Easy as 1, 2, 3 (I): twenty-six ficlets inspired by the alphabet, rated G - soft R
A is for: Amusement Park, Brendon/Frank, closetfanatic
Everybody blames Pete for Brendon and Frank discovering their Empowering and Forever True Love, even Mikey, who usually lets Pete off the hook. Pete always says, "But, but, they're perfect together," and someone else always says, "Yeah. That's the problem."
***
Brendon finds BonBon Land, which isn't a shock, since Brendon's far more attached to plugging in weird ass items into search engines than Frank. Of course, it never takes much for Brendon to then convince Frank that watching/reading/doing whatever he has found is the best idea EVER. So far there have only been two trips to the hospital, but that's because Spencer, Ryan, Ray and Mikey are all really good at First Aid. Spencer has continuously tried to find a way to block Brendon's internet access, but no matter what he does, Brendon always finds away around the parental controls.
***
Actually, as Brendon's ideas go--and Frank's willingness to aid in them--BonBon Land is relatively sedate. It's meant for children, so for the most part, everyone, even Ryan, who falls off shit a lot, is fairly safe. Ryan asks, "Seriously, we have a free day in Denmark, and this is what we do?" but once Jon has gotten him nice and buzzed, even that objection goes out the window.
***
Frank and Brendon take one look at the park map, and, in perfect unison, say, "The Dog Fart Switchback."
They don't even look at each other and high five the way they did for the first few months of their symbiosis, they just accept it as a fact of life and start figuring out exactly how to get to the ride they want.
***
They ride the The Wild Boar four times, partly because it's fun, partly because they discover they can hold hands underneath the front of the carriage and nobody notices. Brendon feels a little bit like a thirteen year old when he gets to the end of the ride and his hand is all clammy inside Frank's, but Frank squeezes and Brendon remembers that he's not the only one in love.
B is for: Baby brother, Mikey, Gerard, rilee16
"Gee," Lindsay's whispering. "Gee, babe. Your brother's here."
Gerard blinks awake at that. Lindsay looks kind of sick, but she's been looking like that a lot. The doctor says it's totally normal. He shoos her back into bed anyway and mutters, "Should've waken me."
"Why? You just puke, too. I know you love me, I don't need the physical proof of it."
Gerard frowns and kisses her forehead, pulling up the blankets. She doesn't actually like being under them that much, and will kick them off as soon as he's gone, but it makes him feel better. He's a selfish husband, he knows, but he really does love her. He thinks that must count for something.
He makes his way downstairs, where, sure enough, Mikey's sitting on the couch. There are two cups of coffee on the coffee table, so Gerard knows he's expected. He sits down and picks up the offering. Mikey says, "I didn't wake Linds."
"Nah, I know. Morning sickness."
"Suck," Mikey says, shivering a little. Gerard knows Mikey's terrified of the idea of having children, having little people who feel the way he sometimes feel when the meds aren't quite strong enough, or the day has been long enough that no amount of chemical help matters. They've never talked about it, but Mikey is Gerard's, has been since Gerard was allowed to look through a hospital window at a row of beds with babies that all looked the same, and he'd known, he'd known, "That's Mikey."
"She's okay," Gerard says, because for all his worry, she is. Women are kind of awesome. Gerard is really glad he isn't one. "You?" he asks. They both know Mikey isn't. He doesn't show up at eight in the morning on days when he is. He doesn't wake up at eight in the morning on days when he is.
"Nightmare," Mikey says.
"Horror flick nightmare or woke-up-and-wasn't-sure-it-wasn't-real nightmare?" Gerard's pretty sure it was the latter--the former wouldn't have brought Mikey over--but sometimes it helps to do some of the talking for Mikey, to give him time.
"'Member that time, I was like, ten, I guess, and we were walking home and I used to like to play on the tracks and you were always--" Mikey smiles, lowering his head, like it's private, only Gerard knows that Mikey doesn't hide from him. The smile isn't private, it's unsure. "Like, coming from a guy who had found a way to climb onto the roof so he could paint the tiles, it was a little funny, that like, you were always yelling at me to get off, but then there was that one day--"
"Yeah," Gerard says, because he remembers. Fuck if he'll ever, ever forget the heart-decimating terror of seeing an oncoming train, and Mikey having his stupid red shoelaces stuck in the track.
"In the dream it's you. It's you. And I don't get there." Mikey's breaths are short. "Um. Your shoelaces are the Spiderman ones you liked. Just so you know."
Gerard sets his coffee down and pulls Mikey to him, laughing a little in Mikey's hair, but not out of amusement, not exactly. Just at how Mikey that awareness is. Under his fingers, Mikey is a bit too warm, his heart beating two, three beats a second too fast. Gerard can still feel the grain of Mikey's second-hand Chucks, the skinny, fragile ankle he'd torn from the shoe. After a second, Mikey shifts so that he can fit better, the two of them puzzle pieces that always know where the right edges are.
Gerard says, "Didn't happen like that," and he isn't talking about oncoming trains, although, maybe at the time that's what the drugs had felt like, just a little.
"Okay," Mikey says, his fingers curling in the collar of Gerard's t-shirt. He sounds tired.
Gerard asks, "Wanna sleep?"
"Don't-- Don't let go."
"No." Gerard shakes his head and maneuvers them so that they're lying on the couch. It's clumsy and they'll each have new bruises later, but neither of them complains. "Nah, I'm tired too."
