(c) Just Paper (PG-13) (oneshot)

Fandom: Green Day
Pairing: Its glaringly obvious...
Genres: Romance, drama, slash.
Notes: There's no sex or anything even remotely sexual. And this took me a year to complete, so please, critique and suggestions are greatly appreciated. =) Happy Reading.




He couldn’t see. The only light in the room came from headlights zooming past the window, reflecting on his mirror and into his eyes. And it was only flashes then. A bit of his cheek, the tip of his nose. Facial features blurred into scars. To the whole picture, he was blind.

Can you see me now?

And he was numb. Or rather, he wanted to be yet it burned through him like the purest, undiluted acid. Like venom. He felt the perversity of smirking as a sardonic thank you whispered through the air, for giving him some control over his instinct. He knew he should have been screaming, shouting, cursing. But he willed himself to be silent and so he was. What else was there?

He’d seen the letters, the pictures, the news. And now he was blind. He flinched as another car passed by, stopping for more than a minute and filling the neighborhood with lovers’ giggles. How full of life it sounded. But he knew better; too soon, it would sound empty and hollow. Fake. Say it. The word had been playing on his tongue for ages, on the closest edges of his mind. Silence would keep it away. Silence would hide his shame.

The bedsprings creaked as he shifted ever so slightly. The sound took a moment to fade and suddenly, the room seemed cavernous. Every hesitant breath was suddenly amplified, mingling in time to his own heartbeat. There was a kind of rhythm to his denial now, a kind of music. He opened his throat just barely, just to scream quietly. Say it! It never came.

It was a note, glorious and melodious for the few seconds of its life before it dropped, becoming a croaked whisper until silence regained him. He couldn’t. The song was bursting out, surpassing and ripping through the seamless ocean of emotion keeping him together. You can’t. It would all come out, taking over and destroying his beautiful silence. Just a beautiful sham. He couldn’t. His eyes began to sting. Not now.

Say it Billie Joe!

Goodbye.

It was everywhere. There was blood everywhere. And for so long, the lump in his throat had remained dormant. Since then.

It was dark when it happened, when he first lost sight. And it was about to rain. Wasn’t that why he went inside? And the door was unlocked, just like always. And he was inside somewhere, just like always.

Isn’t that why it wasn’t weird that he heard that gasp of pain? Isn’t that why he didn’t realize when he saw those boxes laying about Tre’s living room floor? Billie Joe heard it again, the hiss of a flame and another gasp.



It was Tre. Sitting alone on the floor, an injured lonely bird. There were boxes, the contents of which were strewn about in mountainous heaps. And there was Tre, in the center of the storm, oddly peaceful with nothing but a sparkling cigarette and a notebook.

Billie Joe simply stared. He was given the chance to stare, a chance he’d been denied for so long. The younger man’s eyes seemed lost, they seemed to blur and water as he took another long drag, still reading. Billie Joe took another step; Tre didn’t seem to notice. Another drag, another sigh and as the smoke escaped his lips, fingers twirled around the nicotine, grasping it and jabbing it firmly into his arm.

It was Billie Joe who gasped this time. It was the notebook. Battered and worn, tear soaked. It was the red notebook. Tre turned to see his friend standing above him, blue eyes turned dull. For a moment, Billie Joe saw, as he never could. And he turned away. Another jab of smoke. His eyes crinkled in masochism as he let out a long moan.

“Stop,” he whispered. The younger man took no notice. “Please.” The notebook stood in his hands; Billie could vaguely make out what was written in the sloppy, rushed handwriting of fifteen years ago. “Tre,” he spoke louder.

Tre turned, putting the notebook down at last. “No.” was the simply reply. And again, he watched the cigarette make a mark upon his arm. Billie Joe watched with him. It sizzled as it hit the skin, pale swirls rising around the spot leaving nothing but a small, dark circle in their wake. It was physical pain and they both knew all about it.

“Tre, stop it.” Billie’s voice gained a sort of command over his words. It was that notebook. Him and that damned notebook. There was no response. As though possessed with the soul of someone who knew right from wrong, Billie Joe snatched away the cigarette and stomped it out in one swift move.

Calmly, the drummer reached into his pocket and lit another cigarette. At a second’s reconsideration, he pointed the lit side down at the notebook and watched in satisfaction as the pages burned so perfectly. Billie Joe flinched. The spot had turned brown and charred. Another stain that wouldn’t be erased.

