The Man Who Would Not Be King

“Jesus, Tré, what the fuck’s going on?” Mike shepherded Tré to the couch in his room.

The question only upset him more. His chest ballooned painfully as he tried to hold in a sob. It went off like a bomb in his throat. He couldn’t remember being this out of control; somewhere that memory had faded like the wallpaper in a room that receives too much sunlight.

Mike sat with his hand on Tré’s shoulder, eyes questioning. “It’s okay, let it out, then we can talk about it. You mind if I get a beer?” he asked. “I’m going to need something to distract me from the fact that Tré Cool is about to reveal his soul to me. This must be a rare occasion indeed.” He got up, winking.

Tré choked, somewhere halfway between a laugh and another cry.

Mike ventured over to the mini fridge and returned with a dark glass bottle. He looked at Tré, sitting there forlornly, tears or snot or both dripping down his face, and raised his eyebrows. “Should I grab the tissues from the bathroom? You look like you might need ‘em,” he offered.

The only answer Mike needed was a rather timely sniffle from his companion. When next he returned, he did so with a pink polka dotted box of Kleenex. Sitting down, he placed it on the coffee table in front of Tré and concentrated on opening his beer.

Tré raised a tissue to his nose with the goal of relieving some of the pressure that had been building behind his eyes. He realized he was too embarrassed to blow, so instead he wiped his upper lip gingerly, keeping his gaze trained on the wooden surface before him.

“So what’s wrong?” Mike looked at him sideways.

Tré shivered. Maybe coming here had been a mistake. He didn’t think telling Mike was really the best way to handle the situation. That’s right; he should just buck up and deal with his hopeless pipedream himself. “I don’t…I don’t really want to talk about it,” he said, words coming out distorted by his blocked nasal passages.

Blinking slowly, Mike pressed the bottle back to his lips. “You know, you can’t just barge into a man’s living space all teary-eyed and expect him to back down when he asks you what’s wrong. Sorry, Tré.”

Sometimes Mike was passive aggressive as fuck.

Sometimes Tré didn’t know what to do in response other than to stop resisting.

So he did.

But first he smeared some of his tears away from his eyes, clearing up his vision somewhat. “I don’t really know how to even tell you. You might see me a little differently and not exactly in a good light,” he hedged.

“Go on,” Mike nodded.

Tré sighed. He tried one last ditch attempt to get Mike to change his mind. “Are you really not going to give up on wanting to know?”

“I will haunt you, Tré Cool,” Mike deadpanned.

An uncomfortable sensation in his sinuses accompanied Tré’s gulp. “I just saw Billie Joe with some guy.”

The bassist took a deep breath, evaluating responses. He decided he needed more context. “And? How exactly does this affect you?”

“Uhhh…” Tré stalled.

“You haven’t gone all homophobic and worried about his soul, have you?” Mike squinted skeptically, completely lost.

Tré snorted, provoking an avalanche in his nose. He hastily grabbed a fistful of tissue to stop the flow. “Ah, shit…It’s not that, it’s…it means he doesn’t like me, Mike.” Tré finished on a strong note, finally confident in his words.

“I really don’t think I’m understanding,” Mike responded, pointblank. He rubbed a patch of condensation on the bottle with his thumb.

Tré took a moment to formulate his words carefully. He couldn’t take back anything he was about to say. He sniffled again absently. “Mike…it’s kind of taken me a while to realize this, but…”

Mike waited expectantly.

“Well…God, I feel like a fuckin’ kid.” He ran his fingers through the back of his hair in a sifting motion, nervous energy showing through. “So…I think I like Billie Joe. In a more than friends kind of way,” he clarified.

Mike’s face went through a series of very different expressions, like a roulette wheel. It settled on one that encompassed amusement, confusion, and disbelief. “Do you want to fuck him?”

Eyes widening in shock, Tré spluttered, “What? No! No…I mean…I don’t know…” Every time his brain had broached this subject, it had shut down, and here Mike was, shoving it in his face, forcing the gaping holes in Tré’s crush before his eyes.

“Are you gay?” Mike barreled on.

Tré had barely had enough time to pick himself up from the last blow. “N-no…”

Mike leaned back into the couch, propping an ankle onto his other knee. “Here’s what I think,” he announced boldly. “Billie Joe is vulnerable right now. You’ve been supporting him. You like having someone rely on you. It’s hard finding a steady girlfriend on tour. Naturally he fits the bill. Or you think he does.”

Tré listened compliantly, sure that the authority Mike exuded could only be the truth.

