MCR fic: Bob/Ray, R
*hands* First experiment with the pairing. It's kind of rough around the edges, but I promised it like two days ago, and it wasn't supposed to get this motherfucking long. I've gotta be gone for the weekend, so here it is, before it's too late.
Title: Fifteen Minutes, Three Bites of Toast, and Four Sips of Ginger Ale
Pairing: Bob/Ray
Rating: R
Summary: Someone (Frank) spiked the egg nog (and the Brothers Way are perfectly okay with that, thank you very much!). ~4000 words.
Note: Quick holiday fic to amuse crowgirl13, who suggested the pairing and who is plagued with evil snot monsters. Begone, I say!
Fifteen Minutes, Three Bites of Toast, and Four Sips of Ginger Ale
Bob's not one to question Toro. Not about anything, really, but especially not when he's going to be a guest in the man's house. He's just arrived, here for the weekend for the first time in probably months-well, since Krista moved out, which is a different sort of time-keeping altogether. The house looks cheery with all the Christmas decorations, and in general it looks a lot less empty than Bob expected. So when he raises a cup of egg nog to his lips and he can already smell the whiskey, he just narrows his eyes as he sips.
Ray smiles. "I wasn't going to, but Mikey said non-alcoholic egg nog is fucking depressing, and Gerard agreed, which is why you see Frank presiding over two separate pitchers of the shit."
"Which one's he drinking from?"
"A little of both, I think."
"Christ help us all."
As Ray wanders toward the back of the house, Bob's large duffel in tow, Gerard wanders up and throws his arms around him. Bob doesn't get that guilty vibe like he does when something about Gerard's fucking voice or his eyes or something is saying, oh, shit, I'm sorry for being an alcoholic; I'm so sorry, god really, but could you please not… No, everybody seems cool. Better than cool, actually. Enjoying the long, long break in touring but happy to see each other again. But it still doesn't make him feel all that easy about the booze, not until he's had a cup of egg nog or two and he feels a little less tightly wound. Which is about when he also realizes that, ahaha, his alcohol tolerance is really not what it used to be.
So settles himself on the couch over by the tree and watches Gerard rearrange the ornaments. He glances across the room to see if this is one of those times that Ray honestly doesn't give a shit or is at least willing to humor the eccentric artist (much the same way they all humor Ray when he's in the traveling studio at all hours, trying to fix that one chord progression, that's it, I swear). He'd hate it if it was one of those other times, the rare ones, when Ray's jaw sets and he gets just a tiny bit condescending as he explains that, no, Gerard, you do not actually rule the world.
But Ray's not even paying attention, and, actually, he looks a little sauced himself. He's in rather animated conversation with Jamia, talking down at the top of her head as she hides her face in her hands and laughs loud enough Bob can hear her across the room and through the music. They're standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, and Ray has his arms stretched above his head, clutching the doorframe, which is just…
Bob turns away from the sight, but it's like he's still got the image imprinted in his mind: Ray's hips, the way they're cocked to one side, his shirt riding up, hovering just at the waistband. Never mind that Bob would like to cross the room and drop to his knees right there and splay his hands over Ray's hips, fingers rubbing soft at body-warm denim as he lets his lips rest just below his navel. Never mind that he's maybe just a little obsessed with knowing what Ray's long silhouette would look like if he were standing there just like he is except with Bob touching him, with a bulge in his jeans and breath shaky like he gets when he's about to go on stage and the adrenaline finally hits him.
Never mind all that. It's better to watch Gerard switch a silver snowflake ornament with a gold ball and then switch them back so many times Bob finally says, "You think maybe you should try a different one, Gee?"
It's easier and it's safer to just stay here where he doesn't have to stand up on his wobbly legs and where the only ill-conceived plan is Gerard misinterpreting him and bringing a third ornament into the rotation, a fuzzy velvet reindeer whose hook stabs Gerard in the finger. Repeatedly.
*
So Bob has this genius plan to sit on the couch, across the room from the booze, and talk to Alicia and watch Frank dance with everyone who will let him, which is just about anyone and everyone. It would be working just fine, too, except that anyone and everyone keeps bringing him egg nog. And he keeps drinking it.
Finally, he manages to escape. It's too fucking warm in the living room, and it suddenly seems too loud, like this is one of those times being drunk's gonna make him cranky instead of mellow. So he does what he always does when he's on edge: he retreats and invariably finds Ray has beaten him there.
There's one of those openings between the kitchen and living room, and Ray's standing in the dark with his back to the center island, looking out over the counter and into living room, with its Christmas lights and flickering candles. He looks happy, really happy, and it clutches at Bob's stomach. Sometimes, he pretty much hates this, the way he knows he could make Ray feel that fucking safe and warm and happy all the time, if only he was allowed to try.
