before i leave
i'm leaving for my family vacation today/tomorrow, i haven't gone to sleep yet, got figure, but alas, i wrote this today and i wanted to share it, i'll be back on the 17th, so gimme a buzz if you need me, till then, have a great time
Title: Pomegranate
Author: vanilla_alia, me!
Pairing: Mike Dirnt/Tré Cool
Rating: R
Summary: sometimes you've just gotta stick it to the band
Author's Notes: wow! my first green day fiction, hope you all like this one, i wrote it all today because i was feeling particularly inspired, i'm pretty sure i got all the information right but please feel free to correct me if i got a name wrong or anything, same goes with anything in this story, constructive criticism would be great (amazing praise would be even better, hehehe), and if it makes you feel any better, i don't think the ending isn't my best work either, well, enjoy the green day love!
If playing the drums has taught Tré anything it’s to keep the rhythm steady no matter what happens. Your lead man can fall off the stage, the tambourine player can drop his instrument and the bassist can fuck up an entire line and maybe they can get away with it. But if you mess up the drums, everyone notices and in turn messes up along with you. Steady and rhythmic, that’s what you want. Sturdy and reliable, prominent and intentional; yeah, Tré can drum like that, he thinks.
::
Billie’s thick soled shoes are leaving caramel crescents on his taut black pants pocket as he kicks his legs up behind him in an energizing yet calming before stage ritual. The white cord stretches from his ear buds to the fingerprint laden music player in his hand. His mouth is set in an o and he breathes heavily. He’s been running the inefficient sprint in the back hallway for longer time that usual tonight. Tré thinks it might have something to do with the static phone conversation he’d overheard between Jakob and his dad. His dad who’s very far away from him right now; so Billie Joe keeps kicking himself and trying to loosen the knot in his mind that’s making him panic.
Mike isn’t in a better condition. He’s been on the green room couch ever since he insisted on replacing the snapped string on his bass. He did the task and handed it off to a waiting crew member. And he’s been there, on that itchy couch, with wide alert eyes that dart quickly towards a visitor to the room or a loud noise, ever since. But his eyes have only moved with purpose before settling back to the faraway spot somewhere near the outlet under the vanity mirrors. An abandoned set list sits on the cushion beside him, familiarized now because they mixed the order around a bit this afternoon at the sound check. But Tré thinks the nineteen song set list isn’t worrying Mike, it’s the twenty nine hundred seat arena that’s filled to the brim and the nineteen square foot side of the stage with the set list taped to the black floor that is making his fists clench at the button up on his lap.
Tré pops a purple unbruised grape in his mouth and grabs an orange from the plate of fruit set out nicely for them. He sees that Mike is watching him expectantly so he takes another orange and a pomegranate, of all things to have in a dressing room, and begins to juggle expertly. He glances at Mike in hopes to catch his smile. But he finds just a slightly bemused yet defeated half raised corner of Mike’s mouth and an unchanged haze in his eyes. He stops the juggle and places all but the original orange back on the plate. He takes a spot by Mike on the couch and offers him the round fruit. Mike takes the orange from him but doesn’t proceed to eat it. Billie comes in finally, putting his music player on pause and hold before tugging the pieces from his ear. He’s looking a little upset still as he wraps the headphones around the iPod and slides it in the pocket of his jacket that’s draped over one of the gently used chairs.
Crossing the room, Billie finds a seat on Tré’s lap. Tré begins to tickle at Billie’s back through the woven shirt clinging to every inch of his silhouette. Billie leans into the heat and back onto Tré’s chest. He wraps his arms around Billie’s middle, hands clasping just above his belt. Tré moves his lips close to Billie’s ear. He knows Mike is going to hear him; he doesn’t even know who the statement is intended for. But he still lets his mouth ghost over Billie’s ringing ears as he whispers, “It’s gonna be okay.”
::
Mike decides that he naturally restricts himself. He never allows all the attention to be on himself. Selfless? Maybe, but he prefers to go with embarrassed. He started playing bass because Billie really wanted to play the lead guitar. He could tell that he needed someone to supplement his quick riffs with undertoning heavier sounds; but he could also never take the weight of full time song writer and overall head of the band. He doesn’t like to talk in the microphone, he doesn’t like to drive, and he’d rather make music that blends into the background and provides a naturally low sound that sings deep to the core of human hearing, barely skimming by ear drums comprehended. Mike’s a compliment to everyone else, but he wonders if he’ll ever want to be more than that.
