Storm
Title: Storm
Author: SnoopyScenester
Pairing; young!Billie/Mike
Rating: PG
Warning: Language
Disclaimer; I own nothing but the words, which I don't really own anyways since I didn't invent the English language.
Summary: Mike is left reeling after Billie's confession. A bit of cliche sappiness that needed to get out of my system. Fluff, with a hint of angst. So...flangst. Like an angst pie wrapped in fuzzy marshmellow and what am I talking about?
“Wh…what did you just say?”
There’s a storm coming, and I’m not being metaphorical about it. There’s an actual storm outside my window; thunder crashing against the glass and shaking it hard enough to rattle the frame, and lightning flashing across the sky and sharply illuminating my pale face for that split-second.
But I suppose, if you want to get metaphorical about it, that kind of storm is on its way, too. A whole, entire shit-storm of things I don’t want to deal with crashing on my head all at once and drowning me. It sounds a little corny, but I really do feel like I’m suffocating under all this.
I pick up the phone on the nightstand and push the number 1; speed-dial for my best friend since fifth grade and the most loyal, dedicated and ambitious guy I’ve ever met. And then I remember that it’s his fault I’m in this mess, and I quickly slam the phone down again before it has a chance to ring.
“You heard, Mike.”
Shit. The only person I can confide in is the one person I’m not talking to. What a fucking mess. I fall back against my pillow in defeat and groan into it, like it cares about my turmoil at all. It wheezes in that defeated way that old pillows do when you smash your face into them, but it’s not much sympathy.
“C’mon, what are you, high? Don’t be stupid, Bill. We gotta rehearse.”
The rehearsal ended about as badly as I was expecting from the minute Billie Joe walked in with this somber look in his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in about a week and he clutched his guitar so tightly that he was in danger of snapping the neck. He’s my best friend; I was worried. I put down my bass and asked him what was going on, and now I wish I hadn’t.
“Stupid? You think I’m being stupid?! I meant it, Mike!”
He stormed out with tears in his eyes because I couldn’t say it back. We’ve never fought like that before. Sure, we’ve had spats over whether The Clash or The Ramones are better; who can drink the most without throwing up; whose ass looks fatter in loose-fitting pants. But Jesus, he’s never looked at me like that before. I felt like the worst person in the fucking world right then.
“Billie, wait!”
And he didn’t help. He’s so stubborn and stupid; he’s guarded his emotions and held them close to his chest since his father died and he doesn’t think. That’s his problem; he’ll never think anything through until it’s too late and then suddenly, it’s my fault.
I sigh. C’mon, Mike. You’re getting angry at him for being defensive after losing his dad? Way to go. Think about it; you practically laughed him out of the house when he’d just opened up to you. You are the worst person in the fucking world.
I pick up the phone again with guilt eating away at my insides. It shouldn’t matter. I can’t lose my best friend over something like this. I won’t lose my best friend over something like this. I push the button and hold the phone to my ear.
It rings once before he picks up, which is a bad sign. He’s been sitting by the phone like a teenage girl waiting for someone to call him, and hopefully that someone isn’t me because I can’t think of anything really awe-inspiring to say right now.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Billie?”
“Oh…” he tries to sound casual but his voice shakes. “It’s you. What d’you want?”
I close my eyes and will him not to start another fight. “Bill, I’m sorry, okay? I am. You gotta give me a little time to deal with something like that.”
“If you can’t deal with it right away then you can’t deal with it at all. It’s that simple, Mike.”
Stubborn jackass. “No it isn’t, Bill. It’s not simple because I’m trying not to lose my best friend here, and you’re not helping.”
He’s silent for a long moment. I can almost picture him chewing his lip and raking his fingers to tousle his already limply spiked and messy hair: telltale signs that he’s anxious. I picture him sprawled across his bed like I’m doing now; staring at the window covered in tiny droplets of water as the storm worsens and lightning strikes again.
I sigh. “Yeah, Bill. Best. Friend. This doesn’t change anything.”
