Fucks & Starbucks - feat. mister_cool
[Players Only] [Also, just a reminder that Quentin's mun does not subscribe to the Tarantino School Of Thought and what
[Disclaimer: The characters portrayed within have no bearing whatsoever on the real members of Green Day or their families, and should not be taken as such. No disrespect or harm is intended; everything within is a work of pure FICTION. Again, in no way, shape or form is any of this meant to reflect upon the members of Green Day or their families, or any of their friends. Repeat: FICTION]
February 12, 2006
Early mornings always leave Quentin cold right down to the bone. He doesn't depend heavily on coffee in order to get his body moving like most of the residents of Los Angeles (if the current line inside the nearest Starbucks says anything for the populous at large) but this morning, this early morning, Quentin is depending on coffee to warm him. Except that the line in this particular Starbucks seems to be moving at the speed of plot in one of the director's movies.
He's huddled beneath a heavy black coat, baseball cap pulled down over dark eyes with his trademark chin tucked into a scarf. It makes him look like he is ready for a Canadian winter on this relatively mild LA morning but he doesn't care. He has a meeting to be at in just under two hours and he couldn't stand to be shut up in his house for another second. As loathe as he is to admit it -- and really, this doesn't count as him admitting to anything -- fucking faceless boys and going home to a very big and very empty house sometimes triggers something too close to actual emotion as far as Quentin is concerned. And when that happens, it's time for him to get out of the house.
When he finally gets his drink (quadruple-shot, venti (who in their right mind would order a tall after waiting in line for nearly twenty minutes?), nonfat, no foam, whip cream, caramel macchiato), Quentin can't stand the crowd for another second and hurries for the exit, immediately leaning against the building just outside the door to take his first, wonderful, heated sip. It nearly burns his tongue and he curses. Colorfully.
Tré's not really a morning person, but coming off the intense touring schedule of American Idiot and his recent stint in the Eastern time zone has him pretty much wide awake, much too early to go over to the studio and bother Rob. With the current Mike/Billie debacle, he knows Rob is having quite the time convincing Reprise to turn their cheek. Tré figures heading over and haunting his office should help things out. Maybe then he'll finally tell his manager that he's in town to take in the local happenings of the Establishment bar. He'll work in the "taking it up the ass" part on the fly.
But until then, there's nothing to do. So, Tré does what he always does when he gets up early -- he goes shopping. Billie's birthday is coming up, as is Valentine's Day (thank you, Hallmark), and Tré wavers between getting Billie something kind of couple-ish (but that turns out to be too weird, and honestly, Mike already has all that shit) and the most twisted set of anal beads this world has seen. Both ideas give Tré the willies, and he ends up walking into a dress shop, picking out a hot little number for the soon-to-be divorced Mrs. Adrienne Armstrong. It's not that Tré wants to scam on Billie's beautiful wife, it's simply that Adrienne's been the band's "girl" since he was a member and Tré knows how awful Valentine's Day can feel when you're alone.
Slinky black dress in hand and an hour or so to kill (as if he had a "schedule,") Tré takes off for the local Starbucks, stomach rudely informing him that he's a) hungry and b) really craving a mocha. His smile falters, however, when he sees the line for the damn coffee house. It almost looks like people don't want to move. Sighing, Tré reluctantly gives up his mocha fantasy, laughing softly as a tall, lanky man hastily flies out the door, away from the crowd. Amused, Tré watches him take a too-early sip of his drink, swearing as he's no doubt scalded. "Hey now," Tré says, smiling. "At least you've got your coffee."
Quentin is in the process of removing the lid on his over-priced beverage when he hears Tré's unmistakable voice and, having spent the last week jerking off to the (unknowingly erroneous) image he worked up of Tré coming in his pants from their impromptu little phonecall, the director finds that simply hearing Tré's voice is enough to get him hard.
Lid securely in hand and the steam from his drink warming his face, Quentin wonders if it's too early in the morning for snark, but when he notices the bag Tré is carrying, any residual tact falls away. "I hope that dress is something you won't mind me cutting off you, drummer boy. I'm only interested in what's underneath." The gruffness of his voice is due to his early-morning vocal chords not having been warmed up yet, but it does a great job in keeping his statement quiet enough so as not to draw attention.
