Chapter Sixteen: 21 Guns

(4431 words)

I walked into his room for the first time in exactly fourteen days (oh, don’t worry, I definitely counted -- I mean, every day I’d spent after the breakup, I’d put a giant black X over the date, just to torture myself -- misery does love company, you know), at the somewhat late but also regular for us hour of eleven thirty seven, post meridian. It was just like I’d remembered it, but so different, too. For one, the shockingly white carpet was actually clean for once -- clean as in I could see all of it. Along with that, the surfaces were a lot clearer. There were a few boxes in one corner of the smallish room, giving me the impression that he was moving out. The second thing I noticed was on the walls, and it was something that really drew your eye.

Large, messily Sharpied words. Poetry, really, or lyrics if you thought hard enough about it. They rhymed, and really, they had a distinct rhythm to them too. They didn’t seem all that professional, more like the rhythmic ramblings of some random teenager than the writings of an actual author. That fact in and of itself was true -- as they were some random teenager’s writings. They were mine.

The first one I noticed was from something I’d written -- really, something I’d written about my past experiences with drugs and how I stopped so I could keep going on -- called See the Light. What he’d put up there -- and I could definitely see why -- were the simple words: “I’ve been wasted -- pills and alcohol. And I’ve been chasing down the pool halls. Then I drank the water from a hurricane. And I set a fire just to see the flame. Well, I just wanna see the light. And I don’t wanna lose my sight. Well, I just wanna see the light. And I need to know what’s worth the fight.”

Don’t we all? I asked myself, reading the last line. Don’t we? Just look at what happened with you, Billie Joe -- what happened with Gloria -- with the Class of Thirteen. Maybe that would never have happened if you only knew what was worth the fight. Or maybe, you know, how to fight for something. Or what about the difference between something worth fighting for and something worth dying for?

I guess that might as well have been the question to ask me. Do you know what’s worth fighting for? Do you know what’s worth dying for? Would changing the government -- which, honestly, I don’t think I would ever have a chance at accomplishing -- be a cause worth dying for? It was certainly something that I thought was worth fighting for -- but how far did that go? I wasn’t sure how far it went -- I wasn’t sure if I would die for it, just like millions had before. I -- the same me who wasn’t just Gloria, or St. Jimmy, or Whatsername’s boyfriend, but also definitely intimate with the cause at question -- was doubting the one thing that had been my everything for, what, four years or so.

Tré, noticing that I had seemingly flown off to Wonderland in my thoughts once more, coughed. Concernedly, he said, “Billie…? Um, Billie Joe? You here?” His voice was soft and timid, and a bit scratchy as if he hadn’t used it in a while. He sounded just like I could remember him sounding, even though that seemed to be a far off memory. Despite the fact that he’d broken up with me exactly two weeks before then, he apparently missed me, seemingly almost as much as I’d missed him. I half hoped that he had felt the same pain, that same dull ache in your chest, that I had felt for those two weeks. Part of me knew he had -- well, the subconscious “oh I forgot to tell you this?” part of me, anyway.

“Yeah, I am… I’m just a little spacey today, well right now, ya know?” I answered, showing signs of life once more. “I mean -- it’s not every day that your ex-boyfriends text messages you and asks to talk things out.” Wait -- for me, that was a flat out lie. It had happened with both of my ex-boyfriends in a period of two weeks. “Well, um, unless you’re me, then Whatsername -- well, Davey -- calls ya and you end up pissing off your other ex-boyfriend.” Oh fuck. I was babbling again and I knew it. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

“That was Whatsername?!” Tré asked me, eyes wide in surprise.