Maybe he’s just looking for a fight. Maybe he’s trying to act big, like he’s not upset; like he didn’t storm out of my basement with his guitar still wrapped around his neck and tears in his eyes. I know him too well. He knows I know him too well, but that doesn’t keep him from trying.
“It changes me, Mike. I fucking changed. But obviously, y’know, I’m nothing, right?”
“You’re such an idiot!” I spit, the venom in my tone born more of impatience than anything else. “I’m not mad at you, okay?! Except for now, but that’s because you’re acting fucking stupid! I’m not gonna treat you any different ‘cause of what you said!”
It’s hard to be mad at someone who’s being so understanding. Trust me, I know. “Promise?”
I close my eyes, hissing through my teeth in desperation. “Billie, if you were gonna freak out like this, why’d you tell me?”
“You don’t know how hard it was!” he whimpers. “It was gonna kill me, Mikey! I needed you to know that I…y’know.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I know. And it’s okay, Billie, I promise. We can still be friends, right?”
He hesitates. “You’re sure you’re okay with this? I mean, Jesus, it was a big thing. I’m still fucking shaking. Wait…did you know?! Did I make it obvious? I swear I didn’t check out your ass or nothin’, right? If I did, I didn’t mean it! Not…not that there’s anything wrong with your ass. Oh fuck, this is bad. I’m sorry, Mike.”
I cover my mouth so he doesn’t hear me chuckle. The last thing I need is another fight when I’ve finally encouraged his guard to drop enough for him to start rambling. I picture the warm blush covering his cheeks in crimson.
“Billie. Billie! Shut up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“Mikey?”
“Hmm?”
“Thanks.”
“That’s okay.”
Silence.
But not that awkward, awful foreboding silence that followed him storming out. A nice, comfortable silence, like two best friends who don’t have to speak to understand what the other one’s thinking and feeling. The storm’s starting to let up; a tiny glimmer of sunlight peeking through the clouds and casting a lazy orange glow over my face.
“Billie?”
“Huh? Oh…yeah?”
“D’you wanna go out for lunch, or something? We can talk.”
“Oh. Yeah. That’d be…nice,” he groans. “Fuck, Bill, can you think of a lamer word than nice?”
I ignore him, but I’m smiling. “Say…Friday after school? You’ve got Math last period, right? I’ll wait for you.”
“Uhm. Yeah. Sure. Friday’s…”
I grin. “Nice.”
He laughs. “Yeah.”
“Cool. Then, I’ll see you Friday?”
“Yeah…See you Friday., Mikey.”
We hang up at the same time and smile softly at the phones in our hands, like we can see each other reflected there. I toss mine into the mess of duvet at the foot of my bed and jump up, rooting through my nightstand for the tiny notebook; the only one I own that isn’t littered with chords and bass tabs.
No, this one is filled with a haphazard script; almost every page littered with writing that gets progressively better, but progressively lazier at the same time. I start smoking pot about halfway through; you can tell. You can almost see me grow up in this thing, which is a little creepy, but enlightening at the same time.
Thirteen year old Mike starts the diary talking about what he had for lunch and why school is boring and pointless and he’d much rather play his bass. Thirteen and a half year old Mike’s handwriting is atrocious, but maybe he doesn’t want anyone to read the dreams he keeps having about his best friend Billie Joe - not Billy Joe, like all of his teachers seem to think.
The theme continues for fourteen and fifteen year old Mike - Billie Joe. Every page is littered with his name; something he said or did; something the younger Mike thought that perhaps he shouldn’t have. I smile fondly at him and the pages crinkle beneath my fingers.
Eighteen year old Mike picks up a pencil from where it’s tucked into the back page. He came to terms with this a long time ago; he knows exactly how Billie feels, even if the stubborn ass has no idea and doesn’t have enough self-esteem to think that maybe, Mike is so understanding because he’s felt it, too.
Eighteen year old Mike puts pen to paper and writes, “4 years, 6 months, 21 days. That’s how long it’s been since I realized I liked Billie. At band practice today, he told me he liked me too and now we’re having lunch on Friday. Call me a teenage girl but - fuck, what am I gonna wear?”
