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revidTitle: TLC
Author: revid
Rating:NC-17
Pairing: Billie Joe/Mike
Disclaimer: It's called RPS Fiction for a reason: It's FICTION!
Notes: A little angst, a little fluff, a little cliché, a little sex, a little humor.
Noise.
Loud, whirring, clanking noise.
And beeping, such annoying persistent beeping...
Then a voice, coming from far down the end of a foggy, echoing tunnel. Wait...talking to me? It has a dream-like quality, like the sound of the music from a clock radio before you've woken up to hear it. Now harsh, cold blue light, penetrating through my closed eyelids. No..I'm not going to open them..it hurts too bad. Then the voice again...now it's closer to me in the tunnel. "Michael, open your eyes." Michael? --confusion-- Is my mom here? No, no, I won't. "Michael, open your eyes, your surgery's over." What? Where the fuck....Oh, god, it hurts......my throat...I can't speak...wait...--panic--...I can't move. "Michael, it's OK, you're just waking up from your surgery." I manage to flutter my eyelids. "You're in the recovery room, Michael, everything went just fine." OK, I said, though no sound was made, I'm just going to go back to sleep now. But the pain....and that beeping....
*****
The show had been decent that night, about par for the course. As Mike had once famously said about his band: "Green Day is like sex; even when we're bad, we're still pretty good." The arena had sold out, like most of them on this tour, filled with a clamoring crowd of American Idiots happy to see them. Yeah, they had sold-out here the last time, but in a venue half this size.
While the final notes of We Are The Champions drifted through the blizzard of confetti and the blasts of the pyrotechnics, Mike and Tré and the rest of the band ran off stage right as usual. The house lights went to black, and Billie Joe trotted to the center of the stage for his solo encore of Good Riddance.
As they approached the steps leading off the stage, Tré, who was behind Mike, stepped on a guitar pick that had been dropped earlier in the show. His foot slipped back at the sudden loss of traction, and he instinctively reached his arm forward, grabbing Mike's shirt .
Unfortunately, at that moment Mike was in mid-stride, his foot in the air, weight forward, preparing to alight on the first of the three rail-less plywood steps. He desperately tried to regain his balance, but his right foot landed with only the inner edge of his heel making contact with the platform. He felt his ankle twist sharply inward as all his weight rolled outward. It happened so fast that all he could do was get his arms up by his head to protect his face from hitting the ground two feet below. As he landed on his side, he felt his right leg twisted at a hideous angle under his body, heard a horrible sound, and was stunned by a white hot phosphorous flash of pain. Before he could even cry out, Mike thought
"Oh God, I'm totally fucked now."
Tré was at his side in an instant, helping him to a sitting position. Tré tripping on stage would usually be a cause for great levity, but from the sickening sound Mike made hitting the ground, they all knew that nothing was going to be funny this time. "Oh my God, Mike, are you OK? Oh God, buddy, I'm so sorry. Oh Jeez!"
Mike let out a groan of agony and broke into a sweat as he attempted to straighten out his right leg, and the weight of his foot on his ankle sent another searing bolt of pain to his brain. "Oh shit, it's my ankle," he moaned. "I think it's broken!" He looked down at his leg in horror as his deformed ankle swelled to the size of a grapefruit before his eyes.
"It's OK man," Tré tried helplessly to reassure Mike, "It's gonna be OK." Venue security had already radioed the paramedics, who were on their way. Tré and Jason and one of the arena guys helped Mike move backwards to a sitting position with his back against the stage platform. Although they tried to protect it while they moved him, he could not supress a large "aarrrggggfuuckkk" of distress as the ankle was repositioned. Mike gritted his teeth in his anguish, listening in the background to the closing arpeggio of Good Riddance and the fervent cries from the crowds worshiping at the altar of Billie Joe.
Although he never would have admitted it, this was Billie Joe's favorite part of the show, out there all alone. He paused before striking the final closing G chord, listening to the crowd, listening for that at least one "I love you Billie!" he knew someone would cry out. As the chord faded, he stood gazing over the crowd with a thousand mile stare, absorbing the energy and the adulation through his skin. It was like oxygen to him; it was what sustained him. When his reverie broke, he nodded once in thanks to the crowd and threw the pick into the audience for some lucky fan to treasure. He turned and strode purposefully to the stage steps, still blissfully unaware of the events of the last four minutes.
"What the fu......?" he exclaimed in surprise at the crowd of people huddled at the bottom of the stairs. Then he spotted his oldest friend sitting in the center on the floor, his face ashen gray and contorted with pain as a woman in a blue jumpsuit was taping an ice-bag to his ankle and putting it in a cardboard splint. The sight sent a wave of anxiety and dread through Billie Joe's stomach, instantaneously replacing the high that had been there. He jumped down and ran around the steps, pushing his way past the people until he was on the ground next to Mike, opposite from Tré. He placed his arm around his waist to comfort himself as much as Mike. "Mike, what the hell happened? Are you OK?"
