The Man Who Would Not Be King

“…spooning…”

Tré’s mind was enveloped in a fog, slowly rising.

“I said, ‘Aww, look, you guys are spooning. How adorable.’”

He felt something feathery pass across his face, eyes still closed. “Ah, shut up. Why are you grinning like that? You know there’s nothing behind it.”

“I just find it really amusing, that’s all. It’s almost like it looks natural. Tré seems happy enough sleeping there.”

Billie Joe’s voice dropped, turning serious. “Mike, you know Tré’s not…”

Tré deemed it appropriate at that point to emit an ostentatious, sleepy groan. “I am right here, you do realize?” His eyes had trouble focusing upon opening, as they were a mere inch from Billie Joe’s unruly hair and right ear.

Mike, whom he still couldn’t see, chuckled gleefully. “Oh, wow, Tré, totally didn’t see you there.”

“You…if it didn’t involve moving I would hit you.”

“Oh I’m so scared, really.”

“Asshole.”
***

A muffled rat-a-tat pounded away on the couch cushion. Tré was absentmindedly drumming, whiling away the time before he had to properly warm up for the show that night in Oklahoma City. Others in the dressing room space milled about, but he paid them no attention; he stayed in his own head.

One sentence persisted in echoing inside it.

“Mike, you know Tré’s not…”

“…you know Tré’s not…”

“Tré’s not…”

“I’m not…” he said softly. The sentence could end in so many ways. It seemed that the more days passed on tour, the more muddled Tré’s feelings became. Made affirmative…I am… I am what?

“I don’t know…”

“You don’t know what?” Billie Joe plunked himself down just out of range of Tré’s whirling drumsticks.

Tré kept his eyes trained on the patch of couch he was drumming. “Nothing.”

Billie Joe dipped his head lower so that Tré would see his face, coming dangerously close to getting whacked in the eye. His forehead wrinkled, he spoke. “Hey, are you okay? If I can…I mean, I can help too, y’know? So you can tell me if something’s bothering you.”

Despite Tré’s best efforts, he couldn’t stop his eyes from traveling to Billie Joe’s face, where his gaze lingered. The dark eyebrows and eyeliner framing flickering jade eyes, straight nose, full lips… Tré didn’t want to know where that thought was leading him.

Billie Joe’s lips were moving. “Tré? Did you hear me?”

“Oh, yeah, no, I’m fine.”

“Okay, I’ll back off if you want me to.” Billie Joe frowned and moved to stand up. He looked back at Tré, whose drumsticks were no longer in motion. “Well you can come find me later if you need to,” he finished helplessly.

After following him visually, Tré dropped his Zildjian sticks and cradled his head in his hands. Something had definitely changed. Tré just wasn’t sure of the degree.
***

Billie Joe’s Converse created noisy friction with the tile floor as he spun to charge back in the opposite direction. From down the hallway Tré watched the singer’s familiar routine, soaking in the electricity apparently radiating off of him. Billie Joe’s next turn sent him sprinting back towards Tré. He came to an unbalanced halt.

“You ready?” he asked between panting breaths. “You don’t look it.”

“Is it a requirement to break a sweat before I break a sweat playing?” Tré teased. He stretched his arms overhead and yawned, feigning leisure. He dropped them again.

They stood across from one another, both searching for what to say next. Tré looked Billie Joe up and down slowly, suddenly not caring whether he was being conspicuous. Something in his dress, the articles of clothing that he wore every night they played, was just so perfect, so appealing. The lip of his right pant leg swallowed the laces of his sneaker, while the left scrunched darkly behind the shoe’s tongue. Further upwards, charcoal pants hugged his slight hips. Black button-up and bright red tie completed the ensemble, and all was complemented by his smudgy eyes and messy hair.

A drop of sweat rolled past Billie Joe’s cheekbone. His lips were parted. He licked them.

Tré’s eyes jumped back up to meet Billie Joe’s. He held his breath. He could swear there was something like a hot liquid swirling restlessly behind the green. Much like the hair-on-end, stalled atmosphere forcing its way into their resistant lungs, Tré wanted to give it a name. Caged passion, sexual tension.

Without warning, Billie Joe’s face turned ashen. “Oh, shit,” he mumbled, twisting away and covering his mouth. He looked around desperately, leaving Tré confused.

