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It's 1991. They're barely twenty, fresh off their terrible teens. Not that it makes a real difference. Nothing's changed. They're still playing house parties and VFW halls and sleeping on dirty floors and eating last week's pasta leftover from the week before that. The only thing is that they've got one album under their belt, and Mike had managed to scrounge up enough cash to get them a day of recording time for a second album, and Billie's just managed to coax some guy into selling them his old van for two hundred bucks cheaper than it would've been. Tré, for all that he's just said yes to becoming part of the band on a permanent basis, wants to believe that he's at least grown up and/or changed just a little since the first time he'd met the other two.
Except for the whole being sweet on Billie Joe thing, that is.
Hey. It's not his fault that he'd gotten his shit rocked the first time Billie had come up to say hi at an afterparty in Jingletown back in '87. He'd been a mess of dark pretty curls and big eyes that were the sort of unnatural green-gray you'd see on those little paint chips in hardware stores. His teeth were crooked when he smiled, skin acne-pocked from where he'd picked at his face with chipped cobalt-polish nails. "You're a crazy good drummer, man," he'd said, voice a little deeper than his sweet face would suggest, and Tré, only-just-fifteen years old and still dressed to the nines in his floral shower cap and fluffy tutu combination, had spilled half of his beer on himself in an attempt to be cool about it.
Not Tré's fucking fault at all that he'd been a raging mass of hormones at the time and had, what—imprinted on sixteen-year-old Billie like some sort of stupid swooning girl from one of Lori's chick-lit books? Christ.
It's 1991, and they're not-teenagers-not-adults now. Tré's no smarter or wiser than before, still bleaching his hair over the sink and ruining the tiles, still spending far too much time smoking pot and being a lazy sonofabitch, still trying to crack stupid jokes every single time he opens his mouth just so he can watch Billie Joe ugly-laugh, open and loud, grin stretched wide enough for all his molars to show. Sometimes Tré wants to get up and close with them. Lick his way in and count each one off with his tongue like a drum-beat, one-two-three-four-ten-thirteen-twenty-thirty-two-minus-a-couple, and memorise the way they feel so that Tré still knows the way they look even when he's got his eyes squeezed shut.
The thing is—it's not even that outrageous of a thought. They've fucked around onstage before, kissing each other for the hell of it or to piss off homophobes in whatever audience they've garnered (because fuck if those are gonna be the kind of people who come to watch them).
How it usually goes is as follows: Tré will inevitably bounce out from behind his drums during an interlude or whenever Billie's introducing the band, and smash their mouths together without any sort of finesse at all. And yeah, it's fun, it's hot; he always tastes beer and weed every time he manages to catch Billie off-guard, mouth parted, dry and chapped from the stale air of whatever shithole basement they're playing that night.
It's what comes right after that makes Tré think, maybe. It's the way Billie's eyes get all hot and dense when they pull apart, every single fucking time. Tré's never been into stars and space and shit, but they remind him of just that—the stuff they describe in galaxies, pupils like tight little concentric circles of black on green on gray. Dizzying, unexplainable. Staring Tré down with some unmistakeable interest that Tré just hasn't had the courage to capitalise on just yet.
Coward. He's a coward with a crush, and Billie probably knows it, too.
It's 1991, and Billie Joe shows up at band practice one afternoon with a metal ring in his nose to match the hardware in his ears, unapologetic as he drops his guitar down on the floor with a thump and looks at Tré through his eyelashes, daring for him to say something about it—because for all that he's awkward and reserved whenever he's offstage, there's nothing that delights him more than being told how good he looks on any given day. And he's not shy about asking for it when he wants it.
Mike's busy retuning his bass a few feet away, so of course Tré has zero compunctions about opening his fool mouth and saying, "I wanna get your nose ring caught on my foreskin."
"Fucking Christ," Mike mutters, and then he adds, "aren't you circumcised?"
"In spirit and in truth," Tré sighs. "Doesn't mean a man can't dream."
Billie's gone a horrendous shade of red. "Dude," he says, voice a squeak, but his eyes flit from Tré's face down to the crotch of his shorts, and Tré's dick is gonna start to hurt real bad if Billie bites his lip like that one more time.
"Flirt later!" Mike barks (already in a hell of a mood from them forgetting the meaning of the word 'punctual' yet again, and also so, so over the two of them skirting around the sexual tension without doing anything about it), and Billie almost jumps a foot into the air, skittish little thing he is. He scoops his guitar back up and flees to his side of the garage without another look at Tré.
And Tré—well. He's just a man, after all. If he spends the entire practice staring at Billie's ass, it's still not his fault.
Three hours later, they're packing up. Tré's peeling the scuffed gaffa tape off his snare when Billie Joe shuffles over, scratching at the short-cropped hair behind his ear. There's still a small scar next to that spot where he'd nicked himself with a pair of scissors trying to do it himself. "That wasn't flirting," he says, eyes searching Tré like he's trying to convince himself that what he's saying is the whole goddamn truth. "You were just fucking with me."
