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Green Day fic
I finally forgave my computer for deleting about 12 pages of fic enough to start writing on it again. Angst-border-lining-smut ensued.
Title: Trading Air
Pairing: Mike/Tre and Billie/Jason
Rating: R
Part: Standalone
Summary: Set after Warning came out and the band were barely talking.
Disclaimer: Don’t own, know or sue. K?
i.
The atmosphere hung in the room, heavily and damp, swirling through the troubled minds and choking the tongues, swallowing the muttered words. The light itself seemed to be retreating back outside, leaving only a faint musty glow to nibble at the corners of the room. Faint sounds echoed numbly between the walls, barely penetrating the silence. Muscles ached from hours of restraint, minds numb from overworking without release.
A simple ‘Fuck this’ and the silence splintered, footsteps cracking across the floorboards and the slamming – the loudest noise anyone had dared to make all day – of the door as he left. Two synchronised sighs followed, then
Silence.
ii.
A cold night and the feeling of no longer wanting to be alone. Mike stood nervously outside Tre’s door, shuffling self-consciously, first berating himself for being nervous - then second for waiting so long. And third… well, third for thinking he should be stood outside of Billie’s door feeling nervous instead.
The door opened. Warm, lonely light rushed out and enveloped him, leaping on the chance of companionship before hurriedly pulling back and composing itself into an offhand, agreeable shine. Tre just smiled gratefully and let him in.
Simple, barely noticeable gestures infiltrated the evening – the odd sigh, a slow grimace. Drinks were nursed in hands that should have been used for talking, instead cupping the only solace they easily captured without effort, conversation seemingly beyond their lips. Nothing that meant anything was said when Mike left, just a short hug between friends grieving a lost soul mate.
iii.
‘Jason, will you just please…’
A slow sigh was his only response, and the rustle as the bed clothes were thrown back to show the huddled man, his skin picked out in soft blues and whites from the sliver of moonlight and his bleached hair, mussed and pressed against the pillow, looking paler than ever. Jason took only moment to survey his suffering before crawling over to join him, wrapping an arm over Billie’s chest protectively as his other hand pulled the duvet back over the both of them.
He didn’t dare ask where Adrienne was, what recent petty fight (most probably started by Billie, but he was too proud to admit it) had driven her out of the house once more and pulled him relentlessly into her place yet again. The sheets smelled of her and her husband, and despite his best efforts to ignore it Jason couldn’t stop the nagging thoughts that he shouldn’t be here, should stop Billie’s dependency on him and get the hell out of there.
But he couldn’t. Each time he tried to resist there was Billie’s pleading voice, snaking around his mind and tugging him back once, twice, countless times more until there was no defiance left. As he lay there, drenched in that sweet smell and Billie’s overpowering warmth, he held onto his silent breath and felt each second crawl over his skin and pass by.
iv.
Each night rolled by without event, the same routine between Tre and Mike that left much unsaid and a lot to be desired. Drinks were poured, conversations were fumbled and all the time they sidestepped the very reason why they were so lonely. They couldn’t, or simply didn’t want to, face Billie’s absence and so with every dragged out evening they just repeated the old process, never pausing.
The interruption to the monotony was first an accident, and secondly a miracle. Having both reached the sideboard to pour themselves another drink, Mike stood slightly to the left of Tre, close enough to look over his shoulder at the amber liquid spilling into the glass. Tre had inclined his head suddenly towards the left as if he was going to comment, but then he found himself nose-to-nose with Mike and the words slipped back down his throat.
v.
Mike brushed his hand along the banister as he followed up the stairs, his eyes tracing the movement – perhaps wondering if this would be the last time he could touch them so guiltlessly. Or if this journey would be the first of many. Neither filled him with much resolve and if there was a third option it was well concealed by the movement of Tre’s fingertips wrapped dominantly over his wrist.
They’d reached the top before he’d even realised. Into Tre’s room, onto the bed… he wasn’t sure who was leading and who was being dragged along. He thought it might be him but then everything shifted and he was doing the things he’d been enjoying (suffering?) moments earlier. He wasn’t sure, didn’t know the word ‘stop’ could stick like tar in his mouth and suffocate him.
Then there was the rush of warmth and the loneliness was melting, steaming off in puffs of vapour he was too delirious to see – but he was sure he could of, if he focused his eyes right when he wanted to. The tar turned to air and he was gasping, trying to get as much as possible in case the word dared to roll across his tongue once again. His muscles ached but this time with release instead of restraint, and his mind felt numb from his body’s sudden reactions.
He preferred it this way around.
vi.
Days, weeks, (months?) slipped by with molten fluidity. It seemed dreamlike almost, the sheer sense of confusion that seemed completely right at the time, but only became odd once you were away and in your own complete mind. The trails up the banister continued with increasing desperation (dependency exasperation), neither stopping to question either’s motives. It was purely to make up for the loss, to fill that space with sharp breaths and flushed skin.
They missed him. God, did they miss him but it never seemed an option to explore. Suddenly there was so much more they could talk about – and they did, often and comfortably – but regardless of the now open affliction they were still men with their pride and their hurt. It wasn’t until the night when Billie (most likely sent by Jason, but no one ever mentioned it) turned up on Tre’s doorstep, expression matching Mike’s all those nights ago, that they stopped grieving.
