| Ever Notice How Drinking's Like War
Author: Minervacat
Bob's mom always told people that Bob never had a bad idea in his life -- never came home limping, bleeding, half-naked or fucked up and saying, it seemed like a good idea at the time. He did some stupid shit, but mostly he was a pretty good kid, and the stuff he got into, either it was a bad idea from the start and he did it anyway, or it ended pretty well. Gerard had walked onto the bus through the front lounge that morning with a bruise on one cheek and blood smeared across the back of his left hand. Mikey had gotten up and followed him to the back lounge without a word, and Frank had leaned into Bob, like Bob was somebody other than just a temporary replacement in a fucked-up situation, and said, "It used to be worse." Frank sounded sad and scared and very, very young. Which just made Bob pretty glad he wasn't really conscious of what was going on with the band before he was a part of the problem. Or the solution. Whichever. Part of the mess. Bob had reached out and sort of ruffled Frank's hair in the most comforting gesture he thought he could get away with, and Frank had sunk heavily against Bob's shoulder for another minute before springing back into full-blown Frank-mode, scrambling across Bob on the couch, shouting toward the back lounge for Ray to come and tell Bob about the time Mikey got punched by that guy, you know, the one in the bar in Belleville, that time, you remember, Ray. Bob ended up with a lapful of Frank, scorpion tattoo three inches from Bob's mouth and warm skin under Bob's hands where Frank's t-shirt rode up. Bob tried to put his hands places that weren't under Frank's shirt or clamped against Frank's thighs, and told himself that this was the worst possible time, ever, to go sticking his hands up his brand new bandmates' t-shirts, on any level. When Ray finally emerged from the back lounge, Frank had settled into Bob's lap completely, one arm slung around Bob's neck and one leg wrapped monkey-like behind Bob's back. Bob failed and put his hand on the small of Frank's back and thought that 26 was a bad year to start doing stuff that seemed like a good idea at the time. Gerard walked back in, then, with Mikey following him, looking worried, and as Gerard passed the sofa on the way to wherever he and his black eye were going, Frank catapulted off Bob's lap with a grunt and a frown and wrapped a hand around Gerard's wrist, towing him toward the back lounge. Mikey and Ray did an awkward shuffling dance in between the bunks with a lot of low muttering, and their driver walked up the steps and said, "Are we a bus?" Nobody else was talking about anything at all, so Bob just said, "Yeah, we're a bus," and they got ready to get on the road to wherever it was they were going in a huge roar of engines and everything no one was saying. The fact that Gerard sober was almost scarier than Gerard drinking, for one thing. The fact that nobody was talking about the fact that they weren't talking about anything. It was the middle of the night, after a show and Bob couldn't even hardly remember where they were, much less where they were going -- playing took more out of him than mixing ever had, and he'd had a hard enough time keeping track of cities when he was just mixing. But nobody in this band slept when they were supposed to, and lately it had been worse because Gerard couldn't or wouldn't sleep, and somebody was always up all night with him. They didn't talk about that, either, just somebody was tapped to curl up on the other end of the couch from Gee and read comics or fiddle with a guitar while Gee's hands shook and he drew tiny, cramped, scary scenes of gore and guts and what looked, to Bob (though he'd never claim to be an art critic), like scenes of epic failure. Among the things that nobody else was saying was that Gee somehow thought he'd failed, and it seemed to Bob like success could only be getting sober and cleaning the mess of Otter and drinking and drugs and Bert and whatever-the-hell else. Frank came back and climbed straight into Bob's lap on the couch, and Bob let him. They were all pretty wobbly with exhaustion, trying to tour while they put everything back together, and Frank was pretty demanding of affection at all times, but even more so now, even more so after every time he picked Gerard back up. The buses weren't moving yet, though, and Mikey was actually swaying on his feet where he stood, and the only thing Bob knew how to say was, "Hey, Toro, take Mikey over to the other bus, okay?" They had two buses, but given the way they were watching Gerard like a hawk, more often than not nobody but