Of course, it's theoretically possible now that Krista's not in the picture anymore, but there's still the nagging question of whether Ray would even want it. He's pretty sure he would already know if he did.
Neither of them feels the need to talk for a while. They just share chuckles as Jamia teaches Lyn-Z to waltz and Frank and Gerard try to outdo them. Try being the operative word.
"I thought it would be hard," Ray finally says as Bob leans back against the counter beside him. "You know, first Christmas without her here."
"But it's not?" Bob wonders how it's even possible, especially watching the three crazy-in-love couples just a room away.
"Not like I thought. Especially since I'm not alone."
"You never were, man."
Ray smiles and leans against Bob a little, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder: "I know."
Bob closes his eyes for a second, but he forces them open again to watch the scene in the living room. Sure, they're noisy fuckers, but this is what he's missed the last months: the big, messy family of them, doing the dumb shit they do. Frank and Gerard acting wacky and stirring up shit, Mikeyway like the calm, smirking eye of the hurricane-and Ray, watching it all with him.
Bob says, "So, I think Frank finally ran out of the high octane shit."
Ray smiles again, but it's a wide, goofy smile this time, half sheepish.
"Oh fuck," Ray murmurs. "I'm pretty sure that means you and Frank and I downed a fifth of Jack on our own."
"Yeah?" Bob says.
"We are so fucked, man."
"Eventually. Right now it feels nice."
"Mmm."
"So much fucking sugar, though. You want some water?"
"Sure," Ray says. When he nods, his whole upper body moves. He's still grinning. Bob can't remember the last time Ray was this shit-faced. It's kind of cute the way he keeps rubbing at the side of his neck, almost like he's feeling himself up or something. He's humming, too, along with the music from the other room. It's enough to dissipate any remaining crankiness in Bob.
Bob comes back from the fridge with two bottle of water, and he finds that Ray's hoisted himself up on the counter so that his torso blocks the opening to the living room. When Bob reaches out and hands him the bottle, Ray suddenly grabs him by the wrist and pulls him a step forward and holds him there.
Bob doesn't move; he doesn't want to. Where his feet are planted now, Ray's knees are bracketing his thighs. He can smell whiskey and sugar on his breath, but he can also smell his deodorant and shampoo, and maybe even some aftershave, something spicy. He can't make himself look at Ray's face, so he's looking over his shoulder, out into the living room even if he's not really seeing anything, just feeling everything. He waits to find out what this is, pretty much cursing himself for hoping, and soon Ray pulls himself up and slips his arms over Bob's shoulders, firm and friendly.
Ray pulls him close for a hug, and his breath is too hot against his ear and his voice is oddly low: "I'm so glad you're here, you have no idea."
When he lets Bob go and Bob steps back and takes a long drink of his water, he feels Ray's eyes on him, and he doesn't at all know what that means. Because this? Pretty much like those long, sincere hugs Ray gives after a show or at the end of a tour. Nothing, right? Nothing that out of the ordinary, just surprising, that's all. So Bob tries to breathe deep without making it obvious, but that's not so easy to do when he looks up again and sees something in Ray's eyes that's not a thing like impulsive earnest honesty or even simple sloppy drunken over-affection.
Bob's transfixed now, watching as Ray slides down from the counter again and stands there, right in front of him, until Bob feels himself reaching out and curving his hands around Ray's waist, pulling him a little closer. Ray's lips are parted just a little, and fuck, Bob isn't stupid; he knows what this is. But just as Bob moves to grip Ray's face, so he can tilt it down and press their lips together, Ray's hand comes up and covers his, and suddenly Ray's head is falling forward into his shoulder, and his face nudges up under his ear.
They stand like that for a long moment, with Ray almost nuzzling Bob's neck and Bob just holding him there, Ray's hand hot on top of his, wanting to sway into it and just finish it already because everything feels so good. Except now he's starting to feel hot all over, confusion and tension rattling him out of whatever momentary heaven he was in. He can feel the tight lines of Ray's body all along his, and Ray's mouth is open against his neck, but nothing's happening, and he realizes, suddenly, that nothing will.
Bob feels him take in a breath before he says anything, and he feels it enough that Ray doesn't have to actually use the words, but he does anyway:
"We shouldn't."
Bob doesn't really remember turning him loose and stumbling toward the back of the house. He just remembers watching Ray walk on shaky legs to the living room, where he was quickly swallowed up by the noise and blinking light.
And Bob remembers suddenly feeling a little sick, knowing he would eventually throw up. So he shut himself into the guest bath, where he lay in the bathtub, dry and fully clothed, thinking too many thoughts and waiting.
*
The next morning, his questions and worries are unavoidable, and, fucking shit, so is the kitchen. If he wants anything besides tap water to calm his stomach, he has to put in an appearance, even if Ray's there. Hell, he's staying at Ray's house; chances are he'll have to see him again at some point. Probably, right?
