Fic: Blinkered
Blinkered
Panic/MCR, Jon/Bob, NC-17 to be safe.
3383 words.
Written for bandom365 January 17, in one mad (insomnia-driven) rush. Unbeta'ed, constructive criticism very much invited. Prompt by algernon-mouse from ye many ages ago; I do get these things done eventually, I just take forever and a day. (Dude, you are awesome. Even if all those ears are kind of weird-looking.)
It's a windy, raw day. Bob's lighter flat-out refuses to work, no matter how he huddles or how he cups his hand around it. He walks the three blocks with the unlit cigarette clamped in between his lips, sucking pointlessly at the filter.
Jon is waiting on the stoop, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his camera bag thumping against his side. "Hey," he calls, when Bob is a block away. He tugs his hand out of his pocket to wave. "Hey, hey."
Bob hustles across the street against the light. "What's up," he says, careful of the cigarette. They shake hands, and Bob shoves his back in his pockets. Jon pats at his sweatshirt, then his jeans, fishing a set of keys out of his back pocket. "Glad to see you aren't all Vegas yet," Bob says.
"How's that?" Jon has to wrestle with the deadbolt, but he looks back over his shoulder when he finally gets it open.
Bob waves a hand at the two hooded sweatshirts Jon has layered on. "No coat. I was afraid you'd show up with one of those." He gestures, indicating an enormous puffy parka.
"I have some pride," Jon says, "But it is kind of cold. Are you coming in, or what?" Bob takes the cigarette out of his mouth and waves it. Jon rolls his eyes. "I think the place'll survive a little smoke."
The stairs up to the apartment are carpeted in the same rat-gray stuff Bob remembers from his apartments in college. The white walls are scuffed, and the paint on the banister is uneven. "How'd you find it?"
"Craigslist. Just looked for something cheap. I mean, I'm a rockstar who's renting an empty apartment, but I'm not made of money." Jon stumbles. Bob puts his hands up before he remembers his wrists and drops them again. Jon doesn't look back. "One more set of stairs, sorry."
The key takes some convincing to work. Jon glances back and apologizes again, but Bob doesn't even bother answering him; he's too busy looking around, enjoying the reminder of what he used to think was normal. "I had this apartment once, before I joined the band," Bob says, and trails off.
"Yeah?" The door finally opens, and Jon gestures Bob in.
"Thanks." Bob looks around the empty apartment. It's small; they walk straight into the yellow and brown colored kitchen, there's a tiny bathroom is off to the right, and a big room to the right. "It was in a place kind of like this." He pauses and laughs, remembering. "My roommate was into urban hunting."
"No." Jon pauses in unwinding his scarf. "You're shitting me."
"No, I'm not. He owned this crossbow, and he used to kill squirrels with it out the window."
"How did he survive the lease? I wouldn't think you would put up with that."
"I don't know," Bob says. He really doesn't; he remembers hating the guy, but doesn't remember why he kept putting up with it. Didn't know any better, probably. "Where do you want me?"
"Give me a second," Jon says, looking at him from under his eyelashes and smirking. "I'm a professional, here, we have to take our time." He takes out his fancy camera and does something complicated with the buttons and the screen on the back. When he puts the camera down and starts digging in his bag for something, Bob turns away. He walks over to the window, pries up the sash, and cups his fingers so he can light his cigarette.
The windows are big, but someone painted sloppily at some point, gumming up the joins with lumps of paint. Bob's only able to get it up five or six inches with his wrists like they are. He squats down so he's at eye level with the open gap and smokes that way, balanced on his toes. The wind blows at a slant to the window, finding its way into his collar and the cuffs of his jacket, chilling the skin of his face.
He hears Jon's feet moving across the floorboards, and he doesn't know whether or not to turn around, whether Jon's already got the camera up and ready. He chances a wary look over his shoulder, and Jon smiles at him. "You really hate it, don't you?" Jon asks.
"What, photos? That's why I said I did, yeah." Bob takes a quick last drag and flicks the butt out the window, blowing the smoke out after it and sliding the sash back down.
"Everyone says they hate having their picture taken," Jon says. "But it's just that they don't like disappointment."
"I guess."
"You just don't like it at all, though."
"No," Bob says. He already wants another cigarette. "Don't see the point."
"I see I've chosen my subject wisely," Jon smirks. Bob shrugs, and he hears the first click. "You realize I'm going to talk to you the entire time." Bob shrugs again, but he smiles when he looks over at Jon. Jon's got his camera held sideways in one hand. His wrist is casually bent back at a right angle to his forearm, and Bob feels a sudden pang of envy. There's another click. Bob frowns, and Jon says, "Yeah, turns out you don't need to look through the viewfinder to take a picture. Taught me that one in art class."
Bob snorts and rubs his hands against the legs of his jeans. He looks around the apartment again. "So am I just going to stand here?"
"You can do whatever," Jon says. "You can smoke, make tea. I brought Chips Ahoy."