::
Estelle wanted to have a friend over one day when she was at Mike’s house. He did the dad thing and helped Estelle clean her room and took her to the Video Gallery to rent a couple movies. He let her get special things for herself and her friend at the grocery store after he realized their pantry was really threadbare since he’d just returned from the first part of the tour. He picked up the other little girl at her house and had a nice chat with her mother as Estelle and her friend, Carly, smiled wide and tugged at Mike’s arms, trying to pull him out the door.
They’re up in Estelle’s play room now and Mike’s in the kitchen being a dad again and making veggie burgers on the portable Foreman grill on the countertop. He bakes the Ore Ida french fries in his pristine oven and tries his very best to make an expert display of condiments on the island in the middle of his recently tiled kitchen. He gets out three plates, two with Disney cartoons and one plain red glass dish. The racket of small bare feet down the wood stairs resonates in his head and he pulls his black sleeveless shirt from his shoulder and slips into it before either girl can see that he’s been cooking half nude.
Estelle and Carly sit on the bar chewing happily and talking about goofy first grade things. Mike fixes his plate after them and hoists himself onto the free space of the island, facing the two at the bar and listening to their conversation.
“Whoa,” Carly stops just as Mike is about to take the first bite out of his organic burger.
“What?” Estelle says, head snapping all over the place.
“Your daddy sits on the counter?” Mike smiles and takes a tiny bite into his mouth.
“Yeah, he lets me sit on there all the time,” Estelle boasts.
“Shhh,” Mike says after he swallows, “you can only do it at my house.”
“Wow,” she says, truly astounded, “I wish my daddy had no rules.”
“He’s the best dad,” Mike is astounded himself of Estelle’s comment.
“Well thank you honey,” he takes another proud bite. Yes, he is the best dad.
“Where do you work, Mr. Pritchard?” Mike doesn’t register the name at first, waiting for his dad to answer. It clicks and he responds.
“Well, I play music in a band,” he twirls a french fry around in the squirt of ketchup on his plate.
“That’s work?” Carly questions comically.
“Not if you do it right,” Mike shoots back softly.
He’s hand washing dishes in the sink while the two girls sit on the floor in front of the television in the living room, visible from the kitchen sink. They’re waiting for Mike to work the DVD player so they can watch a movie. Unbashfully, Carly asks and Mike listens over the soft run of the water.
“How come your room doesn’t have anything fun stuff in it?”
“I stay at my mom’s a lot more than I stay here,” Estelle answers easily, “My mom and dad are divorced.”
“What’s divorced?” Carly asks again.
“They aren’t married anymore,” Mike feels his heart break with overbearing guilt at the sadness in Estelle’s explanation.
“Why doesn’t your daddy get married again? You could have another mommy,”
“I don’t want another mom,” Estelle’s never called her parents by the longer childish name; she’s always stuck to the shorter ‘mom’ or ‘dad.’
“Is it funner here or at your mommy’s house?” Carly fires off the questions.
“My mom’s house has funner stuff, but my dad house is fun too. Whenever he’s home we always do cool things,”
“Like what?”
“We go to the zoo or to the park or sometimes we go to movies. My dad says he’s gonna get me a trampoline when he stops traveling and then we can decorate my room,”
“When my dad goes away he brings me something back. Does your daddy do that?”
“No,” Estelle says after much consideration, “I’m just happy to see him when he comes back.”
Tré comes over just as Mike is about to wake the girls up and put them to sleep in Estelle’s room upstairs.
“Just carry them up, there’s no sense in waking them. I’ll take Estelle since the other one might freak out if she wakes up in some strange man’s arms,” Tré says all in one breath.
“Okay,” Mike scoops up Carly into his arms. He imagines a slight tickle on his arms around the lines of a particular tattoo. Tré follows behind them, handling Estelle a notch gentler than a sack of potatoes. Mike almost reprimands him, but he realizes Tré has gotten used to the rough handling of ever wiggling Frankito. Tré pulls back the pink bed sheets and sets Estelle there before going outside into the hallway. Mike lays Carly beside her and covers them with the fluffy blankets. Just as he’s about to shut the door he hears Carly’s tiny whisper.
“Hey Stella, your daddy wrote your name on his arm.”
“Do you want anything?” Mike offers Tré back in the kitchen.