“Look, Tré, Billie Joe is a sexy guy…but I’m pretty sure even he can’t turn you gay. Sometimes people get confused when their relationship with someone changes. You guys have gotten a little closer lately and you don’t know what to make of it, so you’re interpreting your feelings as something more than they actually are. Does that make sense?” Mike gazed at Tré expectantly.

The drummer dabbed at his face with the crumpled tissue that had been balled in his fist for the past few minutes. What Mike had said did make sense. He felt the color rise in his cheeks. “Well now I feel embarrassed…” he mumbled.

Mike laughed heartily, slapping Tré on the back. “Ah come on, it’s not that bad. You did only come to me crying your eyes out thinking you were in love with Billie Joe,” he smirked.

“Smartass. And I didn’t say in ‘love’ with,” he defended himself.

“Pick your battles, man, your credibility is seriously waning right now.” Mike winced as if this fact hurt him deeply.

Tré sighed. “I don’t like that you’re right about this. I feel like I lost some of my manhood just now. Do you think it’ll come back to me when I wake up in the morning?” he asked nasally.

Mike laughed loudly, setting his beer bottle on the coffee table to better be able to grab his shaking sides. “Yeah, you go sleep it off,” he managed to squeeze out in between gasping breaths.

“Uh, yeah…” Tré stood and sidled out of the space between the couch and the coffee table. He swiped another tissue from the box on his way. “Well, thanks.”

Mike wiped tears from his eyes. “Any time, Tré.” He began to chuckle again, tears re-accumulating in the corners of his eyes.

Tré retreated before his embarrassment could mount any higher. He closed the door behind him, stripping the sound of Mike’s laughter from the air. He took a shaky breath.
***

When Tré tumbled out of bed in the morning, the world had stopped spinning. Mike’s words the night before had finally put to rest the continuous battle that had been raging inside his heart. He had only been fooling himself. He wasn’t in love with Billie Joe—Mike’s words, not his. It was completely fine that Billie Joe should have his escapades, and it was none of Tré’s business.

Except for the part of it that wasn’t fine, but Tré just assumed that this was residual nonsense. And it would go away.

Ignoring it as best as possible, Tré threw on some clothes and descended the four floors to see what the continental breakfast had to offer him on this fine, Texan morning. He hoped to see some Frosted Flakes, but really he wasn’t about to be picky, as he had survived breakfasts that could hardly be described as edible, never mind continental. Something about the word connoted greatness, even if it was always actually crap. Perhaps faraway American history lessons on Manifest Destiny had struck a chord within him, and now their influences were awoken by morning hotel fare. In any case, he’d settle for Cheerios if need be.

He entered the relatively small enclosure and darted like a railcar straight to the clear cereal bins. Yes! There was still a glimmer of hope left in the universe. America should take over Canada, God damn it, if this was what continental meant.

Tré loaded a Styrofoam bowl with the sugary cereal until it was overflowing. He picked a few individual pieces off the top in a bid to make it at least seem a lesser degree of obnoxious.

Milk. If I were milk, I would be in the…refrigerator.

The reflection off of the black mini fridge forced his breath back into his throat. He’d know that disheveled black hair anywhere. The one that accompanied it, though, cemented his teeth together. He hissed through the tight space, momentarily stunned, the milk forgotten until someone waiting to the side cleared his throat purposefully.

He jerked back into motion and opened the door, a wave of cold unfurling inauspiciously against his skin. Movements wooden, he poured his milk. Unable to resist glancing behind him, Tré took in Billie Joe and his friend smirking at each other across their table mid-chew. The scene arrested him for two heartbeats; he was jolted out of it by the feel of cold liquid seeping into the fabric of his shirt where it was touching the counter.

“Shit!” He set down the milk carton right in the middle of the widening puddle and frantically sought napkins, head turning side to side. Even his attention to the crisis at hand, however, strayed again when the two—the couple?—appeared as a blur in his peripheral vision.

As Tré blotted up the milk with a handful of paper towels, the towering conflict that had engulfed him the night before rose up once again. The sense of betrayal that was now becoming familiar; the map-less, chaotic, bleeding of his prior convictions… Tré didn’t know whether he wanted to fling his bowl of Frosted Flakes in Billie Joe’s face or pull him in close, and the dichotomy was bitter.

He chucked the sopping paper towels in a waste basket and snatched up his cereal, walking at a diagonal between visible and inconspicuous, headed for a table, any table. And then a little boy escaped from his mother and ran wildly into Tré’s legs. The collision flipped the bowl towards his chest. Its contents were no longer contained in anything.

Tré detached himself.

The mother’s scolding and apologetic words were intercepted by whatever precipitate apathy affected Tré. He brushed her aside gently and sat down at the nearest table, shirt a soggy, tragic mess. His throat ached like the scent of rain.