The clock reads 11:34 when he finally gargles and pulls on a shirt and sweatpants and pads down the hallway. There's nervousness tapping at the inside of his chest, tapping harder with each step he walks down the hall. He's not good at this shit. He's especially not good at it when it fucking matters this much. And when he has to pretend like this is a normal morning, or at least a normal morning with a hangover.
When he gets to the kitchen, the light's still off, but plenty of sunlight is streaming in through the windows, and Ray is standing over the center island, tentatively picking at a piece of toast with jam.
"Morning," Ray says.
Bob just nods.
Ray asks, "Want some ginger ale?"
"I don't know."
Ray pushes his own glass over to him, and he doesn't take his eyes off Bob until he takes a sip. It's cold and fizzy, and maybe it's perfect. Maybe. He just nods at Ray, and Ray pours him his own glass.
"I'll make you some toast, too," Ray says.
Bob decidedly does not want toast, but he says mechanically, "Okay."
Bob cringes as Ray rustles around in the plastic and pulls out two pieces of wheat bread, pops them in the toaster with a metallic whine. It's all so frustratingly normal. Maybe they can do this, then. Just pretend it didn't happen, right?
But, of course, there's Ray leaning back against the counter and saying, "So, are we gonna talk about last night?"
"If you want."
Ray narrows his eyes at him, a little pissed or a little hurt, or both maybe.
Bob sighs. "I just don't know what you want me to say."
"Well, how about I say I'm sorry," Ray says slowly, eyebrows raised like he's waiting for something.
"For what?" Bob mutters. "For stopping, or fucking starting it in the first place?"
"Fuck," Ray says. He's pushing his hair back off his face, looking so nervous it makes Bob remember he's actually a lot more nervous than angry. Ray says, "Shit, I thought you understood what was… Fuck," he says again, sharper this time, like he's frustrated, maybe at himself. "I didn't want to stop, okay. I just didn't want you to think it was only because I was drunk."
"Toro," he says, and he can't help the fact that a grin's spreading over his face. Maybe over his whole body. Doesn't make him any less queasy, but it's a different sort of stomachache, something fluttery winning out over the heavy, tight feeling of the hangover. "Man, I've seen you drunk. I know how you are-which is pretty much like you are all the time, except with more talking and way the fuck more Star Wars jokes. I know you. Even when you're lit, you don't do anything you don't wanna do. Right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, that's what I was…" Ray sighs and finally smiles. "Yeah."
"You're an idiot."
"Really? Maybe you're the one who does stupid shit when you're drunk. How was I supposed to know?"
"If by stupid you mean things I'm too chickenshit to do while I'm sober."
Ray grins at him skeptically. "I'm pretty sure I figured out a long time ago that you're not scared of anything, Bryar. Except clowns. And cameras."
"And sometimes people," Bob says.
"Me?"
Bob just snorts, then he sighs and rolls his eyes at himself, fixes his eyes on what's left of Ray's toast.
Bob murmurs, "Scared enough I almost didn't join your fucking band."
"Fuck."
"Sorry."
"No. It's fine. I just didn't know."
Bob snorts again, but this time he smiles and finally looks up at Ray. Hell, if he's going to do this, he might as well not fuck it up being all weird about it.
Bob says, "That's funny, because according to Frankie people on distant planets know."
Ray's face actually goes a little pink at that, despite how he still looks a little shell-shocked. But he manages to make a funny face and say, "Frank?"
"Perceptive little fucker. I hate him sometimes."
"Me, too. Least my head does."
Just then, the toast pops up and startles Bob enough he flinches. Ray gives him a weary giggle as he jerks out both pieces and throws them on a plate, shoving it across the island to him, and along behind it the jam, already open and a knife clanking around the rim of the jar. Everything's too loud, and Bob's stomach is doing this flopping thing. Bob eyes the toast skeptically.
Ray says, "We really should eat."
"Yeah, I see how far you got with your toast there."
"Well, what do you suggest?"
"Shower," Bob says. "Made me feel more human, anyway. A lot like on a hotel night, actually."
"Sounds good. I think I'll do that," Ray says. "Now that I'm awake." He's shuffling out of the room when he stops, his hand on the doorframe. "So, um, about…you know…"
"Hey, we can figure it out later," Bob says. "When we aren't half-zombified, right?"
"Okay."
"I mean, I'll still be here."
"Yeah," Ray says with a smile.
That smile, after fifteen minutes, three bites of toast, and four sips of ginger ale, is what makes Bob feel like the kitchen is not where he's supposed to be, not at all.