"Chips Ahoy," Bob says, "You know how to treat a man right."
"I try." Jon laughs, then, startling Bob into looking right at the camera. "You're going to relax at some point, Bryar. I brought so many memory cards. Resistance is futile."
"I will be assimilated," Bob says dutifully. Jon laughs, and Bob feels his shoulders come down a fraction.
Bob wanders around the apartment after that, Jon trailing in his wake. Jon keeps his word; he doesn't tell Bob to do anything, doesn't tell him to look more pensive or less homicidal, doesn't tell him that role models shouldn't smoke or try to fit six cookies in their mouths at once. He talks as much as Bert or Frank, but it's mostly questions, or little prompting noises when Bob falls silent.
Jon asks Bob about games he played when he was a kid, after Bob demonstrates that he can actually fit an entire row of cookies into his mouth. "What, like soccer?" Bob asks, brushing crumbs off the front of his jacket onto the peeling countertop.
"No, like-- did you ever play Statues?"
"Oh, huh. I had a babysitter who played that with me, yeah." He gestures vaguely, misjudges the distance, and bangs his right wrist against the edge of the counter. Pain slices up his forearm and across his wrist, and he says "ah!", sharp but quiet.
The pain dulls to a throb almost immediately, but Bob still cradles his wrist against his stomach, pressing his lips together. It takes him a second to hear the steady clicking of the shutter. "Stop," he says, and Jon hesitates, then takes his hand away from the button. The camera falls silent. Bob looks down at his wrist. The pain tugs at him when he flexes his wrist, but it seems all right. "I should have brought my braces," he says.
"We can go get you an ace bandage," Jon offers, but Bob shakes his head. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. I'll ice it tonight."
"Sorry about the--" Jon breaks off when Bob shrugs. "I wasn't thinking."
"It's cool," Bob says. He really wants a cigarette, so he walks back to the main room. "Can you open the window for me?" he asks, when Jon hesitates in the doorway.
Jon not only gets the window open, he lights Bob's cigarette for him, holding it between his own lips and then handing it over by the filter. Bob sits down with his back against the windowsill, and Jon lowers himself down next to him. They sit there while Bob smokes, Bob arching his neck to blow out the window.
When Bob throws the butt out the window, Jon sits up to shut the window again. Jon tries to help Bob take off his jacket, even, until Bob stares him down. Bob's t-shirt is sticking to his armpits, and he smells like whatever horrible cologne's in his deodorant. He hadn't realized how hot it was getting.
"They're going to be good pictures," Jon says, looking down at the camera on the floor.
Bob presses his lips together and huffs a breath out of his nose, but he doesn't say anything. After a beat, Jon picks his camera back up. He stretches it out to face them, leans over, and takes a couple of pictures of them together.
"I guess I don't get it," Bob says, when Jon puts down the camera again.
"What?" Jon asks. Bob waves his hands vaguely at the camera. "Why am I photographing you? Why people like photography? What is the history of the camera?"
"Fuck you," Bob tells him mildly. "I guess the first two."
"I figured it would be good for you," Jon says, surprisingly honest, "I heard you've just been bonding with your couch."
"Well--"
"And I like photographs--" He breaks off and shuffles around to face Bob. He brings the camera up to his eye, one hand adjusting the focus. "Because they capture things in time." He starts to lean forward. He doesn't stop until only a few inches separate the lens from Bob's face. Bob watches the camera blink: click. Jon drops the camera a few inches. "But then have nothing to do with time," he says. "Or barely anything." Jon's eyes drop to Bob's lips when Bob licks them, and he raises the camera again. "It's more about looking. I look at you and see something, record it so someone can see you the same way. Or a different way. Sometimes people see some weird shit in photos."
"Isn't that too close?" Bob says. Jon lowers the camera and raises his eyebrow. Bob points to the lens hovering next to his shoulder, and Jon shakes his head.
"No, I use a macro for portraits."
"Close-ups," Bob says, remembering something vague from a conversation with a photographer.
"Yeah. I like them. You know that song," Jon says, and then sings, "'they will see us waving from such great heights, come down now, they'll say.'" Jon's got a good dad's singing voice, a soft strained baritone. "'Everything looks perfect from far away, come down now, but we'll stay.'" He clears his throat.
"Kind of clichéd," Bob says easily, and Jon smiles. Bob relaxes back against the wall.
"Yeah. And it isn't right, either. I mean, I love Bette Midler, but from a distance we aren't exactly in harmony."
"Bette Midler and--" Bob gropes for the artist's name.
"The Postal Service," Jon says, and grins. "Yeah, I'm a soft rock renaissance man." He fiddles with the back of his camera, then lifts it again, focuses on the underside of Bob's chin. "It's just-- I've always found things look perfect from close up." Click.
"My pores are perfect."