Billie Joe entered his field of vision, and Tré saw him through warped glass. His voice was muffled. “Tré, come sit with us, man. I’ll even get you a new bowl of cereal. I saw what just happened to yours…” His hand rested on Tré’s shoulder lightly, coaxing. A spider of ice spread from his fingertips, a chill Tré felt keenly.

“Who’s us?” Tré asked stiffly.

“Just me and a friend. Come on, up and at ‘em.”

“I don’t know if I want to.”

Tré wasn’t usually so blunt, and Billie Joe stood perplexed for a minute, not sure how to react. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s fucking wrong,” Tré grumbled, sitting still, acutely aware that Billie Joe’s hand was still on his shoulder. Why didn’t he remove it?

Billie Joe blanched at the surly response. He backed up a step, frowning. “Are you sure? Did I do something? Or is it the cereal? Because seriously, dude, I can get you more.” He smiled tentatively.

“It’s not the fucking cereal.” Tré, now free from Billie Joe’s fucking oblivious hand, folded his arms in defiance. He was going to be as difficult as possible. This was his slight revenge. Revenge for not noticing, for not caring. Revenge for fucking. When…

When he was there. He was there…

“Why don’t you see me?”

“What?” Billie Joe cocked his head in bewilderment.

Tré’s confidence dipped. He hesitated. He swallowed. A breath. “Why don’t you fucking see me?” he repeated, voice cracking.

Billie Joe’s expression was pained. His usual instinct being either to ignore or to run, a struggle was carried out across his face. “Tré…do you wanna go somewhere and talk this out? I’m not really sure the breakfast area of a hotel is an ideal setting…”

“Oh fuck you and your propriety!” Tré shouted. He felt like he had Tourette’s. And he couldn’t actually remember whether he’d used the word propriety correctly. The room fell silent. His cheeks were burning. His chest was cold. There were shriveled, damp Frosted Flakes on his shirt.

A reedy voice cut into his consciousness. “What’s going on, Billie Joe? Why don’t you come back to breakfast and ignore this creep?” The man from the night before wrapped his arms around Billie Joe from behind.

“No, stop…” Billie Joe awakened from his stunned state and unfolded the intruder’s arms.

Tré looked away and then rose from his seat. Still not facing Billie Joe, he addressed him coldly. “Well I see the trend continues. Someone else always manages to catch your attention. I’m done with this.” He stalked off.

“No, wait!” Billie Joe spluttered. He turned towards his friend and began to separate himself from him in order to run after Tré to perform damage control. “I have to go. It was nice, but I need to go do something, so maybe we’ll meet again sometime? Bye!” He jogged in the same direction as Tré, leaving the other man baffled at the exchange he had just witnessed.

He caught up to him in front of the elevator. “Tré! Stop! We clearly need to talk. I honestly have no idea what’s going on,” he panted.

Tré watched the lighted numbers traveling above the doors, indifferent.

“What do you mean I don’t see you? I see you; you’re right here. I’m paying attention to you. What is it that you want to say?”

Ding! The doors slid open, and Tré climbed in without having acknowledged Billie Joe’s presence. Billie Joe followed him.

“Tré, please. What is it?” His fists were balled, fingernails digging into his palms. His chest was tight, trying to stop itself from heaving. Control, barely.

Silence tightened its noose around Billie Joe’s neck. He talked to stop it. “Tré. If you don’t tell me, I won’t know. I won’t know…and then I won’t be able to fix whatever it is. You have to give me a chance. We’ve known each other forever; you can’t just…whatever this is,” he pleaded.

This finally had an effect. As they stepped out onto the fourth floor, Tré responded. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Wait…maybe what’s the problem?”

“That we’ve known each other forever.”

“What are you saying?” Billie Joe was now being provoked to anger. He stuck close to Tré’s side as they made their way down the hall. “What are you trying to say?” he repeated.

Tré extracted his key card from his pocket and pushed it into the slot. “I don’t even know, okay?” he answered in a hushed tone. He opened the door, stepped in the room, and made a move to close it.

He didn’t get a chance. The small bit of wall partitioning the bathroom from the bedroom met the back of Tré’s head. A thick, black cloud of smoke rolled in front of his eyes, and he couldn’t see for a second. With his vision returned his awareness of what was going on. Someone’s lips had crashed into his with bruising force.

Billie Joe’s—Billie Joe’s—hands were snaking in his hair. Billie Joe’s body against him was making it hard to breathe.

He kissed back. His arms, formerly dangling stupidly at his sides, found their way to Billie Joe’s shoulders.

Teeth scraped his bottom lip. He let out a shell of a gasp in surprise, and Billie Joe pulled away.