“No, I’m fine. Just admiring, I haven’t seen the new tile. Looks good,”
“Thanks,” Mike taps his bare heel down, showing off the sturdiness. He looks back up at Tré and his eyes are forced to focus as Tré has moved very close to him. They stare into each other’s eyes for a long time. Mike breaks the silence nervously, “I laid it myself. Measured and bought the grout and tile from Home Depot and everything,”
“Yeah?” Tré feigns interest as grasps the dip of Mike’s shoulder.
“Yeah, costs a lot less to do it on your own. I got a special knife to cut pieces in half for the walls over there.”
“Really?” Tré fills again, hand sliding to the base of Mike’s hair, grabbing long black locks in between his fingers. His other hand joins behind his neck and he steps into Mike’s body, aligning from chest to thighs.
“I couldn’t decide if I wanted the white or the stone looking ones but I asked Stella which one she’d like more since it’s her house too and-” Tré drags his tongue up the entire length of Mike’s neck. Mike moans, distracted. “She said the stone was better because it made the house seem-”
Suddenly Tré stops and hugs Mike tightly, trapping his arms to his sides as Tré squeezes friendly.
“Why’d you stop?” Mike almost moans again, feeling a knowing poke to his hip.
“Dad?” Estelle says from the living room door, Carly by her side. Instinct takes over and Mike pushes Tré away from him. He regroups himself lightning fast.
“Yes honey?” He pretends to be busy with something on the countertop just out of the girls’ vision. Tré stands by Mike’s side, looking on at his twitching hands.
“We’re thirsty,” Estelle rubs at her eyes.
“You guys want some water?” Tré’s voice is just an octave lower than their own.
“Yes please,” Estelle says politely.
“Who are you?” Carly asks the shorter man.
“I’m Tré,” He opens one of the cabinets, hoping to find the glasses. He takes two plain crystal cylindrical glasses.
“Don’t use those. There’re plastic ones in the cabinet by your left knee,” Mike says. Tré fixes the water while Mike talks to the girls.
“You two really should go to bed,” He leans both hands on the counter, half erection pressing into the wooden drawers, hidden from sight. Tré chucks two straws into the glasses and hands them to the girls over the bar. They grab them with both hands and turn towards the stairs. As soon as they’re out of sight, Tré is up behind Mike, pressing his clothed erection into the soft fabric of the ass of Mike’s pants.
“Please don’t spill anything,” Mike calls to the two running up the stairs, throwing his head back onto Tré’s shoulder. Tré places small kisses all along Mike’s exposed neck, groping his chest and moving lower till he’s rubbing his erection through his pants.
“Oh my god Tré,” He starts slowly humping Mike from behind.
“Dad?!” a louder cry from the top of the stairs comes from Estelle.
“What honey?” Tré pulls down Mike’s zipper quickly and reaches in, going through the slit of his boxer briefs and handling his naked cock.
“Can Tré come up and read us a story or something?” Tré pumps once, sending waves of pleasure through Mike. He hasn’t been touched like that in so long.
“Tré’s busy, Stella,” Mike says coyly, rolling his hips forward, aching for more of his cock in Tré’s hand. “Fucking hell Tré,” Mike hisses.
“Please!?” Estelle yells. Tré pumps at Mike harder, squeezing the shaft and flicking his wrist over the head. He spreads the little bit of precum over his dick, making for smoother thrusting.
“Coming!” Tré calls up the stairs. Mike’s knuckles are white against the counter, slipping over the edge. Mike makes strangled noises from his throat as Tré picks up to impeccable speed. His second hand reaches around and into Mike’s pants, tickling at his testicles with his thumb. Unrecognizable words spill from Mike’s mouth; he bites his lip and thrusts into the tight fist Tré has wrapped around him. Tré rubs the soft sac in his hand and Mike looses it. Knees buckling, he comes with Tré’s hand squeezing his shaft and the other massaging his balls.
Mike’s breath is ragged and he says Tré’s name over and over. Tré retracts his hand from inside Mike’s pants and unhinges his other from his cock. He moves over just steps and flips the sink on with the curve of his wrist. He pumps a bit of foamy hand soap and proceeds to scrub at his sloppy hands. Still retaining composure, Mike supports himself with his arms, leaning against the spotted counter. Tré dries his hands on a navy dishtowel and tosses it in Mike’s direction.
“I think I’ve been called for a reading. Please excuse me,” He smacks Mike’s ass loudly as he passes by, heading for the stairs without looking back.
