Yoko

The new album was out. It had topped charts, won awards and introduced a whole new generation to Green Day. It was quite an accomplishment, something to celebrate, yet Tre just couldn't find the heart.

Billie Joe and Adrienne were happy as ever. Mike was engaged, practically walking on air with stars in his eyes when he looked at her. And Tre was alone.

Not that the engagement changed anything. At least, Billie and Mike thought it hadn't. But when Tre watched the couples together, he felt empty inside. And no matter how hard he drank, the hole in his heart wouldn't go away.

But he didn't have time to dwell on this. Being hurried through makeup and wardrobe didn't leave him any time to mope. The stylist frowned at Tre's waist, then shoved a pair of creased black pants and a button-up shirt into his startled hands.

"Got anything in violet?" He asked jokingly. The woman gave him a filthy look.
"Just get dressed, alright?" Her voice was like ice. The smile faded right off Tre's face. He sighed, and struggled into the clothes.

Then he turned to look in the mirror.

***

For a moment, he just saw himself. Then the image was twisted, distorted. Whatever he was, it was mutated, transformed into something grotesque and disgusting. Tre spun away from the mirror with a cry, knocking it over.

The mirror shattered into shards of glass that twinkled innocently back up at him. Tre, red-faced and breathing hard, avoided looking that them.

The sound of the crash had brought the stylist running, Billie and Mike on her heels. The woman's eyes darted from Tre, to the mirror, and then back to him. She wasn't happy.

"You're a fucking idiot, do you know that?" She burst out, and shoved Tre towards the set. "Go on, take your pictures!"
"I just thought I'd help-" Tre tried, his voice pleading, but she gave him another violent shove.
"You've helped enough," she snapped.

Tre gave up, and walked stiffly towards the set. Billie and Mike exchanged confused looks, but said nothing to their friend.

Secretly, Tre doubted that there was anything they could have said to make him feel better.

***

The director looked at each of them in turn, then down at his clipboard.

He had the look of an aging hippie, with his long unkept beard and beaded necklace. When Tre looked at him, he got the distinct impression that this was a man who'd done an extreme amount of partying in his youth.

But despite, or maybe because of, this, he was unusually efficent.

"Alright. This is a very basic shoot. Just group shots, nothing overtly fancy."

He broke off abruptly, looking past them. Then he gestured, smiling. Billie chuckled quietly, hiding a smile behind his hand. Tre knew the Billie doubted that there was anyone there.

But then the sound of stiletto heels on tile grew loud, and a girl pushed her way past Billie to get to the photographer.

"You rang, Emmet?" She asked sarcastically.
"Models and their attitudes. Pfft," Emmet said to the band, then turned to the girl. "I want you to meet Green Day. You're going to be in their next video, if Sam Bayer ever gets around to returning our calls."
"Heh. Then never?" She joked.

The two chatted for a moment longer, but Tre lost interest in the discussion. This girl had effortlessly capitivated his attention, and he didn't mind at all.

She wore an outfit made entirely of multi-colored silk scarves that clung to her hips and floated gracefully about her legs. Her jewelery was delicate golden chains that shimmered against her pale skin. Her eye makeup was bold and etheral, large patches of purple around eyes rimmed with black.

And when she looked at him, his heart stopped.

***

Her face was ordinary, not particularly beautiful. Tre had been with girls ten times prettier.

But it was the simplicity of her features that made it breath-taking. She had a silver bar in her eyebrow, a silver lip ring, and seven diamond studs in each ear. The metal glistened in the light. Her lips curved into a small smile when she saw him looking at her.

She was exotic, alien, almost like some kind of punk rock goddess. This must be the girl Billie wrote songs about.

And her eyes, her eyes cut into him, seeing his emptiness. They were two black pools, swimming with promises and secrets that he couldn't understand. But he thought that maybe, just maybe, she was empty inside too.

"Boys, allow me introduce my favorite model, Jorah. She's been modeling for me for a little over a year now, and she delivers the most phenomenal pictures you'll ever see, plus, she's great in bed from what I hear."
"I'm amazing," She agreed with a wink.

Tre felt his heart explode very quietly and sneakily while he shook her hand. He noticed that she bit her fingernails, and the flaw only made her more beautiful.

"I'm Tre," He said. She smiled.
"You're beautiful," she replied quietly.

And then she was gone; whisked away by that bitch of a stylist.

Billie and Mike walked onto the set, Jorah already forgotten, but Tre couldn't move. He was reliving the feel of her hand in his. It's abscene was almost painful.

He slowly unclenched his fist, and was shocked to find a peice of paper folded twice. Opening it, he saw an angular scrawl of black pen. The paper didn't have his name anywhere on it, but Tre knew it was for him.

Numbers, seven numbers scrawled in purple ink. It wasn't signed either, but it had to be from her. He folded it up very carefully, and put it into his sock.

Funny how, in a matter of seconds, your priorities can change completely.

"Tre, can you get over here sometime today?" Emmet demanded.

Tre laughed and walked onto the set. And that day, at least, in Tre's opinion, they took some of the best pictures the press would ever see.