I've been immersed in other projects this month, but WriSoMiFu finally prompted me into actually writing something, so here it is. Not posted anywhere else yet, and there may be a follow-up at some point. (If there's anything painfully obviously Brit-speak rather than American, I'd appreciate knowing about it.)
Fic: Seeking Treatment
Fandom: Green Day
Warning: RPS, non-graphic
Disclaimer: Not real, not mine, no money changing hands
Mike listened to the phone ringing the other end as he planned what to say. Not easy, when he didn’t really know why he was calling at all. Apart from he just missed Billie so much, and he wasn’t going to say that to the guy’s wife.
"Armstrong residence." The voice was Adrienne’s, cool and non-commital.
"Adie? Hi, I ..." He dried up. Should have planned it before you picked up the phone, you jerk.
"Michael." Not the most welcoming tone.
"Uh, hi Adie. How’s Billie?"
"Well, you know. One day up, one day down."
"Can I talk to him?" His fingers tightened on the phone as he waited for her answer.
"Michael, I’m so sorry, but his doctors are telling him you’re part of the problem. Until he’s through this they say he shouldn’t even talk to you guys."
It was a knife in the guts - he couldn’t speak, could scarcely breathe. He was part of the problem? When he’d tried everything from begging to bullying to keep things under control? What the fuck did anyone expect him to do, tie the fucker down and lock him in a room by himself every night after the show?
Billie was the one everybody always wanted to talk to, get their pictures with. Drink with. And Billie took his job as frontman very seriously, always doing his thing on-stage and off. Small wonder he needed a little help sometimes, and who knew how much "help" he took after he smiled that devastating smile and said "Night, guys, gotta get me some shut-eye" while he herded Mike and Tré and Jason and whoever out of his room every night.
He suddenly realised Adie was still talking.
"Sorry, babe, run that by me again."
"Look, Mike, between you and me he’s going stir crazy here. He’s sleeping, taking his meds, patsying around on the piano, but it’s not enough. He wants to get out and play, you know, perform, but the record company..."
"Screw the fucking record company," Mike interrupted. "Right now I don’t feel like we owe those suckers beans."
"Well, maybe. I'm not going to comment on that right now. But I’m worried - he stays here by himself much longer he’s gonna tie himself in knots. I’m not trying to be his jailer here, but if he goes out he’s gonna - you know what I’m saying?"
"You’re saying you want him out, performing, but not really. You want him loosening up but under control."
She laughed bitterly. "You got it. You have any ideas how we do that?"
~ ~ ~