Fic: Down
down
frank/bob
1,612 words
do not own
whisperingtome i never doubt your ability to do anything. thank you for beta'ing, and for everything.
written for 100_situations prompt 007: friend
Bob is quiet. He eats, sleeps, dreams and lives quietly. He gets one blast of noise each night when he is able to play loudly and aggressively. Playing drums is cathartic for Bob -- it allows him to release all the pent-up frustration and anger that he hides so well. For ninety minutes every night, he is someone else. He is powerful, forceful and controlled -- all at the same time. He likes to be in control.
---
Bob was sat with his back against the mahogany door of the hotel room. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would not be sleeping tonight; instead he would be pacing across the threadbare carpet until the early hours. His fingers were fiddling absentmindedly with the drumsticks that lay by his side, and his eyes were resting lazily on the brown leather couch positioned by the window.
He wished Frank’s voice would get the fuck out of his head, and he prayed his brain would stop replaying the way Frank’s elbow had rested so contentedly on Gerard’s shoulder at lunch today. It had been just a light, friendly touch -- nothing meaningful for either of them -- but Bob could feel his insides writhing with jealousy at the very thought of it.
He didn’t know when it had started, or even when it had manifested itself into a full-blown thing, but it was getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that his feelings for Frank had grown far beyond the realms of a purely platonic relationship.
A loud knock on the heavy wooden door halted Bob’s train of thought and forced him back into the real world. After countless nights of finding the perfect spot in each hotel room to sit silently and pine after something he knew he could never have, the feeling of reality was one that made him sick to his stomach.
Bob pushed these thoughts aside and heaved himself upright with some difficulty -- his knees were stiff from sitting in the same position on rough carpet for hours. Part of him didn’t want to open the divide between himself and the outside world, for fear that whoever was stood on the other side would want to talk, but another part of him hoped someone would come and drag him out of this melancholy mood.
Bob’s first thoughts were that it was Ray, probably coming to check he was okay. Bob knew he had been quiet in rehearsals today, and even quieter when the band had gone out for lunch and it was usually Ray who noticed when he was a little out of sorts. He was grateful for having such a considerate friend, but just now he wasn’t in the mood for talking.
He turned the handle slowly, and kept his eyes on the ground as he opened the door. His eyes met with a pair of scruffy white converse, and ankles enclosed by tight blue jeans -- he felt his brain seize up momentarily before he realised he should probably look up and say something.
Frank beat him to it.
“Can I come in?” he asked hurriedly, but didn’t bother waiting for a reply before stepping past Bob and making his way over to the brown couch Bob had been staring at minutes before.
“Uh…sure.” Bob tried to keep his voice even, but just being in the same room as Frank was making him nervous. He noted the smell of beer and nicotine before following Frank over to the couch where he was now sat cross-legged, with a small frown creasing his forehead.
“Are you okay?” Bob questioned worriedly -- it was unusual to see Frank so on edge.
After a moment of chewing on his bottom lip and picking his short fingernails, he gave a reply.
“Me?” he asked in a mocking tone. “Oh I’m fine. It’s Gerard who has the fucking problem. Since when did that guy become such an asshole? That’s what I wanna know. I mean, just ‘cause he’s sober now, what fucking right does he have...” Frank trailed off, still muttering incoherently to himself. Bob could only pick out a select few words along the lines of “motherfucker” and “…a stick up his ass” but it was quite easy to gather they had had some sort of fight.
At first he felt a little guilty for being so happy about it, but then he remembered Frank’s elbow on Gerard’s shoulder and the guilt subsided, only to be replaced by jealousy once more.
“How much have you had to drink?”
Frank looked up, and the frown was carved deeper into his forehead now. It had extended to his eyes and Bob wasn’t used to being looked at like that, not by Frank.
“You sound like Gerard. Fuck, I didn’t come here for a lecture, Bob.” He uncrossed his legs and placed his feet firmly on the floor, getting ready to stand up.
“No, don’t go,” Bob said a little too quickly, and he cursed himself silently for being so goddamn needy. “Stay. We don’t have to talk about Gerard, or any of that shit. We can just hang out.”
Frank’s brow quickly smoothed itself out, and Bob was reminded of how easy it is to change the direction of conversation with someone who is under the influence of alcohol. When Frank was drunk he had the same mental outlook as a four-year-old; if you changed the topic to something more interesting, he would forget he was about to throw a tantrum.
They sat in silence for a while; Frank just staring at his hands, with a mildly interested look upon his face and a smile playing on his lips, as Bob watched him. He had never realised just how perfect Frank’s face was before; the lines defining his cheekbones and the soft, smooth surface of his skin looked even better in the shadowy light of the hotel room. Bob hadn’t flicked the light switch on since he had arrived.
He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair and cleared his throat softly, breaking the silence that was starting to consume him. It seemed to give Frank the signal to begin talking once more.
“You know, Bob,” he smiled a little, “I love you.”
Bob felt his heart stop for a second.
