Fic: The Difference Between Lemonade and Metaphors
Title: The Difference Between Lemonade and Metaphors
Pairing: Bob/Frank
A/N: This is set during PR but there's no girlfriends or separate busses. It is what it is. Many thanks to castoffstarter and belladonnalin for do an amazing job of looking this over and making it better.
The Difference Between Lemonade and Metaphors
Bob is dead asleep the first time Frank pulls back the curtain and worms his way into Bob’s bunk in the middle of the night. Frank makes a grunting noise in the back of his throat and pokes his fingers sharply into the soft, exposed flash of belly. Bob jerks his head up, his hand curling automatically around the slope of his forehead, and squinting, says, "Dude, what the fuck?"
Frank doesn't answer. He shakes his head, bleary-looking even in the dim light of what still passes for San Bernardino, and pushes his way in, pulling the covers up to his ears in a huff. Bob gives him a look and he’s about to say something like 'seriously Iero, I’m not fucking kidding, get the fuck out of my bunk,' but Frank only grumbles and nudges his head under the crook of Bob’s chin, butting it twice in a way that says he means to stay put. He digs his nose into the hollow of Bob’s throat and Bob, jostling for space, bites down on his own tongue.
“Nunnabith.” Bob winces and presses his tongue against his teeth, checking for blood. There’s none there but he sticks his tongue out anyway, touching it with the tip of it with his finger in the shadows, testing. He can taste the salt on his skin and squints to see if he’s bleeding. At three am it’s an exercise in futility so Bob settles on an irritated-sounding, “You fucker.”
Frank is already asleep though and so Bob spends the next half an hour listening to all the creaks and groans of the bus. They’re traveling north now to another town with another amphitheater. He can hear Ray snoring below them and Gerard’s low mumbling in his sleep.
Matt, as usual, is silent.
*
The tour rolls through city after city in a blur of lights, pyrotechnics, and rest stops with burnt coffee and stale donuts. It’s Phoenix, then Selma and Dallas. In Atlanta, Bob watches as Frank stands on stage pulling the t-shirts thrown at his feet over his head, one after the other. He stalks around after that, mouth open and skin slick with sweat, throwing Gatorade into the pit.
The crowd eats it up.
At night Frank crawls into the bunk with him and Bob finds himself staring down at the ‘e’s etched under Frank's knuckles. His fingers look long and pale against the dark navy fabric of Bob’s t-shirt. Eventually Bob stops trying to figure out why he keeps waking up with Frank’s fingers looped into the waistband of his jogging pants and his breath pooling against the thin skin of Bob’s throat.
It’s just that, after awhile, it doesn’t seem to matter.
Sometimes he thinks about asking Frank about it but they never get a moment alone. Most mornings, Frank's already slipped out of bed by the time Bob's awake and coherent.
One morning, somewhere outside of Syracuse and heading south to Jersey, Bob wakes up and Frank is still in the bunk. Frank's awake, tracing designs on the ceiling of Bob's bunk with his finger. His other hand is loosely intertwined with one of Bob's. Bob clears his throat but before he can say anything, Frank chirps, "Morning!" and rolls out of bed.
Bob really hates morning people.
A little bit later, after he naps and brushes his teeth, Bob stumbles into the kitchenette and collapses at the table. The counter is littered with plastic spoons, stray sugar granules, and cereal boxes. Frank is leaning against it, his back to Bob, tapping a spoon in some rhythm that only makes sense to him and staring out the window. Without turning around, he says, "I've got a lot of lemons. Guess it's time to make lemonade."
Frank and his fucking metaphors.
For a brief second, Bob wishes it was Ray crawling into his bed every night. Ray says what he means and means what he says and Bob kind of loves that about him. He dismisses the thought pretty quickly though because it's Ray and that would just be weird.
He waits a few minutes in the hopes that Frank might explain himself but the silence drags on and Bob gives up. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Frank turns around and makes a face. "I got too many lemons the last time we made a grocery run. I need to make some lemonade before they go bad."
For all his experience and education, Bob thinks he could have been a little better prepared before joining a band, particularly this band. For example, he really would have liked a seminar on how to tell the difference between a metaphor and making idle conversation. Between Frank and the brothers Way, Bob is constantly forced to think about what someone means when they open their mouth.
It goes without saying that a course on how to handle a guitar player who likes to cuddle every night and what meaning should be attached to said cuddling should have been required before Bob even thought about signing the contract.
"What did you think I meant?" Frank asks.
Before Bob can reply, there's movement at the back of the bus and Gerard stumbles out and flops down on the couch. "Where the fuck is the coffee?"
*
There’s a six hour stretch of highway between Bob and getting off the bus and breathing fresh air. Bob, unfortunately, spends most of it listening to Gerard and Frank arguing in the lounge.
At first he tries ignoring them (and he refuses to be drawn into it, even when Frank gives him a serious case of doe-eyes) by turning his iPod up so loud that he can feel the vibration in the back of his ear drums. And while the music helps to block out their conversation, Bob can't ignore the fact that the vein in Gerard’s neck has gone thick with blood or that Frank is shaking his head and waving his arms around as though he’s trying to single-handedly land some jet aircraft carrier with his mind.
Bob sighs. He lifts his head off the back of the couch and pastes on the most menacing look in his arsenal.
It’s pretty menacing.
Gerard and Frank both stop, their heads swiveling towards him in unison, mouths hung open on twin hinges. Bob pulls out his ear buds with one hand. “That’s enough,” he says. Frank licks his bottom lip and opens his mouth wider to complain but Bob holds up a hand. It’s the international sign for 'shut the fuck up' and Frank looks slightly crestfallen. “Enough.”
Frank scowls down at his lap and Gerard looks smug. Bob’s putting his ear buds back in when he hears Frank quietly mutter, “I still think that the ability to freeze time is way cooler than being invisible. Ass.”
Bob rolls his eyes and turns his iPod back up.
*
When they arrive at the show in Indiana, Bob is the last one off the bus because he was locked in the bathroom. It’s probably some twisted Iero-retaliation tactic because Bob wasn’t stupid enough to get drawn into a hypothetical argument over super powers or the healing properties of Lucky Charms marshmallows.
He’s pretty sure that the bathroom thing was Frank’s doing, especially since he’s hiding from Bob now. It’s as good as catching Frank red-handed. Bob had considered playing a practical joke on Frank to get back at him but after nearly twenty minutes in the bathroom (the incredibly dirty, cramped little bathroom), Bob had decided that an old-fashioned ass kicking was exactly what Frank needed.
It's going to have to wait though because Bob has to prep for the show.
“That little motherfucker is going to get it this time.” Bob scowls as he runs his hand over the snare drum. The head needs to be taken off and cleaned, Bob decides. They have techs for this sort of thing but Bob’s a control freak when it comes to his kit and no one complains when he rummages around in his bag for a drum key to do it himself.
After he’s checked his equipment Bob stands behind his kit, takes a deep breath, and runs through his mental checklist. Once he’s satisfied that he’s ready to go and that, if nothing else, he’ll put on a good show, he turns around and sees a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. The person’s just short enough to be Frank, and Bob jumps off the riser and takes off after him.
It is Frank, and just as he’s about to make it out from behind the stage and into the hallway leading to their dressing room, Bob catches up to him and throws him against the wall. Frank is giggling and Bob shakes his head. He can’t hit Frank in the face, not so close to the show, so Bob’s going to have to settle for the arms and the stomach. They’re pressed against each other and if Bob wasn’t still so mad, he’d be enjoying how Frank feels against him, warm and vibrating from laughter.
For all his complaining about sharing a bunk and not having a clue, Bob likes waking up in the middle of the night with Frank wrapped around him. He’s not forcing Frank to explain why he’s taking over Bob’s space because if he does, Frank might stop and Bob’s not exactly sure he wants that. Bob doesn’t know what he wants but it’s definitely not that.
Underneath him, Frank wriggles his hips suggestively. “Bob,” Frank whispers. “Bob, what are you going to do now that you caught me?”
He presses against Bob and Bob’s dick jumps to half-mast.
Frank smirks. “That’s what you’re going to do?”
Later, Bob will tell himself that Frank was asking for it. Right now, he just thinks 'Want' as he leans forward and presses his lips against Frank’s. It’s dry and quick and doesn’t mean any of what Bob wants it to mean. He pulls away and says, “That’s what I’m going to do. Go get ready for the show.”
Frank doesn’t say anything as Bob walks away.
