(no subject)
I can haz angst?
Title: These Shoelaces, I've Seen Them Before.
Pairing: Bob gen, past Bob/Frank, Gerard/Frank, Jamia/Frank
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 1256
Summary: Walking a mile in someone else's shoes is no good if they're shoes you donated in the first place.
Prompt used: lose-lose situation for angst_bingo, and Bob and Pedicone bodyswap, set now. for anon_lovefest.
disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
The situation is ridiculous enough already, to know that it started because of something so cliched makes Bob want to bash his current head against the wall. Nonetheless, it’s true. Phong Kim fortune cookies lead to his doom.
The first time Bob had Chinese he was six. He doesn’t remember the event himself, but he’s heard the story more times than he can count. Apparently the entire family thinks it’s adorable that at first he refused to eat any of it, saying it looked icky and kicking the underside of the table until dad had to grab him by his Incredible Hulk shoes. All was doom until grandpa Bryar convinced him the breaded veal were how chicken fingers looked like with a Chinese chicken. At the end of the meal there had been ‘the magic saying’, making up for how desert didn’t even taste like cookies. Bob had saved the first one because grandpa said it was magic, and by the time he was old enough to know that was crap it was just habit to tuck the slips of paper away. He doesn’t even toss the repeats. It’s not like he really believes, but he doesn’t stop hoarding them.
Last night Bob got some pick up from Phong Kim, a shit ton of spring rolls and some ginger beef. The complimentary cookie said your past will become your future, and Bob tucked it into his collection box. Then he turned the television on and watched a mini marathon of Friends, because that’s what he does when he’s at home.
This morning he woke up as My Chemical Romance’s drummer. Again. He’s got brown hair and brown eyes and wrists that don’t ache. It only takes him a minute to remember Mike Pedicone is their drummer.
The first thing Bob does when he realises is locate Mike’s phone, and call his own cell. It takes six rings for his body to answer, obviously the person isn’t expecting his phone to be on the nightstand opposite of the side he sleeps. There’s no reason to waste time on pleasantries, all he wants to know is if his body’s currently occupied by Mike Pedicone, so that’s all he asks. Mike answers in the affirmative, for which Bob is grateful. It’s impossible and insane to have switched bodies, but it’s slightly better in a pair than if Bob was inside Mike and Mike was in some girl in Boise and that girl was in a grandfather in Toronto.
He locks himself in the bathroom to have the what the fuck are we going to do conversation. It’s not really a surefire method of privacy, but a door is a slightly better sound barrier than a curtain. Neither are fond of psychiatric facilities, so telling a doctor goes off the list of possibilities almost immediately. Bob doesn’t have any friends in Chicago who would believe Bob’s body saying he wasn’t actually him. Any friends at all, really. On the tour bus in -Mike says they’re heading towards Sweden- Bob’s got the opposite problem. It’s almost certain that both Ways and Frank would believe him. Which would be fine, except they’d most likely cancel the tour to try all sorts of stupid movie stuff like a hairdryer in a lightning storm to get them to switch back. While they might not have parted on the best of terms, and on tour with My Chem is pretty much one of the last places he wants to be, Bob isn’t going to be the asshole that denies a thousand fans a night their favourite music. Pretty much their only option is to pretend to be each other until they switch back naturally.
It’s not like he can’t play the music. It’ll be easy enough to remember the beats of Revenge and Parade, even though he hasn’t played them in over two years. Bullets is harder, wasn’t heavily in rotation for the concerts he played, but it’s not impossible. He should even be able to manage Danger Days. Some he remembers from when they were still going to write a rock album. Some he knows because when the CD came out he downloaded it, like poking his tongue into an abscess, and he couldn’t help but listen for the underlying beat. And when all else fails, the laws of muscle memory say if he zones out Pedicone’s body takes over.
The major problem with pretending to be him is Bob doesn’t know how Mike acts with the guys. Still, that isn’t a huge issue. All he has to do is say he’s feeling sick and retreat to Mike’s bunk. They’re all too busy with their own interests -video games, books, texting- to care. Mike has a iPhone, so Bob spends the hours before the concert playing different apps.