For all that he's taller, Mikey rests his face against Gerard's neck, snuffling a bit. Gerard closes his eyes, smiling.
C is for: Canadian Shack, Panic GSF, liketheroad
Spencer was pissed. It wasn't that Spencer didn't get pissed, but it actually wasn't all that usual, not the truly, deeply, bone-deep angry kind of pissed that he was right now. Also, generally, if Spencer was going to expend the energy to be that upset with something, it was most likely going to be Ryan. Not that Ryan minded the object of Spencer's ire not being him--he kind of preferred it that way--but it was a weird change of pace.
"What the fucking fuck?" Spencer asked upon seeing the inside the motel the label had booked for them. He sounded really calm, which was pretty much a dead give away.
"I'm cold," Brendon said, and Ryan had no idea how someone who practiced his own pout in the mirror could sound so matter-of-fact when whining. Granted, it was really cold. Really, really fucking cold.
"I could maybe make a fire," Jon said, looking doubtfully in the direction of the "fireplace," aka, hole-in-the-wall-with-some-pieces-of-wood-languishing-there.
Brendon wrapped his scarf more tightly around his throat and said, "I could help."
"No," Spencer put his foot down. Normally Spencer would have just followed over and made sure Brendon "helping" didn't end with Brendon being burned to death, but Ryan got the feeling he didn't have the patience for that right now. Ryan didn't really blame him. It had been a miserable tour, all around, and ending up in Canada's worst-ever-motel-type-complex was just the latest of the awful.
Spencer pressed a hand to his forehead. Brendon said, "Hey, hey," and tugged Spencer toward the sofa. Whatever he saw when he got there must have deterred him, because he said, "Uh, okay," and just steered Spencer toward the chairs in the kitchenette.
Ryan watched after them for a bit and then went to Jon who asked, "You have another lighter?"
Ryan gave him his and asked, "Uh, so--"
"I think the wood is wet," Jon said.
"Right," Ryan said.
The thing was, normally Spencer was the one who pulled it together and took care of them, but Spencer was just getting over having the flu bug from fucking hell--one he'd played with; and, if Ryan wasn't incorrect, the one that Brendon was busy coming down with. Also, Ryan, for all that he sometimes forgot this, was perfectly capable of taking care of both of them. He just had to be in a position where it was necessary.
Ryan said, "I'm gonna see if the bus is locked yet."
Jon nodded. Ryan buried his hands in his pockets and trudged out into the slush of the parking lot, where he found the bus to be locked. He knocked on the door that Zack had told them he'd be in and said, "We're gonna need--"
"Yeah," Zack said, "I was just about to come over."
Ryan let Zack follow him back, blankets bundled in his arms. He took the blankets from Zack when they were there, and shooed him over to help Jon with the fire-building progress. Ryan spread the blankets over the bed--one to lay on, because no way were they sleeping on the sheets--and several to cover them. There were two beds, but Ryan just pushed them together, the activity warming him up.
He wandered out, noting that somehow, Zack and Jon had managed the impossible. He wasn't terribly surprised. When he got to the table, Brendon said, "Spencer made me hot water. Want some?"
Ryan smiled a little for him and ruffled his hair. Brendon buried his face in Ryan's stomach. Ryan caressed at the back of Brendon's neck, and looked at Spencer, who just mouthed, "Fuck."
Ryan said, "Finish your water."
Brendon made a face, but did as he was told. That, right there, told Ryan just how tired and disgusting Brendon was feeling. When he'd drunk the last of it, Ryan pulled him to his feet and then turned and did the same for Spencer. Jon was standing in front of the fledgling fire, holding his hands out to it. Zack said, "Okay. Um. Text if you need anything."
"No service," Spencer said. Ryan wasn't surprised he'd checked.
Jon said, "We'll come get you, it's okay."
Zack didn't look thrilled at the idea, but he left, all the same. The four of them huddled around the fire, trying to warm up, just a little, just enough so that they would be able to go in the next room and curl over each other, under the blankets--manage to keep themselves warm enough to get through the night. Brendon's breathing was loud, and Spencer was hunched over on himself, clearly thoroughly miserable.
Ryan looked at Jon, who nodded his head a little, and the two of them did their best to crowd the other two between them, cuddle them close. Spencer pressed his face into Ryan's cheek. Brendon murmured something and drew himself even tighter, bringing Jon with him. Spencer said, "This changes nothing. Someone's still going to die for this."
"Mm," Ryan said, kissing at the side of Spencer's mouth. Spencer sighed and loosened up a little. They stood in front of the fire until Brendon started to fall over.
D is for: Daffodils, Ryan/Bob, silverceri
AN: I set this in the Blanket Made of Stars-verse, I hope that's all right.
Every year, Ryan planted flowers all around the house. He would ride into town, pick his way through the general store's selection of seeds, and bring back enough that he could plant two even rows of flora as a frame for the structure.
Every year, Ryan's garden died a slow and not-particularly-dignified death. Ryan was great with the cows, could fix a hearty dinner, and knew how to drive a bargain unlike anyone Bob had ever met, but he was horrific at growing flowers, and the Nevada climate was not a man's best friend in that particular situation. Bob had never seen Ryan be anything but determined about the whole venture until the evening he came home from the fields a little early and found Ryan decimating one corner of his failed garden with a spade.