"I fell." Mike grimaced and exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to get the words out. "I missed the step and I fell. It's my ankle."
Tré honestly appeared to be in almost as much pain as Mike. "I'm so sorry Mikey." He looked to Billie Joe, seeking absolution from someone. "I slipped and couldn't get my balance and I fell into him. God, Mike, I'm so sorry." Mike managed a weak smile at Tré's contrition. "Oh for fuck's sake, Tré, it's OK! I know you didn't try to kill me on purpose......this time."
"All right Mike, I'm Andrea," said the woman in the blue jump suit. We're going to take you to the hospital now." Despite their protestations, Billie Joe and Tré were sent back to the hotel so as not to further increase the chaos, while their tour manager and one of the suits from Warner/Reprise accompanied Mike to the hospital. After assisting their best bud onto the gurney, the boys ran out the doors directly to the waiting limos, sorely disappointing the fans waiting by the barricades. They just weren't in the mood.
*****
Mike woke up disoriented. He couldn't be sure what time it was, but he saw light filtering through the curtain of the hotel....no, it wasn't a hotel room, hotel rooms didn't have oxygen ports and suction canisters on the wall. And what the fuck is this tube in my dick, he thought with alarm. Then as he slowly became aware of the pain emanating from his right leg, the flood of memories returned with a crash. Oh shit, I fell and I broke my ankle in three places and they told me they had to operate on it in the morning. God, what time is it? He looked up and was slightly startled to see a woman in blue scrubs standing by his bed. "Hi Mr. Pritchard, I'm Tara, I'm your nurse. How are you doing this afternoon?"
Mike guessed the woman to be in her late 50s, not unattractive for her age, with short dark hair and a demeanor which instantly suggested that she could have come from central casting with this note pinned to her: Nurse: older, experienced, gruff & no nonsense exterior, warm & caring interior.
"Well, I've been better," he answered truthfully. "What time is it?"
"It's about noon. You went into the OR at 7, got out about 9, and you're in your room now."
"Pretty nice room," he noted, looking around at the mini-suite.
"Yes," Tara explained. "2 South is the VIP wing of the hospital, all private rooms, limited staff and public access. No interns, no student nurses, no unauthorized visitors. And the food's better, too. We never have a shortage of patients here."
Tara had been told her pierced and heavily tattooed patient with the odd short blond haircut was in some moderately famous rock band, someone she had never heard of, but she was too much of a professional to ask any of her patients where they got the cash to be in 2 South. "If you need something, just ask. How's your pain?"
"Pretty bad," Mike admitted.
"Here." She handed him a small button attached to a pump. "Press this," she said, "it will give you medicine for pain through that catheter in your arm whenever you press it." Mike did, and within a few seconds experienced not only a blessed relief, but also a not unpleasant flashback to some experiences of his younger days.
"Can I call my daughter?"
"Of course. She called for you about an hour ago; she's a very sweet young lady." Tara smiled. "I told her you were doing fine, and you would call her when you woke up, and she told me to tell you that she said 'I love you, Daddy.' " At this, Mike's eyes welled up with tears, and Tara couldn't help herself but give the young man a gentle hug around the shoulders. He was only a few years younger than her daughter, and she was touched by his obvious affection for his own.
"I also told your friends to call in about an hour, too." She raised her eyebrows. "You're a pretty popular guy. The switchboard's been going nuts with calls for you. But they're only putting calls through from people on a list your friends set up. And Dr. Larson, your surgeon, will come by first thing tomorrow morning, and she'll probably send you home after that."
She paused. "Oh, and I can take that tube out of your bladder now, if you'd like."
"Uh, yeah, please." His mild embarrassment at the thought of the older woman handling his penis was easily trumped by the relief of having that annoyance gone. After deftly taking care of it and recording his vital signs in his chart, she prepared to leave.
"All right, Mr. Pritchard, there's the phone-- just dial 9 to call out, and here's the call button. Need any thing before I go?"
"No, just call me Mike, OK...no one calls me Mr. Pritchard." That was certainly true.
"Sure Mike. See you in a little bit."
Mike picked up the phone, and spoke to Estelle for almost 30 minutes, reassuring her he was OK and he loved her, and that he would see her soon. No sooner had he set down the receiver, than the phone rang. "Hello?"
"Mike! Mike! How the fuck are you?"
He was pleased to hear Billie Joe's voice. "Well, I've had better fuckin' days," he said, looking down at the fiberglass cast on his foot and ankle.
"Is it OK if I come down now?"
"Please! I'm gonna go nuts here soon. What about Tré and the rest of the guys?"
"Well, they said to limit visitors, so they're gonna come down later tonight, OK?"
"Good. See you soon." Mike was surprised at the feeling of relief that came over him at the thought of his friend's company. For as attractive as it looked, this hospital room was a sucky place to be alone.
