Billie Joe hunched his shoulders forward, tilting his head down to let the hard spray of water hit that knot directly in back of his neck, the one that never seemed to loosen despite any combination of massage therapists, BenGay and painkillers. The water rolled down his back in almost scalding hot waves, a relief in the stinging pain, a reminder that he was still alive. Straightening back up, he rolled his shoulders backwards, closing his eyes.

He would have already vacated the shower, and probably would have already felt clean if it weren't for the steady dripping, acrid aspirin-and-chemicals taste of meth down the back of his throat. That, and the problem. Thee problem.

Adie was pregnant. Thought she was pregnant. Bullshit. No woman goes through two pregnancies and mistakes the symptoms a third time. But she had told Billie earlier, when she called, not to worry. Not until she took a test, not until she knew for sure. He had worried, but he hadn't shared the news.

The news should have, of course, been joyous. Upon the news that Joey was going to be born, Billie went into a frenzy of hugging and cheek-kissing and seemed to have a grin on his face for the entire nine month term, a grin that only grew once the child was born. He never imagined he could love something so much, have such a strong urge to protect and care, on first sight through a reinforced glass window. The sensation hadn't been any different with their second child, either; Billie Joe loved them both more than life.

However, news of a may be pregnancy when one is contemplating filing for divorce throws a stick into the proverbial bike wheel. He had nearly wanted to blame Adrienne of getting pregnant just to keep him around. But he knew that wasn't true, Adie was never that shallow and besides, it had been she who suggested the D-word in the first place.

Billie was snapped out of his morose thoughts when a loud knock sounded on the thin door of the bus bathroom, followed by Tre's nasally voice exclaiming "FREE CAKE! FREE CAKE!"

He shook his head to himself and snapped the water off, listening to the pipes on the underside of the bus filter the water back into the tank, cleaning it, as he stepped out and grabbed a still-damp towel to dry himself. He pulled on a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and an Against Me! t-shirt mechanically, and likewise mechanically slid the heel of his palm across the tiny bathroom counter to remove all traces of his earlier indulgence.

He trudged out of the bathroom with much less energy than he should have been displaying, cutting towards the back room which sufficed as a 'den' for the duration of the tour. Tre was at the booth-table, sticking long candles into a large cake that read 'Happy Birthday, Vanessa!' in swirly script, and was decorated with icing roses. Billie decided his best bet was just to not ask, and slumped onto the couch next to Mike, instead.

"What's on?," he inquired conversationally, despite the fact that he could clearly see the television.

"Hockey," Mike replied distractedly. "Avalanche are getting their asses kicked. What's new."

Billie nodded, staring at the screen for a long moment silently. The figures skidding around the ice provided no interest to him, and he started to tap his feet. Another moment passed before he attempted conversation again.

"Tre's got a birthday cake."

"Yep," Mike said, just as distractedly as before.

"Says 'Happy Birthday Vanessa' on it," Billie Joe pointed out.

"Yep," Mike said again.

The guitarist stared at Mike's profile intently, trying not to blink, until Mike felt the bottle-green gaze and turned his head, brow arched.

"Well?," Billie prompted.

"Fuck if I know, man. Why don'tcha ask him?," Mike suggested, nodding his head towards the drummer.

Billie Joe turned to look at Tre as well. Tre, who was now giggling maniacally and humming NoFX's version of the Happy Birthday song to himself, still carefully arranging the candles. Billie knew better than to ask, knew if he did he wouldn't get a straight answer and may find himself the unwilling victim of a 'demonstration' of the Bullwinkle. Again.

"I'll pass," he murmured, trying to make sure that sometimes seriously unhinged drummerboy didn't hear him. "Where's everyone at?"

"Drinkin'," Mike informed him.

"And they didn't invite me?," Billie asked with a pout, a pout that earned no recognition from Mike, whose attention was once again focused on the game.

"'parently not."

Billie sighed, cracking his neck side to side and nearly letting himself entertain the idea of seeking Tre's company anyway, Bullwinkle be damned. But his salvation came in the form of the clang of the bus door opening and the familiar jingle of chains that foretold the coming of Tim Armstrong.

Tim had asked to tag along for a few days, while they were on 'his coast,' and no one had objected or questioned. Tim Armstrong asks to come on your tour, you don't ask questions, you hand him a mic and a guitar and thank whatever God decided to smile on you. But Billie knew, inherently it seemed, that Tim was trying to keep himself busy. Since Brody left, Tim didn't seem to trust himself alone, so if he wasn't busy with Rancid, the Transplants, Hellcat, or one of his millions of other projects, he had to find something.

This time he'd found them. They weren't complaining.

He swaggered his way over to the den, casting a glance at Tre and flattening a tattooed hand on his head to ruffle the fauxhawk there. "Happy birthday, man." Tre just giggled more. No one corrected Tim, but he was probably well aware that it was not Tre's birthday. Or anyone's birthday. Except Vanessa, where ever she was, cakeless.