“Wh-what?” The colour drained from his face and he noticed an acidic feeling in the back of his throat. Had he heard right?
“I’m serious. There’s no one else in the world I would rather talk to, about anything. You’re my best friend.”
And that’s when it hit him. There would never be Frank and Bob in the romantic sense; it would only ever be friendship. No matter how many times Frank said, “I love you,” it would only ever be friendship and no matter how much Bob hoped and prayed for more, it would only ever be friendship.
“Bob?” Frank shuffled over a little closer to his friend, and leant his elbow on Bob’s shoulder lightly, as he had done with Gerard earlier that day.
“Huh?” Bob dragged himself back into the real world once again. “Oh yeah, you’re my best friend, too.” He forced a smile and watched Frank yawn widely before he began to speak again.
“I’m glad you can talk to me, and tell me things. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
Frank hiccupped loudly, and Bob was reminded just how drunk he was -- Frank wouldn’t even remember this conversation in the morning.
“Tell me something honest,” Frank commanded, but his words almost swallowed by the slurring that accompanied them. “Something no one else knows,” he concluded, as his eyelids drooped lazily, and Bob wished it wasn’t like this. He wished things were simple.
“You don’t want to know about me,” he replied in a resigned voice, but there was a hint of hope hidden in there somewhere. He was hoping Frank would prove him wrong.
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”
As the words left his mouth Frank let his head fall onto Bob’s shoulder, and his heavy eyelids finally closed. Bob was silent for a few minutes, listening to Frank’s steady breathing and letting the noise comfort him like a letter from home or a familiar face. Eventually, he gathered the courage to answer Frank’s request.
“I love you too,” Bob whispered, half hoping that Frank would reply, while knowing completely that he was snoring lightly on his shoulder. Asleep.
Bob sighed and leant back on the couch as his heart sank a little farther, until it reached the pit of his stomach. Perhaps he would tell Frank another time, when they both had clear heads, but the likelihood was that Bob would never let those words leave his mouth again. And that thought almost broke his heart.
---
Bob is still quiet. He continues to eat, sleep, dream and live quietly. He still gets that one blast of noise each night where he can play loudly and aggressively. The promise of that catharsis is what keeps him going now -- those ninety minutes in which he can become someone else are so precious. He can beat the words I love you from the drum skins every night, and, when Frank stands in front of his riser during a show, he can play so hard he feels his arms might break -- but it goes unquestioned, because he is being someone else, playing a part. On the outside he is controlled and forceful; he exudes calm and power, but on the inside he is suffocating on the same three words that he can never say again.
I love you.
frank/bob
1,612 words
do not own
whisperingtome i never doubt your ability to do anything. thank you for beta'ing, and for everything.
written for 100_situations prompt 007: friend
Bob is quiet. He eats, sleeps, dreams and lives quietly. He gets one blast of noise each night when he is able to play loudly and aggressively. Playing drums is cathartic for Bob -- it allows him to release all the pent-up frustration and anger that he hides so well. For ninety minutes every night, he is someone else. He is powerful, forceful and controlled -- all at the same time. He likes to be in control.
---
Bob was sat with his back against the mahogany door of the hotel room. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would not be sleeping tonight; instead he would be pacing across the threadbare carpet until the early hours. His fingers were fiddling absentmindedly with the drumsticks that lay by his side, and his eyes were resting lazily on the brown leather couch positioned by the window.
He wished Frank’s voice would get the fuck out of his head, and he prayed his brain would stop replaying the way Frank’s elbow had rested so contentedly on Gerard’s shoulder at lunch today. It had been just a light, friendly touch -- nothing meaningful for either of them -- but Bob could feel his insides writhing with jealousy at the very thought of it.
He didn’t know when it had started, or even when it had manifested itself into a full-blown thing, but it was getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that his feelings for Frank had grown far beyond the realms of a purely platonic relationship.
A loud knock on the heavy wooden door halted Bob’s train of thought and forced him back into the real world. After countless nights of finding the perfect spot in each hotel room to sit silently and pine after something he knew he could never have, the feeling of reality was one that made him sick to his stomach.
Bob pushed these thoughts aside and heaved himself upright with some difficulty -- his knees were stiff from sitting in the same position on rough carpet for hours. Part of him didn’t want to open the divide between himself and the outside world, for fear that whoever was stood on the other side would want to talk, but another part of him hoped someone would come and drag him out of this melancholy mood.
Bob’s first thoughts were that it was Ray, probably coming to check he was okay. Bob knew he had been quiet in rehearsals today, and even quieter when the band had gone out for lunch and it was usually Ray who noticed when he was a little out of sorts. He was grateful for having such a considerate friend, but just now he wasn’t in the mood for talking.
He turned the handle slowly, and kept his eyes on the ground as he opened the door. His eyes met with a pair of scruffy white converse, and ankles enclosed by tight blue jeans -- he felt his brain seize up momentarily before he realised he should probably look up and say something.
Frank beat him to it.
“Can I come in?” he asked hurriedly, but didn’t bother waiting for a reply before stepping past Bob and making his way over to the brown couch Bob had been staring at minutes before.