The concert goes well. The fans seem a lot happier these days, dancing and clad in primary colours. Bob knew that they were going for a colourful concept, but he hadn't thought that it would work so well. It makes sense though; of course the fans that liked feeling persecuted for listening to a goth band would enjoy a concept in which a man goes around stomping on the little people for believing in art and music. Even the stage equipment is decorated, though there's no set costume. Bob really appreciates the lack of costume.
He probably shouldn’t be crowding Frank while the other guys are occupied, but he can’t help it. It feels like he’s a step away from closure, even if he isn’t currently Bob to need closure. Frank’s lips are salty from dried sweat, his mouth tastes like Gatorade and maybe the beer Ray brought into the stage with him, though he didn’t see Frank try to snag one, too busy trying to make Destroya work properly.
Frank pulls away almost immediately, and when he does he doesn’t look happy. “What are you doing?”
Bob shrugs. “You always used to kiss the boys.”
He remembers it quite clearly. It would be impossible not to. Sure Gerard got all of it on stage, but in the bus Frank was less selective. Bob’s got a hundred different nights crowded into his brain, fingers covered in letters curling around his dick, sweat-slick, greasy hair falling onto his neck.
“Yeah, and now I have a wife and kids.” He doesn’t say anything, because what can you say to that? The wife thing never used to bother him, not until the end.
“I’m going to tell you what we’re going to do. You’re going to take your hand off my ass and walk away, and I’m going to pretend you didn't do that. And then we’re going to not talk about this ever again, and it’ll be like it didn’t happen. Cool? Great.”
Frank leaves quickly, and Bob crawls back into Mike’s bunk. It’s probably best if he leaves him alone for a bit. He’s tired, not used to playing vigorously like that, but he sits up and plays more Tetris. The sound of Mikey and James laughing is a nice background, and more importantly, loud enough to keep him awake. Bob’s not quite ready to fall asleep. Chances are when he wakes up he’ll be in his proper body again, back in Chicago. He’s not really sure if he wants to be back in his old body. Staying here undoes all the progress he’s made in his own life, but going back means being alone and sore. There’s no good answer.
Title: These Shoelaces, I've Seen Them Before.
Pairing: Bob gen, past Bob/Frank, Gerard/Frank, Jamia/Frank
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 1256
Summary: Walking a mile in someone else's shoes is no good if they're shoes you donated in the first place.
Prompt used: lose-lose situation for angst_bingo, and Bob and Pedicone bodyswap, set now. for anon_lovefest.
disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
The situation is ridiculous enough already, to know that it started because of something so cliched makes Bob want to bash his current head against the wall. Nonetheless, it’s true. Phong Kim fortune cookies lead to his doom.
The first time Bob had Chinese he was six. He doesn’t remember the event himself, but he’s heard the story more times than he can count. Apparently the entire family thinks it’s adorable that at first he refused to eat any of it, saying it looked icky and kicking the underside of the table until dad had to grab him by his Incredible Hulk shoes. All was doom until grandpa Bryar convinced him the breaded veal were how chicken fingers looked like with a Chinese chicken. At the end of the meal there had been ‘the magic saying’, making up for how desert didn’t even taste like cookies. Bob had saved the first one because grandpa said it was magic, and by the time he was old enough to know that was crap it was just habit to tuck the slips of paper away. He doesn’t even toss the repeats. It’s not like he really believes, but he doesn’t stop hoarding them.
Last night Bob got some pick up from Phong Kim, a shit ton of spring rolls and some ginger beef. The complimentary cookie said your past will become your future, and Bob tucked it into his collection box. Then he turned the television on and watched a mini marathon of Friends, because that’s what he does when he’s at home.
This morning he woke up as My Chemical Romance’s drummer. Again. He’s got brown hair and brown eyes and wrists that don’t ache. It only takes him a minute to remember Mike Pedicone is their drummer.
The first thing Bob does when he realises is locate Mike’s phone, and call his own cell. It takes six rings for his body to answer, obviously the person isn’t expecting his phone to be on the nightstand opposite of the side he sleeps. There’s no reason to waste time on pleasantries, all he wants to know is if his body’s currently occupied by Mike Pedicone, so that’s all he asks. Mike answers in the affirmative, for which Bob is grateful. It’s impossible and insane to have switched bodies, but it’s slightly better in a pair than if Bob was inside Mike and Mike was in some girl in Boise and that girl was in a grandfather in Toronto.