"Sure." Jon grins and shakes his head, leans back again. Bob takes a deep breath, then another. Jon says, "Do you think you could take off your shirt?" and Bob makes a strangled sound and coughs.
"Why?"
Jon shrugs. "I think it'll make an interesting photo. And it doesn't hurt to ask."
Bob hesitates, drumming his fingertips against his knees. One of the things he likes best about being in his band is that they're more about putting clothes on than taking them off. A lot of drummers like taking their shirts off to drum, think that it makes their arms freer, lets them get more into it. Bob feels more comfortable in their costumes, though; if he gets the top a size too large, then he doesn't even notice the sleeves. He's not psycho about it. He usually lives on a bus with four guys, after all, and he couldn't keep up middle school locker-room changing for longer than a week. And Jon-- he glances over at the curve of Jon's belly under his t-shirt, the slope of his shoulders, and tugs up his shirt.
He can hear the camera clicking steadily even as he's pulling it over his head. When he gets it off, he puts it in his lap and leans forward to put his palms on the floor, arching forward to crack the top part of his spine.
"What do you do before you play a show?"
Bob catches his frown before it can really crease his face, but he has to blink a few times before he answers. "I warm up and stretch."
"Spencer stretches, too."
"Yeah, drummers need to."
"Can you do any of them now?" Jon asks idly, and Bob blinks again, looks over at him. He's got the bottom of the camera open, and he's slotting a blue piece of plastic in. "Memory card," he explains, and shuts the bottom of the camera again.
"I guess I could do some of them," Bob says. "Not--" He clears his throat. "Not the wrists."
"No, not the wrists," Jon agrees. Bob lets out a long breath.
He's not sure why Jon wants to see this. The stretches are boring ones, stuff everyone knows. He does his legs first, shaking them out afterwards, then starts the long process of loosening his arms and back. He hasn't done it in a while, not since his wrists got too bad to play, and the middle of his back is tight.
He sprawls out on the floor at the end, crosses his leg across his body, weights his knee with his arm, and waits. His vertebrae pop as his knee drops closer to the floor, rising slightly and falling a bit more with each breath. When he feels his knee touch the floorboards, Bob holds his breath and the stretch, then swings his leg back. He stretches his arms over his head, feeling his body lengthen out, his belly dropping towards his spine.
He's closed his eyes, but he opens them again when he feels Jon crawl across him. The camera hovers over his sternum, his nipple, his neck, then close to his chin, blinking steadily, the aperture squeezing shut and flying open again. Bob drags in another long breath. Jon tilts forward with the movement of his stomach, and has to put his hand down to steady himself. The bottom of his palm is up against the waistband of Bob's jeans; his hand is surprisingly warm, and Bob feels a curl of heat start in his belly.
Jon leaves his hand there for a long moment, and then rests the camera on Bob's chest, cold and sharp. Bob brings his hands back down to his sides, bumping his fists against Jon's knees. "Hey," he says.
"Hey," Jon says. "I want to kiss you." Bob laughs, lightly, and Jon grins back, shaking his head. "You're laughing at that?"
"No, just. I wasn't expecting that kind of photo shoot."
Jon squints, crinkling his eyes even more. "Neither was I." He leans forward before Bob can respond, and rests his chin against Bob's, then his lips. His nose slides up against Bob's last of all. It's a strange kiss, but sweet. Bob uncurls his fists and rests his hands against Jon's legs, and Jon parts his lips a little; Bob opens his mouth, and Jon's gets wider, his tongue sliding carefully over the inside of Bob's lip.
Jon pulls away after another cautious exploration, takes the strap of the camera from around his neck and sets it to the side. "We'll get back to that," he murmurs, and brings his mouth back to Bob's.
Jon's still leaning over Bob, one hand laid against Bob's jaw. It's not a particularly deep kiss, but it's almost better for the way their tongues meet and slide together only briefly. Bob's turned on, of course he's turned on, but he's not expecting anything. When Jon cups his hand over the fly of his jeans, Bob gasps into their kiss.
"Sorry," Jon murmurs into his mouth, his lips brushing wet against Bob's, but he doesn't take his hands away. "Too much?" He drags his hand up hard, and Bob laughs, tilting his head up to close the tiny distance that separates their lips.
When Jon takes away his hand and presses his hips down against Bob's, Bob makes a startled sound. He knew Jon was hard, but there's something about feeling it up against him that's kind of shocking, even through two layers of denim, even through the haze of arousal. Jon doesn't do anything more, though; they rock together, awkward but on tempo.
"Are photos okay?" Jon says, lifting his lips up a fraction again. The short hairs of his beard brush just barely over Bob's lips and chin. "Can I get this?"
Bob hesitates for a breath, then says, "okay, okay," in time with the push and pull of Jon's hips. He feels too warm, his body heating up the floorboards, Jon's breath rushing hot across his face. Jon stretches his arm out to the camera, but he doesn't pick it up, just tilts the lens up towards their faces and presses down on the shutter. Bob runs his knuckles up along Jon's sides, rucking up his t-shirt between them. Jon makes a soft noise and brings down his mouth down to Bob's again.