Tré all about jumps out of his skin as the walking scarf and hat reveal the voice of one Quentin Tarantino. Tré's eyes grow large, too surprised to offer a great comeback regarding dresses and more importantly, Quentin's fear of breasts. The moment passes quickly however, and Tré's happy smile is once again on his face as he steps up next to Quentin on the wall. "Hey you!" he says cheerfully, unable to keep from grinning at how different (or at least colder) Quentin looks outside of the Establishment. Tré's without a jacket, dressed in only a black suit, green shirt and hot pink tie shining like a neon sign in the cool L.A. morning. "Nice scarf," he adds mildly. "Interesting to see you out and about."
Tré's exuberance is only tolerated because Quentin needs to get the macchiato into his body to warm up enough before he can spar with more umph. He guesses it's lucky he's run into Tré and not Billie Joe or Mike Fucking Dirnt. "I'm tired of looking at most of the people at the club. Fucked them all." A line of people file out of the coffee shop and Quentin moves a bit further down the brick wall, taking a tentative sip of his drink to make sure he isn't going to be burnt again. "Besides, I have a meeting in a little while."
"Oh yeah?" Tré says, sliding easily down the wall with Quentin. He watches Quentin drink his coffee, liking how the tall man's eyes slide shut when the warm java hits his tongue. Tré laughs. "Well, c'mon then. You have an hour to kill, me too, and right now it looks like this frigid weather is going to turn you into a popsicle." Tré laughs, grinning as Quentin gives him an outright what the fuck? look. "Let's go inside, I'm starving," he says, clarifying, bumping his hip against Quentin's thigh. Tré points to a cute diner about a block down. "That place has a good breakfast. C'mon. This way you can try and convince me that I actually want my pretty face all marked up again."
Quentin doesn't see the people he fucks outside of the club for a very simple reason: he doesn't like to pretend he's interested in anything more than a nice, hard, meaningless fuck. Tré even suggesting they go to a diner is a Big Deal. It's not like Quentin doesn't ever eat out with people, but the people he eats out with are ones he's never even entertained the thought of fucking.
The director regards Tré with a challenging stare, trying to gague whether he's being strung along or not. In the end, he falls back on simple negotiation. "If I get breakfast with you it's going on your tab. You still owe me for that phonecall. Your face should be the least of your worries."
Tré laughs, rolling his eyes, then saluting. "Well c'mon then. And honestly, you insult my gentlemanly manners. I'd never offer breakfast without taking the check." Tré grins, slinging his bag over his shoulder, obviously waiting for Quentin to stop making like lichen and detach from the wall. "I'll let you have extra powdered sugar," he teases. "And there'll be heat."
"That wasn't the tab I was talking about," Quentin says, somewhat darkly, as he shoves off the wall and leads the way towards the diner. The mention of heat is what seals the deal because the macchiato tastes like shit. And he is running out of ways to make sense of his behaviour.
Tré smiles as Quentin begins to move, liking the dark tone in the man's voice. He likes that Quentin's kind of a sour puss, the way that kids seem to like Eeyore's gloomy donkey ass on Winnie the Pooh. He bounces quickly after Quentin, steps in double-time with the man's longer legs as they walk towards the restaurant.
Once they're seated in the very back of the rather empty diner (the whole city is at Starbucks, afterall), Quentin charms the waitress into letting him have a cigarette.
"Just one, please, Mr. Tarantino."
"Absolutely." He keeps his jacket on, still shivering a little, and talks around his cigarette as he lights it, watching the waitress head off to get their drinks. "So, drummer boy, been thinking about me?"
