Sequel: After Midnight ›
Like A Magpie
We Are Not What You Think We Are
There were one hundred and eighty-four minutes left of the year and Billie Joe Armstrong was dressed all in black. Hunched on the steps of his bus with a scowl and a cigarette, he watched the mayhem taking place around him with weary derision, wondering why he let himself get talked into these things. With a soft sigh, he breathed a stream of smoke into the frosty air, wishing he could somehow blot out the sounds of squabbling roadies, jumped-up journalists and squealing girl bands long enough to enjoy his smoke.
They still had two hours before they were due on the stage, which meant there were still three acts lined up for him to blow out of the water later that evening, and all of them seemed to have brought along a cavalry of make-up people, stylists and servants plentiful enough to make his own entourage look pitiful.
A tinkling laugh in the distance caught his attention and he grumbled a little under his breath, when another reporter came round the corner, clutching her microphone and laughing into the face of her dutifully following camera man. Billie Joe stubbed out his cigarette against the side of the bus and slunk away, convinced that if anyone else tried putting a mike in his face that day, he was going to end up beating them around the head with it.
Checking back over his shoulder, he noticed, with a grin, that the reporter had caught Mike instead. Then he crept around the corner out of sight, stealing between the buses towards the backstage area where, thankfully, most people were too self-absorbed to notice him at all.
He slid his hands into his pockets, loitering by the light technician’s station for a while, before the open door of an empty practice room caught his eye and, craving some tranquillity and solitude, he slipped inside.
The room was still and empty, all aside from a dismembered drum set and a lonely, upright piano.
A flicker of reverence ignited in his stomach, as his green eyes swept polished maple and lambent gold lettering, and he felt himself suddenly drawn. It seemed, all at once, as though the rushing turbulence of the crowd outside had faded into nothing and, before he had realised it, he was settled on the soft velvet of the piano stool, inky fingers spread over smooth ivory.
He took a breath, his painted eyelids closing, briefly. His tentative fingertips began a slow dance over the keys, notes ringing out soft and clean. He picked out a clumsy blues that settled warm and low in his stomach and seemed to wrap him in a blanket of solace, which was whipped away as quickly as it materialised, when the door of the practice room creaked ajar. His eyes snapped open, hands springing up to hover over the instrument, breath catching in his chest as he watched the unfamiliar figure enter the room.
Tall and angular, he crept soundlessly into the practice room, pausing a few feet from his piano with an eyebrow raised, as he took in the stranger that had been playing it, with interest.
Billie Joe looked like a startled animal behind the keys, guilt and unease in his smudgy eyes. He said nothing as he took in his new visitor, dressed from head to toe in white, curly dark hair falling wild around his comely face. A flash of green paint lit up one feminine cheekbone and Billie Joe looked closely for any hint of irritation in his face but found none, only an amused half smile and a crinkle in his soft eyes.
“I... sorry, Dude,” he stammered, taking his hands from the piano and wiping them, self-consciously, on his black jeans, “This yours?”
A soft chuckle.
“Don’t worry about it. You look like you’re treating her with respect.”
Billie Joe smiled, relaxing.
“It’s a beauty. Couldn’t help myself.” He ran a fingertip, lightly, over the creamy ivory keys. “My father used to have a Steinway.”
“Really?”
He nodded.
“Yeah... I never really played. He taught me a little but I kinda always stuck to guitars. I’m thinkin’ about teaching myself though... it sounds beautiful.”
“Yeah, sure does. You could pick it up in no time... you’re a musician, after all. Billie Joe, right?”
The nervous uncertainty in his eyes made Billie Joe smile.
“Yeah, man, we’re performing later. Just thought I’d find a place to hang for some down time... it’s fuckin’ maniacal backstage.”
After sneaking into the guy’s practice area and helping himself to his obscenely expensive piano, he wished he could remember his name. Maybe, he thought, he should pay more attention to MTV after all.
“Yeah, I hear you. Famous people do my head in.”
Billie Joe laughed.
“Exactly.”
“I’m Mika, by the way.”
“Mika... right...” Billie Joe breathed, in recognition.
Mika’s mouth twisted into a small smirk.
“It was on the tip of your tongue, yeah?”
“Something like that...” Billie Joe murmured, shifting, suddenly awkward, when Mika took a step closer and perched on the edge of the piano stool next to him.
He shuffled over to give him more room, watching his slender fingers slide over the keys. They looked different to his own, like they belonged there, and he watched, transfixed, as they began a sudden gambol over the black and white, tripping out an effortless crescendo that left him breathless, before pausing, then turning to look at him.
“D’you want me to teach you something?”
“See, you’re a natural,” Mika grinned, and Billie Joe couldn’t help but laugh, taking his hands from the piano and turning to look into the face of his new companion, who had somehow managed to drag him out of his gloom and show him the light again.
The pair had barely noticed the time passing, sitting side by side on the piano stool, Billie Joe’s fingers following clumsily after Mika’s practiced, sweeping movements, smiling all the while.
“Thanks. Maybe next time I’ll plug you in and teach you some power chords.”