Ryan was too focused on what he was doing to hear Bob approach. Bob said, "Ryan?" but Ryan was caught up in his own rage, and didn't answer. Bob let it go until Ryan had exhausted himself, when he said, "Ryan," again and moved in, touching a hand to Ryan's shoulder. Ryan whipped around and planted the point of the spade at the center of Bob's chest, eyes both enraged and terrified. Bob put his hands up. "Just me."
It took a second for Ryan to comprehend. Then he dropped his hand. "Sorry, uh-- Sorry."
Bob shook his head and just tugged Ryan back to him, stroking his back. Ryan's breathe caught a little. Bob said, "It's okay."
"I kill everything," Ryan said, low and soft and without any apparent emotion. Bob knew better.
"I'm pretty sure it's the desert that's killing your plants, Ry, not you. Maybe you should try some cacti, or something? Something that doesn't need so much water."
Ryan sighed. "Something ugly."
Bob winced. He sometimes wondered if Ryan wasn't meant to be kept here, in this place, if what he really should have done was taken Ryan somewhere far away, where he could be without tangible memories and have as many flowers as he damn well wanted. He said, "It'll live."
Ryan said, "Yeah, the ugly shit always does."
***
Bob talked to Mikey who said, "There are cacti that grow flowers. Um, I haven't seen them around here, but remember when we were going through New Mexico?"
Brian nodded. "Probably easy enough to get an order in."
Bob said, "Enough for him to, um, landscape, or, I mean, whatever he wants." Then, "I hate you," when Brian put on his very, very best straight face. Mikey didn't even bother.
***
Gerard, Mikey and Matt all helped Ryan plant the cacti, which came as baby plants, rather than seeds. Bob came out with a pitcher of lemonade at one point, enjoying the way Gerard was entirely more muddy than was probably necessary, and Ryan was trying to pet the cacti. Matt had to take a needle out of his hand more than once. That night, after they'd washed up and eaten dinner, Bob kissed it better. Ryan laughed, husky and pleased.
***
Most mornings, Ryan didn't even open his eyes until after his first few sips of coffee. Bob loved watching him, reveling in the way that Ryan trusted his surroundings enough that he needn't be alert first thing. This morning, Bob enjoyed watching as Ryan did open his eyes, closed them, then opened them pointedly again. He said, "Oh," a slip of breath, disbelief.
"You like?" Bob asked.
"How did you--" Ryan turned slowly, taking in the way that daffodils covered nearly every surface. There were more throughout the house.
Bob said, "You can't grow'em outside, but in pots, well, it might work. None of us are entirely sure, but we figured it might be worth a try."
"I-- Daffodils are--"
"Your favorite," Bob finished. Ryan looked at him. Bob shrugged. "It was the one flower you never gave up on. Everything else you'd try once and then just stop, but the daffodils--"
Ryan was on him then, kissing him, the taste of coffee and cream and just a hint of baking soda, hitting Bob's tongue. Bob drew him in, holding Ryan to his chest, holding to the way he could feel Ryan's chest opening, wide with his happiness. Ryan said, "I love you," between kisses.
Bob said, "I like'em. They have color."
Ryan grinned into the kiss.
E is for: Exasperation, Gerard/Bob, redandglenda
Bob loved his band, he really did, he loved every last one of them and would have taken a bullet for any of them without thinking about it. That said, if Gerard left his dirty socks on the bus table one more time, Bob was going to tie him to the hood of said bus with said socks. Naked.
"Seriously, Gee, who the fuck puts their socks on the table in the first place? You weren't raised by wolves, I happen to know both your parents, also, your brother, who doesn't seem to have this problem."
Gerard looked abashed, but all he said was, "He just remembers to hide it better."
Bob took a breath, counted to ten and said, "Don't. Do. It. Again." Then he walked away, before Gerard could come up with some ridiculous way to excuse inexcusable behavior.
***
The socks disappeared, but almost-empty coffee cups started appearing wherever Bob stepped, it seemed. These had to be Gerard's fault, largely because Gerard was the only one of them who somehow managed to forget to finish his coffee. He'd get distracted by something, and by the time he remembered he had coffee it was either cold and gross, or he couldn't find it. Sometimes, he just didn't remember.
After spilling coffee a third time by simply walking, Bob found Gerard, and stayed with him while they played "find the mostly empty coffee cup" and threw all of them in the trash. Bob said, "Next time, I will get an economy-sized bag, and put you in there until the next stop."
Gerard blinked and said, "Um. You want some coffee?"
Bob really wished he had something to hit his head against--repeatedly.
***
It was when Gerard started "accidentally" stealing Bob's pajama pants that Bob figured it out. Gerard accidentally stole Mikey's shit all the time, and didn't even realize it despite the size difference. But that was Gerard and Mikey, not Gerard and Bob. So Bob sat Gerard down in the lounge and said, "Okay, what did I do? Just tell me and then we can work it out."
"Um. You threatened to tie me to the hood of the bus?"
Gerard was a shit liar. It was kind of awesome and horribly inconvenient, all at once. Bob just looked at him. Gerard started fidgeting. Bob waited; once the fidgeting had begun, it was never long. Gerard held out longer than Bob expected him to, but eventually he burst out with, "I just, um. It's just that you notice."
Bob played the sentence in his head three times. "I notice what, exactly?" That felt more tactful than, "I notice that you drive me crazy with your pigsty habits?" and Gerard seemed a little nervous, so Bob was willing to tread lightly.