*
Bob's standing in the doorway to Ray's bedroom when he comes out of the master bath. Ray physically jerks a little, startled, and this is normally where Bob would be chuckling and Ray would be flipping him the bird and muttering at him about how he'd jumped even worse in the kitchen, asshole. But Bob doesn't giggle and Ray doesn't do anything except refuse to take his eyes off him. He just stands there in nothing but his boxers and a white t-shirt, towel in his hand from where he was rubbing it over his head to dry his wild hair, mouth hanging open a little. And Bob suddenly feels jittery again-giddy and anxious at the same time.
He only ever sees flaws in his plans in hindsight. This one? The necessity of actual words. Because as used to each other as the two of them are, they do not in any way have the same ESP thing Frank and Mikey do.
"So I was thinking," Bob says, and he has to stop and clear his throat. "Um, okay so we're being really stupid about all this, right?"
"Stupid?"
"Like… I don't know. Like thinking there's a right and a wrong time to... Like eating toast instead of…kissing, or something. Like…like I don't know. Jesus fuck, Toro, will you just come here?"
But Ray doesn't. It's like he's frozen in place, nervously twisting the towel in his hands. So Bob closes the gap between them in a couple of strides, but he doesn't make a move. He wants to be sure. He'd thought they were on the same page, but there was a serious lack of them actually touching each other back in the kitchen, despite the declarations and shit, or even trying to, and now Ray's…
Well, Ray's tossing the towel behind him and grabbing both sides of his face and kissing him hard and wet. And he's not stopping. In fact, he's kissing him deeper now, turning their heads a little so--there--Bob's mouth puckers open a little more and Ray's tongue suddenly slides along his, teasing, but so serious, too. It's enough to make his dick take notice, which he didn't even think was possible, not as crappy as he feels. Of course, he's all of a sudden feeling way less crappy.
When Ray finally pulls back for a second, Bob has to take a deep, almost gasping breath. God, where did all the air in the room go?
"Okay," Bob says dazedly, suddenly just a little lost in Ray's dark eyes.
"Yeah?" Ray's smirking a little now. It's kind of infuriating, except it's really hot, too.
"Yeah. God, Ray."
"Mmm," Ray mumbles, grabbing him again and this time pulling him close, so close Bob can feel the damp heat from his skin. "Fucking perfect," Ray says against his mouth, then he kisses him again.
As Ray thrusts his tongue into Bob's mouth again, Bob's hands creep up under his shirt, where they smooth over his stomach and then trace the elastic of Ray's boxers. When Ray makes a little helpless noise in the back of his throat, halfway between a purr and a growl, Bob can't help himself. He lets his hand slip below the waistband until he's closing around Ray's dick, half hard and quickly swelling against his palm.
Bob loves doing this, making Ray shudder against him as his dick slips up through Bob's fist. Bob's amused to find that Ray can't concentrate on kissing worth a damn when there's a hand on his dick. He just rests his face against Bob's collarbone, and Bob strokes the back of his neck, up into the tangled, wet hair at his nape, as he jerks him off.
Ray's hips start bucking forward, finally, but Bob doesn't get any warning before Ray's biting into his skin right through his shirt and coming in his hand. Even as Bob coaxes it out of him, makes him shiver and swear under his breath, Ray fumbles at the waistband of Bob's pants and pulls him out just enough that he can stroke him hard and rough.
Ray's kissing him again now, fucking him with his tongue, and it doesn't take long before Bob grunts and comes, too. He's too tired and hungover for it to be a really strong orgasm, but it's still an orgasm, and it's Ray's thumb pulling over the head, his long fingers squeezing just right, so it's pretty awesome.
But after it happens, after Ray kisses him hard and then goes to wash his hands, he starts feeling kind of lightheaded, so he sits down on the bed. He doesn't realize he's almost dozed off until Ray's dropping a warm washcloth into his hands.
"I'm not always so useless after sex," Bob says with a grimace. "Swear to God, I do not usually do this passing out shit."
Ray's just standing there, looking down at him, smiling softly, sleepily. "You're hungover."
"Well, you, too."
Bob doesn't know what to do with himself, especially as dizzy as he feels all of a sudden, so he just stays on the bed and waits for Ray to come back out of the bathroom.
"I think I'm gonna go back to bed for a while," Ray says.
"Okay."
Bob struggles to his feet, but Ray's already coming across the room, putting hands on his shoulders. "You could stay, Bryar."
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. Unless you're gonna puke again or something."
Bob just shakes his head and strips out of all but his boxers as Ray turns back the blankets. When he crawls under them, he feels Ray instantly mold along his back, and it's too hot for this shit, but it's good, too, so he just relaxes into it. Idly, he thinks that they're never gonna fit in a bunk this way, and that sucks.
Bob's almost asleep when Ray says, "You know, Frank's gonna be insufferable about all this."
"Don't fucking tell me the gnome had a fucking plan."
"Not that I know of. Doesn't mean he won't take credit anyway."
"Fucker," Bob mutters.