::
If you join together two underlying beats, you get something prominent. Just like adding two numbers together, you always get an even. Complementing another person, supporting a band mate, is the best way to turn up your own volume and increase the prominence of your own ability.
Title: Pomegranate
Author: vanilla_alia, me!
Pairing: Mike Dirnt/Tré Cool
Rating: R
Summary: sometimes you've just gotta stick it to the band
Author's Notes: wow! my first green day fiction, hope you all like this one, i wrote it all today because i was feeling particularly inspired, i'm pretty sure i got all the information right but please feel free to correct me if i got a name wrong or anything, same goes with anything in this story, constructive criticism would be great (amazing praise would be even better, hehehe), and if it makes you feel any better, i don't think the ending isn't my best work either, well, enjoy the green day love!
If playing the drums has taught Tré anything it’s to keep the rhythm steady no matter what happens. Your lead man can fall off the stage, the tambourine player can drop his instrument and the bassist can fuck up an entire line and maybe they can get away with it. But if you mess up the drums, everyone notices and in turn messes up along with you. Steady and rhythmic, that’s what you want. Sturdy and reliable, prominent and intentional; yeah, Tré can drum like that, he thinks.
::
Billie’s thick soled shoes are leaving caramel crescents on his taut black pants pocket as he kicks his legs up behind him in an energizing yet calming before stage ritual. The white cord stretches from his ear buds to the fingerprint laden music player in his hand. His mouth is set in an o and he breathes heavily. He’s been running the inefficient sprint in the back hallway for longer time that usual tonight. Tré thinks it might have something to do with the static phone conversation he’d overheard between Jakob and his dad. His dad who’s very far away from him right now; so Billie Joe keeps kicking himself and trying to loosen the knot in his mind that’s making him panic.
Mike isn’t in a better condition. He’s been on the green room couch ever since he insisted on replacing the snapped string on his bass. He did the task and handed it off to a waiting crew member. And he’s been there, on that itchy couch, with wide alert eyes that dart quickly towards a visitor to the room or a loud noise, ever since. But his eyes have only moved with purpose before settling back to the faraway spot somewhere near the outlet under the vanity mirrors. An abandoned set list sits on the cushion beside him, familiarized now because they mixed the order around a bit this afternoon at the sound check. But Tré thinks the nineteen song set list isn’t worrying Mike, it’s the twenty nine hundred seat arena that’s filled to the brim and the nineteen square foot side of the stage with the set list taped to the black floor that is making his fists clench at the button up on his lap.
Tré pops a purple unbruised grape in his mouth and grabs an orange from the plate of fruit set out nicely for them. He sees that Mike is watching him expectantly so he takes another orange and a pomegranate, of all things to have in a dressing room, and begins to juggle expertly. He glances at Mike in hopes to catch his smile. But he finds just a slightly bemused yet defeated half raised corner of Mike’s mouth and an unchanged haze in his eyes. He stops the juggle and places all but the original orange back on the plate. He takes a spot by Mike on the couch and offers him the round fruit. Mike takes the orange from him but doesn’t proceed to eat it. Billie comes in finally, putting his music player on pause and hold before tugging the pieces from his ear. He’s looking a little upset still as he wraps the headphones around the iPod and slides it in the pocket of his jacket that’s draped over one of the gently used chairs.
Crossing the room, Billie finds a seat on Tré’s lap. Tré begins to tickle at Billie’s back through the woven shirt clinging to every inch of his silhouette. Billie leans into the heat and back onto Tré’s chest. He wraps his arms around Billie’s middle, hands clasping just above his belt. Tré moves his lips close to Billie’s ear. He knows Mike is going to hear him; he doesn’t even know who the statement is intended for. But he still lets his mouth ghost over Billie’s ringing ears as he whispers, “It’s gonna be okay.”
::
Mike decides that he naturally restricts himself. He never allows all the attention to be on himself. Selfless? Maybe, but he prefers to go with embarrassed. He started playing bass because Billie really wanted to play the lead guitar. He could tell that he needed someone to supplement his quick riffs with undertoning heavier sounds; but he could also never take the weight of full time song writer and overall head of the band. He doesn’t like to talk in the microphone, he doesn’t like to drive, and he’d rather make music that blends into the background and provides a naturally low sound that sings deep to the core of human hearing, barely skimming by ear drums comprehended. Mike’s a compliment to everyone else, but he wonders if he’ll ever want to be more than that.
