Keeping Time (AI, R)
Title: Keeping Time
Source: American Idiot
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: Will, Johnny, Tunny/Extraordinary Girl
Word count: 2,054
Disclaimer: Unbelievably fictional.
Summary: Friday night in Jingletown.
10:07 p.m.
Tunny’s here already. Of course. He was anal enough about punctuality before he joined the army. Will considers being on time a fucking waste of time since everyone (except Tunny) has adjusted to the fact that no one (except Tunny) ever is, but he can feel himself smiling.
Sometimes it’s like not everything changed. Like they aren’t that different.
He’s sitting with his back to the door, fingers tapping out the line from whatever song’s running through his head. It sure as hell isn’t the one playing in the bar. That’s familiar, too, and Will loops arms around him from behind, butts his face alongside Tunny’s. “Hey, baby,” he breathes, aiming up an octave.
Tunny grins. “Nice try. When you get sponge baths from someone, ‘baby’ stops being cute and starts being really fucking creepy.” He reaches up to fist a hand in Will’s hair, shaking him a little. “And she doesn’t smell like smoke and diaper cream or need a shave, baby."
Shrugging, Will lets go. “She’s a nurse," he says, collapsing onto the chair beside him. "Figured she gets off work smelling like all kinds of shit."
Something passes behind his eyes that makes Will regret opening his goddamn mouth, but before he can do it again, try to fix what he just fucked up, Tunny twitches a smile and says, “Mostly soap.”
10:42 p.m.
Johnny showed up 20 minutes late with wet hair. It may be a personal best.
They plant him in the corner, Will relocating so Johnny’s trapped between the walls, the table, and them, and count how long it takes him to start fidgeting.
Three songs, at the rate of almost a soda per song. That’s probably not helping anything.
When he’s hit the point of his ass actually coming off the seat, Will props his feet on the empty chair, knees blocking one escape route, and keeps talking. Every time Johnny creeps in the other direction, Tunny just so happens to reposition his leg or draw attention to the crutch leaning between them. Johnny still feels bad about shoving the gimp (mostly since they won’t let him forget it), so eventually he says, “You fuckers suck,” and slumps back chewing on a cherry stem. He’s smiling, though.
It’s a long, fucking painful process. Will’s down to cigarettes unless he’s around his son, in which case it’s gum and it’s never fucking going to be otherwise. Tunny pretty much only takes the serious meds when the weather changes. And tonight is Johnny’s trial run to see if he can be where the alcohol lives without drowning himself in it.
They’re still fucked up, but at least they’re aware of it now. It’s a start.
11:25 p.m.
The place fills pretty fast: it’s Friday, and there’s fuck-all to do in this ‘burb besides drink. (Even the fucking Starbucks closes at 7.) The more faces that show, the more Johnny relaxes-it’s easier to act like you’re fine around people who don’t know you’re not-so Will feels okay about going for a smoke. They’ll kick Johnny’s ass if he lets himself get wasted, and Johnny knows it. The rest is on him.
Fishing in his jacket pocket, Will pushes through the door and almost runs into Sara, who smiles at him.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” she asks.
He holds up the crumpled pack, and she nods, hands burying into the front pocket of her hoodie. When he moves away from the door, she goes with him. He wasn’t expecting that, but he doesn’t mind.
They settle against the wall in the alley, arms brushing. It’s colder than it was earlier, the wind picking up enough that huddling is instinct. He has to put his back to it, hand cupped, to keep the flame going long enough to catch.
The smoke fills his lungs like relief. He has plans to make it last as long as he can, so he shifts more weight onto his shoulders, letting the wall hold him up. Between drags he makes sure to keep the cigarette on his right side, away from her.
After a couple of minutes, he can’t tell if the silence is comfortable or not, so he asks, “How was work?”
“Good,” she answers automatically, then adds, “Busy, but good. How was Billy today?”
“Good.” He’s so good. The thing Will wants most in the world is not to ruin that. “Heather took him to her grandparents’ for the weekend.”
“Oh, good, then you’re free.”
He looks up from watching the smoke curl off his cigarette. “For what?”
“To hang out with us.” She bumps his shoulder. “I mean, if you want to invite Tunny.”
“Fuck ‘im,” Will says, grinning. At the sly look she gives in response to that, he slings an arm around her, pulls her in tight. She’s warm and soft and smells like soap.
