And You Can't Tell Anyone, chapter 40

*Mike*
It was night time; he hated night time. It was never the same, not since she had left. Night used to be a time for peace, or excitement. Now, all he had were the echoes of memories. At night, there was nothing to stop his thoughts. There was nothing between him a massive and yawning void where she used to be. There was nothing but a horrible sense of loss.

Perhaps it was the advent of Christmas that was compounding the misery. All those things they could have for the holiday done danced in his mind. With perfect clarity, he could imagine the look that would have sprung onto her face when she opened her present. It did not matter that he had not already bought one. The point was the opportunity was missed. Sure, he had given her Christmas presents as a friend, but that was different. Being together provided the chance for him to give something more special than what the laws of friendship dictated.

I didn't even have time to give her anything for her birthday either.

Time still had not done anything to lessen the ache in his chest. In fact, he was certain that it was only getting worse. Each day had started with expectation that it would be the day, when she would call and he could hear her voice again. Weeks had dragged by with each day ending in disappointment.

Mike sighed and rolled over on his mattress. He tried closing his eyes, but they snapped open of their own accord. This late at night, he should be able to drop off instantly. Instead, he felt wide awake. The bright moon could have been the sun for all the aid it offered. For a moment, he considered the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she was looking at the same moon.

So, what if she is? Is the moon even up over there? I bet she's not even thinking about me. She hasn't called. So, obviously, she's not. Fuck it all! I want her back. Somebody, please, bring her back.

Unhappily, he grimaced when nothing miraculous occurred. Once again, there was him and the stark whiteness of the moonlight. It would not recede into soft forgetful darkness. Sharp and glaring light prohibited any sort comforting respite. Everything was cruelly in focus, thus ensuring that he could not blur out his isolation.

Why wasn't I good enough?

Such memories and similar confused thoughts from long ago lanced into his brain. He covered his eyes with his hand.

If he was not so paranoid about passing out and burning the house down, he would light up a joint. It was hard to accept such deterioration, but he was finding that only in the daze of drugs was the world tolerable. Sighing, he slipped his other hand under his pillow. Like the answer to a prayer, his calloused fingers brushed a piece of paper and a necklace chain. The words on the airline ticket envelope played instantaneously in his head.

Mike,
I don't know what's up with you, or why you did some things. I don't know much right now. I should hate you, but all I am is disgusted and nauseous. I think... <i/>

He could even envision the scribbled and scratched out words that marred the paper before the sentence resumed.

[i]... I still love you. If we're the same, it'll hurt you just as much as I am right now. When you were trying to teach me for a bit, you said that sometimes playing is the only way you can make sense of the world. I think I need my own bass to do that for me.
Wren

Playing could be a cure all, if he surrendered enough. Playing meant getting into the core of emotion. As a result, his playing and singing was lackluster. He did not want to go too deep, in case he encountered more pain. At least this blunt woe was better than pure undiluted agony.

So what if I got to water down all my other feelings? Does it really even matter?

Gently, he touched the necklace. It was supposed to have been her birthday gift. Now, it was only a harsh reminder camouflaged as a seemingly innocuous length of lifeless metal links.

His brows contracted as he heard his bedroom door open. The house was bad for drafts that opened and shut doors, but he was certain he had closed his door properly. Frowning, he rolled over and felt his heart stop.

There she was, in his doorway.

Mike's eyes widened as far as they could. His mind could not even begin to comprehend what was going on. Not caring about the logic of her arrival, he sat bolt upright.

"Wren?"

She put a finger to her lips, and nodded. "Yeah."

Joy coursed through his veins, sending him shooting over to her side. Just before they touched, he halted. After all, she might still be angry.

She cocked her head to one side. "What? Are you Mr. Chastity now? I've not seen you in a month and this is all I get?"

Her voice was quiet, but he felt like yelling from the rooftops. Still, he used all his will to keep his emotions in firm check. He was not going to risk frightening her away.

"Well, I don't know if you.... What you consider us--if there's an 'us'--to be now."

For a response, she put her hand on his cheek, moving her thumb soothingly across the bone. "Billie told me everything. I told him to keep it quiet, because I wanted to surprise you."

He could not stop himself from chuckling merrily and leaning into her touch. "I am surprised, a lot surprised."

"Good."

As soon as her lips brushed his, the world seemed to explode into brilliant sensations. He was severely aware of his arms around her waist and shoulders being infused with the heat from her body. The scent of whatever she used in her hair was heady and intoxicating. Feeling her smile against his own, he drew back to stare at her and confirm that it was her in the flesh. Tears setting stars in her eyes, she grinned softly. Mike hugged her closer; he was afraid to let her go. Another smile grew on his face as she rested her head against his chest.

Kissing her hair, he murmured, "I missed you so much."

"Me too. I--" She broke off and stuttered incomprehensibly.

Mike shifted his hold on her as she buckled in his arms. "Wren? Wren?" Her only reply was a grimace as she melted to the floor. Instantly, he knelt beside her. "Hey. What's...Wren! Fuck!"