“Then, after that, I can teach you some dance moves...” Mika chuckled.
“Woah there, let’s not get carried away now... maybe I’ll just start out with the rave paint or something.”
They giggled, Billie Joe laughing harder still when Mika reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tube of neon.
“I was sort of joking, man...” he grinned, squirming a little as Mika uncapped the tube with his teeth and placed one hand on Billie’s shoulder to steady him.
“I wasn’t...” he replied, smiling around the cap in his mouth, “It’s only one step up from the eyeliner, y’know...”
Billie Joe stilled, blinking, as he felt cold liquid against his cheek, followed by gentle fingers. He held his breath, taking in the concentration in Mika’s dark eyes, the smoothness of his flawless skin, suddenly wondering how he had gone from a freaking terrible mood to giggling on a piano stool and having his face stroked by some pretty guy he never met before
Mika smeared his thumb once more across Billie Joe’s skin, before sitting back and taking in his new look with a satisfied smile.
“Perfect,” he told him, with a nod. “Brings out the green in your eyes.”
Billie Joe smiled.
“Well, thanks,” he murmured, “I think I need to get even, though.”
Mika grinned, his eyebrows rising.
“How so?”
Billie Joe shifted on his seat, lifting his hips just enough to pull a kohl eye pencil out of the back pocket of his jeans. Mika laughed, as he held it out in front of him.
“Bring it on then, rockstar.”
Billie Joe grinned, leaning closer. He slid one hand into Mika’s soft curls, his stomach stirring at the way the young singer’s eyes closely searched his face. He squinted, slightly, in concentration, as he ran the eye pencil under his long eyelashes, then sat back and admired his work.
“How do I look?” Mika asked, a glint in his eye.
“Good...” Billie Joe replied, softly, “... we match.”
He watched Mika’s lips twist into a half-smile, his brown eyes showing a flicker of nerves, as he dragged them from Billie Joe’s and back to the piano. Billie Joe smiled at the gentle unease in his features. There was something real about him, a quiet humility and a warm innocence, and it almost surprised him, how refreshing that could feel.
Mika cleared his throat, nudging his hip against Billie Joe’s and breaking the guitarist’s soulful gaze.
“Alright,” he said, “You know any Shostakovich?”
Billie Joe raised an eyebrow.
“... Who-a-bitch?”
Mika giggled.
“Shostakovich,” he clarified, “He was a Russian composer. Here... watch my fingers. We’ll just do the left hand part first...”
Billie Joe grinned, crookedly, spreading his fingers back out on the keys.
“Alright, Kid,” he murmured, “Show me how it’s done.”
The door remained closed against the spurious disorder outside, preserving their private sanctuary, but any prying eyes would have seen two musicians wrapped up in the warm thrill of creativity. Side by side they remained, as the last hours of the year rolled on, tripping over keys, black and white, with one accord.
They still had two hours before they were due on the stage, which meant there were still three acts lined up for him to blow out of the water later that evening, and all of them seemed to have brought along a cavalry of make-up people, stylists and servants plentiful enough to make his own entourage look pitiful.
A tinkling laugh in the distance caught his attention and he grumbled a little under his breath, when another reporter came round the corner, clutching her microphone and laughing into the face of her dutifully following camera man. Billie Joe stubbed out his cigarette against the side of the bus and slunk away, convinced that if anyone else tried putting a mike in his face that day, he was going to end up beating them around the head with it.
Checking back over his shoulder, he noticed, with a grin, that the reporter had caught Mike instead. Then he crept around the corner out of sight, stealing between the buses towards the backstage area where, thankfully, most people were too self-absorbed to notice him at all.
He slid his hands into his pockets, loitering by the light technician’s station for a while, before the open door of an empty practice room caught his eye and, craving some tranquillity and solitude, he slipped inside.
The room was still and empty, all aside from a dismembered drum set and a lonely, upright piano.
A flicker of reverence ignited in his stomach, as his green eyes swept polished maple and lambent gold lettering, and he felt himself suddenly drawn. It seemed, all at once, as though the rushing turbulence of the crowd outside had faded into nothing and, before he had realised it, he was settled on the soft velvet of the piano stool, inky fingers spread over smooth ivory.
He took a breath, his painted eyelids closing, briefly. His tentative fingertips began a slow dance over the keys, notes ringing out soft and clean. He picked out a clumsy blues that settled warm and low in his stomach and seemed to wrap him in a blanket of solace, which was whipped away as quickly as it materialised, when the door of the practice room creaked ajar. His eyes snapped open, hands springing up to hover over the instrument, breath catching in his chest as he watched the unfamiliar figure enter the room.
Tall and angular, he crept soundlessly into the practice room, pausing a few feet from his piano with an eyebrow raised, as he took in the stranger that had been playing it, with interest.
Billie Joe looked like a startled animal behind the keys, guilt and unease in his smudgy eyes. He said nothing as he took in his new visitor, dressed from head to toe in white, curly dark hair falling wild around his comely face. A flash of green paint lit up one feminine cheekbone and Billie Joe looked closely for any hint of irritation in his face but found none, only an amused half smile and a crinkle in his soft eyes.