"Can't lie," Tré lies, because oh, can he spin a good one, but not in this case. Tré smiles, stretching as he settles into the seat, feeling oddly short for some reason as he stares up at Quentin from across the booth. Tré's used to being shorter than everyone, but usually when he's sitting down he's behind his drumkit, staring down at thousands of sweaty, smiling faces. Right now Tré feels like he's having a conversation with Quentin's ribcage. "Yeah, I've been thinking about you," he admits, propping up an elbow on the tabletop, cradling his cheek in one hand. "I don't live in L.A., you know, so you should feel pleased I'm down here to see you," he drawls. Which is mostly truthful, the other part being that annoying Rob is fun, and Tré wants to get a little more work in on the drum tracks for the last Katrina bits. Supposedly there might be a compilation, but Tré couldn't be fucked to care. He just wants to play.
The smoke from the director's cigarette seems to hover around his head like clouds settle around the top of a mountain. Or something as equally forboding, in any case. He tries to wave it away with a hand but it doesn't help and he taps the ashes into the glass of water that was brought out when they were seated. "Got a girlfriend?" Quentin asks, leaning to the side to eye the dress bag.
Tré shakes his head, protecting his own glass of water by bringing it close to the edge of the table, hiding it behind the napkin dispenser. "There's a pretty girl up in Berkeley whose husband just left her. I'm going to make sure her Valentine's Day doesn't suck any worse than it already will," he says simply. It also probably doesn't help that Billie's birthday is three days past Valentine's Day. He wonders, smile fading for a moment, if Joey and Jakob are going to get their daddy anything for turning 34. He needs to call Mike, help plan something. Tré catches himself, smiles again. "What're you doing for Valentine's Day? You look like you're the type who is criminally pissed off at it."
"I've got a soft side," he says, waving the hand holding his cigarette. It's still too early for him to be as uptight and reserved as he is at the club. His quirks, such as swinging his hands around like he's in a jungle with a thousand different bugs buzzing at his face, are still out in full force. "You're just not on the list of people who get to see it." In fact, Quentin does actually have a short list of people to surprise with gifts this February 14th. Robert's sons all have some mighty fine gifts on the way and after all the shit Robert and Lizzie have put up with, he knows he should get them a card. Or something.
The mention of a girl in Berkeley whose husband just left her doesn't pass by without notice. "Billie know you're trying to woo the pants off his... what is it, ex-wife now?" Quentin's entire stock relies on making assumptions and hoping they're true. He doesn't have all the information he needs to know for sure that Mike and Billie are finally off fucking somewhere, but the fleeting look on Tré's face makes him think he's at least on the right track.
Tré smiles, somewhat forced, leaning back and taking a sip of his water. "Adrienne's not his ex-wife, not yet," he murmurs. He dips one finger in his water, then trails it delicately alone the rim of his glass, blue eyes following it as he speaks. "I've known Adrienne almost as long as I've known those two, and I'm the godfather of Billie's sons. I'm going to go over and make sure they're okay," he says simply, shoulders giving a small shrug.
Quentin can't hide the smirk because he was dead-on. "So I guess that means your friends are going to try the whole domestic bliss routine, huh? His and His towels, sharing drawers..." He looks up at Tré who is just staring back with those big blue eyes of his. "Where's that leave you? I mean, if they're busy fucking and cooking and cleaning and shit," he continues, tapping his cigarette and waving his hand around again, "what does that mean for you?"
Tré shrugs, wondering exactly what it is about Mike and Billie that always has Quentin so eager to bring them up. "They're going to do what they've always done. Mike and Billie both have kids, y'know that right? So it's not really that different, except that now I only have to visit one house when I need to see the both of them." He smiles, trying to actually imagine Billie and Mike living in domestic bliss, and wonders if it's really going to be all that hard for them. It's not like they haven't lived together before. He offers up a pretty smile at Quentin, drumming out a soft, quick beat on the tabletop. "It doesn't really mean anything to me, except that they're finally going to be happy. It's kind of a relief."
"Yeah?" Quentin sounds skeptical. When Robert moved to LA he thought they were going to have more time together but then Robert fell in with Shannyn and Zane and Quentin found himself on the outside looking in. "You let me know how that works out for you."
The waitress is a welcome interruption when she returns with their coffees and then she hurries off once she has Tré's order for an Asian chicken salad. Without the chicken. Quentin's cigarette is dropped into his glass of water and he gets out another, patting himself down to find his lighter once more.