Title: Trading Air
Pairing: Mike/Tre and Billie/Jason
Rating: R
Part: Standalone
Summary: Set after Warning came out and the band were barely talking.
Disclaimer: Don’t own, know or sue. K?
i.
The atmosphere hung in the room, heavily and damp, swirling through the troubled minds and choking the tongues, swallowing the muttered words. The light itself seemed to be retreating back outside, leaving only a faint musty glow to nibble at the corners of the room. Faint sounds echoed numbly between the walls, barely penetrating the silence. Muscles ached from hours of restraint, minds numb from overworking without release.
A simple ‘Fuck this’ and the silence splintered, footsteps cracking across the floorboards and the slamming – the loudest noise anyone had dared to make all day – of the door as he left. Two synchronised sighs followed, then
Silence.
ii.
A cold night and the feeling of no longer wanting to be alone. Mike stood nervously outside Tre’s door, shuffling self-consciously, first berating himself for being nervous - then second for waiting so long. And third… well, third for thinking he should be stood outside of Billie’s door feeling nervous instead.
The door opened. Warm, lonely light rushed out and enveloped him, leaping on the chance of companionship before hurriedly pulling back and composing itself into an offhand, agreeable shine. Tre just smiled gratefully and let him in.
Simple, barely noticeable gestures infiltrated the evening – the odd sigh, a slow grimace. Drinks were nursed in hands that should have been used for talking, instead cupping the only solace they easily captured without effort, conversation seemingly beyond their lips. Nothing that meant anything was said when Mike left, just a short hug between friends grieving a lost soul mate.
iii.
‘Jason, will you just please…’
A slow sigh was his only response, and the rustle as the bed clothes were thrown back to show the huddled man, his skin picked out in soft blues and whites from the sliver of moonlight and his bleached hair, mussed and pressed against the pillow, looking paler than ever. Jason took only moment to survey his suffering before crawling over to join him, wrapping an arm over Billie’s chest protectively as his other hand pulled the duvet back over the both of them.
He didn’t dare ask where Adrienne was, what recent petty fight (most probably started by Billie, but he was too proud to admit it) had driven her out of the house once more and pulled him relentlessly into her place yet again. The sheets smelled of her and her husband, and despite his best efforts to ignore it Jason couldn’t stop the nagging thoughts that he shouldn’t be here, should stop Billie’s dependency on him and get the hell out of there.
But he couldn’t. Each time he tried to resist there was Billie’s pleading voice, snaking around his mind and tugging him back once, twice, countless times more until there was no defiance left. As he lay there, drenched in that sweet smell and Billie’s overpowering warmth, he held onto his silent breath and felt each second crawl over his skin and pass by.
iv.
Each night rolled by without event, the same routine between Tre and Mike that left much unsaid and a lot to be desired. Drinks were poured, conversations were fumbled and all the time they sidestepped the very reason why they were so lonely. They couldn’t, or simply didn’t want to, face Billie’s absence and so with every dragged out evening they just repeated the old process, never pausing.
The interruption to the monotony was first an accident, and secondly a miracle. Having both reached the sideboard to pour themselves another drink, Mike stood slightly to the left of Tre, close enough to look over his shoulder at the amber liquid spilling into the glass. Tre had inclined his head suddenly towards the left as if he was going to comment, but then he found himself nose-to-nose with Mike and the words slipped back down his throat.
v.
Mike brushed his hand along the banister as he followed up the stairs, his eyes tracing the movement – perhaps wondering if this would be the last time he could touch them so guiltlessly. Or if this journey would be the first of many. Neither filled him with much resolve and if there was a third option it was well concealed by the movement of Tre’s fingertips wrapped dominantly over his wrist.
They’d reached the top before he’d even realised. Into Tre’s room, onto the bed… he wasn’t sure who was leading and who was being dragged along. He thought it might be him but then everything shifted and he was doing the things he’d been enjoying (suffering?) moments earlier. He wasn’t sure, didn’t know the word ‘stop’ could stick like tar in his mouth and suffocate him.
Then there was the rush of warmth and the loneliness was melting, steaming off in puffs of vapour he was too delirious to see – but he was sure he could of, if he focused his eyes right when he wanted to. The tar turned to air and he was gasping, trying to get as much as possible in case the word dared to roll across his tongue once again. His muscles ached but this time with release instead of restraint, and his mind felt numb from his body’s sudden reactions.
He preferred it this way around.
vi.
Days, weeks, (months?) slipped by with molten fluidity. It seemed dreamlike almost, the sheer sense of confusion that seemed completely right at the time, but only became odd once you were away and in your own complete mind. The trails up the banister continued with increasing desperation (dependency exasperation), neither stopping to question either’s motives. It was purely to make up for the loss, to fill that space with sharp breaths and flushed skin.
They missed him. God, did they miss him but it never seemed an option to explore. Suddenly there was so much more they could talk about – and they did, often and comfortably – but regardless of the now open affliction they were still men with their pride and their hurt. It wasn’t until the night when Billie (most likely sent by Jason, but no one ever mentioned it) turned up on Tre’s doorstep, expression matching Mike’s all those nights ago, that they stopped grieving.