The photographs should bother him; Bob knows he looks ridiculous, his eyes closed and his expression intent, leaning up to Jon's mouth. The soft noise of the camera has been in the background makes his skin feel electric instead, each soft click prickling over his shoulders and sides.
Jon takes his hand off of the camera and lifts up, fumbles between their bodies. Bob makes a puzzled noise, but Jon just shakes his head, smiling. Bob arches up when he feels Jon's fingers on his fly, and Jon's smile gets more sly. He gets Bob unzipped and drags Bob's underwear over his dick, pushing the elastic below Bob's balls before moving his hand to his own zipper.
After the roughness of his jeans, Jon's cock against his feels impossibly smooth, and the heat shakes another gasp loose from Bob's lungs. Jon puts his hand back on the camera, and Bob reaches down between them to press his hand against Jon's cock, forcing them closer together. The friction is only just bearable, pre-come keeping it from being too rough, and Jon hisses at the pressure, jerking his hips forward and throwing his head back. The camera clicks.
Bob turns his head to the side when he comes, biting his lip and jerking up hard and fast against Jon, his fingers trembling where they press against Jon's cock. He grunts, low and soft, and Jon rolls his hips, dragging their skin together until Bob sags down against the floor. Bob opens his eyes, and the camera is right there. It blinks at him. He reaches out for it, tugging it away from Jon's hands, and aims it at Jon.
"I can't jerk you off," he says, and Jon nods, hitching himself forward.
"It's okay," he says breathily, and starts to thrust again, against Bob's stomach now, his dick sliding in Bob's come. "I'm good."
Jon is still leaning over him, but there's enough room that Bob can bring the camera to his eye, swivel out the lens and take a shot of his lip and disarranged beard, the corner of his eye and his ear, his chin when he shudders, throws his head back, and comes. Bob puts the camera to the side again, relieved to have its weight off of his hands, and kisses Jon's throat. Jon drops his face and smiles, still shifting minutely against Bob's belly.
They kiss, more shallow touching of lips and tongues. Bob closes his eyes, feels the dusty hardwood floor beneath his back, the warm air of the apartment, Jon's breath as it trails over his skin, Jon's jeans rumpled and rough under his fingers. Bob keeps his eyes closed when Jon lifts his mouth away, but he opens them when Jon shifts to get up. "One second," Jon says, tucking himself into his jeans. "Don't move." He staggers a little when he gets up, his knees popping, but he doesn't stop, picking up the camera and swinging the lens towards Bob. Bob closes his eyes again, rubs his hands against the legs of his jeans, and listens to the stuttered sound of the camera recording.
"Moments in time, huh," he says, after the camera falls silent. Jon laughs.
"A way of seeing," he responds, and puts the camera back down. He sits next to Bob, cross-legged, and skims off his t-shirt. "It's got come on it already," he says, and drags it over Bob's stomach, wiping him clean. Bob reaches down and tucks his dick back into his underwear and jeans; when Jon's done cleaning him up, Bob brings his other leg across his body and rests his arm on his knee. His spine gives a muted crunch, and the muscles that run down his back loosen suddenly. Bob hums in pleasure and rolls onto his back. His hand rests against Jon's ankle. Jon looks down at him, hair falling in his face, and laughs again. "You," he says, and presses his hand to Bob's stomach. "Are pretty as a picture."
Bob snorts and levers himself up, wincing a little when he rests too much weight on his hands. He walks back over to his jacket and fishes out his cigarettes and his lighter, but he waits for Jon to come over and open the window before he lights up. They sit together again, legs loose in front of them, toes knocking companionably.
"I might like photographs more," Bob says, "if that happened every time."
"Just say the word," Jon says idly. "I'm always up for advancing the cause." Bob looks at the soft shape of his belly, the swirls of hair on his chest. He hides his grin by taking a drag.
---
The email comes the next day. All it says is, "Give me a call tomorrow when you're free. I'm holding the others ransom until then. I hope you like these. -- Jon." There are three pictures attached. He scrolls down.
Bob is wincing, eyes shut and face screwed up, holding his right wrist loosely in his left hand. His skin is white where it creases, bright red where it doesn't.
His eyes are wide and shocked, his face smoothed out and slack. His cheek rests against the floor. There is a dent in his lower lip, and it shines with spit.
Jon's eye is crinkled up and his cheek rounded like he's smiling, and his ear is stained red by a blush. Bob leans in towards the computer, squinting. His eyebrow is thick, and a few hairs grow outside the lines. Bob can see the tiniest texture of his skin; on the curve of his cheekbone, there are a few scattered white bumps. Bob wets his lips. He sits back in his chair and clicks "Reply."
"Jon --" He stops and flexes his wrists gently, thinking, then puts his fingers back on the keys. "Your pores are perfect. Talk to you tomorrow."