Tré rolls his eyes at Quentin, laughing. "You're a bad, naughty man," he teases, extracting his own lighter and sliding it across the table for Quentin. He busies himself for a moment, dumping enough sugar and milk into his coffee to feel Mike twitching back up in Berkeley. The bassist, as far as Tré is concerned, has unresolved java issues. He cups stocky hands around his mug, each fingernail painted black, watching Quentin light up his second cigarette. "Do you have kids?" he asks, pretty sure that Quentin's single as they come, but Tré's been a bachelor for a long time now and he has two beautiful children despite that. You never know.
"I'd have to stick my dick in a girl for that to happen, last I heard," Quentin mumbles around his cigarette, pissed that he has apparently misplaced another goddamn lighter. He puts Tré's lighter back onto the table and adds a little bit of sugar and some milk to his own coffee with his free hand. Then, planning on letting the drink cool off a little this time around, he sits back in the booth and assumes a position that he believes gets across the idea that he doesn't give a fuck. About anything.
"Or adopt," Tré says sagely, stretching to nick his lighter back from the table. He slides it into his pocket, then lifts his coffee to his lips, moaning lightly at the warm, sweet taste. "Oh thank god," he murmurs, grinning. He clears his throat, leaning forward as Quentin reclines. "So you're as far from straight as you can get then, I guess?" he asks, grinning.
"Based purely on principle." When Tré gives him a look, he continues, hand once again waving through the air. "Girls are complicated and men, by nature, aren't, alright? It's like, men just want sex because it feels good. Women might think it feels good, but then they want fucking commitment and it's just not my thing. Works better this way. And besides," he continues, pointing his cigarette at Tré. "A guy's ass is tighter than a girl's cunt. And most girls have hangups about taking it up the ass."
Ladies and gentleman, Mr. Quentin Tarantino. In a misogynistic nutshell.
"But they have boobs," Tré argues, smiling. Boobs, in Tré's mind, are wonderful, fascinating things that could entertain him for hours. "You do know that men sometimes want commitment as well." He laughs, watching Quentin remain completely unimpressed. He leans down, taking a long, sweet swallow of his coffee. "Look at it this way--you not only have someone who loves you, but someone who'll suck your dick without question." Tré gets about ten seconds to glance up to see Quentin's smirk evident on his face, then glances to the side and sees his waitress holding a salad with a less-than-customer-friendly expression on her face. Oops.
Quentin smiles sweetly at the waitress, not even trying to hide his second cigarette, and waits quietly for her to retreat. Once she's gone, he picks up right where they left off. "I don't need commitment to get someone to suck my dick without question." After a pause to take a drag of his cigarette, he takes a lingering look at the drummer sitting across from him with his chickenless chicken salad. "Come to think of it, you don't ever question me."
Tré moves his fork through his salad, taking a happy bite. He raises an eyebrow at Quentin, giving him a catty smile. "That's because I'm a genius." He grins. "I don't need to question you." He leaves it at that, raising a mandarin orange slice to his lips, sucking on the fork with a hint of his usual show.
"Whatever you say, man." Playing casual or uninterested in second nature to Quentin, but he does take note of the way Tré eats his salad and his mind supplies the necessary images to make it a really erotic mouthful of orange. He shifts in his seat and finishes off his cigarette, taking a sip of his coffee. "So, drummer boy, you've got a daughter. That involve an ex-wife or a one-night-stand?"
"I have one daughter, who lives in New York," he says between bites of salad. "That's Ramona, who you talked to, and I have a son who lives in Oakland. His name's Frankito. He's just turned four in December." There's no keeping the proud smile off of Tré's face, ex-wives aside. He takes a sip of his coffee, leveling a look at Quentin. "And that would involve two ex-wives. Both with boobs."
"What's with all you rockstars having wives and ex-wives and then joining a sex club to get fucked by guys?" Quentin shakes his head, honestly not understanding why anyone would want to have sex with a woman, let alone actually marry one. "Why're they ex-wives? You leave them or did they turn tail and run from you?"