*****
Billie Joe knocked, then sauntered in. "Nice digs" he said, hands in pockets, gazing around the room. "I guess Warner stepped up to the plate, huh?" Billie shuddered as he suddenly recalled the only other hospital room he remembered, the one his dad had died in when he was a boy. He was overcome by a sharp pain of sadness and regret that, with all he had now, he could not go back in time and have given his dad at least this much comfort then. He quickly suppressed that unbidden thought, and smiled at Mike. He walked over to the bedside, leaned down and wrapped his arms around his best friend and occasional lover. He kissed him softly on the lips, pressed his check next to his tightly, and whispered "I'm glad you're OK," with a depth of sincerity and emotion that took even him by surprise. He was still disturbed by the memory of those awful seconds where he knew something was wrong with Mike, but did not know what.
Billie Joe broke off his embrace and settled back into the padded chair by the bedside.
"How ya feeling? You look like shit."
"Thanks, pal, I knew I could count on you guys for sympathy." Mike shifted in the bed, trying sit up a bit more. "The ankle hurts likes a sonofabitch, and I'm sorta sore all over, but it's really not too bad. They've got me hooked up to this pain pump thing...it's nice. They said I could probably go home tomorrow."
"Good. I think they're planning for us to fly home then maybe."
"So we had to cancel the show tonight, huh?," Mike said with resignation, stating the obvious. Fortunately, a 2 week break had been scheduled after what would have been tonight's show. Still, it really bothered him to think about the disappointment that this was creating.
"Yeah, don't worry about it; we'll make it up. The website's gonna crash from all the get-well emails you're getting--they'll forgive you."
There was a short rap at the door, and Tara entered. "Everything OK, Mike?"
"Yeah, fine, thanks. Tara, this is my friend Billie Joe."
As she shook his hand, she assessed her patient's friend. She figured he couldn't be more than 5'6", 140 soaking wet, slightly feminine features, and looked to be a few years younger than Mike. It seemed pretty obvious that he must be in that band with him, too. He had spiky dyed black hair, sticking out from a backward baseball cap that said Adeline on it. He was dressed all in black, with a short sleeved t-shirt that exposed even more tattoos than her patient had. Her eyes were drawn to one unusual one on his right forearm that looked to be a picture strip of a woman--the kind you used to get for a dollar at the little booth at the drug store. She also noted a well-worn plain gold band on his left ring finger. She smiled to herself as she remembered what her grandmother would have said, "There's a lid for every pot, honey."
"I don't know a lot about rock music these days," she said apologetically. "What was the name of your band again?"
"Green Day," Mike answered. The expression on his friend's face indicated that he was more amused than offended that she was unfamiliar with them.
She looked at her watch. "Well, this is what we call quiet time at this hospital, from two to four. No interruptions by anybody, unless it's an emergency, to give the patients a chance to rest. And no visitors, either. She waited a beat, then continued. "But on 2 South, we're allowed to make exceptions...if you'd like."
Mike nodded his assent. "Thanks Tara." She left the room, closing the door behind her.
"Well, at least you didn't get Nurse Ratchet."
"No, thank God for that." They both laughed.
Billie Joe moved over to sit on edge of the bed, facing Mike. He leaned in and brushed his lips against his forehead. "Seriously, you scared the crap out us."
Mike smiled at his friend: the snarling pothead punk, the political popstar, the sensitive softie, all rolled into one...
Then he saw the flash as a light bulb went off over Billie Joe's head. "Oh Christ, no, Billie."
...and the inveterate horn dog.
Billie Joe grinned back at him. With that grin he had known since the days when they were just two horny 13 year olds, adding sex to the list of things they were experimenting with.
"Why not?"
"Now? In a fucking hospital?" At least it's not a church, he thought, but declined to say out loud lest Billie Joe get any ideas. "Well, did it occur to you that maybe I'm not exactly in the mood?"
"I bet I can change that," he said, his voice shaded by an almost imperceptible tone of seduction.
He leaned in until their lips were almost touching, locked in on his eyes, and whispered "It's OK, Mike." His hand slipped under the hospital gown, and Mike took a sharp intake of breath as he felt the tiny wave of pleasure coursing directly from his nipple downward. And Billie Joe knew he had won. Again.
Mike was nobody's pushover and nobody's fool and from an early age he had relied upon nobody but himself. But on occasion, the powerful desire to be powerless: they have a need for someone else be in control, a secret wish not to have to be in charge all the time. And Billie Joe knew this--perhaps he was the only one who did--about his best friend/bandmate/buddy/lover.
So sometimes it was a weekly thing, sometimes many, many months would go by, but they had fallen into a familiar pattern: Billie Joe played the part of the aggressor, Mike the part of the reluctant participant. Perhaps this was because Mike had never identified himself as bisexual the way Billie Joe had. Still, he had wondered on more than one occasion how he would feel if Billie ever stopped making overtures. But given wives and girlfriends and separate lives, too much analysis wasn't going to be a good thing, and so without speaking of it, they had declined to speak of it. It was what it was.