*
After their set, Bob stands off stage and watches Linkin Park perform. The crowd is really into it and, as Ray stands next to him, Bob can feel the heat of his shoulder bleeding through the thin skin of his t-shirt. Neither one of them says anything for awhile and the easy silence cracks only slightly when Bob’s back pops as he twists in place. Bob lets out a soft hiss while Ray smiles and nods. Bob can't tell if he’s nodding along to the music, or out of sympathy.
His lower back is fucked. Totally fucked. The entire band has a list of aches and pains and none of them bother to catalogue them anymore. They’re just a part of the grind, the dirty underbelly of rock and roll that doesn’t make for a very glamorous feature in Blender or SPIN.
Nobody ever wants to read about bleeding finger tips or tendonitis; no one wants to read about the fact that sometimes it’s fucking boring and lonely; sometimes you're just on the road for too goddamn long.
Bob yawns until his jaw feels like it's going to crack and his eyes water. His forearms are aching, and in the back of his head he’s already thinking about how good an ice pack will feel when Ray cuts the silence between them and says, “So. Frankie, huh?”
Bob refuses to let his head snap up in shock and instead focuses his gaze on Rob Bourdon, Linkin Park’s drummer, as he takes another long, controlled sip from his Diet Coke. Bourdon, Bob asserts to himself, is a fucking awesome drummer. Bourdon is on tonight. He’s intense and -
Ray’s elbow nudges him slightly as Ray raises his hand to push his hair back off his face. He’s looking directly at Bob now with an expectant gaze, sweet-faced and patient.
Not for the first time, Bob observes: Ray has a lot of fucking hair.
Bob flicks his tongue over the metal loop of his lip ring. He says, “Um” and Ray laughs. It’s a clear laugh that spills into the crowded space around them. “He locked me in the fucking bathroom,” Bob says stupidly.
Ray shrugs. “He likes you."
“Well, I hope he doesn’t owe you any money because I’m going to kill him.”
Ray laughs again. “You like him.” Ray’s eyelids flutter and Bob turns stubbornly back to the stage.
Bourdon is bent over his kit, his arms flying, and one foot hammering out a flawless beat. Bob’s a little awed. Bourdon is amazing. He’s technically perfect. He’s also probably not in love with his rhythm guitarist.
The realization comes quick and sudden and Bob feels like he's been sucker punched.
Oh fuck.
Bob bows his head, and when Ray slings an arm around his shoulder, Bob lets himself be shaken loosely.
There really should have been a course, he thinks helplessly.
*
At this point, the only thing left for Bob to do is get drunk and that's what he sets out to do after Linkin Park's set is over.
Frank's run off somewhere with the guys from Taking Back Sunday, Gerard's off being Gerard, and Matt is hanging out with the roadies. Ray, being the awesome dude that he is, finds Bob a 24 pack of Milwaukee's Best (he makes a face when he hands it to Bob but Bob doesn't care, sometimes you just have to go with a classic), and they settle down on the picnic table by the bus to drink away Bob's pain.
Eight beers later, Bob's resting his head on the table when he hears footsteps approaching. He props his head on his hands and sees Gerard and Worm staring down at him.
"I'd like to point out that even in my three years of being drunk, I never once sank so low as to drink the Beast." Gerard sniffs.
Bob gives him the finger. Fucking Jersey snobs.
Gerard laughs and turns to Ray. "What's wrong with him?"
"He just realized he's in love with Frank," Ray answers.
"No, I'm not!" Bob takes back everything nice he's ever thought about Ray.
"Fuck me," Worm sighs. "God, do you guys just sit around and think up ways to make my life hard?"
"Hey!" Ray exclaims. "There's nothing wrong with two dudes loving each other."
"You say that now but you're not the one who has to call Brian and explain the situation to him. You know how he gets."
Bob does know how Brian gets; he's known Brian longer than anyone else at the table and Bob can safely say that Brian's a pissy little bitch. "Brian's a pissy little bitch."
"Yes, he is," Gerard sits down next to him. "Bob, I'm confused. All this time, I thought you were dead inside. Now you're telling me that you're a real boy with a real heart, and you're in love with Frankie. It’s a beautiful thing, man, but I need an explanation."
"He says it just kind of happened," Ray interjects helpfully.
"Did I tell you that he's been climbing into my bunk every night and wrapping his stupid self around me? And then he crawls out every morning and acts like nothing happened?" Bob asks.
No one says anything for a few seconds. Ray shakes his head, opens his mouth, and then shuts it again. Finally, he replies, "No, you left that part out, Bob."
"I gotta call Mikey." Gerard stands up.
"No!" Bob flails his hand until he finds Gerard's pants. He grabs some material and tugs Gerard close. "You're not telling anyone about this."
Gerard drops back down. "Why not?"
"Because," Bob starts. He doesn't say anything for a few seconds as he tries to remember why he can't hook up with Frank and why he doesn't want anyone to know about it. "Because we're in a band together," he declares. "That would be bad. It would ruin the band."
"Yes, it would," Worm agrees.
"And because he's really hot and he'd probably have sex with me once and then drop me when he finds someone cuter to fuck like the dude from HIM." Bob rests his forehead against the table again.
"I don't get paid enough for this shit." Worm walks away and it's just Ray and Gerard at the table with Bob.
Gerard clears his throat but doesn't say anything.
*
It’s late - early by tour standards - and Bob’s going to bed. It sounds pretty straightforward; it sounds like something Bob should be able to manage on his own. And maybe it would be, maybe he could, if it weren’t for the beer.
Honestly. Eight Beasts and he’s ready to give it up in the backseat of his parents’ car like a first-timer.
Truth be told, he’s a little ashamed of himself right now.
Bob finds himself leaning up against the bunks in the narrow passageway of their bus with his jeans knotted around his knees. He can hear the low murmur of Gerard talking on his cell in the back lounge. He’s managed to half-way free one leg and is hopping around uselessly while Ray laughs at him from behind his half-opened curtain.
“Dude, not helping,” Bob bitches at him. He grips the bedrail tighter and kicks his leg as furiously as possible. The hem of his jeans flaps limply against the floor and make a denim snapping sound. It vaguely reminds him of a flag cracking in the wind. Bob kicks twice more then drops his chin to his chest and scowls down at his feet. He’s somehow managed to hogtie himself with his pants.
“What the hell?” Bob whispers and even he can tell it sounds sad and perplexed.
“C’mere asshole.” Ray smiles at him and leans out of his bunk, jerking Bob’s jeans down the rest of the way with one hand. His hair is tickling the inside of Bob’s knee and Bob snorts to himself as he steps out of his pants.
Freedom is a beautiful thing, Bob thinks with relief.
“There,” Ray says. He pats the side of Bob’s thigh like a dog. “Now go to bed.”
Bob stands for a minute and gives his upper bunk a long, appraising look before dropping down into Frank’s bed instead. Bob bunches the pillow under his head and blinks slowly as he pulls a sheet up over his shoulder. Ray has turned onto his side and he’s looking at Bob with an amused smile.
“My bunk is so far away.” Bob yawns and his eyes slide shut. “It’s, like, all the way up there.”
Ray snorts and Bob is already asleep when he reaches over and pulls his curtain closed with a quiet, “G’night, dude.”
*
When Bob wakes up, the bus is back on the road and he’s got to piss. Somehow he’s managed to forget that he’s not on the top bunk, and when he hops down, he crashes onto the floor loudly. It’s graceless and stupid, like that weird forward lurch you make when you’re running down the stairs and miss the bottom step; only they’re on a bus flying down the interstate going God only knows how many miles per hour.
Bob curses - there’s a muffled grunt from somewhere above him that he ignores - as he pushes himself up off his knees and fumbles his way to the toilet.
By this time his eyes have adjusted to the dark and he doesn't bother turning on the overhead light. When he comes out of the bathroom, Frank’s head is hanging out of Bob’s bunk and his hair has flopped across his forehead. Frank idly swishes at it with the back of his hand and it falls forward the second he lets go of it.
“Hey,” Frank whispers.
“You’re sleeping in my bunk.” Bob points out the obvious.
Frank curls his lip softly as though he’s seriously mulling the revelation over and lets a long minute slip by. “You were sleeping in mine.”
It sounds like a logical argument and Bob nods his head agreeably then says, as an afterthought, “Yeah. But you always sleep in my bunk. And this is the first time that I’ve slept in yours.”
Frank scratches the thin skin under his eyelid with the tip of his finger. “Good point.”
“How come?”
Frank frowns at him. “Because that’s where you are.”
“Oh,” Bob nods as much to himself as to Frank. “Oh. Okay.”
“Well? Are you coming back to bed?” Frank has already scooted backwards and Bob can hear him patting the empty mattress space. He shakes his head and hoists himself up into the bunk. The sheets smell like Frank, and they feel warm sliding against Bob’s bare legs and forearms.