Tim cocked his beanie-clad head to peer down at the hockey game, which lasted maybe three seconds, before he averted his attention again to Billie Joe and Mike. The latter made no move to even recognize Tim's presence, but Billie grinned.

"Hey, Timmy," he said, inching over on the couch and patting the spot next to him.

Tim took the offered seat, pulling one ankle up to rest on the opposite knee as he leaned back. The scent of cigarette smoke still lingered all around his stud-covered leather jacket, and it smelled so comfortingly familiar that Billie couldn't help but lean that way, just a touch.

"Like hockey?," Tim asked the younger guitarist, peering over at him curiously.

Billie shook his head, throwing the television a glance but ultimately ending up with his gaze back on Tim. "Nah. Mike's thing."

Tim nodded, while Billie contemplated the fact that he'd spoken about both of his bandmates as if they weren't in the room, in the last five minutes. And neither of them noticed or cared. Probably, he could announce 'my wife is pregnant and we may get a divorce' to no response. Tre would giggle. Mike would say something about 'fucking bullshit call, ref.' Tim, though...

Tim was talking about baseball, how he used to play it but never really got into it, but Matt watched it all the time so he kind of liked it by default, ya know? Billie caught the last well enough to nod in understanding, before pre-empting whatever Tim was going to say next.

"Feel like going for a walk, man? I'm a little...um...I dunno, need to get out."

Tim offered only a nod in response, moving to his feet once again, and Billie followed. After tugging a pair of Vans onto his bare feet, the pair headed outside. The San Jose night was cool, but not cold enough to require extra clothing. It was one of those parts of California that was unfailingly seventy-five degrees, year-round.

They both stayed silent, Billie's attention on his shoes and his thoughts, Tim seeming to know he could wait for Billie to start talking. This could have been Berkeley, almost twenty years ago, the two of them walking side by side in companionable silence and undisturbed. But it wasn't, they'd both seen a lot of years since then, been through a lot of trouble, had a lot of success, and, however much they'd hate to admit it, grown up.

"How...," Billie began, haltingly, when they stop at the corner of the street. He swallowed harshly before continuing. "How did you know, when it was over, Tim?"

There wasn't any need for him to clarify what was over. Even though the divorce had happened almost two years ago, any unspoken 'it' in relation to Tim Armstrong still referred to that horrific event.

"Whatcha mean, man? I didn' have much time to think about it. She called an' said it's over," Tim responded. A second later, for the sake of conversation, and for the sake of not falling into that line of thinking, he added. "Why d'ya ask?"

Billie shifted his shoulders uncomfortably, finally taking the initiative and leading the way to the left. "Well, before we came out...Adie and I sent the kids off to her mom's, for a couple days, just to have some alone time before the tour and all...but we spent the first night fighting, and hardly talked after that. She...she suggested that maybe we need some time apart."

"Shit," Tim hissed, sneering. "I'm sorry, man. You think it's serious?"

"Dunno. Maybe. It felt serious," Billie replied despondently. "I haven't talked to her much since we set out..."

Tim slung a leather-clad arm over his shoulders, reassuring and brotherly. "Well, man, you know...they say everything happens for a reason..."

"They talk a lot, don't they?," Billie muttered, but it was low enough that Tim didn't hear it, and continued.

"But, you and me, we ain't ever been the sort to sit back and accept shit as it comes to us, have we? Like, what'd the point be of bein'...capable of thought, if we had no say in how our lives play out?," Tim asked rhetorically, glancing to his friend for a moment. "But still, you know, maybe there's some truth in it. At this point, 's kinda out of your hands, you know? Shitty sit, but sometimes ya don't get a say. 'specially with women."

Billie Joe nodded, numbly, because he felt a response was necessary right now. Tim's words made sense, and if Adrienne had her mind set on divorce or separation, that's what it would be. But it didn't make him feel any better about the entire situation.

"Whatcha holdin' back?," Tim asked. He moved from Billie's side, leaning in the doorway of some antiques shop and crossing his arms. Giving Billie that expectant look.

Faced with that look, from one of his oldest friends, Billie couldn't lie. He was fairly sure he didn't want to, anyway. He wanted to tell someone, share the indecision and the guilt. "She might be pregnant, again."

Tim blinked a few times, face losing expression, before commenting most astutely, "Fahhhhk."

"Yeah," Billie agreed, nodding. "I talked to her after the show tonight."

"But, you arready got two kids, so...what's that change? Think she'd deny you custody er something?"

Billie snorted softly through his nose, starting to pace back and forth in front of the doorway, gesturing with his hands. "No, she wouldn't do that, but I'd still...you know, be that guy. The weekend dad. Just...making time for them when I can. Jakob and Joey, they're old enough that they'd...probably be pissed for a while, but they'd grow out of it. But this new kid? He wouldn't remember me around at all..."

"Shit," Tim repeated, nodding his head slowly, his attention drawn somewhere over Billie's right shoulder. "Who'd 've thought we'd have these sorta problems, huh?"

