Six
[just archiving. don't mind me.]
Title: Hide and Seek
Author: sunshinepill
Rating: R (for potty mouthness)
Fandom/Pairing: MCR & FOB, Bob/Pete.
Summary:
Disclaimer: Not true, don't sue.
A/N: Thanks to 1001cranes for helping me end this gracefully. Also, thanks to fairestcat and measuringlife for the read throughs.
Bob Bryar does not do crushes.
Except that apparently he does. But just this once. It's a creeping, insideous thing that sits in the back of Bob's brain and sets off triggers. Sharp spikes of Feeling, longing and want, that are threatening to convince the rest of him that this is a necessity. (So far, Bob's dick has taken the bait. If anyone asks, the battle of wills was epic.)
If he's being honest-- and truly, Bob tries not to be anything but honest. Scout's honor-- He's fucking terrified. There are plently of reasons for this, but Bob has efficiently narrowed it down to two; the 'who' and the 'what'. However, he's pretty sure that Pete Wentz being the object of his sick and twisted desires is more of a dilemma than the fact that one of Pete's chromosomes is missing a leg.
"Have you seen him?" he wants to ask himself. "Seen the way he's... anything?" But Bob has, and that's the problem. He seen the fighting and jackassery. The bruises and the bleeding. The smiles and the laughing and caring.
The caring.
He's seen.
_____
Bob Bryar does not dance.
He's got the music in him, sure. It's soul-deep. He fucking breathes the stuff, but if the art of dance is feeling it, Bob has extensive nerve damage.
Bob also doesn't like to make a fool of himself.
So he hangs back at parties, taps his fingers to annoyingly infectious club beats on the nearest table and watches other people feel the rhythm and get down with their bad selves. It's fine as long as it's not him, he thinks, even as Pete Wentz bounces his way over to Bob, grinning. Bob sighs to keep from throwing up. Nervous is something he does do, but would really rather not.
"You gonna stand there all fuckin' night, Bryar?"
Bob blinks, but doesn't answer. He'd assumed this was obvious.
"You should get out there," Pete continues, grin still in place, but he says it like he already know's Bob isn't going to, and he's already walking away. Already grinning at someone else, some girl, and pulling her in, pressing close to sway against her.
Bob doesn't dance, but tonight he sort of wishes he did.
_____
Bob doesn't....
Bob is running out of things he doesn't do.
More specifically, Bob is running out of things he won't do. The more he's sees Pete (which is always and forever since he and Mikey decided they were long lost slightly incestuous twins) the more he thinks that maybe this crush thing isn't so bad.
It's less something eating away at his brain, and more something... pleasant. Something that wraps around the whole of him, pressing it's little ghost-crush fingers to Bob's chest. His heart. It seeps in and makes his skin tingle and he... he likes it.
He wants to keep it.
____
After much deliberation (a week and three solid hours), Bob has decided to (try to) give up on his crush. Maybe less like giving up and more like facing the reality of the situation. Bob, after all, is not a quitter. It's just... when was he going to get the chance? What was he going to do? And what exactly was he expecting to happen?
It would be really nice if it were as easy as walking up to Pete and saying "Hi, I'm not gay. Usually. But I'm sorta in like with you and think we should fuck." But it's not, and Bob's a realist before anything else.
A realist that's never gonna get laid.
_____
They're at a thing. Some mindless promotional thing at a club that everyone in every currently notable band ever has to go to, and this? This is when Bob's dream career feels like menial labor.
He'd like to say he doesn't get paid enough for this, that no one could be paid enough for this, but mostly it's that there are so many people better at smoozing than he is. So many people better suited at playing the game, a game he really tries not to play at all, even if he technically has a piece on the board by association.
Bob stays as long as he has too, shakes all the right hands, smiles at all the right people, before sneaking out behind the club. He's having a deep and soulful staring contest with a green dumpster illuminated by the sickly orange glow of the street light which is why he doesn't notice the door open, not even when it creeks a little. Doesn't notice Pete stepping softly, quietly like you wouldn't believe he could be, pulling the door closed to lean against it.
"So."