He locks himself in the bathroom to have the what the fuck are we going to do conversation. It’s not really a surefire method of privacy, but a door is a slightly better sound barrier than a curtain. Neither are fond of psychiatric facilities, so telling a doctor goes off the list of possibilities almost immediately. Bob doesn’t have any friends in Chicago who would believe Bob’s body saying he wasn’t actually him. Any friends at all, really. On the tour bus in -Mike says they’re heading towards Sweden- Bob’s got the opposite problem. It’s almost certain that both Ways and Frank would believe him. Which would be fine, except they’d most likely cancel the tour to try all sorts of stupid movie stuff like a hairdryer in a lightning storm to get them to switch back. While they might not have parted on the best of terms, and on tour with My Chem is pretty much one of the last places he wants to be, Bob isn’t going to be the asshole that denies a thousand fans a night their favourite music. Pretty much their only option is to pretend to be each other until they switch back naturally.
It’s not like he can’t play the music. It’ll be easy enough to remember the beats of Revenge and Parade, even though he hasn’t played them in over two years. Bullets is harder, wasn’t heavily in rotation for the concerts he played, but it’s not impossible. He should even be able to manage Danger Days. Some he remembers from when they were still going to write a rock album. Some he knows because when the CD came out he downloaded it, like poking his tongue into an abscess, and he couldn’t help but listen for the underlying beat. And when all else fails, the laws of muscle memory say if he zones out Pedicone’s body takes over.
The major problem with pretending to be him is Bob doesn’t know how Mike acts with the guys. Still, that isn’t a huge issue. All he has to do is say he’s feeling sick and retreat to Mike’s bunk. They’re all too busy with their own interests -video games, books, texting- to care. Mike has a iPhone, so Bob spends the hours before the concert playing different apps.
The concert goes well. The fans seem a lot happier these days, dancing and clad in primary colours. Bob knew that they were going for a colourful concept, but he hadn't thought that it would work so well. It makes sense though; of course the fans that liked feeling persecuted for listening to a goth band would enjoy a concept in which a man goes around stomping on the little people for believing in art and music. Even the stage equipment is decorated, though there's no set costume. Bob really appreciates the lack of costume.
He probably shouldn’t be crowding Frank while the other guys are occupied, but he can’t help it. It feels like he’s a step away from closure, even if he isn’t currently Bob to need closure. Frank’s lips are salty from dried sweat, his mouth tastes like Gatorade and maybe the beer Ray brought into the stage with him, though he didn’t see Frank try to snag one, too busy trying to make Destroya work properly.
Frank pulls away almost immediately, and when he does he doesn’t look happy. “What are you doing?”
Bob shrugs. “You always used to kiss the boys.”
He remembers it quite clearly. It would be impossible not to. Sure Gerard got all of it on stage, but in the bus Frank was less selective. Bob’s got a hundred different nights crowded into his brain, fingers covered in letters curling around his dick, sweat-slick, greasy hair falling onto his neck.
“Yeah, and now I have a wife and kids.” He doesn’t say anything, because what can you say to that? The wife thing never used to bother him, not until the end.
“I’m going to tell you what we’re going to do. You’re going to take your hand off my ass and walk away, and I’m going to pretend you didn't do that. And then we’re going to not talk about this ever again, and it’ll be like it didn’t happen. Cool? Great.”
Frank leaves quickly, and Bob crawls back into Mike’s bunk. It’s probably best if he leaves him alone for a bit. He’s tired, not used to playing vigorously like that, but he sits up and plays more Tetris. The sound of Mikey and James laughing is a nice background, and more importantly, loud enough to keep him awake. Bob’s not quite ready to fall asleep. Chances are when he wakes up he’ll be in his proper body again, back in Chicago. He’s not really sure if he wants to be back in his old body. Staying here undoes all the progress he’s made in his own life, but going back means being alone and sore. There’s no good answer.