“I... sorry, Dude,” he stammered, taking his hands from the piano and wiping them, self-consciously, on his black jeans, “This yours?”
A soft chuckle.
“Don’t worry about it. You look like you’re treating her with respect.”
Billie Joe smiled, relaxing.
“It’s a beauty. Couldn’t help myself.” He ran a fingertip, lightly, over the creamy ivory keys. “My father used to have a Steinway.”
“Really?”
He nodded.
“Yeah... I never really played. He taught me a little but I kinda always stuck to guitars. I’m thinkin’ about teaching myself though... it sounds beautiful.”
“Yeah, sure does. You could pick it up in no time... you’re a musician, after all. Billie Joe, right?”
The nervous uncertainty in his eyes made Billie Joe smile.
“Yeah, man, we’re performing later. Just thought I’d find a place to hang for some down time... it’s fuckin’ maniacal backstage.”
After sneaking into the guy’s practice area and helping himself to his obscenely expensive piano, he wished he could remember his name. Maybe, he thought, he should pay more attention to MTV after all.
“Yeah, I hear you. Famous people do my head in.”
Billie Joe laughed.
“Exactly.”
“I’m Mika, by the way.”
“Mika... right...” Billie Joe breathed, in recognition.
Mika’s mouth twisted into a small smirk.
“It was on the tip of your tongue, yeah?”
“Something like that...” Billie Joe murmured, shifting, suddenly awkward, when Mika took a step closer and perched on the edge of the piano stool next to him.
He shuffled over to give him more room, watching his slender fingers slide over the keys. They looked different to his own, like they belonged there, and he watched, transfixed, as they began a sudden gambol over the black and white, tripping out an effortless crescendo that left him breathless, before pausing, then turning to look at him.
“D’you want me to teach you something?”
“See, you’re a natural,” Mika grinned, and Billie Joe couldn’t help but laugh, taking his hands from the piano and turning to look into the face of his new companion, who had somehow managed to drag him out of his gloom and show him the light again.
The pair had barely noticed the time passing, sitting side by side on the piano stool, Billie Joe’s fingers following clumsily after Mika’s practiced, sweeping movements, smiling all the while.
“Thanks. Maybe next time I’ll plug you in and teach you some power chords.”
“Then, after that, I can teach you some dance moves...” Mika chuckled.
“Woah there, let’s not get carried away now... maybe I’ll just start out with the rave paint or something.”
They giggled, Billie Joe laughing harder still when Mika reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tube of neon.
“I was sort of joking, man...” he grinned, squirming a little as Mika uncapped the tube with his teeth and placed one hand on Billie’s shoulder to steady him.
“I wasn’t...” he replied, smiling around the cap in his mouth, “It’s only one step up from the eyeliner, y’know...”
Billie Joe stilled, blinking, as he felt cold liquid against his cheek, followed by gentle fingers. He held his breath, taking in the concentration in Mika’s dark eyes, the smoothness of his flawless skin, suddenly wondering how he had gone from a freaking terrible mood to giggling on a piano stool and having his face stroked by some pretty guy he never met before
Mika smeared his thumb once more across Billie Joe’s skin, before sitting back and taking in his new look with a satisfied smile.
“Perfect,” he told him, with a nod. “Brings out the green in your eyes.”
Billie Joe smiled.
“Well, thanks,” he murmured, “I think I need to get even, though.”
Mika grinned, his eyebrows rising.
“How so?”
Billie Joe shifted on his seat, lifting his hips just enough to pull a kohl eye pencil out of the back pocket of his jeans. Mika laughed, as he held it out in front of him.
“Bring it on then, rockstar.”
Billie Joe grinned, leaning closer. He slid one hand into Mika’s soft curls, his stomach stirring at the way the young singer’s eyes closely searched his face. He squinted, slightly, in concentration, as he ran the eye pencil under his long eyelashes, then sat back and admired his work.
“How do I look?” Mika asked, a glint in his eye.
“Good...” Billie Joe replied, softly, “... we match.”
He watched Mika’s lips twist into a half-smile, his brown eyes showing a flicker of nerves, as he dragged them from Billie Joe’s and back to the piano. Billie Joe smiled at the gentle unease in his features. There was something real about him, a quiet humility and a warm innocence, and it almost surprised him, how refreshing that could feel.
Mika cleared his throat, nudging his hip against Billie Joe’s and breaking the guitarist’s soulful gaze.
“Alright,” he said, “You know any Shostakovich?”
Billie Joe raised an eyebrow.
“... Who-a-bitch?”
Mika giggled.
“Shostakovich,” he clarified, “He was a Russian composer. Here... watch my fingers. We’ll just do the left hand part first...”
Billie Joe grinned, crookedly, spreading his fingers back out on the keys.
“Alright, Kid,” he murmured, “Show me how it’s done.”
The door remained closed against the spurious disorder outside, preserving their private sanctuary, but any prying eyes would have seen two musicians wrapped up in the warm thrill of creativity. Side by side they remained, as the last hours of the year rolled on, tripping over keys, black and white, with one accord.