the techs and Schechter slept on the other one, and some nights not even Schechter bothered. He did not say, Frank and I will watch Gee tonight. He did not say, Everyone stop worrying, please, please, please, it'll be okay. Bob thought he was doing pretty well in the My Chemical Romance all-the-things-we're-not-talking-about sweepstakes. Toro stared at Bob hard for a minute, and then decided that whatever it was he was trusting Bob with, well, he could trust him, and he nodded. "Come on, Mikey," he said, hand on Mikey's back, propelling him up to the door. Ray said something low to the driver, and then the door opened and closed. Frank chose that moment to press his knee against Bob's crotch and his face against Bob's neck, and then he sighed and all Frank's limbs sort of flailed out in relaxation, and in the sweepstakes of Bob Bryar not having a fucking clue what to do with this weird new awesome scary sad life he'd somehow found himself in, all Bob could think of to do was put an arm around Frank and let him pass out in Bob's lap. Bob could babysit Gee tonight, and Frank probably needed the sleep worse than Bob did. And it was weirdly nice to have the contained manic energy of Frank Iero curled up in a tiny ball across Bob's thighs; that didn't happen very often at all. Bob had just closed his eyes and tipped his head back on the couch when there was a shuffling and someone else breathing in the room, and he felt Frank's whole body snap back to fully aware, full of tension before Bob even opened his eyes and turned his head to see Gee standing at the edge of the lounge, looking even more fucking exhausted than the rest of them, but aside from the bruise, clean and upright and sad. Frank said, "You okay, Gee?" "Uh," Gee said, and then he wobbled over to the couch and collapsed down onto Bob's other side, which wasn't unheard of but was pretty unusual. Frank reached out across Bob and petted Gerard's hair, where his head was pressed against Bob's shoulder. Bob could feel Gerard blinking against his t-shirt, and then Gerard said, "Yeah, yeah, I think so, Frankie," which was when Frank really leaned across Bob, knee still pressing hard into Bob's thigh, and tugged Gee's head up with his fingers knotted in Gerard's hair, and then he kissed Gee. Which was not new; Bob had seen it on stage when he was still behind the board, and on stage when he wasn't, and off stage more times than he could count, but it hadn't exactly happened in his lap before, certainly not in his lap with Frank's knee pressed against his crotch and Frank's scorpion close enough that Bob could lean down and bite it, if he wanted to, which he sort of suddenly did. The only thing he could think of to say was a stunning echo of Gerard. "Uh." Frank broke away from the kiss and twisted his face up to Bob's. "Yeah?" he said, looking breathless and boneless and well-kissed. Frank, now, was even more relaxed than Frank, before, and Bob was still fucking clueless. "Oh," Frank said, "are your legs asleep?" And Frank was never that polite, Frank climbed Bob like a fucking tree and stopped when Bob asked him to stop or smacked him in the head or dumped him in Mikey's lap, but Frank never asked. So Bob said, "Uh," again. Frank kissed him, and Bob had a lapful of Frank and Gerard draped across his side, and Bob really, really liked these guys and this band and this life, as sad and scary and weird as it sometimes was. He didn't want to do anything to fuck that up, he wanted Gee to stay sober and he wanted the rest of them to stay not fucked up, and sometimes they all looked at Bob like he was their savior, like he was the one who was going to keep everything from falling apart. Bob didn't know if kissing your rhythm guitarist was one of the things you could do to fuck things up worse, or one of the things you could do to save everyone around you. This wasn't in the contract Bob signed; this wasn't in his scope of things he could have imagined. He kissed Frank back, Frank who had one hand on Bob's chest and the other still trapped in Gee's hair, and tried not to think about the way things could fall apart worse, instead of getting put back together. When Frank pulled away from Bob, he was breathing hard and his eyes were lit up the way they did whenever Frank got an idea to do something really, really stupid -- or really, really brave, like picking Gee up every time he fell over dead drunk, or holding Gee's hand while he shook and shivered. "Awesome," Frank said, his eyes fixed on Bob's mouth, Frank's tongue darting out to flick against his own lip ring. "Uh," Bob said, when Frank slithered out of his lap and onto the floor, wedged