Author: SnoopyScenester
Pairing; young!Billie/Mike
Rating: PG
Warning: Language
Disclaimer; I own nothing but the words, which I don't really own anyways since I didn't invent the English language.
Summary: Mike is left reeling after Billie's confession. A bit of cliche sappiness that needed to get out of my system. Fluff, with a hint of angst. So...flangst. Like an angst pie wrapped in fuzzy marshmellow and what am I talking about?
“Wh…what did you just say?”
There’s a storm coming, and I’m not being metaphorical about it. There’s an actual storm outside my window; thunder crashing against the glass and shaking it hard enough to rattle the frame, and lightning flashing across the sky and sharply illuminating my pale face for that split-second.
But I suppose, if you want to get metaphorical about it, that kind of storm is on its way, too. A whole, entire shit-storm of things I don’t want to deal with crashing on my head all at once and drowning me. It sounds a little corny, but I really do feel like I’m suffocating under all this.
I pick up the phone on the nightstand and push the number 1; speed-dial for my best friend since fifth grade and the most loyal, dedicated and ambitious guy I’ve ever met. And then I remember that it’s his fault I’m in this mess, and I quickly slam the phone down again before it has a chance to ring.
“You heard, Mike.”
Shit. The only person I can confide in is the one person I’m not talking to. What a fucking mess. I fall back against my pillow in defeat and groan into it, like it cares about my turmoil at all. It wheezes in that defeated way that old pillows do when you smash your face into them, but it’s not much sympathy.
“C’mon, what are you, high? Don’t be stupid, Bill. We gotta rehearse.”
The rehearsal ended about as badly as I was expecting from the minute Billie Joe walked in with this somber look in his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in about a week and he clutched his guitar so tightly that he was in danger of snapping the neck. He’s my best friend; I was worried. I put down my bass and asked him what was going on, and now I wish I hadn’t.
“Stupid? You think I’m being stupid?! I meant it, Mike!”
He stormed out with tears in his eyes because I couldn’t say it back. We’ve never fought like that before. Sure, we’ve had spats over whether The Clash or The Ramones are better; who can drink the most without throwing up; whose ass looks fatter in loose-fitting pants. But Jesus, he’s never looked at me like that before. I felt like the worst person in the fucking world right then.
“Billie, wait!”
And he didn’t help. He’s so stubborn and stupid; he’s guarded his emotions and held them close to his chest since his father died and he doesn’t think. That’s his problem; he’ll never think anything through until it’s too late and then suddenly, it’s my fault.
I sigh. C’mon, Mike. You’re getting angry at him for being defensive after losing his dad? Way to go. Think about it; you practically laughed him out of the house when he’d just opened up to you. You are the worst person in the fucking world.
I pick up the phone again with guilt eating away at my insides. It shouldn’t matter. I can’t lose my best friend over something like this. I won’t lose my best friend over something like this. I push the button and hold the phone to my ear.
It rings once before he picks up, which is a bad sign. He’s been sitting by the phone like a teenage girl waiting for someone to call him, and hopefully that someone isn’t me because I can’t think of anything really awe-inspiring to say right now.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Billie?”
“Oh…” he tries to sound casual but his voice shakes. “It’s you. What d’you want?”
I close my eyes and will him not to start another fight. “Bill, I’m sorry, okay? I am. You gotta give me a little time to deal with something like that.”
“If you can’t deal with it right away then you can’t deal with it at all. It’s that simple, Mike.”
Stubborn jackass. “No it isn’t, Bill. It’s not simple because I’m trying not to lose my best friend here, and you’re not helping.”
He’s silent for a long moment. I can almost picture him chewing his lip and raking his fingers to tousle his already limply spiked and messy hair: telltale signs that he’s anxious. I picture him sprawled across his bed like I’m doing now; staring at the window covered in tiny droplets of water as the storm worsens and lightning strikes again.
I sigh. “Yeah, Bill. Best. Friend. This doesn’t change anything.”