“That was Whatsername,” I affirmed, simultaneously echoing him. “Well -- his real name is Davey, and ya know, he’s not really Whatsername anymore -- if ya think about it and… ‘nd all.” I sounded like a nervous freak. I sounded like I did when we first talked after the graduation, when I was torn between melting and screwing him. Actually, right then, I was in the same position as I’d been at the graduation: babbling, melting, horny, and lonely. And to add onto that, I missed Tré so much since I’d last seen him, that it almost hurt. Hell, it did actually hurt. It hurt like a mother--

“That’s kind of crazy. To add on to how crazy you and your life are already,” Tré said with a snicker. I glared at him good naturedly and shook some of my hair out behind my head, leaning against the wall near an old window. Noticing this, Tré stood up. “Here, I have a seat --”

“Don’t worry, Tré, I’m fine,” I said, smiling at him. This was already going well. Tré just shrugged and sat down in the aforementioned chair near the old, dented, stained antique mirror that was practically embedded in his wall. I shifted slightly, tucking some loose hair behind my ear, before I started speaking once more. “So… why did you call me here, again? I mean --” I paused, shuffling slightly with my nervousness. “-- you seemed pretty damn mad at me after the riot. And when I was, um, officially ending my relationship with Whatser-- Davey.”

“My head’s been a lot clearer,” Tré admitted.

“What do you mean by that?” I ventured, half expecting the answer.

“Well, soon after we, um, broke up, I ran out of Opal. I didn’t want anyone to see me out there -- out on the streets -- not looking how I was looking, anyway… not knowing hoe instrumental I’d been to the riot. So, I just laid down here and waited out the withdrawal,” Tré answered a bit slowly. He paused for a tactful moment, taking a quick breath in. “Um, it actually wasn’t all that bad -- I’ve not been using too long, and I take -- I took it in a less severe way than most -- Opal’s not meant to be smoked, ya know.” He laughed. “After that… I cleaned up my room a bit. I had nothing better to do, really. Whenever I remembered you -- our relationship -- I’d write the words -- your words -- on my walls. I, um, hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Why the hell would I, Tré?” I asked in shock and awe. “I mean -- really -- it’s a great honor. I feel… special, heh. But wow. That’s pretty amazing… I mean, I’m glad you were able to get over the whole Opal thing, ya know?”

“I’m still suffering from a bit of withdrawal symptom stuff,” he admitted.

“Oh, well. It’s better than nothing, right? It’s better than still being addicted.”

“Yeah, I’d have to agree with you there.” He sighed. “And sorry for reacting like that -- back at the café ‘n all. I was still pretty low from the Opal and shit. Just going out for ice cream and bam! Ya see your ex-boyfriend who you’ve been moping over kissing another random guy literally a week after the breakup. It kinda hurt, y’know?”

“Aw, Tré…” I said. “I really didn’t mean for it to be like that -- I mean, I didn’t mean for you to see it or anything. It wasn’t romantic. It was a goodbye kiss. It was closure, really. I wanted to make sure that we both know that it’s over… that what once was will never be again.”

“That makes sense, I guess. I mean -- I really didn’t know he is -- was? -- Whatsername. If I knew, I’d probably have blown up. Or something drastic and involving long words like spontaneous and combustion like that.”

“You know what, Tré,” I told him. “You are so cute when you’re clean. You’re all, like ADHD. And adorable.”

“No one’s ever said that,” Tré muttered darkly.

“I’m no one?!” I asked, faux hurt. “I’m hurt… I mean I just said it, too, ya know.”

“Oh, you’re definitely not no one,” he added quickly, smiling at me -- he was totally in on it, I knew it. “I just forgot about you for a minute there, that’s all.”

“How could you forget about me?! I’m fuckin’ Billie Joe Armstrong, bitch and I’m right in fucking front of you!”

Tré laughed, doubling over and grinning from ear to ear when he looked up. “Ah, and this is why I fell in love with you in the first place, Billie Joe Armstrong. Your fiery spirit and sappy poetic shit like that.”

“Awh. I love guys who complement me using flowery purple prose.” (so does the author -- it adds words, right? just like me breaking the fourth wall, like I am right here!) “I think it’s cute. You’re the cutest, though. The hottest, too. And the best in bed.” I winked at him. Tré grinned back at me, running his fingers through his hair. Damn, is he cute when he’s nervous.

“So, um, really -- it’s okay?” he asked quietly. “You’re not like, mad at me or anything? ‘Cause, I mean, I regretted it right after you left. I had a nightmare about it. I wrote your poetry on the walls -- your lyrics and shit like that. I mean, I thought it was a mistake. But I also thought that that could have been the… um… withdrawal talking, I guess.” He laughed nervously, continuing to be so damn cute.