::
Estelle wanted to have a friend over one day when she was at Mike’s house. He did the dad thing and helped Estelle clean her room and took her to the Video Gallery to rent a couple movies. He let her get special things for herself and her friend at the grocery store after he realized their pantry was really threadbare since he’d just returned from the first part of the tour. He picked up the other little girl at her house and had a nice chat with her mother as Estelle and her friend, Carly, smiled wide and tugged at Mike’s arms, trying to pull him out the door.
They’re up in Estelle’s play room now and Mike’s in the kitchen being a dad again and making veggie burgers on the portable Foreman grill on the countertop. He bakes the Ore Ida french fries in his pristine oven and tries his very best to make an expert display of condiments on the island in the middle of his recently tiled kitchen. He gets out three plates, two with Disney cartoons and one plain red glass dish. The racket of small bare feet down the wood stairs resonates in his head and he pulls his black sleeveless shirt from his shoulder and slips into it before either girl can see that he’s been cooking half nude.
Estelle and Carly sit on the bar chewing happily and talking about goofy first grade things. Mike fixes his plate after them and hoists himself onto the free space of the island, facing the two at the bar and listening to their conversation.
“Whoa,” Carly stops just as Mike is about to take the first bite out of his organic burger.
“What?” Estelle says, head snapping all over the place.
“Your daddy sits on the counter?” Mike smiles and takes a tiny bite into his mouth.
“Yeah, he lets me sit on there all the time,” Estelle boasts.
“Shhh,” Mike says after he swallows, “you can only do it at my house.”
“Wow,” she says, truly astounded, “I wish my daddy had no rules.”
“He’s the best dad,” Mike is astounded himself of Estelle’s comment.
“Well thank you honey,” he takes another proud bite. Yes, he is the best dad.
“Where do you work, Mr. Pritchard?” Mike doesn’t register the name at first, waiting for his dad to answer. It clicks and he responds.
“Well, I play music in a band,” he twirls a french fry around in the squirt of ketchup on his plate.
“That’s work?” Carly questions comically.
“Not if you do it right,” Mike shoots back softly.
He’s hand washing dishes in the sink while the two girls sit on the floor in front of the television in the living room, visible from the kitchen sink. They’re waiting for Mike to work the DVD player so they can watch a movie. Unbashfully, Carly asks and Mike listens over the soft run of the water.
“How come your room doesn’t have anything fun stuff in it?”
“I stay at my mom’s a lot more than I stay here,” Estelle answers easily, “My mom and dad are divorced.”
“What’s divorced?” Carly asks again.
“They aren’t married anymore,” Mike feels his heart break with overbearing guilt at the sadness in Estelle’s explanation.
“Why doesn’t your daddy get married again? You could have another mommy,”
“I don’t want another mom,” Estelle’s never called her parents by the longer childish name; she’s always stuck to the shorter ‘mom’ or ‘dad.’
“Is it funner here or at your mommy’s house?” Carly fires off the questions.
“My mom’s house has funner stuff, but my dad house is fun too. Whenever he’s home we always do cool things,”
“Like what?”
“We go to the zoo or to the park or sometimes we go to movies. My dad says he’s gonna get me a trampoline when he stops traveling and then we can decorate my room,”
“When my dad goes away he brings me something back. Does your daddy do that?”
“No,” Estelle says after much consideration, “I’m just happy to see him when he comes back.”
Tré comes over just as Mike is about to wake the girls up and put them to sleep in Estelle’s room upstairs.
“Just carry them up, there’s no sense in waking them. I’ll take Estelle since the other one might freak out if she wakes up in some strange man’s arms,” Tré says all in one breath.
“Okay,” Mike scoops up Carly into his arms. He imagines a slight tickle on his arms around the lines of a particular tattoo. Tré follows behind them, handling Estelle a notch gentler than a sack of potatoes. Mike almost reprimands him, but he realizes Tré has gotten used to the rough handling of ever wiggling Frankito. Tré pulls back the pink bed sheets and sets Estelle there before going outside into the hallway. Mike lays Carly beside her and covers them with the fluffy blankets. Just as he’s about to shut the door he hears Carly’s tiny whisper.
“Hey Stella, your daddy wrote your name on his arm.”
“Do you want anything?” Mike offers Tré back in the kitchen.
“No, I’m fine. Just admiring, I haven’t seen the new tile. Looks good,”
“Thanks,” Mike taps his bare heel down, showing off the sturdiness. He looks back up at Tré and his eyes are forced to focus as Tré has moved very close to him. They stare into each other’s eyes for a long time. Mike breaks the silence nervously, “I laid it myself. Measured and bought the grout and tile from Home Depot and everything,”
“Yeah?” Tré feigns interest as grasps the dip of Mike’s shoulder.