"Uh. Me?"
"You," Bob said, because he really wasn't sure how else to respond to that. Bob noticed Gerard all the fucking time. He was just a gentleman about it, okay?
Gerard got all squirrely, then, and Bob was pretty sure he would have shot right out of the lounge except that Bob caught him. He held on even as Gerard tried to get away. "You were, like, pulling my pigtails?"
"I was saving that until Mikey could get you to wear your hair in actual pigtails," Gerard said, a little indignant, given what he was telling Bob.
"You could have just kissed me, or, like, shared your coffee with me."
"I was worried that would be construed as sexual harassment." Gerard actually bit at his lower lip in concern.
"Jesus," Bob said, and hauled Gerard to where he could kiss him properly. Gerard went all limbless in seconds and barely even roused when Bob pulled back for a minute to say, "If I find dirty anything in my bunk, my revenge will be swift and unkind."
Gerard asked, "Even if it's me?"
Bob sighed. "I'm willing to enter into negotiation on that item."
F is for: Friendship, HG/SS, lifeasanamazon
Every Thursday, Severus gets home late. Hermione doesn't really notice anymore, it's just part of their routine. Sometimes she goes out on Thursday nights, because he's not going to be waiting for her, but sometimes she enjoys having the house to herself. She can play music as loud as she likes, talk to herself aloud, even make kippers, which are a major comfort food for Hermione, but the smell turns Severus' stomach.
When he comes back, he has a drink--sometimes she does, too--and a nightmare, which they don't talk about. On Fridays, they get up and go to work and it's as though Thursday night never happened.
***
She knows where he goes, and she won't ask him to stop, despite the fact that her heart aches at the thought of him doing what he does, seeing whom he sees. Hermione, more than most, understands that certain bonds aren't breakable, not even by wars and deaths and tenuous promises of freedom.
***
It's been nearly a year of Thursdays for them when, on a whim--or maybe the wave of exhaustion--Hermione says, "You can talk about it. You can trust me."
"It's hardly an issue of trust," he says, striving, clearly, for defiance and disdain, but only managing a shaky weariness. "You have been subjected to enough by the people I show tacit support for without me bringing home my worries. My actions are inappropriate, my words shall not be."
"Hiding from me is inappropriate. Being a friend through hard times-- Well, that's one of the reasons I married you."
***
The worst part of it, perhaps, for Hermione, is how Severus lets her have her friends. He might not come around when they are spending time together, but after the first few months he stopped sniping at them, and soon thereafter began showing some small gestures of support when she was having troubles with or worried about them. And yet, when it comes to the Malfoys, locked up in their cells, Severus refuses to say so much as a word.
***
"If you have such problems with their actions, then why do you continue to show them concern?" Hermione asks, one Friday morning, knowing she is breaking their rules. She didn't marry him for his tendency to think inside the box. She doesn't think that's what he saw in her, either.
"The answer is not so complex as you are probably hoping."
She takes a bite of her breakfast. "Dazzle me."
"Everyone makes mistakes."
She doesn't say anything, because she knows him--that may be the basic philosophy, it isn't the reason. He stands out against her quiet interrogation for all of three minutes before breaking. "Albus used to say that saving me had done no good if I didn't use the knowledge of what being saved was to aid others in the same process."
Hermione hadn't known the Headmaster all that well, but, "That does sound like him."
Severus looks at her. "I don't find them irredeemable."
She moves into his space, kisses him. "No."
He leans into her just the tiniest bit, the inch or so everything he will never say. She nods. "No, of course not."
G is for: Gerard's ideas, Frank/Mikey, harborshore
Gerard had an Idea, Mikey could tell. Ideas, in Mikey's experience, were one of two things: Awesome, Incredible and Brilliant, like starting a band with Ray Toro, or Fucking Disastrous, like moving to Seattle or dyeing his hair anime-red. Gerard was a man of extremes.
Gerard was in the same room with him, so it was only appropriate to text, "penny for 'em."
Gerard looked up, all false-innocence. "Nothing to buy."
Mikey sighed. When Ideas were secret, they always, always fell on the Fucking Disastrous end of the scale.
***
Usually, Mikey was able to see the Idea coming from miles away, but somehow, when Gerard said, "Hey, go on a road trip with me, just for a weekend?" Mikey hadn't predicted that what Gerard actually meant was, "I plan on pretending I'm going on a road trip with Frank, too, and then ditching both of you at the last minute."
Frank said, "Your brother is the worst matchmaker ever."
Mikey rubbed at his forehead. He'd actually kind of been looking forward to going out to Amherst. The B&Bs there were old and drafty and made him think of ghosts. He liked it. "Yeah."
"Hey," Frank jiggled the keys. "We've got reservations, right?"
Mikey peered at him out of one eye. Frank shrugged. "It'd suck to waste 'em."
Mikey got in the car.
***
"He just wants you to be happy, you know?" Frank said in the middle of a Taking Back Sunday song that he had previously been, um, interpreting at the top of his lungs.
Mikey turned down the volume. "What?"
"Gerard, he just worries."
"I'm okay," Mikey said, and meant it. Nothing was wrong right now that couldn't be fixed, not so long as he kept taking his meds and didn't let himself think too much.
"Yeah, but he wants you to be happy. We all-- I want that, too."