"Fucking with you? No." Tré holds his gaze, steady as a rock bolted to the side of a cliff. "I do wanna fuck you, though. If you're into that."
Billie lets out a breathy little noise, holding himself still. Tré wonders if Billie even realises just how expressive he can be without trying. "Yeah," Billie says. One of his hands has come up to worry at his lip, rubbing at it with the first joints of his fingers. One of his sweeter nervous habits. "Yeah, I'm into that."
It's 1991, and Tré wishes he'd had the foresight to (finally!) proposition Billie somewhere that wasn't the Armstrong garage, because they'd had to get past all of Billie's sisters to get to his room and those gals are smarter than anyone fucking knows—like fucking sharks smelling blood in the water, Tré swears—he'd briefly made eye contact with Anna at the bottom of the stairs, who'd squinted at him with enough suspicion that Tré made a mental note to not get on her bad side (although, getting her little brother on his knees in his childhood bedroom might just do that).
The door locks behind them. Abruptly, Tré's facing down an armful of Billie Joe, who shoves him up against one of his dozen-or-so Ramones posters on the wall like they're already seven songs into a fifteen-song set and wildly high off the adrenaline. His eyes are already dark and endless, ears and collarbones already dusted pink at the thought of being touched, body open and wanting and trembling with excitement.
Tré meets him right there, fingers tugging at Billie's overwarm earlobes lightly as he gets his tongue in Billie's mouth. He uses the same toothpaste as Tré, he can fucking taste it, can tell exactly where he'd brushed this morning when he licks at Billie's teeth and counts them like heartbeats in his throat. One, two, three, four. His thumbs skim down the sides of Billie's neck, hands coming to rest on his shoulders as the both of them press deeper into each other. "Twenty-nine," Tré mumbles, dragging his lips wetly across Billie's jaw. "D'you get your wisdom teeth out already?"
"What?"
"Nothin'." Tré gets his fingers in Billie's hair, blunt nails scraping across his scalp and through his tight, barely-there curls. He should grow his hair out again. Have it long enough to be pulled. Regardless, Billie's just as responsive as if he had—he makes a little noise against Tré's cheek that has Tré's hips jerking up to look for friction immediately. "Fuck. Here, move—"
They do end up on the bed, thank fuck for that. Billie right under Tré, his shirt rucked up around his tiny waist, nipples on display. Tré can't stop himself from boxing Billie in, from leaning over him to lick a hot, wet stripe over each one, from rolling the nubs between his lips and tongue. Billie ends up shoving his fist into his own mouth to stop from keening so loud that the entire house hears him.
Tré's shorts are somewhere on the floor along with Billie's jeans. His boxers have been shoved down around his thighs, cock aching for touch. He wants—he wants everything. He wants to touch Billie, wants Billie to touch him, wants to fuck Billie and blow him and be blown and kiss him again and make him come a million times over. But first—Billie's gaze follows the motion of Tré's hand as he taps at his mouth with his fingertips, asking for him to open up.
He does. Tré's fingers slip right in, and Billie gets them wet for him without being asked. His fixation has never been more obvious. Tré doesn't think he can look at Billie with his fingers absently touching his lips again without remembering this.
Tré's fingers eventually come loose with spit, and it's with the same hand that he reaches for Billie's dick, testing the warm, heavy weight of it in his hand before stroking him from shaft to tip. He's hot and slick and beautiful. Tré's only jerked off two other guys before this, and only ever on rushed occasions in filthy, cramped bathrooms, so getting to watch every minute microexpression on Billie's face in the light of the setting sun as he slowly pumps him is pretty fucking stellar.
Billie's moved himself up to lean back on his elbows, staring at Tré with his tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek. "Like that," he says, voice low, "yeah. Keep doing that."
"What else d'you want? C'mon," Tré urges, "tell me, tell me—"
"Wanna blow you." Billie's head tilts back as he lets out a quiet hiccup. "Wanna—fuck, I wanna ride your face so bad, I've thought about your stupid fucking mouth way too fucking much—"
Tré's dick is actually starting to hate him now. Holy shit. Jesus H. Christ and Mother Mary and all the other wondrous, merciful things he can swear on. It's not something he's thought about before this, but now that Billie's said it, he can imagine it—himself, flat on his back, and Billie, smothering the life out of his lungs with his cock and balls as he fucks himself on Tré's tongue, his lean thighs clamped around Tré's head, his voice echoing off the walls as he throws hs head back and moans—
"Have you ever—?"
"Couple of times." Billie can't look at Tré when he admits, "Amanda, you know, she wanted to try it, and I didn't know it'd be like—that it'd feel like that—and your mouth, and your fucking nose, I just want—"
"Yeah," Tré says, unimaginably breathless and aroused at the thought of Billie being eaten out by a chick. At the thought of him getting to eat Billie out. "Yeah, shit, we can, we'll do it, whatever you want, Billie. Whatever the fuck you want."