Bob doesn't jump, doesn't even flinch, but he feels his whole body freeze. He feels his heart stop and his blood pause in its winding trek through his veins. When he takes a breath he's glad it doesn't come out shakey, too loud.
"Who's winning?" Pete asks, like he hasn't noticed that Bob was probably legally dead for five whole seconds there.
"Me," Bob mumbles back, because he's not sure what Pete means, but a little bravado never hurt anyone. He feels Pete shift a little closer, dancing on the edges of Bob's personal bubble. If Bob concentrates, he can almost feel Pete vibrating beside him, all fly away energy.
"So, I get the feeling you don't like me much, since you always see me and make, like, a tactical retreat." It comes out in a rush, and Pete's not moving, but he's standing too still like he's trying not to fidget. The thought makes Bob relax a little.
Bob decides to be honest. "Uh." Smooth, Bryar. Smooth. He clears his throat and tries again. "You confuse my heterosexuality?" It comes out as a question, and Bob's voice wavers over 'sex'.
Pete laughs. Bob swallows
"... I'm mostly okay with it."
Pete's moving closer, leaning up against Bob now, and Bob feels his personal bubble burst along with maybe his heart and integral parts of his brain.
"Awesome!" Pete says after a while, and Bob sneaks a glance to see the grin he can hear in Pete's voice. "I was totally sure you thought I caused cancer or was gonna eat your soul or... something."
That surprises a laugh out of Bob, but Pete doesn't give him a chance to comment on that, going on to say, "But now we can just make out."
Bob chokes.
"C'mon. Let's see how badly we can confuse your heterosexuality!"
And now Bob's laughing again, squinting at Pete who is now standing in front of him and wiggling his eyebrows at Bob. "You're fucked, Wentz."
"Whoa, hey. Let's start with the make outs, Bobby."
"Sure. You got a step ladder?" Bob says, smirking, and resolutely ignores the nickname; anxiety long gone in the wake of Pete smiling up at him.
"Not my fault. You're too big," Pete mutters, pressing closer, fisting his hands in Bob's shirt. He raises up on the balls of his feet slightly, head angled up.
"That's what she said," Bob mumbles back, head tilted down so that his lips brush against Pete's, and kisses him.
Title: Hide and Seek
Author: sunshinepill
Rating: R (for potty mouthness)
Fandom/Pairing: MCR & FOB, Bob/Pete.
Summary:
Disclaimer: Not true, don't sue.
A/N: Thanks to 1001cranes for helping me end this gracefully. Also, thanks to fairestcat and measuringlife for the read throughs.
Bob Bryar does not do crushes.
Except that apparently he does. But just this once. It's a creeping, insideous thing that sits in the back of Bob's brain and sets off triggers. Sharp spikes of Feeling, longing and want, that are threatening to convince the rest of him that this is a necessity. (So far, Bob's dick has taken the bait. If anyone asks, the battle of wills was epic.)
If he's being honest-- and truly, Bob tries not to be anything but honest. Scout's honor-- He's fucking terrified. There are plently of reasons for this, but Bob has efficiently narrowed it down to two; the 'who' and the 'what'. However, he's pretty sure that Pete Wentz being the object of his sick and twisted desires is more of a dilemma than the fact that one of Pete's chromosomes is missing a leg.
"Have you seen him?" he wants to ask himself. "Seen the way he's... anything?" But Bob has, and that's the problem. He seen the fighting and jackassery. The bruises and the bleeding. The smiles and the laughing and caring.
The caring.
He's seen.
_____
Bob Bryar does not dance.
He's got the music in him, sure. It's soul-deep. He fucking breathes the stuff, but if the art of dance is feeling it, Bob has extensive nerve damage.
Bob also doesn't like to make a fool of himself.
So he hangs back at parties, taps his fingers to annoyingly infectious club beats on the nearest table and watches other people feel the rhythm and get down with their bad selves. It's fine as long as it's not him, he thinks, even as Pete Wentz bounces his way over to Bob, grinning. Bob sighs to keep from throwing up. Nervous is something he does do, but would really rather not.
"You gonna stand there all fuckin' night, Bryar?"
Bob blinks, but doesn't answer. He'd assumed this was obvious.