Billie Joe pushed the button that lowered the head of the bed. "Here," he said, "like this," as he gently helped his friend roll on to his left side, knees flexed, assisting him the the cast on his right foot. Billie Joe began to stoke his back, while the hand on his chest made ever widening circles, slowly moving down his abdomen. Mike's upper body relaxed under the soothing touch, in stark contrast to his growing hardness in his groin. As Billie Joe's fingertips brushed the tip of his cock, Mike sighed softly, anticipating, his reluctance dissipating like a smoke ring in a breeze. Billie Joe took his hand from Mike's back and quickly removed his belt and unzipped his jeans, still slowly stroking Mike's erection. He grabbed a foil pack of K-Y from the night stand, where he had seen it earlier, neatly lined up next to the vaseline, q-tips, and tongue depressors.
He kicked off his shoes and crawled under the sheet, not bothering to fully remove his pants. He spooned around Mike, his hard cock pressed against the soft skin of Mike's back and butt, his face resting between his shoulder blades, his knees curled up below the taller man's. "So maybe this is why these gowns always leave your ass hanging out," he snickered. Mike's only response was a quiet sigh as his body relaxed and soaked up the warmth of Billie Joe's smaller frame. Billie reached over and resumed his slow rhythmic stroking, nibbling at the back of Mike's neck. As the rocking of Mike's hips became more insistent, Billie Joe opened the K-Y and moistened his finger. He placed this hand between Mike's thighs, and gently pushed up with his finger, massaging little circles around his entrance, waiting for the muscles to relax. Mike reached down to his cock to continue what Billie Joe had stopped, finally abandoning himself to the sensations, closing off his mind, no longer caring where he was.
Billie Joe placed more lube on his cock, and gently, firmly entered Mike with a slow, steady motion. Mike gasped, both in pain and at the electric shock generated from hitting that spot. It was an inchoate sensation of pleasure that started in his solar plexus and radiated progressively through every nerve in his body. His toes curled under hard as the wave of warmth reached them, and his back arched like a cat waking up from a nap. Billie Joe placed his hand on the back of Mike's head, massaging his scalp through his hair. He slid his other hand off his friend's hip and placed it on Mike's hand, stroking him together, pushing his hips back as Billie went farther forward into him.
Now they were both lost deep in themselves, eyes closed, barely aware of their surroundings any longer, just the steady movement of Billie Joe's thrusts tying them to ground. The only noise was the gentle rustling of the sheets as they subconsciously modulated the sounds of what neither man ever would have called lovemaking, but what was just that, nonetheless. Billie Joe sensed Mike's closeness by the change in his breathing, and it only took a soft "Come on, Mike, now" in his ear to send him there. The waves of his orgasm swept over Mike's body, and Billie Joe felt the warm sticky seed on his hand, and the muscle spasms of Mike's pelvis squeezing Billie Joe's cock grew even tighter, and then he too could no longer hold on, and now he arched his back and rocked his pelvis forward, and shuddered as the tension left his body in pulsating contractions with a deep, long, quiet moan.
They lay there together, catching their breath, until Billie Joe's increasing softness forced him to slip out. With a kiss at the nape of his neck, Billie Joe placed his hands on Mike's hip and the bed and sat himself up. He grabbed a terry cloth towel from the night stand, wiped himself off, stood up, and quickly rectified his partially undressed state. He leaned over his friend, still in a fetal position, ran his hand through the disheveled hair, and planted a kiss on the angular jaw. "See, I told you it would be OK," he said, handing him the towel.
After wiping himself, Mike tossed the towel back to Billie. "Here...throw this in that bin over there." No need for his nurse to clean up after that. "And help me move my goddamn leg back." He pressed the button on his pain pump for good measure. With Billie Joe supporting the weight of the cast, Mike pressed his hands into the bed, and gingerly shifted his body weight from his side to his back. He adjusted the bed up to a reclining position, and lolled his head back, closing his eyes.
"Wow," he sighed, spent.
"Yeah."
"God, I'm tired."
"Yeah, well you've had a rough day," murmured Billie Joe with unmasked affection, leaning forward from his chair to stroke his cheek once. He sat back down by the bed, one hand resting on top of Mike's. He watched as the features of his face slowly softened, his breathing became deep and regular, and he drifted off to sleep.
After a little while, he heard the gentle woosh of the door opening. He reflexively pulled his hand back to his chair.
"He's been sleeping for a while?," Mike's nurse whispered.
"Yes," nodded the dark-haired man.
"Well, if you want, you can stay with him a little while longer. Surgery really tires them out."
"Yeah, that must be it. Thanks," he said politely, with the barest hint of a smile.
As she turned to leave, Tara made a mental note to ask her daughter if she had ever heard of Mike's rock group. In spite of the way they look-- she thought as she closed the door behind her-- they seem just like any other nice normal young men.
