How We Got Here
folder
Singers/Bands/Musicians › Green Day
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
11
Views:
2,223
Reviews:
17
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
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Category:
Singers/Bands/Musicians › Green Day
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
11
Views:
2,223
Reviews:
17
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Green Day. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
The Fifth 14th
Disclaimer: I own them! In my dreams. Never happened. Although I think the world would be a happier place if there were more Billie Joe/Mike. I can dream, can't I?
A/N: We have jumped forward in time. This chapter takes place when Billie Joe is twenty one and Mike is twenty, so it's 1993. This is about the time when all of them decided it would be a great idea to bleach their hair. ::blanches::
This is also the chapter where it's in Mike's point of view!
How We Got Here (or Time of Your Life)
Chapter Three: The Fifth 14th
So make the best of this test
And don't ask why
It was August 14th. I looked at the calnder and swore. Shit. August 14th. Saturday. Friday the thirteenth was supposed to be the worst day of the year, but Billie Joe had never followed the rules much anyway. Why should he follow that one?
He's been scaring me a little lately. Within the last twenty-four hours or so. It never fails. He left a song on my bed again. He's probably drinking coffee and smoking. I let my eyes adjust to the light and start skimming the song.
I'm taking you all down with me
Explosives duct taped to my spine
Nothing's gonna change my mind
It's official. He's scaring the shit out of me. I slide out of my bunk and slowly pull open the curtains to his, half expecting to see bloody heads hanging and a knife laying on his pillow. Instead, he's laying on his stomach scribbling into a notebook.
"Did you like it?" he asks, gesturing at the paper in my hands.
"You're fucked up."
He kind of smiles at that. "Yeah, I guess I am, aren't I?"
"You drunk?"
"Not yet, but it's only nine thirty."
His voice is kind of casual, a little happy. He's stoned. That's going to wear off soon. He'll be a nervous wreck, a strung out parade of anxiety attacks. Thank God there's no show tonight. Driving, staying out a hotel. The show's tomorrow.
Neither Billie or I are going to get any sleep tonight.
"It's the 14th." he says. His voice is kind of a whisper.
"You going to tell me about the mysterious 14th yet?" I ask. He's never told me. He just says that he wants to forget and he can't, but talking about it would be comitting it to memory.
So every year me and him get locked in this sort of private hell. For some odd reason Billie Joe seems to work it out so that he's always with me on the 14th.
He looks at me, biting his lip. "Something happened at the party."
My eyes widen. Is he actually going to tell me?
He takes a deep breath. "Something happened at Holly's party." He opens his mouth again, but he's done it.
Another day, another panic attack.
---
I go to bed early that night, knowing exactly what will happen. Sure enough, around ten, Billie Joe lifts up the covers and crawls in with me. His green eyes stare at me for awhile. "I'm scared."
He says it every year, every August 14th. Yet it never ceases to give me goosebumps, make my heart stop, make me want to cry, and make me just as scared as he must feel.
I slowly pull him against me, stroking his hair and his back. We've never talked about this. Ever. It started when I was fifteen, the year after whatever IT was happened. Our first August 14th. 1988. This is us . . . five years later.
Instead of the long hair, the hideous dreadlocks, it's blonde. He dyed it after I dyed mine. He's older, but he's done that quite a bit . . . the copycat thing . . . it's kind of cute.
"You're my best friend, Mike." I feel his tears soaking through my tee shirt. Billie hates to cry, especially in front of me. I've only seen him do it a couple of times: when he told me he was bi, when that stupid dog got hit by the car (he wouldn't tell me why he was really crying), and now.
I pull at his chin so he'll look at me and I wipe at his tears. "It's okay, Billie Joe."
"I'm fine."
"Of course you are. Bullshit." I kiss his forehead and smile. "You're a fucking idiot."
"But you love me anyway."
I give him a sort of cheeky smile. "Yeah. You're lucky that way."
He curled back up against me and fell asleep.
Only one panic attack this year. Only two songs about people dying.