In the darkness Bob says softly, “But that’s not where I was tonight.”
“No,” Frank mumbles. His face is pressed into Bob’s shoulder and Bob can feel the moist heat of his breath leaking through his t-shirt. “But I figured you’d come back eventually.”
*
The next morning, Bob is jarred out of sleep when his cell phone starts ringing. He pats his sheets, cursing Gerard and his insistence on setting Christina Aguilera’s "Candy Man" as Bob's ringtone until he finds it.
"Yeah?"
"What the fuck are you doing, Bryar?" Brian shouts.
Before Bob can think of an answer that isn't 'praying for my head to stop pounding', Brian continues. "You know what? I don't care. I just want to know why you decided to get drunk last night, declare your love for Frank, and call me a bitch."
"Um."
"Not a good answer, asshole." Brian hangs up on him and Bob winces.
Two seconds later his phone rings again and Bob picks up without looking at the caller ID.
"Frank, really?" Brian asks, softer this time.
"Dude, don't even start," Bob replies. He runs his hand over his face and tries to convince his eyes to open.
"Does he know?"
"There's nothing to know."
"Bob, how long have we known each other? Don't try to pull one over on me. I don't care what the two of you do or don't do; just don't let it fuck up the band."
"Christ," Bob swears. "Are you my friend or my manager?"
"The first phone call was me being your manager. This is me being your friend."
"You're a pretty crappy friend," Bob grumbles.
"Whatever." Brian takes a sip of something, probably his fourth cup of coffee in as many hours, and says, "Are you actually going to do something about this, or are you going to keep letting him sleep with you and never ask why?"
"I don't know!" He's got a pounding headache, his stomach won't stop flip-flopping, and Bob would kill a man, preferably Brian, for a cigarette right now. "What does it matter to you?"
"All I'm saying is that you're not exactly known for going after what you want. Maybe it's time you changed that; maybe it's time you took charge of your life." Brian sounds gentle and Bob has to take a deep breath before he can reply.
"Maybe," he acquiesces.
Brian takes pity on him and changes the subject. They talk for a little bit longer, shooting the shit about mutual friends and new bands until eventually Brian mutters something about going to make some money for them, and Bob decides it's time to get up.
He drops to the floor much more gracefully than he did the night before and Bob's honestly a little disappointed there's no one around to witness it. There are soft voices in the TV area so Bob moves a little closer to the curtain separating it from the bunks.
Gerard and Frank are talking in low tones but Bob can still hear them. He tunes in just in time to hear Gerard ask, "What are you doing with Bob?"
"Nothing," Frank protests.
"Frank, you didn't see him last night. He was pretty miserable."
"I wasn't trying to upset him."
"Then why do you keep crawling into his bunk and leaving in the morning before he wakes up?" There's no reply and Gerard sighs. "Frank, come on. What's going on in that little head of yours? What's bothering you?"
Frank's quiet for a few seconds until he says, "It's nothing, Gee. I'm just having a hard time sleeping, that's all."
Even Bob can tell that's a load of bullshit but Gerard doesn't push it. He just mutters something low that Bob can't hear and Frank laughs in reply.
Bob turns away from the curtain and heads toward the bathroom, his mind made up. Something needs to be done about this and soon.
*
That afternoon, once Bob's feeling human again, he gets off the bus and heads out to find Frank. They're somewhere in Colorado but it all looks the same to Bob. Seen one festival, you've seen them all, he thinks as he weaves between buses. He finally finds Frank at the end of the buses, sitting on a picnic table staring out at the highway.
"Hey man." Bob sits down on the other side of the table.
Frank looks around and smiles. "Hey."
"What's going on, Frankie?"
"Nothing," Frank snorts and looks back at the highway.
"Frank." Bob uses his meanest voice and Frank caves.
"I'll make you a deal," he wheedles. "You can ask me one question and I'll tell you the absolute truth, but you have to do the same."
Bob nods. He asks his question quick, the words rushing out of his mouth so he doesn't chicken out. "Why do you keep crawling into my bed?"
"Wow," Frank whistles softly. He lets the word stretch out long and low between them. “See I was thinking more like a ‘This or That’ kind of question, you know? Like vampires or werewolves, dogs or cats? That sort of thing.” Frank is mumbling and is picking at the heart carved into the table top with the edge of his thumb. Bob alternates between staring at the carving and at the small bones of Frank’s wrist as he twists his hand.
“Cat,” Bob says quietly. Frank’s shoulders bob gently and he shakes his head trying to hide the grin stretching over his face. It’s fleeting but it’s enough to make Bob’s stomach unclench.
“Look,” Frank sighs and rolls his head in a small circle, stretching out the tendons in his neck as Bob waits him out. “It’s just that sometimes Gerard and Mikey are a lot of work, you know?”
Bob does know, and they are. He wasn’t around for the worst of it, sure, but still - he toured with The Used long enough to know that he’s got a pretty good fucking idea of what it must have been like.
“So he’s not fucked up all the time now, but he’s still Gee and well,” Frank lets out a hollow-sounding laugh. “That’s still kind of fucked up.” Bob watches as Frank spreads his fingers wide and rubs his hand idly over the picnic table. He nods his head solemnly.
Bob knows there are nights when Frank and Gerard stay up until dawn talking in the lounge. He’s woken up some mornings to find Frank - covered in ink, with dark circles forming under his eyes and a soft, indulgent smile tugging at the corner of his mouth - still on the couch, his feet in Gerard’s lap.
Gerard can be manic. Sometimes it’s like living inside the eye of a tornado and they all walk around wary of the edges. Still, they blame the road, the endless stretch of tour dates and radio interviews, and push ahead like Frank's not shouldering all the weight.
Frank is taking shallow, even breaths next to him and Bob does him the courtesy of not looking at him. Out on the interstate there are transports and cars filing past and Bob watches them silently while he thinks.
Gerard has never done a single show drunk since Bob started drumming with the band.
Maybe Bob doesn’t know shit about it after all.
“Anyway. I guess it’s just that sometimes I get really fucking tired of being the one to hold them up all the time.”
The admission is a thin one. For a long minute they’re quiet and Bob thinks about the first time he woke up with Frank squeezing in next to him: Gerard had just come down from living three days straight on the high frequency and Frank had let out a long, pent-up breath, curled his fist into the folds of Bob’s t-shirt, and slept like the dead.
“Okay.”
Frank lifts his head. “Okay?”
Bob’s mouth twitches and he shrugs his shoulders when he stands. He claps Frank on the back, squeezing the back of his neck tightly with one hand. “Yeah. Whatever you need, man.”
*
Colorado is their last night with the Projekt Revolution tour.
There’s an informal wrap party in the parking lot of the venue and everyone makes their way over there while the equipment is being packed up. Bob finds himself hanging out with Bourdon again and they fall into their usual argument over their kits.
Bob keeps an eye on Frank who's keeping an eye on Gerard who is so animated that he’s sloshing Coke Zero over the rim of his plastic cup and licking the backs of his knuckles while he talks.
It’s laughable. Or at least it would be laughable if it weren’t all so fucked up.
Rob is still standing in front of him, still wearing his Puma racing shoes and damp from the show, grinning. Vater sticks are his weapon of choice, he tells Bob and when Bob smiles back, he feels distracted.
“It’s been great touring with you,” Rob says. He’s swerving slightly on his feet and Bob reaches out to steady his elbow.
“Yeah, man. You too. I just. I really admire you.” Bob’s a little embarrassed by how earnest he knows he sounds. “You’re a hell of a drummer,” he finishes lamely.
From where they’re standing, Bob can look past Rob’s shoulder and see Frank laughing and pushing his hair back with one hand. Ray's standing next to Frank, and when he catches Bob's eye, he gives Bob an eager two thumbs up and Bob scowls and shakes his head.
After a while, Rob takes off to hang with Saosin and Bob stands in the shadows for a bit, just watching everyone. Frank's disappeared, again - but that’s not so unusual - and Gerard and Ray are still hanging out, making jokes about Jersey. Bob's thinking about heading over to join them when someone tugs him back into the shadows.
It's Frank, of course, and Bob smiles and shakes his head. "What's up, Iero?"
Frank's teeth are shining in the dark and Bob knows what’s coming next.
"Why do you let me?" It’s a bald question and Bob fumbles, trying to buy time while he fights down the bubble of hysteria growing in the back of his throat.
“Let you what?” He takes another mouthful of beer and lets it sit on his tongue before swallowing it down.
"Bob."