Tré's smile falters, the pang of guilt nearly reflexive at this point. He stretches his arms, cracking his fingers before resuming the enthusiastic devastation of his salad. "Only Lisea ran, pretty man. I lived with Claudia up until last summer, actually. But now tour's all done and over with, so I'm finally getting to live in my own place." Tré's still working on unpacking, but he figures that'll come in time. He knows he didn't quite answer the question, but frankly it's not any of Quentin's business.
Not any of Quentin's business, however, isn't reason enough for the man to stop probing for more information. This is what he does: he pushes and pokes at something until it rolls over and shows its stomach. And then he uses what he knows to get what he wants. "So, Claudia must be Frankito's mom, huh? Since you were living with her?" When the look on Tré's face confirms his suspicion, he continues. "So when Lisea ran, she ran all the way to New York? Why'd she want to get so far away?"
"It's hard to escape someone famous in their home town, probably." Tré smiles, drinking his coffee. Tré's still not happy with the fact that his two children live on opposite coasts, but Ramona's been in New York for a long time now, and Claudia refuses to uproot Frankito. Tré knows (or rather has been told) that both of his children have stable homes and lives--the only inconsistent thing is his time spent with them. "We make it work," he says simply. "I'm on tour a lot, so I've got all the frequent flyer miles I need."
"You're avoiding my question, drummer boy. Why have you been divorced twice?" Quentin pauses to think of Robert and Lizzie, the only stable relationship he'd seen up until they got divorced. It still kind of weirds him out but now Robert is back in Texas and Quentin assumes things are getting back to normal. On some level. "Sounds like quite an accomplishment to me."
"Probably for the same reason you're still single," Tré says warningly, digging into his salad. He points his fork to Quentin, leaning back, smiling again. Tré tries to remain as close as humanly possibly to perfect happiness, and his tone is light, face bland by the time he speaks again. "Now hold on, why're you asking me all these questions?" He winks at Quentin. "You flirting?"
"I don't need to flirt," the director says simply, looking seriously at Tré. "And, for the record, I'm still single because I want to be. You've been married, and divorced, twice. And that means you don't exactly want to be single, do you? So why are you? Why don't you just find some girl at the club and let her fuck your brains out until you fall in love and get married and have another kid?"
Tré shrugs. "Men are easier to not fall in love with." He smiles. "I'm takin' care of Mike and Billie right now, and my band. Do I want to fall in love and get married, have another kid? Well, yeah, but--" Tré trails off. "Well, I don't want to find that kinda girl at the club. Love and sex are two different things, and love and sex and kinky sex are very different things." He takes another bite of salad, then a sip of his coffee, seeing Quentin is, indeed, still acting like a stubborn cuss. "Well, alright sugar muffin, since you're so interested... I'm divorced twice because both times, I proved to be a bit of an asshole, a bit of an addict, and hard to pin down." His tone isn't upset, nor angry, simply stating the facts. Tré's not proud of his actions, but they don't rule his life.
The first part, the part about sex and love being very different things, Quentin can agree with. Sex and kinky sex aren't very different in his mind, but the love part of that statement really drives home the meaning. Quentin hasn't thought much about love in the last decade or two. Not in regards to anyone else and certainly not in regards to himself. It's just not something he is interested in, for one reason or another. One of those reasons being fear and another being guilt: the driving forces behind everything he does these days.
"I think I'd like the asshole side of you, drummer boy. And I definitely think I'd like the addict. Haven't done any of that shit in awhile but it's never far from my mind." Like sex, Quentin's philosophy on drugs (practically all drugs) is that they're fun and just self-destructive enough for him to endorse.
Tré smiles, tightly. "Being an addict doesn’t make you a very responsible father," he says softly, and leaves it at that. There is nothing in the world more dear to him than his beautiful babies, and he has come down a long hard road in order to make himself into the best father he can possibly be-—a road which includes a lot less cocaine than it used to. He takes a few last bites of his salad, pushing it away so as to wrap clever fingers around his coffee mug, blue eyes trained gently on Quentin.