Panic/MCR, Jon/Bob, NC-17 to be safe.
3383 words.
Written for bandom365 January 17, in one mad (insomnia-driven) rush. Unbeta'ed, constructive criticism very much invited. Prompt by algernon-mouse from ye many ages ago; I do get these things done eventually, I just take forever and a day. (Dude, you are awesome. Even if all those ears are kind of weird-looking.)
It's a windy, raw day. Bob's lighter flat-out refuses to work, no matter how he huddles or how he cups his hand around it. He walks the three blocks with the unlit cigarette clamped in between his lips, sucking pointlessly at the filter.
Jon is waiting on the stoop, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his camera bag thumping against his side. "Hey," he calls, when Bob is a block away. He tugs his hand out of his pocket to wave. "Hey, hey."
Bob hustles across the street against the light. "What's up," he says, careful of the cigarette. They shake hands, and Bob shoves his back in his pockets. Jon pats at his sweatshirt, then his jeans, fishing a set of keys out of his back pocket. "Glad to see you aren't all Vegas yet," Bob says.
"How's that?" Jon has to wrestle with the deadbolt, but he looks back over his shoulder when he finally gets it open.
Bob waves a hand at the two hooded sweatshirts Jon has layered on. "No coat. I was afraid you'd show up with one of those." He gestures, indicating an enormous puffy parka.
"I have some pride," Jon says, "But it is kind of cold. Are you coming in, or what?" Bob takes the cigarette out of his mouth and waves it. Jon rolls his eyes. "I think the place'll survive a little smoke."
The stairs up to the apartment are carpeted in the same rat-gray stuff Bob remembers from his apartments in college. The white walls are scuffed, and the paint on the banister is uneven. "How'd you find it?"
"Craigslist. Just looked for something cheap. I mean, I'm a rockstar who's renting an empty apartment, but I'm not made of money." Jon stumbles. Bob puts his hands up before he remembers his wrists and drops them again. Jon doesn't look back. "One more set of stairs, sorry."
The key takes some convincing to work. Jon glances back and apologizes again, but Bob doesn't even bother answering him; he's too busy looking around, enjoying the reminder of what he used to think was normal. "I had this apartment once, before I joined the band," Bob says, and trails off.
"Yeah?" The door finally opens, and Jon gestures Bob in.
"Thanks." Bob looks around the empty apartment. It's small; they walk straight into the yellow and brown colored kitchen, there's a tiny bathroom is off to the right, and a big room to the right. "It was in a place kind of like this." He pauses and laughs, remembering. "My roommate was into urban hunting."
"No." Jon pauses in unwinding his scarf. "You're shitting me."
"No, I'm not. He owned this crossbow, and he used to kill squirrels with it out the window."
"How did he survive the lease? I wouldn't think you would put up with that."
"I don't know," Bob says. He really doesn't; he remembers hating the guy, but doesn't remember why he kept putting up with it. Didn't know any better, probably. "Where do you want me?"
"Give me a second," Jon says, looking at him from under his eyelashes and smirking. "I'm a professional, here, we have to take our time." He takes out his fancy camera and does something complicated with the buttons and the screen on the back. When he puts the camera down and starts digging in his bag for something, Bob turns away. He walks over to the window, pries up the sash, and cups his fingers so he can light his cigarette.
The windows are big, but someone painted sloppily at some point, gumming up the joins with lumps of paint. Bob's only able to get it up five or six inches with his wrists like they are. He squats down so he's at eye level with the open gap and smokes that way, balanced on his toes. The wind blows at a slant to the window, finding its way into his collar and the cuffs of his jacket, chilling the skin of his face.
He hears Jon's feet moving across the floorboards, and he doesn't know whether or not to turn around, whether Jon's already got the camera up and ready. He chances a wary look over his shoulder, and Jon smiles at him. "You really hate it, don't you?" Jon asks.
"What, photos? That's why I said I did, yeah." Bob takes a quick last drag and flicks the butt out the window, blowing the smoke out after it and sliding the sash back down.
"Everyone says they hate having their picture taken," Jon says. "But it's just that they don't like disappointment."
"I guess."
"You just don't like it at all, though."
"No," Bob says. He already wants another cigarette. "Don't see the point."
"I see I've chosen my subject wisely," Jon smirks. Bob shrugs, and he hears the first click. "You realize I'm going to talk to you the entire time." Bob shrugs again, but he smiles when he looks over at Jon. Jon's got his camera held sideways in one hand. His wrist is casually bent back at a right angle to his forearm, and Bob feels a sudden pang of envy. There's another click. Bob frowns, and Jon says, "Yeah, turns out you don't need to look through the viewfinder to take a picture. Taught me that one in art class."
Bob snorts and rubs his hands against the legs of his jeans. He looks around the apartment again. "So am I just going to stand here?"
"You can do whatever," Jon says. "You can smoke, make tea. I brought Chips Ahoy."