He wants to say 'That's what friends do' or 'Someone's got to take care of you' but it's not true. He wants to say it's because it makes Bob feel good but he doesn’t want to be one more person for Frank to carry around.
In his head, Bob can hear Brian telling him to take charge and Frank stares at him, waiting. It’s an impassive look that Bob finds hard not to flinch under. Finally, he settles for saying, "I like it. I like you."
It’s a quiet moment and Frank’s smile is soft on the corners of his mouth. Bob lifts his beer again and drains it while he ignores the nervous flutter that’s settled in his stomach. He feels like he’s auditioning for the band again: disconnected from everything and out of body, like his sticks aren’t actually in his hands.
The feeling ends abruptly when a Nerf ball whizzes past the back of Frank’s head, hitting the bus behind them with a loud thud. They both jolt - heads ducking reflexively - and Frank starts laughing as he looks around.
They both stare at the ball for a second and then Frank scrambles forward. “C’mon, bitch,” he laughs. And then Bob is laughing too, dropping his empty beer can onto the ground and lunging forward. He catches Frank by the back of his pants, fingers curling into the waistband, and swats at the ball with his free hand until Frank manages a clumsy hand off to one of the roadies.
It’s a fluid no-rules game, and by the end of it they’re all panting and out of breath.
“Fuckin’ schooled you, Bryar!” Frank shouts afterwards. It’s three am and they’re on their way back to the busses, ready to roll out.
New Jersey. It’s like a breath they didn’t even know they were holding.
In the lounge, Gerard slings his arm casually around Frank’s shoulders and for a moment they stand close, heads bent together, quietly talking about what they’re going to do when they get home.
Bob lets them be and heads back to his bunk. A few minutes later, he finds himself holding his breath while Frank unzips his jeans and chucks them into the empty bunk below. Frank has one leg half-hooked into the bunk when he hesitates. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” He sounds soft and uncertain, years younger than he really is.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s fine.” Frank still hovers, and Bob laughs at him. “Really. C’mon up, fuckwad.”
"Okay, cool." Frank’s grin is palpable as he throws himself into the bunk.
The engine's turned over and Bob can feel a low diesel thrum in the back of his teeth as he curls one arm across the dry heat of Frank’s back. Frank has shifted, tucking his face into the space under Bob’s throat and his fingers are rubbing idly against the hem of his t-shirt.
Neither of them is sleeping and Bob’s conscious of that when he swallows and brushes his lips dryly over Frank’s forehead.
“Dude? Did you just kiss me goodnight?” Frank whispers.
“No?”
“Oh," Frank says on a yawn. “That’s too bad.”
*
In the morning, Frank wakes up hard. They shift as much as they can in the small space before Frank lets out a croaky-sounding laugh and says, “Well, this is embarrassing.”
Bob can feel Frank’s early morning erection pressing hopefully against his thigh. He clears his throat and says against the matted lick of Frank’s hair, “You can jerk off if you want to.”
It comes out gruff and quiet in the small dark space between them and Bob’s breath catches in a painful lump in the back of his throat. For about thirty seconds he regrets ever being born, let alone just saying that out loud.
It’s like the entire universe has skidded to an abrupt halt and the seconds are out there hanging themselves. And then Bob feels Frank’s tiny nod against the base of his throat, and he can breathe again.
Frank’s arm slides off Bob’s side and down into the space between them. When he peels his hips back to make more room, a chill blooms against Bob’s chest. It’s a space that would feel empty and sad if Bob stopped to think about it.
“Um,” Bob shifts then and fumbles around under his pillow with the one arm that’s not being crushed under Frank’s shoulder. “Hang on. Here. Here.”
Bob flicks the cap back with his thumb and pours a small blob of lube into Frank’s open palm. “There.” After that Frank’s jacking himself, his mouth open and wet against the collar of Bob’s t-shirt, in slow steady strokes. Bob lies perfectly still against him.
“What are you thinking about?” His lips are pressed against the crest of Frank’s hairline and he’s concentrating on the steady, rhythmic bump of Frank’s knuckles nudging against his hip on the upstroke.
Frank groans.
“You,” Frank mutters as he runs his fingers over the head of his dick. “You, God, Bob. You.”
Frank’s hips snap forward into the curl of his fist and his breath huffs out in an unsteady wheeze that Bob can feel deep in his gut. Bob lets his hand slide up to cup around Frank’s elbow, riding the motion with the pads of his fingers. The skin there feels ridiculously soft.
“Tell me,” Bob says hoarsely - for fuck's sake, he needs to know - “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
Bob can feel the sharp hook of Frank’s fist, the sweaty sheen coating his forehead as he turns his face against Bob’s nose. The silence is stretched out and quiet and then Frank’s frantically whispering,
“That I want your fingers in my ass. That I want your mouth on my dick. That I want-- that I want you to fuck me. Oh. Jesus, Bob. I’m thinking about you.”
Frank’s mouth hangs open against Bob’s throat and he presses his lips against the pulse point there. Bob’s eyes close as Frank goes rigid against him, coming in a wet pulse over his knuckles and through his fingers.
Afterwards, Frank tucks his head under the crook of Bob’s chin and Bob can feel the ragged pant of his breathing slow and even out. The lights are still off in the bus. It’s early and everyone else is asleep and all Bob can think about is Frank lying next to him, warm and content.
“I lied,” Frank whispers. “Mostly to me, I think.”
Bob leans back on the pillow, away from Frank, so he can see his face in the murky light. He frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“When you wanted to know why I kept coming into your bunk all the time. I said it was because I was fucking tired - and I am. I mean. This shit wears you out, so that part was true. It’s just,” Frank lets out a choked-sounding laugh. “I like it. I like you.”
Bob smiles and looks down at Frank. "Thank you."
"Thank you? Motherfucker, I just poured my heart and my dick out to you and all you can say is thank you?" Frank pushes weakly at Bob's shoulder.
Bob grabs Frank's hand and pulls it up to his mouth. He runs the tip of his tongue lightly over Frank's palm and then starts sucking on his fingers. It tastes like Frank, salty and pungent.
By the time Bob's done cleaning his hand, Frank is panting and Bob's hips are thrusting forward, searching for friction and warmth. Frank re-claims his hand and snakes it down the bed, grabbing onto Bob's hips, pulling him close.
"C'mon," Frank mutters. "C'mon, fuck my leg. Show me how thankful you are."
Bob bites his tongue so he doesn't moan. In his idle thoughts, he never imagined it could be as hot as this or that Frank would ever be this into it. Frank's leg snakes between his thighs, pressing up against his dick, and Bob can't help it, he moans low and long.
Frank winks at him and latches on to Bob's neck, using his tongue and teeth. Bob tilts his head back and drives himself against Frank. Between Frank's hands and his tongue and his leg and, oh god, even Frank's toes are getting in on it, it's too much for Bob. He barely has time to pull his dick out of his boxers before he comes fast and quick, on the tail of a twisted sound that he tries unsuccessfully to muffle. Frank's mouth is open and pressed against his throat the whole time.
When he can finally breathe again, Bob pulls his hand off his dick and wipes it on Frank's shirt.
"Dude. Duuuuude," Frank shudders. "Why did it have to be my shirt? You know we're not doing laundry till we get back to Jersey."
To shut him up, Bob ducks his head down and presses his lips against Frank's. As far as second kisses go, it's not bad and Bob thinks that maybe he could get used to it.
They pull apart eventually and Frank grins. "So, I hope you don't do this with everyone you like."
Bob climbs over him, pinching his nipple as he does. As Frank squawks and rubs his chest, Bob replies, "Just you."
He gives himself a quick pat to make sure everything's where it should be before he heads toward the kitchen. Gerard, Ray, and Matt are already up and playing videogames. As Bob walks by them, they each hold up a sheet of paper. Ray's says '9.3', Gee's has '9.7' written on it, and Matt's reads, 'Jesus, when is Mikey coming back? 0.0'.
Bob grabs two bottles of water and walks back to his bunk. Right before he leaves the room, he turns around, bows, and says, "Fuck you."
Behind him, Gerard cackles and yells, "Only if it's Frankie!"
Bob shakes his head and climbs back into his bunk. Frank's already half-asleep but he still manages to wrap himself around Bob as soon as Bob's lying back down. Bob pulls the blankets over them and thinks that those fuckers must be insane if they think Bob would let them anywhere near Frank's dick.
Authors: secrethappiness and algernon_mouse
Rating: R/NC-17.
Summary: For all his experience and education, Bob thinks he could have been a little better prepared before joining a band, particularly this band. For example, he really would have liked a seminar on how to tell the difference between a metaphor and making idle conversation.