"You should get out there," Pete continues, grin still in place, but he says it like he already know's Bob isn't going to, and he's already walking away. Already grinning at someone else, some girl, and pulling her in, pressing close to sway against her.
Bob doesn't dance, but tonight he sort of wishes he did.
_____
Bob doesn't....
Bob is running out of things he doesn't do.
More specifically, Bob is running out of things he won't do. The more he's sees Pete (which is always and forever since he and Mikey decided they were long lost slightly incestuous twins) the more he thinks that maybe this crush thing isn't so bad.
It's less something eating away at his brain, and more something... pleasant. Something that wraps around the whole of him, pressing it's little ghost-crush fingers to Bob's chest. His heart. It seeps in and makes his skin tingle and he... he likes it.
He wants to keep it.
____
After much deliberation (a week and three solid hours), Bob has decided to (try to) give up on his crush. Maybe less like giving up and more like facing the reality of the situation. Bob, after all, is not a quitter. It's just... when was he going to get the chance? What was he going to do? And what exactly was he expecting to happen?
It would be really nice if it were as easy as walking up to Pete and saying "Hi, I'm not gay. Usually. But I'm sorta in like with you and think we should fuck." But it's not, and Bob's a realist before anything else.
A realist that's never gonna get laid.
_____
They're at a thing. Some mindless promotional thing at a club that everyone in every currently notable band ever has to go to, and this? This is when Bob's dream career feels like menial labor.
He'd like to say he doesn't get paid enough for this, that no one could be paid enough for this, but mostly it's that there are so many people better at smoozing than he is. So many people better suited at playing the game, a game he really tries not to play at all, even if he technically has a piece on the board by association.
Bob stays as long as he has too, shakes all the right hands, smiles at all the right people, before sneaking out behind the club. He's having a deep and soulful staring contest with a green dumpster illuminated by the sickly orange glow of the street light which is why he doesn't notice the door open, not even when it creeks a little. Doesn't notice Pete stepping softly, quietly like you wouldn't believe he could be, pulling the door closed to lean against it.
"So."
Bob doesn't jump, doesn't even flinch, but he feels his whole body freeze. He feels his heart stop and his blood pause in its winding trek through his veins. When he takes a breath he's glad it doesn't come out shakey, too loud.
"Who's winning?" Pete asks, like he hasn't noticed that Bob was probably legally dead for five whole seconds there.
"Me," Bob mumbles back, because he's not sure what Pete means, but a little bravado never hurt anyone. He feels Pete shift a little closer, dancing on the edges of Bob's personal bubble. If Bob concentrates, he can almost feel Pete vibrating beside him, all fly away energy.
"So, I get the feeling you don't like me much, since you always see me and make, like, a tactical retreat." It comes out in a rush, and Pete's not moving, but he's standing too still like he's trying not to fidget. The thought makes Bob relax a little.
Bob decides to be honest. "Uh." Smooth, Bryar. Smooth. He clears his throat and tries again. "You confuse my heterosexuality?" It comes out as a question, and Bob's voice wavers over 'sex'.
Pete laughs. Bob swallows
"... I'm mostly okay with it."
Pete's moving closer, leaning up against Bob now, and Bob feels his personal bubble burst along with maybe his heart and integral parts of his brain.
"Awesome!" Pete says after a while, and Bob sneaks a glance to see the grin he can hear in Pete's voice. "I was totally sure you thought I caused cancer or was gonna eat your soul or... something."
That surprises a laugh out of Bob, but Pete doesn't give him a chance to comment on that, going on to say, "But now we can just make out."
Bob chokes.
"C'mon. Let's see how badly we can confuse your heterosexuality!"
And now Bob's laughing again, squinting at Pete who is now standing in front of him and wiggling his eyebrows at Bob. "You're fucked, Wentz."
"Whoa, hey. Let's start with the make outs, Bobby."
"Sure. You got a step ladder?" Bob says, smirking, and resolutely ignores the nickname; anxiety long gone in the wake of Pete smiling up at him.
"Not my fault. You're too big," Pete mutters, pressing closer, fisting his hands in Bob's shirt. He raises up on the balls of his feet slightly, head angled up.
"That's what she said," Bob mumbles back, head tilted down so that his lips brush against Pete's, and kisses him.