Something tells me I won't be so lucky next year.
-----------------
Please R&R.
Oh, and that song Mike reads of Billie's is "Having a Blast" in case you didn't recognize it. It's from the 'Dookie' album.
A/N: We have jumped forward in time. This chapter takes place when Billie Joe is twenty one and Mike is twenty, so it's 1993. This is about the time when all of them decided it would be a great idea to bleach their hair. ::blanches::
This is also the chapter where it's in Mike's point of view!
How We Got Here (or Time of Your Life)
Chapter Three: The Fifth 14th
So make the best of this test
And don't ask why
It was August 14th. I looked at the calnder and swore. Shit. August 14th. Saturday. Friday the thirteenth was supposed to be the worst day of the year, but Billie Joe had never followed the rules much anyway. Why should he follow that one?
He's been scaring me a little lately. Within the last twenty-four hours or so. It never fails. He left a song on my bed again. He's probably drinking coffee and smoking. I let my eyes adjust to the light and start skimming the song.
I'm taking you all down with me
Explosives duct taped to my spine
Nothing's gonna change my mind
It's official. He's scaring the shit out of me. I slide out of my bunk and slowly pull open the curtains to his, half expecting to see bloody heads hanging and a knife laying on his pillow. Instead, he's laying on his stomach scribbling into a notebook.
"Did you like it?" he asks, gesturing at the paper in my hands.
"You're fucked up."
He kind of smiles at that. "Yeah, I guess I am, aren't I?"
"You drunk?"
"Not yet, but it's only nine thirty."
His voice is kind of casual, a little happy. He's stoned. That's going to wear off soon. He'll be a nervous wreck, a strung out parade of anxiety attacks. Thank God there's no show tonight. Driving, staying out a hotel. The show's tomorrow.
Neither Billie or I are going to get any sleep tonight.
"It's the 14th." he says. His voice is kind of a whisper.
"You going to tell me about the mysterious 14th yet?" I ask. He's never told me. He just says that he wants to forget and he can't, but talking about it would be comitting it to memory.
So every year me and him get locked in this sort of private hell. For some odd reason Billie Joe seems to work it out so that he's always with me on the 14th.
He looks at me, biting his lip. "Something happened at the party."
My eyes widen. Is he actually going to tell me?
He takes a deep breath. "Something happened at Holly's party." He opens his mouth again, but he's done it.
Another day, another panic attack.
---
I go to bed early that night, knowing exactly what will happen. Sure enough, around ten, Billie Joe lifts up the covers and crawls in with me. His green eyes stare at me for awhile. "I'm scared."
He says it every year, every August 14th. Yet it never ceases to give me goosebumps, make my heart stop, make me want to cry, and make me just as scared as he must feel.
I slowly pull him against me, stroking his hair and his back. We've never talked about this. Ever. It started when I was fifteen, the year after whatever IT was happened. Our first August 14th. 1988. This is us . . . five years later.
Instead of the long hair, the hideous dreadlocks, it's blonde. He dyed it after I dyed mine. He's older, but he's done that quite a bit . . . the copycat thing . . . it's kind of cute.
"You're my best friend, Mike." I feel his tears soaking through my tee shirt. Billie hates to cry, especially in front of me. I've only seen him do it a couple of times: when he told me he was bi, when that stupid dog got hit by the car (he wouldn't tell me why he was really crying), and now.
I pull at his chin so he'll look at me and I wipe at his tears. "It's okay, Billie Joe."
"I'm fine."
"Of course you are. Bullshit." I kiss his forehead and smile. "You're a fucking idiot."
"But you love me anyway."
I give him a sort of cheeky smile. "Yeah. You're lucky that way."
He curled back up against me and fell asleep.
Only one panic attack this year. Only two songs about people dying.
Something tells me I won't be so lucky next year.
-----------------
Please R&R.
Oh, and that song Mike reads of Billie's is "Having a Blast" in case you didn't recognize it. It's from the 'Dookie' album.