Mikey shook his head and reached to turn the volume back up, but Frank caught his hand. "You didn't see this coming when normally you would have because you weren't really paying attention, but I did. I did and I showed up this morning and got in the car with you anyway, and you're allowed to ignore that fact if you want to, but it's still a fact."
Frank let go. It took Mikey a second to feel his fingers again, even though Frank hadn't been holding on particularly tightly. He turned the dial.
***
They arrived early enough to spend the day in thrift stores and having small, continuous snacks in different coffee shops. In the evening they made their way to the B&B, which was a few miles outside the town proper, through winding, wooded roads. The innkeeper had sugar cookies made and coffee brewing and she was proud of her place, of the history it encapsulated. Mikey let her words run over him, the same as her cats.
At some point, Frank tugged him down a hallway, up a few stairs and onto a bed. Mikey looked down at where Frank was taking Mikey's shoes off his feet and said, "I'm tired."
"Yeah," Frank agreed, like he'd known. Maybe he had. Frank always knew things he wasn't supposed to know.
Frank pushed back the covers and herded Mikey into the bed and was about to turn away when Mikey grabbed his wrist. Mikey looked at his hand, thinking how Frank had done this earlier. He said, "Keep me safe from the ghosts."
The wind blew through the windowpanes and Frank didn't ask, he just climbed in beside Mikey and said, "Won't let 'em get you."
H is for: Hug, Bob/Mikey, saba1789
Mikey's memories don't always go in order. For instance, he knows that the first time he met Bob, he was ordering a beer, something cheap and vaguely stale-tasting, and on his way to getting toasted before he had to play. He remembers Frank going on about Bob's, "Skillzzzzz, seriously Mikeyway, he made, like, that opener sound like they knew what they were doing." Mikey remembers thinking, "Yeah, that's pretty incredible," and, "Jesus, how long does it take to get a beer in this place?"
He knows that was first. The first thing he remembers about Bob, though, when he thinks about it, is the way Bob held him, hour after hour after hour, when Gerard was detoxing, screaming things, things Mikey didn't want to hear and couldn't walk away from. He remembers how it should have felt like a forced hold, keeping him away from Gerard, keeping him there, anchoring him. Instead, it felt like a hug. Mikey knows there were things before that, he just doesn't think any of them mattered.
***
Each of the guys has a different hug and Mikey loves each one in its own way, but Bob is the only one who can completely wrap Mikey up--not even Ray can quite manage that, even if his hugs are sturdy and steadying and as familiar as home. Bob's hugs are warm and certain and they remind Mikey that he's wanted.
From the very first, Mikey knows he probably shouldn't give into them, they're too good, like alcohol and pills and other things that take him away, make things all right. He knows he shouldn't, but Mikey has never been very good at saying no.
***
When Mikey finally gets clean, he spends days shaky and pained and afraid of his own body. He spends even longer afraid of his mind, of the pull it has on him, the desire it can draw around him, until the tug is almost too much to resist. He manages, but just barely.
The guys don't come until he tells them they can, and he thinks he's ready, he's pretty sure, but then Bob is there, his arms safe and warm and really fucking addictive and Mikey thinks, fuck, because this is one drug there's no meetings for.
***
Mikey tries to just take it one day at a time--they tell him that's how it's supposed to go--but Bob is always there when Mikey needs him and it's impossible to say no, far more impossible than it was to finally put aside the pills and the booze. Mikey tries to act normal, not to let on as if there's anything wrong, but after a month Bob says, "Mikey. If-- If I make you uncomfortable, you know you can just--"
Mikey finds his fingers digging into Bob's arm and it's humiliating, but he doesn't think he can let go. Bob asks, "Mikey?"
Mikey shakes his head a few times, but Bob's not getting it, he's still making calming noises. Mikey stutters, "Not supposed-- I need and I'm not supposed to-- Rely--"
Bob puts his hand under Mikey's chin, makes Mikey look at him. Time has literally stopped moving, that's all that can explain why this is taking so long. Finally, Bob says, "I'm not a drug. I won't destroy you from the inside out. Swear."
Mikey blinks, because nobody told him that there are different types of dependence. He feels stupid, because of course he should have known that. He's just not sure how. "Scarier than one," he admits.
"Good thing for me that you're fucking brave," Bob says, his voice gruff. He's not looking at Mikey.
Somehow it's that, the utter vulnerability in Bob's shoulders that makes it possible--easy--for Mikey to slide a hand along Bob's back, to say, "Not really," even as leans in, eager for the touch, the hug, eager for Bob.
I is for: Incognito, Bob/Brian, crowgirl13
Brian can, for the most part, walk down a street completely unmolested no matter where he is. Bob, on the other hand, is a different story. It makes for interesting dates.
***
The first time, Bob fucked Brian on the dark side of the van in a public parking lot. Bob was technically Brian's employee, or at least, the employee of Brian's band, and it was all kinds of a bad idea. The best thing for it would really would have been for both of them to pretend it hadn't happened in the morning. Instead, Bob said, "Hey, I bet we could catch a one o'clock mat on Saturday, my treat, popcorn and all."
Brian said, "What a fucking gentleman."
It had been really easy, back then.
***
They aren't the kind of guys who do romantic dinners with mood lighting or riverboat cruises, or whatever, but occasionally, Bob likes to go to a concert of a band he doesn't know anybody in with Brian, or Brian likes to take Bob to hole-in-the-wall diners he's found that only Bob will understand. Most of the time, it's easy enough to dress Bob in ways where nobody will notice him, even given his size. The places they pick aren't likely to attract the kind of people who will get all up in Bob's face.