Ray just giggles against the back of his neck. "I missed him, I think. Missed you, too."
"Yeah," Bob says, and that's about all he can manage before he's drifting off.
~
Title: Fifteen Minutes, Three Bites of Toast, and Four Sips of Ginger Ale
Pairing: Bob/Ray
Rating: R
Summary: Someone (Frank) spiked the egg nog (and the Brothers Way are perfectly okay with that, thank you very much!). ~4000 words.
Note: Quick holiday fic to amuse crowgirl13, who suggested the pairing and who is plagued with evil snot monsters. Begone, I say!
Fifteen Minutes, Three Bites of Toast, and Four Sips of Ginger Ale
Bob's not one to question Toro. Not about anything, really, but especially not when he's going to be a guest in the man's house. He's just arrived, here for the weekend for the first time in probably months-well, since Krista moved out, which is a different sort of time-keeping altogether. The house looks cheery with all the Christmas decorations, and in general it looks a lot less empty than Bob expected. So when he raises a cup of egg nog to his lips and he can already smell the whiskey, he just narrows his eyes as he sips.
Ray smiles. "I wasn't going to, but Mikey said non-alcoholic egg nog is fucking depressing, and Gerard agreed, which is why you see Frank presiding over two separate pitchers of the shit."
"Which one's he drinking from?"
"A little of both, I think."
"Christ help us all."
As Ray wanders toward the back of the house, Bob's large duffel in tow, Gerard wanders up and throws his arms around him. Bob doesn't get that guilty vibe like he does when something about Gerard's fucking voice or his eyes or something is saying, oh, shit, I'm sorry for being an alcoholic; I'm so sorry, god really, but could you please not… No, everybody seems cool. Better than cool, actually. Enjoying the long, long break in touring but happy to see each other again. But it still doesn't make him feel all that easy about the booze, not until he's had a cup of egg nog or two and he feels a little less tightly wound. Which is about when he also realizes that, ahaha, his alcohol tolerance is really not what it used to be.
So settles himself on the couch over by the tree and watches Gerard rearrange the ornaments. He glances across the room to see if this is one of those times that Ray honestly doesn't give a shit or is at least willing to humor the eccentric artist (much the same way they all humor Ray when he's in the traveling studio at all hours, trying to fix that one chord progression, that's it, I swear). He'd hate it if it was one of those other times, the rare ones, when Ray's jaw sets and he gets just a tiny bit condescending as he explains that, no, Gerard, you do not actually rule the world.
But Ray's not even paying attention, and, actually, he looks a little sauced himself. He's in rather animated conversation with Jamia, talking down at the top of her head as she hides her face in her hands and laughs loud enough Bob can hear her across the room and through the music. They're standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, and Ray has his arms stretched above his head, clutching the doorframe, which is just…
Bob turns away from the sight, but it's like he's still got the image imprinted in his mind: Ray's hips, the way they're cocked to one side, his shirt riding up, hovering just at the waistband. Never mind that Bob would like to cross the room and drop to his knees right there and splay his hands over Ray's hips, fingers rubbing soft at body-warm denim as he lets his lips rest just below his navel. Never mind that he's maybe just a little obsessed with knowing what Ray's long silhouette would look like if he were standing there just like he is except with Bob touching him, with a bulge in his jeans and breath shaky like he gets when he's about to go on stage and the adrenaline finally hits him.
Never mind all that. It's better to watch Gerard switch a silver snowflake ornament with a gold ball and then switch them back so many times Bob finally says, "You think maybe you should try a different one, Gee?"
It's easier and it's safer to just stay here where he doesn't have to stand up on his wobbly legs and where the only ill-conceived plan is Gerard misinterpreting him and bringing a third ornament into the rotation, a fuzzy velvet reindeer whose hook stabs Gerard in the finger. Repeatedly.
*
So Bob has this genius plan to sit on the couch, across the room from the booze, and talk to Alicia and watch Frank dance with everyone who will let him, which is just about anyone and everyone. It would be working just fine, too, except that anyone and everyone keeps bringing him egg nog. And he keeps drinking it.
Finally, he manages to escape. It's too fucking warm in the living room, and it suddenly seems too loud, like this is one of those times being drunk's gonna make him cranky instead of mellow. So he does what he always does when he's on edge: he retreats and invariably finds Ray has beaten him there.
There's one of those openings between the kitchen and living room, and Ray's standing in the dark with his back to the center island, looking out over the counter and into living room, with its Christmas lights and flickering candles. He looks happy, really happy, and it clutches at Bob's stomach. Sometimes, he pretty much hates this, the way he knows he could make Ray feel that fucking safe and warm and happy all the time, if only he was allowed to try.
Of course, it's theoretically possible now that Krista's not in the picture anymore, but there's still the nagging question of whether Ray would even want it. He's pretty sure he would already know if he did.