"Chips Ahoy," Bob says, "You know how to treat a man right."
"I try." Jon laughs, then, startling Bob into looking right at the camera. "You're going to relax at some point, Bryar. I brought so many memory cards. Resistance is futile."
"I will be assimilated," Bob says dutifully. Jon laughs, and Bob feels his shoulders come down a fraction.
Bob wanders around the apartment after that, Jon trailing in his wake. Jon keeps his word; he doesn't tell Bob to do anything, doesn't tell him to look more pensive or less homicidal, doesn't tell him that role models shouldn't smoke or try to fit six cookies in their mouths at once. He talks as much as Bert or Frank, but it's mostly questions, or little prompting noises when Bob falls silent.
Jon asks Bob about games he played when he was a kid, after Bob demonstrates that he can actually fit an entire row of cookies into his mouth. "What, like soccer?" Bob asks, brushing crumbs off the front of his jacket onto the peeling countertop.
"No, like-- did you ever play Statues?"
"Oh, huh. I had a babysitter who played that with me, yeah." He gestures vaguely, misjudges the distance, and bangs his right wrist against the edge of the counter. Pain slices up his forearm and across his wrist, and he says "ah!", sharp but quiet.
The pain dulls to a throb almost immediately, but Bob still cradles his wrist against his stomach, pressing his lips together. It takes him a second to hear the steady clicking of the shutter. "Stop," he says, and Jon hesitates, then takes his hand away from the button. The camera falls silent. Bob looks down at his wrist. The pain tugs at him when he flexes his wrist, but it seems all right. "I should have brought my braces," he says.
"We can go get you an ace bandage," Jon offers, but Bob shakes his head. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. I'll ice it tonight."
"Sorry about the--" Jon breaks off when Bob shrugs. "I wasn't thinking."
"It's cool," Bob says. He really wants a cigarette, so he walks back to the main room. "Can you open the window for me?" he asks, when Jon hesitates in the doorway.
Jon not only gets the window open, he lights Bob's cigarette for him, holding it between his own lips and then handing it over by the filter. Bob sits down with his back against the windowsill, and Jon lowers himself down next to him. They sit there while Bob smokes, Bob arching his neck to blow out the window.
When Bob throws the butt out the window, Jon sits up to shut the window again. Jon tries to help Bob take off his jacket, even, until Bob stares him down. Bob's t-shirt is sticking to his armpits, and he smells like whatever horrible cologne's in his deodorant. He hadn't realized how hot it was getting.
"They're going to be good pictures," Jon says, looking down at the camera on the floor.
Bob presses his lips together and huffs a breath out of his nose, but he doesn't say anything. After a beat, Jon picks his camera back up. He stretches it out to face them, leans over, and takes a couple of pictures of them together.
"I guess I don't get it," Bob says, when Jon puts down the camera again.
"What?" Jon asks. Bob waves his hands vaguely at the camera. "Why am I photographing you? Why people like photography? What is the history of the camera?"
"Fuck you," Bob tells him mildly. "I guess the first two."
"I figured it would be good for you," Jon says, surprisingly honest, "I heard you've just been bonding with your couch."
"Well--"
"And I like photographs--" He breaks off and shuffles around to face Bob. He brings the camera up to his eye, one hand adjusting the focus. "Because they capture things in time." He starts to lean forward. He doesn't stop until only a few inches separate the lens from Bob's face. Bob watches the camera blink: click. Jon drops the camera a few inches. "But then have nothing to do with time," he says. "Or barely anything." Jon's eyes drop to Bob's lips when Bob licks them, and he raises the camera again. "It's more about looking. I look at you and see something, record it so someone can see you the same way. Or a different way. Sometimes people see some weird shit in photos."
"Isn't that too close?" Bob says. Jon lowers the camera and raises his eyebrow. Bob points to the lens hovering next to his shoulder, and Jon shakes his head.
"No, I use a macro for portraits."
"Close-ups," Bob says, remembering something vague from a conversation with a photographer.
"Yeah. I like them. You know that song," Jon says, and then sings, "'they will see us waving from such great heights, come down now, they'll say.'" Jon's got a good dad's singing voice, a soft strained baritone. "'Everything looks perfect from far away, come down now, but we'll stay.'" He clears his throat.
"Kind of clichéd," Bob says easily, and Jon smiles. Bob relaxes back against the wall.
"Yeah. And it isn't right, either. I mean, I love Bette Midler, but from a distance we aren't exactly in harmony."
"Bette Midler and--" Bob gropes for the artist's name.
"The Postal Service," Jon says, and grins. "Yeah, I'm a soft rock renaissance man." He fiddles with the back of his camera, then lifts it again, focuses on the underside of Bob's chin. "It's just-- I've always found things look perfect from close up." Click.
"My pores are perfect."
"Sure." Jon grins and shakes his head, leans back again. Bob takes a deep breath, then another. Jon says, "Do you think you could take off your shirt?" and Bob makes a strangled sound and coughs.
