FicWad

Secrets Shouldn't Be Kept






It's always been just the two of us, me and Billie; Billie and me. In fact, I've been with Billie Joe Armstrong for so long now that it's not even a case of two people together anymore but a case of one entity in two separate bodies. Not 'me and him' but 'We'; the two of us together. Sure, he might be more than a little too old for my sixteen-year-old self at age twenty-one and I might be a little too wimpy for his rather prominent rebellious streak, but we just seem to be so perfect for one another, y'know?

What with the age difference, we only started dating a few months back. We've been bestest buddies for longer though, much longer than even Gerard has had the hots for the little punk guy across the streets. I met BJ through some stupid scheme that our elementary school set up all to do with pairing older kids with the babies to be reading partners. By pure luck of the draw, Billie got landed with me; a reading partner who soon became a barely-tolerated tagalong, then a pal, then a bestest buddy and then, as of three months ago, a boyfriend.

Obviously I was way too young to understand what the swirling tempest of butterflies in my chest meant back when I was but a humble kindergartner, but I think I've always loved BJ. Okay, so I know how stupidly clichéd and rose-tinted that sounds, but it's true. From the moment when he first hugged me after finding me badly beaten around the back of my high school to all of the times that he's let me get drunk in his tree-house even though I'm underage, I've always felt something stronger than friendship for him, for his toddler-scribble black hair, for his wildfire green eyes, for everything that is mine as long as I am his.

We don't have any secrets, me and Billie; we trust each other completely. He told me all about the first time he jacked-off, about how wonderful it felt when lust released itself and his hand lost its virginity. I told him when I used to get night terrors about how scared I was of sleep and, in return, he let me sleepover at his house so that he could protect me, make me feel safe enough not to be walking around like a sleep-deprived zombie for days on end. We tell each other everything, no matter how big or small, nothing is ever left unsaid between us.

Which is probably why he's so mad now.

No. Not mad; hurt. And that's worse. So unbearably worse for me to cope with because I loathe it when my boyfriend's hurt, something that I have never before been the evil, horrible cause of.

"Billie?" I mumble, hating the silence that is stretching out between us where giggles and happiness would normally be. "I-I… I'm sorry."

"Sorry? You're fucking sorry? Jesus Christ, Mikey Way. Jesus fucking H. Christ." He runs a hand through his tangle of hair, eyes looking to be on the brink of tears when he sees how my own have widened in fear that he really is mad at me, that he doesn't want to be my boyfriend anymore. Because, if that is the case, then all of my lying will have been for nothing. "You're in a hospital bed and you're the sorry one? I'm the one who should be sorry, Mouse."

I can't help but smile a little at the pet name; one that he's been giving me for over ten years, ever since the day we met and he thought my name was Mickey when I finally had the courage to squeak it up to him. Relief swells in my chest, knowing that the name was used as his way of letting me know that he really isn't angry as well as through habit.

He grips onto my hand, thumb pressing deep into my palm as though trying to physically attach us to one another. He shuffles up from his perch on the end of my bed, the scratchy sheets crinkling underneath his skinny-jean-clad lower half, and his eyes trail sadly over my battered body. Personally, I think my big brother was overreacting when he called an ambulance after finding me unconscious in my bedroom; the result of getting jumped by a gang of bullies on my way home and only just managing to stagger into my room. Sure, they were a bit rougher with me than normal, but I can deal with that. I've got to.

I have been dealing with it for the past seven weeks, anyway. It's just how things are at school now that Gee's left; I'm the dorky, shy emo kid who is about as straight as a rainbow. There's some sort of unwritten law that says I have to get teased or beaten up at least a little.

"When can you take me home, Billie?" I whimper a little, the idea of possibly having to spend a night in a strange place where my night terrors can creep up on me once more sending shivers down my spine.

He sighs, a miserable raindrop of a sound, and then turns his gaze to the cast covering the majority of my left arm. I insisted on having it as just plain white because that way Gee and Billie can doodle on it, much like they already have done. Between the two of them they've managed to draw almost every character from Watchmen, along with two scrawled messages of pure, caring compassion. It's kind of a bittersweet sight though, because the fact that the cast is there reminds me of the sickening crack that my limb made when two, or it might have been four, jocks decided it looked like a decent trampoline.

Noticing my shudder at the memory, Billie wraps an arm delicately around my shoulders, pulling me into a gentle snuggle. It's nowhere near as full-on as I would like, but it's the greatest comfort I've had since waking up here five hours ago. Now it's ten o'clock at night and all I want is to go home.

