Billie shuffled sleepily into the bathroom, and pulled off his clothing. He moaned in pleasure when he pulled off the skintight skinny jeans; having your balls pressed into your figurative gut all day wasn't the best idea. He slipped on only a loose pair of sweatpants that said Pinole Valley High on them, and trudged in the dark towards his bedroom.

The lack of light made it almost impossible for his eyes to adjust, and he felt around blindly for the bed. He cussed his manly pride for having removed the nightlight. How many times did he have to contradict his mother, and the words came back to bite him in the ass?

A crunch reached Billie's ears, who spun around in surprise. He lost his balance, and went tumbling towards the end of the bed. His head hit the bottom board with a sickening crack.

Billie didn't say anything. Hoping it would scare the intruder off, he felt his neck. It was fine, just a little sore. Reaching under the bed for a flashlight, and possibly a weapon, he never got the chance as a pair of hands gripped his hips and pulled him off of the ground.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Mike hissed. He pressed Billie against the end of the bed.

Billie exhaled in ill-disguised relief. Here he thought he'd have to fend off a murderer/rapist/raving fangirl. But, low and behold, the bassist continued to hold his wrists in a painful vice grip. He struggled, wondering if Mike was high.

The bassist continued. "Who the fuck are you?" he demanded. Billie's eyes widened when he realized that his friend hadn't recognized him.

"—the fuck, Dirnt?" was all he gasped out when all of a sudden he found himself falling forward when the grip released itself.

Mike fell backwards, taking the vocalist with him, and they landed in a pile on the carpet. Billie was ontop of him, and their faces were inches apart.

For a second Billie wondered what it would be like to kiss Mike, but he brushed those thoughts away, horrified. Best friend, he repeated to himself. Best friend.

His eyes had adjusted by then, and he saw the extremely familiar dilated pupils were boring into him life lasers. Swallowing, he realized that Mike was stoned. More so than he, because, if he was honest to himself, he didn't think he'd have made it through the whole plane ride without partaking. The singer shifted, trying to get off the floor, but Mike's hands found his wrists again, and held him there.

Billie's mind was racing furiously. Mike wasn't conscious of what he was doing, Mike couldn't decide for himself, neither of them could, it was the pot that was causing the sparks of pleasure headed straight for his crotch.

Mike's icy blue orbs were barely visible around the huge pupils, and Billie felt almost afraid. Mike could be dangerous when he was stoned, as he shown at all the bar fights he and Billie had been in during their teenage years.

He finally spoke. "Why're you home so early, Beej," his voice was soft and comforting, a sharp contrast to the harsh penetrating nature of his expression.

Billie wasn't listening, he was trying to pull his wrists in vain from the stronger grip, and he felt his chest compress. What if Mike—

Mike finally noticed Billie's struggles, and let go. The smaller man shot back, and hit his head on the footboard again.

"Shit," he muttered, and Mike was right there, cradling his head against his chest.

"Are you okay man," he asked, almost convincingly. Billie nodded furiously, and stood up on wobbly feet.

"I'm cool, I'm okay. Imma just go sleep in the other room. You look like you've had a hard night, and I wouldn't want to disturb you-"

"Beej, it's your room," his voice was quiet. "Are you okay, really? I'm sort if I scared you man, and your head's gotta hurt like a bitch right now."

He was right; his head did hurt like a bitch, and the swelling was going to be bad tomorrow, Billie knew.

Billie opened his mouth to speak, and it fell closed without a sound. Mike grabbed him around the waist, and pulled him up. Billie emitted an unmanly squeak, and almost fell over again.

Mike grabbed him under the knees, and held him aloft bridal style. Billie curled into the warm embrace, and shrieked when he was dumped unceremoniously on his bed. His head throbbed, and his heart pounded. Mike crawled onto the bed after him.

He was about to protest when Mike pulled a lighter out of his pocket. A roll of joints was waiting on his headstand. The darkness of his room was lightened by the flick of Mike's lighter, and they lit up.

Billie took a drag, and grinned goofily. "Damn good shit, man," he whispered, exhaling. The buzz was almost immediate.

"So how's Heather?" he asked a while later. Both of them were good and properly high, the only time they showed any sense, Billie liked to say. Mike grimaced.

"Gone. She, I quote, 'Found the Lord, and needed to leave to pursue her future career as a celibate bitch.'"