### :-) ###
Author: revid
Rating:NC-17
Pairing: Billie Joe/Mike
Disclaimer: It's called RPS Fiction for a reason: It's FICTION!
Notes: A little angst, a little fluff, a little cliché, a little sex, a little humor.
Noise.
Loud, whirring, clanking noise.
And beeping, such annoying persistent beeping...
Then a voice, coming from far down the end of a foggy, echoing tunnel. Wait...talking to me? It has a dream-like quality, like the sound of the music from a clock radio before you've woken up to hear it. Now harsh, cold blue light, penetrating through my closed eyelids. No..I'm not going to open them..it hurts too bad. Then the voice again...now it's closer to me in the tunnel. "Michael, open your eyes." Michael? --confusion-- Is my mom here? No, no, I won't. "Michael, open your eyes, your surgery's over." What? Where the fuck....Oh, god, it hurts......my throat...I can't speak...wait...--panic--...I can't move. "Michael, it's OK, you're just waking up from your surgery." I manage to flutter my eyelids. "You're in the recovery room, Michael, everything went just fine." OK, I said, though no sound was made, I'm just going to go back to sleep now. But the pain....and that beeping....
*****
The show had been decent that night, about par for the course. As Mike had once famously said about his band: "Green Day is like sex; even when we're bad, we're still pretty good." The arena had sold out, like most of them on this tour, filled with a clamoring crowd of American Idiots happy to see them. Yeah, they had sold-out here the last time, but in a venue half this size.
While the final notes of We Are The Champions drifted through the blizzard of confetti and the blasts of the pyrotechnics, Mike and Tré and the rest of the band ran off stage right as usual. The house lights went to black, and Billie Joe trotted to the center of the stage for his solo encore of Good Riddance.
As they approached the steps leading off the stage, Tré, who was behind Mike, stepped on a guitar pick that had been dropped earlier in the show. His foot slipped back at the sudden loss of traction, and he instinctively reached his arm forward, grabbing Mike's shirt .
Unfortunately, at that moment Mike was in mid-stride, his foot in the air, weight forward, preparing to alight on the first of the three rail-less plywood steps. He desperately tried to regain his balance, but his right foot landed with only the inner edge of his heel making contact with the platform. He felt his ankle twist sharply inward as all his weight rolled outward. It happened so fast that all he could do was get his arms up by his head to protect his face from hitting the ground two feet below. As he landed on his side, he felt his right leg twisted at a hideous angle under his body, heard a horrible sound, and was stunned by a white hot phosphorous flash of pain. Before he could even cry out, Mike thought
"Oh God, I'm totally fucked now."
Tré was at his side in an instant, helping him to a sitting position. Tré tripping on stage would usually be a cause for great levity, but from the sickening sound Mike made hitting the ground, they all knew that nothing was going to be funny this time. "Oh my God, Mike, are you OK? Oh God, buddy, I'm so sorry. Oh Jeez!"
Mike let out a groan of agony and broke into a sweat as he attempted to straighten out his right leg, and the weight of his foot on his ankle sent another searing bolt of pain to his brain. "Oh shit, it's my ankle," he moaned. "I think it's broken!" He looked down at his leg in horror as his deformed ankle swelled to the size of a grapefruit before his eyes.
"It's OK man," Tré tried helplessly to reassure Mike, "It's gonna be OK." Venue security had already radioed the paramedics, who were on their way. Tré and Jason and one of the arena guys helped Mike move backwards to a sitting position with his back against the stage platform. Although they tried to protect it while they moved him, he could not supress a large "aarrrggggfuuckkk" of distress as the ankle was repositioned. Mike gritted his teeth in his anguish, listening in the background to the closing arpeggio of Good Riddance and the fervent cries from the crowds worshiping at the altar of Billie Joe.
Although he never would have admitted it, this was Billie Joe's favorite part of the show, out there all alone. He paused before striking the final closing G chord, listening to the crowd, listening for that at least one "I love you Billie!" he knew someone would cry out. As the chord faded, he stood gazing over the crowd with a thousand mile stare, absorbing the energy and the adulation through his skin. It was like oxygen to him; it was what sustained him. When his reverie broke, he nodded once in thanks to the crowd and threw the pick into the audience for some lucky fan to treasure. He turned and strode purposefully to the stage steps, still blissfully unaware of the events of the last four minutes.
"What the fu......?" he exclaimed in surprise at the crowd of people huddled at the bottom of the stairs. Then he spotted his oldest friend sitting in the center on the floor, his face ashen gray and contorted with pain as a woman in a blue jumpsuit was taping an ice-bag to his ankle and putting it in a cardboard splint. The sight sent a wave of anxiety and dread through Billie Joe's stomach, instantaneously replacing the high that had been there. He jumped down and ran around the steps, pushing his way past the people until he was on the ground next to Mike, opposite from Tré. He placed his arm around his waist to comfort himself as much as Mike. "Mike, what the hell happened? Are you OK?"