Tré understood once he saw Billie Joe jog in the direction of a trash can and lean over it, retching. He walked over behind him and started to rub his back. “You okay? You aren’t sick, are you?”

The subject of concern spit one last time into the bin before retreating from its edge. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of a hand, a grimace of revulsion contorting his features. “It happened last show too…I think it’s just nerves, y’know, pre-show. I’m fine though, minus the acid burning my throat right now. I need to brush my teeth…” He shook Tré’s hand off his shoulder and retreated, stepping backwards a few feet before rotating to face forward.

“Wait, are you sure you’re alright?” Tré called after him, unconvinced. He felt an all too familiar sense of worry settle at the bottom of his stomach.
***

“I can’t fucking wait to get on the bus and just collapse, seriously,” Tré declared, taking out his sweat-slicked ear bud.

“Well you better be able to,” Mike countered, “because we’ve got a couple contest winners to entertain for a while.” His stern expression disappeared behind a towel.
“Ah, shit, I forgot about that. Do we have to?” Tré pouted.

“Yeah, idiot.”

They both looked up when they saw Billie Joe return from the stage, holding the neck of his guitar so that it wouldn’t swing too waywardly as he jogged. He handed it to a tech before approaching them, a triumphant grin plastered on his glistening face. “I feel exhilarated somehow, don’t really know why!” he announced fervently, glowing.

“I take it Good Riddance went well?” Mike asked.

“Oh yeah, I was just feeling it tonight, y’know? So good.” Billie Joe shook his head. “So good,” he repeated.

“Can I have some of that energy for the meet and greet? I’ll swap you for my good looks,” Tré proposed. Mike snickered. Ignoring him, Tré amended his statement before Billie Joe had a chance to accept or decline. “Well only for this one night, anyway. I don’t really need to be successful with the teen population at the moment.”

Both Mike and Billie Joe caught on to the problematic nuance of his statement.

“At the moment!?”

“And what about tomorrow? Do you all of a sudden turn back into pedo- Tré?”

“What do you mean ‘back into’? What the fuck are you trying to say?” He pushed Mike playfully.

“Oh no! He’s fighting back! Retreat! Retreat!” Mike backed away from Tré, arms pressed into his chest, an expression of mock horror drawn on his face. “No, but seriously,” he said, returning to his normal state, “we should probably get going as far as showers, or these girls are gonna get past the security guards before we’re ready to take them on.”

Tré sighed, resigned, and then joined the others in the walk towards their destination.
***

The concert promoters had chosen an outdoor location for the meet and greet table, cut off from the parking lot and other areas surrounding the venue only by a chain link fence. Everyone’s ears suffered for it. A rabid group of middle school aged girls clung to the wire, screaming things alternately cute and inappropriate.

Having been herded towards the designated table by their tour manager, the members of Green Day sat in chairs with their backs towards the offending ruckus on the other side of the division. There they waited, eager even for other enthusiastic fans to give them something to focus on other than the cacophony currently drowning out their inner voices. Tré attempted to whistle, and although it was not silent, it was rendered silent. He gave up and began fidgeting.

He was soon relieved when the contest winners were led into the area. They were instructed to form a line parallel to the table, to be able to meet the band members one by one. Tré was fond of the setup in terms of efficiency, but it also didn’t typically allow for any meaningful interaction, so he was unsure of whether he leant more towards like or dislike.

He craned his neck around Mike to scope out tonight’s lucky guests. A few were sporting various punk hair styles, the characteristic teen fan population was represented by overexcited, squealing girls and boys trying to keep their cool, and a sprinkling of adults who had become fans when they were younger completed the group. Tré was glad to see the last group hadn’t jumped ship after American Idiot.

He was approached first by a timid young thing, barely older than twelve. The girl was clutching a CD tightly, afraid to extend her arms to have Tré sign it. “Hello there. I’m Tré, what’s your name? Would you like me to sign that?” he asked, pointing with his Sharpie.

She stared back at him with big eyes, slow to react. “I’m Shalia. Oh, yes please!” She held out the CD, smiling gratefully. He signed it quickly and handed it back, and then, nodding her thanks, she moved on to Mike.