"Why?"
Jon shrugs. "I think it'll make an interesting photo. And it doesn't hurt to ask."
Bob hesitates, drumming his fingertips against his knees. One of the things he likes best about being in his band is that they're more about putting clothes on than taking them off. A lot of drummers like taking their shirts off to drum, think that it makes their arms freer, lets them get more into it. Bob feels more comfortable in their costumes, though; if he gets the top a size too large, then he doesn't even notice the sleeves. He's not psycho about it. He usually lives on a bus with four guys, after all, and he couldn't keep up middle school locker-room changing for longer than a week. And Jon-- he glances over at the curve of Jon's belly under his t-shirt, the slope of his shoulders, and tugs up his shirt.
He can hear the camera clicking steadily even as he's pulling it over his head. When he gets it off, he puts it in his lap and leans forward to put his palms on the floor, arching forward to crack the top part of his spine.
"What do you do before you play a show?"
Bob catches his frown before it can really crease his face, but he has to blink a few times before he answers. "I warm up and stretch."
"Spencer stretches, too."
"Yeah, drummers need to."
"Can you do any of them now?" Jon asks idly, and Bob blinks again, looks over at him. He's got the bottom of the camera open, and he's slotting a blue piece of plastic in. "Memory card," he explains, and shuts the bottom of the camera again.
"I guess I could do some of them," Bob says. "Not--" He clears his throat. "Not the wrists."
"No, not the wrists," Jon agrees. Bob lets out a long breath.
He's not sure why Jon wants to see this. The stretches are boring ones, stuff everyone knows. He does his legs first, shaking them out afterwards, then starts the long process of loosening his arms and back. He hasn't done it in a while, not since his wrists got too bad to play, and the middle of his back is tight.
He sprawls out on the floor at the end, crosses his leg across his body, weights his knee with his arm, and waits. His vertebrae pop as his knee drops closer to the floor, rising slightly and falling a bit more with each breath. When he feels his knee touch the floorboards, Bob holds his breath and the stretch, then swings his leg back. He stretches his arms over his head, feeling his body lengthen out, his belly dropping towards his spine.
He's closed his eyes, but he opens them again when he feels Jon crawl across him. The camera hovers over his sternum, his nipple, his neck, then close to his chin, blinking steadily, the aperture squeezing shut and flying open again. Bob drags in another long breath. Jon tilts forward with the movement of his stomach, and has to put his hand down to steady himself. The bottom of his palm is up against the waistband of Bob's jeans; his hand is surprisingly warm, and Bob feels a curl of heat start in his belly.
Jon leaves his hand there for a long moment, and then rests the camera on Bob's chest, cold and sharp. Bob brings his hands back down to his sides, bumping his fists against Jon's knees. "Hey," he says.
"Hey," Jon says. "I want to kiss you." Bob laughs, lightly, and Jon grins back, shaking his head. "You're laughing at that?"
"No, just. I wasn't expecting that kind of photo shoot."
Jon squints, crinkling his eyes even more. "Neither was I." He leans forward before Bob can respond, and rests his chin against Bob's, then his lips. His nose slides up against Bob's last of all. It's a strange kiss, but sweet. Bob uncurls his fists and rests his hands against Jon's legs, and Jon parts his lips a little; Bob opens his mouth, and Jon's gets wider, his tongue sliding carefully over the inside of Bob's lip.
Jon pulls away after another cautious exploration, takes the strap of the camera from around his neck and sets it to the side. "We'll get back to that," he murmurs, and brings his mouth back to Bob's.
Jon's still leaning over Bob, one hand laid against Bob's jaw. It's not a particularly deep kiss, but it's almost better for the way their tongues meet and slide together only briefly. Bob's turned on, of course he's turned on, but he's not expecting anything. When Jon cups his hand over the fly of his jeans, Bob gasps into their kiss.
"Sorry," Jon murmurs into his mouth, his lips brushing wet against Bob's, but he doesn't take his hands away. "Too much?" He drags his hand up hard, and Bob laughs, tilting his head up to close the tiny distance that separates their lips.
When Jon takes away his hand and presses his hips down against Bob's, Bob makes a startled sound. He knew Jon was hard, but there's something about feeling it up against him that's kind of shocking, even through two layers of denim, even through the haze of arousal. Jon doesn't do anything more, though; they rock together, awkward but on tempo.
"Are photos okay?" Jon says, lifting his lips up a fraction again. The short hairs of his beard brush just barely over Bob's lips and chin. "Can I get this?"
Bob hesitates for a breath, then says, "okay, okay," in time with the push and pull of Jon's hips. He feels too warm, his body heating up the floorboards, Jon's breath rushing hot across his face. Jon stretches his arm out to the camera, but he doesn't pick it up, just tilts the lens up towards their faces and presses down on the shutter. Bob runs his knuckles up along Jon's sides, rucking up his t-shirt between them. Jon makes a soft noise and brings down his mouth down to Bob's again.