“Not, well -- not really. I was being a serious bitching pain in the ass yesterday about us, but then again -- well, my internet bills haven’t been paid, I guess. The Class of Thirteen doesn’t trust me. I thought -- I was pretty damn convinces, actually -- that you fucking hated me. I dunno, I had serious male PMS or something,” I said, explaining the past two weeks to him in a matter of only a few run on sentences.

“I missed you,” I added in a whisper, “I missed you a lot, did you know that? You were my everything. I fell for you hard and fast and it stuck with me like a damn tattoo. I wasn’t sick of it, but… it felt like the tattoo was sick of me or something.”

Tré looked up at me, his eyes clear (however, I could see the beginnings of tears). “I missed you, too. I missed you a lot as I laid in bed, in pain and throwing up. I wanted you to hold me. I wanted to you kiss me full on the mouth and say that it would all be okay.”

“I wanted to, that whole time,” I assured him. “I wanted to hold you again, and feel your sticky, sweaty skin against mine, and I wanted you to say that you love me again. I felt like… like… I can’t even describe how it felt without you.”

Tré, smiling tearfully now, stood up. I pushed off the wall and started walking toward him, as he walked toward me. We wrapped our arms around each other, like every other time, like it was any other day before the riot and the resulting breakup. And I kissed him, and he kissed back, and it was beautiful. When we broke apart, both of us were crying just a little, of joy.

That’s when the phone rang. Tré picked it up, still holding my hand, and nodded worriedly. “Okay, um, here he is,” he said, passing the phone to me.

I can’t replicate exactly what was said in that short phone conversation to Gloria from an unnamed caller, but what was stated was, in fact, horrific. Threats. The end of the Class of Thirteen. Very damaging things about me and my mental health.

I hung up in a dreadful, thick like soup silence.

“Tré? We’re not… we’re not safe anymore. Tré… Tré, the Class of Thirteen is over. IT’s done with… it’s all my fault.”

I didn’t care that much, though, for some reason. I just didn’t.

“Well, you know what I’d have to say about that?” Tré asked in more of a statement than a question. “I think that as long as there are people who believe in this whole Class of Thirteen shit, if they believe in the Underbelly, if they believe in what they’re fighting for -- then I think that there will always be something like this. There’ll always be a Class of Thirteen somewhere. There’ll always be some sort of an Underbelly. A Whatsername, a Gloria. It’s like… it’s just a line of succession. You came after Whatsername. Now someone will come after you -- someone will be hailed as the new Gloria. It’ll never die as long as people keep fighting for this. As long as some are crazy and keep dying for it.”

“But…” I trailed off, thinking about my earlier questions. “But… how do you know what’s worth fighting for, and what’s worth dying for?”

“I dunno… it’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it? I mean -- some people think it’s worth not just fighting for, but ya know, dying for this damn war. And we don’t, do we? They must feel the same way ‘bout the sacrifices in the Class of Thirteen, and ‘specially the Underbelly, right? They might think that this country, and how it is now is something t’ be protected, right? Some people do… some people really think that Bush ‘s the Second Coming… some people think he’s the Anti Christ. I mean, it boils down to opinion, huh?”

I shrugged and looked away. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Don’t worry too much about it. You can die for what you want to die for. But you can also fight for what you think isn’t worth dying for, but it is worth fighting for.” Tré paused before continuing, his voice much softer now, “Do you… d’you remember the ruins in the middle of the town after the riot? All the dead, old guns, grenades ‘n all? Did it take your breath away?”

I couldn’t reply. A few tears worked their way up to the edge of my vision.

“That’s when you figured out that the Class of Thirteen -- it’s not something worth dying for, is it? For some people -- yeah, it is. They’re the people who’ll eventually lead this kind of shit. You know, I’m betting that this was part of why Whatsername -- Davey -- quit, huh? He didn’t think that he would want to die for this -- right?” Tré asked. “At the riot -- in its aftermath, that’s when you realized that the pain… when the realization hit you that you did that all, it was your fault, the pain started to outweigh the pride, huh?”

“It… it did,” I admitted.