Neither of them feels the need to talk for a while. They just share chuckles as Jamia teaches Lyn-Z to waltz and Frank and Gerard try to outdo them. Try being the operative word.
"I thought it would be hard," Ray finally says as Bob leans back against the counter beside him. "You know, first Christmas without her here."
"But it's not?" Bob wonders how it's even possible, especially watching the three crazy-in-love couples just a room away.
"Not like I thought. Especially since I'm not alone."
"You never were, man."
Ray smiles and leans against Bob a little, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder: "I know."
Bob closes his eyes for a second, but he forces them open again to watch the scene in the living room. Sure, they're noisy fuckers, but this is what he's missed the last months: the big, messy family of them, doing the dumb shit they do. Frank and Gerard acting wacky and stirring up shit, Mikeyway like the calm, smirking eye of the hurricane-and Ray, watching it all with him.
Bob says, "So, I think Frank finally ran out of the high octane shit."
Ray smiles again, but it's a wide, goofy smile this time, half sheepish.
"Oh fuck," Ray murmurs. "I'm pretty sure that means you and Frank and I downed a fifth of Jack on our own."
"Yeah?" Bob says.
"We are so fucked, man."
"Eventually. Right now it feels nice."
"Mmm."
"So much fucking sugar, though. You want some water?"
"Sure," Ray says. When he nods, his whole upper body moves. He's still grinning. Bob can't remember the last time Ray was this shit-faced. It's kind of cute the way he keeps rubbing at the side of his neck, almost like he's feeling himself up or something. He's humming, too, along with the music from the other room. It's enough to dissipate any remaining crankiness in Bob.
Bob comes back from the fridge with two bottle of water, and he finds that Ray's hoisted himself up on the counter so that his torso blocks the opening to the living room. When Bob reaches out and hands him the bottle, Ray suddenly grabs him by the wrist and pulls him a step forward and holds him there.
Bob doesn't move; he doesn't want to. Where his feet are planted now, Ray's knees are bracketing his thighs. He can smell whiskey and sugar on his breath, but he can also smell his deodorant and shampoo, and maybe even some aftershave, something spicy. He can't make himself look at Ray's face, so he's looking over his shoulder, out into the living room even if he's not really seeing anything, just feeling everything. He waits to find out what this is, pretty much cursing himself for hoping, and soon Ray pulls himself up and slips his arms over Bob's shoulders, firm and friendly.
Ray pulls him close for a hug, and his breath is too hot against his ear and his voice is oddly low: "I'm so glad you're here, you have no idea."
When he lets Bob go and Bob steps back and takes a long drink of his water, he feels Ray's eyes on him, and he doesn't at all know what that means. Because this? Pretty much like those long, sincere hugs Ray gives after a show or at the end of a tour. Nothing, right? Nothing that out of the ordinary, just surprising, that's all. So Bob tries to breathe deep without making it obvious, but that's not so easy to do when he looks up again and sees something in Ray's eyes that's not a thing like impulsive earnest honesty or even simple sloppy drunken over-affection.
Bob's transfixed now, watching as Ray slides down from the counter again and stands there, right in front of him, until Bob feels himself reaching out and curving his hands around Ray's waist, pulling him a little closer. Ray's lips are parted just a little, and fuck, Bob isn't stupid; he knows what this is. But just as Bob moves to grip Ray's face, so he can tilt it down and press their lips together, Ray's hand comes up and covers his, and suddenly Ray's head is falling forward into his shoulder, and his face nudges up under his ear.
They stand like that for a long moment, with Ray almost nuzzling Bob's neck and Bob just holding him there, Ray's hand hot on top of his, wanting to sway into it and just finish it already because everything feels so good. Except now he's starting to feel hot all over, confusion and tension rattling him out of whatever momentary heaven he was in. He can feel the tight lines of Ray's body all along his, and Ray's mouth is open against his neck, but nothing's happening, and he realizes, suddenly, that nothing will.
Bob feels him take in a breath before he says anything, and he feels it enough that Ray doesn't have to actually use the words, but he does anyway:
"We shouldn't."
Bob doesn't really remember turning him loose and stumbling toward the back of the house. He just remembers watching Ray walk on shaky legs to the living room, where he was quickly swallowed up by the noise and blinking light.
And Bob remembers suddenly feeling a little sick, knowing he would eventually throw up. So he shut himself into the guest bath, where he lay in the bathtub, dry and fully clothed, thinking too many thoughts and waiting.
*
The next morning, his questions and worries are unavoidable, and, fucking shit, so is the kitchen. If he wants anything besides tap water to calm his stomach, he has to put in an appearance, even if Ray's there. Hell, he's staying at Ray's house; chances are he'll have to see him again at some point. Probably, right?