Giving a mirthless, dry laugh, Billie ducked into the doorway, leaning against the wall opposite Tim. "No shit. I remember when my biggest problem was...getting out of school early enough to get to Gilman for a show."

"Or convincing my mom to loan me money to fix my amp...," Tim added, shifting to cross his legs at the ankle.

"Or getting our money from a jack-off club owner."

Tim grinned crookedly. "Or the cops breakin' up a house party cuz we were too loud and havin' to find a new place to drink."

"Going to school hungover the next day," Billie continued for him.

"Explaining to Jesse where I was all night," Tim said with a smirk.

"Jesse," Billie smiled faintly at the memory of the no-nonsense but still energetically inspired boy who led Tim's earlier band.

Tim smiled as well, sliding down the wall into a crouch and crossing his arms over his knees. "Yeh, Jesse. Think he's the only one of us that came outta all this okay?"

Billie Joe shrugged a shoulder, moving to join his friend on the concrete. "I don't know. I think we're...okay...we just, you know, grew up some."

"Fuck that," Tim murmured, but not in a true tone of dispute. He dug into a zippered pocket, retrieving his cigarettes. After lighting one, he elaborated. "Guess...universe figured we got too used to shit, drug addictions, asshole club managers and all...she had to find some new shit to throw at us."

"Must be running out of ideas," Billie cracked, uncurling a hand to reach out towards Tim's pack of cigarettes before he replaced them.

"Bet," Tim coughed, with a laugh, motioning with the pack of cigarettes instead of handing them over.

Billie obligingly crawled over to the opposite wall, curling in on himself at Tim's side and taking a cigarette from the pack, borrowing the older man's lighter. "Got a point though. This is a first."

"For both of us," Tim agreed, throwing his arm around Billie's shoulders once again. "Been a while since I had a first."

Billie hummed assent, settling the cigarette between his lips before snuggling more assuredly against Tim's side, avoiding anything metallic and pointy in the process. The comfortable silence descended again, as Billie thought about firsts...not first steps or first words, but the ones that really mattered.

His first hint of pure happiness. Their first show as Sweet Children, at the Gliman, no one had stiffed them that night. They hadn't been expecting to get paid, anyway, it was a non-profit gig. He remembered the exhilaration of watching those people, dancing to their music, cheering for them. He recalled Tim, Lint at that time, to the far left of the stage with a huge, ridiculously proud grin. Each show, back then, was a success, no matter whose band it was. It had purpose and energy and meaning, more than it had now, more than album promotion or sticker and t-shirt sales. But it was still the most liberating feeling he could recall.

That first taste of disappointment, when John had left the band, before they called on Tre. When he had the shocking realization that not everyone cared as much as he did about what they were doing. It hadn't been a problem since, with Mike and Tre, they were in it for the long haul come rain or shine. And they'd beeen through both and back plenty of times. But that night Billie Joe had gotten so blazing, name-forgetting, mistake-makingly drunk that he'd sworn off the guitar forever (which lasted as long as the hangover had) and shared another first, his first kiss with a boy. Tim had been there then, too.

And the first shock of true, paralyzing fear. The kind that shot straight down your spine and it was all you could do to keep breathing. Because this was it, this was true and there was nothing anyone could do to change it and it was the scariest fucking thing in the world. He remembered the way Tim's skin, sunken in around the ribs and almost translucent-pale, seemed to shine from the single uncovered bulb in the dingy bedroom, remembered staring at that emaciated chest and willing it to move with breath. Willing it to do anything, not being able to do anything himself, while he listened to Matt calling 9-1-1 on the neighbours' phone in the hall. He remembered how two seconds later he was on that same chest, pounding his fists against it, trying to beat the life back into Tim and screaming to the four walls, wordless pleas for mercy, and the flood of relief when Tim's eyelids lifted, just a few millimeters, just a sliver of ice blue irises showing through them.

He shivered at this last memory, unconciously curling even closer to Tim for it. He and Tim had been fast friends, but never the closest, the sort of off-again on-again kind of friends that you could always count on. The kind that didn't need constant attention and reassurance to return the affection. Still, they'd somehow managed to become so inextricably tangled in each other's lives that one's joy was the others, one's pain was the others. Triumphs and let downs to be shared through all the firsts, and all the lasts.

Tim's arm tightened around Billie's shoulders carefully, and he threw his cigarette into the street. Then, twisting his inked neck, his thin lips brushed over Billie's full ones in a short, sweet kiss that spoke more of their enduring friendship that any amount of meth-induced reminiscing could have.

"C'mon, pup, let's head back 'fore the cake's all gone," Tim suggested.

Billie gave a nod, pulling himself to his feet. He tossed his own cigarette butt to the side, curling his arm around Tim's midsection instead, and Tim's arm remained over his shoulders as they retraced their steps.

"Don't suppose ya know where Tre...?," Tim trailed off questioningly, a moment later.

Billie Joe laughed, shaking his head. "No fuckin' idea, Timmy."