He mutters thanks into her hair and means it for more than the pity invite.
11:35 p.m.
Another familiar sight: Tunny, mostly checked out, watching Johnny bullshit someone through heavy-lidded eyes. His head doesn’t come off the wall when he sees them, but he smiles. It’s small and fond, the kind he used to get when he forgot to be pissed off at something.
They’ve been appearing more and more lately.
“Hey, baby,” Tunny says, voice blurring. It only sounds like that when he’s tired. When he’s drunk, his words get more precise. Because he’s a freak of nature.
Will notices Sara looking at him, eyebrows pulled together, so he raises a hand, identifying himself. She hasn’t really been around long enough to know that his and Tunny's friendship is basically a never-ending game of chicken. Now the question is whether to escalate with a more emasculating name or a more public place. Maybe he’ll just go with the moment.
“Thank God,” she says. Tunny’s smile grows at her little shudder. After the obligatory couple mindmeld-Are you ready to leave?/Do you want to stay?-she waves them off and heads to the bar.
While they were outside, Tunny relocated to the couch along the back wall, sprawled in the middle and letting the tats and the leg do the rest. They avoided the usual places tonight, so even though groups are starting to stand in the corners, bunch up by the bar, he’s got the thing to himself. Will has to admit: every once in a while, other people's fucking stupidity turns out to be useful. Leaving the side closer to the bar for Sara, he flops down and says, "I fucking love your girlfriend."
“You better.” Tunny kicks at his shoe, head lifting to frown at him. “Why the fuck are you politely hugging the armrest?”
“Maybe I’m sick of you.” He was trying not to be in their way, actually, but fuck it. They can always leave.
“Tough shit,” Tunny tells him, draping his arms along the back of the couch. “Love my girlfriend, love me.”
Across the room, Johnny’s still trying to pick up a youngish chick with dark hair and a buttload of bracelets. He’s wearing the expression that he thinks makes him look like a sensitive musician. Will thinks it makes him look fucking constipated, but based on the grin Johnny shoots them while she digs in her purse, it’s working.
When Sara makes it back-fast; nothing inspires better service than a hot chick in a bar-she sets two beers on the table by Will, cradling the third as she leans back against Tunny. “If you guys don’t want them, I’ll get there eventually.”
Will has a rule: never turn down a free drink, even when he should. But when he tries to pass the other over, Tunny shakes his head. So maybe he’s not tired so much as medicated. Sara presses a kiss against his jaw and murmurs, “Bad?”
“Nah,” Will says. “He’s just a pussy.”
Tunny laughs a little, watching his fingers tangle with hers. Will doesn’t remember it much with the girls Tunny dated before, but they’re big hand-holders. “Who’s probably going to need a ride.”
Under Tunny’s chin, Will sees her smile. “Your place or mine?”
“You’re off tomorrow, right?” When she nods, he slides into his persuasive voice, the one that was equally good at getting them out of trouble and into it. “Mine? Better mattress, better drugs.”
Will’s brain goes to … a place. With disturbingly clear visuals. He should probably work on getting laid in the near future. “This is fascinating,” he says, dropping his head onto Tunny’s arm. The yawn he throws in for effect turns real halfway through. He can’t even blame it on the beer he’s had two swigs of. They’re just old.
Tunny jogs him lightly. “This is payback, sweetpea.”
Yeah, okay. He’s got a point.
Also: sweetpea. Whatever happens now, Tunny fucking asked for it.
The next time Will glances over there, the girl’s gone and Johnny’s working his way through the crowd. He flings himself down on the armrest, smiling huge. “Success!”
“She passed her driving test?” Tunny asks.
Johnny gives him the finger. “She’s in a bar, shitstick. She’s 22.”
“Yeah, we were 22 when we were 15,” Will says, but he elbows Johnny’s leg as congratulations. “Date or digits?”
“Dinner.” Panic wipes all the smug off his face. “Fuck, what do I wear? Sara? Help?”
She leans against the other armrest to give Johnny a pitying look. “My definition of ‘dressed-up’ is wearing a shirt and pants that aren’t made from the same fabric, so … don’t do that. Or wear plaid.”
His foot prods Will’s thigh. “Is Heather still pissed at me about that thing that was in no way my fault?”
“Probably, but they’re out of town anyway.”