Pairing: Bob/Frank
A/N: This is set during PR but there's no girlfriends or separate busses. It is what it is. Many thanks to castoffstarter and belladonnalin for do an amazing job of looking this over and making it better.
The Difference Between Lemonade and Metaphors
Bob is dead asleep the first time Frank pulls back the curtain and worms his way into Bob’s bunk in the middle of the night. Frank makes a grunting noise in the back of his throat and pokes his fingers sharply into the soft, exposed flash of belly. Bob jerks his head up, his hand curling automatically around the slope of his forehead, and squinting, says, "Dude, what the fuck?"
Frank doesn't answer. He shakes his head, bleary-looking even in the dim light of what still passes for San Bernardino, and pushes his way in, pulling the covers up to his ears in a huff. Bob gives him a look and he’s about to say something like 'seriously Iero, I’m not fucking kidding, get the fuck out of my bunk,' but Frank only grumbles and nudges his head under the crook of Bob’s chin, butting it twice in a way that says he means to stay put. He digs his nose into the hollow of Bob’s throat and Bob, jostling for space, bites down on his own tongue.
“Nunnabith.” Bob winces and presses his tongue against his teeth, checking for blood. There’s none there but he sticks his tongue out anyway, touching it with the tip of it with his finger in the shadows, testing. He can taste the salt on his skin and squints to see if he’s bleeding. At three am it’s an exercise in futility so Bob settles on an irritated-sounding, “You fucker.”
Frank is already asleep though and so Bob spends the next half an hour listening to all the creaks and groans of the bus. They’re traveling north now to another town with another amphitheater. He can hear Ray snoring below them and Gerard’s low mumbling in his sleep.
Matt, as usual, is silent.
*
The tour rolls through city after city in a blur of lights, pyrotechnics, and rest stops with burnt coffee and stale donuts. It’s Phoenix, then Selma and Dallas. In Atlanta, Bob watches as Frank stands on stage pulling the t-shirts thrown at his feet over his head, one after the other. He stalks around after that, mouth open and skin slick with sweat, throwing Gatorade into the pit.
The crowd eats it up.
At night Frank crawls into the bunk with him and Bob finds himself staring down at the ‘e’s etched under Frank's knuckles. His fingers look long and pale against the dark navy fabric of Bob’s t-shirt. Eventually Bob stops trying to figure out why he keeps waking up with Frank’s fingers looped into the waistband of his jogging pants and his breath pooling against the thin skin of Bob’s throat.
It’s just that, after awhile, it doesn’t seem to matter.
Sometimes he thinks about asking Frank about it but they never get a moment alone. Most mornings, Frank's already slipped out of bed by the time Bob's awake and coherent.
One morning, somewhere outside of Syracuse and heading south to Jersey, Bob wakes up and Frank is still in the bunk. Frank's awake, tracing designs on the ceiling of Bob's bunk with his finger. His other hand is loosely intertwined with one of Bob's. Bob clears his throat but before he can say anything, Frank chirps, "Morning!" and rolls out of bed.
Bob really hates morning people.
A little bit later, after he naps and brushes his teeth, Bob stumbles into the kitchenette and collapses at the table. The counter is littered with plastic spoons, stray sugar granules, and cereal boxes. Frank is leaning against it, his back to Bob, tapping a spoon in some rhythm that only makes sense to him and staring out the window. Without turning around, he says, "I've got a lot of lemons. Guess it's time to make lemonade."
Frank and his fucking metaphors.
For a brief second, Bob wishes it was Ray crawling into his bed every night. Ray says what he means and means what he says and Bob kind of loves that about him. He dismisses the thought pretty quickly though because it's Ray and that would just be weird.
He waits a few minutes in the hopes that Frank might explain himself but the silence drags on and Bob gives up. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Frank turns around and makes a face. "I got too many lemons the last time we made a grocery run. I need to make some lemonade before they go bad."
For all his experience and education, Bob thinks he could have been a little better prepared before joining a band, particularly this band. For example, he really would have liked a seminar on how to tell the difference between a metaphor and making idle conversation. Between Frank and the brothers Way, Bob is constantly forced to think about what someone means when they open their mouth.
It goes without saying that a course on how to handle a guitar player who likes to cuddle every night and what meaning should be attached to said cuddling should have been required before Bob even thought about signing the contract.
"What did you think I meant?" Frank asks.
Before Bob can reply, there's movement at the back of the bus and Gerard stumbles out and flops down on the couch. "Where the fuck is the coffee?"
*
There’s a six hour stretch of highway between Bob and getting off the bus and breathing fresh air. Bob, unfortunately, spends most of it listening to Gerard and Frank arguing in the lounge.
At first he tries ignoring them (and he refuses to be drawn into it, even when Frank gives him a serious case of doe-eyes) by turning his iPod up so loud that he can feel the vibration in the back of his ear drums. And while the music helps to block out their conversation, Bob can't ignore the fact that the vein in Gerard’s neck has gone thick with blood or that Frank is shaking his head and waving his arms around as though he’s trying to single-handedly land some jet aircraft carrier with his mind.
Bob sighs. He lifts his head off the back of the couch and pastes on the most menacing look in his arsenal.
It’s pretty menacing.
Gerard and Frank both stop, their heads swiveling towards him in unison, mouths hung open on twin hinges. Bob pulls out his ear buds with one hand. “That’s enough,” he says. Frank licks his bottom lip and opens his mouth wider to complain but Bob holds up a hand. It’s the international sign for 'shut the fuck up' and Frank looks slightly crestfallen. “Enough.”
Frank scowls down at his lap and Gerard looks smug. Bob’s putting his ear buds back in when he hears Frank quietly mutter, “I still think that the ability to freeze time is way cooler than being invisible. Ass.”
Bob rolls his eyes and turns his iPod back up.
*
When they arrive at the show in Indiana, Bob is the last one off the bus because he was locked in the bathroom. It’s probably some twisted Iero-retaliation tactic because Bob wasn’t stupid enough to get drawn into a hypothetical argument over super powers or the healing properties of Lucky Charms marshmallows.
He’s pretty sure that the bathroom thing was Frank’s doing, especially since he’s hiding from Bob now. It’s as good as catching Frank red-handed. Bob had considered playing a practical joke on Frank to get back at him but after nearly twenty minutes in the bathroom (the incredibly dirty, cramped little bathroom), Bob had decided that an old-fashioned ass kicking was exactly what Frank needed.
It's going to have to wait though because Bob has to prep for the show.
“That little motherfucker is going to get it this time.” Bob scowls as he runs his hand over the snare drum. The head needs to be taken off and cleaned, Bob decides. They have techs for this sort of thing but Bob’s a control freak when it comes to his kit and no one complains when he rummages around in his bag for a drum key to do it himself.
After he’s checked his equipment Bob stands behind his kit, takes a deep breath, and runs through his mental checklist. Once he’s satisfied that he’s ready to go and that, if nothing else, he’ll put on a good show, he turns around and sees a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. The person’s just short enough to be Frank, and Bob jumps off the riser and takes off after him.
It is Frank, and just as he’s about to make it out from behind the stage and into the hallway leading to their dressing room, Bob catches up to him and throws him against the wall. Frank is giggling and Bob shakes his head. He can’t hit Frank in the face, not so close to the show, so Bob’s going to have to settle for the arms and the stomach. They’re pressed against each other and if Bob wasn’t still so mad, he’d be enjoying how Frank feels against him, warm and vibrating from laughter.
For all his complaining about sharing a bunk and not having a clue, Bob likes waking up in the middle of the night with Frank wrapped around him. He’s not forcing Frank to explain why he’s taking over Bob’s space because if he does, Frank might stop and Bob’s not exactly sure he wants that. Bob doesn’t know what he wants but it’s definitely not that.
Underneath him, Frank wriggles his hips suggestively. “Bob,” Frank whispers. “Bob, what are you going to do now that you caught me?”
He presses against Bob and Bob’s dick jumps to half-mast.
Frank smirks. “That’s what you’re going to do?”
Later, Bob will tell himself that Frank was asking for it. Right now, he just thinks 'Want' as he leans forward and presses his lips against Frank’s. It’s dry and quick and doesn’t mean any of what Bob wants it to mean. He pulls away and says, “That’s what I’m going to do. Go get ready for the show.”
Frank doesn’t say anything as Bob walks away.