Maybe he’s just looking for a fight. Maybe he’s trying to act big, like he’s not upset; like he didn’t storm out of my basement with his guitar still wrapped around his neck and tears in his eyes. I know him too well. He knows I know him too well, but that doesn’t keep him from trying.
“It changes me, Mike. I fucking changed. But obviously, y’know, I’m nothing, right?”
“You’re such an idiot!” I spit, the venom in my tone born more of impatience than anything else. “I’m not mad at you, okay?! Except for now, but that’s because you’re acting fucking stupid! I’m not gonna treat you any different ‘cause of what you said!”
It’s hard to be mad at someone who’s being so understanding. Trust me, I know. “Promise?”
I close my eyes, hissing through my teeth in desperation. “Billie, if you were gonna freak out like this, why’d you tell me?”
“You don’t know how hard it was!” he whimpers. “It was gonna kill me, Mikey! I needed you to know that I…y’know.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I know. And it’s okay, Billie, I promise. We can still be friends, right?”
He hesitates. “You’re sure you’re okay with this? I mean, Jesus, it was a big thing. I’m still fucking shaking. Wait…did you know?! Did I make it obvious? I swear I didn’t check out your ass or nothin’, right? If I did, I didn’t mean it! Not…not that there’s anything wrong with your ass. Oh fuck, this is bad. I’m sorry, Mike.”
I cover my mouth so he doesn’t hear me chuckle. The last thing I need is another fight when I’ve finally encouraged his guard to drop enough for him to start rambling. I picture the warm blush covering his cheeks in crimson.
“Billie. Billie! Shut up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“Mikey?”
“Hmm?”
“Thanks.”
“That’s okay.”
Silence.
But not that awkward, awful foreboding silence that followed him storming out. A nice, comfortable silence, like two best friends who don’t have to speak to understand what the other one’s thinking and feeling. The storm’s starting to let up; a tiny glimmer of sunlight peeking through the clouds and casting a lazy orange glow over my face.
“Billie?”
“Huh? Oh…yeah?”
“D’you wanna go out for lunch, or something? We can talk.”
“Oh. Yeah. That’d be…nice,” he groans. “Fuck, Bill, can you think of a lamer word than nice?”
I ignore him, but I’m smiling. “Say…Friday after school? You’ve got Math last period, right? I’ll wait for you.”
“Uhm. Yeah. Sure. Friday’s…”
I grin. “Nice.”
He laughs. “Yeah.”
“Cool. Then, I’ll see you Friday?”
“Yeah…See you Friday., Mikey.”
We hang up at the same time and smile softly at the phones in our hands, like we can see each other reflected there. I toss mine into the mess of duvet at the foot of my bed and jump up, rooting through my nightstand for the tiny notebook; the only one I own that isn’t littered with chords and bass tabs.
No, this one is filled with a haphazard script; almost every page littered with writing that gets progressively better, but progressively lazier at the same time. I start smoking pot about halfway through; you can tell. You can almost see me grow up in this thing, which is a little creepy, but enlightening at the same time.
Thirteen year old Mike starts the diary talking about what he had for lunch and why school is boring and pointless and he’d much rather play his bass. Thirteen and a half year old Mike’s handwriting is atrocious, but maybe he doesn’t want anyone to read the dreams he keeps having about his best friend Billie Joe - not Billy Joe, like all of his teachers seem to think.
The theme continues for fourteen and fifteen year old Mike - Billie Joe. Every page is littered with his name; something he said or did; something the younger Mike thought that perhaps he shouldn’t have. I smile fondly at him and the pages crinkle beneath my fingers.
Eighteen year old Mike picks up a pencil from where it’s tucked into the back page. He came to terms with this a long time ago; he knows exactly how Billie feels, even if the stubborn ass has no idea and doesn’t have enough self-esteem to think that maybe, Mike is so understanding because he’s felt it, too.
Eighteen year old Mike puts pen to paper and writes, “4 years, 6 months, 21 days. That’s how long it’s been since I realized I liked Billie. At band practice today, he told me he liked me too and now we’re having lunch on Friday. Call me a teenage girl but - fuck, what am I gonna wear?”