Billie bites his lip, scrubbing the heel of his palm across his entire face. He doesn't say anything else, but Tré knows it's because he's too wound up now. Touring together will give any band far too much knowledge of each other's masturbatory habits, and Tré easily recognises when Billie's close from late nights in cramped spaces together. He gets all quiet, just like this, jittery in his own skin as he tries his hardest to stay silent.
And then, it's as if every muscle in his body tightens up as he spills over Tré's fist. Tré watches, fascinated by all the tendons in Billie's wrists and neck, amazed by the way he stops breathing for a few seconds before the switch flips. Billie slumps like a fallen marionette doll, all his strings slashed through, breathing hard through his nose.
"Wish I coulda heard you," Tré murmurs, and Billie looks at him with those big eyes again and suddenly Tré's reminded just how much he wants to see that face between his own legs. "Hey man, could you—"
"Yeah," Billie says, shoving lightly at Tré to get him off, "yeah, up, come on."
It's 1991, and Billie Joe's nail polish is flaking off again, all black this time, a stark contrast against Tré's pale thighs. He digs his fingers in and flicks his gaze up in Tré's direction coyly, wetting his lips with his tongue. And—oh. That's the look of a well-practiced man. It's definitely not his first foray into oral, that's for sure.
"Whore," Tré compliments, and Billie grins right up at him, nuzzling his cheek against Tré's cock like he isn't fucking leaking pre-come all over him. His nose ring, unfortunately, does not catch on the head of Tré's dick—but it does look hot as hell when Billie shuts his eyes and mouths up his length, tongue hot and insistent as it traces some imaginary line that only Billie can see and feel.
From there on, Tré can only hold on for dear life as Billie finally sucks him down, one hand moving to fondle his balls as he does, rubbing and playing with him like he's silly putty or some shit. At this point, Tré might as well be. He feels like he's melting in Billie's hands, in Billie's fucking mouth. Every single inch of pleasure is focused right where Billie is letting Tré's dick slide across his tongue over and over until he's ready to explode.
Let it be known that Tré isn't a patient man.
All Billie gets as a warning is a single sharp inhale, and then he's flinching as white, hot come paints his open mouth, his cheek, his nose. There's a moment where the silence is brutal, and then he says, adorably affronted, "You could've fucking said something first."
"Well, yeah, but then I wouldn't have gotten to come on your face."
"Do it again and I'll bite your dick off."
"Meow," Tré says, leering at him. "Maybe I'm into that. Who knows."
"Asshole." Billie straightens up on wobbly knees, but barely gets a second to stand before Tré tugs down onto his lap. He goes without resisting, blinking with surprise when Tré brings the hem of Billie's shirt up to wipe his face clean for him. He doesn't say anything until Tré's done, choosing to lean in for a kiss first before whispering, "You're sweet sometimes, Tré Cool."
"I could be sweet a lot more of the time," Tré says, pulse striking up a thunderous, traitorous beat. "If you're into that."
Billie slings his arms loosely around Tré's neck, pressing their foreheads together. He smells like sweat and guitar strings and well-loved bedsheets. "I ain't ever had a boyfriend before," he says, and Tré's entire heart rockets into his throat and lodges itself there. Consider his shit well and fully rocked once more. "But I'm into it. I'm into you."
"Good." Tré digs his fingers into Billie's hips and feels him squirm a little. "'Cause I'm pretty into you too."
Billie smiles, big and wide and toothy, and it's right then that Tré decides that this is the one thing he doesn't mind changing a little more than the rest.
It's 1991. They're barely twenty, fresh off a show that'd had a better turnout than expected. Over a couple hundred screaming, rocking, moshing people, driving the energy up in a way that they're just about addicted to, now. Mike's got a long, droopy hat on that he'd appropriated from a fan, and Billie Joe's wrapped up in a thick black hoodie, and Tré's got more stripes on than a flag on the 4th of July. It's fucking freezing and they're high as fuck and some guy's asking them questions about their love lives. Mike and Billie are hamming it up for the interview, playing at accents and mentioning exes and commiserating over their shitty fates with women. "Do you want a girlfriend?" he says to Tré, who's just barely paying attention, distracted by the fact that his balls are freezing off the longer they stand out here.
"Nah," Tré says, because why would he? He's already got someone. Yeah, he does, doesn't he? So he doesn't need a girlfriend. "Fuck that." That gets a laugh, and the guy's about to move on when Tré remembers—right! "Oh wait," he says. "I have a boyfriend, though."
"What's his name?"
Billie, Tré thinks he might say, but then he blinks and remembers just where they are, and says, "We're not gonna get into that here, not when there's cameras rollin' and shit."
As they're trudging back into the venue, Billie cuffs him on the back of the arm and says, "You said my fucking name back there."
"What? Was I wrong?"
Billie rolls his eyes, but he's not pissed. He leans into Tré's side, a welcome warmth, and says, almost pleased, "You weren't."