Occasionally, though, there are problems.
***
If Bob has to wear a suit, they're pretty much fucked. There is no good way to put a cap on Bob in a suit. He doesn't have flashy taste in suits, but suits, unlike baggy jeans and non-descript t-shirts, do not have the same camouflaging effect. Bob doesn't like suits, and it's rare that he has to wear them, but there is the time that Brian's brother gets married and says, "Brian, I swear to fuck, you and your boyfriend need to show, and in appropriate attire."
Brian's brother is an insurance agent and really shouldn't be scary. Bob says, "Suit it is."
It's a fucking bitch making sure none of those pictures get out on the internet. Bob tells him, "Next time, we invite the guys and make it look like a family affair."
Brian agrees by way of fucking him over the back of the couch. Bob doesn't complain again after that.
***
Then there's the time that Bob's mom scores a job at one of Chicago's nicest restaurants and swears to disown him if he won't take Brian on a date there. Bob cuts his hair for the occasion, and wears the world's most boring gray slacks and sports-jacket combo. Brian says, "Not the look that turns me on the most."
"Shut up, I'm buying."
"You get your mom's discount."
Bob sighs, looking at Brian pointedly. Brian makes a face. "Yeah, just."
Bob nods in agreement. "Just."
The pictures from that do leak, despite their best attempts to have a table in a secluded area--which, in hindsight, just makes it worse. Brian makes noise about a business dinner and Bob doesn't say a damn thing at all, and sooner or later, the fans go back to being concerned that Frank and Gerard aren't spending enough time with each other.
***
They're having a night in at Brian's place in LA--pizza and popcorn and a movie--and Bob says, "Every once in a while, it'd be nice, not having to worry about someone seeing my face."
Brian looks at him because they hadn't even been talking about going out. Bob just shrugs. "Hiding's never really been my thing."
Brian says, "Spotlight hasn't either."
It feels like there should be so much space in between, but they both know there's not, not when it comes to this. Bob looks back at the screen, "Sorry, didn't mean to--"
Brian cuts him off with a kiss. It's quiet and they're inside with nobody to see and still it's not so far from the first time: Brian Bob's employee now, the risk still all around them. Brian keeps kissing.
J is for: Joy, Greta/Bob, secrethappiness
Patrick had texted him, "Come out with me tonite? Greta's playing a bar."
Bob, honestly, hadn't had a fucking clue who Greta was, had probably thought she was Patrick's girlfriend or some musician he was currently fanboying. On the other hand, he hadn't had any plans for that night, either. "ur driving"
***
Bob knew he recognized her when Patrick introduced her, he just hadn't a clue from where. That was enough, though, for him to suspect she was on Pete's label. Pete had too many fucking artists to keep track of. She shook his hand and smiled easily. "Thanks for coming out. I hope Patrick didn't have to bribe you, or anything."
There was a slight hint of laughter at the end of the statement and Bob couldn't have helped smiling, even if he'd wanted to try. "Just a blowjob, nothing major."
Her laugh at that was real and open, her face and body going along for the ride. It had been a long time since Bob had responded to anything by way of an automatic hard-on and a desire to make it happen again, no matter what. He said, "Buy you a drink after the show?"
"Underage," she told him. "And everyone here knows it."
"Coke it is," he said. She laughed some more. Mission accomplished.
***
"How underage?" he asked Patrick.
"Do I get a blowjob for answering?" Patrick returned.
There were roughly a million answers Bob could give him. He figured the one that would get him the answer was, "I like her, Patrick. Like like."
Patrick rolled his eyes. "Your band is turning you into an earnest motherfucker."
"Yeah," Bob agreed. Whatever, Patrick was in a band with Pete Motherfucking Wentz.
"Legal."
Internally, Bob did The Dance of Victory. Externally, he nodded. "Good."
***
Greta played the piano like someone who'd been doing it since she'd figured out she had fingers, and she had a voice that was made up of smoke and wine and maybe really good chocolate. He thought if she covered Billie Holliday he'd probably embarrass himself right there, in the middle of the club. Happily for everyone, she didn't.
***
At around one, Patrick came back to where Bob and Greta were sitting at the bar and said, "I'm going home. You'll get a ride?"
Greta said, "I drove. I can take him."
Patrick kissed her cheek and said, "Sublime, kiddo. As always."
"Aw. Bet you say that to all Pete's girls."
Patrick neither confirmed nor denied the accusation.
***
They closed the place down over Cokes and the occasional beer on Bob's end. He followed her out to her car and gave her instructions home. She said, "Holy shit, I used to have lessons in this part of town. Way, way back when."
Bob politely didn't mention that there wasn't that way much back to her. Instead he asked, "Come up for a coffee?"
She smiled sweetly and said, "It should be mentioned that I'm not easy."
"It should be mentioned that Mikey and Gerard have trained me to make really good coffee. Also, I'm not an asshole."
She pointed at him with her keys. "I am taking your word on that, Bob Bryar. Your word."
***
At six o'clock, he dug out an old t-shirt for her, turned back the sheets in the guest bedroom and said, "Night."