*
After their set, Bob stands off stage and watches Linkin Park perform. The crowd is really into it and, as Ray stands next to him, Bob can feel the heat of his shoulder bleeding through the thin skin of his t-shirt. Neither one of them says anything for awhile and the easy silence cracks only slightly when Bob’s back pops as he twists in place. Bob lets out a soft hiss while Ray smiles and nods. Bob can't tell if he’s nodding along to the music, or out of sympathy.
His lower back is fucked. Totally fucked. The entire band has a list of aches and pains and none of them bother to catalogue them anymore. They’re just a part of the grind, the dirty underbelly of rock and roll that doesn’t make for a very glamorous feature in Blender or SPIN.
Nobody ever wants to read about bleeding finger tips or tendonitis; no one wants to read about the fact that sometimes it’s fucking boring and lonely; sometimes you're just on the road for too goddamn long.
Bob yawns until his jaw feels like it's going to crack and his eyes water. His forearms are aching, and in the back of his head he’s already thinking about how good an ice pack will feel when Ray cuts the silence between them and says, “So. Frankie, huh?”
Bob refuses to let his head snap up in shock and instead focuses his gaze on Rob Bourdon, Linkin Park’s drummer, as he takes another long, controlled sip from his Diet Coke. Bourdon, Bob asserts to himself, is a fucking awesome drummer. Bourdon is on tonight. He’s intense and -
Ray’s elbow nudges him slightly as Ray raises his hand to push his hair back off his face. He’s looking directly at Bob now with an expectant gaze, sweet-faced and patient.
Not for the first time, Bob observes: Ray has a lot of fucking hair.
Bob flicks his tongue over the metal loop of his lip ring. He says, “Um” and Ray laughs. It’s a clear laugh that spills into the crowded space around them. “He locked me in the fucking bathroom,” Bob says stupidly.
Ray shrugs. “He likes you."
“Well, I hope he doesn’t owe you any money because I’m going to kill him.”
Ray laughs again. “You like him.” Ray’s eyelids flutter and Bob turns stubbornly back to the stage.
Bourdon is bent over his kit, his arms flying, and one foot hammering out a flawless beat. Bob’s a little awed. Bourdon is amazing. He’s technically perfect. He’s also probably not in love with his rhythm guitarist.
The realization comes quick and sudden and Bob feels like he's been sucker punched.
Oh fuck.
Bob bows his head, and when Ray slings an arm around his shoulder, Bob lets himself be shaken loosely.
There really should have been a course, he thinks helplessly.
*
At this point, the only thing left for Bob to do is get drunk and that's what he sets out to do after Linkin Park's set is over.
Frank's run off somewhere with the guys from Taking Back Sunday, Gerard's off being Gerard, and Matt is hanging out with the roadies. Ray, being the awesome dude that he is, finds Bob a 24 pack of Milwaukee's Best (he makes a face when he hands it to Bob but Bob doesn't care, sometimes you just have to go with a classic), and they settle down on the picnic table by the bus to drink away Bob's pain.
Eight beers later, Bob's resting his head on the table when he hears footsteps approaching. He props his head on his hands and sees Gerard and Worm staring down at him.
"I'd like to point out that even in my three years of being drunk, I never once sank so low as to drink the Beast." Gerard sniffs.
Bob gives him the finger. Fucking Jersey snobs.
Gerard laughs and turns to Ray. "What's wrong with him?"
"He just realized he's in love with Frank," Ray answers.
"No, I'm not!" Bob takes back everything nice he's ever thought about Ray.
"Fuck me," Worm sighs. "God, do you guys just sit around and think up ways to make my life hard?"
"Hey!" Ray exclaims. "There's nothing wrong with two dudes loving each other."
"You say that now but you're not the one who has to call Brian and explain the situation to him. You know how he gets."
Bob does know how Brian gets; he's known Brian longer than anyone else at the table and Bob can safely say that Brian's a pissy little bitch. "Brian's a pissy little bitch."
"Yes, he is," Gerard sits down next to him. "Bob, I'm confused. All this time, I thought you were dead inside. Now you're telling me that you're a real boy with a real heart, and you're in love with Frankie. It’s a beautiful thing, man, but I need an explanation."
"He says it just kind of happened," Ray interjects helpfully.
"Did I tell you that he's been climbing into my bunk every night and wrapping his stupid self around me? And then he crawls out every morning and acts like nothing happened?" Bob asks.
No one says anything for a few seconds. Ray shakes his head, opens his mouth, and then shuts it again. Finally, he replies, "No, you left that part out, Bob."
"I gotta call Mikey." Gerard stands up.
"No!" Bob flails his hand until he finds Gerard's pants. He grabs some material and tugs Gerard close. "You're not telling anyone about this."
Gerard drops back down. "Why not?"
"Because," Bob starts. He doesn't say anything for a few seconds as he tries to remember why he can't hook up with Frank and why he doesn't want anyone to know about it. "Because we're in a band together," he declares. "That would be bad. It would ruin the band."
"Yes, it would," Worm agrees.
"And because he's really hot and he'd probably have sex with me once and then drop me when he finds someone cuter to fuck like the dude from HIM." Bob rests his forehead against the table again.
"I don't get paid enough for this shit." Worm walks away and it's just Ray and Gerard at the table with Bob.
Gerard clears his throat but doesn't say anything.
*
It’s late - early by tour standards - and Bob’s going to bed. It sounds pretty straightforward; it sounds like something Bob should be able to manage on his own. And maybe it would be, maybe he could, if it weren’t for the beer.
Honestly. Eight Beasts and he’s ready to give it up in the backseat of his parents’ car like a first-timer.
Truth be told, he’s a little ashamed of himself right now.
Bob finds himself leaning up against the bunks in the narrow passageway of their bus with his jeans knotted around his knees. He can hear the low murmur of Gerard talking on his cell in the back lounge. He’s managed to half-way free one leg and is hopping around uselessly while Ray laughs at him from behind his half-opened curtain.
“Dude, not helping,” Bob bitches at him. He grips the bedrail tighter and kicks his leg as furiously as possible. The hem of his jeans flaps limply against the floor and make a denim snapping sound. It vaguely reminds him of a flag cracking in the wind. Bob kicks twice more then drops his chin to his chest and scowls down at his feet. He’s somehow managed to hogtie himself with his pants.
“What the hell?” Bob whispers and even he can tell it sounds sad and perplexed.
“C’mere asshole.” Ray smiles at him and leans out of his bunk, jerking Bob’s jeans down the rest of the way with one hand. His hair is tickling the inside of Bob’s knee and Bob snorts to himself as he steps out of his pants.
Freedom is a beautiful thing, Bob thinks with relief.
“There,” Ray says. He pats the side of Bob’s thigh like a dog. “Now go to bed.”
Bob stands for a minute and gives his upper bunk a long, appraising look before dropping down into Frank’s bed instead. Bob bunches the pillow under his head and blinks slowly as he pulls a sheet up over his shoulder. Ray has turned onto his side and he’s looking at Bob with an amused smile.
“My bunk is so far away.” Bob yawns and his eyes slide shut. “It’s, like, all the way up there.”
Ray snorts and Bob is already asleep when he reaches over and pulls his curtain closed with a quiet, “G’night, dude.”
*
When Bob wakes up, the bus is back on the road and he’s got to piss. Somehow he’s managed to forget that he’s not on the top bunk, and when he hops down, he crashes onto the floor loudly. It’s graceless and stupid, like that weird forward lurch you make when you’re running down the stairs and miss the bottom step; only they’re on a bus flying down the interstate going God only knows how many miles per hour.
Bob curses - there’s a muffled grunt from somewhere above him that he ignores - as he pushes himself up off his knees and fumbles his way to the toilet.
By this time his eyes have adjusted to the dark and he doesn't bother turning on the overhead light. When he comes out of the bathroom, Frank’s head is hanging out of Bob’s bunk and his hair has flopped across his forehead. Frank idly swishes at it with the back of his hand and it falls forward the second he lets go of it.
“Hey,” Frank whispers.
“You’re sleeping in my bunk.” Bob points out the obvious.
Frank curls his lip softly as though he’s seriously mulling the revelation over and lets a long minute slip by. “You were sleeping in mine.”
It sounds like a logical argument and Bob nods his head agreeably then says, as an afterthought, “Yeah. But you always sleep in my bunk. And this is the first time that I’ve slept in yours.”
Frank scratches the thin skin under his eyelid with the tip of his finger. “Good point.”
“How come?”
Frank frowns at him. “Because that’s where you are.”
“Oh,” Bob nods as much to himself as to Frank. “Oh. Okay.”
“Well? Are you coming back to bed?” Frank has already scooted backwards and Bob can hear him patting the empty mattress space. He shakes his head and hoists himself up into the bunk. The sheets smell like Frank, and they feel warm sliding against Bob’s bare legs and forearms.