“Yeah, costs a lot less to do it on your own. I got a special knife to cut pieces in half for the walls over there.”
“Really?” Tré fills again, hand sliding to the base of Mike’s hair, grabbing long black locks in between his fingers. His other hand joins behind his neck and he steps into Mike’s body, aligning from chest to thighs.
“I couldn’t decide if I wanted the white or the stone looking ones but I asked Stella which one she’d like more since it’s her house too and-” Tré drags his tongue up the entire length of Mike’s neck. Mike moans, distracted. “She said the stone was better because it made the house seem-”
Suddenly Tré stops and hugs Mike tightly, trapping his arms to his sides as Tré squeezes friendly.
“Why’d you stop?” Mike almost moans again, feeling a knowing poke to his hip.
“Dad?” Estelle says from the living room door, Carly by her side. Instinct takes over and Mike pushes Tré away from him. He regroups himself lightning fast.
“Yes honey?” He pretends to be busy with something on the countertop just out of the girls’ vision. Tré stands by Mike’s side, looking on at his twitching hands.
“We’re thirsty,” Estelle rubs at her eyes.
“You guys want some water?” Tré’s voice is just an octave lower than their own.
“Yes please,” Estelle says politely.
“Who are you?” Carly asks the shorter man.
“I’m Tré,” He opens one of the cabinets, hoping to find the glasses. He takes two plain crystal cylindrical glasses.
“Don’t use those. There’re plastic ones in the cabinet by your left knee,” Mike says. Tré fixes the water while Mike talks to the girls.
“You two really should go to bed,” He leans both hands on the counter, half erection pressing into the wooden drawers, hidden from sight. Tré chucks two straws into the glasses and hands them to the girls over the bar. They grab them with both hands and turn towards the stairs. As soon as they’re out of sight, Tré is up behind Mike, pressing his clothed erection into the soft fabric of the ass of Mike’s pants.
“Please don’t spill anything,” Mike calls to the two running up the stairs, throwing his head back onto Tré’s shoulder. Tré places small kisses all along Mike’s exposed neck, groping his chest and moving lower till he’s rubbing his erection through his pants.
“Oh my god Tré,” He starts slowly humping Mike from behind.
“Dad?!” a louder cry from the top of the stairs comes from Estelle.
“What honey?” Tré pulls down Mike’s zipper quickly and reaches in, going through the slit of his boxer briefs and handling his naked cock.
“Can Tré come up and read us a story or something?” Tré pumps once, sending waves of pleasure through Mike. He hasn’t been touched like that in so long.
“Tré’s busy, Stella,” Mike says coyly, rolling his hips forward, aching for more of his cock in Tré’s hand. “Fucking hell Tré,” Mike hisses.
“Please!?” Estelle yells. Tré pumps at Mike harder, squeezing the shaft and flicking his wrist over the head. He spreads the little bit of precum over his dick, making for smoother thrusting.
“Coming!” Tré calls up the stairs. Mike’s knuckles are white against the counter, slipping over the edge. Mike makes strangled noises from his throat as Tré picks up to impeccable speed. His second hand reaches around and into Mike’s pants, tickling at his testicles with his thumb. Unrecognizable words spill from Mike’s mouth; he bites his lip and thrusts into the tight fist Tré has wrapped around him. Tré rubs the soft sac in his hand and Mike looses it. Knees buckling, he comes with Tré’s hand squeezing his shaft and the other massaging his balls.
Mike’s breath is ragged and he says Tré’s name over and over. Tré retracts his hand from inside Mike’s pants and unhinges his other from his cock. He moves over just steps and flips the sink on with the curve of his wrist. He pumps a bit of foamy hand soap and proceeds to scrub at his sloppy hands. Still retaining composure, Mike supports himself with his arms, leaning against the spotted counter. Tré dries his hands on a navy dishtowel and tosses it in Mike’s direction.
“I think I’ve been called for a reading. Please excuse me,” He smacks Mike’s ass loudly as he passes by, heading for the stairs without looking back.
::
If you join together two underlying beats, you get something prominent. Just like adding two numbers together, you always get an even. Complementing another person, supporting a band mate, is the best way to turn up your own volume and increase the prominence of your own ability.