“Shit. Really? That sucks, man. Okay. I can do this. Right?”
Tunny sighs. “Dude, you got the date looking like that,” he says, the hand in Will’s peripheral vision doing a half-assed gesture. “She seemed like she liked you.”
“Yeah.” Johnny nods. “Right. Okay.” He scrapes fingers through his hair before making a face. “This was so much easier high.”
It really fucking was.
12:48 a.m.
Sara abandoned them for some of her friends from the hospital who are sitting on the other side of the room, and Johnny went home to stare at the pile of clothes thrown somewhere near his closet. His nervousness is almost cute-or it will be until Will gets 14 obsessive phone calls tomorrow.
Tunny’s zoning pretty hard, slumped against him, but he kept swearing he was good/she should stay until Sara rolled her eyes, kissed him, and said she’d be back in half an hour. Will can hang and be a pillow until then; he’s got fucking nowhere else to be.
“I hate this,” Tunny mutters, looking away from Sara’s table. “Laid out by a fucking cold front.” His fingers dig hard into the muscle above his knee, arm tense against Will’s, until his breath is hissing enough to-thank Christ-make him give up whatever the fuck he was trying to accomplish. He’s brooding so hard, Will can feel it, but this time Will’s not saying shit. He can also feel when the meds pull Tunny back down, heavy and quiet, enough to ask, “Wasn’t this your weekend with the boy?”
Will nods, picking at the last bottle; what’s left is flat and warm, but it’s still booze. “I get him a couple of nights next week now.” There’s work and daycare and shit during the week, so it won’t be as much time, but he knows for a fucking fact it’s better than not getting him at all. He slides his finger under a rip in the label, tearing a strip free to roll like cigarette paper. As he flattens it out again, he says, “Sara invited me over.”
“How was that even a question, toolbag?” Tunny says, trying to sit up straight. Halfway through, he abandons that plan and settles for landing an elbow in Will’s gut. It fucking hurts. “You’re coming. And you’re helping me make dinner.”
There are so many responses to that-that apparently Tunny wants to poison his girlfriend, that he’s whipped, that this is going to be a fucking disaster-but the one that comes out is, “Yeah, okay.”
He can do the others later.
Saturday.
Source: American Idiot
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: Will, Johnny, Tunny/Extraordinary Girl
Word count: 2,054
Disclaimer: Unbelievably fictional.
Summary: Friday night in Jingletown.
10:07 p.m.
Tunny’s here already. Of course. He was anal enough about punctuality before he joined the army. Will considers being on time a fucking waste of time since everyone (except Tunny) has adjusted to the fact that no one (except Tunny) ever is, but he can feel himself smiling.
Sometimes it’s like not everything changed. Like they aren’t that different.
He’s sitting with his back to the door, fingers tapping out the line from whatever song’s running through his head. It sure as hell isn’t the one playing in the bar. That’s familiar, too, and Will loops arms around him from behind, butts his face alongside Tunny’s. “Hey, baby,” he breathes, aiming up an octave.
Tunny grins. “Nice try. When you get sponge baths from someone, ‘baby’ stops being cute and starts being really fucking creepy.” He reaches up to fist a hand in Will’s hair, shaking him a little. “And she doesn’t smell like smoke and diaper cream or need a shave, baby."
Shrugging, Will lets go. “She’s a nurse," he says, collapsing onto the chair beside him. "Figured she gets off work smelling like all kinds of shit."
Something passes behind his eyes that makes Will regret opening his goddamn mouth, but before he can do it again, try to fix what he just fucked up, Tunny twitches a smile and says, “Mostly soap.”
10:42 p.m.
Johnny showed up 20 minutes late with wet hair. It may be a personal best.
They plant him in the corner, Will relocating so Johnny’s trapped between the walls, the table, and them, and count how long it takes him to start fidgeting.
Three songs, at the rate of almost a soda per song. That’s probably not helping anything.
When he’s hit the point of his ass actually coming off the seat, Will props his feet on the empty chair, knees blocking one escape route, and keeps talking. Every time Johnny creeps in the other direction, Tunny just so happens to reposition his leg or draw attention to the crutch leaning between them. Johnny still feels bad about shoving the gimp (mostly since they won’t let him forget it), so eventually he says, “You fuckers suck,” and slumps back chewing on a cherry stem. He’s smiling, though.
