Like A Magpie

“What’s up man... been lookin’ for you for like, hours.”

Billie Joe tore his eyes away from the stage and looked in the direction of Tre’s voice.

“Yeah, I, uh... just thought I’d catch a show...”

Tre sidled towards him, then hoisted himself up onto the crate next to his band mate, lifting a plastic cup to his lips and drinking a strong-smelling cocktail of spirits through three straws.

“Who’s the British dude?” Tre inquired, “And... have you been hanging out with his make-up artist?”

Billie Joe felt his heart skip, unable to hold back a shy smile of realization, as he lifted his fingers to touch his painted face.

“Oh...” he chuckled, and Tre looked on with interest at the colour that was rising to his cheeks, “Yeah, we uh... we hung out for a little while. He’s cool man... he’s... I think you’d like him.”

Tre leaned forward, as Mika leapt to the front of the stage, striking a pose in front of grappling hands, then bending down to take eager fingers in his own.

“Is he wearing your eyeliner?”

Billie Joe grinned, fingernails scraping at the label on his beer bottle.

“Possibly... listen, is that the last of your questions, Cool? I’m trying to watch here.”

Tre whistled, sliding off the crate and slapping his friend on the back.

“Well, fuck. Don’t let me distract you, seeing as how you dolled yourself up for the occasion and all.”

Billie Joe shook his head, ignoring Tre’s teasing, as the drummer reached out and messed up his hair, then left him alone with his thoughts again.

Only a couple of short hours later, Billie Joe was leaving the stage himself, rubbing a towel through his wet hair as he exited to the sound of shrill, frenzied screams of his fans. He took a bottle of mineral water from the outstretched arm of a backstage roadie with a nod of gratitude, Mike’s arm landing around his shoulders, as they made their way down the hallway and left the stage behind.

“Nice show, man...” the bassist grinned, before slinking off through the maze of equipment, lights and technicians, in search of something stronger than mineral water to take them through the midnight festivities.

Billie Joe smiled, his body weak with exhaustion and his mind still buzzing on the adrenaline pumping furiously through his veins, unaware that his performance had been watched with as much wonder and veneration from the sidelines as it had from the crowd.

Mika watched him weave his way through the crew that busied the labyrinthine hallway, his own footsteps quickening, as he followed, hastily, behind. Gaining on him quickly,, he reached out to grab the guitarist’s patterned forearm, until smudgy green eyes fixed upon his own and he let him go, his hands going, self-consciously, to his pockets, eyes dropping to his shoes and back up again, when he suddenly found himself faltering beneath the guitarist’s gaze.

“Mika...” Billie Joe greeted him, his face breaking into a smile, “Hey, man...”

“Hi,” Mika replied, composed, “I watched your performance... You were fantastic up there.”

Billie Joe smiled at him, his breath still a little laboured.

“Thanks... y’know, I watched you too.”

Mika’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Really?”

Billie Joe nodded, pushing a lock of dark, wet hair from his forehead.

“Yeah... you’re one hell of a singer,” he admitted, with a smile. “... Wanna drink?”

And so it was, that the pair found themselves whiling the night away in their practice room once again, a bottle of expensive champagne and a piano the only company they needed, aside from each other.

“Shit, that sounded awesome...” Billie Joe breathed, after another enthusiastically improvised duet that, he suspected, may not have sounded as spectacular without the champagne, “We should, like... collaborate.”

Mika laughed, filling up his glass.

“I think you’re drunk,” he decided, “And... I don’t really see your fans going for the idea.”

Billie Joe smiled.

“You don’t?”

“Well,” Mika grinned, “I just think my fans and your fans are kind of different creatures. And yours are probably more angsty and misgiving than mine.”

Billie Joe shook his head.

“Nah... they’d be cool,” he insisted, “Besides, I bet we have some crossovers.”

“Mika Green Day fans?” Mika grinned, “Shit. Well, they’d be the coolest folks in town.”

“Amen...” Billie Joe smirked, fingers tapping piano keys again.

Mika watched, him, wordlessly, his eyes flicking from the fluid movement of Billie Joe’s delicate fingers to the deliberate concentration in his golden eyes.

“You’re getting better already,” he commented, softly, “You should stay here all night and you could play Shostakovich blindfold.”

Billie Joe lifted his fingers from the keys, his eyes meeting Mika’s in a brief glance of sentiment.

“I can’t, man, I have to leave soon,” he told him, simply, trying to mask the hint of regret that was threatening to creep into his voice, “We’re playing a show in Germany tomorrow, flying out in the early hours. We need to leave just after midnight.”

Mika nodded, watching the bubbles rise in his glass.

“Midnight?” he repeated, softly, “... You’re like Cinderella.”