"I fell." Mike grimaced and exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to get the words out. "I missed the step and I fell. It's my ankle."
Tré honestly appeared to be in almost as much pain as Mike. "I'm so sorry Mikey." He looked to Billie Joe, seeking absolution from someone. "I slipped and couldn't get my balance and I fell into him. God, Mike, I'm so sorry." Mike managed a weak smile at Tré's contrition. "Oh for fuck's sake, Tré, it's OK! I know you didn't try to kill me on purpose......this time."
"All right Mike, I'm Andrea," said the woman in the blue jump suit. We're going to take you to the hospital now." Despite their protestations, Billie Joe and Tré were sent back to the hotel so as not to further increase the chaos, while their tour manager and one of the suits from Warner/Reprise accompanied Mike to the hospital. After assisting their best bud onto the gurney, the boys ran out the doors directly to the waiting limos, sorely disappointing the fans waiting by the barricades. They just weren't in the mood.
*****
Mike woke up disoriented. He couldn't be sure what time it was, but he saw light filtering through the curtain of the hotel....no, it wasn't a hotel room, hotel rooms didn't have oxygen ports and suction canisters on the wall. And what the fuck is this tube in my dick, he thought with alarm. Then as he slowly became aware of the pain emanating from his right leg, the flood of memories returned with a crash. Oh shit, I fell and I broke my ankle in three places and they told me they had to operate on it in the morning. God, what time is it? He looked up and was slightly startled to see a woman in blue scrubs standing by his bed. "Hi Mr. Pritchard, I'm Tara, I'm your nurse. How are you doing this afternoon?"
Mike guessed the woman to be in her late 50s, not unattractive for her age, with short dark hair and a demeanor which instantly suggested that she could have come from central casting with this note pinned to her: Nurse: older, experienced, gruff & no nonsense exterior, warm & caring interior.
"Well, I've been better," he answered truthfully. "What time is it?"
"It's about noon. You went into the OR at 7, got out about 9, and you're in your room now."
"Pretty nice room," he noted, looking around at the mini-suite.
"Yes," Tara explained. "2 South is the VIP wing of the hospital, all private rooms, limited staff and public access. No interns, no student nurses, no unauthorized visitors. And the food's better, too. We never have a shortage of patients here."
Tara had been told her pierced and heavily tattooed patient with the odd short blond haircut was in some moderately famous rock band, someone she had never heard of, but she was too much of a professional to ask any of her patients where they got the cash to be in 2 South. "If you need something, just ask. How's your pain?"
"Pretty bad," Mike admitted.
"Here." She handed him a small button attached to a pump. "Press this," she said, "it will give you medicine for pain through that catheter in your arm whenever you press it." Mike did, and within a few seconds experienced not only a blessed relief, but also a not unpleasant flashback to some experiences of his younger days.
"Can I call my daughter?"
"Of course. She called for you about an hour ago; she's a very sweet young lady." Tara smiled. "I told her you were doing fine, and you would call her when you woke up, and she told me to tell you that she said 'I love you, Daddy.' " At this, Mike's eyes welled up with tears, and Tara couldn't help herself but give the young man a gentle hug around the shoulders. He was only a few years younger than her daughter, and she was touched by his obvious affection for his own.
"I also told your friends to call in about an hour, too." She raised her eyebrows. "You're a pretty popular guy. The switchboard's been going nuts with calls for you. But they're only putting calls through from people on a list your friends set up. And Dr. Larson, your surgeon, will come by first thing tomorrow morning, and she'll probably send you home after that."
She paused. "Oh, and I can take that tube out of your bladder now, if you'd like."
"Uh, yeah, please." His mild embarrassment at the thought of the older woman handling his penis was easily trumped by the relief of having that annoyance gone. After deftly taking care of it and recording his vital signs in his chart, she prepared to leave.
"All right, Mr. Pritchard, there's the phone-- just dial 9 to call out, and here's the call button. Need any thing before I go?"
"No, just call me Mike, OK...no one calls me Mr. Pritchard." That was certainly true.
"Sure Mike. See you in a little bit."
Mike picked up the phone, and spoke to Estelle for almost 30 minutes, reassuring her he was OK and he loved her, and that he would see her soon. No sooner had he set down the receiver, than the phone rang. "Hello?"
"Mike! Mike! How the fuck are you?"
He was pleased to hear Billie Joe's voice. "Well, I've had better fuckin' days," he said, looking down at the fiberglass cast on his foot and ankle.
"Is it OK if I come down now?"
"Please! I'm gonna go nuts here soon. What about Tré and the rest of the guys?"
"Well, they said to limit visitors, so they're gonna come down later tonight, OK?"
"Good. See you soon." Mike was surprised at the feeling of relief that came over him at the thought of his friend's company. For as attractive as it looked, this hospital room was a sucky place to be alone.