Blood was spreading with horrible speed on the crotch of her denim jeans. The dark red flower kept blossoming, staining down her legs.

Frantically, she clutched at his hand. "I can't let this happen. Damn, damn it!" she sobbed against him, "Mike, it must have been the flight. I never ch-checked with the...oh God!"

Horrified, he cradled her in his arms and got ready to lift her. "Let's go. To the hospital, now."

She stopped him. "No. It's too late. I'm losing the--" Fresh tears cut off the word, yet strangely, her sobs became less and less instead of increasing.

Tears brimming in his own eyes, Mike rocked her softly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He kept repeating it over and over until her wracking sobs halted altogether. She had fallen asleep. Tenderly, he shifted her head in order to brush the hair from her eyes. Shock halted him in mid-action.

Her eyes were wide open, staring emptily. Nervously, he felt for a pulse on her neck. There was none. He patted her cheek, his jaw tight with worry. As she remained limp, panic set in.

"C'mon, Wren. Wake up, c'mon, please."

Try as he might, she would not respond, would never respond again. She was farther gone than ever before.

With a jerk, Mike awoke from the dream. Here was the major reason he hated the hours after sunset. The same dream kept visiting him, every night without fail. It felt so real that it was with a mixture of despair and relief that he woke afterwards. There was relief because she was not dead--as far as he knew--and despair because the reunion was nothing more than a figment of his mind.

Sighing heavily, he curled up into a tight ball and buried his damp cheek in the pillow. Memories, nightmares, and smudges of a life long gone were all he had left.

*Tré*
Wide awake in his and Billie Joe's room, Tré curled his fists into his sheets. All his sleeping problems would be solved if he just stuffed a sheet back into the vent above his head. He would not do it though. This, being kept awake, was his punishment in exchange for not confessing to Mike about his hand in Wren's departure.

Blowing out an explosive sigh, he forced himself to listen to the occasional whimper that came through the vent. Every evening at this time, those pitiful little noises started. Tré was not irritated with Mike for the nocturnal grieving. It was the amount of grief that bothered the drummer.

To Tré's way of thinking, there were three ways people dealt with emotion. The first was his way; you simply let it out whenever you felt it. Another way was to simply stuff it away in a personal soul bottle, and continue to do so until the emotions exploded out. That was Billie Joe's way. His bottle, Tré reflected, was rather small. As a result, Billie Joe tended to get a bit insane when he played.

Then there was the third way, most likely the most stupid and moronic way. Of course, Mike would choose this way to deal with things. According to Tré's theory of the universe, Mike was a bottler with a leak. The leak never let him fill to exploding; it just kept him on the verge with no real release.

This is so fucking stupid.

Grumbling to himself, Tré clambered out of his bed, across the chilly floor, down the hall, and into Mike's room. As soon as he entered, the bassist went limp in an attempt to feign sleep.

Wryly, Tré shook his head and crept over to Mike.

"I know you're not sleeping. I heard you."

The sudden tension in Mike's shoulders was the only indication that he had heard.

"Hey," Tré knelt beside his friend. "You don't have to be all manly you know. Take that bass you've got shoved up your ass and deal with it. God, if you gotta cry, do it right, none of this whimpering shit."

"I don't want to," Mike mumbled.

"Yeah, you do." Tré reached to pat his friend's shoulder, and then decided against it. "She might come back, any day now. Just show up at the door and you can live happily ever after."

Tré frowned as a tiny sob escaped from Mike's lips.

Isn't that supposed to make him feel better? Then again, maybe what Mike needed was to actually let everything out. Well, whatever works.

Relentlessly, Tré went on, "She'll show up, all happy and stuff--you could do the whole movie romantic mushy thing--and you'll be happy. Then there'll be a baby kid-type thing that will crawl around the house, getting into my shit, sleeping in the guitar cases--"

At this last, Mike fractured completely. Burying himself into his blanket, he started surrendering completely to grief. Helpless, Tré could only watch as the hidden depths of Mike's sorrow were revealed.

"She can't come back," he mumbled. "The plane--it's bad." He dissolved into shuddering gasps and tears.

Holy shit. What the hell's wrong with him?

This time, Tré got up enough nerve and actually put his hand on Mike's shoulder.

"What d'you mean?"

At this, Mike froze. Slowly he craned his head to look at Tré. Their gazes flickered back and forth before Mike's shifted past the drummer.

For fuck's sake!

Tré wanted to scream, but settled for gritting his teeth. He was sick and tired of dealing with the soulless phantom that Mike had become. For a delusional second, the drummer had imagined this little break down would cure things. Obviously, it was not successful.

"Planes? Mike, come on. She said she'll phone--has she ever lied?--so she'll phone. Then, we can sort this shit out. You know that. There's nothing to get your panties in a knot about."

Mike blinked, and for the first time in a long time, his eyes focused with clear sight. When he spoke his voice was soft, but held a firm undercurrent of conviction.

"Yeah. Dreams--or nightmares or whatever--don't mean anything."