Our Little Secret

Billie pulled the key out of the ignition upon finally returning home. He probably shouldn't have been driving as hungover as he was, but Mike was even worse off than himself. What were they supposed to do?—teleport home? He was just relieved that he managed to get himself and Mike home without killing anybody. He may have had a handful of people honking at him for something or another, but they made it out alive.

"Come on, Mike," he said while remaining still.

"You come on," Mike mumbled back.

"Count of three," he suggested tiredly. "One… two…" He groaned. "Two… three."

He looked to Mike, who still hadn't moved from his initial position when they started driving. "Mike…"

"I'm up." Mike reached his arm up to the door handle to let himself out. His hand rested there a moment before he actually put any effort into opening it. He hadn't been wearing his seatbelt—he'd been too exhausted to fasten it—so he simply allowed himself to slide out of the car.

Upon seeing his friend's example, Billie rolled his eyes. He slowly undid his seatbelt and opened his own door. He climbed out—more gracefully than Mike—and shut the door. He cringed at the sound it made. He made his way around to Mike's side of the car to head into the house. Mike gathered himself at the same time and shut his door. They both cringed this time at the loud noise.

They slowly walked up the walk to the front door and let themselves inside.

"Billie Joe Armstrong, thank God you're alright!"

Billie brought a hand up to shield his ears and looked at his mom through tired eyes. "Mom… what are you talking about?" he asked as he quietly shut the door behind himself.

"I've been worried sick about the two of you," she said.

Billie looked back at her blankly. "Wait, what for?"

"Billie—You never came home last night," she told him frantically.

Billie blinked. "Yeah… Well, so?"

Ollie sighed. Was there even a point in trying to talk to her son? "So you're okay?"

"Yeah… We're fine. Why wouldn't we be?"

"Billie Joe, couldn't you have called or something to let me know that you were okay?"

"I—But we're fine," he repeated.

He was missing the point, and Ollie didn't quite understand how he didn't comprehend what she was asking. Ollie knew her son could at least understand something this simple. Unless of course—

"Billie," she started almost emotionless. She already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask. "Are you… drunk or something?"

"Mmm… No."

Ollie's eyes widened slightly, not anticipating that answer. And she was fairly certain that her son was too out of it to muster up a lie. "You're not?"

"No. We're hungover."

Her expression fell again. Billie was too tired—hungover, evidently—to even seem remorseful. "Oh. And you are, too, Mike." It could hardly even be considered a question; she said it more as a statement.

"Mm-hmm."

"Oh," Ollie said. "So..." She sighed at the two teenagers. "Just go upstairs and sleep." She gave up. There was no use in scolding them; they wouldn't listen and she knew it. "I'm picking up an extra shift so I'll be gone all day… I guess I'll see you two later."

Billie nodded groggily—he probably didn't even hear what she said. He walked up the stairs wih Mike following close behind. Ollie looked up at their retreating figures and shook her head at them. This was just one of many times she worried if there was any hope for her son.



"Tre." Frank waited outside his son's door for a moment anticipating a response. When he didn't receive one, he called again. "Tre! Tre, are you asleep?" Normally he would have let his son sleep as late as he wanted, but they had plans to meet up with an old friend of his and he didn't want to be late.

When he still received no response, he placed his hand on the doorknob. "Tre, I'm gonna come in," he said. Tre would probably kill him for it, but he'd deal with it. He opened his son's door and walked into the room. They'd only been living here two weeks at most and the room was already in complete disarray. Nearly every piece of clothing Tre owned had been dumped on the floor in the middle of the room, along with quite a few magazines that Frank was appalled to realize his son owned. He just shook his head at his still-sleeping son, figuring boys would be boys. But then he noticed some empty beer cans laying out, and he sure as hell hadn't put them there. He stopped for a moment, frozen while trying to determine what to do.

He walked over to his sleeping son and shook him awake. "Tre."

There was a groan from the bed. " Wha—?"

"Frank, wake up," he said sternly.

Had Tre's eyes been opened, they surely would have widened. His father only called him that when he was in trouble. (Granted, that was rather often, but the act was still enough to make him piss himself.)

"Uh, yeah?" he asked.

"Get dressed," he instructed, "And get downstairs." He didn't wait for Tre to say anything back; he could tell from Tre's intimidated voice that he would listen. He stepped out of his son's room, and Tre heard his footsteps descending the stairs.

'Oh, shit.'

Within a few minutes, Tre was dressed, and he made his way downstairs to his waiting father. He paused at the bottom of the staircase when he saw his father eying him. "Umm, yeah, Dad?"

"Frank—"

"Dad," he mumbled under his breath as a correction.

"Tre, I went up into your room…"

"I thought we agreed you guys wouldn't do that," he said quietly.

"Tre! That's not the point! Your room's a mess—there's alcohol everywhere and… well, other things."

Tre looked at his feet and rolled his eyes. 'Porn,' he thought snidely. "It… I didn't drink any!" he defended convincingly. It was a lie, but that's beside the point.

"Oh, so your friends did it?" Frank asked. Tre didn't think he seemed to be too convinced.

"Umm…" he didn't want Billie and Mike getting in trouble because of him (but better them than himself). "Well… Yeah?"

Frank nodded skeptically. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said more confidently. "Yeah, and I mean, I had no control over what they were doing."

"Hmm, really?" he asked, once again unconvinced.

Tre nodded his head quickly.

"Well, then maybe I don't want you hanging out with them anymore. You've only known them, what—a week? And they're already causing trouble."

"Wha—? No, Dad, they're fine," he guaranteed.

"Maybe I don't really care if they're fine,Tre. Maybe I'm a little more concerned about you. I don't want anything to happen to you."

"I'm fine, Dad. Nothing's gonna happen."

"You sure?"

Tre looked him in the eye nervously. "Yeah, I'm sure."