It’s a long, fucking painful process. Will’s down to cigarettes unless he’s around his son, in which case it’s gum and it’s never fucking going to be otherwise. Tunny pretty much only takes the serious meds when the weather changes. And tonight is Johnny’s trial run to see if he can be where the alcohol lives without drowning himself in it.
They’re still fucked up, but at least they’re aware of it now. It’s a start.
11:25 p.m.
The place fills pretty fast: it’s Friday, and there’s fuck-all to do in this ‘burb besides drink. (Even the fucking Starbucks closes at 7.) The more faces that show, the more Johnny relaxes-it’s easier to act like you’re fine around people who don’t know you’re not-so Will feels okay about going for a smoke. They’ll kick Johnny’s ass if he lets himself get wasted, and Johnny knows it. The rest is on him.
Fishing in his jacket pocket, Will pushes through the door and almost runs into Sara, who smiles at him.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” she asks.
He holds up the crumpled pack, and she nods, hands burying into the front pocket of her hoodie. When he moves away from the door, she goes with him. He wasn’t expecting that, but he doesn’t mind.
They settle against the wall in the alley, arms brushing. It’s colder than it was earlier, the wind picking up enough that huddling is instinct. He has to put his back to it, hand cupped, to keep the flame going long enough to catch.
The smoke fills his lungs like relief. He has plans to make it last as long as he can, so he shifts more weight onto his shoulders, letting the wall hold him up. Between drags he makes sure to keep the cigarette on his right side, away from her.
After a couple of minutes, he can’t tell if the silence is comfortable or not, so he asks, “How was work?”
“Good,” she answers automatically, then adds, “Busy, but good. How was Billy today?”
“Good.” He’s so good. The thing Will wants most in the world is not to ruin that. “Heather took him to her grandparents’ for the weekend.”
“Oh, good, then you’re free.”
He looks up from watching the smoke curl off his cigarette. “For what?”
“To hang out with us.” She bumps his shoulder. “I mean, if you want to invite Tunny.”
“Fuck ‘im,” Will says, grinning. At the sly look she gives in response to that, he slings an arm around her, pulls her in tight. She’s warm and soft and smells like soap.
He mutters thanks into her hair and means it for more than the pity invite.
11:35 p.m.
Another familiar sight: Tunny, mostly checked out, watching Johnny bullshit someone through heavy-lidded eyes. His head doesn’t come off the wall when he sees them, but he smiles. It’s small and fond, the kind he used to get when he forgot to be pissed off at something.
They’ve been appearing more and more lately.
“Hey, baby,” Tunny says, voice blurring. It only sounds like that when he’s tired. When he’s drunk, his words get more precise. Because he’s a freak of nature.
Will notices Sara looking at him, eyebrows pulled together, so he raises a hand, identifying himself. She hasn’t really been around long enough to know that his and Tunny's friendship is basically a never-ending game of chicken. Now the question is whether to escalate with a more emasculating name or a more public place. Maybe he’ll just go with the moment.
“Thank God,” she says. Tunny’s smile grows at her little shudder. After the obligatory couple mindmeld-Are you ready to leave?/Do you want to stay?-she waves them off and heads to the bar.
While they were outside, Tunny relocated to the couch along the back wall, sprawled in the middle and letting the tats and the leg do the rest. They avoided the usual places tonight, so even though groups are starting to stand in the corners, bunch up by the bar, he’s got the thing to himself. Will has to admit: every once in a while, other people's fucking stupidity turns out to be useful. Leaving the side closer to the bar for Sara, he flops down and says, "I fucking love your girlfriend."
“You better.” Tunny kicks at his shoe, head lifting to frown at him. “Why the fuck are you politely hugging the armrest?”
“Maybe I’m sick of you.” He was trying not to be in their way, actually, but fuck it. They can always leave.
“Tough shit,” Tunny tells him, draping his arms along the back of the couch. “Love my girlfriend, love me.”
Across the room, Johnny’s still trying to pick up a youngish chick with dark hair and a buttload of bracelets. He’s wearing the expression that he thinks makes him look like a sensitive musician. Will thinks it makes him look fucking constipated, but based on the grin Johnny shoots them while she digs in her purse, it’s working.
When Sara makes it back-fast; nothing inspires better service than a hot chick in a bar-she sets two beers on the table by Will, cradling the third as she leans back against Tunny. “If you guys don’t want them, I’ll get there eventually.”
