finger deep into Mike’s body. Tré bites his lip as he sees Mike’s eyes screw shut, then slowly, slowly relax, but all he can feel is the burning, concentrated heat around his index finger. He slides his hand down Mike’s leg, slipping it under the small of Dirnt’s back as he adjusts their positions for better leverage.
“You okay?” Tré whispers. Mike’s eyes fly open, darkling.
“Hurry,” is all Mike says. Tré does. He slips his finger in and out, quickly adding another as Mike begins to writhe beneath his touch. Soon he adds a third, but that doesn’t last long as Mike reaches up and grabs Tré fiercely, painfully even, by the hair on the back of his neck and drags him down for a wet, sloppy kiss.
“Now,” Mike growls. Tré obliges him, curling his fingers harshly just before he slips out of Mike, causing Dirnt to cry out.
Tré shoves into Mike in one fell swoop, burying himself as far as he can. Mike groans, low and throaty, and Tré can’t help the moan that slips from his lips. He stills, waiting for Mike to unclench around him, and it’s faster than he expects. Tré eases back, pulling out, only to slide back down again as Mike bucks his hips insistently, grinding upwards.
It’s harder, Tré thinks, to keep his control up here-it’s so fucking hot, there’s heat everywhere-but soon he falls into an easy rhythm with Mike, fast-paced and pounding, his hands pulling on Mike’s cock in time. He slips, quickly, terrified, out of himself until there’s just blind contact; Mike’s nails run ragged rivers on his neck and chest, and it’s all Tré can do to keep from biting down hard on the sleek skin of Mike’s nearby thighs. Sometimes it’s too hard, and Mike cries out as Tré buries his teeth into his soft flesh.
Tré feels his orgasm building, hot, fast, and he slits his eyes as he focuses on Mike’s tattoos, shimmering in the golden light. Then suddenly it’s Mike beneath him, coming hard as he jerks his hips up, spilling over Tré’s fingers. Tré feels the contraction around his own cock, sees the way Mike’s wet mouth glistens, and he throws his head back, eyeballs cracking wide as his own orgasm takes him.
It takes a moment for Tré to pull out, knees protesting as he leans his weight back onto them. Mike slides one long leg off of Tré’s shoulder, and they shudder in unison at the loss of contact. Tré watches Mike’s belly as it rises and falls, and he looks to his hand, covered in sticky semen.
Mike recovers first, and that’s nothing new. Tré pulls out, sighing a little, and Mike takes Tré by his soiled hand and wraps his mouth around the drummer’s fingers, sweetly sucking him clean. Tré smiles, sated and almost immediately lazy. He all but topples over on Mike, nestling his head in the space between Mike’s neck and shoulder. Mike wriggles a little beneath him, Tré’s legs falling on either side of Mike’s right thigh as Tré’s shoulders press against the back of the couch. Mike takes Tré’s hand from his mouth, bringing it down onto his chest, fingers entwined.
They sit for a moment, Tré listening to the syncopated rhythm of their hearts slowing down, Mike idly kissing the sweaty top of his head.
“Don’t let me fall asleep here,” Tré murmurs against Mike’s chest. “But God, don’t move.”
Mike shifts beneath him, bringing their hands up so that he can kiss Tré along the knuckles. Tré grins into Mike’s chest.
“Why’s that?” Mike asks.
“Frankito,” Tré mumbles. “I have the monitor in here, but he’s not in his room. That and there aren’t any blankets.”
“Okay,” Mike says, agreeing. He taps the back of Tré’s head, and Tré cranes his neck to look at him. “We should probably go then,” Mike says, kissing him in an aimless fashion, lips hitting his nose more often then not. “I’m two seconds away from passing out.”
“That good, eh?” Tré says, and he says it glibly, but Mike gives him a weighted look. Tré’s heart skips a beat, and he wonders when everything will stop being so fragile. Maybe it already has.
“Most definitely,” Mike says with conviction, and Tré has to disentangle himself enough so that he can look Mike in the face, full-on, and tell him exactly how much he loves him; so that he can watch Mike’s face as his eyes soften and turn into wet, naked things, and then Tré can kiss him when the words fail.
After that it’s easy to slide off the couch, it’s easy to forget about cleaning up, and it’s easy to stumble up to the guest bedroom where Frankito lays upon the bed, curled up on his side. Tré slides on a pair of sweats, tossing Mike an old, thin pair of boxers, and together the climb into the bed. It’s not the first time Frankito will wake up to his father’s arms around him, and Mike’s chest at his back.
Tré hopes that it won’t be the last, either, but he doesn’t know how to voice it. As they fall asleep, sharing a loose embrace over Frankito’s slumbering form, he thinks Mike understands anyway.
X-posted to _comingclean_