Billie Joe looked at him, then laughed.

“Yeah...” he grinned, “I’m a lot like Cinderella. And we need to fix the alcohol situation because if we keep goin’ at this rate, we aren’t gonna have anything to toast the new year with...”

Mika smiled, trying to fight the sinking in his stomach, as Billie Joe slid out of his seat and his own eyes shifted to the clock on the wall. Suddenly, he wished he could stop it turning, and he wasn’t even sure why.

The pair played on; laughing and drinking, sharing old stories and new ideas, good memories and bad jokes. Time played on with them, just like it always does, and the sound of a clock ringing out in the distance broke their thoughts. Both men glanced up at the doorway in surprise as one year ran out and the next rolled in, the sound of singing and cheering voices floating through the wintry air to their own retreat.

Mika smiled.

“Well,” he said, “Guess that means... Happy New Year.”

Billie Joe nodded, feeling a pounding in his chest, as his eyes flicked to the door for a moment, the familiar strains of Auld Lang Syne ringing in his ears, before he looked back into chestnut brown eyes again and the buzz of champagne spread a warmth and a daring spirit through him he hadn’t known in years.

“Happy New Year...” he whispered, in return, leaning close to clink their glasses together. He raised his hand to Mika’s face, feeling the singer’s breath catch, suddenly, in his throat, then ran his thumb over the smudgy remains of his worn stage makeup. “Happy endings...”

Mika stared back at him, barely daring to breathe, as Billie Joe drew impossibly closer and he felt warm lips brush against his own. Tentatively, he raised one hand to slide around the back of the guitarist’s neck, slender fingers tangling in damp hair, as he pressed himself closer and leaned into the kiss. He heard the older man gasp, the chemistry between them setting sparks to fly through his veins.

Mika felt his stomach skip when a moan left Billie Joe’s throat, rough fingers still tender against his cheek. He felt his heart race faster, harder, warmth spreading through him, when the tip of the guitarists tongue ran hotly along his bottom lip and it was all he could do to pull him closer, deepening their kiss with a soft groan of satisfaction.

“Billie...” he whispered, as they parted, all of his thoughts trailing away to nothing, as Billie Joe’s forehead came to rest against his own, breath hot and heavy against Mika’s lips.

Billie Joe smiled, holding Mika’s gaze for a moment, before his eyes dropped with regret.
“I’m glad I met you tonight,” he murmured, “You’re... crazy and talented and... “

Mika felt dizzy with desire, as Billie Joe’s thumb traced his lip.

“...And a fuckin’ good kisser.”

“I...” Mika stammered, smiling, “... Could say the same about you...”

Billie Joe smiled, taking his hands from Mika’s face and looking down.

“I have to leave,” he reminded him, regretfully,

Mika drew a shaky breath, feeling suddenly cold without the guitarists touch.

“You...” he managed, “... Now?”

Billie Joe nodded, glancing up toward the door.

“Yeah...” he whispered, “... Now.”

Mika swallowed, as Billie Joe stood up, brought the last of his champagne to his lips, then set the glass back on top of the piano with a clink.

“It was good to meet you,” he told the guitarist, softly, suddenly hit with a dull, empty ache in his stomach, “You should carry on with the piano, you know. You could be really, really good.”

Billie Joe smiled, gratefully, sliding his hands into his pockets, then bending down to Mika, his face close to the other man’s. Mika closed his eyes, briefly, as Billie Joe’s warm lips pressed against his cheek.

“Thanks,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over the singer’s painted skin, “I hope one day I can play like you can.”

Mika watched, unable to say a word, as Billie Joe pulled on his jacket and headed for the door.

“D’you think I’ll see you again?” he blurted out, stopping the guitarist in his tracks.

Billie Joe turned to glance back over his shoulder, and Mika found himself avoiding his eyes again, a blush coming to his cheeks, as he realised how pathetic his outburst had sounded. Billie Joe gave him a gentle smile.

“I hope you do.”

The door closed behind him, with a dull thud, and Mika’s hands went straight to cover his face, elbows landing on the piano keys with a wild cacophony of black and white. He exhaled through his fingers, then took them away from his eyes, which landed on the pair of champagne glasses still sitting side by side on the top of the piano. He watched a rivulet of condensation travel, slowly, down the neck of Billie Joe’s, before it landed, silently, on the polished maple surface. He almost laughed at himself, when he felt a prickling behind his eyes, unable to understand how this stranger had walked into his day uninvited and shaken up his heart, all in a matter of hours.

Silently, he looked back at the door of the practice room, absently touching his finger against his lip, as if unable to believe Billie Joe’s tender kisses had taken place at all. He looked back at the keys and he smiled. He closed the lid of the piano.