“Uh…sure.” Bob tried to keep his voice even, but just being in the same room as Frank was making him nervous. He noted the smell of beer and nicotine before following Frank over to the couch where he was now sat cross-legged, with a small frown creasing his forehead.
“Are you okay?” Bob questioned worriedly -- it was unusual to see Frank so on edge.
After a moment of chewing on his bottom lip and picking his short fingernails, he gave a reply.
“Me?” he asked in a mocking tone. “Oh I’m fine. It’s Gerard who has the fucking problem. Since when did that guy become such an asshole? That’s what I wanna know. I mean, just ‘cause he’s sober now, what fucking right does he have...” Frank trailed off, still muttering incoherently to himself. Bob could only pick out a select few words along the lines of “motherfucker” and “…a stick up his ass” but it was quite easy to gather they had had some sort of fight.
At first he felt a little guilty for being so happy about it, but then he remembered Frank’s elbow on Gerard’s shoulder and the guilt subsided, only to be replaced by jealousy once more.
“How much have you had to drink?”
Frank looked up, and the frown was carved deeper into his forehead now. It had extended to his eyes and Bob wasn’t used to being looked at like that, not by Frank.
“You sound like Gerard. Fuck, I didn’t come here for a lecture, Bob.” He uncrossed his legs and placed his feet firmly on the floor, getting ready to stand up.
“No, don’t go,” Bob said a little too quickly, and he cursed himself silently for being so goddamn needy. “Stay. We don’t have to talk about Gerard, or any of that shit. We can just hang out.”
Frank’s brow quickly smoothed itself out, and Bob was reminded of how easy it is to change the direction of conversation with someone who is under the influence of alcohol. When Frank was drunk he had the same mental outlook as a four-year-old; if you changed the topic to something more interesting, he would forget he was about to throw a tantrum.
They sat in silence for a while; Frank just staring at his hands, with a mildly interested look upon his face and a smile playing on his lips, as Bob watched him. He had never realised just how perfect Frank’s face was before; the lines defining his cheekbones and the soft, smooth surface of his skin looked even better in the shadowy light of the hotel room. Bob hadn’t flicked the light switch on since he had arrived.
He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair and cleared his throat softly, breaking the silence that was starting to consume him. It seemed to give Frank the signal to begin talking once more.
“You know, Bob,” he smiled a little, “I love you.”
Bob felt his heart stop for a second.
“Wh-what?” The colour drained from his face and he noticed an acidic feeling in the back of his throat. Had he heard right?
“I’m serious. There’s no one else in the world I would rather talk to, about anything. You’re my best friend.”
And that’s when it hit him. There would never be Frank and Bob in the romantic sense; it would only ever be friendship. No matter how many times Frank said, “I love you,” it would only ever be friendship and no matter how much Bob hoped and prayed for more, it would only ever be friendship.
“Bob?” Frank shuffled over a little closer to his friend, and leant his elbow on Bob’s shoulder lightly, as he had done with Gerard earlier that day.
“Huh?” Bob dragged himself back into the real world once again. “Oh yeah, you’re my best friend, too.” He forced a smile and watched Frank yawn widely before he began to speak again.
“I’m glad you can talk to me, and tell me things. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
Frank hiccupped loudly, and Bob was reminded just how drunk he was -- Frank wouldn’t even remember this conversation in the morning.
“Tell me something honest,” Frank commanded, but his words almost swallowed by the slurring that accompanied them. “Something no one else knows,” he concluded, as his eyelids drooped lazily, and Bob wished it wasn’t like this. He wished things were simple.
“You don’t want to know about me,” he replied in a resigned voice, but there was a hint of hope hidden in there somewhere. He was hoping Frank would prove him wrong.
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”
As the words left his mouth Frank let his head fall onto Bob’s shoulder, and his heavy eyelids finally closed. Bob was silent for a few minutes, listening to Frank’s steady breathing and letting the noise comfort him like a letter from home or a familiar face. Eventually, he gathered the courage to answer Frank’s request.
“I love you too,” Bob whispered, half hoping that Frank would reply, while knowing completely that he was snoring lightly on his shoulder. Asleep.
Bob sighed and leant back on the couch as his heart sank a little farther, until it reached the pit of his stomach. Perhaps he would tell Frank another time, when they both had clear heads, but the likelihood was that Bob would never let those words leave his mouth again. And that thought almost broke his heart.
---
Bob is still quiet. He continues to eat, sleep, dream and live quietly. He still gets that one blast of noise each night where he can play loudly and aggressively. The promise of that catharsis is what keeps him going now -- those ninety minutes in which he can become someone else are so precious. He can beat the words I love you from the drum skins every night, and, when Frank stands in front of his riser during a show, he can play so hard he feels his arms might break -- but it goes unquestioned, because he is being someone else, playing a part. On the outside he is controlled and forceful; he exudes calm and power, but on the inside he is suffocating on the same three words that he can never say again.
I love you.