The photographs should bother him; Bob knows he looks ridiculous, his eyes closed and his expression intent, leaning up to Jon's mouth. The soft noise of the camera has been in the background makes his skin feel electric instead, each soft click prickling over his shoulders and sides.
Jon takes his hand off of the camera and lifts up, fumbles between their bodies. Bob makes a puzzled noise, but Jon just shakes his head, smiling. Bob arches up when he feels Jon's fingers on his fly, and Jon's smile gets more sly. He gets Bob unzipped and drags Bob's underwear over his dick, pushing the elastic below Bob's balls before moving his hand to his own zipper.
After the roughness of his jeans, Jon's cock against his feels impossibly smooth, and the heat shakes another gasp loose from Bob's lungs. Jon puts his hand back on the camera, and Bob reaches down between them to press his hand against Jon's cock, forcing them closer together. The friction is only just bearable, pre-come keeping it from being too rough, and Jon hisses at the pressure, jerking his hips forward and throwing his head back. The camera clicks.
Bob turns his head to the side when he comes, biting his lip and jerking up hard and fast against Jon, his fingers trembling where they press against Jon's cock. He grunts, low and soft, and Jon rolls his hips, dragging their skin together until Bob sags down against the floor. Bob opens his eyes, and the camera is right there. It blinks at him. He reaches out for it, tugging it away from Jon's hands, and aims it at Jon.
"I can't jerk you off," he says, and Jon nods, hitching himself forward.
"It's okay," he says breathily, and starts to thrust again, against Bob's stomach now, his dick sliding in Bob's come. "I'm good."
Jon is still leaning over him, but there's enough room that Bob can bring the camera to his eye, swivel out the lens and take a shot of his lip and disarranged beard, the corner of his eye and his ear, his chin when he shudders, throws his head back, and comes. Bob puts the camera to the side again, relieved to have its weight off of his hands, and kisses Jon's throat. Jon drops his face and smiles, still shifting minutely against Bob's belly.
They kiss, more shallow touching of lips and tongues. Bob closes his eyes, feels the dusty hardwood floor beneath his back, the warm air of the apartment, Jon's breath as it trails over his skin, Jon's jeans rumpled and rough under his fingers. Bob keeps his eyes closed when Jon lifts his mouth away, but he opens them when Jon shifts to get up. "One second," Jon says, tucking himself into his jeans. "Don't move." He staggers a little when he gets up, his knees popping, but he doesn't stop, picking up the camera and swinging the lens towards Bob. Bob closes his eyes again, rubs his hands against the legs of his jeans, and listens to the stuttered sound of the camera recording.
"Moments in time, huh," he says, after the camera falls silent. Jon laughs.
"A way of seeing," he responds, and puts the camera back down. He sits next to Bob, cross-legged, and skims off his t-shirt. "It's got come on it already," he says, and drags it over Bob's stomach, wiping him clean. Bob reaches down and tucks his dick back into his underwear and jeans; when Jon's done cleaning him up, Bob brings his other leg across his body and rests his arm on his knee. His spine gives a muted crunch, and the muscles that run down his back loosen suddenly. Bob hums in pleasure and rolls onto his back. His hand rests against Jon's ankle. Jon looks down at him, hair falling in his face, and laughs again. "You," he says, and presses his hand to Bob's stomach. "Are pretty as a picture."
Bob snorts and levers himself up, wincing a little when he rests too much weight on his hands. He walks back over to his jacket and fishes out his cigarettes and his lighter, but he waits for Jon to come over and open the window before he lights up. They sit together again, legs loose in front of them, toes knocking companionably.
"I might like photographs more," Bob says, "if that happened every time."
"Just say the word," Jon says idly. "I'm always up for advancing the cause." Bob looks at the soft shape of his belly, the swirls of hair on his chest. He hides his grin by taking a drag.
---
The email comes the next day. All it says is, "Give me a call tomorrow when you're free. I'm holding the others ransom until then. I hope you like these. -- Jon." There are three pictures attached. He scrolls down.
Bob is wincing, eyes shut and face screwed up, holding his right wrist loosely in his left hand. His skin is white where it creases, bright red where it doesn't.
His eyes are wide and shocked, his face smoothed out and slack. His cheek rests against the floor. There is a dent in his lower lip, and it shines with spit.
Jon's eye is crinkled up and his cheek rounded like he's smiling, and his ear is stained red by a blush. Bob leans in towards the computer, squinting. His eyebrow is thick, and a few hairs grow outside the lines. Bob can see the tiniest texture of his skin; on the curve of his cheekbone, there are a few scattered white bumps. Bob wets his lips. He sits back in his chair and clicks "Reply."
"Jon --" He stops and flexes his wrists gently, thinking, then puts his fingers back on the keys. "Your pores are perfect. Talk to you tomorrow."