The clock reads 11:34 when he finally gargles and pulls on a shirt and sweatpants and pads down the hallway. There's nervousness tapping at the inside of his chest, tapping harder with each step he walks down the hall. He's not good at this shit. He's especially not good at it when it fucking matters this much. And when he has to pretend like this is a normal morning, or at least a normal morning with a hangover.
When he gets to the kitchen, the light's still off, but plenty of sunlight is streaming in through the windows, and Ray is standing over the center island, tentatively picking at a piece of toast with jam.
"Morning," Ray says.
Bob just nods.
Ray asks, "Want some ginger ale?"
"I don't know."
Ray pushes his own glass over to him, and he doesn't take his eyes off Bob until he takes a sip. It's cold and fizzy, and maybe it's perfect. Maybe. He just nods at Ray, and Ray pours him his own glass.
"I'll make you some toast, too," Ray says.
Bob decidedly does not want toast, but he says mechanically, "Okay."
Bob cringes as Ray rustles around in the plastic and pulls out two pieces of wheat bread, pops them in the toaster with a metallic whine. It's all so frustratingly normal. Maybe they can do this, then. Just pretend it didn't happen, right?
But, of course, there's Ray leaning back against the counter and saying, "So, are we gonna talk about last night?"
"If you want."
Ray narrows his eyes at him, a little pissed or a little hurt, or both maybe.
Bob sighs. "I just don't know what you want me to say."
"Well, how about I say I'm sorry," Ray says slowly, eyebrows raised like he's waiting for something.
"For what?" Bob mutters. "For stopping, or fucking starting it in the first place?"
"Fuck," Ray says. He's pushing his hair back off his face, looking so nervous it makes Bob remember he's actually a lot more nervous than angry. Ray says, "Shit, I thought you understood what was… Fuck," he says again, sharper this time, like he's frustrated, maybe at himself. "I didn't want to stop, okay. I just didn't want you to think it was only because I was drunk."
"Toro," he says, and he can't help the fact that a grin's spreading over his face. Maybe over his whole body. Doesn't make him any less queasy, but it's a different sort of stomachache, something fluttery winning out over the heavy, tight feeling of the hangover. "Man, I've seen you drunk. I know how you are-which is pretty much like you are all the time, except with more talking and way the fuck more Star Wars jokes. I know you. Even when you're lit, you don't do anything you don't wanna do. Right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, that's what I was…" Ray sighs and finally smiles. "Yeah."
"You're an idiot."
"Really? Maybe you're the one who does stupid shit when you're drunk. How was I supposed to know?"
"If by stupid you mean things I'm too chickenshit to do while I'm sober."
Ray grins at him skeptically. "I'm pretty sure I figured out a long time ago that you're not scared of anything, Bryar. Except clowns. And cameras."
"And sometimes people," Bob says.
"Me?"
Bob just snorts, then he sighs and rolls his eyes at himself, fixes his eyes on what's left of Ray's toast.
Bob murmurs, "Scared enough I almost didn't join your fucking band."
"Fuck."
"Sorry."
"No. It's fine. I just didn't know."
Bob snorts again, but this time he smiles and finally looks up at Ray. Hell, if he's going to do this, he might as well not fuck it up being all weird about it.
Bob says, "That's funny, because according to Frankie people on distant planets know."
Ray's face actually goes a little pink at that, despite how he still looks a little shell-shocked. But he manages to make a funny face and say, "Frank?"
"Perceptive little fucker. I hate him sometimes."
"Me, too. Least my head does."
Just then, the toast pops up and startles Bob enough he flinches. Ray gives him a weary giggle as he jerks out both pieces and throws them on a plate, shoving it across the island to him, and along behind it the jam, already open and a knife clanking around the rim of the jar. Everything's too loud, and Bob's stomach is doing this flopping thing. Bob eyes the toast skeptically.
Ray says, "We really should eat."
"Yeah, I see how far you got with your toast there."
"Well, what do you suggest?"
"Shower," Bob says. "Made me feel more human, anyway. A lot like on a hotel night, actually."
"Sounds good. I think I'll do that," Ray says. "Now that I'm awake." He's shuffling out of the room when he stops, his hand on the doorframe. "So, um, about…you know…"
"Hey, we can figure it out later," Bob says. "When we aren't half-zombified, right?"
"Okay."
"I mean, I'll still be here."
"Yeah," Ray says with a smile.
That smile, after fifteen minutes, three bites of toast, and four sips of ginger ale, is what makes Bob feel like the kitchen is not where he's supposed to be, not at all.
*
Bob's standing in the doorway to Ray's bedroom when he comes out of the master bath. Ray physically jerks a little, startled, and this is normally where Bob would be chuckling and Ray would be flipping him the bird and muttering at him about how he'd jumped even worse in the kitchen, asshole. But Bob doesn't giggle and Ray doesn't do anything except refuse to take his eyes off him. He just stands there in nothing but his boxers and a white t-shirt, towel in his hand from where he was rubbing it over his head to dry his wild hair, mouth hanging open a little. And Bob suddenly feels jittery again-giddy and anxious at the same time.