No. Not home; to Billie's house, where Billie can cuddle me and kiss me and make everything good again. Because that's where my home really is, where I really feel at ease with myself, even if it is just some cramped little apartment on the rough side of town.

"They got you pretty bad, Mouse. I think the docs wanna keep you in for the night and then let you out tomorrow morning." At that I cling to my boyfriend with my one good arm, tears threatening to finally trickle out of my eyes because, for the first time since this whole ordeal started, I'm actually properly terrified. "Shush, Mikey, shush. It's alright, I'm not gonna leave. I'll stay here with you all night if you want me to. Want me to stay?" I just nod, too drained to be capable of forming real words. "Okay, I'm not leaving you then. Besides, I think we've got some shit we need to talk about. Don't you?"

The slightly stern tinge to his voice makes me gulp because yes, we do have some shit that needs discussing. Shit that's all my fault and nobody else's. Shit that hurt my Billie and caused my long-suffering big brother a hell of a lot of worry. Shit that I've got to face, whether I like it or not.

Billie gently lays me down on the bed, a few cautious fingers taking the time to brush my chocolate-coloured hair out of my eyes, before stretching himself out next to me. The bed's not huge but we're both rather skinny so it's not really too much of a squeeze, besides, it's not like I have any kind of issue with being pressed into BJ anyway. I feel his hands on my tummy, fingers trailing soft circles as though they can erase all of the gashes and bruises littering it, all of the fear and uncertainty torpedoing around underneath my skin.

"Why didn't you tell me, Mikey?" His voice cracks ever so slightly into a tone of absolute despair. And that absolutely breaks my heart. "People hurt you and you never even told me. Even after that time last year when you got beat up, you told me it was a one-off thing. I'm your boyfriend, Mouse, you're meant to be able to trust me with this kind of thing so that I can protect you." His words are brimming with compassion, desperation, and an undeniable tinge of accusation. My tears really start to come now, forcing my head to bury into Billie's shoulder like a razor-blade bullet. "So, come on Mouse, why didn't you tell me?"

There are so many things that I want to say to him right now, like how they told me it would get worse if I told, like how ashamed I was/still am that I can't defend myself properly, like how I can't let Billie see how pathetic his boyfriend is, but I just can't seem to find my words. Perhaps it's the morphine or maybe the swelling sense of shame rising in my chest, but I just can't think of the right thing to say.

But Billie's waiting for an answer. And I think that's the very least I owe him.

"You don't have to protect me, y'know? You don't need to. I'm not pathetic and weak; I can take care of myself."

"Oh, Mikey. That's what they called you, isn't it?" He whispers, a light of understanding flicking on in the back of his eyes.

My words may not have been the best in the world, but I think Billie Joe understands. Just like he always does. I don't think that there has ever been a time when BJ hasn't been able to understand or get through to me, even when I met him for the first time and was too shy to give him my name, he still managed to worm it out of my stiff lips in the end. Even if it did take a hell of a lot of coaxing and more heavy sighs than there are grains of rice in China.

That's what I love about Billie; his patience and his undefeatable determination, two things that put together make him one of the most caring people I know. Especially when teamed with his unwavering compassion for everyone he holds dear. Saying that though, get on the wrong side of Billie Joe Armstrong and you'll be able to count the number of seconds you have left to live on one finger. Usually BJ's middle one.

I'm bought back to the present by two soft lips gliding softly over my bruised cheek, the action intended to make me feel as loved as I know I always will be as long as Billie's by my side. As loved as I will always be forever.

"You're not any of the things those bastards called you; you're brave and smart and absolutely adorable. I mean, how many guys do you know who can pull off wearing eyeliner? Or who do you know that can learn to play bass almost overnight?" I do nothing to hide my blush. Mainly because I know Billie thinks it's adorable, partly because my blush always seems to brighten whenever I try to hide it. "And it's my job to protect you. Just like you with that stuffed zebra I won you from the fair a few years back."

A chuckle teases its way out of my lips at the memory of my thirteen-year-old self fighting through the torrents of people at the local fair, trying to use my body to cushion the ginormous cuddly zebra Billie had managed to win me from the shooting range game stall. It may have taken him twenty dollars (more than the toy itself was worth) of goes to win the thing, and then a fair bit of negotiating (shouting and swearing) in order to convince the owner that Billie really was playing the game right, but all of that just made it even more special to me. Just the knowledge that someone thought I was worth all of that hassle, that my smile was a grand enough bribe to make Billie waste all that money and effort made the toy something akin to the Holy Grail in my eyes.