Will has a rule: never turn down a free drink, even when he should. But when he tries to pass the other over, Tunny shakes his head. So maybe he’s not tired so much as medicated. Sara presses a kiss against his jaw and murmurs, “Bad?”
“Nah,” Will says. “He’s just a pussy.”
Tunny laughs a little, watching his fingers tangle with hers. Will doesn’t remember it much with the girls Tunny dated before, but they’re big hand-holders. “Who’s probably going to need a ride.”
Under Tunny’s chin, Will sees her smile. “Your place or mine?”
“You’re off tomorrow, right?” When she nods, he slides into his persuasive voice, the one that was equally good at getting them out of trouble and into it. “Mine? Better mattress, better drugs.”
Will’s brain goes to … a place. With disturbingly clear visuals. He should probably work on getting laid in the near future. “This is fascinating,” he says, dropping his head onto Tunny’s arm. The yawn he throws in for effect turns real halfway through. He can’t even blame it on the beer he’s had two swigs of. They’re just old.
Tunny jogs him lightly. “This is payback, sweetpea.”
Yeah, okay. He’s got a point.
Also: sweetpea. Whatever happens now, Tunny fucking asked for it.
The next time Will glances over there, the girl’s gone and Johnny’s working his way through the crowd. He flings himself down on the armrest, smiling huge. “Success!”
“She passed her driving test?” Tunny asks.
Johnny gives him the finger. “She’s in a bar, shitstick. She’s 22.”
“Yeah, we were 22 when we were 15,” Will says, but he elbows Johnny’s leg as congratulations. “Date or digits?”
“Dinner.” Panic wipes all the smug off his face. “Fuck, what do I wear? Sara? Help?”
She leans against the other armrest to give Johnny a pitying look. “My definition of ‘dressed-up’ is wearing a shirt and pants that aren’t made from the same fabric, so … don’t do that. Or wear plaid.”
His foot prods Will’s thigh. “Is Heather still pissed at me about that thing that was in no way my fault?”
“Probably, but they’re out of town anyway.”
“Shit. Really? That sucks, man. Okay. I can do this. Right?”
Tunny sighs. “Dude, you got the date looking like that,” he says, the hand in Will’s peripheral vision doing a half-assed gesture. “She seemed like she liked you.”
“Yeah.” Johnny nods. “Right. Okay.” He scrapes fingers through his hair before making a face. “This was so much easier high.”
It really fucking was.
12:48 a.m.
Sara abandoned them for some of her friends from the hospital who are sitting on the other side of the room, and Johnny went home to stare at the pile of clothes thrown somewhere near his closet. His nervousness is almost cute-or it will be until Will gets 14 obsessive phone calls tomorrow.
Tunny’s zoning pretty hard, slumped against him, but he kept swearing he was good/she should stay until Sara rolled her eyes, kissed him, and said she’d be back in half an hour. Will can hang and be a pillow until then; he’s got fucking nowhere else to be.
“I hate this,” Tunny mutters, looking away from Sara’s table. “Laid out by a fucking cold front.” His fingers dig hard into the muscle above his knee, arm tense against Will’s, until his breath is hissing enough to-thank Christ-make him give up whatever the fuck he was trying to accomplish. He’s brooding so hard, Will can feel it, but this time Will’s not saying shit. He can also feel when the meds pull Tunny back down, heavy and quiet, enough to ask, “Wasn’t this your weekend with the boy?”
Will nods, picking at the last bottle; what’s left is flat and warm, but it’s still booze. “I get him a couple of nights next week now.” There’s work and daycare and shit during the week, so it won’t be as much time, but he knows for a fucking fact it’s better than not getting him at all. He slides his finger under a rip in the label, tearing a strip free to roll like cigarette paper. As he flattens it out again, he says, “Sara invited me over.”
“How was that even a question, toolbag?” Tunny says, trying to sit up straight. Halfway through, he abandons that plan and settles for landing an elbow in Will’s gut. It fucking hurts. “You’re coming. And you’re helping me make dinner.”
There are so many responses to that-that apparently Tunny wants to poison his girlfriend, that he’s whipped, that this is going to be a fucking disaster-but the one that comes out is, “Yeah, okay.”
He can do the others later.
Saturday.