between Bob's knees, one hand on Bob's thigh and the other on Gerard's hip. Gerard was still pressed up against Bob, warm and heavy against Bob's ribs, and when Bob pulled his eyes from Frank, on his knees, on the floor, mouth wet and eyes wide, Gerard was watching Frank with the same zoned-out expression that he sometimes wore when he was hungover -- but this time was different. "Hey, Gee," Bob said, and Gee jumped, fingers tightening in Bob's t-shirt before he blinked rapidly and peered up at Bob. "Bob Bryar," Gerard said, and his fingers relaxed, smoothing out the spot where he'd grabbed at Bob's shirt. Then Gerard leaned up and kissed Bob, and he tasted like cigarettes and coffee and that weird taste of too much worry and not enough sleep; Bob wasn't sure it was an actual taste, actually something other than morning breath, but it was there. "Bob," Gee said again, his mouth so close to Bob's that Bob could feel Gerard's lips move, "you are going to save our band." Bob, feeling about as not eloquent as he ever had, said, "Uh," and then Gerard leaned back down and bit Bob's ear, and Frank popped the button on Bob's jeans with one hand, breath hot against the inside of Bob's thigh. Bob had known from the start that Gerard wanted to save the world, wanted the band to save everyone who saw them, but Bob had never counted on having to actually save anyone -- hadn't counted on having to save his own band, and he wasn't sure this was salvation, but when Frank stuck his hand in Bob's jeans, Bob was pretty sure he at least saw God. And nobody was complaining. Everybody -- Bob and his own dick included -- seemed pretty much like they wanted to be here, so Bob just let his head fall back onto the back of the couch and closed his eyes. Gee was warm and still -- finally, for once, blessedly still -- against Bob's side, and when Frank tugged at Bob's jeans, lifting Bob's hips and sliding Bob's jeans and boxers down, Gee moved with Bob, his mouth fixed soundly against the rapid pulse beating in Bob's throat. "Ugh," Bob said, and shuddered a little when Frank's mouth closed over the head of his dick and Gee's hand slid up under Bob's t-shirt. There were a million questions to ask, and Bob couldn't actually make his mouth work around any of them. "God, Jesus fuck," he said, and Gerard made a noise that sounded startlingly like a laugh against Bob's skin, and that made Bob jerk even harder than the press of Frank's fingers against his hip and Frank's tongue sliding down his dick. Bob opened his eyes again and turned his head, and all he could see was the top of Gerard's head, hair falling across his face like a curtain, but then Frank slid his mouth in a way that dragged his lip ring along the side of Bob's dick and Bob could just groan again, one hand fisting restlessly against the couch and the other trapped somewhere underneath Gerard's shoulder. "God," Bob said, because apparently the only words left in his brain were deities and curse words. His mother always told him this would happen, if he joined a rock and roll band. It's way, way more enjoyable than she ever made it sound. Gee looked up, just then, nearly connecting the top of his head with the bottom of Bob's chin, and Gee's eyes were clear and serious and his hand was up Bob's t-shirt. Gerard just looked at Bob -- Bob, panting and biting his own lip to keep from just shouting nonsense, because Frank Iero, fuck, had the greatest cocksucking mouth Bob had ever encountered, and he'd had his dick sucked a lot -- for a long minute, and then he leaned over, freeing Bob's arm enough that Bob could fist it in the back of Gerard's dirty t-shirt when Gerard leaned over and up and caught Bob's lip ring between his teeth, tugging gently just as Frank swallowed Bob's dick all the way down. Bob came with a groan against Gerard's mouth. He was boneless on the couch, stars at the corners of his vision, when he felt Gerard smile, just a little, against his mouth. Bob kept his eyes closed for a while, not quite sure he wanted to open then and find out that this was an elaborate joke of some kind -- he had met Jamia, he knew Frank wasn't past sucking dick for money or his own amusement -- because Bob was pretty sure that it wasn't a joke, it was Frank's twisted way of fixing Gerard or fixing Bob or fixing himself. Maybe all three. But Bob was sure that there had been intent there, and now there was maybe a conversation to have, but Bob was pretty wiped out. On all kinds of levels. And he could hear his mom's voice in the back of his head, because he was pretty sure that this was a bad idea to begin with. When he opened his eyes again, Frank was in Gerard's