In the darkness Bob says softly, “But that’s not where I was tonight.”
“No,” Frank mumbles. His face is pressed into Bob’s shoulder and Bob can feel the moist heat of his breath leaking through his t-shirt. “But I figured you’d come back eventually.”
*
The next morning, Bob is jarred out of sleep when his cell phone starts ringing. He pats his sheets, cursing Gerard and his insistence on setting Christina Aguilera’s "Candy Man" as Bob's ringtone until he finds it.
"Yeah?"
"What the fuck are you doing, Bryar?" Brian shouts.
Before Bob can think of an answer that isn't 'praying for my head to stop pounding', Brian continues. "You know what? I don't care. I just want to know why you decided to get drunk last night, declare your love for Frank, and call me a bitch."
"Um."
"Not a good answer, asshole." Brian hangs up on him and Bob winces.
Two seconds later his phone rings again and Bob picks up without looking at the caller ID.
"Frank, really?" Brian asks, softer this time.
"Dude, don't even start," Bob replies. He runs his hand over his face and tries to convince his eyes to open.
"Does he know?"
"There's nothing to know."
"Bob, how long have we known each other? Don't try to pull one over on me. I don't care what the two of you do or don't do; just don't let it fuck up the band."
"Christ," Bob swears. "Are you my friend or my manager?"
"The first phone call was me being your manager. This is me being your friend."
"You're a pretty crappy friend," Bob grumbles.
"Whatever." Brian takes a sip of something, probably his fourth cup of coffee in as many hours, and says, "Are you actually going to do something about this, or are you going to keep letting him sleep with you and never ask why?"
"I don't know!" He's got a pounding headache, his stomach won't stop flip-flopping, and Bob would kill a man, preferably Brian, for a cigarette right now. "What does it matter to you?"
"All I'm saying is that you're not exactly known for going after what you want. Maybe it's time you changed that; maybe it's time you took charge of your life." Brian sounds gentle and Bob has to take a deep breath before he can reply.
"Maybe," he acquiesces.
Brian takes pity on him and changes the subject. They talk for a little bit longer, shooting the shit about mutual friends and new bands until eventually Brian mutters something about going to make some money for them, and Bob decides it's time to get up.
He drops to the floor much more gracefully than he did the night before and Bob's honestly a little disappointed there's no one around to witness it. There are soft voices in the TV area so Bob moves a little closer to the curtain separating it from the bunks.
Gerard and Frank are talking in low tones but Bob can still hear them. He tunes in just in time to hear Gerard ask, "What are you doing with Bob?"
"Nothing," Frank protests.
"Frank, you didn't see him last night. He was pretty miserable."
"I wasn't trying to upset him."
"Then why do you keep crawling into his bunk and leaving in the morning before he wakes up?" There's no reply and Gerard sighs. "Frank, come on. What's going on in that little head of yours? What's bothering you?"
Frank's quiet for a few seconds until he says, "It's nothing, Gee. I'm just having a hard time sleeping, that's all."
Even Bob can tell that's a load of bullshit but Gerard doesn't push it. He just mutters something low that Bob can't hear and Frank laughs in reply.
Bob turns away from the curtain and heads toward the bathroom, his mind made up. Something needs to be done about this and soon.
*
That afternoon, once Bob's feeling human again, he gets off the bus and heads out to find Frank. They're somewhere in Colorado but it all looks the same to Bob. Seen one festival, you've seen them all, he thinks as he weaves between buses. He finally finds Frank at the end of the buses, sitting on a picnic table staring out at the highway.
"Hey man." Bob sits down on the other side of the table.
Frank looks around and smiles. "Hey."
"What's going on, Frankie?"
"Nothing," Frank snorts and looks back at the highway.
"Frank." Bob uses his meanest voice and Frank caves.
"I'll make you a deal," he wheedles. "You can ask me one question and I'll tell you the absolute truth, but you have to do the same."
Bob nods. He asks his question quick, the words rushing out of his mouth so he doesn't chicken out. "Why do you keep crawling into my bed?"
"Wow," Frank whistles softly. He lets the word stretch out long and low between them. “See I was thinking more like a ‘This or That’ kind of question, you know? Like vampires or werewolves, dogs or cats? That sort of thing.” Frank is mumbling and is picking at the heart carved into the table top with the edge of his thumb. Bob alternates between staring at the carving and at the small bones of Frank’s wrist as he twists his hand.
“Cat,” Bob says quietly. Frank’s shoulders bob gently and he shakes his head trying to hide the grin stretching over his face. It’s fleeting but it’s enough to make Bob’s stomach unclench.
“Look,” Frank sighs and rolls his head in a small circle, stretching out the tendons in his neck as Bob waits him out. “It’s just that sometimes Gerard and Mikey are a lot of work, you know?”
Bob does know, and they are. He wasn’t around for the worst of it, sure, but still - he toured with The Used long enough to know that he’s got a pretty good fucking idea of what it must have been like.
“So he’s not fucked up all the time now, but he’s still Gee and well,” Frank lets out a hollow-sounding laugh. “That’s still kind of fucked up.” Bob watches as Frank spreads his fingers wide and rubs his hand idly over the picnic table. He nods his head solemnly.
Bob knows there are nights when Frank and Gerard stay up until dawn talking in the lounge. He’s woken up some mornings to find Frank - covered in ink, with dark circles forming under his eyes and a soft, indulgent smile tugging at the corner of his mouth - still on the couch, his feet in Gerard’s lap.
Gerard can be manic. Sometimes it’s like living inside the eye of a tornado and they all walk around wary of the edges. Still, they blame the road, the endless stretch of tour dates and radio interviews, and push ahead like Frank's not shouldering all the weight.
Frank is taking shallow, even breaths next to him and Bob does him the courtesy of not looking at him. Out on the interstate there are transports and cars filing past and Bob watches them silently while he thinks.
Gerard has never done a single show drunk since Bob started drumming with the band.
Maybe Bob doesn’t know shit about it after all.
“Anyway. I guess it’s just that sometimes I get really fucking tired of being the one to hold them up all the time.”
The admission is a thin one. For a long minute they’re quiet and Bob thinks about the first time he woke up with Frank squeezing in next to him: Gerard had just come down from living three days straight on the high frequency and Frank had let out a long, pent-up breath, curled his fist into the folds of Bob’s t-shirt, and slept like the dead.
“Okay.”
Frank lifts his head. “Okay?”
Bob’s mouth twitches and he shrugs his shoulders when he stands. He claps Frank on the back, squeezing the back of his neck tightly with one hand. “Yeah. Whatever you need, man.”
*
Colorado is their last night with the Projekt Revolution tour.
There’s an informal wrap party in the parking lot of the venue and everyone makes their way over there while the equipment is being packed up. Bob finds himself hanging out with Bourdon again and they fall into their usual argument over their kits.
Bob keeps an eye on Frank who's keeping an eye on Gerard who is so animated that he’s sloshing Coke Zero over the rim of his plastic cup and licking the backs of his knuckles while he talks.
It’s laughable. Or at least it would be laughable if it weren’t all so fucked up.
Rob is still standing in front of him, still wearing his Puma racing shoes and damp from the show, grinning. Vater sticks are his weapon of choice, he tells Bob and when Bob smiles back, he feels distracted.
“It’s been great touring with you,” Rob says. He’s swerving slightly on his feet and Bob reaches out to steady his elbow.
“Yeah, man. You too. I just. I really admire you.” Bob’s a little embarrassed by how earnest he knows he sounds. “You’re a hell of a drummer,” he finishes lamely.
From where they’re standing, Bob can look past Rob’s shoulder and see Frank laughing and pushing his hair back with one hand. Ray's standing next to Frank, and when he catches Bob's eye, he gives Bob an eager two thumbs up and Bob scowls and shakes his head.
After a while, Rob takes off to hang with Saosin and Bob stands in the shadows for a bit, just watching everyone. Frank's disappeared, again - but that’s not so unusual - and Gerard and Ray are still hanging out, making jokes about Jersey. Bob's thinking about heading over to join them when someone tugs him back into the shadows.
It's Frank, of course, and Bob smiles and shakes his head. "What's up, Iero?"
Frank's teeth are shining in the dark and Bob knows what’s coming next.
"Why do you let me?" It’s a bald question and Bob fumbles, trying to buy time while he fights down the bubble of hysteria growing in the back of his throat.
“Let you what?” He takes another mouthful of beer and lets it sit on his tongue before swallowing it down.
"Bob."