"She did not say that," Billie accused, flicking his burnt out joint in the bin. They kept a bin especially for their shit, so the dark haired boy's mom wouldn't find any of their stash.

"Close enough," the taller boy grumbled. He closed his eyes and leaned back. Billie stared at him, biting his lip. The pot in his system was making him light-headed, and a little (more than usual) reckless. Throwing caution to the wind, Billie whispered, "Don't move."

Mike twitched, but didn't move, used to the smaller boy's crazy antics. The smoke filling the room was stifling, and so was the tension. Billie didn't move for a moment, and Mike was confused.

He felt the brunette move, and he shifted to make room; to his surprise, a hand held his shoulder down gently, and his eyes opened. Billie's face was inches from his own, and his dilated eyes were large and open. Amidst his scrambled thoughts—Billie smells really good, wow, his eyelashes are really long—, Mike thought: what is he doing?

Billie hovered above his friend, and murmured, "Trust me?" Numbly, Mike nodded, and a pair of soft lips met his own.

It wasn't like the kisses in the movies, with the romantic music playing in the background and the fireworks going off. It was soft, short, and sweet. Billie wondered how Mike could taste so much like raspberries among all the pot.

They broke apart, and the guitarist leaned back, his face unsure. Big green doe eyes were wide, and his lips were a little fuller than normal. His cheeks were flushed, and Mike knew he looked the same.

They stared at each other, too intent in the other to let the moment become awkward. Then Billie got off the bed, and began rifling through a stack of seven inches.

"What are you doing?" Mike asked, a little breathily. Billie didn't respond for a second, before answering, "Looking for music. It's too quiet in here, y'know?"

The bassist had to agree, and he let his head hit the pillow. A few moments later, he heard the first chords of a Dead Kennedy's song, and chuckled. "A little angry for the current circumstances, eh man?"

Billie grinned. "Never too angry," He got back on the bed. "And what current circumstances?" He grabbed Mike's wrist and leaned down.

This time Mike made the first move, and the kiss became steadily more heated. Billie opened his mouth, and Mike's tongue probed curiously.

Previously, only Billie had expressed his interest in experimenting, and that was in his lyrics. Mike hadn't given it much thought. But now, kissing his best friend, he could help but feel that what was supposed to feel so wrong…. Felt so right.

A hand cupped Mike's ear, and the kisses moved to his jawbone. Billie stopped to suck on his pulse, and Mike actually moaned.

He immediately blushed, and Billie laughed. "That's a happy noise Mikey." There was no response.

Mike grabbed Billie's wrists, and flipped their positions, so that he was on top. Billie gasped softly, and bit his lip.

The bassist stopped to take a drag of his joint, and flicked the end into the bin. The drugs were a contributing factor to the braveness the guitarist was feeling, but he couldn't believe that every touch was drug induced. He knew he was feeling this. It wasn't acid, after all.

They kissed for a while, experimenting. Finally, they broke apart, and Billie was cuddled up to Mike's chest. His hands wrapped around BJ's stomach, and they breathed in sync for a while.

"I wrote a song," Billie said dazedly a little while later. Mike smiled.

"Sing it to me," he felt ridiculously sentimental, after kissing his long time best friend for the first time. It wasn't even really kissing. They had made out, and both were acting like it was a no big deal.

The soft voice came a moment later. "Summer has come and past, the innocent can never last, wake me up when September ends…" he drifted off.

"Pretty," Mike hummed into Billie's neck. Billie didn't say anything for a few seconds.

"It's about my dad."

"Oh."

Billie closed his eyes. He knew Mike got it. He knew Mike knew what he meant. Mike always got it. Mike's hold tightened, and he eventually nodded off. Billie remained awake, the pot making his thoughts race.

Was it all the pot? Does he even really care?

The next morning, Mike awoke to find a cold bed, the scent of his best friend lingering. He pressed his face into the pillow, and suppressed tears that threatened to break free.

"What's wrong?" a concerned voice asked, and Mike nearly got whiplash. Billie Joe was lounging against the door holding two cokes, eyebrows raised.

That wasn't what shocked him. The naturally brunette teen was sporting noticeably home dyed hair. It was yellow blonde straight to the roots, save for a few patches of white, and it was so… bright.

Mike gaped, and Billie smiled, savoring the surprise. "Like my 'do? Figured a change would be good, y'know?"

"Jeez Bill," was all he received. Mike ran his hands through his own dishwater hair, and contemplated it. Bleaching?