lap on the other end of the couch, one hand twisted between them, moving rhythmically -- Bob couldn't actually see anything except the curve of Frank's back and Gerard's shoulder and hand, flung out toward Bob. Bob's stomach heaved a little, in a good way, and his dick -- which was still hanging out, because Frank had apparently needed to be on top of Gerard as soon as possible and Bob had been too out of it to pull his jeans up -- thrummed a little with want. He was getting too old and he was definitely too tired to get it up again so soon, but the sight of Frank's back, bent like that, and the way Gerard's head was back and his eyes were closed and his chest was heaving, it made Bob want to get it up again. Which Bob was pretty sure hadn't been Frank's point, but Frank and Gerard were here and he was being given tacit permission to watch whatever it was this was -- he didn't know, he wasn't going to ask; this band was good at silence, maybe too good, but somehow Bob knew, clear-headed and well-fucked, that this time it was going to be different -- so Bob was going to watch. He watched Frank's hips jerk more frantically; he watched the curl of Gerard's fingers against the palm of his hand. When Gerard gasped and bit his lip and started to shudder, Bob reached out and let Gerard tangle his fingers in Bob's. Gerard's grip was still tight on Bob's fingers when Frank groaned, low and long, froze for a single brief instant, and then collapsed with his hand still trapped between his own hips and Gerard's. "God," Frank mumbled, face pressed against Gerard's neck, and then he twisted his body and his face around in that weird monkey way Frank had, so that he was peering at Bob with one eye that was barely half-open. "Jesus fuck, Bryar," Frank said. Bob said, "I didn't do anything." Gerard actually smiled, for real, and it reached his eyes. He was still holding Bob's hand. Frank, sleepy-eyed and limp, said, "You are the rock on which we are going to sail the good ship My Chemical Romance, Bob Bryar." He sounded uncharacteristically serious, and Bob said, "That was a fucking mixed metaphor that was really bad, Iero." Frank shrugged, and Gerard laughed again, low and quiet and short, but a sign of life. "What the fuck ever," Frank said. "Are we," Bob said, and Frank slapped a hand out over Bob's mouth so fast that Bob accidentally bit his own lip. "No talking," Frank said. "Just sleeping," and he closed his eyes, tiny smug smile on his face like he'd solved a problem Bob didn't know that anyone was having, and pressed his face against Gerard's neck and went even limper in Gerard's lap. The whole bus was quiet, except for the sounds of the engines -- and, fuck, it wasn't like Bob hadn't done stupid stuff, blowjobs from bandmates in the front lounge with a driver on the bus being way up there, but if nothing else, Bob trusted Brian to get people who turn blind eyes to whatever was going on behind the scenes with this band. Brian had to, because there was too much going on with this band, none of it bad but some of it scary. This band was too much of a good thing -- a good idea at the time, a good idea still -- to let a motormouth driver ruin it. Bob wasn't worried about that. He wasn't worried about the quiet, and he should be worried about what he (they) just did, but he' wasn't. Not a bad idea. Gerard broke the silence. He said, "Everybody needs saving." Bob didn't know what to say to that. Gerard said, "It can't get worse from here." Bob said, "It can't," because maybe it could but Bob thought maybe, just maybe, whatever bad idea this had been at the time, maybe somebody had turned a corner. Then Bob said, "What the hell, Gerard?" Gerard shrugged, as much as he could with all of Frank Iero draped across him. "It gets harder every day," Gerard said. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?" "I don't know," Bob said, which was the only honest answer he had. Something about Gerard Way demanded honesty. "I think it should," Gerard said. "But it doesn't. So," and then he drifted off, eyes still trained on Bob but focusing somewhere else entirely. Bob said, "Yeah, okay." There were good ideas and bad ideas and good ideas that turned into bad things to do; and bad ideas that turned into good things. This was a good thing from the start. Bob leaned his head back and closed his eyes and listened to the rhythm of the bus and Frank's sleepy breathing and the faint, faint echo of Gerard's laughter in his ears. It sounded like a heartbeat, and Gerard's fingers were still twined with Bob's, warm and solid and sober. Good idea from the start. |
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