He wants to say 'That's what friends do' or 'Someone's got to take care of you' but it's not true. He wants to say it's because it makes Bob feel good but he doesn’t want to be one more person for Frank to carry around.
In his head, Bob can hear Brian telling him to take charge and Frank stares at him, waiting. It’s an impassive look that Bob finds hard not to flinch under. Finally, he settles for saying, "I like it. I like you."
It’s a quiet moment and Frank’s smile is soft on the corners of his mouth. Bob lifts his beer again and drains it while he ignores the nervous flutter that’s settled in his stomach. He feels like he’s auditioning for the band again: disconnected from everything and out of body, like his sticks aren’t actually in his hands.
The feeling ends abruptly when a Nerf ball whizzes past the back of Frank’s head, hitting the bus behind them with a loud thud. They both jolt - heads ducking reflexively - and Frank starts laughing as he looks around.
They both stare at the ball for a second and then Frank scrambles forward. “C’mon, bitch,” he laughs. And then Bob is laughing too, dropping his empty beer can onto the ground and lunging forward. He catches Frank by the back of his pants, fingers curling into the waistband, and swats at the ball with his free hand until Frank manages a clumsy hand off to one of the roadies.
It’s a fluid no-rules game, and by the end of it they’re all panting and out of breath.
“Fuckin’ schooled you, Bryar!” Frank shouts afterwards. It’s three am and they’re on their way back to the busses, ready to roll out.
New Jersey. It’s like a breath they didn’t even know they were holding.
In the lounge, Gerard slings his arm casually around Frank’s shoulders and for a moment they stand close, heads bent together, quietly talking about what they’re going to do when they get home.
Bob lets them be and heads back to his bunk. A few minutes later, he finds himself holding his breath while Frank unzips his jeans and chucks them into the empty bunk below. Frank has one leg half-hooked into the bunk when he hesitates. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” He sounds soft and uncertain, years younger than he really is.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s fine.” Frank still hovers, and Bob laughs at him. “Really. C’mon up, fuckwad.”
"Okay, cool." Frank’s grin is palpable as he throws himself into the bunk.
The engine's turned over and Bob can feel a low diesel thrum in the back of his teeth as he curls one arm across the dry heat of Frank’s back. Frank has shifted, tucking his face into the space under Bob’s throat and his fingers are rubbing idly against the hem of his t-shirt.
Neither of them is sleeping and Bob’s conscious of that when he swallows and brushes his lips dryly over Frank’s forehead.
“Dude? Did you just kiss me goodnight?” Frank whispers.
“No?”
“Oh," Frank says on a yawn. “That’s too bad.”
*
In the morning, Frank wakes up hard. They shift as much as they can in the small space before Frank lets out a croaky-sounding laugh and says, “Well, this is embarrassing.”
Bob can feel Frank’s early morning erection pressing hopefully against his thigh. He clears his throat and says against the matted lick of Frank’s hair, “You can jerk off if you want to.”
It comes out gruff and quiet in the small dark space between them and Bob’s breath catches in a painful lump in the back of his throat. For about thirty seconds he regrets ever being born, let alone just saying that out loud.
It’s like the entire universe has skidded to an abrupt halt and the seconds are out there hanging themselves. And then Bob feels Frank’s tiny nod against the base of his throat, and he can breathe again.
Frank’s arm slides off Bob’s side and down into the space between them. When he peels his hips back to make more room, a chill blooms against Bob’s chest. It’s a space that would feel empty and sad if Bob stopped to think about it.
“Um,” Bob shifts then and fumbles around under his pillow with the one arm that’s not being crushed under Frank’s shoulder. “Hang on. Here. Here.”
Bob flicks the cap back with his thumb and pours a small blob of lube into Frank’s open palm. “There.” After that Frank’s jacking himself, his mouth open and wet against the collar of Bob’s t-shirt, in slow steady strokes. Bob lies perfectly still against him.
“What are you thinking about?” His lips are pressed against the crest of Frank’s hairline and he’s concentrating on the steady, rhythmic bump of Frank’s knuckles nudging against his hip on the upstroke.
Frank groans.
“You,” Frank mutters as he runs his fingers over the head of his dick. “You, God, Bob. You.”
Frank’s hips snap forward into the curl of his fist and his breath huffs out in an unsteady wheeze that Bob can feel deep in his gut. Bob lets his hand slide up to cup around Frank’s elbow, riding the motion with the pads of his fingers. The skin there feels ridiculously soft.
“Tell me,” Bob says hoarsely - for fuck's sake, he needs to know - “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
Bob can feel the sharp hook of Frank’s fist, the sweaty sheen coating his forehead as he turns his face against Bob’s nose. The silence is stretched out and quiet and then Frank’s frantically whispering,
“That I want your fingers in my ass. That I want your mouth on my dick. That I want-- that I want you to fuck me. Oh. Jesus, Bob. I’m thinking about you.”
Frank’s mouth hangs open against Bob’s throat and he presses his lips against the pulse point there. Bob’s eyes close as Frank goes rigid against him, coming in a wet pulse over his knuckles and through his fingers.
Afterwards, Frank tucks his head under the crook of Bob’s chin and Bob can feel the ragged pant of his breathing slow and even out. The lights are still off in the bus. It’s early and everyone else is asleep and all Bob can think about is Frank lying next to him, warm and content.
“I lied,” Frank whispers. “Mostly to me, I think.”
Bob leans back on the pillow, away from Frank, so he can see his face in the murky light. He frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“When you wanted to know why I kept coming into your bunk all the time. I said it was because I was fucking tired - and I am. I mean. This shit wears you out, so that part was true. It’s just,” Frank lets out a choked-sounding laugh. “I like it. I like you.”
Bob smiles and looks down at Frank. "Thank you."
"Thank you? Motherfucker, I just poured my heart and my dick out to you and all you can say is thank you?" Frank pushes weakly at Bob's shoulder.
Bob grabs Frank's hand and pulls it up to his mouth. He runs the tip of his tongue lightly over Frank's palm and then starts sucking on his fingers. It tastes like Frank, salty and pungent.
By the time Bob's done cleaning his hand, Frank is panting and Bob's hips are thrusting forward, searching for friction and warmth. Frank re-claims his hand and snakes it down the bed, grabbing onto Bob's hips, pulling him close.
"C'mon," Frank mutters. "C'mon, fuck my leg. Show me how thankful you are."
Bob bites his tongue so he doesn't moan. In his idle thoughts, he never imagined it could be as hot as this or that Frank would ever be this into it. Frank's leg snakes between his thighs, pressing up against his dick, and Bob can't help it, he moans low and long.
Frank winks at him and latches on to Bob's neck, using his tongue and teeth. Bob tilts his head back and drives himself against Frank. Between Frank's hands and his tongue and his leg and, oh god, even Frank's toes are getting in on it, it's too much for Bob. He barely has time to pull his dick out of his boxers before he comes fast and quick, on the tail of a twisted sound that he tries unsuccessfully to muffle. Frank's mouth is open and pressed against his throat the whole time.
When he can finally breathe again, Bob pulls his hand off his dick and wipes it on Frank's shirt.
"Dude. Duuuuude," Frank shudders. "Why did it have to be my shirt? You know we're not doing laundry till we get back to Jersey."
To shut him up, Bob ducks his head down and presses his lips against Frank's. As far as second kisses go, it's not bad and Bob thinks that maybe he could get used to it.
They pull apart eventually and Frank grins. "So, I hope you don't do this with everyone you like."
Bob climbs over him, pinching his nipple as he does. As Frank squawks and rubs his chest, Bob replies, "Just you."
He gives himself a quick pat to make sure everything's where it should be before he heads toward the kitchen. Gerard, Ray, and Matt are already up and playing videogames. As Bob walks by them, they each hold up a sheet of paper. Ray's says '9.3', Gee's has '9.7' written on it, and Matt's reads, 'Jesus, when is Mikey coming back? 0.0'.
Bob grabs two bottles of water and walks back to his bunk. Right before he leaves the room, he turns around, bows, and says, "Fuck you."
Behind him, Gerard cackles and yells, "Only if it's Frankie!"
Bob shakes his head and climbs back into his bunk. Frank's already half-asleep but he still manages to wrap himself around Bob as soon as Bob's lying back down. Bob pulls the blankets over them and thinks that those fuckers must be insane if they think Bob would let them anywhere near Frank's dick.
Authors: secrethappiness and algernon_mouse
Rating: R/NC-17.
Summary: For all his experience and education, Bob thinks he could have been a little better prepared before joining a band, particularly this band. For example, he really would have liked a seminar on how to tell the difference between a metaphor and making idle conversation.