He only ever sees flaws in his plans in hindsight. This one? The necessity of actual words. Because as used to each other as the two of them are, they do not in any way have the same ESP thing Frank and Mikey do.
"So I was thinking," Bob says, and he has to stop and clear his throat. "Um, okay so we're being really stupid about all this, right?"
"Stupid?"
"Like… I don't know. Like thinking there's a right and a wrong time to... Like eating toast instead of…kissing, or something. Like…like I don't know. Jesus fuck, Toro, will you just come here?"
But Ray doesn't. It's like he's frozen in place, nervously twisting the towel in his hands. So Bob closes the gap between them in a couple of strides, but he doesn't make a move. He wants to be sure. He'd thought they were on the same page, but there was a serious lack of them actually touching each other back in the kitchen, despite the declarations and shit, or even trying to, and now Ray's…
Well, Ray's tossing the towel behind him and grabbing both sides of his face and kissing him hard and wet. And he's not stopping. In fact, he's kissing him deeper now, turning their heads a little so--there--Bob's mouth puckers open a little more and Ray's tongue suddenly slides along his, teasing, but so serious, too. It's enough to make his dick take notice, which he didn't even think was possible, not as crappy as he feels. Of course, he's all of a sudden feeling way less crappy.
When Ray finally pulls back for a second, Bob has to take a deep, almost gasping breath. God, where did all the air in the room go?
"Okay," Bob says dazedly, suddenly just a little lost in Ray's dark eyes.
"Yeah?" Ray's smirking a little now. It's kind of infuriating, except it's really hot, too.
"Yeah. God, Ray."
"Mmm," Ray mumbles, grabbing him again and this time pulling him close, so close Bob can feel the damp heat from his skin. "Fucking perfect," Ray says against his mouth, then he kisses him again.
As Ray thrusts his tongue into Bob's mouth again, Bob's hands creep up under his shirt, where they smooth over his stomach and then trace the elastic of Ray's boxers. When Ray makes a little helpless noise in the back of his throat, halfway between a purr and a growl, Bob can't help himself. He lets his hand slip below the waistband until he's closing around Ray's dick, half hard and quickly swelling against his palm.
Bob loves doing this, making Ray shudder against him as his dick slips up through Bob's fist. Bob's amused to find that Ray can't concentrate on kissing worth a damn when there's a hand on his dick. He just rests his face against Bob's collarbone, and Bob strokes the back of his neck, up into the tangled, wet hair at his nape, as he jerks him off.
Ray's hips start bucking forward, finally, but Bob doesn't get any warning before Ray's biting into his skin right through his shirt and coming in his hand. Even as Bob coaxes it out of him, makes him shiver and swear under his breath, Ray fumbles at the waistband of Bob's pants and pulls him out just enough that he can stroke him hard and rough.
Ray's kissing him again now, fucking him with his tongue, and it doesn't take long before Bob grunts and comes, too. He's too tired and hungover for it to be a really strong orgasm, but it's still an orgasm, and it's Ray's thumb pulling over the head, his long fingers squeezing just right, so it's pretty awesome.
But after it happens, after Ray kisses him hard and then goes to wash his hands, he starts feeling kind of lightheaded, so he sits down on the bed. He doesn't realize he's almost dozed off until Ray's dropping a warm washcloth into his hands.
"I'm not always so useless after sex," Bob says with a grimace. "Swear to God, I do not usually do this passing out shit."
Ray's just standing there, looking down at him, smiling softly, sleepily. "You're hungover."
"Well, you, too."
Bob doesn't know what to do with himself, especially as dizzy as he feels all of a sudden, so he just stays on the bed and waits for Ray to come back out of the bathroom.
"I think I'm gonna go back to bed for a while," Ray says.
"Okay."
Bob struggles to his feet, but Ray's already coming across the room, putting hands on his shoulders. "You could stay, Bryar."
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. Unless you're gonna puke again or something."
Bob just shakes his head and strips out of all but his boxers as Ray turns back the blankets. When he crawls under them, he feels Ray instantly mold along his back, and it's too hot for this shit, but it's good, too, so he just relaxes into it. Idly, he thinks that they're never gonna fit in a bunk this way, and that sucks.
Bob's almost asleep when Ray says, "You know, Frank's gonna be insufferable about all this."
"Don't fucking tell me the gnome had a fucking plan."
"Not that I know of. Doesn't mean he won't take credit anyway."
"Fucker," Bob mutters.
Ray just giggles against the back of his neck. "I missed him, I think. Missed you, too."
"Yeah," Bob says, and that's about all he can manage before he's drifting off.
~