*****
Billie Joe knocked, then sauntered in. "Nice digs" he said, hands in pockets, gazing around the room. "I guess Warner stepped up to the plate, huh?" Billie shuddered as he suddenly recalled the only other hospital room he remembered, the one his dad had died in when he was a boy. He was overcome by a sharp pain of sadness and regret that, with all he had now, he could not go back in time and have given his dad at least this much comfort then. He quickly suppressed that unbidden thought, and smiled at Mike. He walked over to the bedside, leaned down and wrapped his arms around his best friend and occasional lover. He kissed him softly on the lips, pressed his check next to his tightly, and whispered "I'm glad you're OK," with a depth of sincerity and emotion that took even him by surprise. He was still disturbed by the memory of those awful seconds where he knew something was wrong with Mike, but did not know what.
Billie Joe broke off his embrace and settled back into the padded chair by the bedside.
"How ya feeling? You look like shit."
"Thanks, pal, I knew I could count on you guys for sympathy." Mike shifted in the bed, trying sit up a bit more. "The ankle hurts likes a sonofabitch, and I'm sorta sore all over, but it's really not too bad. They've got me hooked up to this pain pump thing...it's nice. They said I could probably go home tomorrow."
"Good. I think they're planning for us to fly home then maybe."
"So we had to cancel the show tonight, huh?," Mike said with resignation, stating the obvious. Fortunately, a 2 week break had been scheduled after what would have been tonight's show. Still, it really bothered him to think about the disappointment that this was creating.
"Yeah, don't worry about it; we'll make it up. The website's gonna crash from all the get-well emails you're getting--they'll forgive you."
There was a short rap at the door, and Tara entered. "Everything OK, Mike?"
"Yeah, fine, thanks. Tara, this is my friend Billie Joe."
As she shook his hand, she assessed her patient's friend. She figured he couldn't be more than 5'6", 140 soaking wet, slightly feminine features, and looked to be a few years younger than Mike. It seemed pretty obvious that he must be in that band with him, too. He had spiky dyed black hair, sticking out from a backward baseball cap that said Adeline on it. He was dressed all in black, with a short sleeved t-shirt that exposed even more tattoos than her patient had. Her eyes were drawn to one unusual one on his right forearm that looked to be a picture strip of a woman--the kind you used to get for a dollar at the little booth at the drug store. She also noted a well-worn plain gold band on his left ring finger. She smiled to herself as she remembered what her grandmother would have said, "There's a lid for every pot, honey."
"I don't know a lot about rock music these days," she said apologetically. "What was the name of your band again?"
"Green Day," Mike answered. The expression on his friend's face indicated that he was more amused than offended that she was unfamiliar with them.
She looked at her watch. "Well, this is what we call quiet time at this hospital, from two to four. No interruptions by anybody, unless it's an emergency, to give the patients a chance to rest. And no visitors, either. She waited a beat, then continued. "But on 2 South, we're allowed to make exceptions...if you'd like."
Mike nodded his assent. "Thanks Tara." She left the room, closing the door behind her.
"Well, at least you didn't get Nurse Ratchet."
"No, thank God for that." They both laughed.
Billie Joe moved over to sit on edge of the bed, facing Mike. He leaned in and brushed his lips against his forehead. "Seriously, you scared the crap out us."
Mike smiled at his friend: the snarling pothead punk, the political popstar, the sensitive softie, all rolled into one...
Then he saw the flash as a light bulb went off over Billie Joe's head. "Oh Christ, no, Billie."
...and the inveterate horn dog.
Billie Joe grinned back at him. With that grin he had known since the days when they were just two horny 13 year olds, adding sex to the list of things they were experimenting with.
"Why not?"
"Now? In a fucking hospital?" At least it's not a church, he thought, but declined to say out loud lest Billie Joe get any ideas. "Well, did it occur to you that maybe I'm not exactly in the mood?"
"I bet I can change that," he said, his voice shaded by an almost imperceptible tone of seduction.
He leaned in until their lips were almost touching, locked in on his eyes, and whispered "It's OK, Mike." His hand slipped under the hospital gown, and Mike took a sharp intake of breath as he felt the tiny wave of pleasure coursing directly from his nipple downward. And Billie Joe knew he had won. Again.
Mike was nobody's pushover and nobody's fool and from an early age he had relied upon nobody but himself. But on occasion, the powerful desire to be powerless: they have a need for someone else be in control, a secret wish not to have to be in charge all the time. And Billie Joe knew this--perhaps he was the only one who did--about his best friend/bandmate/buddy/lover.
So sometimes it was a weekly thing, sometimes many, many months would go by, but they had fallen into a familiar pattern: Billie Joe played the part of the aggressor, Mike the part of the reluctant participant. Perhaps this was because Mike had never identified himself as bisexual the way Billie Joe had. Still, he had wondered on more than one occasion how he would feel if Billie ever stopped making overtures. But given wives and girlfriends and separate lives, too much analysis wasn't going to be a good thing, and so without speaking of it, they had declined to speak of it. It was what it was.