***
He woke up to the sound of soft laughter and a whispered, "Fuck if I know. Honestly." He could smell coffee, lighter than he made it, and something else. Bob got out of bed and walked into the main area of his apartment, running a hand over his head. Greta was still in his t-shirt--it came down to her knees. She was perched on one of his counters, talking on her cell. Next to her, pancake batter was all made up.
She said, "Gotta go, talk later," and hung up. "Hey, I was waiting to start."
"I had pancake batter?"
"Well, you had flour and eggs and sugar and some other stuff you need, I just--"
"Marry me," he said.
"Don't you think it's a little early for that?" she asked, her voice all serious consideration.
She looked as beautiful with her hair unbrushed as she did when she was all done up for a show. She knew most of the jazz musicians Bob did and was interested in the ones she didn't. Her laughter made it so that he didn't mind waking up at all. And she could make pancakes from scratch. "No."
"Okay then, I'll look at my calendar later, we can set a date."
Bob laughed.
K is for: Kissing, Bob/Brian, hammerhead22
Brian got into the shower one morning without remembering to take his clothes off. Some indeterminate amount of time later, Bob snatched him out, turned the water off, asked, "Are you trying to kill yourself? Because there are easier ways than hypothermia," and left him to the tender mercies of some label rep.
The next day, Brian put himself in rehab.
***
Bob picked him up on the 29th day. Brian said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I--"
"Save it for someone who might think about not forgiving you."
Bob--"
"No, seriously, Bri. You're probably gonna need the energy."
***
Brian met up with My Chem in Michigan, because he liked killing two birds with one stone, and if he didn't visit him mom she was going to disown him. He went back to Bob's room after the family reunion and opened up a soda from the minibar before he could get himself into any more trouble.
Bob said, "So, hey, we got you something."
"We?"
"I have these friends. Sometimes we live on a bus together--"
Brian threw the bottle cap at him. Bob caught it. He walked over behind the couch and picked something up. It took Brian several moments to understand. "You got me a cat?"
"Two years old, spayed, has all her shots. Stupid name, but that's okay, you can pick a new one. Short-haired, so she won't shed as much, and super friendly, even to Frank, who's a total tool with cats."
"You realize I can't keep a plant alive to save myself?"
"Not about some AA thing. We just think you need something to think about other than work."
"That is really not a good enough reason to put a living creature in my hands."
Bob rolled his eyes. "Mikey and Gee are still alive. The cat'll be fine."
Brian wasn't really sure how to argue with that.
***
Brian named her Ella, for Fitzgerald, and pretended like he didn't remember the first night he'd ever truly listened to the woman sing, fuzzy on Tequila and sharing an earphone of Bob's discman on the hood of a van, warm in the dry heat of a San Diego evening.
***
They weren't on tour for Bob's birthday, they almost never were, what with it falling on New Year's Eve. Brian caught up to them in New Jersey. Bob was staying with Mikey, since he had the nicest guest bedroom. Brian would kind of just show up and land somewhere; that was how it was. He went to Mikey's place first, for all of that. Alicia answered the door with, "You brought Ella, right?"
Brian was glad he'd thought ahead. He was pretty sure Alicia wouldn't have let him in if he answered incorrectly.
***
Gerard, Lindsay, Frank, Jamia, Ray and Krista all showed up at some point. Frank had a couple of beers with Ray, but mostly it was a dry party, and it didn't pass Brian's attention that Bob hadn't partaken of the alcohol. Bunny and Ella were cautiously considering their friendship potential, and Carson Daly was doing his best to be an asshole on the TV. Brian kept telling him he really didn't need to try that hard--it came naturally.
At around eleven-fifty, Bob said, "Lindsay made sparkling lemonade. It's good."
Brian said, "Yeah, okay."
They toasted at midnight, sugary, carbonated, citrus-smelling liquid tipping over the sides of the glasses and onto their hands. Brian came up from his sip to the feel of Bob's lips on his, sticky and too sweet. Bob pulled back enough to murmur, "Happy New Year."
Brian hadn't been expecting the kiss, but after a few seconds of thought, he realized that was probably because he'd gotten used to expecting nothing--particularly in relation to the things he wanted. It worried him until it sunk in that, "There's nothing I can tell you that you don't know." He was so used to having to explain himself, the traveling, the alcoholism, his growing allegiance to a cat above all others, but none of that was news to Bob.
"I don't know how you kiss," Bob told him.
That wasn't the kind of thing Brian told. That was the sort of thing that could only be shown.
L is for: Laundry, Hermione/Severus/Remus CoMC-verse, whoyouinvent
Even with the continuously improving Wolfsbane, the wolves remained sensitive in the twelve hours between changes, and the twenty-four hours afterward. Severus was always working on ways to try and cut down on the touch sensitivity by way of the potion, Remus consulting as best he could. Hermione generally tried to think about the problem in other terms, since she felt that avenue was covered.
The day she found Zev shivering in early autumn and tried to put a sheet on him, only to have him forcefully whine, "No," then, "please," was the day Project: Laundry began.
***
Project: Laundry necessarily involved Severus and Remus, since Hermione needed someone to consult with about detergent potions, and someone to try out the final product. She also pulled in Ginny to brainstorm with her on charms, since, after a while, she realized it was possible that repeat launderings and careful selection of laundering potions wasn't quite enough. Month after month after month she found herself up to her waist in suds and magics and linens trying to get the right combination, and still the wolves whined and shimmied away from contact, left to the tender mercies of heating spells cast by those of them doing their best to stay awake and alert in order to help, post-transformation.