“Tre, put the cigarette out.” He gently sank to the floor next to his friend, whispering calmly. “Tre, just listen to me. Put it out. Don’t hurt yourself.” Tre chuckled dryly before taking another long drag.

“All right,” he said without a trace of humor, “I’ll put it out. But tell me, Armstrong, just who the hell you think you are. Do you think you have a right to tell me anything about hurt? About pain?” Another drag. “What about this kind of pain?” The question was itself was pained, forced out of his throat, thick with anger and age.

Billie Joe watched, horrified and fearful as Tre stabbed the ruby ember into his chest. His eye crinkled and he let out a kind of satisfied sigh before dropping the cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath his shoe. He stared at Billie Joe.

Billie Joe rose to his feet, not breaking the connection of blue and green.

Tre rose as well. “I put out the damn cigarette!” Billie Joe couldn’t quite place the emotion in his friend’s throat. “Are you happy, Armstrong?”

“I…”

“I said are you fucking happy Armstrong?” He was yelling. The blade of the box cutter glinted in his hand, now. Thanks to him and that damned notebook.

“Tre, listen to me,” he repeated. It was eerie hearing himself. He sounded calm. But he wasn’t at all; he was exploding inside. Panic was creeping over his brain, instincts and senses gone out of control. Words, tears, pleas were pushing their way out of his mouth. Somehow, he pushed them back.

“No, you listen to me. For once in your life, listen to me!” Tre’s voice began to rise again. “It’s me or him!” He kicked the notebook across the floor. “If you’re too scared to break his heart, then at least quit breaking mine!”

“Tre, stop it.” The calm, smooth words…that wasn’t Billie Joe’s voice. It wasn’t him at all.

“And what happens if I don’t?” Any other day, the childish taunt would have elicited a laugh. But he was afraid. Billie Joe was afraid of the answer. “Do me a favor, Armstrong. Will you do me a favor?”

Billie Joe nodded. Tre continued, “Tell me you don’t love me.”

Billie Joe swallowed. Hard. He’d known it was coming. “I can’t.”

“Then say you don’t love him.” Tre’s venomous gaze was once again directed at the notebook.

Billie Joe was silent.

“Say it, I said!”

Silence again.

“Say it, Armstrong! Tell me you don’t love me! Say it!” the words came out in an uncharacteristic roar. Blue eyes swam with clear water.

“Frank, please don’t do this.” The false calmness broke and the fear in Billie’s voice finally made itself present.

“Sing for me Billie Joe,” The roar dropped to a deadly whisper. “Sing to me. Tell me you don’t love me.”

Billie opened his mouth and closed it again. Nothing came out. Nothing would come out. “I…” he trailed off, unable to continue. “I…”

Tre leaned against the counter, his temper rapidly calming. “Say it.” He wasn’t yelling this time.

“I…Tre, I love you.”

All at once, the volcano erupted and shook two hearts with its force. The drummer grabbed the blade again, pushing Billie Joe up against the wall and the glinting metal against his throat. “That’s not what I wanted you to say,” he snarled. “Say it! Say it right!”

The words came out choked. “I won’t.”

“You can’t can you?”

“No. I can’t.”

Tre pressed the blade closer to the singer’s pale neck and after only a moment, released it. Bringing it close to his own wrist, he pressed the steel into his skin and looked Billie Joe straight in the eyes as the bright red liquid began to seep out of his body. “How about now?”

Billie Joe’s eyes were damp again. He didn’t cry though. He wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t.

It must have been an eternity that he spent standing there in horror, watching his friend, his life, inflict scars upon his perfect skin. Watching his arms turn heartbroken red. Watching him slowly lose consciousness and catch him as he fainted.


The doctors said that the loss of blood was too severe. The newspapers said he was dying. The teenage boys and girls were in mourning. And Billie Joe? Billie Joe was silent and silence controlled him.

Say it.

He’d never be able to. He’d bury himself alive in regret and guilt, but he would never say it. He could never lie that way. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Billie Joe realized for the first time what he’d done to himself and to Tre. They’d both wasted away, eaten away at each other.

Billie Joe had destroyed his friend. He had destroyed his life. And for the first time in ages, the weight of the truth pressed down so hard upon him that he was shaken. Burying his face in his hands, Billie Joe’s petite frame shook as he began to repent for his sins. He didn’t deserve the luxury to cry, but it was all he could do.

I will always love you.

checked: wasteland.

<3

Floating away right now.