The next was a guy that reminded Tré of Pete, down to the short hair and the sincere attitude. It seemed he had prepared a speech, which Tré heard snatches of again as he traveled from member to member. “…and I just really admire you guys for keeping on making music and remembering your roots and inspiring us fans, man. Seriously. I just wanted to let you guys know how important I think you are to the music community as a whole. We need more artists with real integrity like yours.” He took a breath, leading Tré to believe prematurely that he had finished. “So thanks, man. Oh, and I love American Idiot. Nice meeting you!”

“Nice meeting you too, dude. You have no idea what it means to hear you say all that. It really keeps us going. Thanks!” Tré flashed him a genuine smile as they shook hands, appreciative of the boost in self confidence.

As the line moved along, Tré’s mood, not that it had been particularly awful before, greatly improved. All of the fans were well-behaved, and Tré wouldn’t have minded spending more time with them.

By the time the last one approached him, however, Tré’s fatigue had somewhat returned. His responses became more sluggish, requiring more effort to be formulated and then expelled from his mouth. He was currently engaged with a teen boy who seemed to be shorting out trying to express his love for the band. His words were caught wavering between the walls of his throat. While waiting, Tré’s ears picked up a conversation from the other end of the table.

Billie Joe’s voice carried over the others crowding the air. “Yeah, sure, we haven’t actually been out with fans so far this tour, I’m sure the others would be thrilled too, right, Mike?”

Tré missed Mike’s response, as the boy in front of him at last formulated a sentence. He was trying to pull double his weight, running after both threads of conversation. His hearing attuned itself to the one he was less interested in, but his mind refused to focus on it, leaving him unaware of the train of either.

“…saved my life…”

“…out for drinks…

“…thank you so much…”

“…not like Tré…”

“…keep doing what…”

“…turn down drinking, I’m sure…”

It was a phonetic quilt not yet sewn together.

“…you’re doing.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks a lot, kid. You keep listening! Anything I can sign for ya?”

The boy waved a hand in front of his face. “Oh no, I’d much rather just meet you than cheapen it.”

Impressed, Tré responded, “Wow, good for you. Take care!” Once he became Mike’s charge, Tré tried to pick up the conversation again, but it appeared to have ended. So he sat spacing for the remaining minutes before everyone was brought in for a group photo to be uploaded to the sponsoring radio station’s website. Afterwards, Tré stood apart with Mike and Billie Joe from a small group of some adult fans lingering behind, discussing the night’s plans.

“You up for it? We’ll probably go to the closest bar we can find, nothing too special.”

Tré scratched his head, buying time to weigh his feelings. “Uhhh…” Once he realized that he wasn’t actually thinking through the pros and cons and was merely giving off the appearance of doing so, he came to a decision based on the very fact that he was incapable of making an informed decision. “Actually…I think I’m gonna head to bed, I’m pretty beat and don’t think I can handle more socializing. I’ll see you guys back on the bus.”

Mike arched an eyebrow and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You feeling alright? It’s not like you to pass up alcohol.”

“Yeah,” Tré reassured him, “I’m fine, just tired. I’ll see you later.” He waved at them, retreating.

Billie Joe frowned slightly, but said nothing and waved back.
***

Tré awoke to the sound of the bus door closing. Someone shuffled in, breath held, trying to stifle any noise that might disturb him, unaware that he had already failed at this. He knocked into something with a body part, evoking a thump. Tré heard an almost inaudible “shit” escape his lips.

Choosing to be charitable and let the intruder make all the noise he wanted, Tré’s words fell into the heavy silence. “I’m awake; it’s okay.”

“Oh, thank God. In that case do you mind if I turn on a light?”

It was Mike’s voice. Tré’s first instinct was to notice Billie Joe’s absence. Although the light was still off, Tré’s eyes opened a little wider. His chest tightened, unwilling to let out the air to form the question. He swallowed, jaw clenched.

A switch was flipped, and the room was illuminated. Tré shut his eyelids tight against the hostile rays. He laid there, senses leaking out of his body.

As Mike stopped rustling and settled down in his bunk, the bus once again dark, Tré opened his mouth. “Where’s Billie Joe?” he asked in a small voice.

“Huh? Oh…” Mike answered slowly, having forgotten that someone else was conscious, “he went with one of the women we met. Mentioned something about having to get it out of his system. I don’t know what the heck he meant; he was being vague.”

“Oh.” Tré’s heart, undefined as it was, fell.