Billie laughed. "God, Mike, don't give yourself an aneurysm." He crawled onto the bed, and kissed the bassist gently on the lips.

Mike jerked backward, his lips tingling. Billie's face fell, and he asked, "What's wrong?" Mike swallowed, and looked at Billie Joe in amazement.

"What the fuck, Beej?" he managed, ripping his hand from his friend's. Billie Joe looked alarmed, and then blank.

"Oh, I geddit," he said. "Well, fuck you too, then." And he turned and left the room. Then silence.

"What the fuck?" Mike asked again.

Billie walked stiffly upstairs, his composure slipping the longer he walked. Tears welled up, and he cursed himself for expecting his Mike to understand. He didn't even remember, dammit! His cheeks were wet, and by the time he reached the door, he was opening crying.

He ran outside, and down the porch. Living in a town like Rodeo, you were never more than a mile from some part of the oil factory. He grabbed his bike and wiped away his tears with the back of his hand.

He rode unsteadily until he reached the bridge. A dirty river ran through the center of Rodeo, and the bridge was a popular place for kids to hang out, with a lack of anything better to do. However, today, it was deserted. Probably because it was a school day, something Billie never gave much thought to.

He didn't know how long he stood there, not really crying anymore, just thinking. He'd might of very well of told Mike that he was a drug dealer, and was a fucked up coke physco. It'd have been easier that way. Both parties knowledgeable of what was wrong, and why they—

His train of thought was cut off by a firm hand on his shoulder. He suppressed a shriek, before turning around.

It was Allen. "What're you doing BJ?" his step brother asked. He swallowed.

"Nothing."

"Good. Come with me," was the vague reply. He turned, and Billie followed. On the other side of the bridge, a beat up Voltzwagon was sitting patiently. Billie tugged his bike behind him.

He got in the passenger side, and Allen turned on the shitmobile. It was deathly quiet as they drove, Billie not daring to ask where they were going, and wishing silently that the radio worked so he could listen to something.

Allen broke the tension first. "Mike was in your room this morning, crying. I don't know what the fuck happened, and I don't want to know. All I know is that I've never seen him shred a single fucking tear."

His brother didn't sound angry. Just… unsure. Billie remained quiet, and when Allen was sure that he wasn't going to get an answer, he pulled the car over.

Billie looked out the window. The cars went rolling by on the interstate. Allen opened the car door and got out. He started walking in the opposite direction. Billie paused, and followed him a few moments later.

A pair of railroads tracks crossed a smaller road that intersected with route 4. He glanced around nervously for a train crossing sign, but Allen just sat down on one of the rails.

Billie sat down hesitantly, and hugged his knees to his chest. Neither boy said anything for a while, and Billie pulled a pack of cancer sticks out of his back pocket. Allen sighed in frustration.

"Why didn't you say you had any earlier? I've been dying for a smoke since mom got home, but she's had me cooped up cleaning out goddamn toilets all day." He said irately. He grabbed the pack from his younger brother and took one. Lighting up, he smiled.

Both boys exhaled, and the ice was broken. "Nice hair," Allen said. "Mom's gonna kill you."

"Good."

A sigh. "You wanna tell me what happened?"

"Not really."

Allen looked around at the worn tracks. "I used to come here with my friends. We'd just hang. It's a great place to doing nothing I guess."

"It's nice." Billie said monotonously. "Where are we, exactly?"

"Christie Road."

"Sounds like the name of a song."

Mike spent the whole day in Billie room, racking his brains for anything to explain Billie's behavior.

He'd kissed him. Kissed him. Kissed him. Mike found himself rubbing at his lips, trying to remember the exact feeling of Billie's soft and full lips on his own thin ones.

A plate of food had been handed to him by one of Billie's siblings. He wasn't sure which, and didn't really care at this point. The pork had seemed so unappetizing, and he dumped it into the trash can.

He laid back down on Billie's bed, and stared at the ceiling. Allen had come wandering in earlier looking for a pair of shoes, and he'd seen Mike at the worst he'd felt all morning. The tall bassist had been crying, something he's sure he'd never done in front of Billie's family. He'd only cried in front of Billie.

Only Billie. Only Billie would dye his beautiful black locks blonde, kiss his long time best friend, get mad, and storm off without any explanation. Only Billie could do something like this to Mike.

