1144 Words.

Part II. The City
Back in the hotel room, we sat together on the bed in silence, drinking some of the actually pretty decent tap water and holding hands. The sun was just starting to rise, now, and the view over the City was amazing. Just watching the silhouettes of the buildings and tall sky scrapers was enchanting. Whatsername and I had done it millions of times, just laying together on the top of the apartment complex and holding hands. Sometimes, the morning air cooled the sweat laying on our exposed chests after a bout of heated sex. Some of it involved handcuffs and chains. Some of it didn’t -- just the two of us becoming one. Anyway, that isn’t really relevant. So Tré and I were sitting on our hotel bed, looking out at the sunrise. There was an overall melancholy feel in the air.

I looked up at Tré, and he looked back at me. In silence, we both mulled over our thoughts. If we were supposed to be dead, then what should we do? Were we supposed to go ahead and say “hey world, we’re fucking alive!” or just disappear and avoid controversy? At the moment, disappearing seemed really nice. So did joining the rebel group -- well, the remnants of the Class of Thirteen -- in the City. I bit my lip as I sat there staring blankly ahead at our lives together in the City.

I honestly did not know what to do then. It was a huge dilemma -- and possibly the largest one I’d ever faced before. I was scared. I honestly did not know what to do (fucking Redundancy Department of Redundancy called, they want their redundancy back). With a sigh, I looked down at the dirty carpet. The hotel -- motel? -- was definitely worth what we’d paid, but that meant it was still pretty damn shitty.

“So… what should we do?” Tré asked finally, knowingly echoing both of our thoughts. He knew exactly what was going on in my head -- since it was exactly what was going on in his. Again, I sighed and he did too.

“Honestly -- I really, truly, seriously don’t know,” I answered silently, looking back up at Tré and meeting his light blue gaze. Tré cocked his head and looked away from my eyes. The room suddenly felt so claustrophobic that I wanted to scream and run away forever. Tré looked back up at me then, his eyes misty.

“They all think we’re dead. Our parents. What-- Davey. Mike. All of them think we’re dead… we’re literally dead to the world. People think we’ve kicked the bucket. I mean… fuck… we may not be dead, but Christian and Gloria most certainly are. The Class of Thirteen may or may not be dead. Who knows? Do you think Mike or Whatser-- fuck, Davey, would take it over and continue it?” It was a long run on question, but it made me grin. Tré was just so adorable when he rambled, and he never really noticed it.

“If they do -- if they do, not when they do, I don’t think they will -- do you think we should rejoin the Class of Thirteen? I mean -- we can take on aliases. I already have one. And you could just be, like, Norman Iwo,” I stated, snickering at the strange name I’d made up on the spot.

“What the hell of a king of name is fucking Norman Iwo?” Tré asked, incredulous.

“I don’t even know anymore.”

Tré sighed, rolling his eyes, before going back on subject. “So -- what should we do? I’m not sure I want to protest anymore, but it’s not like we can do anything else. I mean, we’re dead for crying out loud. Well -- you know what I mean, right?”

“Yeah. We’re dead. People -- we’re listed as dead. Under our names -- deceased, right? We really can’t do anything else now, can we?” I sighed after saying or asking Tré that, and felt my eyes getting misty again. “It’s crazy what some people think, but at least this is a reasonable conclusion. The building was fucking burned down. There were guns shooting at us. We were nearly assassinated.”

“Are we so important that if we were murdered -- it would be an assassination? Really?”

“I’m not sure… it was staged like an assassination, I guess. I don’t think they’ll arrest the people though, not for supposedly killing us, they would for burning the building to the ground, though.”

“I would really have to agree with you there, Billie Joe -- or should I now say, Wilhelm Fink?” Tré stuck out his tongue.

“You like abusing my nicknames, Sir Norman Iwo,” I said to him in reply, glaring playfully as I said so. He knew I was joking. And I knew he was joking.

“Dude! That is not my fucking nickname!” Tré said, glaring back at me just as playfully. I just shook my head at him and went back to watching the slow and steady sunrise. My foot was falling asleep now, and my eyelids were heavy with tiredness. I was ready to sleep -- but I didn’t want to until we had figured out what the hell had happened and what the hell we should do next.

“Well then, Tré, I’m stuck here. Do you know what we should do? I sure as hell don’t… right now -- well, right now, I want to sleep,” I muttered. Did I mention that I tend to ramble when I’m tired? Well -- I do. I sure as hell ramble when I’m tired. Tiredness is not a good thing for me -- sure, I come up with some damn good poetry then, but talk to me an I just go on and on and on and on. I just can’t stop. “I want to sleep but I won’t be able to until we figure out what the hell to do. Well -- what the hell should we do, Tré? Please enlighten me.” I wasn’t sarcastic there, by the way.

“I honestly don’t know, and Billie Joe Armstrong, you are rambling now. It’s damn adorable, but sort of annoying -- and therefore you definitely need sleep. Get your ass under the covers, Armstrong.”

“No way in hell. Fuck you, Tré,” I mumbled, already drifting off.

“Gladly. But we can do it tomorrow, okay Billie? For now -- just get some sleep, okay? We’ll be able to figure this out better if we’re both more awake.”

“Then order some goddamn coffee and room service shit. I’m not going to sleep until we figure this the fuck out, okay?”

“No, Billie Joe, you are going to bed. Right fucking now, okay?”

“No, I am fucking not going to fucking bed, okay Tré?”

And with that, I fell asleep.