“You ran away… I think that part was my fault though… I mean -- I’d lied to you, huh? I told you that I’d stick with you through it all, didn’t I? Before the riot… I did. I said I wouldn’t leave you. Did that break your heart? It broke mine when I realized what I’d done. After the dream I had…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “You said that if you lost everything in the fire, you’d be sending all your love to me, right? That… that all your love… was -- it was for me, right? You said that in that one text. I didn’t quite get it, but I think I do now. That was when you first started to think about the riot, huh? And part of you… part of you know that something would go wrong.”

“M-maybe I did.” It wasn’t a lie.

“You were in ruins afterward, huh? Your mind. Your heart. You… you were worse off than me, huh? You had the guilt of the riot. You had the guilt of making me so mad at you that I broke up with you… oh, Billie… that must have been so much… so much… too much to handle,” Tré whispered, pulling me back into a warm embrace.

I looked up at him, grasping his hand tightly as we broke apart. “Then you… well, I know what happened there. You were mad -- so, so mad at me, huh? You lost all your control and kicked me out. I know it wasn’t you -- I think I knew it then, too. But… dammit, it hurt either way. We were both over thinking it, weren’t we? Your faith in me… it shattered. My faith in me, in everything I’d ever believed in then -- it all shattered too. I felt like… us… you, and me, and the Class of Thirteen… that none of it was meant to last. But… was it, now? Since were… back here, again?”

“I -- I dunno, Billie Joe… fuck, that rhymed. But I think we’re supposed to last… I mean… we would still be pissed off at each other for all this, right? We would’ve felt miserable… but satisfied, huh? I dunno. I’ve never really… this has never really happened to me… I bet… has it happened to you?”

“Not really. It was different with Davey -- with Whatsername. That needed to happen… we -- it just didn’t make sense for us to be together, I think. I mean… it may have been a lesson for us… that… I dunno. For me to not do drugs, certainly. It was, like, some sort of lesson, and um… I dunno what would‘ve become of me if I‘d never met him… you know, one of those really important events that just have to happen, you know?”

“When did you get all religious?”

“When did you get all philosophocl -- fuck, I can’t say it.”

Tré stuck out a tongue at my inability to fucking say philosophical.

“So much for your philo-fucking-sophocality, Mister Laughing at my Mispronunciationing. Fuck, that came our wrong.”

“Hm… it did.”

We just grinned at each other, kissing once more before the phone rang, again, sending shivers up my spine. We didn’t pick it up this time. It went right to the answering machine, the dark and daring message resounding through the room. It was twelve ante meridian exactly. Such a cliché and yet so perfect time to call us and make a death threat, am I right?

“Christian and Gloria… you aren’t safe anymore. They’re coming… we’re coming.” The voice was dark and dangerous with a slightly metallic hint to it, as if it was going through a soup can and some string. Well, that mixed with Darth Vader. So, basically, it sounded like Darth Vader talking through a soup can and string. “It’s the end of the road.”

They hung up.

My breath caught in my throat before I could scream, and the room started spinning.

“Oh my god, Tré.” I finally got my voice back precious seconds later, though it was a bare whisper. “Tré -- we’re -- we’re gonna die. Tré, Tré, Tré… I love you, Tré, I fucking love you.”

He sounded just as scared as I did when he replied with, “I love you too, Billie Joe. Fuck. I love you so much.”

That’s when we heard the sirens. And the lights flashed through the windows, cutting through the night and the glass like a bullet through tissue paper.

“Shit. We’re.. gonna -- gonna die, Tré.”

He nodded.

“And as Whatsername would say… then… it’s not over till you’re underground, it’s not over before it’s too late.” I paused, gulping. “It’s over, Tré, it’s too -- it’s too late.”

“Yeah. Billie Joe…” he trailed off. “Billie Joe… if there’s anyone who I’d want to die with, then… fuck, it’s you. I love you.”

A gunshot cracked the fragile silence, leaving it like broken glass as one bullet broke through the wall. It soared past us. I froze, pressing my self to Tré and crying softly into his shoulder. More bullets followed, from all over, shooting through his bed and through the walls. I heard yelling from outside the house. I heard yelling from inside the house.

“Tré…”

“I love you,” he whispered softly.

“I love you, too.”

More bullets rained in on us, shattering the glass and the mirror. Feathers dropped down from the ceiling, flying away from the bed on impact. And, somehow, we weren’t shot. I guess the guys had really shitty aim.