He clenched his teeth together, and wrapped his long fingers around the neck of Billie's Stratocaster, Blue. Mike's bass was in the closet, but he didn't feel the energy to get up and get it. He strummed the chords to 1000 hours, and then did it again, and then again.

He stopped, getting a tune in his head. The bass in the closet was beckoning. The tall boy repeated the line in his head, and by the time he got his hands on the bass, the music was forming.

Never the one to write the lyrics, swift fingers simply ground out a rough bass line, stopping occasionally to work out kinks, or to replay something he'd particularly liked.

He put the bass down finally, having committed the majority of it to memory. It might have been an hour he'd been writing, because it was already getting dark outside. Some Michael Jackson was penetrating the walls to the left, and Mike threw one of his shoes at the wall. Someone yelled back, and he didn't bother to respond.

The bassist took a deep breath, but a hand on his arm cut him short. A petite blonde boy was staring at him worriedly.

Mike gasped. Billie Joe wrapped his arms around him tightly, hand on the back of his head. Mike hugged back, blinking rapidly.

He grabbed his best friend by the shoulders, and looked him in the eyes. "I don't know what the fuck is going on Beej, but if you run off like that again, don't expect me to wait around here for you to explain yourself."

Billie Joe nodded furiously, before ducking his head into the crease between Mike's neck and shoulder.

"Now. Explain."

Billie Joe swallowed.

He took Mike's hand, who flinched. He gently stroked the thumb, and the bassist began to relax.

"I came in last night, and you were in my room." He began quietly. Mike stiffened again. "You were really fucked up on something, 'cause you thought I was someone else. I hit my head on the back of the bed twice, and you put me on my bed when you figured out I was me. It's was really funny after a while, but not when you tackled me, demanding who I was. It was like a movie, y'know, where all—"

"Rambling," the taller boy had his eyes closed. Billie grimaced.

"Sorry," he said. "Anyways, we were on my bed, and you pulled out some of my dope. We smoked some, and it was, y'know, like 3 in the morning. And then I kissed you."

Mike opened his eyes, and stared at his best friend, whose eyes were wide open with fear. Of him, Mike realized with a jolt. Billie was afraid of his reaction.

Billie continued, not breaking eye contact. "And you kissed back. And it felt so smooth, the pot and the kissing and stuff, y'know?" He trailed off, biting his lip.

Mike hugged him; the blonde boy blinked his eyes furiously, fighting against the burning of tears welling up.

"I'm sorry man," he rasped out. Mike paused.

"For what?" he asked, looking down at the blonde, who shook his head. "You didn't do anything wrong. It was the weed."

Billie didn't reply to that, and Mike stood up. He pulled the shorter boy up with him, and kissed him.

Startled, Billie opened his mouth, and Mike took advantage of the opportunity to slide a tongue in. Billie moaned, but he regained control of his senses.

"Wha—?"

Mike grasped Billie's cheek in his hand, kissing him like his life depended on it. Neither boys shut their eyes, icy blue burning into soft green.

They finally broke apart when the need for oxygen overwhelmed the need for each other. Billie gasped, his hands still entwined with Mike's hair, and the bassist's fingers still threaded through the blonde locks.

Billie pushed back. "No."

"Why?" Mike whispered, his lips on his friend's pale neck. "This is good. Keep doing whatever you were doing, it's good, I like it. Do you like it?" he looked suddenly worried.

Billie nodded, trying to placate the bassist. "I like it a lot, Mikey. Are you high?"

Mike's eagerness waned, and he shook his head slowly. "Is that what you think all this is? That I'm unable to feel any emotions unless I'm fucked over?" his voice rose. "Do you give a shit about how I feel, at all? You have to be a bitch, and run off, and expect everyone to come crying after you. God dammit! I love you Billie Joe!"

Silence. Then Billie spoke. "Do you honestly?"

Mike nodded. Billie squeezed his eyes shut, and he felt tears leaking out, partly from Mike's tirade, but mostly from the whispered confession.

He tackled the bassist to the ground, straddling his lap. Lips pressed hungrily together, fighting for dominance. The vocalist gripped the broad shoulders beneath him, and dug his nails in for better support.

Mike hissed, and his hands moved from the small of Billie's back to his ass, squeezing tightly. Billie gasped, and ground against the warm body.

"I swear to god you little bitch. I love you more than anything. If you ever fucking do that again…"

"You'll do what? Steal my weed?