"Well, then let's not talk addiction and let's talk... recreation." The director raises an eyebrow, returning Tré's stare with one of his own that is much more along the lines of an I-Want-To-Get-Fucked-Up-With-Someone-And-Y
Tré has to laugh at that because one of Quentin’s most endearing traits is how outright persistent he can be. Like a certain bassist I know, Tré thinks with a soft smirk, believing the impossible feud between the two men to be absolutely ridiculous. "When are you planning on this so-called recreation?" he purrs taking one last sip of his coffee.
"I have meetings coming out of my motherfuckin' ears through next week," Quentin says, running through the schedule in his head; it's not like he can't show up for one of the meetings toasted off his ass, all of his business partners practically expect him to be as eccentric as his reputation suggests. "The club's real stupid about their policy on most illegal shit so long as you don't go shoutin' about it in the bar." After another moment of staring into space as he tries to figure out when he'll be free for more than a quick fuck, Quentin answers Tré's initial question. "You still gonna be on the west coast on the 17th? Or are you planning on flying off again to escape your fuckmook friends?"
"The 17th is Billie’s birthday, so I’m going to be up in Berkeley," Tré calmly explains. He’s actually quite looking forward to that particular celebration, and hasn’t exactly thought of the perfect gift yet, but his aim is something that will make both Billie and Mike blush. "But after that I can come down. They’ll be busy having sex and I’ll be free to join you down here in L.A." He ends the statement with a flirtatious wink, sliding his coffee away, finished.
The idea of fucking Tré on Billie Joe Armstrong's birthday is one Quentin likes. Very much. "Hmm, maybe I should pay the birthday boy a visit. You know, drop him off his present." He smirks, very obviously joking, as he takes another sip of his coffee. "Or, you could just get him something inappropriate and add my name to it. Save me the trip to fucking Berkeley. And, anyway, Mike didn't much like the Christmas gift I sent him so, you know, they're both a couple of kink-fearing bastards."
"I think your best bet on the path to fucking me would be to stop reminding me how much you hate my two best friends, dude," Tré says. He smiles, leering at Quentin. "I promise that I can be as distracting as you need. But I’ve been putting up with them long enough. They’re happily fucking, we’re not. Why do you think that is?"
Quentin leans forward a little, dropping his voice so as not to draw unnecessary attention to them. "I think that's because we're here in a stupid fucking café instead of somewhere where I can pin you to the floor and slam my cock into you until you're crying from it. That's why." And a statement that cliché can only be pulled off by someone as forward as Quentin Tarantino.
Tré will not deny how avidly interested his cock happens to be at that statement, and he offers Quentin a happy burn of a smile, leaning back. "Fucking meetings," he offers lazily. "At least for you. I’m free all day. Did I forget to mention that?" he purrs, grinning at Quentin like the most excited kid in the world.
Still in his jacket, Quentin simply grabs his scarf from the back of the chair and puts it around his neck as he stands up, now looming over the much smaller drummer. He leans down to grab his coffee for one final sip and when he puts it back onto the table he makes sure to growl under his breath, just loudly enough for Tré to hear, turning his hips towards the booth. "Get your hand on my dick."
Tré looks up at Quentin, blue eyes glittering. He considers telling Quentin no, but Tré has done many, many other things that have been far worse than simply groping someone in public. "Just my hand?" he murmurs, grinning coyly at Quentin before sliding a hand up, fisting it enthusiastically, gaze locked on Quentin’s dark, exhilarating stare.
The fact that Tré doesn't tell Quentin to fuck off and always seems to go along with what the director wants is what makes him one of the few people Quentin has ever spent this much time with. "I know you remember what that feels like up your ass, but I just wanted to give you a little reminder." He reaches down and takes Tré roughly by the wrist and jerks his hand away before standing up straight. "I'm going to be late. I'll see you around." As exits are Quentin's "thing," he doesn't wait for Tré to respond and simply turns and leaves. Pulling his long coat around himself is perfect for hiding his raging hard-on which will have to wait until he can get to a bathroom at the studio.
Tré stares, watching Quentin walk away, a goofy smile spreading over his face. He wolf-whistles just as the tall director exits the café, chuckling to himself as their divinely patient waitress approaches him with the bill. He turns amused blue eyes on her, already digging for his wallet to leave an exceptionally large tip.
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