“I want one last thing before we die,” I whispered.

“What’s that?” he asked me.

“This.”

I stood up on my tip toes and wrapped my arms around his neck, my forehead pressing against his. Catching on, Tré wrapped his arms around my waist and pressed me flush against him. He pressed his mouth on mine and kissed me. I kissed back. The pounding of blood in my ears and our heavy breathing drowned out the sound of gunshots and the sound of bullets penetrating through the walls. One of them hit the light fixtures on the ceiling, shattering the bulb and plunging us into darkness. The red and blue lights reflected all around us on the broken mirror, refracting on the walls eerily.

Still, I deepened the kiss, adrenaline soaring through my veins at unprecedented speeds. My heart beat faster and faster and faster, pounding against his in perfect unison. Some of my hair fell in both of our eyes. We didn’t care as the seconds turned to minutes, and minutes into what felt like hours. Shattered glass and bullets lay at our feet like demented offerings to sacrilegious gods, although it was too late for all of us.

As we broke apart panting, I whispered between our close breaths: “We’re not safe anymore. I love you, Tré, and I’m so fucking glad that my last words are saying that to you.”

“I love you, too, Billie Joe. I’ll love you forever.”

I pulled him into yet another kiss, relishing our very last moments together. I didn’t care that we only had precious minutes left to live. I only cared that Tré and I were together then, in our very last moments, that we were kissing and that we were so very deeply in love them. I was satisfied that he didn’t hate me. The rest of the world could hate me for all I cared, but since Tré had forgiven me, I was just fine. Now that we were together again, nothing else mattered.

As the bullets kept on falling in there, and as we broke apart again, I looked up at him, everything blurry from my tears.

“Tré… will you still love me in the morning?”

“Forever and always baby, forever and always.”

As long as he loved me, I was going to be okay. Silently, I let go of his hand and walked to the window once more, looking out from the shattered glass. The night below was dark and showed me none of its secrets, just the heartbeat rhythm of the flashing lights and sirens. I looked back at Tré, walking back to him and wrapping my arms around him.

“If I lose everything in the fire, I’m sending all my love to you,” I whispered.

He smiled at me, trying unsuccessfully to conceal his tears.

“We’re goin’ down with a fight, Billie Joe,” he whispered in my ear, warm breath soothing over my skin. “We’re going down the same way everyone else before us did. We’re going down like the heroes and heroines before us. Our minds are clear. Our eyes are teary and we love each other.” He coughed before continuing. “I’m glad we’re together, Billie Joe, because I don’t know what I would do if we weren’t together as we died. I’d… I’d be alone if it weren’t for you. You’d be alone, too… you know that, huh? I love you, Billie Joe.”

“It is pretty fucking obvious.” Was all I could whisper in reply, kissing him once more, kissing him chastely this time. “I think… I think I saw twenty one of them. The guns, I mean. Twenty one exactly. Isn’t it weird? You know… the whole twenty one gun salute given to fallen soldiers in the military -- I mean, well, you know -- we’re like fallen soldiers too, in the military of the Class of Thirteen, dying at the front called the 21st Century Breakdown, right?”

Tré just nodded and I sighed, grasping his hand once more and interlacing our fingers smoothly. “One, twenty one guns,” I whispered to him. “Lay down your arms, give up the fight.”

Tré wrapped an arm protectively around my waist, pressing us even closer. I looked up at him once more, meeting his eyes full of fear and bravery. A few tears had already fallen down his cheeks, and I could tell that I’d been crying, too. I mean -- who wouldn’t? We were about to die, dammit, and even though we were both satisfied… honestly, who really wants to die at the age of 18? Or the age of 19? Neither of us would live to see the age of fucking 20.

One more gunshot cracked out, silencing us. “One, twenty one guns,” I whispered. “Throw up your arms into the sky. You and I.” Another one rang out -- as far as I could tell, the last one. And then -- all was silent. I was shaking, and Tré was shaking as every second that ticked by felt like an hour -- our precious last few seconds.

And before anything else could happen, before that last fragile silence could be broken by, well, anything, I whisper asked to Tré: “If I lose everything in the fire… did I ever make it through?”