"I still have that, you know." I mumble tiredly, the rhythmic rubbing on my tummy making my eyes fog over with a longing for sleep. "It lives at the end of my bed, keeping the vampires away."

"Is that why Gee never goes in your room?" We both laugh at that, a weak sound that comes across as starved of true light-heartedness, but at least it's not silence. "Seriously though, Mikey, why did you feel the need to rugby tackle through the crowd to get that thing out of there; why did you have to protect it?"

Intrigued as to where on Earth this could possibly be going, I search through my dazed mind for an answer that both makes sense and is what my boyfriend is looking for. When I find several potential replies, I pick out the most sincere.

"Because you won it for me. And you winning it for me meant that you care, which in turn made the zebra special." I stop to consider and Billie takes advantage of the pause by pecking my lips, sending tingles of pleasure all over my battered body. "It was special and precious and so I had to protect it. It was better than getting jostled by the crowd, it was mine to protect."

Billie smiles and I know that I've said the right thing, something that fills me with pride and banishes all notions of shame that I earlier had. Because that's just the affect that Billie has over people, over me.

"Precisely. You, Michael James Way, are my stuffed zebra. I get to cuddle you and I get to protect you, because you are special and precious to me. You're my zebra, Mouse."

I feel him chuckle against me, his chest rumbling against my body in a way that floods me with soothing warmth. He strokes a hand contently over my arm, all the while nuzzling into my neck and making me melt a little more into the bliss that felt to be a universe away this afternoon.

"You're so soft, Mouse. My soft, sexy zebra." His voice is like velvet, all silky seduction and complete perfection. "And it kills me to know that you've been getting hurt and you never even told me. So no more secrets, yeah?"

"Yeah, Billie. No more secrets." I stop to smile at him, everything about the smile honest and true. "I promise."

"We need to come up with a special vow." He pipes up after a few seconds, sounding surprisingly animated for someone laid out with his arm around a nearly-dozing body. "Y'know, like a pinkie promise but only for us." He thinks for a second, the insanity of my boyfriend reassuring me that everything really is alright. Or that it is going to be once I'm out of this place and in Billie's bed. "Got it! How about Peach Promise?"

I just blink at him, unable to keep up with his sonic-paced train of thought. He's not normally this hyper unless he's been on the RedBull, which he may well have been before Gee phoned him to let him know I'd been taken into hospital via speeding ambulance, but even then he's not normally this spontaneous. Not after being so solemn, anyway. And certainly not in a hospital, one of those rare places that make him feel genuinely uncomfortable. He hasn't moaned once about being here though, not once has he given his attention to anything other than my sorry self and my pathetic wounds.

I happen to know about his lack of like for hospitals because I was the friend he chose to go in with him when he had to have his tonsils taken out six years ago. I may have only been ten myself, but I did my very best to comfort him through his unexpected and irrational fear of doctors. It may be an irrational fear, but that doesn't make it any less serious; he's my boyfriend and, even though I'm younger, it's my job to keep him away from the things that make him anything less than happy.

"What do you think, Mouse?"

His eyes are full of eagerness, urgently begging for a response to his sudden brainwave that seems to be on a completely different wavelength to the one I'm on.

"Where did the peach part come from?"

"Because that's what you taste like, silly!" He rolls his eyes as though it's obvious and, proving his point, he presses his lips to mine, sneakily snaking his tongue in for a quick taste. "Yep. Peaches. And then there's the fact that our first date consisted of peach milkshakes." He says matter-of-factly, referring to when I went around his house at age eight and his mom made us the drinks out of the product of her peach tree down the bottom of the garden. In reality it was our first play-date, but we like to think of it as our first date. "So Peach Promise it. Peach Promise that you won't ever hide anything from ever again, Mikey Way."

It would be silly, if it hadn't suddenly turned so serious. But the kind of serious that makes me feel so loved that it I can physically feel it.

"I Peach Promise it, Billie."

"There's a good stuffed zebra."








A/N: So this is what happens when I’m A) given the prompt words “stuffed zebra” and “peach”, B) struck down with the mother of all colds and B) too lazy to do anything other than type. Anyway, I hope you guys liked it and please let me know what you think! :)