***
It was Remus who figured it out. Accidentally, albeit, but Hermione wasn't one for semantics. Well, mostly, he wrapped himself around her one morning while he was still in the pure silk-cotton mix pajamas Paulo had sent for his birthday, and Hermione realized she'd been going about the whole situation completely wrong. It wasn't just about the washing, it was about the actual material.
She muttered, "Severus, Sev'rus, S--"
"It is a bloody unholy hour, wife."
She ignored him, largely because he woke up to try something he'd dreamed of in his lab all the time. "You have contacts in China, yes?"
"Should I reply in the affirmative, will you allow me the regenerative sleep I so desperately need?"
"Only if you promise to contact them in the morning."
"Late morning."
That was good enough for Hermione.
***
"That's a lot of silk," Millicent said, when she brought the newest litter of kneazles over to see if some would settle. So far they weren't having much luck, but Hermione actually thought that was more because of how young some of the wolves were, rather than the wolf-nature itself.
Hermione nodded. "We're still waiting on the cotton."
"Running out of space? Need a tent?"
Hermione laughed. "Are you trying to curse us?"
***
The first blend, despite consulting with some of the best and brightest wizards and witches who worked with natural and polymer blends, didn't work, nor did the second. Hermione caught sight of a hare in the month following and had the idea to add angora to the mix. After two iterations of different percentages, Hermione went to cover Remus on the morning after the final change. She could hear him holding his breath, expecting it to be too much and she wanted nothing more than not to have to try it, not even for the second it would take.
Severus, mercifully, took the other end and helped her to lay it gently over Remus. His breathing stopped for a second and she asked, "Remus?"
Remus released his breath, slow and a little shaky and said, "Mm. Going to sleep now."
Hermione made herself help cover the other wolves before eating a celebratory breakfast of chocolate and making out with Severus until he was begging for her hand. Magnanimous in victory, she helped him out.
M is for: Many fucking cups, WW, amand_r
"Do we have cups? Donna, do we have--"
Donna put a hand to Josh's chest and said, "We have cups, we have plates, we have napkins, we have plasticware--all recyclable. We have placemats, despite the tablecloth. What are you supposed to be doing?"
"Making the iced tea," Josh said, because he knew that much.
"Right. So, why aren't you doing it?"
Josh let that hang in the air for a few minutes. "I was worried about the cups?"
Donna rolled her eyes and walked out of the room.
***
Josh was, admittedly, bad at parties. Or, well, he was okay once he was actually at them, if the value for okay was something like, "As long as everyone's talking politics, I won't make a complete ass out of myself." The set up, though, he was miserable about. After the first time they'd hosted a dinner party--Josh, President Santos and his wife, Sam, a few of the other people around the office--Donna had said, "If we do anything like this, ever again, I give the orders, and you listen."
Josh had said, "But I--"
"It wasn't an offer," she told him.
Josh knew it was mostly for the best, but that hadn't stopped him from arguing his point for the better part of a year. Donna hadn't even bothered to argue back; she just refused to host any social events at their house.
***
When CJ got pregnant with her second child--Josh suspected it was an accident, but had enough tact to only mention that to her in private. He could acknowledge he'd probably deserved the slap--Donna said, "We're hosting a co-ed baby shower."
"Isn't that breaking some sort of sororital pact taken by women of all shapes, sizes and colors at birth?"
"Sororital isn't a word."
"Donna." Josh knew he was whining, but it wasn't like he could help it. Sometimes his voice came out that way.
"Most of her friends are male, this is how it's going. I'm going to write a shopping list and you're going to shop for the necessary items a couple of days ahead of time. You're also going to help me with the invitations and set up. What you are not going to do, is get ideas."
"I'm an ideas guy."
"Yeah, well, keep it at the office." She said "at the office" like most people said, "in your pants."
"What if--"
"Office," she reiterated. Josh gave in, but only because if pressed, Donna was totally willing to withhold his husbandly privileges.
***
The other problem was that he got a little high-strung at the last minute, wanting things to be perfect. Donna had repeatedly marveled that he could handle trying to get bills passed and budgets changed and whatever the hell else the country needed in a matter of hours and not go to pieces, but the minute people were about to have some cake and ice cream at his house, it was total meltdown time.
"Donna! Tea's made!"
"Great," she called from the other room. "Now get the hell out of the kitchen and let the catering people do their job."
"What should I--"
"Watch some CNN."
"But--"
"What if something important's going on?"
"I'm pretty sure my phone--"
"ESPN, then."
Josh frowned. "Funny." He went with CNN.
***
There were cups everywhere. It was like they had procreated to the advancement of their species over the plates. CJ had offered, "I can stay and help--" but Donna had glared, "Don't even think about it," and then helped her out to her car with all her swag. Josh had gotten a text minutes later, "Thanks for pressing the point about no stupid games."
He texted back, "I will always have your back."
CJ responded, "At least when you'd have to play the stupid games, too."
Josh smirked. "Definitely then."
Donna came back and looked around. She said, "Possibly, I should have booked a cleaning service."
"I did," Josh told her.
"You-- Um, what?"
"It wasn't on your list of things to do."
"Right, because I--"
"Can do everything yourself." Josh smiled, his words soft. "I know."
She looked sideways at him, and, after a second, responded with a smile. "Have something in mind for while we're not cleaning?"