Billie Joe pushed the button that lowered the head of the bed. "Here," he said, "like this," as he gently helped his friend roll on to his left side, knees flexed, assisting him the the cast on his right foot. Billie Joe began to stoke his back, while the hand on his chest made ever widening circles, slowly moving down his abdomen. Mike's upper body relaxed under the soothing touch, in stark contrast to his growing hardness in his groin. As Billie Joe's fingertips brushed the tip of his cock, Mike sighed softly, anticipating, his reluctance dissipating like a smoke ring in a breeze. Billie Joe took his hand from Mike's back and quickly removed his belt and unzipped his jeans, still slowly stroking Mike's erection. He grabbed a foil pack of K-Y from the night stand, where he had seen it earlier, neatly lined up next to the vaseline, q-tips, and tongue depressors.
He kicked off his shoes and crawled under the sheet, not bothering to fully remove his pants. He spooned around Mike, his hard cock pressed against the soft skin of Mike's back and butt, his face resting between his shoulder blades, his knees curled up below the taller man's. "So maybe this is why these gowns always leave your ass hanging out," he snickered. Mike's only response was a quiet sigh as his body relaxed and soaked up the warmth of Billie Joe's smaller frame. Billie reached over and resumed his slow rhythmic stroking, nibbling at the back of Mike's neck. As the rocking of Mike's hips became more insistent, Billie Joe opened the K-Y and moistened his finger. He placed this hand between Mike's thighs, and gently pushed up with his finger, massaging little circles around his entrance, waiting for the muscles to relax. Mike reached down to his cock to continue what Billie Joe had stopped, finally abandoning himself to the sensations, closing off his mind, no longer caring where he was.
Billie Joe placed more lube on his cock, and gently, firmly entered Mike with a slow, steady motion. Mike gasped, both in pain and at the electric shock generated from hitting that spot. It was an inchoate sensation of pleasure that started in his solar plexus and radiated progressively through every nerve in his body. His toes curled under hard as the wave of warmth reached them, and his back arched like a cat waking up from a nap. Billie Joe placed his hand on the back of Mike's head, massaging his scalp through his hair. He slid his other hand off his friend's hip and placed it on Mike's hand, stroking him together, pushing his hips back as Billie went farther forward into him.
Now they were both lost deep in themselves, eyes closed, barely aware of their surroundings any longer, just the steady movement of Billie Joe's thrusts tying them to ground. The only noise was the gentle rustling of the sheets as they subconsciously modulated the sounds of what neither man ever would have called lovemaking, but what was just that, nonetheless. Billie Joe sensed Mike's closeness by the change in his breathing, and it only took a soft "Come on, Mike, now" in his ear to send him there. The waves of his orgasm swept over Mike's body, and Billie Joe felt the warm sticky seed on his hand, and the muscle spasms of Mike's pelvis squeezing Billie Joe's cock grew even tighter, and then he too could no longer hold on, and now he arched his back and rocked his pelvis forward, and shuddered as the tension left his body in pulsating contractions with a deep, long, quiet moan.
They lay there together, catching their breath, until Billie Joe's increasing softness forced him to slip out. With a kiss at the nape of his neck, Billie Joe placed his hands on Mike's hip and the bed and sat himself up. He grabbed a terry cloth towel from the night stand, wiped himself off, stood up, and quickly rectified his partially undressed state. He leaned over his friend, still in a fetal position, ran his hand through the disheveled hair, and planted a kiss on the angular jaw. "See, I told you it would be OK," he said, handing him the towel.
After wiping himself, Mike tossed the towel back to Billie. "Here...throw this in that bin over there." No need for his nurse to clean up after that. "And help me move my goddamn leg back." He pressed the button on his pain pump for good measure. With Billie Joe supporting the weight of the cast, Mike pressed his hands into the bed, and gingerly shifted his body weight from his side to his back. He adjusted the bed up to a reclining position, and lolled his head back, closing his eyes.
"Wow," he sighed, spent.
"Yeah."
"God, I'm tired."
"Yeah, well you've had a rough day," murmured Billie Joe with unmasked affection, leaning forward from his chair to stroke his cheek once. He sat back down by the bed, one hand resting on top of Mike's. He watched as the features of his face slowly softened, his breathing became deep and regular, and he drifted off to sleep.
After a little while, he heard the gentle woosh of the door opening. He reflexively pulled his hand back to his chair.
"He's been sleeping for a while?," Mike's nurse whispered.
"Yes," nodded the dark-haired man.
"Well, if you want, you can stay with him a little while longer. Surgery really tires them out."
"Yeah, that must be it. Thanks," he said politely, with the barest hint of a smile.
As she turned to leave, Tara made a mental note to ask her daughter if she had ever heard of Mike's rock group. In spite of the way they look-- she thought as she closed the door behind her-- they seem just like any other nice normal young men.
### :-) ###
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Re: =)
Date: 2006-01-25 05:06 am (UTC)